The Wanderer's Tale (81 page)

But despite his terror (which was only in part due to the fear-effect of Dolen’s magical misericord) Bolldhe was himself once again, no longer that child.

Suddenly the mask of Dolen’s menace melted into an expression of utter puzzlement. She cocked her head to one side, and was still. Her breathing faltered. One trembling white hand reached tentatively forward. Then her whole mind went forth with it and entered Eggledawc’s.

Searching. Feeling.

Nothing.

There was no mind. Eggledawc had left her. Her dear human swain was . . .

‘. . . dead . . .’

The word whispered through her slightly parted lips like a sigh from the crypt.

Now the wind, a real wind this time, began to blow. Bolldhe stared glassily at the Dhracus before him. The redness had faded from her eyes, and they were now as black as coffin-nails. Her hair writhed out from under her legionnaire’s cap, danced wildly in the waxing wind, shadow-black against the dark-grey stormclouds that were piling up and rolling in from the South with unnatural speed.

Bolldhe made a strange gurgling noise in his throat and backed away. As he did so, the body of Eggledawc slipped from his grasp and landed in a kneeling position before Dolen, his eyes staring vacantly through her. His throat was covered in blood, and the blade that had slashed it now lay next to him, abandoned. The engram in Bolldhe’s mind had now faded. Under its thrall, through a red mist he had staggered, and now that it had dissipated he saw with disbelieving eyes that he had finally stepped over that terrible threshold.

The skies turned as dark as twilight, and thunder rolled throughout Eotunlandt. Behind clouds huge and black, like the sails of a pirate ship, lightning flashed. They could taste it in the air. The wind, still building up, as yet held back its full fury.

By now the other thieves at the bottom of the hill had worked out what had happened. Amid screams of rage and injustice they surged forward. To Bolldhe’s stricken mind, it was a vision of hell itself, as a thousand rawgrs with glowing eyes, sabre-toothed jaws and butcher’s blades flowing with blood now screamed towards him. The clash of metal upon metal heralded the onset of Chaos, as Nibulus and his men launched themselves into battle.

Then one voice rose above all others: ‘ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!’ Only the Tyvenborgers fully understood it, but even to the Aescals the meaning was plain. Into the fray the stocky figure of Eorcenwold strode. His blunderbuss forsaken, he now whipped out his morning star and flailed it above his head, ceasing for the moment all hostilities. All eyes were upon him.

‘This is too much!’ he cried in cant. ‘I demand a life for a life. Yon cut-throat must die!’

His stubby, outstretched finger pointed directly at Bolldhe, who, before he could gather his wits together, found himself in the middle of a ring of screaming, spitting bandits. Outside this circle, both Nibulus and Wodeman were bellowing in protest, but neither was making any move to save Bolldhe. Kuthy could just be seen, a small silhouette at the top of the hill, his bow hanging at his side; Finwald was long gone: and Appa did not even know what was happening. Bolldhe was utterly alone amidst this screaming mob. Facing him was the Dhracus.

He leapt for the bloodied dirk that lay upon the trampled bracken where he had dropped it, and snatched it up in his trembling red right hand. There he crouched, readying himself, facing the avenging angel before him. And then, as if in a dream, all else drew back from his sight, and all sound faded into the background, save for the gathering wind that flailed the tops of the bracken and fluttered the neck-cover of Dolen’s cap.

Then his soul fell into her eyes.
Oh god
, he thought as he stared into their solemn depths,
what have I done to her?

Such aching sorrow there was in those eyes, such wounding, such loss – too much to be contained within her head alone. Perhaps it was due to her psychic ability, or perhaps because that fair head had simply not been built to hold such hurt, but it seemed to be overflowing, pouring out, wave upon wave, until all those around her were as stricken as she was. All there could sense the vision that was playing over and over in her mind: a vision of her and Eggledawc thundering on horseback over high, purple-hazed moorland, smiling a bright, eternal smile at each other as they rode, a cold scatter of rain in their faces. Together they had found a perfect happiness in this hostile, miserable world – something beautiful and unique.

But now that had been so cruelly ripped out and destroyed, and her special love curdled and broiled into a poisonous rage. Like a black viper, it uncurled its coils within her soul, poised ready to unleash its venom.

