The Wanderer's Tale (78 page)

But a choice had to be determined, and swiftly. The Peladane stepped forward and planted his sword before him in the earth. ‘
I
lead,’ he declared, ‘and what I say, we do. But I’m not going to lead a group of seven against fourteen – especially when most of that seven aren’t even soldiers – unless I’m sure I have their full support. I believe a united party is a strong party, and if we are strong we can beat them. So we must vote: do we fight them and win back the flamberge and our pride, or do we skulk around them like a pack of sick, craven dogs?’

If the son of Artibulus had ever harboured dreams of becoming an orator, Kuthy reflected, then it was probably for the best that he had never given up his day job. ‘Let’s skulk, I say,’ he declared blithely.

‘Agreed!’ came Appa’s response. ‘I like dogs.’

Wodeman had already given his opinion. But against these three were Nibulus and Paulus, eager for a fight, and of course Finwald, who would not go without Flametongue. So the casting vote fell to the least among them, Bolldhe, and he wasted no time in giving his response.

‘It seems to me,’ he deliberated, ‘that the only thing we have to counter their superiority in arms’ – Nibulus scowled – ‘is our superiority in magic.’

Appa, Finwald and Wodeman beamed at Bolldhe’s acknowledgement of their powers, at last.

‘So before I vote, I want to see what their gods have to say.’

Thus, in a thicket of ash and beech on the northern edge of the forests of Eotunlandt, the tournament between the gods commenced. All three of the magic-users cast their various scrying spells.

Appa looked to the heavens and closed his eyes in concentration. He mumbled prayers through dry lips until his eyes were wet with tears.

Finwald tried something less direct. He brought forth a tiny crystal on a delicate silver chain, and sang to it in a clear voice that set vibrations in the air. It was a pleasing chant, but its sole purpose was to stir the crystal to its task of divining. This was Finwald’s
locate
spell, and it would make the crystal incline towards the presence of Flametongue.

And Wodeman, ever the earthy one, promptly cut the palm of Bolldhe’s hand with his little pocket knife, and watched carefully as the blood dripped onto the soil.

‘Many things can be seen of the past, present and future when your blood mingles with the elements,’ he claimed, and stared hard at the earth as small droplets of Bolldhe’s blood sprinkled upon the soil. The shaman was softly chanting now, sounding like bees in foxgloves; his eyes fluttered as his mind reached further into realms that were closed to ordinary men.

Bolldhe himself was troubled. How unlikely it all seemed. Was he really to make a life-decision based on the muddled rantings of these three wise men? Could they really see into the future by such means? As Bolldhe watched his life-blood slowly sink into the ground and disappear, the only vision of his future it brought to his mind was of a violent and bloody end followed by cold oblivion. He shivered. He could feel that old, familiar heaviness in his gut again. Bolldhe was frightened.

He wiped the grime from his face with the back of his hand, and walked back into the forest a short way. And when he turned back to observe his companions, he froze in astonishment, for a most extraordinary thing had just occurred.

Was it a vision? Bolldhe squinted hard at the image before him. Or was he dreaming again? All the sounds of the woodland around him, his companions’ murmuring voices, even the gentle breeze above them, all faded until a numbing silence enveloped his senses.

There before him was the forest, the same as it had been before, but now it was blurred, pushed into the background somehow; marginalized, perhaps, to focus on the centre of his vision where the three magicians were. At the centre stood Wodeman, his arms held out straight on each side of him. To either side of him were the mage-priests, chanting their theurgy, unaware that they were being watched so intently. And they were floating! At one time Finwald would rise a few inches off the ground, while simultaneously Appa would descend into the earth. Then the opposite would happen, Appa rising and Finwald descending.

Bolldhe averted his eyes in fear, and he felt sick. He breathed in deeply several times and shook his head, then he looked back. Still the vision was there: two priests slowly floating up and down, and the sorcerer rock-steady between them, unmoving. Like the pivot of a set of scales.

Then Wodeman’s eyes snapped open, and Bolldhe’s world was enveloped by them. Those green and brown eyes, all earth-lore-wise and demanding.

‘So,’ they seemed to say, ‘which is it to be?’

Though there was no overt malice in those eyes, Bolldhe felt an overwhelming need to just turn and run as fast as he could. He did not like this one bit. Why could he not wake up from this vision?

