Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  Gunnar got up, reaching for his new shield. The one they’d given him was circular, like his own. It was built of oak rimmed in metal, but it had no boss in the center. Sliding his arms through the straps, he lifted up the heavy weight. He pulled on the bowl-shaped helmet they’d given him and jogged out of the stable.

  The bulk of the garrison stood on the wall, firing arrow after arrow onto the enemy. Three dozen men crowded around the gate, spears and swords pointed towards the massive wooden doors.

  Wham!

  Something slammed against the door. The wood creaked, but it held. Gunnar pulled the bow they’d given him from his back and darted up the ramp to the wall. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and gazed out upon the enemy.

  Most of them held back, beyond range of the bow. A large group of heavily armed men stood in a long column, ready to charge in once the gate fell. At the gate, three dozen men clustered around a battering ram, driving forwards with straining legs and backs. Men jogged alongside with shields above their heads, trying to block the men on the ram from the defender’s hail of arrows.

  Gunnar drew and fired instinctively, striking one of the shieldbearers in the flank. The arrow pierced his mail but lost all momentum, gouging a slash into the man’s side but doing little else. He fired again, the shaft sinking into the man’s exposed thigh, inches below the bottom edge of his armor. He yelped and fell, and a pair of arrows struck him hard in the chest, breaking through his armor.

  Behind the ram, the enemy’s archers scrambled forwards. Gunnar ignored them, focusing on the main threat. He loosed another arrow, striking the back of a man pushing the ram. The man lurched forwards onto the wooden rail he had just been pushing, not dead but no longer throwing his weight into the effort.

  Arrows clattered off the merlons as the enemy archers fired. Five feet down, a defender flinched and flew back, an arrow sticking out of his neck. The man’s fellows dragged his dying form away then returned to the fight.

  Crack!

  The door lurched inwards, starting to give way. Gunnar fired without pause, emptying his quiver in a matter of minutes. Men fell, one by one, the few dozen who had started the attack lying dead in the muddy track leading to the gate. But as soon as one fell, another ran in from the waiting foot soldiers, taking their place. The ram continued pounding.

  Gunnar loosed an arrow at one of these replacements, striking the man hard in the chest. The arrow knocked him down, and he crept back towards his ranks, but another man came, then another. The ram went forwards again.

  Crack!

  This one was louder than the last, harder. The men below shouted encouragement to each other as they drew the ram back.

  An arrow struck Gunnar’s shoulder, driving him back from the crenel. He crouched behind the nearest merlon and ripped the arrow free. Its tip had barely gotten through the mail, drawing blood but doing no damage. Enraged, Gunnar nocked the arrow and fired it back, sending it into the helmet of a shieldbearer standing next to the ram. The blow knocked the man senseless. He stumbled about then fell stunned into the wet grass of the meadow. Another man’s arrow hit him square in the neck as he lay.

  With a splintering roar, the gate gave way. Gunnar watched the men in formation break towards the gate at a run. They roared their hatred as they went, slamming swords and spears against their shields in anticipation. Around him, defenders dashed down the ramps, clustering around the door.

  Gunnar reached for his quiver, then remembered it was already empty. He darted down to the body of a blue-coated archer who’d been struck down a few minutes earlier and took his quiver. He and a dozen others remained on the wall, with a few others in the towers flanking the now open gate. They fired down into the men-at-arms as they approached. Gunnar silently wished the Duahr and their longbowmen were here. Those massive bows would’ve made short work of these men.

  The black-coats funneled around the ram and into the breach, slamming up against the king’s men. The first wave went down quickly, punctured and slashed on all sides by a hedge of blades. But more of them kept coming, faster than they could be slain.

  Gunnar fired into the mass, less than twenty feet from the foe. He was so close to the enemy, his arrows struck home with great force, ripping through mail and into flesh. Men fell, dying or wounded, with each shot. But more came, always more. One would get through and slash a heavy straight sword at a blue-coated warrior, then another. Bit by bit, the king’s men died. No matter how many black-coats they killed before falling, it did no good. The black tide kept coming, hacking and thrusting with the skills of polished warriors.

