Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

She came upon a booth covered in long loaves. Tankareth stood there, buying a loaf from the old women behind the booth.

  “Hello,” he said happily upon seeing her.

  “Hi,” she replied.

  “Still in town?” he asked.

  “Waiting for my armor,” she answered.

  “Saw you out on the hills a few days ago, practicing with your bow. You looked good on that horse. Your man…” Tankareth said, trailing off.

  “He’s getting there,” she replied.

  She bought a loaf from the booth. Tankareth looked off across the marketplace and then motioned for her to follow him.

  “Wanna see the hall?” he asked, gesturing towards the great building at the far end of the market.

  “Uh,” she said, not sure how to respond. “I’m not—”

  “The chief lets visitors in all the time; he only keeps the top floors to himself. Come on, a quick look won’t hurt,” he said in a warm tone.

  She shrugged and followed, walking across the market towards the building. A large, arch-shaped door sat open to the public.

  They strolled into a vast gallery. Wooden posts ran down the length of the building, a few feet from the walls, making open passageways. The center of the long room was open, the ceiling arching to a centerline two stories up. Large, wooden ribs supported the floors above. A mezzanine ran around the open space a story up, forming a long, square passage open to the atrium, looking down on the great space.

  “It’s… big,” she said, not sure how to respond to an enclosed space of such size. You could fit four hundred people in the hall. At the far end, a spartan, wooden throne sat on a raised tier, only a foot or two above the rest of the room.

  “Chief holds meetings and banquets in here,” Tankareth informed her. “Got one coming up for his soldiers, if you’re interested.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  Tankareth’s face tightened, a sadness coming over him.

  “Look, I didn’t want to say anything in front of your man, but…” he began. “Well, if the Red Horse are to continue on—”

  “No,” she said, less firmly than she would have liked. “I can’t have children. Even if I could, we’re the last two. There would be no Red Horse people for our children to marry.”

  “Maybe it’s your man who can’t have children,” he said hopefully. “And maybe we wouldn’t be as pure as our people of old, but I don’t want to do nothing and just watch us fade away.”

  “Tankareth—”

  “I can provide for you. I can! I do pretty well, and this village is the safest spot in all the Great Grasslands. You could have a real life here,” he pressed.

  “No,” she said again. “I cannot stay here. I’m sorry.”

  She turned and walked from the hall. As she went, a handful of figures emerged from behind the throne, walking up to Tankareth.

  “She said no?” asked one, a tall man in ornate clothing.

  “She said no,” Tankareth replied, spitting on the ground. “Get word to Rasi. We’ll need a key to their room and somebody to keep an eye out. Have to make sure her warrior isn’t around.”

  “And what if she is? She could get in the way,” the tall man seethed.

  “She won’t get in the way,” Tankareth snapped, watching Kamith as she disappeared into the crowd. “In fact, I hope she’s there. I intend to have her, Hovral. Her and everything else her man possesses, one way or another.”

  ***

  Two more days passed before Kamith picked up her armor. Drikal had watched with bated breath as she tried it on, then she laughed triumphantly when it fit perfectly. The mail fit far better than Gunnar’s had, built to conform to her body and her curves. She bought a brown, leather surcoat to pull over it. So happy was she to have it that she wore it out of the shop, the surcoat pulled over it to shield the metal from the elements. It was lighter than Gunnar’s armor, and her muscles, toughened by a week of training in her lover’s mail, seemed to fly down the road. She suddenly understood some of the cockiness that came with being a warrior. Wrapping yourself in metal did lend a certain sense of invincibility to a person.

  She walked into the Blue Robin, stopping to have an ale. The innkeeper looked at her strangely, trying to figure out what was different. Unable to do so, he shrugged and moved on to the next customer. Kamith sipped at her ale. Despite the chill of early fall, the beer felt refreshing. A man strummed on a guitar in the corner, singing a bawdy ballad about a man with many wives in many towns with many children by them. All went well until the women found out and chased him across the plains in their fury. She had to get a local to explain why everybody found it so funny, since she didn’t actually know the language in which the bard sang.

