The aged cleric Appa was also sitting at the table, looking frailer than usual after his night out in the hills. His eyes were cast down, his head resting upon one hand, and he looked as if he bore the troubles of the whole world on his back. The fingers of his other hand were clutched in his thick cropped grey hair. Nobody else at the table talked to him, or even acknowledged his existence. They preferred, like most others, to avoid this mad old priest, who incessantly mumbled mantras whilst rapping his ring against the Cuna symbol on his chest, and who smelt permanently of the ewe’s butter that the priests used to mould their candles. And he, for his part, seemed completely oblivious to the present company.
‘Looks as if your brother priest’s had a good night on the town,’ Nibulus commented to Finwald without bothering to lower his voice. ‘Didn’t know he had it in him.’
Finwald smiled uncomfortably. ‘I know he seems a bit odd, but he really is a good man. We often disagree on things . . .’ He broke off to scan the room again.
The chamber had now filled to total capacity, with still no sign of the Warlord, and most of the warriors and mercenaries were becoming visibly impatient. The waiting was even worse for Gapp, though, as his discomfort over being stared at increased.
Armpits, he realized, he’s still doing it!
Gapp had never seen anyone so grim-looking in all his life, not even amongst all these other murderous ruffians here today. The staring one seemed to have something very wrong with his face; exactly what Gapp could not say, for it was shaded by a great, charcoal-grey hood with two long crow’s feathers sticking out to the left side. Maybe he was trying to hide his features because he was wanted by the local militia? Not impossible, Gapp considered, since there had been reports of Tyvenborg thieves operating in the area recently. Even the soldiers sitting on either side of the hooded man seemed to regard him with distaste, judging by the way they kept edging away from him on the crowded bench. All Gapp could definitely make out was a single eye staring back at him, pale and deathly.
He shivered involuntarily. These mercenaries were definitely not to his liking. Nibulus might feel easy in their company, but Gapp quailed at the thought of travelling with men such as these.
As the tumult of impatience increased, he glanced nervously down the length of the head table. There were eleven places in all, and the council would only commence once all of these were occupied. But at present there were only seven men here, the remaining places being for Warlord Artibulus himself and his household officials. Those already present were himself, Nibulus and his two uncouth friends, Finwald, Appa . . .
. . . And that weird-looking foreigner who had entered earlier with the old priest. Who exactly he was, Gapp could not guess. He did not look anything special, at first sight just a balding, red-faced bloke in his thirties with bloodshot, bulging eyes and a bit of a strange leer.
Gapp appraised him for a moment longer and then was suddenly struck by a profound sense of melancholy. This emotion startled the boy considerably, for he could think of no reason for feeling this way. Unlike most of the mercenaries, this one looked neither brutal nor psychotic, nor did he seem to evince any of the arrogance and superiority that were the natural disposition of the typical Peladane. Could it be possible this was no warrior?
But there was nevertheless something about him that frightened the boy. There was something bleak and unsettling in his bloodshot eyes, in the way he kept himself very much to himself, not even conversing with Appa. It was all very suspicious, a mage-priest of Cuna associating with one such as this, and Gapp had an ominous feeling that this man was a harbinger of deep, dark secrets. The thought stirred up all the sadness, fear and loneliness in Gapp that he would rather forget. Particularly the loneliness.
He shook his head to clear it of such nonsense. The newcomer, he remembered now, was just that fellow Bolldhe, who had something significant to do with the quest; the one whom Appa had insisted must come along for the good of them all.
But exactly what did Appa mean? So far he had not given a single hint as to why this stranger was so important. And it did seem a tad suspicious that the cleric should be hatching secret plans with a foreigner—
Suddenly there was a fresh disturbance at the front of the throng. Someone new was pushing through to the head table, gesticulating and calling out urgently. It was yet another foreigner – really foreign this time – with dark skin, billowing robes and (of more immediate concern) a vicious, five-foot length of shining steel gripped tightly in both hands. In one dextrous bound he was suddenly clear of the crowd, and landed noiselessly upon the table right in front of Nibulus.
