Tales of the Far Wanderers

by David Welch

  Whenoc rose, as was custom, clapping appreciatively. Azhel turned to face him, then, to collective disbelief, pointed his sword at the king. Whenoc’s eyes flared wide at the impudence.

  “What in the hells beneath?” said Khireg.

  Azhel drew the sword across his throat in a motion every person in the world recognized and pointed again at the king. Silence hung over the event.

  Before the king could order his troops in, Azhel ripped off his helmet and the covering cloth. He revealed a young, handsome face crowned with flame-red hair.

  “Elhouan,” Khireg gasped in disbelief.

  A smile came to the young prince’s face, and Gunnar noticed the two men bore a resemblance to each other.

  A joyous roar went up from the crowd. Elhouan darted for the cleared path, the guards and other champions closing to get him, but the crowd poured from the bleachers, getting in their way, concealing the champion behind the crush. Whenoc’s retinue were on their feet and shouting, again and again.

  “Get him, get him!” the slave translated, entirely without emotion.

  But it was a fool’s errand. Only from above could Elhouan be made out. Below, there were too many people, shouting and yelling and rioting. Elhouan slipped out of the arena and leapt on a horse. A half-dozen riders, in brown cloaks reminiscent of the Brothers of the Earth, waited. The riders drew swords and surrounded their captain, then sprinted off into the countryside.

  “Who was that?” Kamith asked, turning to the slave.

  The slave looked uneasily at Whenoc, then at Prince Khireg. Sure that neither was watching him, he spoke in a whisper, barely audible above the roar swirling around them.

  “That was Elhouan, the Red Prince,” said the slave. “Pretender to the throne.”

  ***

  “This way,” Khireg said, leading her down the street. Dressed in the clothes of a commoner, he slipped through the crowd of revelers towards a building along one of the backstreets of Byhstra.

  Turee followed, pulling her hood over her head as Khireg had. They had slipped from the palace by buying some clothes off tradesmen bringing food in and then disappeared into the crowds that thronged the streets in celebration. Troubadours and bands performed on every corner, chanting out bawdy ballads or reciting, to throbbing beats, poems of the epic Battle of Ghouran. Turee had caught snippets of great warriors performing noble deeds of strength, and of some king slaying an imperial general in single combat, but really had no idea what was being celebrated or what was going on. She didn’t really care. She was following Khireg, finally able to be with him without guards and slaves watching and whispering what happened in the ear of the king.

  “Here,” Khireg said, waving her towards a nondescript door in the side of a two-story, stone building. “I know the owner. He will protect our privacy, even from the soldiers.”

  She ducked inside, the prince following. They ascended a narrow stairway to a second-floor hallway. A man sat in a chair at the top of the stairs, a lockbox next to him. The man smiled warmly at Khireg, and the two chattered in their native tongue for a while. Then, Khireg flipped him two gold coins. The man removed a pouch from his pocket, tossing it to Khireg. He opened it and peered in. Turee did too, seeing a dried, green-colored herb. Khireg thanked the man and moved to one of the rooms lining the hallway.

  They slipped inside. The room was spartan, not up to palace standards by any stretch of the imagination. It contained a wide bed of straw covered by a linen sheet, and a small brazier with glowing coals. A table held a washbasin and a dirty mirror.

  “You sure know how to impress a girl,” Turee remarked in Trade Tongue.

  “It’s not much to look at,” Khireg replied. “But, for privacy, I’m willing to put up with a lot.”

  The prince removed a small pipe from his pocket and filled it with the green herb.

  “That isn’t tobacco,” Turee remarked.

  “Dreaming herb,” Khireg replied with a smile.

  Turee’s eyes grew wide with delight.

  “Really? You can get some here? It was almost impossible to find in Starth!”

  “The owner has a man who grows some outside of the city, sets aside a whole acre for it,” Khireg replied, lighting the pipe. He took a long drag, holding it in his lungs for a handful of seconds, then expelling sweet-smelling smoke into the room.

