Tales of Anyar

by Olan Thorensen

  “I agree,” said Mumertork. “Continue.”

  No man disagreed, although several worried about the ghost.

  “It’s decided,” said Untork. “We’ll continue the hunt, and we’ll leave the ghost, or whatever the creature is, without touching it. We’ll also tell the rest of the clan to avoid this cave until the shaman tells us there are no evil spirits here.”

  As the party left for the herd, Untork took a last look at the ghost.

  The shaman says ghosts have large blood-red eyes and beards. This one just looks like a man with white skin and no beard. I’ve heard of a clan to the south that shaves their beards at burials, but that clan has skin like we do. The eyes of this ghost are a strange green-brown, not red, though that may be because the creature is dead.

  I’m sorry the youngling speared whatever this is. We might have learned more about it. I suppose it could even have been a real person—just one different from us.

  He shrugged his fur cloak higher onto his shoulders, turned, and followed the last man in the single file leading away. The dark orange sun hung above the hills to the west. When fully risen, it would cover a quarter of the sky. He often stared at it for many minutes. For some reason, he had always been fascinated by the swirls that moved across the sun’s face. The shaman claimed he could read portents in the red and black patterns, though Untork occasionally wondered whether the shaman only pretended. Once, when he was young, he had gotten so entranced by watching the patterns move across the sun that his father had punished him for wasting most of a day with his eyes skyward.

  He glanced once more back at the cave and the body lying at the entrance. No, they would avoid this cave until the shaman told them it was safe. For now, they needed to hurry before the herd moved on.

  AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

  Mark Caldwell pushed open the swinging doors of the Wasted Zernik pub. Sounds of patrons talking and a small group of musicians at the opposite end of the large room washed over him. It wasn’t the dregs of Landylbury’s pub options but was distant enough from the commercial section of the city that he believed it minimized his being recognized by guild members. Not that there had been any sign that he was still being sought since fleeing Brawsea, the Frangel capital, after things went south. Nevertheless, why take risks he didn’t have to?

  He looked around for a empty table, though the large crowd argued against success. It wasn’t that he was naturally unsocial, but he strove to leave as small a memory footprint as possible in the larger cities. Tonight, the attempt failed.

  “Kaldwel, just saw you come in,” called a gruff voice behind him and above the general buzz of patrons. A hand rested on his shoulder. “Come join me and my cousins. We’re a stein ahead of you.”

  The Ostyns were a family of ranchers and hunters thirty miles from the larger ranch where Mark worked. They were amiable sorts, but he would have been more pleased to spend a pub evening with them in Nurburt, the town in the middle of ranch territory, rather than in Landylbury, where he strove for anonymity. Sighing, he followed the burly Vernyn Ostyn to a table and ordered a stein of ale.

  “Vernyn told us you came to Landylbury to sell hides, instead of Brawsea or Caledon,” said the older cousin whose name Mark forgot. “He figured it must be because of better prices, and it was! Almost half again as much as we usually get in the capital. The drinks are on us tonight!”

  Mark knew the Ostyns sold destrex hides whenever the family needed coin—usually one or two hides at a time. He had no intention of telling them how many he had sold that day.

  The negotiation over the price for the five destrex hides had been as long and annoying as usual. Still, he knew he had gotten a fair price. He’d been selling to this particular boot-maker for two years, following less-than-satisfactory experiences with other trade shops. The hides were highly prized for footwear by men in the upper levels of Frangel society, and the cost of destrex boots was well beyond the budget of common citizens. Those hides that weren’t used within Frangel went to lucrative export markets.

  The Ostyns hunted in teams of three or four men, the usual number to be reasonably safe in bringing down one of the armored terrors. This family, along with other hunters, believed that either Mark had a secret or was insane, the only two conceivable motives for anyone hunting destrex alone.