  Behind them, waiting, were men in leather, their speartips visible over their fellows. Ythell had sent his best in first. Gunnar would’ve sent the commoners in first, to wear down the king’s professional soldiers and leave them too few and too battered to resist the black-coated wave. It didn’t really matter, now; Ythell had the numbers to get away with his mistake.

  Gunnar reached for another arrow but found his new quiver empty. As he turned, a great roar went up, and the king’s men broke. They scrambled back towards the keep, the black-clad enemy falling on them as they went. Others stood firm, fighting in knots across the courtyard, slashing and hacking. Their deaths weren’t quick. Covered in armor and holding large shields, they held out for long minutes, thrusting and hacking at enemies who rushed in. Wounded and exhausted, the fear of death pushed them on. Piles of their enemy heaped up before them, but, eventually, they fell.

  He dashed for the ramp, meaning to make for the keep, but a trio of enemy warriors were rushing up. Gunnar ran past the ramp, towards the keep. Hopefully, archers inside could give him support, and with his back to the wall, he’d negate the enemy’s number. The men-at-arms followed him, each carrying a shield and straight sword.

  Gunnar drew his blade, tossing his bow and empty quiver aside. The men following him laughed as he ran, thinking him stupid for running towards a dead end, but their faces stiffened when he reached the stone wall of the keep and spun around to face them. Bloodlust churned through him, but Gunnar forced it down. Passion got you killed. Wits brought you victory.

  The enemy trio paused, not sure what to make of him. He clashed the flat of his sword against the rim of his shield.

  “Come on, you bastards! Finish me off and you can get back to plugging your assholes with horse cock!”

  Anger flared in their faces, and the leader charged, the others following. No arrows came from above, so Gunnar lunged forwards, stabbing low with his sword and raising his shield high. The enemy’s chopping blow struck the hard oak and stopped dead. His opponent tried to drop his shield to intercept the stab but was too slow. Gunnar’s blade rammed through the leather of his boot and into his ankle, crippling him. The warrior lurched to his left on his ruined foot, swinging desperately to fend off the inevitable attack.

  Instead, Gunnar threw his weight behind his shield and slammed into the man. The black-coated foe flew backwards, knocking over the swordsman behind him. They struggled, the second man jerking from side to side to get free, accidentally hurling his friend off the wall and into the bailey.

  The third man rushed forwards, his sword at his waist, ready to stab. Gunnar adjusted his shield and dropped his sword low. The man slammed into him, a hard thrust from his sword flying forwards. Gunnar moved his shield to block the blow and swung upwards with his own sword. The man jerked his own shield sideways, and Gunnar’s sword cut deep into the edge of it.

  Gunnar slammed the brim of his helmet into the man’s exposed face. The swordsman stumbled back, bloody.

  The second man of the trio, back on his feet, darted around his battered comrade. He was a quick one, swinging his sword in short, sharp cuts. Gunnar found himself stepping back, surprised by the fierceness of the attack. A thrust came at him, and he managed to parry it to his left. He followed through with his shield, pinning the man’s sword arm against the wall.

  Now, Gunnar’s sword flashed towards the man’s shoulder. The fo
e tried to free his hand while desperately blocking the chopping blow with his shield. Gunnar hacked down again, the man raising his shield to intercept. Gunnar then jerked the sword around and thrust it into the man’s shield arm at a sharp angle, just above the elbow. The black-coat screamed.

  It was then that his bloodied compatriot charged again. Fueled by rage, he was an easy target. Gunnar’s sword batted his aside as it came down, and with a great twist of his body, Gunnar struck the man in the face with his shield. The force sent him tumbling over the wall to the bailey below.

  A hard blow hit his chain-mail, a chopping strike that split rings and bit into the leather underneath. The second man was up again, and he pulled his sword back for another blow. The swordsman thrust forwards, but Gunnar deflected the blow off his shield and stabbed forward with his sword, straight at the man’s exposed neck. The black-coat tried to get his shield up but couldn’t; not with his left arm bleeding and wounded. Gunnar’s blade pierced the leather gorget protecting the man’s neck, ripped through his throat, then shattered his spine.

