The Wanderers of the Water-Realm

by Alan Lawton

  Meanwhile, Darryl and the young boat hand completed their military training under the stern direction of the old mercenary. The pair became perfectly accustomed to running, stalking and fighting in the metal studded leather tunics and trousers, together with a stout iron helmet that served to protect most Water-Realm warriors during combat.

  Darryl’s skill with the sword ‘Kingslayer’ became almost uncanny and the weapon’s razor sharp blade hissed through the air with frightening speed upon the occasions when Noor-Balsam ordered him to attack a row of stout practice targets. He also augmented his already considerable boxing skills, by receiving instruction in many of the unarmed combat methods that were in common use within the Water-Realm.

  “What a Prince’s champion you would make!” The old soldier had remarked, in grudging praise after a particularly gruelling training session, “For I declare that few warriors could face you in single combat and survive the encounter.”

  George also became skilled in weaponry and he developed into a deadly marksman with the longbow. However, he professed no great liking for either the sword or spear and he chose to wield a long handled war-axe, a weapon that promised to utilize the enormous bodily strength that he had developed under the old mercenary’s brutal regime of physical training.The young boat hand also retained the old meat-cleaver he found on the narrowboat. The implement cum weapon was now sharp and lovingly polished and could always be seen hanging from his belt.

  One morning, as the modifications to the ‘Bonny Barbara’ were nearing completion, the old soldier appeared on the training ground and called out to the two boatmen who were practicing marksmanship with a pair of darters.

  “Rest yourselves!” he cried. “Your training is now over and you are both ready to face the perils of your journey. Aye, and may the Gods receive the spirits of your enemies, for they will surely die swiftly beneath your steel.”

  He paused. “I shall return to my clan-folk without further delay for my work here is completed. But first I will present you with gifts and give you your ‘War-names’that is my right as your tutor.”

  Noor-Balsam unfastened a narr-skin bag, producing a small circular shield, made from hardened leather, with a razor sharp iron spike protruding from its central boss.

  “This target is called ‘Gut-ripper’.” He said, handing the shield to the boatmaster.

  “I carried it throughout the long wars against the Saxmen barbarians and six enemies have had their guts split upon yonder spike. I pray that it will serve you as well!”

  He laid his hand upon the boatmaster’s shoulder. “I name you ‘Black Darryl,’ for no title that I can bestow, will fit you better than the name you have already won in your own reality.”

  He turned to George and handed him a tiny dagger with an inch long flattened blade.

  “Hide it in your stocking,” advised the old mercenary. “Use it to cut open the jugular vein of an unsuspecting guard, should you ever have the misfortune to be taken prisoner.”

  Once again he paused and placed his hand upon the young man’s shoulder.

  “Your War-name is ‘Twin-axe.’A name that celebrates the two weapons that you will wield in battle, the long handled skull-smasher that rests upon your shoulder and its deadly helper that forever hangs from your waist-belt.”

  “Finally” He said. “I will give you the name of a man who dwells within Calar of the Mighty Walls, a man who will give you assistance, should the need arise. He is Ali son of Grom, a whore-master who can be found in the ‘Street of Women,’ beneath the sign of ‘The Crimson Nipple,’he is an old comrade from the wars who owes his life to my skill with the sword.”

  Without saying another word, the old mercenary spun upon his heel and disappeared into the gathering mist.

  Three darkenings later, the modifications to the ‘Bonny Barbara’ were completed to the satisfaction of the boatmaster and the old wizard. A further day was required to provision her and also to take onboard a hundred bales of pure narrs-wool, that Darryl had agreed to deliver to a trusted merchant in Calar; the fine wool that would be exchanged for the Thoa flour ensuring that the hospitable villagers would not go short of bread during the following cycle. Thom had also suggested to the travellers, that if they were stopped and questioned, during their voyage to Calar, that they would be well advised to claim to be Northland merchant’s who had business to transact upon the Exit River, for the Northlanders were as white-skinned as the three crewmembers of the narrowboat.

  Three narrs-men, who knew the river route to Calar were also persuaded to serve aboard the craft, but only as far as the great market-city and no further. The boatmaster wondered how the extra hands could be housed within the crafts tiny cabin, but Thom Jak’s laughed and stated that narrsmen required only a simple square of canvas for shelter. Finally Darryl breathed a sigh of relief and declared the expedition to be fit and ready to sail.

  A great feast was held at the traveller’s expense, on the night before the narrowboat’s departed and many a fat narr and much wine disappeared down the throats of the friendly clansmen. The following morning, almost six Earth months after their arrival in the Water-Realm, the crew of the ‘Bonny Barbara’ said their final farewells to Thom the wizard and the hospitable population of the ‘Valley of the Fruitful Stream’ to embark upon the next stage of their great adventure.

  Chapter 3

  Hetty stepped out of the old wooden bathtub and began towelling herself vigorously in front of the kitchen fire, then, with her body tingling from the friction; she strode across the room and carefully took stock of her appearance in the mirror that hung from the wall.

