Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  “Okay,” Gunnar said, motioning for her to stop. “We’ll take this one.”

  Kamith grabbed the blade’s scabbard. They paid the man, who watched Kamith’s ass sway beneath her dress as she walked out. Gunnar caught it out of the corner of his eye and wondered what the penalty for murder was here in Harlonth.

  They stepped outside, where Kamith froze stiff. Gunnar nearly bumped into her. Looking up, he saw what had caught her attention.

  Ahead of them stood a man; a Red Horse man. Tall and muscular, he had skin the color of caramel, slightly darker than Kamith’s. Green eyes, colder than Kamith’s, stared from a grim face. Wavy black hair ran down to his shoulders. He was dressed as a local, but there was no denying it. This was one of her people, a survivor.

  “Gods Above!” the man cried in a scratchy voice. “I did not know of any others!”

  He moved forward excitedly but stopped short, his eyes registering Gunnar for the first time.

  “Who… who are you? How did you survive?” Kamith asked.

  “I am Tankareth,” he said in a Langal dialect identical to Kamith’s. “From the Beaver Grass Band.”

  Recognition flared in Kamith’s eyes.

  “Yours were one of the first hit by the Tabori!” she cried. “We didn’t know anybody had survived.”

  Tankareth shrugged, saying, “I slipped away once the battle was lost. Rode for weeks to get clear. Came here and found work.”

  “Thank the gods,” Kamith said.

  Tankareth nodded then looked awkwardly at Gunnar.

  “Would it be alright to meet with you again?” he asked, nodding his head to imply that he meant both. “I’d heard our people had been wiped out, but nothing else. If there is anything you know…”

  Gunnar stared at the man uneasily for a long second, jealousy churning in his gut. Sure, he hadn’t made any move on Kamith, but he didn’t have to. They were the last two of their people, one male and one female. The underlying notion would do all Tankareth’s seducing for him.

  “Of course!” he heard Kamith say. “We’re at the inn with the blue robin on the sign.”

  “The Inn of the Blue Robin,” Tankareth corrected. “Perhaps tonight, then? I’ll buy the first ale.”

  The man smiled warmly and moved off into the town. Gunnar watched him go, his hand closing on the sheath of Kamith’s new blade. He muttered to himself, too low for Kamith to hear.

  “I don’t like him.”

  ***

  “…it was bit by bit, year after year. One band after another, usually when we’d settled in to farm a spot by the river,” Kamith recalled. “We sent out riders to stop them, even killed many, but they had so many more. We even banded together, sent out six hundred riders. They killed a thousand Tabori and still lost. Eventually, ours was the last band left.”

  Tankareth nodded, staring into his beer. Gunnar had heard the story before, but he kept a respectful silence.

  “I was captured, and they were going to sacrifice me to the Stone Gods when Gunnar showed up,” Kamith said.

  “Thank the Gods Above for that,” said Tankareth. “I’d heard rumors from people passing through, but I didn’t want to believe them.”

  “Well, they’re all true,” Kamith said. She swirled her beer around in her mug, sadness settling deep in her eyes.

  Gunnar got up to get another ale. The local brew was bitter but adequate. The innkeeper refilled him for half a bit, and he headed back to the table. His mind swirled as he wondered how to act. Tankareth was a handsome man and had a look Kamith would always find familiar. Did he assume he would pursue her, or just hope reminiscing about a lost past was the extent of their bond?

  “…wasn’t fifteen winters old when I showed up here, eight years back,” Tankareth said as Gunnar rejoined the table. “They let me be a guard because I could shoot a bow well. Still do some stints on the wall, and I hire out my services to traders who want protection. A man who can ride and shoot makes good money with a caravan.”

  Kamith laughed and nodded towards Gunnar.

  “Gotta teach this guy how to.”

  “Yes,” Tankareth said, his voice imperceptibly darker. “He has the look of a man from the Far West.”

  “He’s Langal,” Kamith said. “Well, half-Langal, anyway.”

  The words caught Tankareth’s attention. He nodded slightly, respectful if not friendly.

