Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  His squires, Gunnar realized. Figures an insane man would keep company with other lunatics!

  The squat, naked fellow spotted Gunnar and grabbed a rock from the firepit. He hurled it awkwardly, and Gunnar easily turned Thief aside, the rock crashing into the woods behind him. The naked man bellowed dramatically and ran for the horse, his hands closing into fleshy claws as he went.

  Gunnar slashed forward and up with his sword, cleaving the man’s jaw from underneath. The blade ripped into his mouth and lodged in his soft palate. The naked man screamed, a gurgling, liquid wail of pain. Gunnar wrenched his sword back and then hacked it hard into the man’s neck, slashing clean through his jugular into his spine.

  The naked man fell dead, blood gushing onto the ground at Thief’s feet. Gunnar spurred the horse forwards, approaching the man in the tunic.

  “The rider, who is he?” he demanded in Trade Tongue. “Where has he gone?”

  The man mumbled to himself, then felt the tip of Gunnar’s blade under his chin. Gunnar lifted the man’s head up with the flat of his sword, staring hard at the mad eyes of the Reaper’s surviving squire.

  “Answer me,” Gunnar said, ice in his words.

  “He… he is not a-a man,” muttered the lunatic in broken Trade Tongue. “He is the Sword of Mercy!” Gunnar’s eyes narrowed, and the lunatic babbled on. “He brings mercy to the weak. Mercy! Th-they can’t live here, not here, no, not in this world. The strong will rule them, and they will suffer, they always suffer. So he brings them mercy, now. S-so they don’t suffer.”

  The man’s eyes clouded with awe.

  “He will punish you,” the lunatic whispered. “For interrupting the work of the next world. The men of the trees sent him. He is not man; you cannot kill him.”

  The lunatic began to laugh, and Gunnar slammed the hilt of his blade into the man’s forehead, knocking him senseless. He crumpled to the ground.

  Gunnar sat still for a moment, listening. He heard no hooves, no crashing. The Reaper, the ‘Sword of Mercy’, had fled far from here.

  He leapt from Thief and stalked over to the smoldering fire in the middle of the camp. Grabbing a piece of kindling from a small pile, he lit one end. Methodically, he went from tent to tent, setting alight the man’s camp and his worldly possessions. Gunnar got back on his horse, disappearing back towards the ridge. Fire licked up behind him.

  ***

  Kamith and Turee came upon the village Gunnar had raced past, trotting in through the open gate. Kamith looked about, trying to figure out where to leave the girl. She wondered how safe a teenage girl would be on her own in a town. Plenty of scum didn’t wear gore-covered armor and charge around on horses.

  They trotted down a central street, and a flash of blue caught her attention. A pair of women walked down the street in sea-blue robes, reminiscent of the poor souls who had been cut down outside Haervia.

  “Hey!” she said in Trade, riding up to the two. “I need your help.”

  The two women talked amongst themselves in their own language, confusion and trepidation evident on their faces.

  “A man is trying to kill my sister,” Kamith informed them, motioning to Turee.

  The taller of the women looked from Turee to Kamith, no doubt noting the differences in skin color between the two women.

  “She is your sister?” the skeptical woman asked in Trade.

  “In my heart, if not by blood. I need her to be somewhere safe for a few hours. Can you help?” Kamith pleaded, desperation causing her voice to break.

  The women whispered amongst themselves again.

  “The Sisters of the Wind protect those in need,” the tall one declared. “Our chapter house is down the valley. Allow us to get our horses, and we shall show you the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Kamith. “Thank you so much.”

  Turee looked at the two women, cocking her head quizzically.

  “So, what… you’re nuns?”

  ***

  “Are you kidding me?” Turee asked, looking down at the blue robe that had been draped around her frame.

  They sat a half-mile from the valley, by a cluster of buildings that formed the convent of the Sisters of the Wind. A stone, dome-shaped building dominated the center. Surrounding it were low, wooden buildings. A half-dozen armed men, in dark brown robes, strutted about the perimeter.

  “In case we can’t come back,” said Kamith. “You can hide in plain sight.”

