The Wanderer's Tale (82 page)

Yet, amid all this, men’s voices could be heard: one coarse bellow from somewhere in front, quickly answered by several hysterical cries from somewhere nearby.

His heart leapt. He had caught up with them already! Despite the delay caused by carrying the Dhracus to his horse, he had actually managed to close the gap between himself and the others. What a runner! Pride gave him an additional surge of adrenalin.

Now he could see figures running on either side of him. Close by on his left was the vast charging bulk of the Tusse, head down, thundering along in full armour like a steam train. Gods, he looked as unstoppable in flight as he did in battle. How could such a heavyweight achieve a speed like that?

On his right were others, too far off in the rain to recognize. But they were veering off to the right now . . . following the lead of the bellowing voice out in front.

That must be the way.
Bolldhe immediately hared off after them. But as he went he called out, between heaving gasps, to the herd-giant. Whether Klijjver heard him or not, he had no time to check.

Steeper now the ground rose. Bolldhe cursed, and doggedly pumped on. Within seconds he could see another figure just ahead of him, running desperately. Skidding in the mud and flailing its arms, it was evidently on its last legs. As Bolldhe gradually narrowed the distance, he could hear it gulping in great lungfuls of air between each sobbing exhalation.

This one was small and ungainly. Hauger? Yes, there was that unmistakable iron cap on its head. The shield on its back had come part-way loose and was now bouncing this way and that erratically, making it more difficult for its wearer to run smoothly. Yet there was no time to stop and tear it off. For this little bloke it was an encumbrance that might cost him his life; he knew he was likely to die. Bolldhe could hear it in his sobs.

Seconds later he had overtaken the stumbling, rasping little morsel of Giant-fodder and left him to his fate. Then, as if in answer to a prayer, the ground suddenly levelled out. He had reached a low plateau, and at last,
at last
, Bolldhe beheld the gate leading out of Eotunlandt. Perhaps half a mile away, but unmistakable even in the pelting cascade of rain, the black shadow of a cave mouth could just be discerned against the pale grey of the rock-face. Already various running figures were approaching it.

Then the first of the Giants reached the foot of the valley. A monstrous roar shivered the air as the ten behemoths surged up towards them. As they came, they brought the heart of the storm with them. For, as truly as they had been summoned by the Spirit of Battle between mortals in their land, the tempest heralded their coming and tore about them as they charged. More birds still were forced to the ground or broken apart in the sky. Beasts cowered in yammering terror in their hiding places, or went running wildly for any cover available.

Only the huldres showed no fear. They went shrieking through the air in unconstrained delight, tossed high by the gale and then swept around again to plunge towards the ground with ecstatic glee.

The hysteria of the storm and the pounding of the Giants now resonated so loudly in Bolldhe’s ears that sound had lost all meaning. He could feel his wits nigh departing: the world around him, his memories, his life, his death, these meant nothing to Bolldhe any more. All he knew now was the chase; he had never run so fast in his life, and never would again. He felt that he had been running forever, had never known aught else but this terrible flight through the madness of the storm, with the stampeding Giants at his back gaining on him with world-striding ease.

Suddenly he was aware that yet another was running by his side. He glanced over uncomprehendingly, then realized that it was Nibulus. As he recognized his companion, Bolldhe saw that there was laughter in the other man’s eyes –
laughter!

Then he realized that a second runner was keeping pace with him, on his other side. This one was Eorcenwold, also wearing an inane grin on his wide, florid face.

With the gale tearing at their clothes and the rain lashing every exposed inch of their skin, the three men sprinted in one final burst of insane speed towards the looming cave mouth. Bolldhe’s head went back and he shrieked with laughter, and the madness of exhilaration consumed him. Together, the three of them would run to the world’s ending.

Then Bolldhe tripped and fell flat on his face. Of course.

He skidded along the rain-slicked grass for several yards before coming to a dazed halt. Meanwhile, the other two pounded off into the rain, but just as Bolldhe was hauling himself to his feet, a foot planted itself firmly on his back, and he was slammed onto the ground again. It belonged to none other than Brecca the Stunted One, who had thus leapt over Bolldhe and was now the last of them all – save Bolldhe – to try for the safety of the gate. Still bleating in mortal terror, the Hauger quickly disappeared from sight.

