The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4)

by Garrett Robinson

  “What about the two of you?” said Sun. “You knew you were after a weremage. Were you not frightened? I would suspect every shadow. Any beast could have been the weremage, or anyone you met on the road.”

  “They could have been,” said Albern. “But remember that we thought we were chasing the weremage—we did not know her name, then—and that she was fleeing with the Shades across the kingdom. We did not know we were being led. Not until much later.”

  Albern stared into his mug of beer for a long moment, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Sun studied him. The tale had thrilled her, she had to admit. When he had spoken of riding off from the Reeve, she had felt a sudden desire to rise to her feet and start a journey at once—though she knew not where. Yet the same words that had excited her were obviously disturbing to Albern. She waited in respectful silence, not wanting to agitate him further.

  And then, all of a sudden, he drained the rest of his mug and rose to his feet. “Well, I have to be taking care of something.”

  Sun drew back, blinking. But before she could answer, Albern took up his bow and climbed rapidly down from the rooftop. He reached the ground and passed around the corner of the tavern without so much as a backwards glance.

  It was another long moment before Sun thought of standing up. She stood there, staring stupidly down at the empty alley behind the building, until she realized he was not coming back.

  Not knowing what else to do, Sun clambered down after him and ran around to the front of the building. Albern stood by a horse that had been tethered to a pole. It was already saddled, and he was checking its straps.

  Anxiously, Sun approached the old man from behind. “Albern?”

  “Hm? Yes?” said Albern. He glanced back at her and gave a brief smile before raising one foot to the stirrup. With impressive grace considering his age and his single arm, he vaulted into the saddle and took up the reins.

  “Where … where are you going?” said Sun. The question seemed too obvious to need to be put into words, but she felt as driftless as an unmoored ship.

  “I have an errand to take care of,” said Albern, looking down at her. Then he seemed to notice her expression for the first time, and he smiled. “Forgive me for not mentioning it sooner, but I had rather hoped you would come with me.”

  “But … but where?” said Sun.

  “Oh, this errand is not too far away,” said Albern.

  This errand? The wording was not lost on her. Nervously, Sun glanced both ways down the street. Two of her family’s guards were searching for her even now. She thought of her mother and father, of their caravan beyond the bounds of the town.

  “But I need to be getting back soon,” whispered Sun. She had meant to say it aloud, to say it to Albern. But she spoke quietly, as if to herself, and Albern did not answer.

  She did need to get back. Her family expected her. She was supposed to ride on with them tomorrow. On to their final destination, there to remain for a time before returning home. And before long, they would take her somewhere else, and then somewhere else. All part of a plan, a great dance that had always been determined for her, the steps laid out before she had first set foot on the floor.

  Sun turned back, looking up at Albern. “You will keep telling the story if I come with you?”

  Albern’s smile widened. “Until the tale’s true end.”

  Her pulse raced. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, and she was not sure she could feel her fingers. But she stepped up next to Albern’s horse, and as he nudged it to a walk, Sun followed.

  She expected Albern to continue the tale immediately, but as they left the town heading south and passed into open country, still he remained silent. He only made gentle noises to the horse as he nudged it one way or another. Sun gave the steed another glance, half expecting to see the roan gelding from his tale. But that was ridiculous, of course. That had been decades ago. This horse was a deep chestnut brown.

  “What are you thinking, child?”

  Sun had been thinking many things, but none seemed like the right answer. So she asked him the question that had not left her mind, despite his reassurances. “Did all of this really happen?”

  Albern cocked his head. “I told you already that stories are—”

  “—Are meant to be learned from, yes,” said Sun. “I understand, but … how can you expect me to take it to heart, to learn from it, if I do not know for certain that it even took place as you say it did?”

  Albern looked at her askance. “Do you think I am certain of how it happened?”

  “I … what?” said Sun, frowning up at him. “Of course you are. You lived it.”

  “Hm,” said Albern. “I see the lesson still has not taken root. Let me ask you this, then. Tonight you told me your name, but you left out your family name. Do you know if that answer was true or not?”

  “Of course I do,” said Sun. “I knew what the truth was, though I did not speak it.”

  “Mayhap. Or mayhap, in crafting a lie, you struck upon a deeper truth.”

  She frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “Do you really think you are still the noble daughter who first entered that tavern?” Albern chuckled. “I doubt she would have gone scarpering off with a decrepit, one-armed man. Those sound like the actions of a girl with no family, the actions of Sun of No Name.”

  This was almost too much. Sun’s thoughts spun, and her feelings gave her no peace. She had often wished she was not a daughter of the family Valgun, but she was. Was she not?

  Her parents’ guards must have reported that she had gone missing by now. She knew there would be consequences, and that they would be worse the longer she remained away. Yet she was not returning to her family, but traipsing off with an old man, simply because he was telling her a good story.

  That did not, in fact, seem very like something Sun of the family Valgun would do.

  Her mind whirled, and she felt that strange, unmoored feeling again.

  “Why are you telling me all this, about Northwood and the rest of it?” she asked. “Why will you not tell me what happened to your arm, or what happened to Mag?”

