Tales of the Far Wanderers
Page 4
At about five feet from her, the bull stopped. He pulled the mask from his head. The women and teens gasped at this, shocked by the heresy. Kamith felt her soul grow cold. She knew this man, this face. She knew why a fresh wound marred his forehead. She’d watched Gunnar take him down in less than a minute of battle, and his intent was clear. He meant to have his revenge. He smiled viciously, his manhood hardening in anticipation. Kamith shuddered but held firm, all too ready to cut it off.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
He started forward again, showing no fear of her stolen blade. She backed up further so he increased his step, closing fast. Then, he stopped dead.
The sound of a blade sliding out of its sheath came from the darkness. From her right, a figure on horseback rode into the firelight. Cold and tight with rage, red firelight bathed Gunnar’s face in a hellish whirl of flickering shadows. Recognition flashed in his eyes as he looked down upon the bull.
“This time, it won’t be wood,” he warned, extending the thirty-four-inch steel blade of his sword, readying an attack.
The bull clearly understood his words but did not reply. Behind him, the youths retreated towards the women cowering behind the fire.
“Nobody has to die tonight,” said Gunnar in Trade Tongue. “But they will, if they choose to.”
The bull stiffened dramatically, thrusting out his chest.
“Heresy,” the bull replied in simple Trade Tongue.
Kamith seethed at the man’s pride. Bloodlust welled within her. Her mind came up with ways she could dart forward and slash his throat.
A flash of motion interrupted her thoughts. One of the young warriors dove at Gunnar. It was a brave but foolish decision. Gunnar lashed backwards with his sword arm, his blade cutting deep into the teen’s neck. The blow nearly took the youth’s head clean off.
The bull jolted forwards, grabbing at Gunnar’s armor. Off balance from striking at the youth, he couldn’t brace himself against the larger man’s grasp. Gunnar tumbled off the horse, sword in hand, slamming hard into the matted grass.
Kamith moved in, her knife upraised. One of the young warriors, the one she hadn’t stabbed, leapt in front of her, blade in hand. Instinctively, she ducked into a crouch and hurled her body against the teen’s legs. A sickening crack filled the air as the boy’s knees bent backwards. He screamed horrifically then lurched and fell, slamming against the ground. He was in too much pain to focus, and she was on top of him as quickly as she could think it, plunging her knife into the boy’s chest again and again. The blade jolted hard against her hand as it punched through ribs, but she kept stabbing. The boy’s screams ceased, his eyes glazing over then closing.
She looked up from her victim, trying to get a grip on the situation. The ‘cows’ and the youth she’d injured earlier cowered away, retreating towards taller grass. In front of her, the bull had Gunnar pinned underneath him. Gunnar had thrust his sword up, across his chest, to form a barrier between him and his foe, but the bull didn’t seem to have noticed. He grasped Gunnar’s blade and tried to wrest it free, so deep in his frenzy that he didn’t notice the blood streaming freely from his hand.
She leapt up and sprinted for them, but the motion caught the beast’s attention. He glanced up at her, the slight shift in weight giving Gunnar all the room he needed. His right hand shot up, smashing the guard of the sword into the man’s face. Bone snapped under the blow. The large bull stumbled, pawing frantically at his shattered face. With remarkable speed, Gunnar was on his feet.
The situation was now much changed. Naked and defenseless, the bull crouched before a fully armed and armored Gunnar. For a moment, it looked as if the bull would back off, but then the muscles in his battered face tightened. Dropping his hands from his bloody cheek, he balled his fists, snarling primally.
“Don’t try—” Gunnar began.
The bull lunged before he could finish. Gunnar stepped right, twisting so the man flew past. As the bull went by, Gunnar’s sword came down hard, chopping into the man’s back, just above his hip. It sank deep and the bull collapsed instantly, his legs useless. For a moment, he lay still, then he groaned, grabbing at the ground. Blood spilled from the wound on his back, staining the dirt beneath him.
Gunnar stalked forward, stopping next to the man. He scowled down at him.
“Bastard that you are, I can’t leave you like this,” he said.