  That there were any destrex left alive was due to the distressingly high mortality rate of hunters attempting to collect the hides. Both species of destrex preferred the brush and short tree country of the Drilmar continent, in terrain ending at the approximate tree line. Also living in that location were the destrex’s main prey, several species Mark thought looked like camels trying to imitate horses, rhino, hippos, and tapirs. Vegetation that grew no more than six feet high provided ideal cover for a destrex ambush as it burst from cover and galloped to catch unsuspecting prey before the animal saw it and got up to speed.

  Mark’s first reaction on seeing a destrex was amusement because it looked like an alligator or a crocodile with long legs. His humorous mood vanished when he witnessed one run down a horse-like mammal and tear off hunks of flesh while the victim screamed.

  The creatures were annoyingly clever enough to avoid any snare, pit, or other trap sufficient to hold them. They had an even more disturbing habit of turning on hunters whose musket balls had failed to sufficiently penetrate their armor-like hide.

  Mark studiously hid from other hunters the rifled muskets he’d had made in Landylbury, the third-largest city of Frangel. It was far enough from hunting terrain that he could usually avoid attracting attention from other hunters. The seventy calibre weapons were almost twice the weight of an average hunter’s musket, had three times the effective range, and fired minie balls hand-made by Mark. It took a man of his size, six-foot-three and two hundred forty pounds, by Earth measures, to handle the weight and recoil. The steel-covered lead shot with lead skirting was designed for penetration and aerodynamics. His wife had watched, puzzled, two years ago in their home as he covered pages with scribblings she didn’t recognize. He didn’t try to explain why he was amused at using his mechanical engineering degree to kill a nightmare creature.

  He had left the rifles at home, there being no reason to take them to Landylbury. He’d had two of them made for safety and to ensure his success—if the first shot didn’t bring down the destrex, he might not have time to reload. Most of the money he’d made from hunting during the last two years had gone into saving to buy their own land, where Mark and his wife, Maghen, planned to raise cattle, horses, and children.

  His stein arrived just as he thought the younger Ostyn cousin was about to probe how many hides Mark had sold. When the woman server asked whether the others wanted another stein, Mark hurriedly switched topics the instant she left.

  “Did you hear there’s been a zernik outbreak near White Mountain? A bad one, from what I hear. A pack of twenty or thirty hit a settlement.” The town of ten thousand was in south Frangel, not far from the tree line, and existed only because of mining and trapping.

  “No,” said Vernyn. “White Mountain, you say? I imagine the people there are sweeping the countryside. Can’t let the damn things get a foothold and start breeding. How did they get all the way from Tekleum?”

  “No one seems to know how and where they got over the Urstyl Mountains and then traveled unnoticed across southern Frangel nearly to White Mountain.” The narrow chain of mountains that bisected Drilmar north to south was a formidable barrier, yet a steady trickle of zerniks got through from their normal range in western Drilmar.

  “Why don’t the Tekleumese and Rumspasians exterminate the damn things?” asked Vernyn.

  As Mark had intended, the conversation moved away from his hunting success. He only half-listened to the three Ostyns during the next hour, contributing enough to seem involved, while his mind drifted to getting home. Suddenly, something caught his attention. It was as if someone had said something that didn’t quite reach his consciousness, but he knew it was ther
e. He looked around the full pub, his eyes and ears searching for what he might have missed. Nothing.

  “Excuse me, men, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone I need to see. I’ll be back if I can’t find him.”

  He picked up his stein and meandered among the tables, jostling men and a few women. He heard men complaining about bosses, jobs, wives, and the latest news from elsewhere on Anyar.

  As he finished his second circuit of the room and was about to reclaim his seat with the Ostyns, he caught his breath and felt a surge of adrenaline. A knot of eight or nine men stood talking. Most were dressed as local workmen, but two of the men were out of place, with clothing more common in higher-class pubs closer to the city center.

  “No, can’t say as I’ve ever heard of a land called ‘Amerika,’” said a man in work clothes. He turned to the men on his left. “Any of you heard of the place?”

  Head shakes and words confirmed their ignorance.

  “How about you?” said a voice to Mark’s right. He didn’t respond. A hand gripped his shoulder. “You. I asked if the word ‘Amerika’ means anything to you?”

