The Wanderer's Tale (76 page)

‘But any choice in this matter is out of my hands. I’m duty-bound by my god to see that you do this task, and that’s what I’ll do, even if I can’t understand for the life of me why the Lord Cuna would choose you of all people. Finwald, Bolldhe must continue with us.’

There was a long, stifling pause. A lonely wind sighed through the higher branches, and a pine-cone thudded dully onto the needle-carpeted ground a short way off. This really was serious, they all knew, if even Appa had turned against Bolldhe.

Then Wodeman suddenly breathed in sharply and spoke up. His voice was still frail and distant, so they were not sure if he were talking to them in his sleep. ‘Bolldhe alone saved all our hides back in Nym-Cadog’s prison. Strange, such is the way of those favoured by the gods: sometimes they’re true, sometimes not. But the skalds tell us that a hero is made not by the way he has lived, but only in the manner of his death. Bolldhe may fail us again and again, but if he’s true right at the end, then he’s true forever.’

He was right, of course, they could not deny it – even if he was still asleep. As Appa put it: ‘In all the old sagas, the heroes only become heroes by a great and noble death. They can be the lowest type of rat all their life, but if at the end they die a glorious death, the bards will sing their praises till the end of time. Maybe that is all that is left to you, Bolldhe.’

‘Well, at least you’re all still alive,’ Kuthy went on, on a lighter note. ‘If Bolldhe had fought alongside you, I imagine you’d all be glutting the ravens by now. Maybe Fate took a hand, and maybe Bolldhe was doing his will.’

(
Like hell!
Bolldhe thought.)

Then Nibulus spoke.

‘I can’t prove anything, Bolldhe, and I don’t give a toss about what the skalds say. But I’ll tell you this: in my opinion, you’re not even up to the standard of a traitor. I do not want you at my back any longer. As far as I’m concerned, you’re faithless. We cannot trust you any more than the Tivor here—’

‘Thank you very much!’ Kuthy exclaimed indignantly.

‘You’re both birds of a feather. Rotten apples. From now until we leave this accursed land, you walk up ahead, where I can see you. And when we are on the other side of the mountains, you can leave with Kuthy, not us.’

There was absolute silence now in the woods: no wind, no furtive rustling, and even Bolldhe’s skin had ceased its snap, crackle and pop. It felt as if even the gods were listening. Bolldhe could say no more. He curled up into a tight ball, and cursed everything in his life. True, the Peladane was young, and apt to change his mind; maybe Bolldhe would be forgiven. Certainly the old priest would not let it go that easily. But for now Bolldhe just cursed; cursed the night, cursed Eotunlandt and cursed himself. He hated this place. It was close, and dark, and fey. Anything could be lurking out there. They could not leave the forest because of the Giants, and he was stuck here under this tree with a group of people who hated him. And if they ever made it out of Eotunlandt, what then? Could he survive on his own in the frozen North?

It was one of Bolldhe’s darkest hours. He envied Nibulus for his sense of honour, loyalty and camaraderie, even if he himself did hate ‘all that’.

‘Anyway,’ he muttered to anyone who cared, ‘I couldn’t have fought alongside you against the thieves; they stole my sword.’

A second of even deeper silence passed, then Finwald yelled, ‘They WHAT?’

‘I
T
’
S
THEM
, I
TELL YOU
! N
O
doubt about it; I can practically smell them, even from this distance.’

Finwald’s eyes were out on stalks, glassy with concentration as he peered through the undergrowth. He and the company were lying belly down in a patch of wood-sorrel, hidden from view by the bracken and stinging nettles. Though the trees were spread much more thinly in this part of the woods, the dense undergrowth afforded them the cover they needed to spy out the open terrain around about. About a hundred yards in front of them the last of the trees petered out completely, and from there on a thick carpet of bracken sloped upwards to the hill country beyond. The grass up there was thinner and coarser than the lush woodland fronds in which they were lying now, and from a few miles away they could hear sheep yelling to each other.