  “Because you want to hear one story, Sun, but you need to hear another,” said Albern. “Any talespinner must seek a balance. He must tell the listener what they need to hear, but tell it well enough that the audience is willing to stay and listen, no matter what they demanded in the first place. Do you think, when your Dulmish king brings a skald into her court, that she merely searches out the one with the best voice? No, not if she is wise. She seeks the skald who will tell her the stories she most needs told, even—mayhap especially—when she does not want to hear them.”

  “So you think you know better than me what story I need to hear?” said Sun. “You are just like my parents, and that is no compliment.”

  “I think I do, yes,” said Albern mildly. “But if I judge correctly, I am different from your parents in one important respect: if you do not wish to take my advice, I will not force it upon you. You are free to go at any time—or, if you wish, you can simply ask me to stop telling the tale, and we can talk of other things.”

  “You compare yourself to a skald,” said Sun. “Yet if a king demands a tale, her skald will tell it if he is a true servant.”

  Albern’s eyes flashed as he looked at her, and for the first time he appeared truly angry. “You vastly misjudge us both if you call me a servant and yourself my king.”

  Hot blood rushed into her cheeks. “I am sorry. I did not mean it like that.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. But then the hostility in his expression faded somewhat. “No, I suppose you did not. It is clear to me—forgive me for saying so—but I would guess you have little opportunity to exercise your skill at argument. I would wager that people in your life have been of two kinds: those who obey you, and those who you must obey without question.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “As obvious as the fact you come from Dulmun. You walk li
ke you wear a crown, and those leathers of yours are hardly Dorsean, nor are they the garb of a poor commoner. I knew nothing about you when you stepped through the door of that tavern, but you told me much in the way you moved and spoke. And you are avoiding my point.”

  Sun still did not wish to look at him, for her cheeks still burned with shame at the way she had spoken to him before. “What point is that?”

  He fixed her with a look. “I am trying to tell you the story you need, Sun of the family Valgun. Yes, I know your family name as well. I think I know what you need to hear, and I am certain I know how badly you need to hear it. But I am trying, also, to make it a tale worth your time. Have I done a good enough job so far? Do you want to hear more?”

  Sun felt many things. She was frightened, uncertain, and more than a little apprehensive about the shadowed wilderness they now rode through.

  But above all of that, when she looked deep into her own heart, she had to admit one thing: she did want to hear what happened next.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. Then, louder, “Yes. Tell me. Please.”

  I told you of Mag fetching her spear from the Reeve. You should know something of that spear, before I continue the tale.

  You had heard, before I told you, of Mag’s prowess in battle. But whatever you have heard, and however well I myself describe it, all tales are inadequate. Never have I seen or heard of such a master when it comes to combat. Her mastery extended to any weapon—in the battle of Northwood, she fought with a sword, you remember—but she became truly terrifying when her spear was in her hands.

  I was with her when she got that spear, as it happens. We were in the western reaches of Dulmun. I had persuaded her to join the Silver Stirrups for a time, and that company had been summoned there for … sky above, I cannot remember. We were there for months, yet I cannot remember the conflict that brought us. Yet I remember every detail of the moment Mag found her spear. It is often that way when we age, and our memory begins to fail us.

  The two of us had been given a day’s leave, and we were spending it in Vaksom, the city that sprang up around the warlight Arod. It was my first time visiting Dulmun, and I found myself uncomfortable—meaning no offense. To an outsider, your people appear quick not only to laugh, but also to anger, and they almost seem to enjoy settling disagreements with their fists. It left me feeling on edge.

  But Mag seemed curiously at home in Vaksom. It was strange to see the way she looked at everything, as if she was trying to solve a mystery. Her head was cocked and her eyes were narrowed, and it seemed that half-hidden thoughts swirled around each other in her mind.

  “What is it, Mag?” I asked her. “You look pleased to be here, and at the same time confused.”

  “I suppose both are true,” she said. “There is something familiar about this place, though I have never been here that I recall.”

  “Mayhap you came here as a child?” I said.

  “Mayhap,” she murmured.

  Suddenly she stopped dead in the street, staring at a shop. I looked it over. It seemed to be the shop of a bladesmith, but a far grander one than I had ever seen. Two stories tall it stood. Its front windows were open, and in them were displayed blades of the highest quality. I saw swords, daggers, and spears, but also many strange weapons that I had never seen the like of. Too, I had never seen a smithy with someone standing guard, but there was one here—a large brute of a man with horribly scarred hands.

  “You have good taste,” I told Mag. “But I think your eyes are larger than your purse. Sellswords such as us could not bring the custom a place like this demands.”

  Mag did not appear to hear me. She only stepped towards the shop’s door. As she approached, the guard barred her way and held up a hand.

  “Stay yourself,” he said, his voice rumbling like an ocean wave. “What business do you have here?”

  “What sort of business do you expect?” said Mag. “I wish to buy a weapon.”

  The guard eyed her up and down. “You are no customer of this place. Begone.”

