He went back to picking distastefully at the meal before him, while the lanky youth sitting opposite him got sulkily to his feet and went to meet the pedlar, scuffing his sandalled feet noisily on the stone-tiled floor as he went.
‘Hello, I’m Nipah Glemp,’ the boy announced to the dust-caked stranger who stood before him, then he added politely, ‘Did you have a nice journey?’
A choking splutter of a laugh from Pashta behind him made Nipah realize that this probably wasn’t the best way to greet someone who has just spent the last few days toiling through one of the worst regions of the desert. Nipah Glemp was often described as being ‘alone with his thoughts’, conversation having never been one of his strong points.
‘Hello yourself, young sir,’ the pedlar replied with a fixed smile. ‘I’ve got a few little items in my cart which might interest your master. Perhaps you’d both like to take a gander, eh?’
Nipah smiled nervously, wondering just what to say next.
‘Look, just bloody ask him in, will you, and stop dithering,’ Pashta chided from within.
Nipah stepped back and bade their visitor enter.
‘Well, Xhasha,’ said Pashta, holding a jug of cool black beer to his lips, without offering any to his guest, ‘what valuable little gems to extend the frontiers of human knowledge do you have for me today? Something worthy, I trust? Scorpions’ legs, perhaps, or camels’ teeth? Maybe even (and let us not get our hopes up too high) some strangely coloured pebbles you found whilst rooting around in the latrine of High Priest Brethed’s Temple of Correction?’
Insulting simple folk like Xhasha the pedlar, who came from a part of the country where irony was not readily grasped, was one of Pashta’s less endearing pleasures in life. Xhasha replied: ‘Well, I did have a box of dried fragrant weasel, but I lost that when I threw it after some passenger who ran off without paying me.’
‘A box of dried fragrant weasel!’ exclaimed the alchemist, clasping his hands to his face in simulated delight. ‘What a boon! What a treasure! What a veritable catalytic cornerstone in the development of alchemical science! My heart has not soared so since the time you brought me some powdered seaweed!’
‘What’s seaweed?’ Nipah interposed unguardedly.
‘Weed that comes from the sea, dear boy. Hence: “sea”, “weed”. It looks uncannily like the stuff you served up for dinner.’
‘I’m here as an apprentice alchemist,’ he retorted, ‘not a scullion!’
‘I’m glad you’re aware of that fact,’ Pashta replied, ‘though I’ve seen precious little evidence of your development under my tutelage. Fifteen years old and still can’t translate Quiravian! Anyway, Xhasha, let’s have a look at your hoard of treasures, shall we?’
They all moved from the cool, dark room and out into the fierce heat of the day. There the pedlar dragged the heavy chest to the rear edge of the cart, unlocked it, and threw open the lid. Pashta was already feigning lack of interest before even beginning to peruse its contents.
‘Hmm, not much here, I’m afraid . . . No, got that already, and one of those . . . and I wouldn’t touch that with a billhook. Nothing here I could use, really, unless . . .’
And so the well-practised warm-up to their haggling began.
Nipah Glemp, tall for his age and strikingly handsome, did not at first sight appear to be the obvious candidate for the role of alchemist’s apprentice. The science of alchemy was still very new to this part of the world, and most people (at least those who had any idea that it existed at all) regarded it with extreme suspicion. Educated and uneducated parents alike forbade their children to go anywhere near Pashta’s house after nightfall. Thus the only folk who had any dealings at all with this strange man tended to be rather strange themselves: oddballs, underworld-dwellers and nocturnal wanderers. The ideal apprentice, in most people’s eyes, should have been a slightly hunched, saucer-eyed, bandy-legged youth who mumbled to himself and twitched a lot.
So it was met with much interest when Pashta decided to accept the comely presence of Nipah Glemp into his practice. The boy’s mother, for one, had been surprised and disappointed by his choice of career. But now, five months into his apprenticeship, he was already showing signs of becoming a success at his trade; he was becoming increasingly withdrawn, his face was acquiring a disturbingly wan pallor, and his grooming had taken a sharp turn downhill. Nevertheless he remained highly intelligent, studious, and above all absorbed in his work.
