The Wanderer's Tale (20 page)

But as Paulus hopped back and reversed the sword in his grasp with a lightning-quick flick of the wrist to parry the next blow, the Ogre’s elephantine foot came up and caught him unexpectedly in the chest, hurtling him backwards with a winded gasp of surprise.

At the same moment Methuselech also reached the bridge. He veered deftly to one side to avoid Paulus’s semi-conscious body as it crashed against the rampart, then, his shamsheer gripped tightly in both hands, he swung its huge length of curved steel at the Ogre’s unprotected flank. Gapp gagged in wild-eyed horror as he saw the blade bite deep into the creature’s flesh with the sickening sound of a butcher’s cleaver hacking up a haunch of beef.

Some of the horses were rearing in terror, whinnying and stamping their hooves wildly, and it was all their riders could do to restrain them from bolting. For Hammerhoof, though, this situation was all too familiar. He sensed that his master was intending a lance-charge, but could not now understand what he was waiting for.

‘Radnar!’ Nibulus bellowed. ‘Hand me my damned lance!’

Bolldhe shot a glance over towards the esquire, who was up on his feet now, but seemed wholly unable to get his thoughts together. Straight away Bolldhe leapt over to the squire’s pony and yanked the Peladane’s lance out of its rest.

‘It’s all right!’ shouted Finwald, grabbing for the lance simultaneously, ‘I’ll do that. You go help Xilvafloese!’

‘Just give it here!’ cried Nibulus, his face purple with rage.

Bolldhe turned back to look at the bridge. Methuselech, after his initial lunge, was now in trouble. Incredibly the Ogre’s wound had not proved fatal; with a hide as tough as saddle leather, though the monster had taken the sword in fairly deep, it had still not penetrated any of the vital organs. And now, with the weapon still wedged into its flank, the Ogre twisted violently sideways and wrenched the shamsheer out of Methuselech’s grasp. In the same movement it brought its club down in a swift blow towards the warrior’s unprotected head.

Nibulus froze, Finwald stared open-mouthed, Gapp screamed ‘No!’ and Appa closed his eyes.

If it had not been for Paulus, Methuselech would certainly have died right then. But, as the shamsheer was yanked from his hands, he stepped back, caught his heel on Paulus’s prostrate form, lost his footing and fell over backwards. The boulder-heavy bludgeon just missed him and crashed against the rampart. Splinters of granite flew through the air as both club and rampart disintegrated and tumbled down the waterfall and into the fog below.

‘Help him, damn you!’ roared Nibulus to the unwilling traveller, and Bolldhe finally released his hold on the lance, snatched up his own axe and charged towards the Ogre. Finwald, meanwhile, ran over and handed the lance to Nibulus.

Unarmed but still dangerous, the wounded Ogre towered over the two fallen mercenaries, the shamsheer still protruding from its side. Methuselech stared up into its eyes, at last taking in the enormity of this adversary, and realized now exactly what they were up against. He rolled backwards over his own head, like an acrobat, to leave only Paulus in the creature’s path. The Ogre reached down for the tall mercenary’s leg and yanked him off the ground as easily as picking up a rabbit. Conscious again, Paulus screamed in fear at the terrible face right in front of his, and instinctively lashed out with his free foot as hard as he could into that hideous visage.

The Ogre howled in surprise as its nose crunched beneath the force of the well-aimed blow; not for nothing did the mercenary wear hob-nailed boots. But this only fired its wrath further, and the struggling Paulus was held up, dangling, ready to be thrown down into the gully.

Suddenly the Ogre’s leg buckled, as Bolldhe’s broadaxe sheared through the tendons of its calf. Hamstrung, the hill-giant crumpled heavily to the ground, with Paulus trapped beneath it.

Again Bolldhe brought down his weapon, and this time the stricken Ogre caught the axe head in its outstretched hand as it tried to defend itself. Maimed from the wounds dealt by its three attackers, the howling Ogre struggled uselessly as Bolldhe’s axe hacked mercilessly into its mangled flesh; up, down, up, down, up, down. Its roars rose to a high-pitched shrieking, then died into a gurgle and finally stopped.

Sickened by his first sight of bloody battle, Gapp sank to his knees and wept convulsively. This was not the adventure, glory or even courage he had imagined; it was nothing more than simple butchery. Retching in horror, the tortured boy finally threw up into the gorge.