  Her flowing red hair, still damp from the bathwater, was lustrous and entirely free of the slightest hint of grey. Her features, she noted, were still pleasantly rounded showing few of the marks associated with early middle age, but her fingers touched a few tiny wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, an inevitable result of the terrible mental effort needed to pass the narrowboat, and its youthful crew, through the portal and into the Water-Realm. She allowed her hands to move downwards, over her full and perfectly formed breasts, then gently over her tightly muscled stomach, until they came to rest alongside her generously curved hips.

  The witch smiled with satisfaction, for she knew that she could still pass as a woman in her late twenties or perhaps thirty on one of her worst days. She viewed her prominent nipples with their generous crimson aureole and then lowered her gaze to the gently curved Mount of Venus, which nestled between her thighs and felt sure of her ability to use the power of sexual attraction to bend men to her will, if needs must. Indeed the wisewoman was quite sure that she would be forced to use all the attributes in her possession, both mental and physical if she was to succeed in penetrating the seedy underworld of Manchester and find unquestionable proof of her son’s innocence.

  Six long months had passed since that terrible day when she had torn open the curtain allowing her children to escape the clutches of the constabulary. She shuddered in remembrance at how she had been forced to crawl back to the shelter of her cottage in a state of complete exhaustion and the subsequent weeks of rest and relaxation needed to rebuild her strength to fully regain her occult powers.

  Jenny Bowyer, she reflected, had been of considerable help to her during this unavoidably long period of recuperation.

  Jenny was the youngest daughter of Lill Bowyer, a wisewoman who practiced her craft in a secluded hamlet deep in the Forest of Dean. Hetty and Lill were ‘mind-friends’ of long standing and frequently communicated with each other by means of their occult skill.

  Hetty, still suffering from the debilitating effects of the curtain opening ritual, had summoned up the dregs of her mental strength and begged her friend to dispatch one of her many daughters to assist her in looking after the sick of the district, until she herself was fully recovered. Jenny had duly arrived, after a long rail journey, and had immediately taken over the burden of caring for the wisewoman’s patients.

  The g
irl was hardly turned fifteen and still lacked most of the occult powers of her witch-mother, but she had a keen brain and had already acquired a deep knowledge of herbal medicine almost equivalent to that of the wisewoman. In addition, her nursing skills had won the gratitude and admiration of all the patients she had attended.

  Jenny had recently agreed to remain in Hetty’s service indefinitely, an arrangement that greatly satisfied the wisewoman, for Hetty knew that she would be absent from Elfencot for quite long periods, due to her resolve to dwell in Manchester and establish a completely new identity amongst the less than respectable portion of the city’s populace. For the witch knew that buried deep amidst the mire of pickpockets and thieves, ale-house masters and brothel keepers, dwelt the people who would lead her to her son’s enemies.

  Hetty had made the girl party to most of her plans, for she relied upon Jenny to protect her interests in Elfencot, and she had even hinted at the terrible secrets lying hidden beneath ‘The Devil’s Tor.’ But she knew that the girl would divulge nothing to any stranger, not even under torture or the threat of death, for she had ensured the girl’s silence by making her take the witch’s blood oath and the wisewoman knew that no power on earth could force the girl to open her lips.

  Even now, Jenny was away visiting a cottage on the high fells, in the faint hope that her herbal skills would save the life of an old stockman who was suffering from a chronic lung infection, whom young Doctor Smithson had predicted would be stone dead by morning.

  The wisewoman entered her bedroom and, after covering her nakedness with a woollen robe, began packing a few personal belongings and some warm clothing into a well used carpet bag. After a while, she looked at the face of the clock on the mantelpiece that informed her it was almost ten in the evening. She hoped against hope young Jenny would be able to return home before morning, for she desperately wished to bid farewell to the girl and give her a few last minute instructions, before she departed for Manchester aboard a heavily laden narrowboat that was moored alongside the nearby towpath for the night after working its way through the length of the great tunnel.

  Hetty had planned to spend a few more days with the girl, before journeying to Manchester, but the previous night, Thom, the wizard of the Narrs-folk, had thrust his mind through the curtain dividing the two realities, and informed her that the ‘Bonny Barbara’ had now departed upon its voyage into the heart of the Water-Realm. The news had immediately galvanized the wisewoman into action, instantly deciding to depart upon her quest at the soonest possible opportunity.

  The wisewoman had barely finished packing her bag, when she heard the back door bang, sending a sudden blast of ice-cold air sweeping through the cottage, for it was now mid February and the outside temperature was only a little above freezing.

  Hetty hugged the robe around her body and re-entered the kitchen in time to see a tiny hooded figure splaying itself in front of the kitchen fire in an effort to catch the remaining heat from the dying embers.

  “The fates have mercy on you girl. You’re frozen to the bone!” The wisewoman exclaimed as she stirred up the ashes and threw more wood upon the fire.