  “He can shoot well on foot, and ride well, but he can’t do both,” she explained. “Then again, he’s teaching me how to use a sword, so I guess we’re even.”

  Tankareth raised an eyebrow, saying, “A sword? You expect your woman to be doing much fighting?”

  Gunnar kept himself from staring death at the man and just nodded.

  “Traveling can be dangerous. Just because a woman doesn’t carry a sword doesn’t mean she can’t be killed by one,” he explained grimly.

  “Very true,” Tankareth conceded.

  They talked for another hour before Tankareth took his leave. Gunnar didn’t speak that much, his mind too busy cataloging the downward flicks of Tankareth’s eyes towards Kamith’s breasts. Granted, Gunnar had done the same thing plenty of times when they’d first met, but that thought didn’t make him feel any better.

  Kamith sensed his mood as they walked into the room.

  “You know,” she said wistfully, “I was thinking of just abandoning everything and running off with him.”

  His muscles tensed until the sarcastic lilt of her voice registered in his mind. He softened.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Haven’t dealt much with this stuff. Spent most of the last few years alone, and I didn’t have much time for lovers when I was a soldier.”

  She smiled seductively and hugged him, nestling against his body as they stood.

  “I’m actually flattered,” she said. “My husband never once looked that angry about another man staring at me.”

  “Never?” asked Gunnar. “He did realize how beautiful you are, yes?”

  “I’m barren, remember? Beauty or not, amongst the Red Horse that meant I was a burden. I needed to be fed and protected but could never truly ‘contribute’ to the tribe,” she explained, her voice quiet and shaky. “And he never let me forget it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gunnar said, sensing there was more to it.

  “He treated me like dirt. Took me whenever he wanted, had his pleasure then left me unsatisfied. Hit me if he thought I was being defiant,” she went on.

  He kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her. She wiped a tear from her eye, her muscles stiffening beneath his grasp. She flicked her head up abruptly, her lovely green eyes locking onto his.

  “Enough of this. Are you gonna make love to me or not?”

  Gunnar smiled, and the two tumbled onto the bed.

  ***

  “If the sword goes high, the shield stays low!”

  Kamith felt a stick poke her ribs. She looked down, seeing it touching her exposed right side. Gunnar stepped back.

  They stood atop a gentle hill just north of Harlonth. Rather than bluffs, the northern slope of the river valley rose in a series of gentle and moderate hills. The cols between the hills were lined with scraggly trees. Knee-high grass covered the broad slopes, brushing against the legs of her pants as she moved.

  Both she and Gunnar had long sticks in their hands, cut from a tree near the bottom of the hill. Gunnar’s stick was three feet long, hers a few inches shorter, to mimic the length of her new sword. Both held shields. Gunnar’s was a wide circle, running from just above the knee to a few inches below the shoulder. Made of oak covered in rawhide, it sported a hemispherical steel boss in the center. Steel struts radiated out from the center, strengthening the wood. They ran to a metal band that covered the edge of the wood, protecting it from splintering. It was a heavy shield, the kind that was as much an offensive weapon as a defensive one.

  Her shield was new and much smaller. She hated to admit it, but the full shields the men wore weighed a lot.
She hadn’t been able to hold one up at a shop in town for more than a few minutes, so Gunnar had shown her something called a ‘buckler’. It was a small shield, eighteen inches across. It too was made of oak and covered in bison leather. It had no boss, but was rimmed in metal like his. Gunnar’s shield had two loops on the inside, allowing him to brace the shield with his entire forearm, giving him incredible leverage with the weapon. Hers had a single wood grip in the center, making it more purely defensive. She couldn’t just use it as a wall to protect herself; she had to move it constantly to block incoming blows from Gunnar’s stick, but it was light, and the shopkeep had assured her his bucklers could withstand a chopping blow or a heavy spear thrust.

  Gunnar’s chain-mail hung off her shoulders, the weight slowing her as she tried to move. Gunnar had insisted she wear it to get used to the feel and build up the muscles she would need to move around when her own armor was finished.