  “You’ve had this before?” he asked, handing her the pipe.

  “Only once,” she said truthfully. “My father found out and yelled at me.”

  Khireg laughed and watched her take a drag. Sitting on the bed, they passed the pipe back and forth between them until they’d emptied the bowl. Warm fuzzies overcame Turee, making her limbs light and magical as they traced arcs through the air.

  “So, are you going to make love to me or not?” Turee asked after they finished the pipe. Khireg’s eyes widened with surprise. “What? That’s why you brought me here and got high, right? So we could fuck without the whole palace seeing?”

  “Yes, I, uh,” he stammered. “I’m not used to women being so forward.”

  “Well, get used to it,” she said, then she pulled him close and kissed him hard. The two fell back onto the bed, clawing at each other in a lustful frenzy.

  Two hours later, glowing and content, she drifted into a half-sleep. Khireg dressed by the bedside, going to get something for them to eat. Between sex and the herb, she found herself ravenous. As he slipped out, she did not hear footsteps, but whispers. Two voices spoke, one Khireg’s, the other she couldn’t recognize.

  She slipped from the bed, not bothering to cover herself, and crept to the door. She opened it slightly, peering through the crack and into the hallway.

  Khireg spoke quickly in his native language, talking to a slightly taller man with very similar features. It took Turee a moment to recognize him as Elhouan, the roguish pretender who’d stolen the show at the arena that morning. Elhouan’s eyes fixed on hers, seeing her through the crack. When Khireg looked to the ground in thought, Elhouan winked, letting her know that he saw her, but he returned his gaze to the prince when Khireg returned to the conversation.

  She crept back to bed, not sure what to make of this. Khireg was working with a rebel? But he was a prince, in the palace. That meant he was Whenoc’s son, didn’t it? Why would he betray his father to put some pretender on the throne? It didn’t make sense. If Whenoc died, Khireg was king. If some new person came to power and claimed the throne, Khireg might maintain a claim, but most likely the newcomer would want his son to be king. So what in the hells beneath was going on?

  Khireg returned, and they made love again. They had to be quick so they could return to the palace before people began waking up, but Turee just lay there, not enjoying it as she had the first bout. Between the fading effects of the herb and the thoughts swirling in her head, she felt distant, her mind someplace else while her body twisted and flexed around her lover. When she should have been praising the Spirits for the gift of ecstasy, the only two thoughts running through her head were, What have I got myself into? and If Gunnar finds out, he’s going to kill me!

  ***

  Muscles ached as he pulled, the bowstring digging into the skin of his fingers. Bit by torturous bit, the string came back, past his face, all the way to his ear.

  He relaxed, letting the string flex forwards. He nocked an arrow and then contorted his whole body to pull the string back. His arms and back screamed in pain as he did, but he managed again to pull back the string. The tension in the strain dug again into his fingers, begging to be released.

  He aimed at a bale of hay set up before the wall. On top of the sheer strength required to draw a longbow, there was also the problem of aim. A shortbow, you drew back to your eye and sighted down along the shaft of the arrow. A longbow, you pulled to your ear, so your eye was literally next to the arrow. Only by practice and training did your mind learn to compensate for this.

  He loosed the arrow. The bolt travelled so fast that he couldn’t really se
e where it flew until it stopped, and it stopped in the edge of the bale, about a foot away from where he had wanted it to go.

  “Wow,” Turee said, seeing the speed of the shot, but in that pause, Kamith’s wooden sword poked her in the stomach.

  “Pay attention,” Kamith said with a chuckle. “I’m the one trying to kill you here, not him.”

  Turee fumed and launched herself into an attack. It was wild and undisciplined. She swung her blade in huge arcs with all the force of her muscles behind it, sacrificing balance as she tried to charge forwards. Kamith just sidestepped around her charges and deftly blocked her wild blows.

  “Anger gets you killed,” Kamith said, repeating words of wisdom that Gunnar had taught her several months before, when she’d learned the sword. “Stay focused on what you’re doing.”

