Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  He found it to be a sublime beauty, different than the majestic peaks of his childhood home. Sneakier, in a way. At first, it just seemed like grass, until you started picking out the small variations: undulations of low hills and knolls, woody veins clustering around meandering streams, the rustle of grass when elk and deer and antelope dashed about unseen.

  Gods Above, you sound like a damn troubadour!

  Gunnar sighed, feeling the weight of sleep descending on him. The rise and fall of Kamith’s body as her breath whispered to and from her lips didn’t help matters. He half-focused on a bright, orange star, close to the horizon. A starless expanse spread beneath it, a silhouette. A hill. As he fell into sleep, he realized it was no star he gazed upon, but a distant signal fire.

  ***

  “Is that a village?” Kamith asked, astride Dash.

  Gunnar rode Thief, so named because he’d stolen her from a Tabori priest after he’d killed the man. They approached a large settlement at the base of a low butte. A large signal fire burned atop the butte, throwing up plumes of black smoke.

  “I think it’s a gathering,” Gunnar said. Some grassland tribes built villages near rivers, where there was enough moisture to grow corn or wheat. Others roamed the plains on horseback, hunting the endless herds of bison that moved slowly across the vast expanses of grass. These tribes tended to gather in summer, pitching their shelters in large settlements to trade goods, reconnect, and find spouses for their children.

  “Do we go in?” Kamith asked. They sat on their mounts atop a ridgeline that descended from the butte, a quarter-mile from the settlement. Before them, the grass had been beaten down in several long lines, the paths of clans who had already arrived.

  “Could do some trading,” Gunnar said with a shrug. “You alright with it?”

  She said nothing; just spurred her horse on slowly. A cautious look came over her features.

  “Not everybody is looking to sacrifice people,” he said.

  She still rode pensively, her hand resting on his bow. He’d given it to her after leaving the mountains. It made sense. After he’d watched her shoot down a white-tail from horseback at full gallop, he’d very quickly realized that she knew the weapon far better than he did. Hopefully, those skills wouldn’t have to be put to work here.

  A pair of guards sat on the side of a knoll just outside the settlement, their spears on the ground beside them. Both wore wide-brimmed, felt hats, leather trousers fringed down the length of their legs, and sashes that connected to arrow-filled quivers on their hips. Long knives waited on the opposite side, and each held a bow.

  “Hold!” one shouted in Trade Tongue.

  They did so. Gunnar nodded respectfully.

  “Good day, gentlemen. We were wondering what sort of village this is,” Gunnar said.

  “A gathering of the Open Sky People,” replied the guard, no malice in his voice. “What business have you here?”

  “Just to trade and converse with fellow men for a bit,” Gunnar replied. “We’ve been on the trail for a while and could use a break.”

  The guard walked close, eying Kamith’s caramel skin closely.

  “She is Red Horse?” he asked.

  “I am,” Kamith replied. “Was.”

  “We have heard bad things from the south,” the guard said heavily. Behind him, his companion dropped his head in sorrow.

  “Bad things happened,” Kamith replied simply.

  The guard nodded sympathetically and motioned them on.

  “You are welcome,” he said. “Chiefs in the marketplace will find a place for you to camp.”

  Gunnar nodded his respect one more time and then urged his horse on. They rode into the gathering. Dome-shaped tents, made of painted buffalo skins stretched over curved saplings stripped of their bark, surrounded them on all sides. Each was twice the height of a man, and smoke curled from small holes at the apex. Arranged in half-circles, the tents all opened upon a central space. Wagons and booths were scattered about, loaded with goods and people aggressively trying to wave down customers. Furs, food, weapons, and trinkets passed briskly from hand to hand. Near the center, people clustered, watching something attentively. A large tree had been cut down and then erected nearby as some sort of ritual object: a totem. Bison hides hung from the leafless branches, flapping in the wind.

  “Interesting,” Gunnar muttered to himself.