  “Did they not send one of the young herdsmen with you, to see you safely down from the fells?

  “No mistress, they did not.” Jenny replied in a rich and melodic voice that belied her youth and diminutive appearance. “The old man’s sons said something about going after stray sheep at first light, least ways, I managed to keep their father alive with my strengthening potions until the hot poultices had done their work; I reckon he’ll live out this winter and a few more besides, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Hetty frowned. “Those two lads won’t have thanked you for keeping them out of their inheritance, so it’s no small wonder that yonder pair of scoundrels left you to struggle home through the cold.”

  The wisewoman helped to unfasten the heavy cape and from its voluminous folds emerged a tiny girl who could scarcely have been more than five foot in height, even standing in her studded boots. She was dark-haired and her face, like the remainder of her body, was extremely thin and this tended to give her features a slightly mousy appearance. Yet piercing blue eyes suggested that the girl possessed a sharper than average intellect.

  The girl put her right hand into the pocket of her plain woollen gown and drew out two florin pieces, which she offered to Hetty.

  “Got paid mistress, I cornered one of the lads and said ‘How it would be a pity if some mischievous spirit was to enter his bed and put blight on his private parts.’ He couldn’t part with his silver quick enough!”

  Hetty laughed. “Keep the money lass,” she said. “You’ve earned it right enough.

  Now Jenny my girl, tomorrow, I shall depart aboard yonder stone-boat and you’ll be left here quite alone. I know the sick of the district will be perfectly safe in your hands. But I council you to be wary of strangers, for you do not possess the inner-eye that enables me to separate friends from enemies. So treat all newcomers with suspicion. If folks ask you to state the reason for my absence, then always remember to say that I have departed from the district in order to nurse a sick relative.”

  She paused. “Tomorrow I will be gone lass, but the skill of reading and writing we both possess, has fortunately given us the means of contacting each other, should it become necessary. It will be a simple matter to post a letter to you from Manchester, and I will eventually send you a secure postal address enabling you to reply in confidence.

  Even so, lass, you must be careful to read and then destroy all my correspondence, only giving your own letters to the old postmaster in the village and to none other. Remember that my very life may depend upon your diligence.”

  The girl leaned forward and embraced the wisewoman. “Have no fear mistress.” She said. “Everything will go well here in Elfencot, for I was not born lacking between the ears and the oath that I swore to you will hold me securely in your service.

  Now mistress, please retire to your room, for dawn will presently arrive and you will have a hard day ahead of you upon the morrow.”

  The hour was well past midnight and the weather was bitterly cold when Hetty arrived at the door of her brother’s cottage near Ancoats, and young Jenny’s words had proved to be perfectly correct when she had prophesied that a hard day lay in store for the wisewoman.

  The day had started gently enough, for Hetty had been able to spend the entire morning within the heated cabin of the stone-boat, as the craft worked its way down the Marquis of Buckly’s navigation and onto the line of the Peak Forest Canal. By early afternoon, however, the temperature had fallen drastically and the thin skin of ice that lay upon the surface of the canal had thickened alarmingly, reducing the crafts progress to a bare crawl. The wisewoman had intended to remain aboard until the boat had tied up alongside the main wharf in Ashton-Under-Lyne, but her patience had finally run out by late afternoon, as the vessel was approaching the outskirts of the town. She had chosen to step ashore under cover of the gathering darkness, hoping the night would shield her progress from prying eyes. The remainder of her journey to Ancoats had been a difficult and slow hike; for Hetty had used paths and quiet back-lane’s as far as possible in an effort to avoid human habitation. However, this extra measure of security had inevitably added miles to her journey, contributing greatly to the late hour of her arrival.

  Robert Littlewood responded immediately to the sharp tapping on his bedroom window and Hetty was soon comfortably seated in the old waterman’s kitchen with a glass of dark navy rum in her hand.

  The old man stirred up the ashes of the fire and placed a pot of soup to warm on the hob before addressing his sister.

  “I’ve been expecting you to arrive here anytime during the past few weeks!” He said. “For I know you well enough lass, and I expected you to travel to Manchester to seek redress for your son’s situation; you can be rest assured that I will do everything in my power to help.”

  But Hetty shook her head.

  “I te
ll you plainly Robert,” she replied. “I have no stomach for exposing my own brother to needless danger, all I ask is that you give me all the information you possess on those villains who branded my son a common murderer. Then I’ll quit your roof, this very night, and you’ll not set eyes on me again until this business is over and done with.”

  The waterman looked slightly relieved when he heard his sister’s statement.

  “I must admit, lass, I was far from looking forward to crossing swords with some of the worst characters hereabouts, but I did take steps to discover as much as possible about the folk who may have had a hand in your son’s undoing. Take yon Stovepipe Arkwright, him that finished up dead. I can vouch for the fact that he differed not one whit from a thousand other small cheap-skates; who scratch a living by fetching and carrying for fish far bigger that themselves.”