  Gunnar shook his head and went back to his bow. Turee had improved in the few days she’d been training with Kamith, but this morning the girl was not at her best. She looked rundown and tired, no doubt from staying up late with her man-slave. Gunnar couldn’t blame her too much, though. He and Kamith had left the celebrations around midnight, slipping away after many tankards of mead. They’d gone to one of the smaller baths in the basement and made love to each other until dawn, though he didn’t detect any residual fatigue in Kamith. She danced and parried with quick, exact movements. Her form was perfect. He swore the woman could go on an hour’s sleep.

  He tried pulling back again on the bow for another shot, but his muscles didn’t have it in them.

  “That bow is… enormous,” said a dignified voice from behind him.

  He turned to see King Whenoc standing near. Phaol was at his side, along with a pair of guards.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “You can try,” Gunnar replied with a smile, handing the bow to the king.

  Whenoc pulled back for a normal draw and looked on in shock as nothing happened. Pulling with all his might, he wrenched the string back seven inches then let it slide forwards.

  “By the Spirits, how do you draw this?” the king asked.

  “It takes a lot of practice and a huge amount of muscle,” Gunnar replied. “I’ve been at it for months and can just barely pull it back.”

  “I’d heard of bows like this, in the north,” Whenoc said, “but I’ve never seen one until now.”

  “The Duahr make them,” Gunnar said. “They gave me this one.”

  “I’ve heard of them. Traders from upriver say they defeated the Bailor army in battle?” asked Whenoc.

  “I’ve heard the same,” Gunnar replied carefully.

  “Well, it is a magnificent weapon,” the king declared, handing it back to Gunnar. “I apologize for not being able to ride out and thank you for killing the Reaper in person.”

  “You have a kingdom to run,” Gunnar said simply.

  “Yes, very true… but I wish to thank you as a man, not as a king. Three knights fell to that monster, one of whom was my son,” Whenoc said, his face darkening.

  “You have my sympathies,” Gunnar replied. “The Reaper killed a person close to me once. At least you still have Khireg.”

  The king looked confused for the briefest of seconds.

  “Khireg? No, no; he is my nephew,” said Whenoc. “But I understand your confusion. I did make him a price. No, he is the son of the late King Ambhroas and one of his slaves. The king emancipated the boy and raised him at his side. He is a capable young man, despite his birth.”

  Gunnar nodded, saying, “I was unaware. I admit I don’t know much of the politics of the kingdoms of the seas.”

  “And I know far too much,” Whenoc laughed.

  A shriek drew their attention as Turee went down once more, her feet swept out from under her by Kamith’s wooden blade.

  Whenoc laughed again.

  “I did not believe it when my servants first told me,” he said. “But I see they weren’t lying. Your women fight.”

  “They do,” said Gunnar. “Out there, all of us have to live by steel.”

  “True words,” Whenoc said, distracted. He was focusing on Turee as she got to her feet. “I could swear I’ve seen her somewhere. Has she been this way before?”

  “Not that we know,” Gunnar said, eyes narrowing. “She’s a Starthi peasant. I don’t know if she’d ever left that kingdom before we rescued her.”

  “Well, I’ve seen many pretty girls, probably just confusing her for someone else,” Whenoc said. “I’ll let you get back to your practice, Gunnar of the Tarn. I remain, and always will remain, grateful for your deeds.”

  The king nodded respectfully. Gunnar matched the gesture, making sure not to bow. The king walked back towards the palace, his people following.

  Another shriek, and Turee went down again.

  “Focus,” Kamith demanded.

  But the girl’s eyes were elsewhere. Gunnar followed her gaze up towards the wall of the citadel. Atop, watching and smiling, stood Price Khireg. The young man noticed Gunnar’s glare and slinked away, red-faced.

  “You won’t be much use to the boy if you’re dead,” Kamith said, pulling Turee back to her feet. “Now, set and focus! Ready? Yah!”

  The wooden swords clashed again.

  ***

  “I think Khireg is involved with the Red Prince,” Turee whispered.