  The swordsman collapsed to the allure, dead. Gunnar felt a moment of triumph as he struggled to regain his breath, but he quickly saw that his victory mattered little. A half-dozen men raced down the allure towards him, all with swords and mail.

  “Hey!” a female voice shouted.

  He glanced up. High above, looking over the edge of the roof, was Turee. Two soldiers stood next to her.

  “Grab on!”

  They tossed a thick rope over the edge. It plummeted sixty feet to the wall, Gunnar shielding his head with his hands. The rope whipped as it reached is end, striking him hard in the chest.

  He didn’t have time to hurt. Sheathing his sword, he reached up and wrapped his arm around the rope. The oncoming soldiers pressed in as he was jerked upwards, dangling in the air. Men above pulled on the rope, raising him higher and higher, well out of reach of his attackers.

  Pain shot through his arm, straining under the weight of his body, armor, and weapons. He thought of dropping the shield but didn’t. His hand throbbed as it clutched the rope, threatening to let go. Then, hands gripped his arm and pulled him over the edge of the keep’s hoardings. He fell to the wooden platform, breathing deep in relief.

  Turee stood there, looking not the least bit uncomfortable surrounded by soldiers.

  “Didn’t think I was going to let a fine man like you just die, did you?” she asked.

  Nearby, a soldier rolled his eyes and whispered something to his fellow. Luckily, the young woman didn’t catch it.

  Gunnar got to his feet and walked up to the waist-high wooden wall of the hoarding. Below, black-coated soldiers swarmed the courtyard. The staircase into the keep had been cut, isolating the great stone tower from the attackers. A pair of blue-clad soldiers fought on near the barracks, killing any who came near, but the spears of the enemy brought them down, a dozen jabbing from all angles, breaking through their armor. The bailey had fallen.

  Arrows leapt from the keep, fired through narrow slits into the mob below. A quartet of soldiers went down. The others darted away. Most fled from the fortress, others to the wall. They stayed there, staring up at the keep.

  Men in black threw torches into the stables and barracks. Arrows streaked in as they retreated, catching two by surprise. The others escaped through the gates and to safety. The buildings smoked, fire consuming straw and spreading to wood. A line of soldiers dragged the few families who had been caught in the keep from the stables. The men they killed outright. The women and girls they dragged screaming out of the gate, into the field. Gunnar watched the women struggle, saw the dying men, and then turned back to Turee. She didn’t seem to be showing much fear, but he had a troubling feeling that he had just seen her future. And his.

  ***

  The level just below the flat roof of the keep was the arsenal. As morning broke, Gunnar peered through an arrowslit towards the gate and the meadow beyond. Ythell’s army had fallen back to the meadow. A half-dozen arrow-riddled bodies lay on the wall, proof that the king’s men could hit them there from the roof of the keep. But, as Ythell’s people had left, they’d torn the splintered gates from their hinges, leaving a broad gap they could walk through at any moment.

  But they were content to wait. They had amusements now. Three women they’d pulled from the stables – or, rather, two women and a twelve-year-old girl – had been stripped naked, bent over stumps, and tied down. One by one, men had gone and had their way with them. Gunnar had turned his head to avoid it, but their screams, though faint, had pierced his soul. He looked now and saw them, still being abused but lying motionless, crushed.

  Please, Gods, let Kamith be far, far from here!

  He’d said that prayer a hundred times since they’d lost the bailey, and he knew he’d be repeating it many times in the days to come.

  A murmur went up amongst the other soldiers in the arsenal, perched near arrowslits with bows sitting nearby. Two started out, worried looks on their faces.

  “What’s going on?” Gunnar asked.

  “The king,” one replied in Trade. “They say he is fading fast.”

  Gunnar got up and followed them, descending a cramped spiral staircase one story down to what was called the ‘living floor’ of the keep. It held the keep’s kitchen and two small bedrooms for the royals. They passed a servant woman standing over a stew pot, which was boiling away over a fireplace. The trio slipped through a narrow door and into the king’s bedchamber.