Then she sprang, and there upon the heath of Eotunlandt, amid the screaming wind of the approaching storm and the vengeful howls of the Tyvenborgers, Bolldhe and Dolen Catscaul did battle. It was a fight like no other that had been seen in that land before, one to tear the hearts of Bolldhe’s company or slake the blood-thirst of the thieves. Blow after blow after blow hammered down upon Bolldhe in the seething heat of Dolen’s ire. Tears of blood poured from her eyes, streaking her stark white face into a deathly mask of infernal hatred. Grey lips peeled back from her gritted teeth, and with every blow she screamed, driving Bolldhe further and further to the ground.

It was no equal fight. The speed and dexterity of her race could not be matched by even the greatest warrior of mankind in Lindormyn – and Bolldhe was not even a warrior. Even without her anguish she could have slain him with but one stroke. But consuming love turned to hate had poisoned her, and the cruelty that was the reputation of her kind spewed forth. She was playing with Bolldhe as a cat does with a mouse. With her parrying knife she smote him, each stroke placed with absolute precision to extract the maximum pain whilst administering the minimum injury, and with her misericord held aloft she poured surge after surge of hellish nightmare into his brain.

How long he would endure she did not know, but she meant to prolong it, and watch him die in shock and unspeakable, screaming agony.

Suddenly, a terrible sound pierced through the din of yelling voices and the swelling tempest. It was a shrill, whistling screech, like an animal or bird in its death throes. All – the Dhracus included – looked up in alarm towards the top of the slope whence it came.

There, Kuthy could be seen, blowing hard on his flute and gesticulating maniacally. He then cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted as loud as he could. At first nobody could hear anything more than a pathetic bleating. But during the sudden lull in the fighting, the storm also abated slightly. In this brief pause his voice could just be heard – and with it a message that froze them to the soul:

‘The Giants are coming! The Giants!’

Though his message was delivered in Aescalandian, the word ‘Jotun’ was universally understood. As one, every head snapped around to look in the same direction Kuthy was pointing. Then all eyes widened and all hearts stopped dead. Sure enough, many miles to the South but rapidly approaching, the towering shapes of no less than ten Giants could be seen. All courage that any there might have possessed now vanished utterly.

All except Bolldhe. For him, the exact opposite happened. Up until now his whole being had been focused upon the terrible misericord brandished before his eyes, that stiletto-straight blade that filled his mind with a dread he had never imagined possible. He alone had heard nothing of Kuthy’s warning. But now, in those few seconds of hesitation as the misericord-wielder glanced southwards, the fear-effect wavered. Suddenly freed from its spell, Bolldhe, still lying on his back, lashed out with his feet in desperation. One boot swept round and knocked the Dhracus’s legs from under her. She cried out in surprise and, as she fell, Bolldhe brought the pommel of his dirk smashing up into the side of her head. With a grunt, she collapsed, both her daggers still clasped tight, one in each hand.

But if any of her group had noticed her fall, it made no difference to them. As little thought was spared their fallen comrade as was given to the pile of baggage dumped at the base of the knoll. No one even thought to try to hide. Just like the last time a Giant had appeared, mindless panic possessed them all; it was every man for himself.

Unlike last time, however, when the Giant was already upon them, now there was an obvious clear direction in which to flee:
northwards
. And this they did with a single-minded determination. Bolldhe’s companions, too.

Now the full fury of the storm broke over them and, wailing, they ran to the hills with eyes full of dread. Rain lashed down from the heavens to blind them, and it seemed a satanic choir of harpies screeched amidst the elemental madness of the tempest to confound their senses.

Still reeling with physical agony, unbearable guilt and mental aftershock, Bolldhe was not as quick to react as the others. Now he too had been abandoned by his companions. As the leviathans thundered ever closer, bringing with them the chaos of the accompanying storm, all he could do was stand there panting, and staring down at the pair of pathetic crumpled bodies at his feet.

Eggledawc’s eyes, still glazed in fear and pain, stared up at nothing, the blood from his ripped throat now washed by the rain over his skin. Next to him lay Dolen. Her face was drawn tight with an inner agony that Bolldhe could only guess at. Hurt beyond belief by Bolldhe’s unforgivable act of murder, abandoned by her own companions and now totally unable to save herself from certain death.

