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

by Garrett Robinson

  “Then let us get ourselves upon the road, and I will talk as we ride.”

  “You mean as you ride.”

  Albern chuckled. “Your point is well taken. We must see about getting you a horse of your own.”

  “I would greatly appreciate that.”

  They packed up their camp—a quick process, for they had not unpacked all that much, simply their bedrolls and some small dishes for eating. As they had laid it all out the night before, Sun had thought she would have to do much of the work, but in fact Albern was much quicker at it than she. The same was true now; his bedroll was on the saddle long before hers was, and by the time she was ready to gather up their simple dishes, he had already bagged them all and slung the sack, too, atop the horse. As she had last night, Sun chided herself for her assumption. It was plain that Albern had been traveling all across Underrealm for many years since he had lost his arm. He had adjusted himself to taking care of the small business of life long ago, and was likely a much better campaigner than she was.

  Albern climbed into the saddle and smiled down at her. Their breath poured out in a heavy mist in the still-chilled morning air, mingling far above their heads as it stretched up in search of the light clouds floating overhead.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Of course,” said Sun.

  He nodded and nudged the horse into a walk. Sun strode by his side, one hand hanging idly from his left stirrup, as the old man continued his tale.

  Autumn clung to the land, slow to relinquish it to winter. The days were cloudy, casting that gentle semblance of sunlight that illuminates the shadows nearly as much as everything else. It rained often, and sometimes it snowed lightly, but we hid beneath our oiled cloaks and rode on regardless. The trees all around us were a thousand shades of red and orange and gold, casting their leaves into the wind to gently brush against us as we carried on.

  Our journey had taken us some weeks. After proceeding to the city of Bertram from Lan Shui, we had eschewed the King’s road and struck out west, carrying on all the way to the coast before turning north. There the road is often within sight of the ocean, that endless expanse that stretches forever, a blue blanket strewn with a thousand diamonds. In northwestern Dorsea, just before we turned east for Opara, Dryleaf had fallen ill, and we had halted for a few days to let him recuperate. As we drew at last to the borders of what had once been my homeland, I held on to a hope that our hunt might be at its end.

  You will remember, of course, that in Lan Shui we had learned that Kaita was heading for Opara. You will also remember that we thought that message came from Pantu, the young boy who had once been a servant of the Shades, but that it had actually been Kaita in disguise. But of course we did not know that as we approached the city. We thought we would go unseen, and that our quarry had no idea we were even after her.

  During our travels, I had engaged in a small project of my own. I told you of Jordel, the Mystic with whom I had journeyed through the Greatrocks, and who had perished before that journey’s end. I had promised the boy, Gem, that I would write a song for him, a song of celebration for a life more eventful than most. I had not had the time to begin it in Northwood, and the road to Lan Shui had provided little opportunity, for we were in a dangerous land. But on the long road to Opara, I spent many nights on watch and many days idle in my saddle with little else to do. And so I had begun my ballad. It was grueling work, for I had never tried my hand at songwriting in those days. It is not as easy as some think—not if you want to do it properly. Sometimes I could summon no words at all. Other times, a part of the song would stick in my mind, repeating itself over and over again, demanding to be improved, until I was rocking back and forth in my saddle, muttering and humming to myself under my breath.

  “Are you going mad over there?” said Mag, drawing me out of my thoughts. “We can seek a healer in the next town.”

  I looked at her somewhat ashamedly. Mag sat straight in her saddle, prouder than any Mystic knight, her green cloak fluttering in a light wind. Though the journey had been long, and though we had faced darkness along it—not only the vampires we slew in Lan Shui, but highwaymen and brigands in the wilderness—she looked better than ever, hale and healthy and with a focus honed like a razor’s edge. Indeed, if I was honest with myself, she looked far more natural, far more whole, somehow, than she had back in Northwood. Mag had been happiest there, in those days she had spent with Sten. But there are the things that make us happy, and then there are the things that come to us naturally, and it is an exceptionally fortunate few who can find both things in the same place or circumstance. I think Mag belonged on the road, on a campaign, such as it was, whether or not it was what she desired.