  As they approached the marketplace, an older man, sitting around a fire with several others, spotted them. The man, a copper-skinned fellow well over six feet tall, put down his pipe and walked over. A simple glance at Kamith and Gunnar gave away their outsider status.

  “Over there, many spots,” the man said, pointing to a cluster of tents. They were not the round lodges of the Open Sky People, but tents of a variety of shapes and sizes. Gunnar nodded his thanks and spurred his horse on. They passed the crowd near the tree totem, and Gunnar craned his neck to see what they watched.

  A circle had been cleared in the center, maybe twenty paces across. In it, two men fought, with thin shields and wooden swords. It was a competition ring. The people watching threw bits of silver at a rotund man with a large, metal cauldron, the bet-taker of the bunch. Two men, both of the Open Sky People, swirled and fought, thrusting and stabbing at each other in a wild fury. Gunnar raised an eyebrow, watching them go. Both left themselves open, forgetting to cover with sword when they struck out with their shields. An idea formed in his mind; one that could leave them a few bits richer.

  ***

  Kamith stood in the crowd, looking on as her traveling companion stood stone-still in the center of the ring. A man of the Open Sky People crouched low before him, his shield up and ready, a wooden sword in his right hand. This foe was a large man, taller than Gunnar. Muscles bulged beneath his tunic. His eyes locked on Gunnar, never breaking as he circled; a cougar waiting for the moment to pounce.

  Gunnar showed no emotion. He simply watched the man, rotating in his spot to stay facing him. The nonchalance seemed to anger his opponent, who feinted repeatedly, expecting his opponent to react. Gunnar did nothing.

  Kamith felt a pang of worry; a small pang. Gunnar had bet half their gold on himself, enough that they would hurt if he lost, and the Gods Above could be fickle bastards.

  The opponent leapt in, his piercing shrieks filling the air. The man’s blunted sword came down on Gunnar’s left, heading for his neck. Gunnar stepped to his right. The man’s swing missed, striking the dirt where Gunnar had been. Aware that he’d missed, the opponent shifted his shield left to block Gunnar’s attack.

  Except Gunnar had leapt back to his left and brought his sword up hard. It struck his opponent’s sword arm hard on the wrist, sending the man’s weapon hurtling through the air. Gunnar’s shield flashed forwards, hitting the man square on the chest. His opponent managed to get his shield in front of him to absorb the next attack, but he still stumbled backwards under the force of the blow. As he struggled to right himself, Gunnar brought down his wooden sword, just hard enough to hurt. He rapped the man across the forehead, drawing blood from a small cut.

  The bet-taker called out in a language Gunnar didn’t know. Half the crowd groaned, the other half cheered. The beaten man moved to the center of the ring and offered his hand. His eyes still burned with anger and shame, but he followed tradition. Gunnar put down the sword and gripped his opponent’s hand firmly. As the man stormed off, Gunnar moved to Kamith, who was busy dumping their winnings into a hide bag.

  “That was quick,” she remarked.

  “No use wasting energy,” he replied, taking the bag and counting their fortune. He dug out a dozen silver pieces, handing them to her.

  “We already bought supplies,” she noted.

  “Yes, but you’ve been wearing the same torn leather dress since we met. Go buy something, anything you need,” he said, beaming broadly. “We can afford it!”

  He looked back to the center of the ring, where a new challenger had stepped forth. She watched a
s his smile turned a little vicious in anticipation of the fight. To her, it seemed all men were born knowing how to smile like that.

  “Don’t win too easily,” she remarked, “or we’ll be looking for a new place to sleep tonight.”

  He laughed, threw another dozen coins into the bet-taker’s pot, and then stalked back to the center of the circle. Kamith slipped away, bound for the market.

  ***

  A half-hour later, she walked from the marketplace, a bison-skin bag under her arm. In it lay bison-leather pants and a thigh-length tunic of the same material, decorated with fringe and porcupine quills dyed a half-dozen colors. She’d picked up a comb of bone and a bar of soap, and, in her free hand, she carried a drinking horn, sipping liberally at something called ‘yill’. Bitter and strong, she could already feel the alcohol work its way through her muscles, massaging them from within.