Then the sorcerer’s voice came to him again, deep and resonant as if it travelled through the very earth and up into the tops of the trees. ‘Very well,’ it said, ‘ignore me then – but you will have to choose at the end.’

The voice trailed off into a whisper that became the rustling of the leaves, and Bolldhe’s vision began to fade.

‘Wait!’ he called out urgently. ‘I don’t understand – “at the end”? D’you mean deciding about the thieves, now, or are you talking about . . . you know, the real end?’

But Wodeman merely raised one bushy eyebrow and wagged a finger. ‘Ah no, no clues,’ he smirked. ‘That’s for you to decide.’

Bolldhe cursed. Then he looked at the priests, first one, then the other. Both were still wrapped up in their spells, oblivious to all else in the world. First there was Appa – always counselling caution, always fearful. Well, that was something Bolldhe could readily understand; his entire life had been one long headlong flight, always running away or putting things off. And that, to be honest, was exactly what he wanted to do now. But the old man seemed, somehow, so devoid of vitality, so lacking in sincerity. So damn dogmatic. Was Bolldhe to follow him, and run away all his life? End up like that dried-up, scrawny little cadaver? ‘
At the end
’ he would have to face up to things.

Somehow, it seemed so much easier to follow Finwald’s advice. Well, not easier, but more . . . wholesome. Now there was a man who knew his own mind. No vacillation or self-doubt for that one. He would follow his faith even if it led him down a Carrog’s throat. His faith burned in him like a fire, not like Appa’s porridgy procrastination. Finwald’s dark eyes were steady and true, and he alone of the ‘non-fighters’ was committed to the fight. In a way, he was ‘in with the big boys’, ‘one of the lads’. He made Bolldhe feel so lame.

He turned and faced Wodeman squarely. ‘So, who would you choose?’ he demanded. ‘About the thieves, I mean.’

Wodeman shrugged. ‘You already know which way I’m voting.’

And as soon as he had said those words, Bolldhe heard the low, shuddering howl of a wolf rising from the woods up into the heavens, greeting the sky.

His dream-vision flickered for a second, then winked out. He was back amongst his companions once more.

What on earth was that last bit?
he asked himself.
Did I really hear a wolf, or was that just part of the dream?

‘You all right, Bolldhe?’ Nibulus asked, looking at the blinking wayfarer curiously.

‘Uh, yes, fine thanks,’ Bolldhe stuttered, ‘Just . . . getting a bit bored with all this magic stuff. I don’t really believe in it anyway.’

A chorus of ‘Oh, fine!’, ‘Now he tells us!’ and ‘You asked for it in the first place’ went up from the assembled spell-casters, followed by various disgruntled mutterings of ‘. . . waste of my good time . . .’ ‘. . . waste of his good blood . . .’ ‘. . . ingrate . . .’ and ‘. . . oaf . . .’

‘Come on, Bolldhe.’ Finwald sighed irritably. ‘We’re supposed to be working together on this. Remember what we agreed at the Moot: the more methods we have at our disposal when we reach the Chamber of Drauglir, the better chance we stand of destroying him.’

He turned from Bolldhe’s sulky, scabby face in contempt, and muttered into his friend Nibulus’s ear: ‘I know he’s under a lot of pressure on this quest and, as a Lightbearer I’ve always been taught to be patient, but sometimes I really feel like smacking him in the face.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about wasting your time,’ Bolldhe cut in sarcastically, ‘but I’ve made my decision anyway.’

They waited. ‘And . . . ?’ said Nibulus.

‘No maggot-breath threatens to suck the soul out of
my
eyeball. Let’s go and get that sword back.’

After a brief and level-headed discussion in which each of the company had their say, gave their point of view and made their suggestions, it was decided that the raid should consist of a careful blend of cat-like stealth, lightning speed and savage, merciless brutality.

The terrain between the edge of the woods and the smoking hillock was far too open to provide them with any cover, so they opted to keep under the screen of the trees until it led to a low spur that would shield them from view; this same spur led to a point within two or three hundred yards of the knoll. After that, they would have to see. It would take about an hour to reach the thieves, Kuthy estimated – ‘if that’s who they are, of course.’