Totally so. He would spend hours poring over the strange leather-bound librams in Pashta’s study, learning the history of far-off lands as well as more relevant subjects. He had assembled his own collection of ancient relics, which he liked to rummage through, trying to imagine what kind of people their previous owners had been. Inevitably he would see them as heroes, and assumed he could become just like them if he honoured the possessions that had once been theirs.
Already he had acquired a great knowledge of how substances worked. At a surprisingly early stage in his schooling he had learnt, and been impressed by, the energy and strange powers that could be unleashed when certain combinations of elements reacted together. A bit like people, he mused. And he was ever keen to try out different substances and experiment with new magicks.
Thus it was always with great interest that he would examine the wares offered by pedlars from afar. Today, however, there did indeed appear to be nothing in Xhasha’s trunks that Nipah wanted to get his hands on; just the standard items that any self-respecting alchemist would already possess. Most disappointing.
The two men were by now arguing quite vehemently; it was mid-afternoon and the blistering heat was doing nothing to cool their tempers. Pashta was as disappointed as his assistant, but Xhasha was livid. His one chance of making this trip worthwhile was unavoidably slipping out of his grasp with every dismissive gesture of the alchemist’s hand. Nipah looked longingly over his shoulder at the welcoming sight of the shady doorway that promised relief from the heat.
As he did so, his gaze fell upon the strange bundle of oily rags perched atop the millet sacks on the cart. Immediately an odd sensation came over him, flashing into his mind and then out again so quickly that it was almost imperceptible. As his regard lingered upon the bundle, the noises of the street faded. He suddenly felt alone in the world, just himself and that oily bundle, and he did not like this sensation at all. A soft, persuasive voice, compelling yet sinister, seemed to call out to him, not from the cart but from far, far beneath the ground. He wanted to cry out, but something in his mind told him to wait and see what would happen.
Suddenly he snapped out of his reverie as Pashta began yelling at the traveller. Taking a deep breath, the youth gazed around at the comfortable familiarity of the street, relieved that his daydream was over but still feeling puzzled. The bargaining seemed to be over, and his master was striding indoors, leaving the frustrated Xhasha, penniless still, glaring at the alchemist’s back as he disappeared into the dark.
‘I came all the way from Ben-Attan for you, mister! Why don’t you buy something?’
Nipah smirked. This had happened before with other pedlars, but such incidents never seemed to bother Pashta. One day, the boy mused, his master’s blunt and mocking dismissiveness would work against him, and his eloquence would not then be able to save him. Still, the wily old goat had managed his affairs shrewdly up till now; he knew what he wanted, and what he did not.
But Nipah was not sure this time. These pedlars travelled all over, acquiring goods that had been transported along trade routes extending right across the world. They often got hold of items that interested the impressionable youth greatly. So what was wrapped up in that bundle of rags that had drawn his attention so strangely?
Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, he quietly lifted himself onto the back of the cart, picked his way through the millet sacks and, still without thinking, grasped hold of the greasy bundle. The sackcloth felt gritty, the oil having become encrusted with a layer of wind-blown san
d, and whatever it contained was surprisingly heavy. Almost certainly metal, Nipah decided, and wondered excitedly what could be inside. Fumbling in his haste, and hoping that Xhasha would continue to be distracted by his ranting for a little longer, he unpeeled the mysterious object from its crude coverings, layer by layer, until its shape became more clearly defined. Surely it must be a weapon, maybe even a sword?
Just then, the sound of the pedlar’s voice drew nearer, still spewing oaths. Within seconds now, Nipah realized, he would be discovered. Why had he not simply asked what the object was, without all this furtiveness? But he had to find out now, so without further thought he leapt over the side of the cart, landed lightly on the dusty earth and stole away out of sight.