Finwald crawled forward on his belly, cat-like, and reached the cover of an ancient, moss-coated ash with cuckoo-pint and fungus growing at its base. He glanced skywards nervously, before daring to raise himself from the cover of the bracken for a better view. Quickly he ducked down again and scuttled back to his companions.

‘It’s them,’ he repeated excitedly. ‘There’s a line of smoke rising from behind one of those rocky knolls on the lower slopes of the hills, over to the left there. Someone’s cooking breakfast. We can surprise them if—’

‘But did you definitely
see
them?’ Nibulus asked.

‘Who else can it be?’ Finwald demanded shrilly. There was a wild look in his eyes that they were not used to seeing. Nibulus said nothing, but frowned; in doubt maybe, but more likely in consternation at the priest. He looked terrible. His customary neatness, style and cool dignity seemed to have been gradually torn away by the grasping, animated plant-life of Eotunlandt’s forests, to be replaced by mud-smears, burrs, thorny twigs and slug-slime. To Finwald now, of all of them, there looked to be more of Eotunlandt than Wyda-Aescaland.

They had been travelling for seven days since their encounter with the Giant, fearfully picking their way through the thickest parts of the forest. Uppermost in their minds was the fear of being spotted by a Giant again, and the strain was taking its toll like never before. Yet always Finwald, the only one of them who looked around himself rather than up, urged them on with greater speed. Down in the permanent gloom beneath the dense forest canopy, there had not been much in the way of undergrowth to hinder them, and they had actually made good speed. None of them knew where the thieves had got to after the incident with the Giant, or even if they had survived, but they all had the feeling their enemy had escaped for the most part and would be heading for the only exit out of Eotunlandt, as they themselves were. Finwald seemed convinced that only if they could reach this secret gateway out of Eotunlandt first would they find the thieves.

But it was a constant battle between his urgency and his companions’ fear.

‘Perhaps it
is
them,’ Appa admitted, ‘but we cannot risk leaving these woods – we’d be seen for sure.’

True enough, it was open land out there, and none of them was willing to leave the sanctuary of the sacred trees. And even if Finwald were right, no one was too keen on the idea of a reunion with the Tyvenborgers. But for days that was all the priest could talk about. ‘We must get Flametongue back,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a gift from Cuna, I swear it!’

The others were less convinced about the flamberge’s importance. They already had a silver blade and, as Finwald himself had assured them at the outset, that was surely enough to do the job.

‘Appa,’ Finwald said slowly and deliberately, holding his senior’s gaze, ‘believe me, it
is
them. It just is, all right? And if they – or anyone, come to that – can risk starting a fire out in the open, then how likely d’you think it is there are any Giants nearby? That smoke can be seen for miles!’

Appa gave his former protégé a somewhat hurt look that seemed to say
Calm down. No need to get tetchy
. Then he said, ‘All right, all right, but what about the Tyvenborgers? They’ll have sentries, and they’d spot us a mile off out there in the open.’

Finwald paused at this. He paused long. Then he realized that he really had no answer.

For a week, a whole damn week, he had driven the company on as hard as he could with his various devices: every persuasive argument that came to him, every line of oratory, flattery or cajolery he could think of, every threat he thought he could get away with, all delivered with every ounce of passion within him. Yet with each second that passed, each moment one of the company might delay for whatever reason, each hindrance that happenstance threw in their way, his desperation grew that little bit more intense.

He had so much to contend with. There was the terrain, to start with. In these deep woodlands it was very difficult for Kuthy, their guide, to judge where they were exactly, yet none of them would risk open country for fear of the Giants. Then there were the inadequacies of the various members of the company, too: Appa’s slowness, Bolldhe’s sulkiness and, worst of all, Kuthy’s lack of interest in hurrying and his outright refusal to be told what to do by anyone. And after all was said and done, Finwald was not even the leader, so there was only so much he could achieve. He just thanked Cuna that Nibulus was his friend and on his side.

The closer they came to the northern rim of the mountains, the more fretful Finwald became. He had begun to despair of ever seeing Flametongue again, and in his darker moments had considered the possibility of using some spell of persuasion on them all, something to put the wind at their heels. But even in his state of mind, he would not sink to that level. Not with his friends.