  It wasn’t much, being a fortress. A basic, wood-frame bed with a goose-down mattress dominated the room. Arrowslits let in slivers of light. A small fireplace set against the wall burned in the background, and candles sat in sconces around the room.

  On the bed lay Cahdar III, King of Starth, but he didn’t look very kingly. He had to be nearly sixty winters of age, his hair silver with streaks of white. His bronze skin lay shrunken on his frame, all fat and muscle long ago wasted away by illness. His brown eyes were surrounded by yellow, and his breathing was heavily labored.

  Kerensa kneeled by his bedside, holding the man’s hand. Gunnar hadn’t met many queens, but he had seen fewer still with real love in their eyes. Not for their husbands, anyway. This woman was the exception. She gazed lovingly upon the king’s emaciated form, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay,” she said to Gunnar. “It’s good you see him before he passes. He would be honored that you fight with us, even though you aren’t one of us.”

  “I am sorry,” Gunnar said, not sure what to say.

  “Thank you,” she replied quietly. “If you see my daughter, can you send her here? I want her to be with him when…”

  She choked up, unable to finish. Gunnar nodded his agreement and walked from the room.

  ***

  “You are mad, woman! Completely mad!”

  Arun, Chief of the Antelope Horn Band of the People of the Wandering Star, folded his hands across his chest. He sat across a fire from Kamith in the middle of a circle of hide tents. Kamith felt desperation well up in her. She’d ridden all day to find this village, knowing it was a fool’s errand but trying anyway.

  “You cannot raise a thousand men?” she pushed. “You cannot keep the Starth from your side of the river?”

  Anger came over the man’s face, shaping it into a hard scowl.

  “I am to raise an army and fight Starth because a strange woman rides into my camp and asks me?” he said, then he laughed harshly. “I should take you as a slave and sell you for such arrogance!”

  Her hand slipped visibly to her sword.

  “There are innocent people trapped—” she began.

  “Innocents! Bah! Who is innocent who does business with such men? Starthi dogs!” he spat, his contempt animating the half-dozen men behind him.

  “If they’re dogs, then your warriors should have no problem dispatching them,” Kamith countered.

  Arun’s eyes narrowed, and he stared at her for a long space.


  “We will not ride against the stone tower,” the man said with an air of finality. “Nor will I permit any of my people to join you in some futile attempt.”

  He leaned back triumphantly. Kamith spat her disgust and got to her feet.

  “And you call me the woman,” she snapped.

  Angry murmurs ran through the men, but they made no move. She stormed away, heading for Thief. He was tied to a post at the edge of town. As she stomped through the camp, some watched curiously, others with anger in their eyes. A blur of movement behind the nearest tent caught her attention. A young woman’s head poked out from behind it, looking back towards the central fire nervously.

  “I can help you,” she said in Trade.

  Kamith eyed her warily. She crept forwards, making sure to keep the tent between her and the distant chiefs.

  “I know a way in,” she said, motioning for Kamith to follow.

  They moved two tents down, to hers. As was the way with the People of the Wandering Star, the woman lived alone with her children, men visiting only to bring food and lay with her. Kamith stepped into the small tent, crouching so she didn’t hit the roof.

  The woman knelt down by a small fire, the smoke wafting through a hole in the top of the tent. She motioned Kamith to a mat of woven grass.

  “My name is Aela,” she said. “I know how you can get into the king’s hold.”

  Kamith cocked her head at the name, having never heard it. Aela motioned towards a sleeping figure in a corner of the tent. A three-winters-old child slept soundly. Kamith noticed his skin was lighter than his mother’s, bronze in its color. The boy’s face didn’t look like those of the chief and the other men of the Wandering Star she’d passed by. It looked like the faces of the soldiers she had seen on the wall; like the faces of the lancers who had chased her from the meadow.

  “I used to sneak in to be with my boy’s father, when he was there,” she said, a hint of bittersweet sadness in her voice. “There is a passage, so old that even he didn’t know of it. He thought I was a magic woman who could move through walls.”