Breathing heavily from sheer nervousness, for he was unused to thieving, he rounded the corner of the house, leapt up the notched log leaning against the wall which served as a ladder, and gained the sanctuary of the flat roof above. A trapdoor led down to his room below, and now he could examine his prize undisturbed, secure in his little bedchamber and surrounded by his collection of other relics. His heart was pounding like an engine, not from physical exertion but from the anticipation of discovering just what it was he had purloined. He tore away the last remaining rag as if it were wrapping paper and stared wide-eyed at his latest acquisition.
He had handled swords before, but nothing like the one that lay before him now. Long and curiously fashioned, it possessed a distinct aura of antiquity. There was something rather ominous about it, in the shape, the smell, the feel of it . . . Nipah did not know for sure, but . . .
Actually he did not know anything, where it came from, how old it was, and its shape was totally unfamiliar to him. But he sensed that it was worth more than all his other relics put together. Staring uncomprehendingly at this magnificent blade, a thousand thoughts raced through his mind, while the sweat dripped from his body onto the grubby blanket he perched upon.
‘Nipah, where are you?’ came the irate tones of his teacher from below. The youth only vaguely heard his master complaining, but half-consciously thought: Old fool, see what you missed . . .
And the heavy length of steel, lying across his knees, seemed almost to laugh with him.
‘We’re going to have to find out a little bit about you, aren’t we, sword?’ the boy whispered, and placed it carefully in the storage box beneath his bed.
Fifteen years later, on a high, lonely hilltop, thousands of miles to the north, in the deadest part of the night, a small man knelt in prayer. It was a strange place to be praying, so lonesome and desolate, illumined only by the pale gleam of a half-moon. The town of Nordwas lay at the foot of the hill some way off, too remote to be of any comfort to this solitary figure. The only company he had – or knew of – were the rustling gorse bushes all around, draped in a ghostly, moon-silvered mantle of wind-blown loosestrife-beard, whistling in time with the sudden, irregular gusts of wind that spiralled over the bleak hilltop and cascaded down the other side, then over the moaning pine forest below. A strange place to be praying indeed.
But in most people’s eyes, old Appa was himself rather strange. He had to be, to struggle up the steep hillside at his age, alone in the middle of the night, with only a staff to protect him. Many times he had cursed under his laboured breath as he stumbled over the rocks and stones strewn about the desolate slope, remnants of an ancient temple destroyed long before Drauglir’s time. The breath wheezed and rattled in Appa’s elderly windpipe as he perservered upwards, but his resolve never wavered. Such was the great need that drove him.
However strange he might seem, he was not weird or dangerous, though he managed to discomfit almost everyone he came in contact with. Usually harmless enough when silent and alone with his inscrutable thoughts, whenever he did give voice it was always with a shrill and fiery rat-a-tat-tat making little or no sense to most people.
His face was small and lean, like his body, and scored with the deep lines of age and hardship. But, unlike most folk his age, his small, bright eyes showed no hint of sorrow or regret for times past.
Tonight, as ever, Appa was alone, for no one else ever frequented this place, by night or even by day. It was a place of ill omen, shunned by the local people, and avoided even by beasts and birds. But when Appa had finally reached the hilltop and paused to gaze down into the shallow depression where once the temple had stood, he felt no fear, only relief. There in front of him rose the last stones still intact of the crumbled shrine, pointing like black fingers towards the heavens.
Appa had stood and shivered for a minute before drawing tightly about him his grey, woollen robe, then he picked his way carefully down the treacherous side of the gorse-covered depression.
In the shelter of the hollow it suddenly became quiet, and Appa dropped to his knees upon a low, flat prayer stone the size of a hearthrug. The stars were obscured by gigantic, louring stormclouds that now blew steadily from the North, and the cool night air was soon filled with the familiar smell of moist turf.
Whenever he had something important to brood on, Appa would come here to this ancient holy place of his cult. Alone and undisturbed in the cold, quiet night, he found he could always think much more clearly. And on this night, in particular, he knew he would need both the strength of his own conviction and the wisdom of his deity to guide him through the momentous days to come.