He stabbed down hard at the base of the man’s skull, killing him instantly.
Kamith breathed deeply, stunned into silence. They all were, even the cows. They, and the wounded teen, looked on in disbelief. Gunnar eyed them warily.
Kamith made herself move, darting towards the horses. Dash waited five yards behind Thief, saddled and loaded for travel. She climbed up swiftly and pushed the horse forwards. Gunnar remained where he was, sword drawn, glaring at the women and the wounded boy.
“Gunnar, let’s go,” Kamith said firmly.
Gunnar lifted his sword, pointing it at the survivors.
“We’re leaving. What I did to this man, I can do to any of your people,” he warned. “You’re not to move from this spot until morning, understand? If you do, I will know, and I will come back for each of you.”
The wounded boy swallowed nervously. The women just nodded, terrified. Gunnar sheathed his sword and mounted Thief.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
She dug her heels into Dash’s side, and the horse shot forward. Not a second later, Gunnar followed. They rode north, down the butte, into the bright night of the full moon.
***
He didn’t speak for a while, not that she would have heard, galloping so quickly. Even if she had been able to, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Green emotion churned inside, the strength of it surprising even him. He’d taken women to bed before her, in his years of wandering, but he hadn’t felt the same surge of jealousy thinking about them with others.
Gods Above! He thought angrily. One week and you’re falling like a fool.
They slowed their pace at dawn, but they kept the horses moving at a trot, knowing they’d have to rest them soon. Given the chief’s cryptic words, and the lack of dust trails behind them, Gunnar felt it was probably safe to assume they weren’t being tracked. Nevertheless, with the bull and one of the young warriors dead, the situation might have changed. If passions prevailed, the other warriors could be on the move already, following them.
“So,” Kamith said, breaking his brooding, “I guess I’m your woman now.”
She had a playful smile, as if he were a child she had led slowly to the truth. The joy of seeing it pushed aside thoughts of tracking parties and warriors looking for revenge. He felt a bit lighter in the saddle.
“I suppose you are,” he replied. “Question is whether you want me as your man.”
“Hmmm…” she said, stroking her chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Well, you are good in the bed-furs, and you’re not entirely unattractive, but…”
Gunnar rolled his eyes.
“You are part Langal,” she said. “And my mother said never to trust anyone from the kingdoms beneath the icy peaks.”
“Funny, so did mine,” Gunnar replied.
“Although my own husband never would have bothered to save my life,” she said, pulling her horse close to his. “And he never gave me a horse.”
He smiled, lost in her eyes.
“And he never looked at me the way you are.”
Leaning from her horse, she kissed his cheek.
“I guess you’ll do,” she said.
“Such romantic words—” he started, before she punched his playfully on the arm.
“So, where are we wandering now?” she asked.
“You’re still not understanding the point of wandering,” he said with a smirk. “If we knew where we were going, it would defeat the purpose.”
She laughed, and they rode on north.
The Burning Vale
“I see smoke.”
Gun
nar looked over at Kamith. She sat astride Dash, pointing. A small knoll crested before them, obscuring the view of the Great Grasslands they traveled. Sure enough, rising from behind the knoll were wisps of gray-black smoke. A lot of wisps.
“This is bad,” Gunnar said, images of wildfire sweeping through his mind. He’d seen it before; waves of orange and yellow flame advancing across the dry grass of the plains, leaping forwards with every gust of wind. He spurred Thief on, riding alongside Kamith to the top of the knoll. His lover’s face was worried, her dark, copper skin stretched tight and frowning. Tiny lines formed around her eyes.
They looked into a steep-walled valley, almost a canyon. The ground sloped away before them, steep but not rocky. Below them, a drainage ditch, one of dozens, cut deep into the plains. It worked its way to the valley, filled with grass and shrubs. Small pines clustered around the intermittent stream below.
A herd of stampeding bison caught Gunnar’s attention. The animals snorted in terror as they ran up the drainage, fleeing a small line of fire behind them, near the main valley. Mounted hunters flanked the animals on each side, riding in groups of five. They fired arrows in unison, their barbs sinking deep in the thick hides of the animals. Again and again they shot, dropping bison one by one around the edges of the stampede, a half-dozen arrows in each beast. Gunnar could count a dozen dead bison already.