Blood in his eyes, unable to stand, lungs red-hot and feeling about to explode, Bolldhe flailed about himself in utter insanity. The ground kept bouncing him up and down like a pea on a drum-skin, each approaching Giant’s footfall causing a stronger tremor than the last. Bolldhe had only moments left, but the gate was still a few hundred yards off. Dimly he was aware of the three shapes of Paulus, Khurghan the Polg and Grini the Boggart, leaping nimbly towards the cave mouth from another direction.

Into his fractured mind flashed the vague thought:
Who’s going to look after Zhang now?

Followed immediately by:
No, not that bastard Tivor!

In a sudden snarl of rage, Bolldhe catapulted himself forward in a final surge towards the gate. Just then it seemed to him that, oddly, the whole of Eotunlandt held its breath. Everything somehow faded away: the frenzied storm, the earth-wrecking stampede, the screeching exultation of the huldres. All, for a second, still.

And then, from out of nowhere, the colossus came crashing down right in front of him. The earth heaved beneath the massive impact, and Bolldhe was thrown clean off his feet, jarred to the bone. Where it had landed, all plant life withered, and the ground was desiccated, cracked and split with long fissures. Bolldhe lurched to his feet with a choking cry and stared at what stood before him.

No!
his mind screamed.
Not now! Just when I’m this close!

There it stood, barring his way: the sickest phantasm, the ‘loathely Denizen of Darkness’, a warped and mutated abomination to poison the entire world.

The Afanc.

It had grown immeasurably since that last encounter in Fron-Wudu, until it was now a thing that appeared too heavy to remain upright and must surely collapse beneath its own weight. Taller than five men it stood, a gargantuan tower of convoluted flesh from which serrated bones thrust out like branches. New appendages flailed loosely about it, and once the rain hit its deformed, furnace-hot body it hissed rapidly away into steam. The old wounds gaped yet further: the Unferth-slice to the gut, the bastard-stab in the back, and the broadaxe hew across the face. In addition, the heavy, lumpen head lolled cumbersomely from side to side, weighted down by an eye that had swollen so hugely around the arrow that Kuthy had set there that it appeared to be giving birth to a new monster even viler than itself.

But the worst injury by far was the burning it had received from Bolldhe’s oil-flask. Indeed, the monster’s entire face and throat had not so much transformed as
shifted
into another form, perhaps even into another plane of reality. It was a slid visage, a melted countenance, a facial glissando. And for this most offensive transgression, it would now deal with Bolldhe first.

Crying out in fury and frustration, Bolldhe swung away from the monstrosity before him and headed back the way he had come – back towards the Giants. With a beserk shriek that echoed throughout Eotunlandt, the Afanc tore after him. As ever, it could do nothing else but follow the vengeance that was its very quiddity, having no care at all for the approaching Giants.

Someone, Bolldhe knew not who, cried out from the safety of the tunnel: ‘NO!’ But there was nothing else he could do. Whether for the sake of the quest or even for himself, Bollde knew he could no longer take that path northwards to rejoin his companions. He was Bolldhe, the survivor, the changer of directions, the one who could take a new road without a second’s notice. He needed a new way, right now.

They watched him go, those in the tunnel mouth, watched as the tiny grey man slithered about upon rain-slick ground, the rapidly gaining Afanc hot in pursuit. And then he was lost to them in the blinding curtain of the tempest.

A great shape, loftier than the hightest bastion of Wintus Hall, emerged from the deluge, a black shape materializing from the grey. The first of the Giants was upon them. Bolldhe needed no other cue. With a nimbleness that was almost magical in its celerity, like the ragged hare he was, the wanderer doubled back on the spot. The Afanc, however, too huge and lumbering to veer or even slow its headlong charge, carried on straight into the path of the Giant.

The foot came down.

There was a sound like a siege-hammer pulverizing a basketful of rotten shellfish, and an aftershock that sent Bolldhe once again tumbling to the ground. A purulent gout of matter the colour and stench of a blood-blister was followed by a cyclonic eruption of furious, agonized bellowing from somewhere up there in the sky – as the great jagged bones of the Afanc pierced the Giant’s foot and sent fountains of the creature’s poison into its bloodstream.

