The Wanderer's Tale (63 page)

That voice had sounded human . . .

Daytime saw the company glancing nervously around at every distant snap of a twig, though the cold mist that hemmed them in restricted their vision to only thirty yards or so. By night there would always be two of their number keeping watch as the others slept. None of them was in any doubt that some time soon, something was going to happen.

On their fourth night in the forest, it did.

‘Nibulus! Finwald! Everybody, wake up! Quickly!’

The Peladane immediately threw his covers aside and grabbed for his sword. ‘Whassup? What is it?’ he said foggily. ‘Wha’s going on?’

He looked up to see the dark shape of Bolldhe staring down at him. The two priests at his side groaned cantankerously as they stirred from their slumber. Wodeman, though still and silent, appeared to be fully awake already.

‘Shh!’ Bolldhe hissed, then pointed. ‘Over there . . .’

Nibulus’s gaze followed his finger, and tried to peer through the dark. The moon had not even reached its hemisphere yet, but the first glimmers of dawn rendered at least a hint of light. As he continued to stare he could just about make out the silhouetted figure of Paulus, some way off, frozen into immobility. Judging by the way the crow’s feathers were angled, the Nahovian was facing away from them, staring out into the mist with his sword held out in front of him.

‘What is it, Bolldhe?’ Nibulus whispered. ‘What’s he seen?’

‘I don’t know,’ came the hushed reply. ‘He didn’t say – just leapt up all of a sudden and whipped out his sword. I know he’s very superstitious, but he must have sensed something more than huldres to act like that.’

Noiselessly, the company hefted their weapons and crept over to where the mercenary stood.

Then they heard it, something blundering through the woods not far off. Something very large and heavy, which sounded as though it was coming their way.

‘Quick,’ hissed Nibulus. ‘Find some cover, but stay close! Bolldhe, mount your horse. Everybody, be prepared to run if need be.’

He need not have bothered. Everybody knew exactly what to do. With a silent efficiency the company took up positions and waited, the mist dripping off their faces like cold sweat.

Now they could hear it clearly. The crunch of living wood as branches were splintered asunder. The hoarse breathing of some large animal gulping in great lungfuls of air and rasping them out again. Heavy footsteps pounding upon the carpet of needles, getting nearer with every step.

Whatever it was, it moved on two feet, but was far heavier than any human.

Step by purposeful step it came closer.

Suddenly there was a sound off to their right, and they swung around in time to see a figure emerge from the trees, bow in hand.

But then from in front of them again, a thunderous animal bellow echoing through the silent forest snapped their heads back around. Just beyond the crouching shadow of Paulus they saw a huge shape approach. They had only enough time to register it before it crashed into the clearing and was upon them: great, lumbering arms that swung heavily at its sides, a trail of shaggy hair that streamed behind it, and from within its dark head two points of light that gleamed at them malevolently.

‘HIT IT FROM EVERY SIDE!’ roared Nibulus in fury, and hurled himself into battle – just as Paulus flung himself out of its path and dealt it a ferocious back-slash with his hand-and-a-half sword.

Arms spread wide, the beast set about itself in a fit of berserk savagery. Cries arose from the elder mage as he cowered in fear upon the ground. War-cries and roars and screaming echoed through the trees . . .

Suddenly the monster flung up its arms and clutched its face in agony. It screamed horribly, thrashed about at its unseen attackers and desperately tried to claw the arrow out of its eye. The company leapt back and watched in complete bewilderment as the beast staggered away from them, still howling in pain.

The arrow, wherever it had come from, was embedded deep in its eyeball. With only the flights and the last two inches of the shaft visible, it had gone straight through and lodged in the brain.

With a final shriek of utter despair echoing after it, the monster fled back into the trees, and was gone.

Barely recovered from their shock, the travellers spun around to face the newcomer with the bow. Four sharp blades and two staves were aimed towards it, and six pairs of legs were coiled ready to spring.

‘Just who the hell are you, creeping round the woods on this night?’ demanded Nibulus. ‘Speak up quick, or bleed profusely!’

‘Now, now,’ the man said in a placatory tone, ‘is that any way for the son of the great warlord Artibulus Wintus to speak to me?’

