The Wanderer's Tale (62 page)

Hours later, many miles to the north of Myst-Hakel and out upon higher, drier ground, the travellers found themselves sitting, stranded upon a rocky knoll, whilst below and all around them the entire corridor of land between the marshes and Fron-Wudu rolled westwards as a mighty river of monstrous brown bodies, flicking tails and tossing heads.

The baluchitherium were on the move, and there would be no passage northwards until they passed.

Of all their company, only Bolldhe had ever seen baluchitherium, those massive herd-beasts of the Tusse that stood at the shoulder fully three times the height of their proud herders. But even he had never seen them in such numbers; there must have been thousands of them, stretching as far as the eye could see in any direction. And the herd giants, Tusse, glancing disdainfully up at the little huddle of humans on the knoll as they passed, were in no hurry to be on their way. Massive spears that doubled as goads they carried, resting across their shoulders on the rawhide dolmans they wore over their ankle-length, berry-dyed kirtles; and across their chests an entire bandoleer of throwing-axes they wore.

They were a rough lot, these Tusse, some might even say fierce. All over the known lands they could be found herding their beasts, whether reindeer, saiga, camel, red bison, mammoth or even Bonacon. In this part of the world it was not uncommon to find Polgs, or even humans, living among the Tusse, sharing their lives. As was the case here, in fact, for one or two human women could just be discerned amid the dust and the hordes of insects, trudging along in the traditional hooded domino-cloak and shouldering heavy panniers. Usually from aristocratic families, these renegade females would throw in their lot with the Tusse for a season or two, deigning to forgo their finery and status for the chance to ‘be free’. Often they ended up marrying their Tusse swains, and though no offspring were possible, it never seemed to stop them trying.

And so the baluchitherium herd passed on. Beneath their elephantine feet the ground had been compacted into something harder than rock, and was piled with veritable hillocks of their excrement, through which the company now had to weave their way with towels wrapped tightly over mouth and nose.

Eventually, however, they did succeed in leaving this wasteland well and truly behind them, and later that day they arrived at what could reasonably be considered the outer fringes of Fron-Wudu.

Despite their relief at leaving Myst-Hakel, their mood had been somewhat subdued all day. Even the Peladane’s whistling had a sparse, forlorn quality to it. The thought that they would be entering the great forest the very next day was enough to sober even Nibulus. As the day’s march wore on they all began to get a little tetchy, more aware now that none of them had ever passed beneath the forest’s forbidding boughs. (At least, that was what Finwald claimed.) This terrain would almost certainly prove to be their greatest test before reaching Melhus Island itself.

Now, as the pale light in the western sky gradually faded to deepest blue, Bolldhe sat wrapped on his bedroll and studied his new sword. It was a curious blade, there was no denying. In all his travels he had never before seen its like. With that blade undulating out of the hilt like a writhing snake, there cannot have been many other weapons like it in the whole world. Not these days, anyhow. He could not see what practical purpose it might serve; it was not a fighting blade, for sure. More decorative, really – or ceremonial?

It was then that he remembered having seen such an instrument before. Not a sword, mind, but a dagger – a Kh’is, the necromancers called them – a ceremonial knife used to sacrifice people on the altars of the temples of Olchor. Yes, he had once seen such daggers when he had travelled through the evil land of Rhelma-Find, many, many years ago now. The memory brought a troubled cloud of darkness with it, one on which Bolldhe did not care to dwell on this their first night in Fron-Wudu.

Trying to ease himself into a lighter frame of mind, he considered the blade’s advantages. It was a heavy, out-of-date weapon, to be sure, but it was one that suited an axe-man well. Bolldhe had never been keen on swords, partly due to their association with his old Peladane cult, but also for the more pragmatic reason that he was simply not very good with them. Though he could defend himself well enough if the need arose, he was not a highly trained warrior, and as such he lacked the skill needed to handle lighter swords; but neither was he strong enough to wield the huge two-handers like Nibulus’s Greatsword or Methuselech’s shamsheer. What Bolldhe preferred was a weapon with a bit of weight and requiring little skill to wield, like a club or an axe – but nothing too hefty.

