The Wanderer's Tale (55 page)

Now she dipped the brush into the pot, and it came out coated in a viscous liquid that glowed toxically and reeked of sulphur. The Jordiske holding him from behind gripped tighter. Gapp knew that he could never break that grip. An involuntary whimper escaped from his throat.

Then the brush came down, and instantly Gapp’s entire existence was a world of pure agony. As the vile unguent sought out every laceration on his face and sent geysers of burning agony down each nerve ending, the boy’s whole body succumbed to a violent fit of spasms. A seething gale howled through his brain and the only thing he had in his mind was an image of an eel convulsing in a frying pan. The drum-beating was now so intense that he thought he was inside one of them, being tossed around like a pea in a whistle.

The madness gradually subsided, but the pain and nausea went on. His head was then forced back up further to behold the Jord-Hag now withdrawing the stone knife from its hoop.

She raised it in front of him. Slowly. Everything went still. He stopped breathing. He could not move a muscle. She filled his vision, a ghastly old crone, withered with age, eaten away by malice, disease and invertebrates, glowing red with fire.

A second ticked by.

Then the knife sprang for his throat . . .

From somewhere to the right there came a sudden rush of air, and the knife was gone, along with the taloned hand that had held it. There followed a gout of arterial spray and a stifled squeal.

Another second ticked by, a second of silence so thick one could have choked on it. The Jordiske just stood there, all rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief, each single ocular vein swelling with the cold liquids that churned within it. Had they been capable, they might have gaped.

In the next second, a set of strong teeth with a familiar hot, fishy breath hooked itself under Gapp’s collar, hauled him up off the ground, and launched him like a missile out of the circle of firelight and into the all-enveloping darkness.

‘
Shlepp? How?
’

But Shlepp’s mouth was too full to answer, even if he could. Instead he bounded away through the darkness, madly, unthinkingly, using only instinct to guide him, just as it had led him here.

From behind them went up a shuddering howl. The alarm had gone up, and the hunt was on.

Over crags, fissures and mud pools Shlepp sprinted, the boy dangling from his powerful jaws like a rabbit, never stopping once. In their mad dash, Gapp felt as though he were being shaken to pieces. But he was
free
, and not even for the blood of Pel-Adan was he going to try to struggle out of the forest hound’s grip. By the Holy Greatsword, this brute was fast and didn’t pause once – it was as if he knew this place like the back of his paw. Boulders he swerved around, chasms he skirted, and all the while Shlepp threaded his way easily through the haloes of firelight and their leaping inhabitants.

But there was a randomness to his transit that made Gapp now realize that Shlepp was picking his way not with any particular direction, but simply keeping moving in order to avoid the growling, spitting shapes that were all around them now, for at home in their environment the Jordiske were already beginning to hem their quarry in.

Suddenly a dark shape sprang out from one side, so suddenly that neither boy nor hound had time to anticipate it. Shlepp swerved instantly, without a thought, and succeeded in avoiding it, but he could not avoid the slash of talons that scored deeply across his flank. Feeling neither pain nor fear, he plunged on. There were further looming shapes in the semi-darkness all about them, and all the boy could do now was to put his trust in his saviour.

After a few terrifying minutes Gapp became aware that there were no longer any globes of firelight to be seen ahead, and the angry sounds of their pursuers were falling away. Moments later, Shlepp slowed down, and finally let go of him.

Gapp lurched to his feet and whirled around in alarm, staring into the cold darkness on all sides. He could see nothing, but could still hear much. Above the rapid
drip-drip-drip-drip
of a nearby pool, the clamour of the enraged multitude of Jordiske was getting closer with every second.

‘Shlepp, you’re incredible!’ he gasped ‘You really—’

But Shlepp had no time for this. He tugged at the boy’s hand, pulling him on. Whether he knew where he was going, he certainly was not going to hang around here. Pausing only to take firm hold of the animal’s tail, Gapp stumbled blindly after him through the lightless tunnels.

It was quiet here. Quiet and close. They had left far behind the vast and echoing cavern with its stinking smoke and stuffiness, and were plunging down some sort of winding passage. It was cold here, with a continual sprinkle of moisture from above, almost like light winter rain.

