The Wanderers of the Water-Realm

by Alan Lawton

  The fighting crewmembers were close to their immediate goal, when a man of Herculean proportions suddenly appeared and pushed his way through the ranks of the attacking Saxmen warriors; the forward step of the mariner’s faltered slightly as they set eyes upon the monstrous new arrival.

  The man was of colossal stature, standing a good seven feet in height and his legs, chest and shoulders were in perfect proportion to the remainder of his body. He wore a breast-plate made from iron and burnished copper, the winged helmet surmounting his heavily be-whiskered features, was made from some polished copper alloy that shone brightly in the morning light.

  Upon his shoulder there rested a huge long-handled axe.

  Dromon groaned. “May the Gods have mercy upon us? I have heard of this man.

  He is Tor Skull-splitter the greatest of all the Saxmen chieftains. A warrior, who has never known defeat, he…”

  The boat hand’s baleful warning came to an abrupt end, for the Herculean chieftain suddenly swung his axe above his head and, leaping forward, he brought the weapon down in a glittering stroke that was intended to split George’s body wide apart. The young man reacted by twisting sideways and warding off the blow with the flat of his own weapon. Unfortunately, the shaft of his own axe was unable to withstand the impact of the stroke and shattered, leaving him holding only a small portion of the splintered handle.

  Tor Skull-splitter swung his mighty weapon with the intention of delivering the coup-de-grace. The blow never fell. Darryl, having killed his immediate opponent, realized the young boat hand’s peril and dropping upon one knee he executed a sideways cut severing the tendons behind the chieftain’s right ankle.

  Tor Skull-splitter lurched sideways and the head of his axe buried itself harmlessly in the ground, sticking fast. George instantly seized his opportunity. He tore the butcher’s cleaver from his belt, dashing the weapon three times into the crippled chieftain’s face. As the man fell, he drove the Sheffield steel blade down through Tor Skull-splitter’s winged helmet and into his brain.

  The survivors of the Saxmen war-band fell back aghast, after witnessing the death of their greatest leader and the tiny formation crossed the rim of the stadium without further molestation.

  A terrible scene met their eyes, as they looked out across the surrounding countryside. Houses, villages and homesteads, were in flames and dense clouds of black smoke drifted across the once bounteous landscape. Even the fertile soil was being destroyed, for the Saxmen vandals had breached the irrigation canals, and the terraced fields were being swept away by the raging waters. Groups of the murderous warriors could also be seen quartering the ravaged countryside and hewing down the last of the peasantry, hopelessly trapped between the waters of The Great Life River and the swords of the barbarians.

  Darryl viewed his small command and was relieved to note that all had won clear of the stadium, although blood from superficial wounds could be seen seeping from numerous rents in their protective clothing. Of the worshippers who had attempted to escape along with his party, only a solitary individual lived. The survivor was a short stocky young woman, with a shock of sleek silver blonde hair that fell to her shoulders and contrasting sharply with her rounded and rather plain features. Yet, she clutched a sword, taken from the hand of some dead barbarian and the blood dripping from its blade proved that she had welded it to grim effect. The woman was virtually naked, like most of her dead companions, but the boatmaster had no time to examine the strange blue and black tattoos, decorating much of her body, for he realized that he must quickly tighten up the little arrowhead formation and order a resumption of the march towards the Live River.

  Darryl was about to give the order, when an urgent mental command smote his brain.

  “Quickly… Abandon your present formation… And run for the docks… Run for your lives!”

  The boatmaster knew instantly, that the mental instruction had been placed in his brain by one of the Dark Priests and he reacted without a moment’s hesitation.

  “All of you.” He shouted. “Take to your heels and make for the safety of the ‘Bonny Barbara,’keep together, but run as you have never run before.”

  The group fled in the direction of the river, avoiding numerous burning buildings and the pitifully twisted corpses of the butchered field-workers that lay everywhere.

  Fortunately, most of the Saxmen warriors were too busy looting the bodies of their victims and they had little interest in molesting the fugitives as they traversed the stricken countryside. Only once, did a pair of barbarians attempt to cross their path, and the unwise duo died in an instant beneath the sword of the boatmaster and the flailing cleaver of his huge boat hand.

  Half an hour later, the survivors entered the blazing dock area, with their lungs at bursting point, their feet raw from running and they were almost pulled-up short by the sight meeting their eyes. Two huge black galleys were lying against the quayside, the big casting engines mounted on their main-decks hurling pots of some highly combustible liquid at nearby groups of Saxmen warriors. The effect was deadly, for entire groups of barbarians were immediately incinerated whenever the weapons succeeded in achieving a direct hit.

  Close to the waters-edge was ranged a battle-line of fighting men dressed in black protective clothing, and whose spear-points were stained red with the blood of the Saxmen barbarians who had unsuccessfully tried to drive them back to their ships.

  “Mercenaries, mercenaries from the galleys of the Dark Priest’s overseers,” Dromon gasped. “We shall find safety once we pass through their lines”.

