The Wanderer's Tale (72 page)

‘Kinasema oevf-laet doerst!’ he jabbered frantically, using the most basic register of Pendonian he could manage, and hoped for the best. Whether they knew of his companions or not was unimportant. At all costs he could not be seen as a lone traveller, without allies.

Bolldhe trembled with fear, and felt horribly vulnerable in his de-bagged state. Still he was forced to stare skywards. Then a circle of faces appeared on the perimeter of his vision, cutting out the sunlight. One in particular regarded him closely. It was a hard, cruel face seemingly designed to convey a dread sense of sanguinary malice. Thick-set and brutal with pale, clammy skin, it was framed by black hair that was long and lank, and clung wetly to the neck and shoulders. The lips were like thick slugs, and the tiny eyes were like those of a pig, and black as a shark’s – soulless. Lice and maggots crawled about this apparition’s clothing.

‘So,’ it said in Pendonian, ‘you’re a Peladane. Well well, interesting. We’ll have to introduce you to Eggledawc; he’ll like that’ – Bolldhe whimpered as he felt gloved hands run over his kneecaps – ‘. . . and I’m sure he’d like to introduce his war-hammer to these here.’

‘I’m
not
a Peladane!’ Bolldhe blurted out, again in Pendonian. ‘I’m from Hrefna!’

Hrefna was a huge, wild and largely forested region of northeast Pendonium. Furthest away from the capital Ymla-Eligiad (in terms of influence, if not distance), it had always been a dark and ungovernable place, and was by and large abandoned by the Peladanes. Over the years it had become the haunt of outcasts, thieves, disillusioned ex-Peladanes and the darker presence of the Dhracus from neighbouring Godtha. As far as High Warlord Godwin Morocar of Ymla-Eligiad was concerned, Hrefna was pariah, but it did serve as a convenient, self-ruled buffer zone against Godtha. Otherwise, the less he had to do with it, the better.

But if Bolldhe had hoped to curry some favour by claiming he was from this place, he was soon brought face to face with the reality of the situation when his inquisitor cried ‘Liar!’ and smote him.

Bolldhe’s mind exploded with unbelievable agony, and his legs buckled beneath him. For several seconds his world turned white. When finally, gasping and retching, his sight returned, sickly colours writhed before his eyes, and he could see his fingers twitching horribly. His lips tingled, and the left side of his face felt numb. Then he heard a soft bubbling, and could smell burnt skin.

Oh gods!
he thought in disorientation and nausea.
What the hell was that?

With his mouth very close to Bolldhe’s ear, his tormentor said softly: ‘And I only rapped you lightly that time.’ The grinning man then held the weapon in front of Bolldhe’s face, and he knew he had spoken the truth. It was a heavy mitre of black iron. Such mace-like sceptres were usually little more than a spiked ball on the end of a stick, but this one was more antique and intricately wrought. It radiated menace and power like a wizard’s staff.

The man continued: ‘Lie to me again, and I will strike a little harder, and boil the skin from your bones. You’re not from the forest, for you talk like a westerner, or a southerner from Arturan perhaps. When you meet Eggledawc, then you will hear a true Hrefna accent.’

He gave a nod, and Bolldhe was released, to collapse to the ground. Though various points, blades and clubs were being pressed into him, he savoured the cool, soft grass against his burnt face, felt the freshness and life in it, breathed in its vibrant pungency and tried to bury himself in it.

Then he was yanked back up, and stood staring about himself. In the next few seconds, he appraised the outlaws.

The tormentor with the mitre was a big hard bastard, that was for sure. Death hung about him like a shroud. It was in the pits of his eyes, the lines and scars of his heavy face, even in his swagger. And those big hands looked as if, without any need of weapons, they had ripped the life from many a screaming victim, while he had chuckled.

