The Wanderer's Tale (71 page)

For he was a Lightbearer, and had been neglectful of one of his main duties, namely healing. Their injuries, though mending with marvellous speed, had still not been properly treated, and as he began seeing to the deep gashes, bruises and crudely cauterized wounds that colourfully adorned his companions’ bodies, he wondered just how long they might have all languished in this land of enchantment, had not that mysterious line of figures begun to shake a little of the glamer from him.

He waddled over to Paulus first, possibly the least spellbound of the party, and certainly the most grievously hurt. The Nahovian stretched out his leg and let Appa get on with it, while he himself continued glaring northwards and sharpening his blade. To the rhythm of the Lightbearer’s elegiac mumblings was added the
shink-shink-shink
of whetstone against blade. Paulus could not seem to stop himself doing this, and was at it seven or eight times a day.

Other sounds there were too that seemed to rise in protest at Appa’s priestly incantations: the hiss of a colder wind through rasping grasses, the rattle of drier twigs in the treetops, the cawing of harsher birds. Those bobbing points of silver light began moving up the hillock towards them, and then trembled just beyond the radius of the fire, as if in indignation. There was a dark cloud of resentment building over their heads that was growing with each minute. Appa did not stop his ministrations, but he was aware of just how coarse and alien his chanting must sound in this huldre-world.

By the time he had finished, the fresh sparkle that had brightened his eyes had dimmed somewhat, till Appa began to look more like his tired old self. He settled himself down into a hollow, and remained very quiet and reflective.

Up until recently his world had been a steady, unchanging one, in which Good was Good, and Evil was Evil. But Eotunlandt? Where did that lie? Though not exactly Evil in the way Olchor and his followers were, the land of the huldres was hardly Good either – he had only to think of Nym-Cadog to remind himself of that fact. It was a ‘middle place’, a twilight world trapped between Nordwas to the South and Melhus to the North. Yet it had healed him when he was on the point of death, and sustained him where his faith had not.

Back home, he recalled with growing unease, fey had seemed the unwelcome intruder, warded off with chants, curses and crudely fashioned ‘turning’ devices manufactured by the hands and hearts of superstitious, sterile old men. Here, however, fey ruled supreme. It was
their
land, and he the intruder. He was defenceless in the realm of the foreigner, and he began to feel afraid.

Appa drew his grey woollen cloak tightly about him, curled up against the night and, with one hand clutched around his stone talisman he drifted off to sleep.

Through the pathless woods to the North, a lone hunter prowled. Old eyes the colour of glaciers pierced keenly through the dark; predator’s ears twitched at every sound; feet fell softly as a cat’s. Yet despite its stealth, it was well aware of the countless eyes watching it go by.
Intruders!
they seemed to spit.
Get out! Get out! Get out!

A new infection had entered the land, and it had to be cut out.

The hunter emerged from the deepest heart of the forest into more open woodland, and stared around. Suddenly it froze. Through the mesh of branch and twig, a red beacon-bright fire glared. Without a second’s hesitation, the prowler sprinted through the trees towards it.

The fire reflected like blood upon the dirk it carried as it ran. Rapidly, noiselessly, it approached the men as they reclined, chattering idly around the fire. It was scant yards away now, and still they were dumbly unaware of its presence. Only a second before it leapt into their midst did the tallest one cry out in alarm. Then it was among them, kicking a million orange sparks into the sky and scattering fiery brands asunder.

The group of campers, stunned for a second by Paulus’s sudden warning, instinctively fell back with their hands before their faces. Then Paulus lowered his sword.

‘Idiots!’ the newcomer cursed as he stamped out the embers. ‘I could see your fire for miles.’

It was Kuthy, and for the first time since they had known him, he was livid with anger.

Appa gibbered slightly, and pulled his bedroll about his head. Nibulus bellowed with sudden laughter, while the rest glared at their visitor in silence.

Kuthy glared back at them. ‘I could’ve slit your throats as easily as slicing bread while you lay around gossiping,’ he spat. ‘This is no rambling holiday, you know!’

Nibulus continued to chuckle. ‘Do you know how long it takes me to slice just one round of bread?’ he asked. The others lay back down to rest, muttering. Kuthy regarded them with eyes poisoned with contempt.