Was that why the Jordiske were not following them? Because this was not their territory? That seemed highly unlikely to Gapp – only a few minutes away from their heartland? The thought stole chillingly into his heart that they were only being allowed to proceed this way because it would lead to yet more Jordiske.

No, it was something else. It had to be something about this particular tunnel they had by chance found themselves in. Something that frightened even the Jordiske . . .

No, best not to start thinking along those lines. He was scared enough already.

It was not long before the blackness again began to give way to a pale light. A moment later, he sighed thankfully as he saw the palest glimmer of daylight reflected off the slick, mossy surface of the tunnel wall.

Not hesitating even for a second, he followed Shlepp along the final stretch of the passage. Gapp was exhausted, both physically and mentally, from the horrors of the past few hours, and staggered on through a spray of icy water, no longer caring about what lay ahead.

Then he was out.

For a minute or two he could not see a thing. He just stood there blinking in the blinding daylight, gasping and spluttering, hardly able to keep upright. But he could feel the wide space all around him, hear the low moaning of the wind high in the treetops. He breathed in deeply the fragrance of moss and wet leaf mould that mingled so sweetly with the wind-carried smell of far-off rain clouds. It seemed the most beautiful moment he had ever experienced in his life.

Only now did he remember the pain; his face burned so terribly that he wondered if he still had any of it left. He dropped to his knees and convulsively splashed water from an icy rill repeatedly over his searing lacerations, flushing every last trace of the vile unguent from their raw and ragged pinkness until he was sure they were purged of their corrosive torment.

He still did not know where he was. The brilliance of the unaccustomed light had abated somewhat and familiar shapes were coming into view, but everything remained blurred, out of focus . . .

Again his hands went up to his face, and he groaned in dismay. He should have known it. After all that face-raking, the Jordiske may not have torn his features away, but they had succeeded in ripping off his spectacles.

But I’m alive
, he breathed. And that was all that mattered.

‘Shlepp,’ he croaked, his smile broadening as his watering eyes began to adjust, ‘you’re a miracle – a complete miracle!’

He leant heavily against the wall of the cave mouth, and paused for a moment to enjoy the warmth of the setting sun upon his chilled body.

‘I don’t know how you did it, by Scytha I don’t . . . but I think I’m in love with you.’

The rancid, smoky, sweaty odour from his garments drifted up his nose, and reminded him of the stifling pit from which he had been delivered. He chose to ignore the memory of it, but could not suppress a shiver at the sudden coldness he felt.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open fully, and looked straight into the eyes of the creature in front of him.

It was not a Jordiske.

That he could see at a glance, even with blurred vision. About the same height as he himself, if a little slighter of build, the creature was staring back at him without any movement whatsoever. At first Gapp thought it was a Polg, recalling what he had seen of the few of that race that had passed through Nordwas. But no, it was apparent that this was more animal than person . . . probably.

Though standing on two legs, it did so with a slightly hunched posture, not entirely unlike a Jordiske. Its feet were large and splayed, it had a long prehensile tail that flicked nervously like a hunting cat’s, and its hide was sparsely coated in mottled brown, curly hair. Its large and pointed ears moved independently of each other, trembling slightly at the tips. And it met Gapp’s stare with eyes as large and green as apples.

In one tiny, clawed fist it held a short spear, little more than a sharpened stick. Other than that, and an ancient leather pouch strapped about its waist, it carried no possessions, nor wore any clothes. Though it did not look as threatening as a cave network full of Jordiske, the southerner was afforded little assurance.

‘Shlepp!’ he called out. ‘. . . Shlepp?’

But Shlepp was not there. Gapp glanced around hurriedly, still trying to focus on the blurred shapes that swam into view. Squinting hard, he saw that he had emerged into a small grove ringed about by low rocks, but otherwise open to the forest.

‘Shlepp!’ he snapped. ‘What are you doing? Come here!’

Shlepp was sniffing around at the cave mouth still. He was clearly as aware of the newcomer as was Gapp, but hardly gave it a passing glance. The hound seemed more interested in the scuttling movements amongst the dead leaves than with their new guest.