  After a half-dozen songs that she didn’t understand or care enough to ask about, she finished her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Rasi watching her from the bottom of the staircase. She met the boy’s eyes, and he darted off up the stairs. Thinking little of it, Kamith got to her feet and headed for her room. Upstairs, she twisted the key and walked in.

  Heavy footfalls came from behind her. Her hand shot to her new sword as she turned. Tankareth stood in the doorway, large and imposing. Five other men crowded behind him, all with long knives on their belts. Rasi buzzed about the men, a vicious smile on his face.

  Kamith’s mind whirled, the odds not in her favor, even with the new armor. She figured she might get one or two with her blade before somebody got close enough to cut her throat. Part of her worried that they didn’t intend to kill her; that they would simply knock her out and have their way with her. Gunnar was outside the walls, tirelessly practicing with Thief and his new bow…

  “Kamith, this doesn’t have to be violent,” Tankareth said. There was still some warmth in his voice, but a firm resolve lay beneath it.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her hand still firm on the hilt of her sword.

  “The money,” a tall man said.

  “Shut up, Hovral,” Tankareth sneered, and then he turned back to her. “Look, we’re going to have Gunnar’s gold. I can’t have you warning him; that bastard would probably hunt us down wherever we went.”

  “You think I’m just going to let you take it?” Kamith asked, retreating back into the room as Hovral moved slowly, inexorably forwards.

  “I think you’re going to take me up on my offer,” he declared. “Be my woman. We’re leaving here with the gold; you can come and enjoy the wealth with us, or I can take you away in chains.”

  She slid the blade an inch from the sheath.

  “Don’t, Kamith,” Tankareth warned. “I have no desire to hurt you or treat you badly. It doesn’t matter whether you can have children or not, or whether the Red Horse continue on. Come with me willingly and you’ll have your freedom, and a share of the wealth.” She said nothing. “I’ll treat you like a wife,” Tankareth continued. “I would suggest you take me up on my offer. If you don’t… Well, these bastards…”

  He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The eyes of the men behind him spelled out exactly what would happen if they took her as a captive.

  She swallowed nervously, her mind spinning. There was no escape from the room. The only window was smaller than her head, and she couldn’t fight them, not this many.

  “Okay,” she gasped, her mind incredulous as the words rolled off her tongue. “I’ll go with you.”

  ***

  He drew and fired as Thief galloped on. The arrow flew towards the wooden post but went four inches wide, flying into the distant grass. A dozen had gone into the grass. Only two stuck out of the post.

  “Damnit,” he grumbled, pushing forward on his stirrups to slow Thief to a stop. He glanced accusingly at his new bow, then he relented; it wasn’t the weapon’s fault. The recurve was better than the hickory shortbow he’d taken when he left the Langal kingdoms. So much so that he’d ended up buying two new bows: one for himself and another for Kamith. He’d taken a dozen sta
nding shots with the bow, amazed at the smooth draw and straight flight of the arrow. It had slightly more punch than his old bow and a much nicer pull.

  He just wasn’t very good at firing from a damned horse. Sighing, he returned to his pack. He refilled the wide quiver he’d bought, the broad mouth making it easier to pull another arrow when bouncing up and down on horseback. After filling it with two dozen arrows, he paused before remounting, taking a deep breath.

  The weight of his armor pressed against his chest, reassuring in its burden. He wore everything: his trusty chain-mail, the new brigandine hauberk, splinted vambraces and greaves over his forearms and shins, and his new helmet. The new helmet was an expensive steel piece. It ran from the bottom of his neck, around his ears, up over the top of his skull, and down to his eyebrows. A thick steel brim, two inches wide, extended over his eyes to stop blows to the head from sliding down into his face. Street struts reinforced the metal along the spine of the helm. Attached to the side on small hinges were two cheek flaps, which extended down to his jawline. The front of his face was exposed, but he figured the trade-off was worth it. He had full visibility, something he’d always liked in battle, despite the increased risk.

  He wore it because you had to train the way you fought. For him, that meant forty-odd pounds of armor, plus a shield when on foot. The shield sat near his pack. He would normally wear it on his left arm when riding into battle, but it was too large to wear and still draw a bow accurately. His sword remained attached to his hip, always attached to his hip.