  “Forgive me,” I told her. “I had not realized how loud my voice had grown.”

  “Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I have been unable to pay attention to anything else for some time.”

  On Mag’s other side, Dryleaf chuckled, his sightless eyes drifting aimlessly. I had been most worried for the old man when he had fallen ill, but now he seemed even stronger than when we had met him in Lan Shui. He, too, seemed to be a man who belonged on the road—and in his case, it did seem to be his great love, as well. I knew he had been a wandering peddler for many years, long before he met us.

  “Oh, do be gentle with Albern, dear girl,” he told Mag. “Any art requires time and patience, and songs most of all. They come to us in dreams, in our mind’s wanderings, a piece at a time. Then we must sit there with the parts of them, shoving them about like a child with a tinker’s puzzle, often going days or weeks without seeing the way they fit together. And then, all of a sudden, the pieces form into a whole, and then the world is forever blessed with a new and beautiful thing. Nothing can fly through the ages like a song.”

  “Thank you kindly,” I said, nodding before I remembered he could not see it. “Your support is greatly appreciated, though I can defend myself against this one.” I pointed past Mag at the old man and gave her an admonishing frown. “Do you see? That is how one true friend supports another. With encouragement, not heckling.”

  “If I were heckling you, I would have found some rocks to throw,” said Mag. “Carry on with your mutterings, then. There are many beekeepers in this part of the kingdom. Mayhap one of them will sell me some wax to plug my ears.”

  I reached over and tried to shove her. Mag snatched my arm and nearly pulled me from the saddle, before catching my shoulder on her knee and launching me back upright. I snatched wildly at the saddle horn to steady myself. Foolhoof, my gelding, snorted loudly and danced beneath me, as though he had sensed an opportunity to try to escape.

  “You hush,” I told him, slapping his shoulder—but gently. “You will not rid yourself of me that easily.” I glared at Mag. “Even with her help.”

  Mag laughed aloud, dragging a smile out of me. “If I wanted you out of the saddle—”

  “—it would already be done,” I finished. “You should be more careful with me, you know. You may be able to best me in a fight, but I am learning to write songs. I could immortalize you in verse as an utter buffoon. That sort of victory lasts forever, but you can only trounce me as long as we are both alive.”

  A curious expression came across her, one so tragic and … and weary, that I felt at once that I should apologize, though I did not know what I had done wrong. She smiled at me, but I thought I saw her eyes glisten as she did it.

  “You are welcome to your eternal victory,” she said, and the spell broke. Her voice was so cheery, her smile suddenly so genuine, that I felt I must have imagined what I had seen. “I prefer to defeat the person right in front of me, rather than the idea of them many years later.”

  I laughed, for it seemed clear that that was the response she needed. Mag and Dryleaf joined in the merriment, while Oku barked and ran two quick circles around our horses.

  We fell silent as we rode on. Yet I thought long upon what I had seen, and the way Mag sounded. My words m
ust have reminded her of Sten, I thought. So much had happened since the battle of Northwood, that sometimes I forgot it was barely two months before that Mag and Sten were still living happily in that town, foreseeing no darkness in their future.

  “You know, Albern,” said Dryleaf after a time, “I could offer my services in your attempt. I have written a fair few songs in my time, and received praise from kings and princes for them.”

  “I know it, friend,” I told him. “I would have guessed it from the moment I first heard you sing. But this is too close to my heart to share with anyone. At least for now.”

  Dryleaf pursed his lips and gave a deep nod, pushing his long beard into his chest. “A song of mourning, is it? Very well. You will know when you have healed enough for my advice to be more help than hindrance.”

  I glanced again at Mag, but from the corner of my eye so that she would not notice. Mayhap I need not have worried. Her gaze was distant as she let it rest on the horizon, and I doubted she had heard a word Dryleaf or I had spoken.

  The old man had said I would know when my heart had healed. But some wounds, I wagered, never healed at all.