His deerskin tunic splashed with hot blood, and the gleam of berserk madness now fading from his eyes, Bolldhe stepped away from the bridge. He glared defiantly at the Peladane, as if daring him to utter one word of reprimand for Bolldhe’s initial hesitation.

But Nibulus merely sat astride his horse, his face still red with fury and frustration. How he yearned to howl at Bolldhe angrily, but he could hardly do so when the man had saved the life of the Nahovian, and possibly Methuselech too.

Instead, he handed the unused lance back to Finwald and silently dismounted. He walked briskly up to his esquire and kicked the crouching youth hard in the ribs. Sprawling across the path, Gapp squealed in pain and stared up with frightened eyes at the metal-clad warrior standing over him.

‘You
EVER
do anything like that again,’ the Peladane spat, ‘I’ll stick your head on a spike. Next time I order you to do something, you
do it bloody sharpish
! Xilva here could’ve died because of you!’

Suddenly a voice cut in harshly: ‘Don’t take it out on him, Peladane, just because your own sport was thwarted!’

They all turned to see Wodeman glaring at Nibulus angrily. Gapp stared in surprise at this unexpected support. ‘Blame your lanky mercenary, instead,’ he went on. ‘Ogres never attack against the odds.’ He pointed an accusing finger at their leader. ‘Just remember that,’ he said.

Then before Nibulus could answer, he turned to Gapp. ‘Come on, Greyboots,’ he said in a gentler tone. ‘Get up off the ground.’

Gapp still eyed Bolldhe with disgust. To witness that obscene screaming and hacking was like a waking nightmare, and he was still trembling with revulsion over it. But worse by far was that look in Bolldhe’s eyes as he had set about his prey. Gapp could understand that fear might have motivated such a frenzied attack, but what made him shudder was seeing the mad glint of satisfaction still in the man’s eyes.

And he isn’t even a warrior!

Gapp turned to stare at the mangled corpse of the Ogre, steam rising in wreaths from the gaping wounds in its flesh. Paulus, still dazed, was pulled out from beneath its weight, then several of them heaved the bloody carcass through the newly made breach in the rampart. The Ogre’s remains slithered off the little bridge and disappeared into the foggy oblivion below, swallowed up by the night that had finally descended in full.

That night none of them managed to get much sleep. After crossing the bridge they had found a suitable cave, but the events of the evening had cast a cloud of gloom over their heads. The travellers were still too fired up with adrenalin to relax, and although none of them was seriously injured, the effort of battle had taken its toll.

Cautiously approaching the cave, they could see a fire burning within. Its warm glow drew them towards it as though they were under a glamer, and when they entered they found Wodeman waiting for them. No one had even noticed him go on up ahead.

Gapp could get no sleep at all. He lay awake all night, going over in his head every detail of the shocking conflict, reliving each gory moment until he felt he would go mad. These waking nightmares haunted him through the hours of miserable darkness, cheating him of the sleep that both his body and mind desperately needed. By the time dawn broke over a colourless, craggy landscape, he felt more drained than he had felt before settling down for the night.

The next day passed by uneasily, a black cloud of tension hanging over the company throughout, silencing every attempt at conversation. There was a bad feeling amongst them. Nibulus rode alone at the head of the line, silent, sullen, his face set grimly against the wind that constantly buffeted them from the North. His esquire kept his distance, and even Nibulus’s friends were reluctant to approach him.

He sighed inwardly, his face feeling uncomfortable with the frown it had worn since the battle on the bridge, for his was the sort of face upon which frowning sits ill.

Well, that was a lousy start
, he reflected bitterly.
I only manage to get seven men to command, and I can’t control even them!

It had never been like this on his father’s campaigns. He was a Thegne, and as such had the command of an entire Manass-Uilloch, a company of two-and-a-half thousand soldiers. Two thousand five hundred well-trained Peladanes, brave and strong, every fifty – or Oloch – under the command of a sergeant . . .

This lot were more like a gaggle of fishwives, and even the two mercenaries had managed to piss him off. It was definitely high time to sort out who was in control here, and to get his head around exactly how one goes about commanding civilians.

He could learn maybe from Schwei Dautchang, the seventeenth sultan of Qaladmir, who had listened to even the lowliest of men, asked their opinions, made out he was interested in them and their lives, and thus gained the love and devotion of a whole nation.