‘Death to the Green Ones!’ he cried, sword held high above Nibulus’s head.
Gapp and the others at the table gaped in horror, but Nibulus himself remained motionless. Then the huge blade sliced downwards . . .
. . . And stopped less than an inch from the Peladane’s skull.
‘Hi, Methuselech,’ Nibulus said cheerily. ‘Would you like a drop of wine?’
The desert warrior lowered his sword gently and, all in one movement, he sheathed the weapon in its scabbard, then jumped to the floor and clasped his old friend in a joyous embrace.
‘Xilva!’ Nibulus laughed. ‘Glad you could make it, old pal.’
Gapp’s eyes were wide with wonder. Though he had heard stories of the famous Methuselech, as had everyone in Nordwas, until now he had never set eyes on him. And what a sight he was, with that huge curved sword, the ornate hood with its tassels of braided wool hanging down his back, and the two fine golden chains that ran from each pierced ear to a pierced nostril. Incredible! Who here in the drab northlands would have the audacity to dress like that? This tall, lithe, handsome soldier of fortune evoked all the mystery of the legendary southlands that had fascinated Gapp so much since early childhood. This was about as exotic as it came, and Gapp’s heart surged with a giddy excitement at the thought of the days to come. In that one brief moment, his soul was filled with a bottomless yearning for adventure.
‘Fatman.’ The newcomer beamed, his open smile mirroring the happiness evident in Nibulus’s face. ‘It’s great to see you.’
The man’s olive complexion and long jet-black hair, kept out of his eyes by a scarlet headband, identified him as a member of one of the tribes of desert-folk who dwelt in the Asyphe Mountains, impossibly far away.
‘Well, well, well! I always hoped you’d turn up,’ Nibulus went on. ‘How’s Phalopaeia?’
‘Oh, still alive. Still spending all my money.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Same as ever: rank, sweaty and covered in jam.’
‘Come, have some wine. Or some porter? In fact, let’s get pissed!’
He turned to the others at the table. ‘Everyone, meet Methuselech Xilvafloese, a trusty old friend from way back. We used to ride together on my old man’s holy wars against the warriors of Frea-Vilyana.’ He gestured for Methuselech to take a seat in one of the vacant places, then went on with his introductions.
‘Uh . . . hullo,’ Gapp replied when it came to his turn. He wanted to say so much more, but this was the best he could manage in the presence of such sublime godliness. Just look at him! The gold of his boots and cummerbund shone like the flames on the highest temple altar, bringing with it the reflected warmth of hotter climes; the colour of his cloak’s lining was not merely red, but the scarlet of the blood of the gods themselves; while the dazzling white of his baggy shirt and trousers shone with a brilliance that surely no mortal bleacher anywhere on Lindormyn could match.
The black of his cloak, however . . . well, that wasn’t any superior to the local black. No, Aescals, he had to concede, were good at all things black. Why did everything have to be so drab up North? Gapp’s own varicoloured tunic seemed to him so washed out, faded and dull – even the hues that were meant to be showy.
The desert man merely scanned the boy up and down without a word. Gapp was summoning up courage to address the newcomer further but just th
en, with a strident fanfare, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus finally arrived. Flanked by two personal bodyguards, his scribe, his steward and his accountant, all arrayed in their finest livery, he strode towards them with a solemnity and pomp normally associated with royalty. Resplendent in green, white, black and gold, Artibulus bore upon his chest the xiphoid purple badge of Unferth, representing the sword of Pel-Adan himself and which could only be worn by a general. Armour that shone with the lustre of chrome glittered beneath every gap in his raiment, and his hair and even his face gleamed with a special radiance, as if he had just plunged his head into a tub of syrup.
Many immediately leapt up from their seats and began to cheer and clap, adding their throaty voices to the general cacophony of the ear-splitting fanfare. Others, however, just sat where they were with their fingers in their ears. Those at the head table rose as one, in greeting. Even Bolldhe tiredly got to his feet and expressionlessly imitated their salute.