  The next day, we reached the city of Opara, which stands at the foot of the mountain Tahumaunga.

  I do not know how far you have traveled, but I doubt it is as far as me, and I can tell you this: there are few sights as glorious, as awe-inspiring, and as frightening as that fiery peak. Tahumaunga looms over the land all around, its crest often wreathed in smoke, which drifts away south and east. There are higher mountains in the nine kingdoms, but none stand so tall in isolation, dominating the horizon and commanding one’s attention.

  There are tales from the time before time that say it spouted its flames often, sending great rivers of molten rock cascading down its slopes and flooding the wilderness all around. But those flames had long since subsided when Roth’s armies conquered the nine kingdoms. Now it belched forth its fires mayhap once in a lifetime, and they were gentle and slow when compared to the mountain’s ancient fury.

  Opara had been built at the foot of the mountain long ago. The King’s road did not pass through it, but it was still sizable, for it was an important waypost on the kingdom’s southern border. The Tongarn river poured from underground caverns within the mountain, and the city had been built around the place where the waters reached the lowlands. The south gate stood open as we approached, but the guards there raised a hand to stop us, and one stepped forwards to take Mag’s reins, for she was at our head. He looked at each of us in turn with a studious gaze. He and his companions wore the black and red armor, trimmed in white, that marked them as servants of the Calentin king. A curious feeling, somewhere between longing and discomfort, came over me as I beheld them.

  “Good day, friends,” said the man, a short and stout fellow. I do not know how many Calentin citizens you have met, but we often decorate ourselves with tattoos scarred deep into the skin of the face. They covered this guard’s chin, which jiggled when he spoke. “Whence have you come?” One of his fellow guards edged closer and knelt a pace away, extending a hand towards Oku.

  “Southern Dorsea, and before that, Selvan,” said Mag. “We hail from the town of Northwood.”

  “A long way to travel,” said the guard. “I am Ari, of the family Parata. What is your business in the kingdom?” Oku had drawn tentatively closer, and finally he allowed the other guard to scratch him behind the ears.

  “I am Kanohari,” I said, speaking before Mag as a way of reminding her not to give her true name. We had discussed this before. Mag and I would use false names, in case word of us somehow reached the weremage and warned her of our approach. Dryleaf would need no such precautions, we thought, since he meant nothing to the Shades. “I am returning home, and these are my friends, accompanying me on the journey.”

  As I spoke, I dismounted and threw back my hood. The guards’ faces lit with recognition, and Ari gave me a warm smile. My father was a Heddan, but my mother was of old Calentin blood, and the features of my homeland were plain upon my face, even if my skin was a bit pale.

  “Welcome home, countryman,” said Ari. He pressed his fist to his forehead. “How long away?”

  “Too long,” I said, giving him a smile that I did not feel. “Many years.”

  He chuckled and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Well, you will lose that Selvan accent before long.” He shifted his attention back to Mag, giving her a nod. “You are true friends to accompany your fellow on such a long journey.” Behind him, Oku had gone belly-up to allow the other guard to scratch him. One hind leg kicked wildly at the air.

  “Oh, do not worry,” said Mag, smiling at me. “It has all been a long ploy. I mean to get him drunk and then steal all his coin.”

  “She is joking,” I said quickly, scowling at her.

  Ari chuckled, but then his countenance grew stern. “You are welcome to Opara, but I am afraid we must inspect your belongings. Orders from the Rangatira, and none but his servants are exempt.”

  “Of course,” I said easily. Yet in my mind, a warning bell began to toll. Inspecting travelers at the border? That was something I might have expected in the eastern regions, the mountain passes where I grew up. But the southern border had never been a place of great watchfulness. It had never needed to be, for Dorsea knew better than to bring their aggression here, and they turned it instead upon Selvan, or Feldemar, or sometimes Hedgemond.