Or he could be like Stag-Headed Ichtatlus, the legendary Dragoon-Lord of Rhelma–Find, who had ruled by barbarous cruelty and slaughter inconceivable;
his
methods appealed to the pack mentality in humans, in other words if you can raise the level of your clan’s strength and cruelty above that of your rivals, your men see themselves as the elite and will follow your orders fanatically, even knowing how wrong it is, taking pleasure in its sheer extremeness . . .

Wondering which style of leadership he should aim for, he again sighed, for Nibulus Wintus really did not possess the disposition for either.

Bolldhe rode at the rear, staring up at the lammergeyers that soared overhead, their huge wings filtering air with a sound like tearing silk. He remained as taciturn and unapproachable as ever. And as weary. So very weary. Far more than any of the others. They had been travelling for just over two weeks now, whereas he had been on the road for eighteen years. Eighteen long years of pointless travelling, wandering aimlessly from one place to another, without ultimately any real reason for doing so. Maybe there had been cause to travel years ago, when he had first set off, but not now. Now he only journeyed because there did not seem to be any good reason to stop.

Seven days after the fight with the hill-giant, whilst riding along at possibly the highest point of the track so far, the party happened upon another cave. It was only late afternoon, but the horses were exhausted from this most arduous day’s travel, so it was decided to make camp early. Their path, after all, was little likely to improve for some time yet.

All that day, and for three days before, they had stumbled along at a snail’s pace. Steep rises, broken bridges, stretches of track that had fallen away down the mountainside decades or even centuries ago, boulders and scree fall in their way, everything possible seemed to have conspired to hinder their route. The ancient and little-used path was deteriorating with every mile and, to make matters worse, it was still climbing.

That afternoon, whilst negotiating the fifth cliff-side stretch that day, it had been so narrow and slippery that Finwald had nearly lost his horse. It took four of them – Nibulus, Methuselech, Wodeman and himself – to haul the terrified Quintessa back onto the ledge. Contemplating this incident and others, their worsening and unavoidable situation was becoming a considerable strain.

On exploring the cave they discovered that it was not so small as at first sight. Several recesses lined the main cavern, one of which turned out to be a narrow crack leading to a larger space than the outer cave itself. The dirt floor was strewn with dried grass and a gnawed bone or two, and was rank with the musk of some wild creature.

But for the present at least it was uninhabited. Bolldhe, being well used to spending nights in animals’ lairs, recommended that they line the cave mouth with dry firewood and keep a torch burning at all times to ignite if necessary. This suggestion was gladly (and hurriedly) taken up.

After such an arduous day’s travel, no one might have felt bothered to prepare a meal. But they were all famished and cold, and soon their efforts had produced a good-sized fire and plenty of warm food. Though bland and uninteresting, their rations did manage to coax some spirit into the weary travellers, and it was not long before some of them were even in the mood for conversation.

‘Well!’ Methuselech began, ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I feel much better for that!’

No response.

‘What with good, warm food in me, and all,’ he continued, trying hard to sustain the levity in his voice.

Someone muttered something sarcastic about the weather being good for the time of year, but apart from this, nobody bothered to join in.

Methuselech persevered: ‘I feel almost fit enough to take on whatever revenge Skaane may inflict on us now for killing his pet . . . mmm.’

His voice trailed away as a ruby-tailed wasp buzzed in through the cave mouth, snooped around half-heartedly, then wandered off. The travellers watched its every movement in silence.

Then a small voice piped up from the back of the cave: ‘Who’s Skaane?’ Gapp, in spite of himself, was still awake enough to be inquisitive.

‘Skaane?’ The desert mercenary brightened up again. ‘You’ve never heard of the Great Ogre himself?’

Gapp inquired fearfully, ‘He doesn’t live around here, does he?’

‘No, no, no!’ Methuselech laughed. ‘You’ve no need to worry on that score, young Radnar. No, Skaane doesn’t live
anywhere
. He never has. He’s just a story: Skaane the Great Hill Giant, fiercest of all mountain spirits – the Ogre-God himself. They worship him, in their strange way, offering sacrifices and suchlike. Keeps them happy, I suppose. Like all pagan religions, just a bit of harmless fun.’