‘My most noble warriors of Pel-Adan, and honoured guests from afar,’ announced the herald, though few could hear his words, ‘I present to you, the most High and Excellent, Splendid and Magnificent, the pre-eminent Peladane of the North, the Warlord Artibulus Wintus!’
The cheering waxed into an uproar as the Warlord grandly paraded through them. Holding his head high, he nodded left and right in gracious acknowledgement. A thousand heads strained forward to better view this near-god who now walked among them, almost swooning from the opiate charisma that emanated from his transcendent majesty. Even those who had suffered at his hands over the years now roared in jubilation, eyes moist with fervour. The heady aroma of herd instinct could be smelt for miles around.
Mounting the dais, Artibulus took his seat in the centre of the long table. Gapp, now that he saw him close at hand for the first time in his life, could not help feeling that the man looked more like a wealthy merchant or banker than a warrior.
Though Methuselech hastily faded into the throng, Artibulus noticed him immediately. His noble mien lightened for a moment as he smiled in surprise at his trusted comrade-in-arms. Meanwhile, the crowd began to quieten, and waited expectantly. All eleven places at the head table were now occupied, so the council could commence.
Then the herald rose. ‘Most honoured guests and companions of the Warlord Artibulus, I present to you his son and heir, Thegne Nibulus Wintus.’
‘At last,’ murmured Nibulus, rising excitedly to his feet. This was the first time that his father had allowed him to take full charge of the proceedings, and make his first address to a council. And moreover this was to be his campaign, and he would not let the old man forget that. With one last glance towards his father, he faced the throng.
Now that Nibulus was facing ahead, the Warlord’s syrupy eyes studied his son unblinkingly. Artibulus, like many a Peladane, had never considered it particularly important to get to know his son, and he could not help but speculate about his performance now. The lad seemed worthy enough, the sort you could depend on in a tight spot. But what about his oratory and leadership skills? How would he handle them? What demands could he make of his men that would still sound like promises?
Nibulus cleared his throat. ‘Right, first I would like to thank my father for hosting this gathering today,’ he began, ‘and also thank you all for attending on this, my first . . . campaign.’ He savoured the word, drawing it out luxuriously.
Pel’s Bells! Artibulus rolled his eyes and his gaze rose up to the vaulted ceiling.
‘I shall come to the point,’ Nibulus went on. ‘I realize that many of you are under the impression that, following our triumph over the Villans of Frea-Vilyana three years ago, we are here to raise another army to repeat such a victory.’
There was a general buzz of approval from the throng, many of whom were veterans of the Villan crusades and, having spent most of their spoils already, were keen to have another crack at the enemy. For many, too, the sacking of cities and general harrying of the South was their only escape from a life of relentless boredom.
Nibulus changed tack: ‘However, since our last victory over them three years ago, those southern upstarts are of little concern to us now . . .’
The first murmurings of surprise and disappointment began to be heard, and Nibulus resisted the temptation to look at his father, though well imagining the expression on the old man’s face. Still, there was no avoiding the subject now, so best to get it out of the way the soonest.
‘No,’ he affirmed authoritatively, ‘there are far more important matters to concern us now, my friends. The force of elite warriors I intend to raise today will be granted the honour of defeating an even older, greater enemy, a threat that is now poised to engulf us all. For an ancient terror is once again stirring across the land.’ He paused for effect, as his father had taught him. ‘I lead you against the vile forces of Olchor and his minions!’
There was a buzz of surprise at this announcement, but one of interest too. Olchor, the ‘Evil God of Death’, was not only recognized as one of the most powerful deities in existence but as the common enemy of all others, immortal and mortal alike. His cult was one of the oldest in the world, and his worshippers were many. His temples lurked in many places, some veiled, shadowy and primordial, others bold, shining and new. And their priests, the necromancers, were feared by all; some of them were reputedly so ancient that they hardly resembled any other race that dwelt upon the face of Lindormyn, either because of inconceivable decrepitude or, in the case of those with the greatest powers, because they were born in an era so far distant in the past that mankind then simply did not look as he did nowadays. In some cases their true age transcended the count of years, for their beginning occurred before numbers had even been conceived. And there were other necromancers barely out of their childhood, proud acolytes given to saturated excess and sanguine ostentation.
