The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  Finwald the priest looked over to Nibulus and his father for support, but they too seemed to be in some confusion. Even Methuselech shrugged in bewilderment. What was so funny or provocative? Everyone was familiar with the legend of Drauglir’s second coming. It was true that nobody knew how this legend began, but there were now persistent rumours circulating the markets and taverns of Wyda-Aescaland regarding a resurgence of terrible Evil in the Maw. And for many years now, it seemed, various groups of reckless adventurers had actually been journeying there.

  They had their reasons, these people, some not as virtuous as others. Off to the North they would go, and often that was the last ever seen or heard of them. These disappearances had piqued the imagination of the skalds and gossipmongers, for filling in the blanks with creative fantasy is ever the job of the storyteller, and that which is not known is the blankest page of all. But what had really caused excitement during the last few years were reports of the few groups of travellers that had actually returned. Tales of ‘soured’ people in the Far North, dead men walking, and unspeakable horrors that stalked in dark places, all now added authenticity to the burblings of the skalds.

  So what was the problem here?

  One man stood up and shouted above the din: ‘Horse manure! Have you brought us all the way here just to tell us bedtime stories? Come off it! We all know Drauglir died that day, burned into a heap of bubbling jelly!’

  ‘Yeah!’ cried another. ‘Even if he were to come back, what danger would we be in from that?’

  Then Appa stood up. He was not a natural speaker, not with a voice so weak and croaky, but it was the surprise of seeing him dare to stand up at all that stilled the crowd.

  ‘I can endorse my brother Finwald’s claim, for I too am a Lightbearer and have known this man beside me for many years. I can assure you therefore that he does possess powers – as do all true followers of Cuna.’

  Unfortunately, such confirmation from just another Cuna priest, and a senile one too, proved less than helpful in convincing them. But eventually there did arise support of a kind from unexpected quarters. For a number of Peladanes from the most northerly regions now made themselves heard, and it seemed that there were indeed stories rife in their villages about the ‘escape of the hell-hound Drauglir from his icy fastness’.

  One such soldier, from the village of Wrache on the northern fringes of Wyda-Aescaland, began. ‘There came from the North one night a storm o’ such violence and fury that the whole village fled to the temple, for within its stony fortitude we did hope to find sanctuary. And there, as the tempest scream’d outside carrying upon it diabolic voices that no wind nor rain should ever make, we came to realize that this was no storm born o’ the heavens, but rather from the reeking mouth o’ Hell itself. The smashing o’ slates, the felling o’ trees, the ripping-up o’ fences, all could be heard as the tempest went about its destructive task.

  ‘But within the House o’ Pel-Adan we was safe . . . or so we’d believ’d. For anon rose, above the havoc o’ the winds, an utterance that brought a terror into our hearts such as none gather’d there had ever thought possible; ’twas the clamour o’ demons, like as the baying o’ the Black Dog itself, and round and round the shaking building it tore in its ire. Great rending sounds as of some terrible talon could we hear upon the door, and a hammering upon all the shutters so strong it was only Faith that held them from splintering asunder.

  ‘’Course it could not get in as long as our faith held fast. But there was those in our company what were going mad with fear, and t’would not be long ’fore their minds departed forever, such was the horror o’ the Beast that raged without. And when finally the steeple came crashing down in ruination, Thegne Toktoson took up his Greatsword and went out to meet it. He slid back the bars, wrench’d open the door, and in that second all the fury o’ the Black Place burst into the temple. Thrice round the sanctuary this pack o’ fiends tore, as we curl’d in an agony o’ fear upon the flagstones.

  ‘And then, suddenly as it’d enter’d, it was gone . . . just not there. The tempestuous manifestation died, the trees ceased their tumult, and we all stagger’d to our feet. What’d befallen, we never found out, but t’was Thegne Toktoson what saved the day. And there he was, upon the floor by the portal, his head ripped clean off by the Hell-Hound.

  ‘T’was Drauglir, I tell you. O’ that there’s no doubt in my mind.’

  Those at the head table relaxed a little; the words of the Peladanes of Wrache, a place too far to be considered in the pay of the Wintus household, did more to quieten the assembly than the words of any priest. They were a hardy and honest lot, less given to the excesses of their more southerly peers, and were held in a kind of grudging respect by other Peladanes.