  “I’m not a nun!” Turee cried.

  “I’ll say,” the tall sister remarked. On the ride, Kamith had learned she was Ehnora, the anchoress of this particular chapter. “No sister of ours would ever wear chain-mail.”

  Kamith sensed an instinctive disapproval; the type people protected by large, armed men could afford to have.

  “How are these women going to protect me?” Turee asked. “If that Reaper comes back—”

  “The Brothers of the Earth will die before they let any man lift a sword to us,” Ehnora explained, motioning to the armed men and their brown robes.

  “Thank you,” Kamith said again. “I have to go.”

  “Battle is no place for a woman,” said Ehnora. “You should stay with us until your husband returns.”

  “I go to make sure he does return,” Kamith replied briskly.

  She turned away and rode off east.

  ***

  Gunnar walked his horse along the road, following the Sandwater east. He’d ridden back after torching the Reaper’s camp, and now he stalked onwards at a crawl. The hills on his right curved gently south, opening to a wide, flat stretch of bottomland, so no ambush would be coming from uphill.

  Gunnar felt no need to hurry. Weighed down by his armor, he wasted no energy he didn’t need to. Fighting here, on this road, was as good as fighting up on a hilltop. And a fight was coming.

  He could feel the lunatic’s eyes on him, watching. The Reaper had nowhere to go back to, and a man who’d survived him twice and scarred him walked in the open, ready and waiting. Gunnar was now taunting him and his mission by his very survival. The Reaper would come; it was just a question of time.

  Gunnar came to a clearing. Swamp lay to the left, running to the river, forest rose to the right, running flat for a few hundred yards before rising into the hilly bluffs that formed the valley, and dead ahead sat an armed man on a horse, clad in blood-stained leather and gore-covered steel. Gunnar smiled.

  “Giving up the element of surprise?” Gunnar asked. “Now I’m sure you’re insane.”

  Angry eyes stared back at him. The man’s helmet covered his head but not his face. That face, scarred and twisted, flexed and shifted as the lunatic chewed on something, yet nothing was in his mouth.

  “You killed my children!” the Reaper shrieked.

  His voice was high-pitched and squeaky, discordant with the warrior form that sat on the horse.

  “Saw that, did ya?” Gunnar asked. “To be fair, one of them was still alive when I left. Did he burn to death?”

  “You killed my loves…” the Reaper said.

  Gunnar raised an eyebrow, seeing the sadness in the madman’s eyes, but, just then, the Reaper shrieked and charged forwards, sword drawn.

  Gunnar rode for him, approaching on the right, sword in hand. They clashed, each swinging for the other’s chest, their swords hammering into each other and sliding off with the piercing wail of metal on metal. They rode past, but Gunnar pushed in with his left knee, sending Thief into a hard right turn.

  Coming up quickly behind the man, Gunnar hacked at his back with his sword. The Reaper heard his approach and tried to turn, but the sword hit, clashing hard against the lunatic’s chain-mail, bursting a handful of links and lurching the man forward in his saddle. The Reaper rammed his spurs in, and his horse raced forwards, out of the way.

  The force of the blow may have hurt, but Gunnar quickly surmised he had done no lasting damage. The man’s armor had held. The Reaper turned and charged again.

  This time, the luna
tic changed tactics, stabbing forward with his sword rather than hacking. Gunnar reacted quickly, parrying the blow but losing the chance to strike back. They rode past each other again and circled, their horses tracing paths around the edge of the clearing.

  “You are lost,” the Reaper proclaimed as they appraised each other once more. “You protect the weak, but you do them no favors.”

  “I think they’d say otherwise,” Gunnar replied sarcastically.

  “The women and children, they are weak. This world is brutal and for the strong. I am the sword that brings mercy! I do them right by giving them quick and painless deaths, rather than letting them suffer in a world they can never conquer,” the Reaper explained.

  “A world without women? Pretty sure men would be dead if there were no women around to give birth to them,” Gunnar shot back.

  “Fool!” the Reaper screamed. “I have shown my lovers how the strong can love the strong! For those truly free of weakness, conception is possible!”