If there was one sacred cause that could unite the different religions and bickering factions of this world, it would be a crusade against Olchor. So the crowd now listened attentively as Nibulus continued, the very air becoming dark with anxiety.
Well, Nibulus considered cheerfully, that wasn’t too painful, was it?
‘As you know,’ he went on, ‘Peladanes have always stood uncompromisingly against the devilish schemes of Olchor, and it is because of this noble tradition that my father has agreed to fund this quest . . .’
There was a snort from Bolldhe, who swiftly clamped a hand over his mouth, but said nothing.
‘. . . but it is only right that I now hand you over to the instigator of this holy quest. My friends, I give you Finwald.’
It was not often that Artibulus’s face registered expression, but on this occasion it bore one of quiet astonishment. That’s it? A few mumbled mewlings and you’re going to pass the sceptre to a civilian?
Finwald rose dutifully, amid a general hum of irritation, contempt and hostility from the crowd. This priest was absolutely not welcome here in the hall of warriors. Finwald glanced nervously down at the Warlord’s son, but Nibulus merely motioned him to get on with it before any catcalls started.
The priest cleared his throat and began, ‘Brave fighting men’ – then immediately realized how feeble he sounded in this cavernous hall. He quickly raised his voice, though in doing so found that it now quavered like a boy’s.
Nibulus joined his father in staring ceilingwards.
‘Undoubtedly you are all aware of the many forms and guises that Evil entity has assumed in the past,’ Finwald continued bravely. ‘Ever and anon will the Father of Lies send out his minions to corrupt our world, and it has always fallen to men such as yourselves to stand in their way. Indeed every page of history is written with such strife. Some of these servants of Evil are well known to us, others less so, but it is of one pernicious above all that I now speak, namely the Rawgr-lord, Drauglir.’
The hostility from the throng instantly faded, but the contempt multiplied tenfold. Drauglir was infamous as one of the most dangerous Rawgrs ever to have e
xisted, but that was half a millennium ago. So what was this string-boy doing, telling them all this rubbish?
‘Over five hundred years ago,’ Finwald hastened on, ‘this same terrible demigod held sway over the whole of the Far North, threatening to infect our entire world with the plague of his Evil. It was only a timely and unprecedented league of Peladanes, Oghain-Yddiaw, mercenaries of Vregh-Nahov and others that finally cut out that abominable cyst and hurled it onto the triumphal bonfires of Justice. His land was invaded, his fortress besieged, and he, together with all his vile minions, was thrown down. Not one soldier or necromancer of the Maw was left alive, and the entire accursed place was purged of Evil.’
He paused for breath, then continued quickly. ‘However, the sword of Arturus Bloodnose did not eliminate forever the name of Drauglir. Such dire entities have a knack of hanging on, and even now there persists the legend that one day Drauglir would rise again, after five hundred years. Just about now, in fact.’
Another nervous pause. ‘As anyone in Nordwas can tell you, I myself possess an exceptional skill in theurgy – meaning I can contact the spirits to request their advice. I do not boast in saying this; I simply tell the truth, as many will gladly verify. Over recent months I have been in contact with my deity, and he has revealed many things. So it is my woeful duty to vaticinate to you all today, my friends, that the legends concerning Drauglir’s second coming are true. He will be among us again before the year is out!’
There was a moment’s silence, then the entire hall erupted in raucous laughter. There were also angry shouts, and at one point a throwing axe thudded into the table in front of Finwald. The offender was swiftly removed and (as Finwald learned later that day) his fingers ceremonially fed into the gear mechanism of the nearest watermill, but the whole reaction was totally unexpected by those sitting at the head table.
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