  “Don’t think of it as two separate weapons,” Gunnar instructed. “Think of it as two parts of the same weapon. If you attack with the sword, the shield should move to block the other guy’s blade, without thinking. If he attacks with a sword, your shield blocks and you lash out with your sword, instantly, without stopping to think.”

  She took two deep breaths and squared up to face him. Her shield was extended out, ready to intercept a blow far from her body, where it couldn’t ‘cut’ her. She held her stick/sword in what he had called the ‘low’ position, the blade behind her and pointing towards the ground, ready for an upward slash.

  He feinted towards her stick, lunging forward as if to hit her with his big shield. Then he darted to her left, his stick thrusting straight at her stomach. She stepped back and brought the shield down, parrying the blow, then swung upwards with her stick. It struck the bottom of his shield, and Gunnar brought his sword back in front of his chest to defend and wrenched his shield arm left, pushing away her sword. She retreated back, setting her feet again.

  “Better!” he beamed.

  It had taken her most of the morning to learn how to defend against a thrust, but at least that was something. She had the basic parry down.

  “Okay,” he said, sweat beading on his forehead. “Now, I want you to attack me.”

  He readied himself, shield high, the tip of his stick resting along its midline. She lunged, throwing her shield out towards his sword, hacking at his midsection with her stick.

  His stick flashed forwards, the force of it stopping the oncoming buckler. Her stick smacked helplessly against his larger shield.

  “Hit my shield all you want, it won’t kill me,” he chided. “Aim for flesh. Think; where am I exposed right now?”

  “Legs and head,” she said.

  “And if I lower my shield to protect my legs?” he asked.

  “Chest and head.”

  “And if I raise my shield to protect my head?” he pressed.

  “Stomach and legs,” she answered.

  “Yes. Also, think angles,” he began. He stabbed with his stick at the air just before his shield, coming in at a sharp angle from the top, bottom, and side.

  “Try again,” he ordered.

  She darted in then jerked right, pressing her shield against his and slashing at his ankles with her stick. Gunnar sensed the move and wrenched his shield around and down, deflecting her stick before it could make contact. Kamith felt a stick rest against her neck.

  “Clever,” Gunnar said. “Came very close to working. But when your shield locked with mine, your left side was left defenseless, allowing me to chop at your neck. Probably would’ve taken your head off. You want to try an attack like that, you have to keep moving, circling around your prey. Otherwise, this’ll happen every time.”

  “Unless my sword hit first,” she countered.

  “True, though if you chopped into the man’s foot, he would probably live long enough to bring his blade around. You both end up dead.”

  “So keep moving,” she echoed.

  “You should always keep moving,” he replied. “Whenever possible. You’ll be at a strength disadvantage if you stand still and try to slug it out. Circle and attack, like you do with your bow on Dash. Never stop long enough to let them get at you.”

  He demonstrated as he spoke, circling and jabbing at an imaginary enemy with his stick. He motioned at her to try it on him. She darted in and moved to her right, away from his sword. She circled and attacked, jabbing and slashing. Gunnar pivoted and followed, exerting large amounts of energy to keep up and move his heavy shield.

  Abruptly, Kamith darted left, reversing herself. She batted away his sword with her shield and lashed out with her stick. She was too close though, and the stick had barely traveled six inches before it hit his leg.

  “That’s a nasty cut,” Gunnar said, “but not fatal.”

  “I still got through,” she said between heavy breaths.

  “You did,” Gunnar said with a smile. “Most men wouldn’t be caught dead with a small buckler shield, so you’ll be able to move quicker. Use that whenever you can.”

  She nodded, tired, and lolled back. Gunnar dropped his shield to the ground.

  “Lunch?” he asked.

  She dropped her gear, the strain of it hitting her in a wave. The sun sat high in the sky. She’d been whirling and dueling for nearly three hours. Gunnar moved to hand her a waterskin but found her lying on her back in the grass, her eyes slowly closing. He smiled and took a long swig from the leather bag.

  “Maybe a little later, then.”