Cool . . .
the boy observed. He turned back to the creature. Both regarded each other in silence, neither prepared to make the first move. Eventually, however, the ‘half-person’ seemed satisfied (after much sniffing and cocking its head) and carefully backed away. It moved with slow, painstaking care, all the while trembling – or rather vibrating – like a bat.

It suddenly raised one hand to its mouth and produced a sharp whistle – some form of signal, presumably – which bounced off the trees and echoed into the distance. As it did so, Gapp was struck by the semi-transparent web of skin that joined its raised upper arm to its side. This was not so much like a bat’s wing, more like the membrane of a flying squirrel. Gapp stared in fascination; he could not quite bring himself to believe this thing could actually fly . . .

They both continued to stand there, quietly waiting. Again it put its fingers to its mouth, but this time Gapp did not hear a thing. Shlepp, however, whined irritably, and growled at the creature in sharp rebuke.

Moments later, several more of them detached themselves from the surrounding foliage and moved to stand next to their kin. Gapp stepped back in alarm. They seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. Twelve of them, he now counted, all standing motionlessly before him, watching him guardedly, weapons unraised but at the ready. Some wore ill-fitting tunics of wool and fur, probably taken from humans or Polgs, but most stood ‘sky-clad’. All carried short spears, but some in addition to this held simple bows, blow pipes and, in one case, a bola.

The oddest thing, though, was that none of them paid any attention to the huge forest hound that had struck such terror into an entire clan of Jordiske. Thoughts of Yulfric and his words earlier that day (was it really only that same day?) suddenly came back to the nervous Aescal youth:

‘
. . . there are others . . . that are not so shy . . . The riverbanks are the haunt of the Vetterym. They are a strange race, one that has never bothered me, but one that I have always felt pressing in . . . a fleeting glimpse . . . a shadow in the trees . . .
’

Well, they were certainly more than fleeting glimpses or shadows now, but whether they intended to ‘bother’ Gapp on this occasion, he could only wait and see.

Ah, Yulfric
, he sighed,
why can’t you be here now? You’d know what to do . . .

He wondered then if either he or the dog would ever see Yulfric again, and the thought that they might not sent a chill running through his body. He had grown used to the towering strength of the Gyger these last few weeks, and now without him he felt dismally alone.

Now there was only the dog.

Please, Shlepp
, he prayed, eyeing the great beast in all its equanimity as it continued snuffling through the dead leaves,
stick with me – you’re all I’ve got now.

The first Vetter that he had encountered now advanced, and pointed its spear directly at Gapp’s chest.

‘Shlepp!’ the boy spat, and finally whipped out the sickle-headed fruit-pruner that he had never had a chance to use on the Jordiske. At the same time he flattened himself back against the rock wall.

But neither the Vetter nor the hound reacted, or seemed in the slightest bit impressed by his defiance. Gapp was beginning to wonder if he were mistaken about Shlepp’s loyalty to him. In the caves he had seemed a veritable myrmidon, but now, so far away from his master . . .

Judging by how easy they were with each other, he could have sworn Shlepp and the Vetters had encountered each other before.

He turned his attention back to the Vetter leader – if this assumption was right. Behind it, the rest of the Vetter brigade drew back slightly and parted, as if to let the boy through.

He gave them all, including the dog, a long, hard stare.

After a while, he felt satisfied that they meant him no immediate harm. If they had, surely they would have done something by now; his fruit-pruner was not, after all, the most terrifying weapon in the world. They looked neither evil nor threatening; it could well be that they were just curious. And they would probably be more favourably inclined towards him if he permitted himself to be led away than if he continued to stand his ground with a weapon in front of him.

Taking a deep breath, he slid the pruner back in place and went with them.

With Shlepp following happily behind, Gapp Radnar the esquire from the South was led through the forest into a deepening gloom. Despite this he found that his trepidation was beginning to lessen. Whatever happened, he sensed, the Vetterym could not be anything like as evil as the Jordiske. But still he let his hand rest lightly on the haft of the pruner, for his own assurance more than for any realistic protection, and the Vetters seemed happy to allow it.