“We should move,” Kamith said nervously.
Below, the bison struggled up the drainage, their hooves tearing away the packed dirt of the valley walls as they went. They moved slowly, giving time for the hunters to take down another half-dozen animals, but it was movement all the same, and it wouldn’t take long for them to crest the knoll and stampede directly into the spot where he and Kamith now stood.
“Yeah,” Gunnar agreed, turning to see Kamith had already ridden away.
He trotted after her, following the spine of a ridge that extended towards the valley, above the drainage. It was maybe three hundred feet above the valley floor, giving them an excellent view of the stampede. The first bison had reached the knoll, leading a charge out onto the open plains. Several hundred survivors followed, leaving their confines behind to thunder freely across the prairie.
Gunnar sat still for a moment, watching the hunters break up and move towards their kills. Groups of men and women approached on foot, carrying knives and all the tools of butchering.
“Hello!” shouted Gunnar.
The sound carried well down the open slope, getting the attention of the nearest group of hunters. They stood frozen for a moment, watching, then started conversing amongst themselves.
“Should we go introduce ourselves?” Gunnar asked.
“What if they’re no better than the last bunch?” Kamith asked.
“They’re waving,” said Gunnar, pointing down the draw. Sure enough, several of them gestured back, their smiles just visible in the distance.
“Come on,” Gunnar said. “Just keep your bow ready.”
The horses descended slowly, unused to the crumbling soil. Thief nearly went down a few times, but he managed to steady his hooves and walk carefully down the slope. It transitioned to tall grass, interrupted by islands of shrub and trees. Kamith followed a few feet behind, her eyes cautious and probing.
Gunnar approached the nearest hunting party. It was fronted by a huge bear of a man. His skin was a similar color to Gunnar’s, somewhere between tan and light copper, and he had a long beard that just reached his chest. Happy blue eyes lit up a face that wasn’t particularly handsome but wasn’t threatening, either.
“Hello!” the man boomed, his accented voice as deep as his frame was wide. “What brings you to our vale?”
“Just traveling,” Gunnar informed him. “Didn’t actually know this valley was here. Was heading north.”
“Yep, we’ve been here since the ancients left to walk with the Gods Above.”
“You speak Langal?” asked Kamith.
“I speak what I was taught,” the man replied. “Guess lots of others do, too. My name is ‘Fergoth’.”
He extended his hand, shaking both of theirs firmly. Kamith relaxed a bit, but she wasn’t completely at ease. Gunnar hopped off his horse, suddenly realizing how big the man really was. Gunnar was just short of six feet tall, and Fergoth had nearly a foot, and probably eighty pounds, on him.
“And who might your people be?” Gunnar asked, watching Fergoth’s hunt-mates return to their downed bison.
“The Vale People,” Fergoth said, as if it were obvious to all. “And your woman need not fear. We welcome visitors, if they come peacefully.”
Kamith nodded solemnly and put her bow back in its sheath on Dash’s side. She dismounted, leading her horse forward by the reins.
“That is good to hear,” said Gunnar, then he motioned to the downed bison. “Can I offer my knife, to help you with that?”
“You wanna work, I ain’t gonna tell you no!” Fergoth laughed, and he waved them on.
Gunnar handed Thief’s reins to Kamith, and she walked towards a nearby tree to tie the horses. Halfway there, a chorus of whoops filled the air.
All heads turned to the south, from where Gunnar had just come. Two dozen men on horseback, lightly armed with spears and knives, pranced about at the edge of the vale. They whooped and screamed, a few blowing horns, adding a deep baritone to the show. Then, as one, they disappeared back into the rolling grasslands.
“Who are they?” Gunnar asked.
“Vermin!” Fergoth said, and he spat on the ground. “Always come around after a drive. They try to steal the meat and whatever else they can get their hands on.” Fergoth noticed the sword on Gunnar’s hip. “Hold on to that. You won’t need it here, Gods willing, but you might when you leave.”