  Fortunately, we carried nothing suspicious upon us. We were indeed simple travelers, even if our ultimate goal was not quite so simple. After perusing our rations and travel gear and Mag’s considerable stock of coin, the guards waved us on through the gate. Oku leaped up with a yelp and, after giving the guard’s face a quick lick, he came pelting after us. Ari raised a hand to wave farewell, and then they were out of sight.

  Riding into those streets was a strange sensation for me. The scent of cooking food wafted on the air towards me, bringing the aroma of dishes I had not smelled in years, but recognized at once. Most people around us had tattoos, and more than once I caught myself staring at them, tracing their twisting designs with my eyes.

  I was something of a rarity, you see. Most people of Calentin do not travel very far from home, and so I had not seen them often since I left. Yet the smells, the sights, and the few snatches of song I could hear in the streets and alleys, all of it came together to pitch my mind straight back to my youth, as though I had never been gone.

  “Those guards were very friendly, even if they did search our belongings,” remarked Dryleaf. “That is one thing I have always liked about Calentin. Not only is it a beautiful kingdom—or I considered it so, back when I could see—but the people are simply wonderful. They seem so happy here, tucked in their own corner of Underrealm and untroubled by the affairs of the wider world.”

  “Calentin has its own troubles, and they are plenty.” The words came harsher than I intended. Dryleaf cocked his head in surprise, and Mag gave me a stern glance. “Do not look at me like that,” I told her. “I speak only the truth. No kingdom is an idyll.”

  “We know it, but that is no reason to be such a grouch,” said Mag. “We are leagues and leagues away from your family. No one here will recognize you.”

  I gave her a small and sheepish smile. She had seen to the heart of my poor mood right away. “I know that. But this is the closest I have come to my family’s domain since I left them.”

  “Ah,” said Dryleaf, nodding sagely. “Bad blood, is it? Well, this is your home kingdom, and you would know more about it than I do. At least we do not have to go to your family’s lands. That is one hopeful thing.”

  I hid a grimace and turned my attention back to the streets. But Oku seemed to sense something of my dark mood, for he whined and stepped closer, nudging my foot with his head. “Thank you, boy,” I told him, and looked up at Mag. “Do you see? Even the hound knows how to be a good friend.”

  Mag snorted and leaned over from her saddle towards mine, wrapping me in a one-armed
hug that almost lifted me into the air. “Here. Is this affection enough for you?”

  “Release me before I faint,” I wheezed.

  She let go and pounded me on the back, which only hurt worse. “That is more than enough support for now. I shall give you another dose tomorrow.”

  “Please do not. I quite enjoy having ribs.”

  Dryleaf laughed aloud, and I felt my dark mood dissipate somewhat. Mag sometimes made me feel inadequate, but that was through no fault of her own. It was only that she was impressive in so many ways. Yet she was always a true friend, never letting me wallow in my own misery, and doing anything she could to pull me out of it. In that moment, I appreciated it a great deal.

  “Let us return to the matter at hand,” said Mag. “We are here for the weremage. We need a place to start looking.”

  “A difficult proposition,” I said. “She could be anyone. We could encounter her at any time. In truth, she could have been one of those guards at the gate, and we would never have known.”

  We had discussed this, of course, on the long road north. Dryleaf had raised the idea of telling the Mystics about the weremage—hunting down rogue wizards was one of their duties, after all. But Mag and I refused. The Mystics would never allow us to join them in hunting the weremage down. They never partnered with others for such a task, except in very rare cases where they had no other choice—or if they were an exceptional person, like Jordel, who had been far more trusting than most. Indeed, if we had told the Mystics of our aims, not only would they have barred us from the hunt and brought the weight of the King’s law against us if we persisted, but it is unlikely they would even have told us if they were successful. We had to do this on our own. The weremage had slain Mag’s husband, slain my friend. She would die by our hands. On that we were agreed.

  Mag nodded at my words. “Our one advantage is that the weremage does not know we are coming for her. The only way she could have found out is if the satyrs sent word. No other servants of their Lord found out about our hunt and lived to tell the tale. And certainly none of them know Pantu told us we could find her here.”