Laugh away, southerners
, he said to himself,
while you can. We’ll see how funny you find it tomorrow . . .

After the commotion of the sudden intrusion had died down, the travellers, all together at last, had lain down to get some sleep. Wodeman, though, felt far from tired. An unending succession of feelings kept washing over him, and for the first time since entering Eotunlandt he was jittery. Chief among these feelings was the sense of being
watched
. It seemed to him that, below their hillock, an entire legion of hostile, spiteful creatures was closing in. He could hear a constant multitude of strange sounds all around: hoots, hisses, croaks, snuffles and the unfamiliar calls of many other unguessable beings. He could feel their watchfulness, their resentment. The wind, too, was cold, and Wodeman felt uncomfortably exposed to this open country.

But there was something else besides. For on this night, he sensed, a new infection had indeed entered the land, and it seemed to the sorcerer that it was an infection wholly more pernicious than any they themselves represented.

Into Wodeman’s mind came a presentiment: something else had just blundered into Eotunlandt, and it was contaminating the very air that went before it. Flowers wilted as it passed, leaves turned brown and forest berries lost their sheen, turned rancid and dropped off. The creatures of the earth went to ground at its approach, birds veered away and cried shrilly as if stung, and insects, their wings crisped, simply fell from the air. At the touch of its feet, grass blackened and smoked, vines recoiled and the crystal water of streams turned jaundiced and feculent.

Wodeman shivered. He pulled his wolfskin closely around him, and looked around. As he did so, he saw that Kuthy was gazing back at him. The soldier of fortune, he noticed, seemed as wary as he was, and his strange cap was keeping its filaments very much confined to itself. Both men nodded to each other, then stared about them into the night.

The following day they met the thieves.

As blithe and ebullient as before, the company had risen and journeyed out into another glorious day in Eotunlandt. The thought of the strangers the previous night was no more than another of this land’s manifold jokes, and in imitation Nibulus had whimsically donned his great helm, wearing absolutely nothing else below that. Paulus had been on the lookout for huldres to slice, as usual, and Wodeman had, unusually, decided to tag along with the merry company once more.

All morning they walked, encouraged – rather than guided – northwards by Kuthy, Wodeman and Appa now. The day was as vibrant as any in this land, and Bolldhe, like most of his companions, once again allowed himself to be possessed by the intoxicating spell of Eotunlandt. Since emerging from the tunnel, he had shed a large weight from his mind and, after a huge breakfast, all that remained for him to do was shed a large weight from his bowels.

‘I’ll catch up with you in a while,’ he called out to them, and dodged into the woods.

At once the green gloom and secret stillness of the trees swallowed him up. It had been windy out on the heath, a gentle, buffeting breeze that whistled musically and brought with it the sweet-sour perfume of elderflower and the joyful chorus of bird-song. But in here all was hushed. Bolldhe picked his way through the tangled undergrowth, and all he could hear was the sad moan of the wind in the high treetops, sounding down here so immensely distant.

Further into the woods he went. Here he felt no danger, and was heedless to the noisy crunch of his own footsteps that echoed throughout the trees. Soon he emerged into a small, beautiful glade. High, soft grass reached up to his knees, and an unseen rill chattered on its course. Great red-hatted toadstools the size of umbrellas stood around in clusters, as did creamy-white ones of a rather ruder shape. Bolldhe could smell the fresh green leaves of beshadowed bluebells, and hear the sweet, chirping soliloquy of a single blackbird that was eyeing him carefully from its nearby perch.

‘Perfect,’ he breathed, and dropped his breeches.

The soft blades of grass tickled his bottom playfully as he squatted down and hugged his knees. He instantly relaxed.

Bolldhe took his time. His companions would not get far, and he saw no reason to rush this, one of life’s real little pleasures. Instead he harkened to the gentle, muted woodland sounds about him. There were secret voices in that stream, he was certain, and once or twice he thought he heard what might have been an eerie yet beautiful singing far off in the depths of the woods. He looked up and saw that the blackbird was still staring at him. Now, however, he noted it was no longer singing, and in the absence of birdsong he was almost sure he could hear a soft, low chuckling somewhere behind him.