  Strong, but gentle hands grasped the survivors as they reeled, totally exhausted into the ranks of the mercenaries, and they were quickly carried aboard their newly repaired narrowboat, where a very angry young wisewoman awaited them with a flask of restorative cordial to ease their fatigue.

  “You bloody fool!” Myra whispered, as she poured a draught of the liquid down her brother’s throat. “You risked the lives of your men, not to mention your own, in order to play giggle-bum with some slut, I shouldn’t wonder, instead of being here, attending to your duties.”

  “I realize my stupid error, sister.” The boatmaster replied in a penitential tone. “But I swear that I will never ignore your sage warnings in the future.”

  The wisewoman’s attitude softened slightly, as she helped her brother to discard his blood-stained protective jacket.

  “Well, what’s done is done! She said. “Yet I see the hand of the Dark Priests in all of this. Consider well, brother. They helped you to survive the evils of the City of Calar, and they also assisted me in refining my occult arts. Now they have dispatched their armed minions to rescue us from a situation that should have meant the death for us all. The Dark Priests interest in us goes deep, very deep. I have a feeling that we are being deliberately preserved to fulfil some greater purpose, and my witch’s intuition tells me that all will be revealed to us very soon.”

  Darryl was about to reply to his sisters statement, when he suddenly felt a hand clutching at his ankle, and he found himself looking downwards into the distraught face of the woman who had assisted the travellers in their bitter conflict with the barbarians.

  She now lay at his feet in a desperate act of supplication.

  “Master,” she said. “I owe my life to you and I beg you to take me into your service, so that I can repay my obligation”. She paused. “My name is ‘Whiteflower’and I am a daughter of the Chief of the Kev Sword-Clan. We of the Kev dwell beyond the farthest reaches of the great Thoa-Forests lying many long marches to the east of the Great Life River. My travelling companions are all dead and I humbly beg your permission to become a member of your boat crew!”

  Darryl hesitated. “My vessel is small and another woman would be difficult to accommodate …”

  Myra halted her brother’s speech by gently squeezing his arm, and she leaned over and quietly whispered in his ear. “The girl can share my cabin in the bows and she can take her turn on watch with the othe
r crewmembers. Remember brother, she has proved herself to be a worthy comrade in battle and my inner-eye suggests that she will be crucial to our survival in the future.”

  The young wisewoman viewed her brother sternly. “Brother, you must not cross me in this matter!”

  The boatmaster slowly nodded. “Rise to your feet, Whiteflower of the Kev.” He said. “From this moment hence, you are a member of our company!”

  Myra continued to treat her brother’s wounded crewmen, but a few minutes later, an officer from one of the overseers war-galleys boarded the ‘Bonny Barbara’ and advised them to get underway at once, for he stated that the force of mercenaries, on shore, were being heavily counter-attacked by the barbarians and would soon be forced to re-embark on the two warships.

  Darryl reacted to the news by leaping into the cockpit of the narrowboat, where he took charge of the tiller.

  “Move yourselves.” He roared to the exhausted crew. “Prepare to take aboard a line from one of the towing galleys and cast-off. The sooner that we are clear of this place the better, for the only people to remain here will be the dead, and those who are going to die. Now, look sharp and get to your posts!”

  Two hours later, the narrowboat was riding upon the south-flowing current of the ‘Great Life River’and Darryl gratefully surrendered the helm to Wilakin the navigator, who climbed down into the cockpit after casting off the line from the towinggalley.

  Over to the east, across the breadth of the river, the boatmaster clearly viewed the raging fires and the dense clouds of smoke, marking the position of the once fertile ‘Island Of Plenty.’Aplace that was now reduced to uninhabitable cinders and where only the corpses of the dead and a few broken ruins remained as an epitaph to a once thriving society.

  Darryl examined the dark hulls of the overseer’s war-galleys, which had taken station to port and starboard of the ‘Bonny Barbara’ and he knew that his little company would be well protected until they reached the Holy City of Ptah, in some two Earth months time.

  “A bitter day to live through,” he murmured, as he turned away to seek the comfort of his bunk. “Yet live we have and I believe that we shall survive to enjoy many better days in the future!”

  Chapter 7

  Jenny Bowyer was preparing medicinal herbs upon the kitchen hob inside the wisewoman’s cottage in Elfencot, when she was disturbed at her task by an unexpected knocking upon the front door. The crippled healer set aside her wooden spoon, and, opening the door she found herself staring at a well built man who sported a bushy ginger coloured beard and a carefully waxed handlebar moustache. Despite the warmth of late summer, the stranger wore a suit made from the heaviest woollen tweed and in his right hand he held a walking-stick with a head made from a single polished rams-horn.

  “What can I do for you, master?” Jenny enquired. “Och, little enough lass,” The man answered, in a soft Scottish accent. “My name is Inspector Angus Smith, of the Manchester Constabulary, and I would have words with Hetty Littlewood who I believe is your employer.”