  “You do not know how much coin I am carrying,” countered Mag.

  “You could not carry enough coin on your whole person, and since you do not have a pack horse behind you—”

  “Friend,” I said quickly. “You are a hired sword like us, are you not?”

  The guard’s mouth twisted. “Not like you.”

  I spread my hands wide, giving him a friendly smile. “Oh, not a mercenary, certainly. But we all have something in common: we are paid to fight. You have a greater appreciation for the art of battle than most people could imagine—as do we. And my friend here is special. I swear to you that you have never seen her like in combat.”

  The guard arched an eyebrow as he looked down at Mag, who stood a good two heads shorter than he. “If you mean to intimidate me, you are not doing a good job.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “But when someone ascends to her lofty heights of skill, they gain a rarefied taste for weapons of war. You may be right: we may not have enough coin to afford your master’s astonishing wares. But can you not understand a desire to simply see them? Let her at least have the dream of fighting with such tools of war, though they may be fit only for the nobility who pay our wages.”

  His expression did not change a whit, and I thought my words had been for nothing—and, too, I feared that Mag might escalate matters, for that was a bad habit of hers in those days. But after a moment the guard drew aside, waving an admonishing finger at both of us.

  “Disturb nothing,” he said. “Touch nothing. And do not approach my master if she does not speak to you first.”

  “You have our word,” I said, nodding my thanks and ushering Mag into the shop.

  “I could have taken him,” Mag muttered once we were safely away from the man.

  “I know you could have,” I said. “But it might have put a damper on our experience here. Now you can peruse the weapons without worrying about constables showing up.”

  It is customary for shopkeepers to put their finest wares on display in the windows, using them to draw in customers. But I could hardly have said the weapons in the window were any better than the ones we found inside. Every new blade I saw seemed to be the finest I had ever beheld, until I saw the next one. I am and have always been an archer first and foremost, but I know my way around a sword, and I found myself transfixed by those on display. They were made in the Dulmun fashion—longer and heavier than those in Calentin—but that did not prevent me from appreciating their quality.

  After a moment I looked up and realized that Mag and I had become separated. I sought her out quickly, as I still did not trust her not to make trouble if anyone should bother her. I found her standing before a display of spears. The weapons were arranged in racks that held half a dozen each. These were no long infantry spears, meant for fighting in formation, and which are usually much taller than the soldiers that wield them. These were Dulmish dueling spears. If you have never seen one, they can appear a bit strange. They are usually only a little taller than the shoulder—just long enough to serve as a walking stick, not so long that they are burdensome for long journeys. Their spearheads are larger than those of infantry spears, and they have long edges so that they can be used to slice and cut, not just to pierce. There are smaller, curved blades just behind the head, almost like a hilt, that you can use to entrap and entangle the weapon of your opponent.

  I had never seen anyone wield such a spear before—after all, most of the battles I had seen had been formation fighting. It struck me as curious that Mag was so transfixed by the weapons, for I had had no inkling that she knew how to use them.

  “Mag?” I said, for she did not appear to have seen me. “What is it?”

  “These spears,” she muttered, and it sounded almost as if she was talking to herself. “I … I almost remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  She only shook her head. And then came a voice from close by, startling both of us out of our thoughts.r />
  “It is rare to have someone lavish so much attention on my spears.”

  Mag and I turned quickly. Before us stood the woman who I knew must be the master of this shop. She was of medium height, but as broad as a barn. Her arms, like any good blacksmith’s, were thicker than my thighs, and her torso had several more layers of weight over thick muscles. The back of her hair was done up in a tail, but the front cascaded like the wings of a crow wrapped around her moon-shaped face. Over her shoulder, I saw the door guard surveying us, his face stern but impassive.

  “Do we have the honor of addressing the owner of this fine establishment?” I said, speaking just loud enough that I hoped the guard could hear my courtesy.

  “You do,” said the smith. “Smedda of the family Stalhert is my name.”

  “I am Albern of the family Telfer,” I told her, placing a hand over my heart. “And this is Mag.”

  Smedda cocked her head. “Sellswords, I suppose. What brings you to my shop?”

  “Why, only the desire to gaze upon your incomparable wares,” I said.

  “Flattering,” said Smedda. “I am not in the habit of entertaining those who wish to peruse and not to buy, but courteous words can go far in changing my mind. I imagine you did much the same to Bronhil at the door, or he would not have let you in.”

  “We impressed upon your noblest and most loyal servant,” I said, projecting my voice in Bronhil’s direction with all my might, “that our appreciation for your work was nearly limitless. Truly, your purse must overflow with wealth from grateful patrons.”

  “Only one patron, really,” said Smedda. “King Lannolf, of the family Valgun. Once I secured his custom, it is rare to find anyone else who can match the coin my wares fetch.”

  I had two curious sensations at the same time: I felt as though the walls were pressing in upon me, and at the same time it was as if I had shrunk to the size of a mouse, and the shop had become incomprehensibly vast. I gasped suddenly, realizing that I had forgotten to breathe for the space of several long heartbeats.