Better wipe up
, he thought, and tore off a good clump of grass.
Don’t want to get caught like this by any huld—
’

He stopped dead as he felt the cold, razor-sharp edge of a blade pressing against his throat.

The tranquillity of the past few days instantly fled from him, and was replaced by that familiar ‘hot’ feeling.

No thoughts of death yet, though; he had been waylaid and robbed many times before. Just do whatever he, or she, or they, want . . .

‘Feuirigo binaenenu oememaevf anunsmapama,’ came a voice from not too far in front of him, and was immediately followed by a chorus of harsh laughter from all around. Bolldhe’s eyes swivelled frantically from side to side, but he could see no one.

Hvitakrist!
he thought in panic.
They were quiet! How . . . ?

Then several figures stepped out into view.

If there was any comfort in the fact that they spoke Bolldhe’s native tongue, then it was swiftly shattered when he beheld his captors. Suddenly Bolldhe felt even hotter, and thoughts of death were now very much on the agenda indeed.

There were five – no, six – of them, not including the one behind him holding the blade at his throat. And in all Bolldhe’s years of travelling, he had never encountered such a motley collection of menacing, lawless, internecine, low-life dross as these that stood before him now. Only two were human, the rest being a mixed bag of other races from all corners of Lindormyn. With wide, darting eyes, Bolldhe quickly scanned the line of footpads in front of him, and counted two men, a Hauger, a Boggart and (more worryingly) a Grell. But the one that most riveted his stare was the monolithic bulk of the armoured Tusse that loomed behind the men, at least three feet higher than they.

Hard as nails and casually murderous of eye, they all bore vicious weapons of war; and all of these were pointed directly at Bolldhe. He swallowed hard.

‘Afternoon,’ he greeted them in a small, croaky voice.

One of the men twisted his mouth in what may have been a smile, and the Grell’s mouth split into a wide, fang-filled leer that was definitely not. It was accompanied by a cat-like hiss, and Bolldhe could smell its rank breath above even his own excrement.

Hell-Adan, I hate Grell!
was all Bolldhe could think as he stared in transfixed loathing at the blue-black hide and long, acid-green, spiked hair of this particular member of that odious race.

It was true; wherever he had travelled, Bolldhe had always steered well clear of the stockaded villages of that particular race. Like all self-respecting folk, he had an aversion to close association with other peoples, having contact with them only when he had to. But in the case of the Grell, he would go a full day’s travel or more just to avoid them. There were many men, he knew, who did seek them out for their own various dubious purposes, but in Bolldhe’s opinion the only humans that mixed with their sort were those who were every bit as bad as the Grell themselves: pimps, racketeers, bootleggers, mercenaries, and – yes, once again – Olchorians. These last might find use in them as temple guards, bodysnatchers or even torturers – for the Grell had a reputation for brutality. They also had a reputation for profligacy, which many found particularly gratifying. Their females were too loathsome, fetid and ‘sticky’ for even the most desperate, but the male bawds had of late become very popular with well-heeled ladies who had too much time and money on their hands.

This one in front of him bore three throwing-axes of the variety popular amongst the sea-wolves of the Crimson Sea for indulging in live target practice. But Bolldhe guessed this one was not a pirate; judging by the net he carried and the pole-flail with its three spiked balls, he was probably used to working as hired muscle in a bawdy house.

Bolldhe suddenly felt the blade at his neck pressing closer against his pounding jugular, and all such thoughts immediately froze. The next instant, strong little fingers were enmeshed in his hair and his head was wrenched back painfully. A muted cry escaped his throat, and he stiffened even further. Then a sharp kick in the spine shot a red fire of pain throughout his body. Almost falling backwards, while still squatting with his breeches around his ankles, he was held thus by cruel hands and forced to stare upwards.

He heard the thieves advance.

‘Janenu, ichva bebana, peqquci nunapena?’ one of the humans demanded.

It was the language of his home country, Pendonium, though tainted with an outlandish accent and in a dialect he had never heard before.
Janenu
meant ‘where’, and
peqquci nunapena
denoted ‘your precious’ or ‘your beloved’. This could mean either ‘Where is your money?’ or ‘Where are your friends?’ (
Ichva bebana
was the term used to describe a bowel disorder that dogs picked up from scavenging in latrines. Bolldhe dismissed this as irrelevant.)