  Instead of returning to the ring, she moved around it, towards the tree totem. When she got there, a blur of motion filled her vision. Women danced, their faces masked to resemble birds. A bonfire roared in the center of the press, bright and brilliant as it spat sparks into the night sky. Drums and flutes played from somewhere she couldn’t see, weaving a hypnotic trance of sound.

  A woman approached her, carrying masks. The woman spoke to her, realized Kamith didn’t know the language, then motioned towards the dance. Kamith shrugged, put down the bag, took a mask, and jumped into the frenzy. She’d danced in similar ways amongst her own people, though never in such a huge number. She doubted that her people, at the height of their power, could’ve pulled together half as many people as this gathering.

  She danced, pausing occasionally to drink and then continuing. How long this went on, she could not say. The joy of movement, of yelling and shrieking with other women, worked deep into her. Between waiting for months to be sacrificed to a Stone God, and fighting tooth and nail to escape with Gunnar, she hadn’t had much time for fun lately. Well, besides the sex, at least. The music stopped, as did the dancers. Kamith danced on for a few seconds before realizing what had happened, then came to a halt.

  A man emerged from the crowd at the edge of the dancing space; the tall chief who’d shown them to their campsite. He wore a wolf’s head and carried a staff, atop which sat a bison skill. Marching out before the fire, he thumped the staff on one of the large rocks surrounding the firepit and shouted in his native tongue.

  Five men emerged from the crowd, all wearing the hide of a bison on their backs. The great heads of the animals rested atop their heads, horns large and looming. Below this, they too wore masks, obscuring their faces but not their bodies. Each wore a simple loincloth at their waist, doing little to obscure them.

  “What’s going on?” Kamith asked.

  Nobody answered her. Some looked at her, their emotions and reactions obscured by their masks. None replied, not understanding her words.

  The bison-men walked into the crowd, pointing at women. Young warriors, none of them out of their teens, darted along behind them. The youths took the women, leading them away, through the crowd and into the night. None removed their masks.

  An uneasy feeling formed in her stomach. Quietly, Kamith moved towards the edge of the dancing space, but not quickly enough. One of the bison-men stood before her. He looked at her for a long second, and then he raised his hand and pointed. A youth appeared and grabbed her by the arm.

  “Let go of me!” she screamed.

  The youth’s grip remained firm. Another darted over, grasping her other arm. She jerked violently, but the young men met her thrashes. A third came, manhandling her towards the edge of the crowd. Astonished whispers ran through the masked dancers. The bison-men continued their selection.

  ***

  A half-dozen opponents had already gone down in defeat when he quit, the winnings decreasing each time as more and more bet on him to win. Not only that; a good deal of anger began to appear in the eyes of the natives. He could have kept going, defeating more, but figured it would be best to leave some ambiguity to it all. Now they could go back to their lodges and talk about how the outsider was good, but if he had faced so-and-so he definitely would have been whipped.

  He moved to his camp, picking through the other outsiders at the edge of the gathering. People from a dozen different tribes and kingdoms camped here, most pitching tents or buckskin lean-tos near small firepits. He had no tent; it rained so rarely on the high plains that he had managed to survive without one. Instead, their horses were tied to a post near a firepit, lazily batting at flies with their tails. Open Sky warriors patrolled the camp, keeping an eye out for any opportunistic types. If traders weren’t protected, they would stop bringing the goods that the people wanted, and, in turn, the people would stop bringing the gold the headmen craved.

  But it wasn’t a warrior who awaited his sight; it was a chief, wearing a wolf’s head atop his own. His grey eyes were deep with concern.

  “Can I help you with something?” asked Gunnar. “If it’s about the ring —”

  “No,” the man said firmly. “Whatever anger my warriors feel over losing is manageable. My war chief may even be able to use it to push them to train more.”

  “Alright then,” Gunnar said. “So what occasions this visit?”