  As he took another cleansing breath, he spotted a party of men tear from the western gate of the town. Six men on seven horses. A smallish man near the rear held the rains of the seventh horse, the beast loaded down with saddlebags. They all wore thick leather surcoats, carrying spears and bows.

  A war party?

  He’d been out in the hills just north of town all day and seen nothing threatening. A trade caravan had ambled past, waving as they went. Some lone figures had ridden in, their horses weighed down with trade goods, but there had been no hint of aggression. He squinted, the party coming closer to his perch on the hill. The smallish fellow on the back didn’t really look like a man. It looked like a woman, riding a familiar horse, leading another familiar horse.

  “Kamith,” he whispered. She rode Dash and led Burden, the packhorse he’d bought yesterday to carry their goods. At the front of the pack rode Tankareth, kicking his heels in repeatedly to try and push his mount. Trying to escape him.

  Rage flushed through him: rage at Tankareth, rage at Kamith. Last of his people indeed! The damned stunt had worked. The woman he thought he’d loved now rode at the back of the party, running away with his gold! Back of the party, the thinking part of his mind noticed.

  That break in his anger was enough. In his mind echoed the words of an old soldier, back when he’d been training to become the same. ‘Anger gets you killed. Use your wits and you’ll get out alive.’ His wits spun. If Kamith really wanted to leave him, and rob him, she wouldn’t be lagging ten paces behind the bunch. She’d be out in front, desperate to get away from him, knowing how deadly he was when angered. And her head wouldn’t be swiveling from side to side, searching and looking, which was what it did now.

  He grabbed his pack and shield, hurling the first across Thief’s back and attaching the second to the saddle harness in its customary place. Bow in hand, he leapt onto Thief, digging his ankles in hard. The horse sprinted forwards, making straight for the party. His hands left the reins as he drew near, nocking an arrow.

  He drew and aimed at the back of the nearest man; a squat fellow in a broad-brimmed, leather hat. Without thinking, he loosed. The arrow sliced through the air, striking hard into the man’s neck, right where it met the shoulders. It struck a few inches off target but still proved lethal. The thug pitched forwards and fell to the earth.

  Shouts rose from the five remaining men as they turned, seeing Gunnar charging forward at full gallop. They drew their bows, taking aim. Gunnar retook the reins, swerving Thief left and right to throw them off.

  Another man went down, an arrow coming in from his side. Gunnar smiled as he fell. That damned fool Tankareth had let Kamith keep her bow! She nocked another arrow as she pushed Dash to run, circling behind the men. Tankareth shouted to two of his men, who took off after her. Then he fired, his arrow streaking towards Gunnar. Gunnar jerked the horse hard right, the arrow flying by. But another, shot by the tall man at Tankareth’s side, tore through the air and hit home. The blow nearly knocked him from the saddle, but he held on. Looking down, he saw an arrow sticking out from the brigandine, the tip stuck in one of the mail loops beneath. It hadn’t ripped through to the skin.

  Gunnar swerved hard left then made straight for the man, not thirty yards away. He slipped the bow into a slot on the saddle harness and pulled his sword. Fear flared in the tall man’s eyes, and he fled. But not Tankareth. The Red Horse man pulled his spear and charged. Gunnar raced for him. He’d have to time this just right…

  The lance came for his chest. Gunnar brought his blade close to his body and then flicked out with the sword. The blade pushed the spear aside, clear of his chest. Tankareth raced by, and Gunnar jabbed out with his hand, not having time to set up a slash. The crossarm of his sword’s hilt smashed into Tankareth’s face, breaking skin and cartilage. The fool had ridden too close, not taking advantage of the spear’s length to stay out of Gunnar’s reach. The big man tumbled from his horse, ribs cracking as he hit the ground.