  “I be ever so sorry, but I am unable to help you.” Jenny answered hesitantly. “For my mistress is far away, tending to a desperately sick relative, but if you need treatment for some simple ailment, why then, I will happily assist you as best I may.”

  “No lass.” The Scotsman replied, stroking his beard. “I need no medical attention, yet I would speak with your mistress; aye and I ken well enough that she’s no tending a sick relative!”

  The Inspector made a subtle movement with his left hand, a movement the young healer recognized as a secret occult sign, known only to those who possessed some knowledge of the magical arts.

  “I’ll no bother ye further, lass, for I know that Wise Hetty will have bound you with the witch’s blood-oath and that hot iron would not suffice to loosen your tongue. Contact your mistress and tell her that I will return to this cottage in a week from today, at this very hour, aye and you may also tell her that I may be willing to assist her in clearing her son’s name.”

  “Remember now.” The policeman repeated, as he turned away from the threshold. “I will return at this hour, in a week’s time. Do not fail to inform your mistress!”

  Jenny did not waste a single moment in penning a letter to the wisewoman carefully describing every detail of the Inspector’s visit and posting it without delay.

  Hetty, upon reading the letter, decided that she must meet with this strange policeman, who appeared to have knowledge of the occult arts and discover what was on his mind. The wisewoman had already decided that no more useful information could be gained by remaining at the Cleopatra, and she resolved to find an excuse for leaving the music hall without delay, thus giving herself ample time to return to Elfencot and meet this Inspector Smith, whom Jenny had so carefully described in her letter.

  The wisewoman sought out Mildred Pascoe and asked to be allowed to leave her employment immediately, for she had grown to dislike the great city and wished to return to Kendal without delay.

  Mildred, much to Hetty’s surprise, accepted her request without the slightest hesitation and gave the wisewoman her accumulated earnings down to the very last farthing.

  “Older women seldom prove satisfactory in this business,” Mildred remarked, as Hetty turned to leave her office. “But you’ve served the Cleopatra well enough, now remember to keep your mouth shut about all that you’ve seen and heard within these walls. Else things might go ill for you, even in faraway Kendal.”

  Hetty ignored the woman’s threat and sought out Marsie’ who burst out in a flood of tears the moment that Hetty announced her imminent departure.

  The London girl begged her to return as soon as possible. “I ain’t never had many friends.” She moaned. “And now you’re going too. However am I goin’to manage on my own?”

  “Oh you’ll do well enough.” The wisewoman said, giving the girl a comforting hug. “Time will pass quickly and then you can depart for America, and find yourself a kind husband. So I council you, don’t despair!”

  The wisewoman left the Cleopatra at dawn on the following morning and she exercised extreme care in case she was followed from the establishment. Instead of taking the steam-train to Ashton-Under-Lyne, she begged her passage upon a coal barge that took her across the Lancashire plain to the town of Wigan. From there, she made her way overland to the village of Marple, and thence to Elfencot, where she arrived the day before her intended meeting with Inspector Smith.

  Jenny was overjoyed by her mistress’s return, but she immediately found herself being questioned in great detail by the wisewoman, wishing to gain all possible knowledge of her forthcoming visitor. However, it soon became obvious that she had little further information to add, and Hetty realized that she would have to contain her curiosity until her meeting with the policeman on the following day.

  Rain-clouds had drifted in during the night and it was a wet and rather bedraggled Inspector Smith who knocked upon the door of the witch’s cottage.

  Jenny answered the front door and removed the policeman’s long waterproof cape and hood before ushering him into the wisewoman’s sitting room. Hetty invited the man to rest in the most comfortable chair in the room and ordered her young helper to fetch a plate of wholemeal scones and a pot of freshly brewed tea, before leaving them to their discussion.

  “I’ll no beat around the bush!” The Scotsman said, the moment the pair were alone.

  “And I’ll state from the very beginning, that I believe your son to be quite innocent of the murder of Stovepipe Arkwright, and he likely killed him in order to save his own skin. Yet I also ken that many in the Manchester Constabulary would certainly not agree with me.”

  He ran his fingers through his rain-moistened ginger beard. “Aye, yon Arkwright was well known to me, for I’ve been keeping a close eye on that man for quite a while.

  He worked as a runner for Albert Pike, a sometimes boxing promoter and a few others of a similar ilk. I also know that Arkwright occasionally worked for S
ilas Oldshaw, the Stalybridge mill-owner, another body who’s perhaps more than he seems to be.”

  “Then why have you not investigated these men much more closely, in order to get at the truth?” The wisewoman asked sharply, but the policeman simply shook his head in reply. “Proof lassie – Proof, some of these people are well respected and prosperous. I can’t go beatin’ upon folks doors with nothing but a few vague suspicions to justify my actions. No lassie, I must proceed with great caution when enquiring into the affairs of men like Silas Oldshaw!”