The Wanderer's Tale (80 page)

As each frond of bracken parted before him, as each crunch of vegetation beneath knee or forearm brought Bolldhe closer to poor, heedless Eggledawc Clagfast, the certainty and immutability of Bolldhe’s imminent transformation summoned ever more bile to his throat. It was simply murder.

The air was becoming warmer and stickier by the minute, and there was a pulsing charge of electricity in it that tingled through Bolldhe’s teeth. He paused for a moment and squinted through the swaying green leaves at the back of Eggledawc’s head, now only yards away. So much like Appa’s neck, he reflected. He almost wished the man would turn around and spot him.

Do I really want to be a murderer for the rest of my life?
Bolldhe speculated. He thought forward to imagine what that would be like, but he could not; there was a black barrier before him. He thought back to what his life had been like previously, and that was not much better. Oh, he had killed men before, he was almost sure of that. But then it had been different. He had fought many times over the past few years, but it had always been in self-defence. And in all cases he had been spared the certainty of knowing if his opponents had subsequently died. His method was simple: hack, slash and put the boot in, then leg it as fast as possible. Never go back to check whether they survived. Too dangerous, and if they were dead, that was their fault for attacking him in the first place. Bolldhe himself never provoked fights.

But going back further in his memory, had he ever started hostilities? As aide to that mercenary guarding the caravan heading to the Crimson Sea, when Bolldhe was just fourteen, he had sometimes been called upon to help repel attacks by brigands. He had stabbed his weapons out of the windows of the wagons into anything that moved, and often his blade had come back stained red. Had he ever killed, though? He had fired off arrow after arrow into the night, but always at distant, half-seen, enemies. Again, had he killed?

He stretched his mind back even further, deeper into his past. And suddenly it became very humid indeed, and the electricity in the air made his head spin sickeningly with vertigo. There was a black barrier in his past, too; something in his own mind that was too strong even for him to reach through. What in the name of Pel-Adan . . . ?

An engram. A memory too dark and too terrible to behold. Turn back! Look away! Madness and blood, designed and directed by . . .

Bolldhe was eight years old.

Child. Beast.

Terror and fury as primal as it gets. Unfettered by adult mind-blocks. Limitless. Bottomless.

His eyes snapped open, baby-blue and cold as a reptile’s. Glared with hatred through the grass. Grass that soughed with the song of the waves. Saw Eggledawc. Foe! Forsaker of the One True God! He must stab, rip flesh, eviscerate, bathe in hot blood!

He gripped his wonderful new dirk, felt for a second the orgiastic intoxication of carnage fill his brain. Then he pounced . . .

Dolen Catscaul was not happy. She sat upon a large rock at the base of the knoll, somewhat apart from her new ‘cohorts’, and was idly scraping the dirt from under her fingernails with the tip of her misericord. Hardly a fitting use for such an ancient and magical knife, she knew, but it seemed to sum up her life at the moment. As the only Dhracus in the party, she was experiencing the full gamut of prejudice and mistrust that was the inevitable lot of one such as her.

Is it my skin?
she wondered, and splayed her twelve long fingers to regard their immaculate whiteness. It was no great secret that the other females in the party begrudged her this, but Dolen could not begin to understand why. Take the leader’s sister, Aelldryc, for example; Dolen greatly admired that freckled beetroot complexion of hers. The reward for a healthy outdoor life, in her opinion. And as for the mottled greyness of Flekki’s face, to Dolen, it was as the sheen of a fair silver birch in the crepuscular moonlight. Admiration was fitting, not envy.

The very concept of jealousy was ludicrous to the Dhracus. They did not complain about, nor even concern themselves with such trivial, superficial irrelevancies. But those others were not Dhracus, and they appeared to embrace an inexhaustible supply of the most ridiculous and illogical sensibilities, half-truths and pseudo-values. It was as though they needed such things to distract them from the real things in life. Why could they not simply focus on what mattered?

How they ever managed to invent the wheel, I’ll never know
, she thought. They seemed too busy obsessing over the size of various parts of their body, especially the females, or picking lice out of each other’s hair, to ever get important things done.

Or maybe they just don’t like my forked tongue?

‘No,’ she said softly to herself, with the ghost of a smile on her silver-grey lips. ‘Eggledawc doesn’t seem to mind that one bit . . .’