  Mark shook himself out of his momentary stupor and looked at the more hard-bitten of the two out-of-place men. The man’s eyes focused on Mark, and all the other men stopped to look their way.

  “I . . . ,” he stuttered. “I may have heard the word somewhere, but I’m not sure where.”

  What cried out in his mind was the urge to grab the man asking about America and shake out of him how he knew about a place on Earth. Calm yourself , he thought. Maybe it’s just some similar pronunciation.

  The first man pulled the arm off Mark’s shoulder, shaking his head at the bigger man. “Pardon my friend here, but we’ve been looking for information about Amerika, and Lurkyn simply got excited that someone else has heard of the place. But what about you? How is it you’ve heard of Amerika?”

  Mark warred with himself. After years of hiding who he was and where he had come from, to be hit unexpectedly with a connection to home was almost overwhelming. He needed time to think.

  “I’d have to try to remember where I heard about it,” he said. “My mind’s a little addled from the ale. Maybe I can remember more tomorrow morning. We could meet after I’ve had a chance to think on it.”

  “Where are you staying?” asked the smaller of the two men. “We could meet you there.”

  “Uh . . . I forget the name. It’s an overnight inn east of here. Why don’t we meet back here at seven bells tomorrow? They have bread and cheese, and I’ll eat after we talk, then leave for home.” As much as Mark wanted to hear what the men knew, something about them bothered him. He was still skittish after his experience with the guilds.

  “In fact, I think I’ve had enough ale for this evening, so I’ll head over to where I’m staying. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”

  As he made his way through the throng to the main door, he glanced back to see the two men in animated conversation. The big man was obviously unhappy, as the other man seemingly tried to placate him. Outside, Mark hurried to the nearest corner, turned it, and quickly circled the block. If anyone was following, he hoped he’d led them in the wrong direction. By the time he was halfway to the inn, he was chastising himself for being paranoid. He didn’t know whether the word of interest to the two men was his America, but he would be bitter if it was and he’d lost an opportunity by worrying too much. However, to be safe, he stopped twice and waited in shadows to watch for the two men from the pub. Finally, he was satisfied he hadn’t been followed and had all but convinced himself he had only heard what his imagination wanted to hear.

  He nodded to the night man at the inn’s front counter and the second man sitting to one side. Both were visibly armed, and there was only the one entrance to the building—not a safe situation if there was a fire, but something Mark risked for a one- or two-night stay in Landylbury. He figured it was a reasonable trade to secure the two bags of silver coins in his room.

  He climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor hallway, used a key to unlock the sturdy door to his room, undressed, and lay down. After pulling the thin cover over himself, he fell asleep quickly. A knife sheath lay under the folded blanket he used as a pillow.

  He had always been quick to both fall asleep and wake at strange noises. He didn’t know what he’d heard, but he awoke to shadows moving toward the bed in the small room.

  “What—?” exclaimed a voice, after its owner pulled back the bed’s blanket to reveal wadded clothing.

  Mark couldn’t justify why he’d needed to sleep on the floor that night. Using extra blankets, he’d made a bed in a corner, partly shielded if the door to the hallway opened.

  “Get some light,” ordered another voice. Someone opened the door wider to let in faint illumination from a candle in the hallway. The instant Mark made out three men, two carrying clubs and the third a coil of rope, he leaped to his feet. Hunter’s knife in his right hand, he threw a blanket at one of the men holding a club.

  “Damn!”

  “Get him!”

  The second man with a club swung at Mark’s head and missed.

  “Don’t kill him, you idiot! They’ll only pay if he’s alive!”

  The words caused hesitation long enough for Mark to move inside another swing of the club. A straight arm to the throat staggered the man, and Mark slashed at the arm holding the club. He recognized the larger of the two men at the pub.

  He didn’t want to kill anyone, and his qualms almost cost him. As the injured man fell back into the hallway, a blow from the second assailant holding a club glanced off Mark’s head and hit between his neck and shoulder. Only thick muscle prevented a broken shoulder or collarbone, but he went to his knees, his left arm numb.