More worrying still, Bolldhe recognized something unmistakably ceremonial, almost religious, in both the raiment and the arrogance of this beast, which was borne out by the Kh’is that he now saw sheathed at his belt, that distinctive Olchorian sacrificial dagger with its undulating blade. Were these cut-throats servants of Olchor, then? Just thinking about that brought the choking taste of vomit to Bolldhe’s mouth. For if it were true, his death would be a heinous one.

He looked closer at the man’s garb for any sign, any badge, of the Evil One. About his shoulders the oppressor wore a navy-blue mantle, and beneath it a leather doublet of deep purple hung with bright iron scales. Neither garment bore any device or token of Olchor. But when he turned around to say something to the Tusse, Bolldhe saw embroidered upon the back of his mantle three characters. He stared closer, and was astonished to realize these were not Olchorian sigils, but runes of the Torca!

Olchor’s
Death’s-Head
, the rune of
Erce
, and Cuna’s
Torch
. All together.

What in the world could that mean?

And what was the big man doing travelling with all these non-humans? Why would he choose such brutish, bestial company? It seemed perverse.

Whilst ostensibly keeping his eyes upon the ground as if in deference, Bolldhe did manage a few swift glances in their direction, surreptitiously eyeing each of them up and down. His trembling legs could hardly hold him up, and his dread was such that he could feel his gorge rising inexorably. But he was well aware that if he were to stand any chance of getting out of this one, he had to know (or at least begin to guess something of) his enemy. He compelled himself to concentrate.

The Tusse, at nine feet, was at least a foot taller than the blacksmith back in Myst-Hakel, and much bulkier. He was encased entirely in an enormous suit of plated mail, which was surmounted by a sturdy little helm that sat atop his small head like a mead-bowl. In one hand he held a bhuj, a massive meat-cleaver of notched, blackened iron. In the other, he gripped a maul: the five-foot-long mace that was wielded two-handed by humans. He looked, frankly, unstoppable; more like a Jutul, one of the fire-giant smiths of the underworld. Unmoving, he simply stared at Bolldhe, without hint of expression or thought.

If this was really a band of thieves, then this one presumably was not the one sent to shin up drainpipes.

In the same hand that held the bhuj, the Tusse gripped a leash, at the other end of which was tethered the Boggart. It was as stunted and hirsute as any Boggart the world over but, unlike the bulk of his race that were normally to be seen scavenging on the periphery of civilization like pariah curs, this one had attitude. The small, tusk-like teeth that thrust up from its lower jaw were gold-capped, and on its hands it wore a pair of bagh-nakh, or spiked knuckle-dusters. It glared at Bolldhe ferally, and salivated.

‘Careful, Peladane,’ the mitre-bearer warned. ‘The males of their species don’t like being stared at in the eye. Think on, or Grini here might decide to search for the future in your entrails.’

Grini. Yes, that was the name inscribed on his collar. Bolldhe quickly turned away. The Boggarts’ shamanistic rites were well known; they would pull out the innards of their victims, and in them try to divine the future. (Their futures invariably turned out to be red and steaming, which perhaps was not so inaccurate after all.)

And then they would eat them.

The hunched-up Grini was passed back to his master, the one who had been holding the knife against Bolldhe’s throat. Unsurprisingly, this one turned out to be a Polg. This cocky little shit sauntered over to take the leash, and as he did so treated their prisoner to his best intimidating sneer. It always amazed Bolldhe how the Polgrim found it so easy to look down at races that were at least a foot taller than they. Was it practice, he wondered, or were they genuinely and inherently the most arrogant little vermin on the face of Lindormyn?

As ostentatious as the worst of his breed, this Polg was arrayed in clothes of deep red, green and brown, all hung about with silver and gold, and he sported a moustache that was almost long enough to hold his trousers up. An assegai spear with a leaf-shaped tip was strapped across his back, and a haladie was stuffed into his belt. Both weapons were typical hunting tools of the Polg elite. The haladie, had Bolldhe been in a better position to appreciate such things, was especially impressive: a kind of ‘double-dagger’, it had two long, gracefully curved blades, each extending from either end of the grip, and by the aura he had felt as it was held to his artery, Bolldhe guessed this one was magical, possibly the kind that could return to its wielder like a boomerang.