This flamberge was neither too heavy nor too light, and its long grip meant that he could use it either one- or two-handed. It was not so different from his old broadaxe, really.

He studied the sword again, his curiosity growing with every passing minute. It seemed to possess an almost chameleon quality; by day it shone the colour of burnished copper, but in the dark it took on a deep, igneous blue, the colour of volcanic rock. Even in the dead of night it could be seen shining, as if some secret power churned within.

He held the blade closer to his eyes now, and stared deep beneath its mirrored surface, beyond its changing hues, down, down, into the very heart of its magic, where lay the source of its potency . . .

With a start Bolldhe recoiled – there were two eyes staring back at him! They studied him with a curiosity equal to his own. His heart beat faster, and he glanced over to where his companions lay sleeping, wondering if he should wake them.

He decided to take another look, cautiously this time, but steadily, reassuring himself that it had been merely a trick of the light. Suddenly he laughed in relief, as he realized that it was merely a reflection of his own eyes staring back at him.

With a quiet, nervous laugh, he wrapped the flamberge in his deerskin tunic, placed it carefully by his side and rolled over to go to sleep. It had been a long day, and beneath the boughs of Fron-Wudu the whispering leaves could weave the strangest thoughts into a tired traveller’s mind.

They were not alone in the woods that night. From the darkness of the trees, mere yards away, a pair of eyes glittered brightly, regarding the sleeping travellers with interest; two pale eyes that caught the stray moonbeam that found its way through the forest canopy, and glinted coldly in the dark. They were keen, but old, and had the look of eyes that have seen too much coldness and cruelty in the world.

Slowly they came forward, towards the company that slept, blissfully unaware of their new visitor. Not a sound could be heard as the prowler stalked forward, not the slightest crunch of a leaf underfoot nor the merest breath of air stirring.

Closer it crept, until it was only paces from the unmoving figures that huddled within their bedrolls at its feet. One of them was snoring, while another whimpered slightly in his sleep. But from the rest came only the sounds of heavy, regular breathing; dreamless, untroubled sleep.

A sardonic smile spread across its face as it stared down at them. Casually it fingered the hilt of a broadsword slung at its side, while with its other hand it loosely held a large dirk that gleamed dully in the moonlight.

Just then a snorting from nearby snapped the prowler’s gaze away from the sleeping men. Swiftly, silently, it made its way over to the slough-horse, and stroked his snout soothingly. Zhang did not know what to make of the stranger, but for some reason that he could not fathom, let it continue in its stroking, a privilege normally reserved for his rider only.

Smiling broadly now with strong, white teeth, the prowler slunk back into the shadows, and sat there. It never took its eyes from the sleeping company for a second.

The following morning dawned bright and sunny, despite the covering of ground mist that drifted into the forest from the marshes. The air was filled with the joyous sound of birdsong, and the adventurers all awoke with lightness in their hearts and eagerness for whatever the new day might hold in store for them. Breakfast was cooked with enthusiasm and eaten with gusto, and before long everything was packed away, and they were ready for the off.

‘Gather round, men, gather round,’ Nibulus hailed them as soon as he had finished securing the last piece of his armour across Zhang’s back. Now that they had left the torpor of the swamp-town behind them, the world had become once again the ‘domain of the Peladane’, and the night spent out in the woods had clearly rekindled the spirit of adventure in him.

‘Now as you are all aware,’ he began, enjoying the sound of his own voice more than ever, ‘this next phase of the journey is more likely to cause us trouble than anywhere else. Gwyllch writes that in his day a branch of the trade route extended from Myst-Hakel right the way through the forest up to Wrythe itself, and the roads were clear and well maintained, with post-houses every twenty-five miles! Wonderful, eh? Who could ask for more? Well, the answer is, of course, that
we
could, for nowadays there simply
is
no road, not even the faintest trace of one, and no other known trails. How times change . . .’

He paused to look around, then continued.

‘The one thing in our favour is that, according to the little information Wintus Hall managed to glean from the trappers who have ventured this way, the forest directly north of the marshes is not quite as dense as the rest; the trees are widely spaced, and there is little undergrowth to slow us down. But we have to keep going in a reasonably straight line northwards, so we are going to have to steer ourselves by the sun, the stars and any other method that presents itself. Well, lads?’