Lord, he prayed, I am old and I am weak. The vigour of my youth has departed me, not just of my body but also of my mind, and doubts gnaw at my resolve like some rotting disease. For seventy years have I dwelt upon this world, seventy long years of toil in your service. I know that whatever days are left to me are few, yet I also know that those soon to come will determine the fate of many, perhaps the whole of Lindormyn! But yet I am confused, for what Finwald is now preaching has troubled me greatly. He serves our cult well, but surely this campaign he advocates against the forces of Evil will jeopardize the future of us all. Please, I beg of you, Lord, tell me more.
He did not even notice the figure now standing on the rim of the hollow, looking down at him. It was tall and broad-backed, and from a powerful pair of shoulders hung a long sleeveless tunic of yak skin. In one hand it gripped a staff with an unlit lantern atop it, and from this hung a string of glistening orbs. Stretched over its head was a coif of satin-soft hide so silvery-white it seemed to absorb the moonglow, while upon his forehead rested a chaplet of translucent stones, lending the appearance of some kind of wizard.
Although the wind up on the height raced past him like a frenzied beast, clawing at his coat and at the long black hair emerging from under the coif, he himself did not move a muscle. As motionless as the standing stones all around, he stared at the kneeling figure below with eyes burning red as glowing embers.
Though the figure stood in full view, silhouetted against the silver-black of the lunar sky, the old priest remained unaware of his presence. Finally, Appa did sense something and looked up sharply. Though the figure remained, all the old man could see were the clouds, the half-moon and the sky.
‘Well, you heard him,’ intoned the stranger. ‘Is that too much to ask?’
All Appa could hear was the wind in the rushes, and the shrill call of a distant night bird.
The stranger continued: ‘All he asks for is a clue, a mere hint of what is afoot. That isn’t much, surely?’ This time there was a hint of pleading in his voice, but it was devoid of any subservience.
There was no answer from the night, save for the sound of the waxing wind. Though these words were directed to a ridge on the other side of the hollow, even if Appa had turned to look behind him, in the same direction, he would have seen nothing. But there they were, all of them.
Standing in a line, facing back over the ruined temple, were several figures where moments earlier only the ancient standing stones had been. It was difficult to tell exactly how many of them there were, as they manifested as shadows that shifted in form between megalith and man, merging amongst each other and also
with the shifting shapes of the night. Their robes were grey, a vapid neutral grey, the colour of ash that has long forgotten the heat of fire. These garments covered their figures so completely that not even the red-eyed one opposite could guess what lay beneath those enveloping hoods.
Like him, they stood motionless except for their wind-whipped raiment, which flew about them in tatters like a mad frenzy of bats. The whole night now seemed to join in a frantic, violent dance as the wind increased to gale force, bending the long grasses first one way then another, and sending spirals of dead leaves flying through the darkness in vortices of madness. The stormclouds raced on across the sky, a rolling mass of turbulence gathering momentum with each minute that passed. Appa peered about himself in alarm, and futilely drew his woollen cloak tighter about his stick-like frame.
All the while, the grey-robed watchers stood silent and unmoving.
Then the middle one spoke at last.
Its voice was hollow, without a trace of emotion, like the slam of a judge’s hammer when sentence has been passed.
‘You are playing a game with us, lord. When Finwald first announced his intention of essaying this quest, we were well within our bounds in letting you suggest to Appa here that he should go too. And when you then insisted he take Bolldhe along with him, again we made no objection. Even when you pleaded with us to give Appa a hint that there was some treachery afoot, yet again we found it in our hearts to comply. But what we cannot do is to continue with this game any further, for perhaps you will only be satisfied when we have revealed each and every secret of your enemy. Have we not already conceded you enough?’
‘No you haven’t, as well you know! These fragments of hints are like mere needles in a pine forest. How can any mortal be expected to make sense out of them?’ The lantern-holder’s eyes glowed even hotter, as he protested.
The Wanderer's Tale Page 3