But then Kuthy had reminded him that there was only one portal out of Eotunlandt, and if the thieves were headed north, as it was plain they were, they would have to pass through it, too. Thus Finwald had turned his despair into a single-minded determination to reach the portal before they did, redoubling his efforts to drive the company on as fast as possible and so cut them off. It was the only point at which he was sure of encountering them again, and thus the only chance of regaining the sword.

It was a race to the gate.

Now finally, after a week of cursing fretfulness, they were surely within a day’s march from the portal, and it was here at last that they had spotted their first sign of the thieves. Finwald’s heart had leapt. He was within an inch of regaining Flametongue, and he was not going to take any risks. But neither was he about to let this godsent fortune slip through his fingers.

‘We’ve no choice,’ he insisted. ‘We must catch them. It’s now, or it’s never.’

‘
Never
suits me fine . . .’ Bolldhe mumbled, but no one was listening to him any more, even if they did silently agree.

They all instead turned to the Peladane. It was clear how some of them felt: why risk so much for just a sword? Not even its last owner, Bolldhe, was particularly inclined to recover it. In fact he seemed glad to be rid of it.

‘Actually,’ Nibulus said, ‘I don’t believe those Tyvenborgers are that dangerous. I saw the look in their eyes and the way they held themselves. They’re not real fighters.’

‘Agreed,’ Paulus said. ‘Thieves are maggots to be squashed beneath the Boot of Righteousness. I saw them too, and they are cowards.’

Paulus had been itching for a fight all week. Skulking here in the woods was not to his liking. He may have been many things, but nobody could ever accuse the Nahovian of being a coward. Furthermore, he had a score to settle; he hated thieves with a loathing that bordered on the unholy in its intensity. But it was not just the Tyvenborgers that had infuriated him so; he still had not forgiven Kuthy for leading him on with tales of huldres. Paulus Flatulus wanted blood, and he was not too particular whose blood it was.

Bolldhe sighed. He could see where this was heading. But his opinion counted for nothing here. It was up to the other three to try to talk the Peladane out of this madness.

‘What do we actually know of Tyvenborg, then?’ enquired Wodeman. ‘How dangerous can they be?’

‘It’s the single largest collection of thieving scum on the face of Lindormyn,’ Nibulus replied. ‘Bandits, picaroons, freebooters, plunderers, cracksmen and cutpurses . . . Men, Haugers, Grells. Venna, Rhelma-Find, Pendonium, wherever there are people, of any race, if they’re low-life arse-pickings, chances are they’ll end up in the Thieves’ Mountain. They’re strong, but that strength comes from numbers, not courage or skill-at-arms.’

‘Though they can be handy with a blade, at a pinch,’ Paulus pointed out.

‘And they often have magic,’ Kuthy added. ‘The very laxity – no, carelessness – they show towards new members is their great advantage. No entrance exam for them; they’ll take anybody. No cult is barred, nor race nor gender. They are without rules; who knows what magic they may have?’

‘But I still say they are no match for true fighters,’ Nibulus insisted. ‘If we can just surprise them . . .’

Bolldhe regarded the leader as he drew a gauntleted finger down the edge of his Greatsword.
The old sod’s starting to believe in his own myth
, he thought.
He’s never talked like this before.

He delicately probed the scabbed blisters on his face. ‘There is one magic I know for sure they have,’ he said softly, unsure whether they were allowing him to speak yet, ‘and I really don’t wish to feel its touch again.’

Nibulus gave Bolldhe’s burns a perfunctory inspection. Though he was still unwilling to allow this faithless coward to remain with them once they had left Eotunlandt, his anger at Bolldhe had subsided somewhat these seven days past. Nibulus had seen cowardice many times before; he had had to do unpleasant things about it, cut it out. But he had never had to cut out one-sixth of his troop; a Toloch, after all, consisted of fifty thousand men – and eight thousand, four hundred men was not something he would discard lightly.