Eggledawc Clagfast. The mere thought of the name warmed her heart and exorcised her current gloomy preoccupations. Those five syllables, from the initial sweet and playful opening vowel, through the luxuriant dark ‘
l
’ consonant clusters, to the final whispered promises of the closing sibilance, encapsulated all that she so loved about humans: the passion and tragedy of their poetic lays, the haunting beauty of their music that could slay the soul or raise the dead, and their sense of humour that was as uproarious as it was inexplicable.

She was glad that she had met Eggledawc. He was different from the others. Never made any demands. Never grew angry. And like her, he was a free spirit. When she had first met him in the dark of a forest glade in Hrefna, neither had been afraid though they had both had good cause to be, for sure. For both of them, it had been the first time either had seen one of the other’s race. It was the firelight, she believed; in its sanguine illumination, the skin of both human and Dhracus had glowed the same colour. And over the following few weeks, both had delighted in their similarities as well as their differences. It had been a time of joy, new feelings and sharing; especially for her, so blessedly gifted with the empathy of her race.

Where is he anyway?
She looked up from her nail-picking, tilted back the peak of her cap, and scanned the surrounding area with keen eyes. Almost instantly she located him, still standing guard up the slope. It was getting rather windy, she noticed also; the bracken was whipping this way and that most oddly, and her swain’s hair was flying up around his head in a chaotic jig. But in spite of the wind up there, down here it was becoming uncomfortably hot. She had not felt like this since the Giant had materialized –
Sluagh’s Devils, that had been terrifying!
– and the air felt charged with the presage of blood . . .

She turned back to her thoughts. Ah, these Tyvenborgers! Why did she ever let Eggledawc talk her into joining them? It was not even as if he himself was a thief by nature. But then, there was not much difference between the terms ‘outcast’ and ‘outlaw’ in most people’s minds. And to lump all the denizens of the Thieves’ Mountain into one word, that was just as nonsensical as categorizing the pygmy shrew and the baluchitherium as just ‘animal’. In this band of fourteen alone could be seen the entire spectrum of people, from the maggoty Oswiu Garoticca to superior beings such as herself and Eggledawc . . . and perhaps Eorcenwold. Dolen liked Eorcenwold.

One group, a million differences, and she perhaps the most different of all. She knew what they said about her behind her back, of course. Every negative thought within their brains crackled out upon waves of empathy to the receivers in her own mind. Chief among these was, as ever, distrust and fear. They, like all other non-Dhracus, believed she was too perfect, ‘the ultimate being’. But in truth, all Dolen Catscaul cared about was how best to get on with her friends.

Needless to say, she knew the real reason why the Dhracus were so shunned by other races; that singular, undeniable fact, that terrible secret of her kind, that underlay every single mean little thought, opinion, or negative reaction of the non-Dhracus, and gave shape to all their –

What the Frigg was that?
‘EGGLEDAWC!’ she cried as her brain was engulfed in terror and blood, and her stomach lurched with a leaden weight of nausea. Instantly the entire camp leapt to its feet as the Dhracus’s screech split the air.

During the first few seconds that followed, many things happened at once. The wind-tossed bracken appeared to sprout several howling warriors that charged down upon the camp with cries that stopped the heart. In his shock Brecca the Stone Hauger stumbled and knocked over the kettle, sending a hissing plume of steam right into the faces of his three companions. An arrow thudded into Klijjver’s huge pauldron, throwing him staggering back with its force. Weapons were snatched up, orders were bellowed. The enemy warriors leapt into the camp, and another arrow struck Klijjver, this time directly on his iron cap, snapping the giant’s head back and sending him sprawling upon his back.

Then, during the next few seconds, other things followed. Khurghan’s double-bladed haladie spun through the air towards the tallest attacker, struck his bastard-sword with a steely ringing that echoed around the valley, and showered orange sparks down upon his black hood before wheeling around in an erratic arc and returning to the gloved hand of its wielder. Hlessi meanwhile tripped over his net in his haste to flee from the largest warrior. Cerddu-Sungnir threw down his crossbow in frustration and stood his ground with his battle-axe. By now, Dolen had both her knives out, and was still screaming relentlessly.

Then Eorcenwold planted his feet firmly on the ground and brought up his blunderbuss. ‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ he roared, and everything went silent, as quickly and as suddenly as it had started.