  Gunnar’s eyes opened slowly. They had been moments away from sleep when he felt a feminine form crawl into the bed next to him, wearing a linen nightdress.

  “Turee, why are you in our bed?” Gunnar asked.

  “I’m scared,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone. I think something might happen.”

  “Wha-what is it?” a sleepy Kamith asked from his other side.

  “Turee had a nightmare,” Gunnar said sarcastically.

  “No! Listen, I saw Khireg talking with Elhouan!” Turee stressed. “I think they’re plotting something and I, well, I don’t know what to do!”

  “Okay. Where did you see this?” Gunnar asked as Turee’s petite body settled against his side.

  “Last night,” she said, sounding guilty. “Khireg and I snuck out to be alone.”

  “Gods Above,” Gunnar groaned. “You couldn’t be satisfied with that slave? Had to drag us into all this royal court shit?”

  “I like him!” she snapped. “And he likes me. But he was in the hallway, talking with the Red Prince from the arena. He didn’t know I saw him, but I did, and I don’t know if anybody saw us sneak out, but if they did and they think I’m part of this—”

  “Okay!” Gunnar said firmly. “Just stay away from him, especially if he tries to draw you into whatever he’s doing. Just stay away. Last thing we need is to be pulled into some civil war.”

  “But I like him,” Turee said weakly. “I could be a princess again.”

  “Or Whenoc could kill you and all of us for plotting against him,” Gunnar replied.

  “He seemed nice enough to you,” Kamith said.

  “He’s a king,” Gunnar said grimly. “Nice or not, you don’t get to the throne without being able to deal with your enemies. And we’re not exactly the type of people he needs to keep around. We could disappear real quickly and nobody would ask a question.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Turee said. “I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

  “Too late now,” Gunnar quipped.

  “Hmmph!” said Turee. Her form stiffened in anger against him, but she made no move to leave.

  Kamith sighed, “I’m going back to sleep.”

  ***

  Two days later, Gunnar loitered in a blacksmith’s shop, looking at the rows of swords. He figured he’d have to get Turee something soon. Eventually, he’d have to bring her down and see what worked best, but he’d wanted to get an idea of what was available. He figured he’d probably need to point her in the right direction, given how little she knew about weapons.

  He was eying a particular seax he thought would work well with her size and limited strength. Longer and more solidly built th
an a knife, but far shorter than a sword, the seax was a close-in weapon built for stabbing and hacking. This particular one ran twenty inches long, fourteen of which was blade. The blade was sharp on one side and on the tip, but the opposite side was dull and reinforced. When looking at the blade head-on, it had the look of an elongated triangle.

  “Can I test this one?” he shouted over to the storekeeper in Trade Tongue. The man nodded and motioned to a log he had set up on two sawhorses. Seax in hand, Gunnar walked over to the log. Dozens of cuts had been made from others testing weapons, many deep into the hard oak.

  Gunnar raised the seax and hacked down hard. The blade bit through two inches of wood, sending chips flying every which way. Gunnar gave it three more hacks, testing the strength of the blade.

  “Satisfied?” the storekeeper asked.

  “Yes,” Gunnar said. “But it’s not for me. Can you put it aside?”

  “For an extra bit, yes,” the storekeeper replied.

  Gunnar sighed, “Agreed. I’ll be back either today or tomorrow with the person it’s for, see if they like it.”

  The man nodded and tucked the seax away in a back room. Satisfied, Gunnar left the store and started making his way back to the palace.

  It was early afternoon and a particularly hot day for spring. The sun beat down noticeably on his face and shoulders as he walked. He felt the weight of his chain-mail under his tunic. He probably didn’t need to wear it, but after Turee’s late-night confession, he’d decided to play it safe. Only the Gods Above knew if she had stepped into a hornet’s nest, and it wouldn’t do to be caught completely defenseless.

  He made his way through the city’s straight streets and up the hill towards the palace. People buzzed about on their daily routines, and the occasional soldier patrolled alone. At the top, he neared the palace gate.