This is bad
, Bolldhe thought,
this is terrible.
Such weapons . . . ! This lot were far better equipped than any group of mere thieves should be; they were more like an expeditionary taskforce than wandering rogues. Bolldhe’s thoughts reached out for his quest-mates, wherever they might be now. But there was little comfort in any notions of a rescue from them. What could they do against adversaries such as these?

At a word from the leader, the only other human in the group stepped up to Bolldhe. Though this one had blond hair tied into a very long and greasy horsetail, the two men were sufficiently alike to be brothers; both were large and muscular, with brutish, pig-eyed faces. But unlike his funereally clothed brother, this one preferred to show off his physique. His jacket had been removed and was tied about his waist, so his knotted torso was bare.

As he approached he made a sudden lunge at Bolldhe with his voulge. The heavy, spiked blade sang past Bolldhe’s face, missing his nose by a scant fraction of an inch. Bolldhe jerked back and fell on his backside, and the thieves roared with laughter.

The blond man grinned like an idiot, and Bolldhe forced a similar smile through his dread, though by now he was on the verge of tears.

‘An inch closer and you’d be dead on your feet, fucker,’ the voulge-man breathed. He glared psychotically at his prey, then thrust the long haft of the weapon into the ground. Bolldhe peered at the blade with wide eyes; it was coated with some old stain that stank unbelievably. Was it poisoned?

But before he had a chance to ponder further, the man had placed a brawny hand on Flametongue’s hilt and snatched it away from him.

Immediately the light dimmed as the sun went behind a cloud, and high, screeching voices sang in a wind that suddenly sprang up from nowhere, bending the treetops. Everyone, Bolldhe included, looked up in alarm.

Then the cloud passed, and the wind died.

The thief shrugged, and turned his attention back to the sword. ‘Do for starters,’ he assessed, and tossed it over to his brother. Still staring up at the trees, the other caught it by the hilt, then lowered his perturbed eyes to the flamberge. He turned it this way and that, thoughtfully, while the first one continued searching Bolldhe for any items of worth.

He swiftly pocketed Bolldhe’s shark-tooth necklace with its beautiful pearl, and handed out the other items of worth to his accomplices: the scimitar brooch-pin, the garnet-studded leather belt, those heavy jade bracelets, even Bolldhe’s prized lizard-hide waterskin – all those beloved souvenirs of lands he had travelled through, places which were further distant than anyone save he himself even had the wit to imagine! He burned at the loss of these dear possessions.

But not at the loss of Flametongue; for all he could care, they were welcome to that horrible thing.

The leader finally tore his gaze from the flamberge and looked over to his brother. ‘Right, that’s everything, is it, Cuthwulf?’ he asked, still slightly preoccupied. ‘Fine, let’s get back to the others, then; they should be finished by now. Flekki, bind the citizen and bring him along.’

The Hauger, cloaked, hooded and robed almost like a monk, waddled across to Bolldhe, unstrung a length of rusty copper wire from her belt and, while the Grell held their prisoner’s hands behind his back, bound him painfully by the wrists. She was a River Hauger, Bolldhe could tell as clearly from her garb as from her odour. For the clothes smelt permanently musty with river-mist, and had the hue of pond scum; even the array of brass tools at her belt were green with damp. As she made fast her flesh-cutting bonds, Flekki eyed Bolldhe with a face as grey, hard and calculating as any of her kin, but with an additional hint of the swagger-and-leer of her present company. Gods, she was ugly.

Thus she sang as she went about her work. When she was done, she pulled a pata onto her hand, and with it prodded Bolldhe to get moving.

He stared down at her in disbelief. The pata was similar to Paulus’s punch-dagger, though it was attached to a gauntlet and was as long as a shortsword. Bolldhe was well aware that it was a favourite tool of the assassin’s trade. Just what under the sun
were
these people?