  Gunnar stopped his horse dead, unable to believe a human being had said something that incredibly stupid.

  “They were close to it, my loves were,” the Reaper bemoaned from his mount. “And now, I must start again, and you must suffer. You get in the way, Langal. I do the work of the Four Gods, and you get in the way.”

  He had no idea who the Four Gods were, and was a bit surprised the Reaper knew his people, but his curiosity faded quickly when the Reaper trotted towards him, building speed.

  Gunnar leapt forwards on Thief, and the two closed for another pass. Their swords clashed, but only for a brief instant as the Reaper pulled his sword back and chopped at Gunnar’s midsection. He felt the blade crush in on his brigandine coat, crumpling the steel plates inside. The blow hurt like hell, but it didn’t break through to the chain-mail below.

  They quit the passes and clashed up close, their horses writhing and struggling against each other. The Reaper tried to stab Gunnar, but the shifting horse meant he couldn’t get the leverage to thrust a lethal blow. Gunnar parried the stab. For a moment, the horses shifted away, and he quickly shifted his sword from right hand to left. When the horses drew near, he punched forwards, slamming the guard of his weapon into the man’s helmet again and again. The blows stunned the Reaper, who pulled his horse away desperately. Gunnar swung down as he went, landing a weak blow against the lunatic’s shoulder. It crunched armor but did no more.

  Gunnar squared up on his horse, returning his sword to his right hand; his sword hand. Sweat poured off his forehead, stinging his eyes. The Reaper had to be feeling it too. They both wore two layers of armor, with the lunatic’s two coats of mail a bit heavier and thicker than his chain-mail and brigandine layers, and neither seemed able to break the other’s. Gunnar stopped to think as he struggled for breath. Maybe, if he could stab while at a run, he could get enough leverage to punch through the man’s armor. On the ground, it wouldn’t be a problem; not with his feet planted and the momentum of his rotating body behind a blow, but sitting on a horse, he’d need the momentum.

  He looked down at his sword, and an idea popped into his head. He smiled. If he couldn’t cut the man’s steel, he’d just have to beat him to death.

  With a yell, he started forward again, the Reaper responding. But, as the lunatic charged, a flash of motion caught his attention. An arrow streaked in, slamming into the thick armor of the man’s chest. The arrowhead did not pierce the leather and steel, but the force of the blow unsteadied him. Out of the corner of his eye, Gunnar spotted Kamith at the edge of the clearing, readying another arrow.

  He pressed on, approaching the woozy man and swinging for his chest. Gunnar’s sword hit hard, whipping the Reaper back in his saddle, nearly knocking him off. The man roared in pain, his armor holding still. Another arrow struck him. Gunnar turned Thief quickly, switched his sword to his left hand, and charged again. He kept the Reaper between him and Kamith, and this time swung for the man’s head.

  His blade hit with a deafening clang, denting the metal of the helmet. The Reaper lolled forwards, eyes fighting to focus. A third arrow flew in, this one striking the helmet. It broke the metal and nicked the scalp, the concussive force of the arrow’s impact driving the man from his horse. He fell to the ground, splintering the shafts of two arrows that protruded from his armor. His sword fell from his hand and bounced away.

  Kamith put down her bow, pulled her slashing blade, and charged. Gunnar circled as she did, watching the Reaper stumble to his feet, punch-drunk and reeling. Kamith’s blade swung and hit his chest hard, sending him stumbling backwards. Remarkably, the man managed to stay standing, but his legs wobbled, ready to go.

  Gunnar charged in and hacked down on the man’s head as he passed. His sword cut deep, punching through the metal helmet and scalp. The blade bore into his skull, but it didn’t have enough momentum to split into his brain. The lunatic wailed in agony, blood pouring from his helmet onto his face.

  Kamith struck again, hitting him from behind with a hard blow to his back. The Reaper pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. Gunnar leapt from his horse and scrambled up to the wounded man. He kicked him with a booted foot, just hard enough to turn him over. The lunatic collapsed on his back, staring through blood-filled eyes at his enemy.