The deep voice conveyed a strong sense of pride and authority, and possessed an accent very similar to Bolldhe’s.

‘Who
are
you?’ Bolldhe repeated the Peladane’s inquiry, advancing upon the stranger with the flamberge ready. ‘How do you know so much about us? Was it you spying on us in the woods the other day – and telling us about the sea freezing over?’

‘Put away your sword, Pendonian,’ the stranger replied in a calm, almost bored tone. ‘I am not your enemy – my treatment of yon beast can attest to that. But to answer your question, yes, it was me you heard the other morning, though I was certainly not spying on you.’

‘Then what
were
you doing?’ Nibulus ranted on. ‘You neither showed yourself nor answered my challenge. We are on a mission of great import and do not take kindly to being toyed with!’

‘Oh, for Nokk’s sake,’ the newcomer sighed, ‘if I’d known what a bunch of mewling infants you were I’d have left you to deal with that beast by yourselves. But . . . I can sympathize; I used to get pretty shaken up by that sort of thing when
I
was a novice.’

‘
Novice!
’

‘It’s all right, Nibulus,’ an unsteady voice said at his side. ‘This stranger means us no harm. I have read his soul.’

Nibulus halted in mid-strop and turned to look at Appa. The old man, still looking half-asleep, was even now wrapping himself up in his bedroll again against the chill of the night.

‘Really?’ the Peladane said. ‘You can do that?’

‘I can and I just have,’ replied the old priest, ‘as can young Finwald here.’

The younger priest nodded, and set about lighting the kindling they had prepared earlier.

‘So, perhaps we could help Finwald with the fire, and shed a little light on our friend here. Then maybe he could introduce himself.’

The fire was soon burning brightly and the travellers gathered round it, glad to huddle within the golden glow that was for a time pushing back the terrors of the night. Only Paulus remained on his feet, standing apart from the company, still on his guard. He continued to scan the night shadows uneasily.

In the light of the campfire, the stranger was revealed to be a man of about fifty years. Weathered skin, creased and pocked with infinite detail like a map of his life, stretched over a sharp-boned face that was unshaven and ungentle, hard as ogre-hide. Only around the eyes was it soft; though they themselves were cold and hooded, refusing to give anything away, the skin surrounding them could not so easily disguise the man’s life story, and it was lined by an entire world of sorrow and care.

A high brow gave him a look of considerable intelligence, confirmed by the fact that he seemed to be reasonably fluent in several languages including Aescalandian and possess a working knowledge of many other language groups.

This cosmopolitan air was evident in his raiment, too. He was dressed in a garish mix of garments from diverse (and in most cases, unknown) cultures, that conflicted not only with each other but also with the man himself: military tunic of faded green sendal with brass buttons and mandarin collar, ‘barbarian’ rawhide saiga-skin thrown loosely over this, khaki cavalry boots of scuffed and patched cordwain, violet-and-gold cummerbund that had seen better days. The whole ensemble gave the immediate impression that he had done his shopping in a very badly lit second-hand clothes bazaar.

It was only when one took a closer look that their quality became apparent: gold embroidery of the most exquisite detail could occasionally be seen glinting dully in the firelight as he shifted himself. Though faded and more than a little threadbare, it was still there under the grime of the years.

The sheen from various items about his person continued to attract glances from his audience; whalebone ice-skates slung at his belt on one side, an ivory-handled elk-gut whip coiled on the other, two dirks (one in each boot), in his cummerbund a strange, heavy dagger with notches down the side that he called a ‘swordbreaker’, and a broadsword (an Aggedonian temple sword, he informed them later) that came from a land so remote not even Bolldhe had heard of it.

Whatever he was wearing on his head, they could not identify in this light. It might have been a cap of sorts, maybe even a crested helmet of some peculiar design. In any case it looked as though it were made of a lobster-shell or possibly a whole crab, with the legs still attached . . . and still
moving
. But they could never quite see, for with his each movement it appeared to alter somehow, as if not quite sure what it was itself.

But above everything, it was their visitor’s eyes that their attention kept going back to. These regarded the company with a casual interest as cool as it was transient. There was a measure of affability there, but carefully guarded. This was a man who could like others (sort of) and be liked himself (sort of) but had seen far too much of the world to set any real store by such feelings nowadays.