  Hurt or not, Tankareth shot to his feet, spear in hand. Blood streamed down his face, making it a crimson mask, but he held his ground. Gunnar circled, sparing a second to check on Kamith. She swerved and raced on Dash, firing arrow after arrow at her one remaining attacker. Another lay dead a hundred yards behind her, an arrow sticking from his chest. The dead man’s horse trotted away from the chaos, looking for safety.

  Tankareth charged him, thinking his attention diverted, but Gunnar easily rode away, keeping Thief out of the man’s range. Tankareth advanced slowly, jabbing with his spear to keep Gunnar back. Gunnar obliged him. He even sheathed his sword, removing his recurved bow once again. He strung an arrow and drew back.

  “Now, I’m not so great at this,” Gunnar said with an evil smile. “But this horse is moving so slowly just now, even I should be able to get a hit.”

  Tankareth’s face went white, and Gunnar loosed the arrow. It flew at him, punching through his ribs and into his lungs. Choking and grasping, blood spewing from his mouth, he clutched at the arrow vainly, falling to his knees. Then he slumped onto his back. His breaths became heavy then stopped altogether.

  Gunnar pulled the arrow from his armor and turned to find Kamith. He found her loosing another arrow. Her foe tried to dodge, but his horse was too slow. The arrow struck deep into the animal’s hindquarters. The horse bucked and hurled its rider to the earth. The man lost his bow, and his spear, still slotted into its place next to the saddle, rode away with the horse. He got to his feet and found himself facing a charging horse. Kamith rode straight for him, having pulled her blade. She screeched viciously as she slashed, the curved blade ripping through the man’s leather jerkin and into flesh, carving a diagonal gash from hip to shoulder. Blood poured from the wound and dripped down the leather. The man stood motionless for a moment, staring at the cut in disbelief, then crumpled into the grass.

  Kamith circled and shrieked some more. An arrow stuck out from her mail, the tip having just barely pierced the leather and steel rings beneath, but not to any depth. If she was in pain, she didn’t show it. She caterwauled again and again, yelping out the harsh joy you only felt when putting steel to your enemies.

  “Hold!” a voice suddenly roared.

  They spun in the direction of the voice, towards the town. Forty yards away, on horseback, sat Lord Engral, chief of Harlonth. A dozen mounted soldiers fanned out on either side of him, each with spear and bow. One mounted soldier had his hands on the scruff of the ta
ll man’s neck, the only survivor of Tankareth’s bunch. Their cowardly foe had his head bowed low, looking as if he wished he could slink away into a ditch out of shame.

  Gunnar and Kamith held their position. Behind them, Burden paced nervously under the weight of his saddlebags.

  Engral rode forwards, motioning his soldiers to stay. He wore his ornate tunic and a wide-brimmed hat like the man Gunnar had first killed. Kamith trotted over to Gunnar’s side to face the man.

  “Well, this is a mess,” the lord said in Trade Tongue, more resigned than angry.

  “They were trying to rob us,” Kamith said fiercely.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Engral remarked, then he waved towards the tall man being held by his soldiers. “My brother, Hovral. Richer than any needs to be, yet he still takes. Something wrong with the spirits inside him. Corrupted.”

  “And the others?” Gunnar asked, motioning towards the dead.

  “Soldiers whose loyalty clearly didn’t lie with me,” Engral grumbled, angry eyes flashing over the corpses. “Isn’t the first time my brother has gotten people killed.”

  The chief sighed and straightened up on his saddle.

  “But he is still my brother, which means I can’t have people who’ve harmed him staying in my town,” he announced. “Word gets out people can hurt my family with impunity, and it all goes to the wolves.”

  Gunnar nodded, understanding.

  “You leave anything at the inn?” the lord asked.

  “No,” Kamith replied, waving towards Burden. “They took everything. It’s all on the horse.”

  “Well, that makes things easier,” the lord conceded. “I am sorry about all this. Don’t like losing anybody’s trade, but things are the way they are.”

  He dug into a pouch at his waist.

  “Our protection was not enough, and for that, I apologize,” he said, flipping the coin to Gunnar. “Oh, wherever you come from makes magnificent likenesses.”

  Gunnar caught the coin and looked down, seeing the face of the king of Harmon. It was the very same coin they’d paid to get in.