  “Hit him again! The other arm! They don’t need to work.”

  Mark saw the club rise for another blow, and he stabbed the wielder inside his thigh, aiming for the main artery.

  “Agh!” cried the man, stepping back into the doorway light, still on his feet. Mark’s left arm was useless, but the rest of his body was intact, and the adrenaline rush made him feel powerful. He leaped to his feet and stabbed into the abdomen. Still the attacker didn’t go down. It took a second stab to the belly and one to the exposed throat before the man fell.

  Mark whirled on the leader, who had turned to flee. He slammed into the man with his shoulder, still grasping the knife with that arm. The man crashed into a wall and collapsed. Mark jumped to one side. He turned, anticipating an attack from the man he’d first wounded, only to see a back disappear out the door. Mark pressed his senseless arm to his side.

  He sagged onto the bed, gasping and pulling in as much air as his lungs could manage. He stayed seated for several minutes until his breath and heart rate returned to near normal. The smaller man hadn’t stirred, still slumped against the wall. Mark’s arm hurt more now than initially, but he could move his fingers.

  I’ll have a hell of a bruise tomorrow, and I expect it’ll be stiff for a few days, but I don’t think anything is broken . Now, what the hell was that all about? The guilds? But what would be the connection with a word sounding like “America”?

  Re-sheathing the knife and lighting the whale oil lantern took some effort. The light confirmed one man was dead, and the unconscious man was the smaller of the two from the pub. Mark pulled him into a sitting position on the floor, his back to the wall. A cup of water thrown in the face yielded sputtering and groans before the leader opened his eyes.

  Mark pulled his knife again and held it in front frightened eyes.

  “You’re going to tell me what your interest is in me,” said Mark in a tone conveying certainty. “Who are you?”

  The man shook his head. Whether it was to clear his head or refuse to answer, Mark didn’t know and didn’t care. He slammed the hilt of his knife into the man’s nose. The crack of broken cartilage was following by a bloody stream.

  “Let’s try this again. What’s your name?”


  “Ar . . . arg . . . arg . . . ,” burbled out of a blood-filled mouth.

  Mark cut a piece out of the man’s shirt and held it to the broken nose, tilting the head back for about a minute, then pulled the head back to face forward and let the man hold the cloth on the nose.

  “Once more. What’s your name?”

  “K . . . Kros . . . Kroswyn,” the man said, his voice barely audible through the cloth.

  “Who are you? Why did you attack me?”

  “C . . . Coin. Not kill you. Paying for you alive.”

  “Paying? Is it the guilds?”

  “Guilds?” replied Kroswyn, whose eyes and brow showed surprise. “Why would the guilds want you? It was some Narthani at the port.”

  Mark sat back on his heels. Narthani? Why would the Narthani care anything about him? He knew of them and how at one time people feared the Narthon Empire might someday cast eyes on Drilmar. However, the conflicts between Narthon and neighboring peoples on Melosia, the largest continent, had been stalemated for a long time. The Narthon threat seemed to have abated in Frangelese minds in recent years.

  He leaned to within a foot of Kroswyn and held his knife point inches away from the man’s eye.

  “Why would the Narthani be interested in me?”

  “All I know is that they’re offering bags of coin for information on anyone knowing about a nation called Amerika with people called Amerikans or a man named Yozef Kolsko. They’ve been spreading the word on ports in Frangel and, from what I hear, in other nations, too. We’re not to kill you or injure you severely,” Kroswyn added hurriedly, “just deliver you to them.”

  Mark sat back on his haunches again, stunned. America! Americans! He had assumed he would spend the rest of his life with no one knowing where he had come from, with no one to reminisce about home. The first year had been hard. Then, once he’d accepted his fate as much as possible, he had worked to create a life here in Frangel. That hadn’t gone too well, but once he removed himself to central Frangel, away from major cities, he had become content with his life. Not happy, he admitted to himself in moments when he allowed reflection, but content. He loved his wife and child, and his livelihood provided well for them and seemed to bode well for the future. Yet he never had any doubt that this was not a life he would have chosen for himself.