Gunnar nodded his thanks and turned back to the work at hand. Kamith stood and stared towards the lip of the valley above her. Her hands clutched the bow once more.
***
The Vale People lived in the floodplain of a constantly meandering river. The village sat on the northern bank in a jut of land that extended south.
Unlike most people who lived amongst the grasslands, the Vale People’s homes were permanent. In fact, they were built out of the earth itself. Doors descended into hollows dug several feet into the ground. Inside, large logs had been erected to form a frame, a bison-leather ceiling thrown up to keep the home free from falling soil. On top of this frame, dirt had been piled, topped with sod. Like small knolls, the homes rose from the ground, forming a grand circle with small holes cut in the central space to let smoke out.
Gunnar and Kamith sat outside Fergoth’s home, helping the villagers to cut the meat into strips for drying. Fergoth tended the small fire in front of his house while his wife scraped at the inside of a bison hide.
“See, those vermin used to live north of here,” Fergoth explained, poking at a burning log with the childlike joy that fire always brought out in men. “But, a few years back, we heard word of a larger tribe that moved south, displacing them. Pushed them our way, and they’ve been roving around the edges of our land ever since. Think they call themselves the ‘Cold Serpent People’, or ‘Dark Serpents’, or ‘Dark Snakes’, something like that.”
Sparks flew from his poker as he swung it in emphasis. Across the fire, his four-year-old daughter leapt with excitement as the fire popped and hissed.
“Don’t you burn her,” his wife, Maros, warned without breaking from her skinning. Unlike Fergoth, Maros was a quiet figure who burned with a silent intensity. She seemed to hum with a nervous energy and had a piercing stare that could have matched the looks of the stoniest magi of Gunnar’s homeland. She didn’t need to be working on the skin just yet, but restlessness pushed her to.
Fergoth just smiled at her words, his eyes feasting on his wife. Her buckskin dress wasn’t all that form-fitting, but Gunnar could tell the big man was seeing with his mind, remembering what lay beneath.
“They’re annoying worms, the Cold Serpents,” Fergo
th continued, turning back from his wife, “but they don’t come in the valley. They just harass us when we’re up on the plains, looking for meat. But that herd you saw today first came through here a week ago, so we won’t have to go out again soon. Got nineteen head; meat for weeks.”
“Tell me about it,” Gunnar said, looking to the pile of strips he had already prepared.
“So, Gunnar, where do you hail from?” Fergoth asked, waving the burning embers on the end of his stick in spiraling patterns. His little girl watched with rapt attention.
“Originally, the Mountains of Ice,” Gunnar said. “Then, later, Harmon.”
“The kingdom?” Fergoth asked. Kamith too perked up at this information, an uncertain expression crossing her face. The Langal kingdoms did not have a great reputation with their neighbors, or their neighbor’s neighbors.
“Yes, the kingdom,” Gunnar answered.
“Whoa. I figured you were Langal from the accent, but I thought one of the more unsettled, eastern tribes. But you say you’re from Harmon itself?”
“Once,” Gunnar said. “But they and I didn’t get along well, so I left.”
“Place like that, with all those big villages made of stone, seems like you could find a thousand better places to go than wandering ’round the prairie,” Fergoth said, still astonished by it all.
“Perhaps. But see this hair?” he asked, pointing to his head. It was rust-red and formed a short beard on his face.
“Yeah. Not common ’round here, but I’ve seen the like before,” said Fergoth.
“Where I come from, there are two peoples. The Langal built the great kingdoms beneath the icy peaks and terrify everybody within two weeks’ ride with their power and their armies. But go a little further west, into the Ice Peaks, into the valleys between them, and you find the Tarn.”
“Tarn?” asked Fergoth.
“Yep,” said Gunnar, cutting off a thin strip of meat and setting it aside. “My mother’s people. Lots of them have red hair. We lived deep in the mountains, rugged enough that no bison lived there. Hunted deer and elk and great brown bears the size of horses. Trapped beaver and waterfowl. Planted berry bushes in open glades throughout the valleys, so come fall we’d have a huge harvest.”