Finwald hesitated, as next did Wodeman. Then all was still. Nobody moved. Not a word was uttered. Even the conjured-up wind lost its force and died; the voices within it echoed off into the distance with a final sputtering cackle, and, as it went, so the unnatural closeness and humidity descended in full upon the land. Nibulus, once again, found himself staring down the bore of Eorcenwold’s blunderbuss.

His eyes bulged madly in his meaty face, glaring in hatred at the thief before him. As sweat poured down his neck under the increasing heat, he cursed vehemently at another stand-off. Again,
again
, it had all gone wrong. The Dhracus woman’s warning call had robbed him of the element of surprise; the thieves’ panic had been cut through by their leader’s voice, and they now held their ground. Bolldhe, for some reason, was still holding onto his prisoner; and the natural reluctance and tardiness of the non-warriors in the band of Aescals had helped lose them the initiative. They had once again failed him.

Damn the day I ever brought them!
he cursed to himself.
Why couldn’t I have had a company of real soldiers? Men I could order! Pel’s Balls, even this ragged band of brigands obey their lord with instant obedience!
What wouldn’t I do for a voice like that . . .

‘Right,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Decision now. Fight or run?’

He glanced around him for a second. Cerddu-Sungnir had gone back to furiously re-loading his crossbow; Hlessi had regained his net and was moving forward slowly, growling horribly; Cuthwulf and Alledryc had taken up positions on either side of their brother.

Then the twang of Kuthy’s bow could be heard from the top of the hill behind him. But by the time the sound reached them all, the arrow had already been casually deflected by Dolen’s lefthander parrying dagger as she slowly advanced upon Bolldhe.

Finally, a deep wheezing noise could be heard, like a bison coughing in the chill of early morning. Klijjver hauled his metal-shod bulk unsteadily to his feet, blinked dumbly, then noticed the two arrows embedded in his shoulder-plate and helm. He took hold of them firmly and yanked them free. There was no trace of blood. He then came on with maul and bhuj in hand, and his comrades laughed evilly.

Again, Nibulus deliberated: fight or run? He had not quite decided which one it might be, but at least he now knew it was not going to be
fight
. Paulus and Wodeman drew closer to the Peladane, waiting for his signal. Nibulus opened his mouth to give the order, but unexpectedly it was Finwald’s voice that cut through the silence:

‘The sword!’ he cried. ‘Give us the sword you stole! Give it to us, and we will trouble you no more.’

The thieves muttered together in incomprehension, then Bolldhe’s voice came down from the slope. Still holding onto the frozen form of his captive, he translated Finwald’s words into the thieves’ own cant. His voice, however, sounded strange – croaking weakly, tremulously, almost as though on the point of hysteria.

Only the Dhracus was close enough to hear what he said. Without even a split-second’s vacillation she sprang away from Bolldhe, wove through the thieves in a blur and, before anyone could stop her, had snatched the flamberge from a pile of baggage lying at the base of the knoll. Oswiu roared in fury and lunged after her, but Flametongue was back in the hands of a very startled Finwald before she could be halted.

‘
Zikih oi’dhnap, Egeildehwc-kiewha!
’ she demanded, now striding back towards Bolldhe with both knives in her hands. Finwald, meanwhile, sprinted back up the slope without so much as a backwards glance. Oswiu started to leap after him but, at a word from Eorcenwold, Cuthwulf barred his way with his poison voulge. The two brothers glared at each other, but made no further move.

Nibulus very swiftly appraised the situation, then wordlessly bade Paulus and Wodeman to back off alongside him.

Dolen, meanwhile, had approached Bolldhe and stopped just a few yards from him. Her face was like murder: an inhuman, alabaster mask of iron will and domination, her eyes fixing Bolldhe’s like a snake’s. He was still holding Eggledawc before him like a shield, the dirk held to his throat. Eggledawc kept absolutely rigid, not daring to move even his eyes.

‘Egeildehwc-kiewha!’ she repeated her order, and a red halo began to glow around her black irises like a poker thrust into a fire, or an eclipsed supernova. Bolldhe appeared transfixed, unable to release his prisoner to her. Choking amid shuddering breaths, he kept staring with insane fear at the Dhracus, as though she were the Angel of his Death.