Even as he spoke, his voice gave the impression that there was little in this world he cared about.

‘I must apologize for my little joke the other day,’ he began, ‘but it really was too good an opportunity to miss. There you were, six travellers from the South on their first day in the great Fron-Wudu, obviously on some sort of
desperately
important mission, never imagining for a moment there could be anyone else in these woods, let alone a dozen yards away.
Heh heh heh
. I just couldn’t resist a little prank.’

He trailed off, chuckling to himself, plainly amused by the memory.

The company sat regarding him in stony silence.

‘How long have you been spying on us?’ Nibulus asked quietly. Normally he would have been in favour of beating the truth out of the man with an iron bar, but this one had followed them for at least three days without any of them realizing it. Nibulus therefore opted for a more cautious approach. ‘I would like to know how much you heard. What do you know of our quest?’

‘Quest, is it?’ the man smirked. ‘How utterly riveting. No wonder you’re all so—’

‘Now listen, old man,’ Nibulus snapped suddenly, ‘I’m getting a little tired of all this! I want to know
now
exactly what you heard.’

The stranger rolled his eyes with boredom. ‘Yes, quests,’ he replied. ‘Terribly, terribly important things, quests; part of the very fabric of our being. And do you know what? Whether they succeed or fail, still, it seems the world goes on just the same. But to answer your questions, I have not been “spying” on you,’ he promised, taking out a telescope and peering at the Peladane through it, ‘merely taking an interest in fellow travellers. And what I’ve heard and how much I know of your business is hardly enough to blow the lid off anything significant, even if I cared to tell anyone else, which I don’t. Most of what I know is merely what I see here: a Peladane from Nordwas bearing the badge of the Wintus household, leading two mage-priests and a sorcerer, all from Wyda-Aescaland, a vagrant who speaks Aescalandian with a Pendonian accent, and a Nahovian mercenary. Such an odd mixture, and in so few numbers . . . it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that something unusual is up. Naturally, therefore, I was intrigued.’

‘And that’s really all you know, eh?’ Nibulus asked sceptically.

‘That, and the fact that you are headed for Melhus, via Wrythe, and that presumably means you’re after some relic – holy or unholy – in Vaagenfjord Maw.’

He scanned their faces in quick succession, reading their eyes, then guessed again. ‘Well, perhaps not a relic, but it does have something to do with priestly matters, or you wouldn’t have brought this wrinkled old prune along.’ He gestured at Appa. ‘In any case, it’s obvious that if you’re going to Melhus, it’s to plunder the old Rawgr-Keep. There’s bugger-all else to do there, I can tell you.

‘I’ll give you some advice for free: anything worth looting from that place was taken long ago. It’s been the biggest draw for tombraiders for five hundred years. Not that the Peladanes left much after their siege, but then they never do, do they?’

Nibulus should have been enraged at this. It was his duty to be enraged. This was the gravest insult to all that his kind stood for – even if his kind were all perfectly aware that it was the truth – and for most Peladanes it would have been met with instant retribution involving (at the very least) a heavy wooden club. But Nibulus had never been the zealous type, and there was still the matter of this man’s putting an arrow directly into the eye of that howling beast in almost near-darkness. Instead he contented himself with a snort of contempt. That was so much easier.

‘So how do you know – I mean, what makes you think I’m Warlord Artibulus’s son?’ he asked, ignoring the stranger’s impudent smirk. ‘I’m sure none of us mentioned
him
at any stage.’

‘Oh, come come, you sell yourself short!’ the other chided. ‘The son of Artibulus is well known throughout the North. How many other people do you know with the name Nibulus?’

Fair point
, Nibulus conceded.

‘Yes,’ the man continued, ‘Nibulus Wintus: only child of the Warlord of Wyda-Aescaland. No brothers, no
sisters . . .
married, yet
still
no children.’

‘So who are you?’ the Peladane interrupted. ‘You still haven’t told us your name!’

‘Kuthy,’ the man stated simply. ‘Kuthy Tivor.’

There was a stunned silence broken only by the sound of the stranger adding more wood to the fire.