  ***

  “Left!” she screamed.

  Gunnar pressed his right knee into Thief’s flank, and the gray stallion swerved left.

  “Right!” Kamith shouted.

  Gunnar pressed his left knee in. Thief responded as expected.

  “Left!” she shouted again.

  It went on like this for most of the afternoon. Kamith had insisted that, if he wanted to fire a bow from horseback, he would do exactly what she said, which so far had consisted of riding wide turns back and forth across the plains. All she had asked him to do so far was make sure he pressed in hard with his knee as he went and not to use his hands or the reins.

  “Bring him back!” she called, her voice distant. Gunnar trotted Thief the hundred yards back to her.

  “So…” Gunnar began. “Do I ever actually shoot a bow?”

  Kamith gave him a patronizing smile.

  “Once I’m convinced you can ride without using your hands.”

  “So that was all to get Thief used to responding to my legs alone?” Gunnar asked.

  “You repeat it again and again until the horse realizes it instinctively. Once that’s done, we can worry about shooting,” she explained, the pride in her skill clearly evident.

  He nodded his understanding then pressed with his right knee. Thief walked left, taking his leisurely time but responding all the same. He tried it a few more times with both knees, the horse responding a bit faster each time.

  “Now comes balance,” Kamith announced. “You know how to lift yourself off the saddle, but now you have to do it perfectly, without holding onto anything, not even the reins.”

  Gunnar paused, thinking about this. He brought Thief to a stop, pushing an inch or two off the seat. Nobody would be able to shoot an arrow sitting flat on the saddle, not with the horse’s body bouncing around. Once up, he extended his arms out, finding his balance.

  “Nope!” Kamith cried. “Fold your arms across your chest!”

  “What?” Gunnar asked.

  “Gotta learn how to read the horse’s movements and adjust your upper body. You can’t flail your arms around when you’re trying to nock an arrow!”

  He grumbled, knowing full well she was taking a little bit of revenge for his lecturing her all morning. She was far nicer than his last lord, though, so he didn’t dwell on it too much. He folded his arms across his chest dutifully.

  “Work him up to a trot,” she ordered.

  He pressed in lightly wi
th both ankles. Thief moved forwards, picking up speed. Gunnar made sure his legs hugged the horse’s side, but he kept his knees from digging in too hard. His chest jolted and waved as the horse trotted, constantly correcting itself as the animal went.

  “Turn him back!” Kamith shouted.

  His left knee pressed in and held, turning the horse until it faced Kamith. He leaned counter to the momentum the whole time, trying to compensate for the motion. He wanted to hunch forward and grab the reins, to return his body to the comfortable positions it knew so well, but he didn’t. Pressing forward on the stirrups, he brought Thief to a stop next to Kamith.

  “Not entirely hopeless,” she said with a wicked grin.

  “You did that when you were ten?” he asked.

  “Well, thirteen or so,” she said. “You’re almost where I was.”

  “You’re going to get poked by a stick many times tomorrow,” he answered.

  “Oh, am I now?” she laughed. “Well, if that’s the case, I might as well deserve it.”

  She smacked Thief’s rump, and he bolted. Gunnar threw his body forwards, clutching the horse’s neck as he sprinted through the grass. He found the reins, straightening up. He turned, ready to ‘run down’ his lover for the little stunt, but she was up on Dash and off, screaming victoriously as she rode across the planes. Gunnar took a deep breath and spurred Thief to follow.

  ***

  A week passed. Kamith found herself walking through the market, looking for a baker she liked. She’d grown tired of the inn’s menu of bison and duck, and she figured a change would help.

  Her sword laid at her side, safe in its scabbard. She’d been twirling it around outside the village for days now, after ‘stick’ practice was over. Gunnar’s relentless comments had turned her wild swings into short, more controlled cuts. He had made her thrust the damn thing two hundred times a day, repeating time and again, ‘The jab is key. The jab is king. I will thrust and jab so well that no armor shall stop me!’ She wondered who had drilled that into his head, and if she’d ever get it out of her own.