A wave of utter despair swept over Bolldhe, and he pitched forward, almost retching in nausea. What had he just done?

But almost as soon as it descended upon him, Bolldhe’s despair was thrust aside by a sudden fierce resolve: she would not die. Bolldhe swore it: if any were to fall this day, it would be him. But not before he had saved the woman.

Though not knowing exactly why he did so, he laid Eggledawc’s war-hammer reverentially upon the dead man’s chest (much in the way Peladanes’ bodies were graced with their swords as they lay on the funeral pyre), and tenderly closed his eyelids. Then he snatched up the limp form of the Dhracus – man, she was light! – and ran off almost blindly through the driving rain, through the wet bracken that slapped at his thighs, and up to the summit of the slope.

At the crest, blinking back the stinging rain, he stared down beyond to where he had earlier left Zhang in the care of the priest. Above the howling tempest and the ever-increasing thunder of the approaching Giants, he called out: ‘Zhang! Appa!’ But he could see nothing of them through the rain. In rage, he screamed at the top of his voice. Passion filled him. Through her sodden clothes, Bolldhe became aware of feeling something of the warmth and softness of Dolen’s body in his arms. His heart almost broke in pain of love for this total stranger, not even a human . . .

All pain and guilt put aside for the moment, he allowed his soul to soar at the thought of what he was doing, this, his atonement. With that, he let the full power of the storm surge into his wounded heart and pour through his veins.

Then, beyond any hope, he caught sight of the blurry shape of a horse galloping towards him.

‘Zhang!’ he cried out in utter delight. A second later Appa was out of the saddle and standing beside him. The priest’s grey woollen robe clung about him like wet paper, and he was gasping for air.

‘Bolldhe!’ he cried in relief. ‘Thank Cuna you’re still alive. I thought I heard you call. ’

‘Take her!’ Bolldhe yelled into his ear, then heaved the slumped and sodden form of the female thief over Zhang’s withers. ‘Get yourself back on now, and don’t stop till you reach the Gate! Whatever happens, don’t let go of her!’

Ignoring the priest’s stammering protests, Bolldhe hoisted Appa roughly into the saddle. ‘Tivor knows the way. Now GO!’

For a second, Appa’s eyes met Bolldhe’s inquiringly. The old man might not have known the reason for Bolldhe’s strange actions, but he did realize one thing: he, for once, was doing the right thing.

Perhaps the old rogue, Appa’s last and only hope, would die today. But, ‘Whatever happens, don’t let go of her’ – Bolldhe had clearly come a long way.

So, with a hoarse cry, Appa galloped off towards the hills and was swallowed up by the storm.

Then began his flight to the portal, and Bolldhe wasted no time. Even as Zhang disappeared from sight, he was already plunging headlong in the same direction the horse had taken. Instinct now took over; though Bolldhe might not have been the most athletic of men, his single-minded attitude to self-preservation could not be rivalled, and running away from danger was one of his most practised skills. Across the heathland he sprinted, legs pumping like engines, eyes and nostrils flared wide.

Over some bushes he leapt in an arc that was gazelle-like in its perfection; under a low-hanging bough he ducked, snapping his head aside lightning-fast to avoid having his eye gouged out by a protruding twig; down the side of a steep, stream-cut defile, over the churning water in one huge bound, and up the other side all in one single momentum of speed.

On and on he ran, towards the mountains that reared up before him, though only dimly visible behind the screen of rain. He did not precisely know where he was heading, but he had to keep going as fast as he could; any doubts would only slow him down.

Doubts, nevertheless, were clawing at his mind in their hundreds. He realized that only Kuthy knew the portal’s exact location, but he had no idea how to pinpoint the man in this storm, for he could barely see twenty paces in front of him. And what if Kuthy had abandoned them? Maybe he had been lying again when he said the portal was at hand? Perhaps he should forget Kuthy and follow the Tyvenborgers instead; they must surely know where the gate lay.

By now the rumbling of Giant steps had grown into a huge booming as of great drums beating underground. It felt as if the whole of Eotunlandt were moving to this beat, rivalling the commotion of the storm. Yet the storm itself was escalating; bullets of hail now joined the bombardment, stricken birds came tumbling and screeching out of the sky, and whole branches went flying through the screaming air.