  “Sword of Mercy, eh? Well, I don’t have a fancy name,” said Gunnar, slamming his foot down on the man’s sternum to hold him. “So just tell your Four Gods that Gunnar and Kamith killed you!”

  He thrust down hard at the man’s neck, ripping through the chain-mail surrounding it. His blade severed the man’s windpipe, reducing the madman to a wheezing, gurgling fit. Blood poured from the wound, flowing thick and rich to the grass of the clearing. The Reaper struggled weakly for several seconds, but then his strength ebbed. His hands fell to his sides, and he lay still.

  Breathing heavily, Gunnar stumbled back. With the rush of battle, he hadn’t realized how much energy he had expended. Hunger and weakness hit him in a flood, but he steadied himself and looked to his lover.

  “I could say this wasn’t your fight, but somehow I think you don’t see it that way,” he managed.

  She smiled wanly.

  “The war chief in my village had a saying, used to tell it to my brothers,” she said. “‘It’s easier to kill somebody if you gang up on them.’”

  Gunnar laughed, coughing once or twice as his raw throat drew in the cool air of spring.

  “Smart man,” he said. He bent over the body, pulling the ruined chain-mail from around his neck.

  “What are you doing?” Kamith asked.

  Gunnar took his sword in both hands, readying a blow.

  “I think the locals would like proof that this monster is truly dead,” he replied.

  He cleaved downwards with the whole weight of his body, hacking through the dead man’s neck with one crunching blow.

  ***

  “So, wait, you don’t get to have sex with anyone except the guards?” Turee asked.

  A rotund sister smiled patiently, noting Turee’s incredulous look. They sat on a porch outside of the refectory. The smell of roast elk wafted from inside, where other sisters prepared an evening meal. Above them, the first stars emerged in the purple-blue night sky.

  “That is the way of our order,” the sister explained. “To take in the seed of the impure would be considered an insult to the winds. We are their servants, and have undergone much to become so. As have the Brothers of the Earth, who guard us. Only they are worthy of our love.”

  “But there’s six of them and thirty of you? How can they possibly keep up?” Turee pressed.

  “They do not,” the sister said sourly. “They usually visit the ones they find beautiful and ‘take pity’ on the rest of us once or twice a year.”

  “By the Spirits!” Turee cried. “I’d lose my mind.”

  The sister laughed, saying, “The way you look, girl? I don’t think you’d have to wait around for their ‘pity’.”

  Turee blushed, moving to
speak when the sound of approaching horses filled the air. She spotted two riders approaching the convent. They rode up to the refectory, the light of stone torch pillars illuminating the forms of Gunnar and Kamith.

  “You’re alive!” Turee screamed, darting from the porch. She pulled off the blue robe she’d been given, revealing the leather travelling clothes underneath.

  Gunnar dismounted and found himself hit by a hundred-pound wall of relieved young woman. Turee hugged him fiercely, tears in her eyes. He returned the hug, but a moment later, the teenager broke free and wrapped Kamith in an equally tight embrace.

  “I was only gone for a few hours,” Kamith wheezed, the breath driven from her lungs by Turee’s encircling arms.

  “I know, I know,” Turee mumbled, releasing the hug and wiping away tears. “But I don’t want to stay here.” She whispered that last part, aware of the approaching knot of sisters behind them. “They do nothing but pray and take care of orphans!”

  “You are Kamith’s man?” the anchoress asked.

  “I am,” Gunnar replied. “Thank you for watching over our friend. She is not suited to combat.”

  “Neither is she,” the anchoress said, nodding towards Kamith. The tall woman, nearly forty winters old from the look of her, gave Gunnar a scolding look, then relented.

  “Your other woman says you went to kill the Reaper?” the anchoress asked. “He has slain so many sisters…”

  “Turee is not my ‘other woman’,” Gunnar said firmly. “And yes, I killed the bastard.”

  He dug into a saddlebag, removing the head of the psychopath who had haunted the countryside for so many long months. Holding it up by the ratty hair, he let all the sisters see. Some blanched at the sight, but Ehnora stood firm, a dark frown forming. She spat viciously on the head.

  “You will molder and feed worms!” the anchoress screeched.