But the Afanc, finally, was done, dissolved into nothing more than a massive puddle of venomous effluvium.

Bolldhe, too, was done. Spent. Could not rise from this one. In a second the next Giant footfall would descend, this time with himself under it. And the gate, even further away now, might as well be on the other side of the world. He would never make it.

Then out of a dream, or nightmare, there came a flurry of sound and movement, and rough hands wrenched him off the ground and onto the back of his horse.

In his ear he heard a voice, not of Kuthy, but of Wodeman, and it cried:

‘So you really thought I’d leave you dying? When there’s room on this horse for – ?’

‘JUST SHUT UP AND RIDE!’ Bolldhe screamed, and Zhang was propelled towards the cave mouth like a quarrel from a crossbow.

A huge foot slammed into the ground less than fifty yards behind. It drove into the earth with such force that Zhang was bounced off the ground and flew several yards through the air, dislodging both riders from the saddle; Wodeman held on by the horse’s mane with just one hand, and Bolldhe had both his hands enmeshed in Wodeman’s hair. In a fountain of muddy water the trio landed again, both riders slamming down onto the horse’s spinal column, Zhang’s knees crumpling beneath him. In a second or two the next foot would be upon them, and all three would be blended as one on the sole of the Giant’s foot.

But Zhang was from the Tabernacle Plains, and there were few horses in the world tougher or surer-footed. Staggering madly, he slid on for a few yards more, then miraculously succeeded in righting himself, and without an instant’s delay was off again.

Those last two seconds stretched out to last a lifetime, and in that same lifetime Bolldhe’s senses expanded to take in the whole world: the smell of rain-soaked upland turf; the feel of Zhang’s iron-hard muscles beneath him; the sight of Brecca, still wailing in terror, limping just ahead of them, with that bloody shield hanging from just one strap and swinging about all over the place; various faces – Nibulus, Kuthy, Eorcenwold, Aelldryc, Flekki and Klijjver – just within the cave mouth and screaming their comrades onwards . . .

. . . then the Peladane’s eyes flicking upwards, dilated and aghast; the sudden cessation of rain immediately around them as a Giant’s descending foot provided temporary shelter; the gasp of Wodeman’s final breath . . .

Then complete darkness as the foot came down.

They were through, into the cave, and the whole world exploded. All five senses merged into an awful semi-reality of hell. Bolldhe, Wodeman, Zhang, the others, even the very stone and the air, all were thrown into space and scattered into a billion particles, swirling without form or meaning through the vortices of nil-space to sink finally, mercifully, into some place the other side of oblivion.

A The Races of Lindormyn

1
Demi-humans

Boggarts
– Diminutive, downtrodden and hairy, these are normally found scavenging on the peripheries of civilization and get used as slaves by Polgs. They do, however, possess limited shamanistic powers.

Dhracus
– A strange, isolated race with superb dexterity, high intelligence and psionic powers. Very rarely encountered, and universally feared.

Grells
– A thug-like, brutish race of strikingly ugly appearance and demeanour. Found all over Lindormyn, they live either in their own stockade towns or scattered through the territories of other races.

Half-Grells
– Due to the general licentiousness of the Grell, their half-breed offspring can be found in all parts of the world of Lindormyn.

Haugers
– A short, slightly built, flat-faced people that dwell in well-ordered communities, usually apart from other races. Highly civilized, intelligent and inventive, they are excellent craftsmen and make shrewd merchants. They fall into two types:
(1) River Haugers
– More gregarious and interactive with other races than their ‘Stone’ cousins, due to their control over large stretches of Lindormyn’s waterways. Apart from their obvious river-based skills, they are noted also for their expertise in herbalism and alchemy.
(2) Stone Haugers
– Living in upland escarpment villages or plateau towns, and providing Lindormyn’s most skilled engineers, they have a wealth of inventions that other races, even their ‘River’ cousins, rarely get to see. Though quiet by nature, their kings employ sizeable armies of highly skilled and uniquely equipped soldiers.

Jordiske
– A disgusting and animalistic race so far only encountered in Fron-Wudu. They have hairy, slug-infested skin, long filthy nails, and a head much like a goat’s skull but with long limp ears and bulbous eyes. Arch-enemies of the Vetterym.