‘No problem,’ stated Wodeman.

‘No problem,’ repeated Bolldhe.

‘Heading due north, then,’ the Peladane continued, satisfied, ‘we should, in
phnmnm
days’ time, reach the lower foothills of the Giant Mountains, and thence come out of the forest. From there we can travel along the higher ground, above the level of the trees, and follow the mountains that will take us west, then swing round north again. Once we get into the northerly regions it will become colder, even at this time of year, so I do not want any delays, all right? Remember, we don’t want to have to make our return journey in winter, so I will not tolerate any slacking, any feebleness, nor any . . .’ – he tried to think of the requisite third word – ‘. . . weakness.
Appa.
’

But Appa was not listening. He was looking at their leader, but he was concentrating his attention upon anything other than what the man was saying. For if he listened to
that
, he knew, his resolve would simply collapse into the emptiness within his frail heart, and he along with it.
One day at a time
, he repeated to himself over and over in his head, just like the mantras he counted off on his prayer-beads.
One day at a time . . .

‘Continuing further north will bring us to the coastline,’ Nibulus went on, ‘which we can follow west until we come to Wrythe. And there the length of our stay will depend on how we are greeted by the townsfolk—’

‘Ha!’ came a voice from somewhere. The Peladane looked around to see who had spoken, but he could not tell. Frowning, he continued:

‘Wrythe,’ he said, as if savouring the word, ‘what are your people like nowadays, I wonder? Word has not come to us out of that place for time out of mind, which in itself is not very encouraging. But for myself, I see little point in being worried before we have even got there, since there is no obvious reason to suppose they should be hostile. But we must still take every precaution not to offend them. All we want there is to get ourselves a small boat and replenish our supplies. And a chance to get warmed up a little, eh? Failing the whole package, just the boat will do. Failing
that
, we either steal one, which I would not recommend, or turn round and head straight back home. Which we’re not going to do, of course. We
are
going to get across the sea, and Wrythe is the only way across. The Jagt Straits offer no other route across to Melhus Island, and—’

‘You could always cross from the Last Shore to Stromm Peninsula, where the sea freezes over.’

All six men spun round in alarm and immediately drew their weapons. Who had said that? They stared towards the trees in the direction from which the voice had come, but there was nothing to be seen.

‘Who’s there?’ barked the Peladane. ‘Come on, show yourself!’

Nothing.

They quickly spread out, weapons at the ready, and searched the surrounding area. But not even Wodeman could find a single trace of anyone. It was as if the forest itself had spoken.

‘Spriggans,’ Paulus suggested, his pale eye narrowing in hatred.

‘Come, men,’ Nibulus ordered at length, glancing nervously over his shoulder. ‘The sooner we leave these woods, the better I’ll like it. Follow me!’

For three days the company trod the needle-carpeted floor of Fron-Wudu in silence, wending their way steadily through the sombre, lancet-arched vaults of the forest in constant wariness. The woods were, as Nibulus’s trappers had promised, not as dense as they had feared, and the going was not particularly difficult. But this comforted them little, for though the way ahead was clear, unhindered by any real undergrowth, it was this very deadness that unnerved the Aescals. The thick, spongy layer of brown needles that covered the ground yielded no vegetation at all. The trees, too, seemed devoid of life, rising as they did like great iron pole-axes into the sky, bristling at the top with sharp, dark-green needles. No birds sang, no animals scurried, and there was not the slightest sound of insects. Even the light that fell down through the treetops was grey and cheerless.

Wodeman stared about himself in disbelief; these woods were more alien to him than any place he had travelled through yet. Dismayed, he began to wonder if the Earth-Spirit dwelt anywhere outside the forests of Wyda-Aescaland at all.

The voice in the woods had had an extremely unsettling effect upon the company. It had spoken their language, giving them advice; but then it had disappeared. Paulus’s suggestion that it was the voice of Spriggans was met with scepticism; he was always imagining fey spirits wherever they went. Appa’s suggestion that it was the voice of an angel was rejected even more contemptuously.