As they marched through the sparse woodland Bolldhe began to wonder why exactly he had voted to retrieve the sword. It was, he had to admit now, hardly the obvious choice. There was pride, of course – nobody could forgive the Tyvenborgers for the humiliation they had heaped upon him. And there was the matter of the treasures that they had purloined from him. (Actually, he was keener to retrieve those particular items than he was the sword; give him fandangles over flamberges any day. Though he had to admit that, short of slaying them all, this was unlikely.)

There was also the matter of his current unarmed state. At the moment he was borrowing one of Kuthy’s dirks. Nice thick blade and easy to use. But he would need something a little more effective in the days ahead.

But of course, that’s not the reason either, is it, Bolldhe?
he whispered to himself, as he kicked through the dense fern leaves underfoot. No, it was all really a knee-jerk reaction against the magicians. He was so fervidly sick of their machinations.

I wonder what their scrying spells actually revealed, though
. . . he found himself pondering. In his haste to scorn them, he had not given them the chance to reveal to him their results. Not that it mattered one bit, of course; it probably would have been all lies, anyway. No matter what the spells actually told them, the three magic-users would only give the version that suited their purpose. Just as he himself always did when auguring for those ridiculous women who had paid him so well over the years; his purpose being to tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.

But now, marching towards a fearful and quite possibly fatal situation, purely on the whim of his own casting vote, Bolldhe began to wonder. He looked around at his companions. No use asking Wodeman or the priests. Or the two warriors, come to that; they hated all that stuff. Kuthy, on the other hand . . .

‘Tivor,’ he said in a low voice as they walked side by side, ‘I don’t suppose you know anything about scrying for the future, do you?’

‘I don’t suppose I do,’ the soldier of fortune replied unhelpfully. But then he looked around at the trees and seemed to change his attitude. ‘There was an occasion, though, many years ago when I was on a job in Trondaran. Some nutcase tried to discern my future in the trees.’

‘The trees?’

‘Yes, she sat down on the hill we were on, knees above her head like a frog, and chewed on this black tree-gum that smelt terrible. Then she just stared for ages down at the forest below. Trancing. Trying to see patterns in the trees.’

‘And did it work?’

‘Who can tell? All I know is that, up till now at least, my life hasn’t featured leaves particularly heavily, dogs don’t use me to mark out their territory, and I don’t go brown in the autumn. I don’t know, perhaps she wasn’t the imaginative type. Still, it could have been worse, I suppose – at least she didn’t try scrying for my future in the latrine. ’

‘Yes,’ Bolldhe interrupted, laughing. ‘Then you’d really be in the shit.’

Kuthy turned and looked at him, unsmiling. ‘Actually,
I
was about to say that.’

Bolldhe’s smile vanished, and he fell back to walk on his own again. He should have known better. Despite the fact that Kuthy was older than Bolldhe, and so much better in so many ways, he seemed undeniably and almost determinedly childish. All those years on the move, Bolldhe reflected, no home, no job, no family, not even any long-term friends; it’s hardly the type of life to instil any responsibility in a man . . .

Then the obvious struck him.
That’s me, in ten or twenty years’ time
, he thought gloomily.
Take away the hero stuff, the legends, the adventures, and what have you got? Yes, me! I’m a lesser Kuthy, a Tivor-in-training. In fact, I’m not even that much.

Bolldhe briefly wondered if Kuthy ever stared up at ceilings, as he himself did. He pondered on this for a moment, then dismissed the idea; someone like Kuthy Tivor would not have enough time. He would more likely stare up at the skies, the stars . . . and further even beyond. Whereas Bolldhe might be found supine upon a dingy, sweat-stained bedroll in some low-life caravanserai, musing on the swirls of knotted wood or patches of fungus above him and trying to make patterns out of them, the Tivor would be doing the same with the clouds, the constellations, and the moving tides of the universe itself. That was the difference between them: Bolldhe’s horizon was about eight feet away, whereas Kuthy’s was literally limitless.

It was a depressing thought. It was true that Bolldhe reluctantly admired Kuthy, but it was admiration for Kuthy the legend, not Kuthy the man. He was well aware that he could never become anything like the legend, but did he even want to end up like the man?

Yet everything he was doing in his life so far was pointing exactly to that. Just like Kuthy, he had not grown beyond the stage of being a young bachelor; was still treating life like a game, even when others his age had moved on to the next stage. Even when the game was no fun any more. Even when younger people seemed much more mature. It was embarrassing.