  “Your woman,” he replied.

  “Has she done something wrong? She doesn’t really know your customs —”

  “No,” he interrupted again. “That is why I come to you. She joined a dance without knowing the consequences of doing so, and I fear the unrest it may bring.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Gunnar.

  The chief sighed and looked Gunnar straight in the eye with the concern of an honest man.

  “Understand that my people worship the bison. It keeps us fed and clothed,” he explained.

  “It does so for many,” Gunnar replied with a nod.

  “Yes. And it runs in such great numbers that our people, to honor them and bring forth children, mimic them in a ceremony. The Bull Dance.” Gunnar raised an eyebrow in confusion. “A bison bull does not pair with a single female, like a person does. He keeps a harem. So, once a year, our strongest warriors don masks, as do our women. They dance, and those who impress the bulls are chosen.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Gunnar asked, already knowing what the chief would say.

  “Your woman joined the dance innocently. I fear her dark skin and exotic beauty drew the attention of one of our own.”

  Gunnar nodded, suppressing the fury rising within. He moved to his packs, resting near the horse, and pulled his sword. The chief had no visible reaction to this. He simply kept speaking.

  “As the selected headman of this gathering, I am honor bound to protect the sanctity of the dance, so that the Thundering Hooves bless us this coming season and fall beneath our arrows and lances. Were somebody to disturb the bulls and their cows, I could not welcome that person back into the gathering and would have to hand him over to the judgment of the tribe. Even an outsider.”

  Gunnar met the man’s eyes for a long moment, understanding. He thanked him with a nod, saying no words that the chief might have to report back to his people. The chief nodded similarly and looked up to the butte that rose behind the gathering. The great signal fire still burned, but below it, two-thirds of the way up, smaller lights flickered. The chief said nothing more, disappearing into the gathering, but his intent was clear. Up there, Kamith lay, perhaps already beneath a man she did not want, caught up in a ritual she did not know.

  Gunnar quickly pulled on his chain-mail, fastening his sword on a belt over it. He did not draw his bow. He didn’t really know how to shoot from horseback, anyway. Any work tonight would have to be done close, with the hard edge of steel.

  After swiftly loading up their packs, he mounted Thief and grabbed Dash’s reins. With a shout, they tore off through the gathering at a near run, heading for the imposing bulk of the butte.

  ***

  The youths would not rele
nt. None drew a blade, but none would release her from their iron grip. They had given up trying to strip Kamith of her dress. She thrashed angrily enough to interrupt their efforts, but not enough to get away. They snapped at her in their own tongue, their voices a mixture of anger and disbelief.

  Before her, a fire burned. Three other women sat around it, naked except for their masks. The heat of the flames caused their bodies to shine with sweat. The fourth woman was on hands and knees, moaning in pleasure as the ‘bull’ bred her.

  Kamith relaxed for a second, struggling to catch her breath. The youth to her left, thinking she had relented and accepted what was coming, shifted one hand to her thighs and tried to push her dress up. Focusing all her strength, she broke free with her left hand and snatched the teen’s knife from his belt. The boy cried and tried to grab it, but she quickly stabbed at him. The youth screamed, the blade biting deep into his shoulder.

  The teens jumped clear, two of them scrambling to grab their knives. Kamith stumbled backwards, knife up and facing her foes. She backed away slowly. Grass brushed up against her thigh.

  A roar filled the air, not from the teens but from the bull. Finished with his ‘cow’, he withdrew and stood upright, turning to see what the commotion was. Kamith didn’t know how, but, despite the mask, she somehow felt she could see the annoyance on his face. This bull was no boy; he was a man, filled out and muscular from years of hunting and war. He made no move to reach his clothes or retrieve a weapon, he just stalked towards Kamith. Slowly. Confidently.

  The other women backed away, gathering behind the fire. The youths spread out, trying to surround her. Her gaze darted from one to the other, and she moved to deny their encirclement, but she still faced enemies on three sides and a much larger threat approaching.