  One soldier, the leader of a band of archers from Rhelma-Find, then spoke up: ‘Holy man here zsay Drauglir will rize, and man of Wrache say he already riz. Either way, far as we concerned you all talking manure: Arturuz Bloodnoze zstuck hiz zsword into Rawgr’z heart, then dezstroyed corpse with fire! That the way it alwayz done with Hell-thingz. Zso that an end to it; how can Drauglir pozsibly rize again?’

  There was a general buzz of agreement. Like beez.

  But Finwald was unflustered: ‘To start with, Arturus never so much as laid hands on the Rawgr. It’s a well-documented fact that it was by the hands of one of Drauglir’s own servants that the demon’s heart was pierced.’

  This much at least was not too shocking a revelation to those listening, as there had always been doubt as to who had actually thrust the blade in.

  ‘And are you really such an authority on the subject of rawgr-slaying that you can assure us all, and the good men of Wrache here, that burning the body would be enough to destroy one? Can you truly gainsay the word of those who have spent their lives studying this legend? Are we to risk the entire world on just the theories of an archer from . . . wherever it is you come from? I venture to suggest that you are suffering from the same delusional over-confidence that afflicted the Peladanes five hundred years ago. You see, their great error was in mistaking the correct way of slaying the Rawgr . . .’

  Immediately there was an uproar. All the Peladanes in the hall surged forward and bayed their outrage, and it did not look as if they could be placated this time.

  ‘What was that you were saying about delusional over-confidence?’ Nibulus hissed at the priest, as the Peladanes began a war-chant denouncing mage-priests, Lightbearers and all things civilian.

  All the Peladanes, that is, except the Warlord and his son, who had already endured this same argument with Finwald earlier. After a few ugly minutes, their intervention calmed the crowd down enough to hear Finwald further.

  ‘I know how galling it must be for you to stand around listening to some follower of Cuna tell you what is and what isn’t right. Believe me, I’m not enjoying this, but it is of the utmost importance that we sort out this problem right here and now. If not, we will still be arguing when the skies are red with fire creeping down from the North, and while the leprous serpents of Hell come slithering into our children’s cots!’

  He paused, struggling to keep the shrillness from his voice. He had never been the preaching type. ‘There is, however, a correct way to slay a rawgr-lord—’

  ‘And that iz to immolate the body in fire,’ persisted the archer, to whoops of triumph from others nearby.

  But Finwald would not be deflected. ‘Wrong! According to every demonology I have found, and which I have shared with my honourable associates here at the table’ – there was a nod of assent from the Warlord – ‘the only way to destroy a rawgr-lord of Olchor is to pierce the heart and the brain with a magical blade. Failing that, a weapon of silver-plated iron will do. Any other method will most decidedly not do. That is a fact.’

  There followed a heated debate on sundry ways of killing a rawgr-lord, which raged on for nearly an hour. Most stuck firmly to the popular belief that burning was adequate. A few, mainly foreign mercenaries, had also heard
tell that silver-plated iron would work, and sided with Finwald. But no matter how eloquently he argued, the priest could not convince them that a sword through both heart and brain was the surest solution. Finally, in frustration, he said, ‘Then if you are right about immolation by fire, how come it failed the last time?’

  As soon as the words had left his mouth he cursed himself for his own stupidity. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘How do you know it did fail?’ was the reply from a hundred throats. ‘It is only you who claims otherwise. For all we know, Drauglir was slain there and then.’

  Finwald took a deep breath and, truly believing his conviction would save the day, proclaimed: ‘It is not I that claim this truth; it is my god.’

  Straight away the very air of the sweaty chamber turned even sourer, as close on a thousand voices bawled out their disdain. It sounded like feeding time at the hyena house. Finwald closed his eyes in despair, while Nibulus covered his face with one hand, not sure whether to groan at his dwindling hopes of raising an expeditionary force, or to laugh at Finwald’s stupidity. Gapp merely looked away – he simply was not here in this hall any more.

  The derision continued until Appa once more rose to his feet.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust us on this,’ he croaked in irritation. ‘If you refuse to believe that it is Cuna who has revealed this message to him, then just believe that it is your own deity too who warns you. If there are any here who simply cannot accept the possibility that Drauglir yet lives, they may as well leave right now, for we have no need of them!’

  Many took up this challenge and immediately departed. They had heard enough. With a third of the assembly now walking out the door, and those remaining only doing so because of the presence of the Warlord himself, Finwald had to try a different approach – his last-ditch attempt to win them over.

  ‘Is not your god Pel-Adan considered the greatest enemy of Olchor?’ he inveigled. ‘Is it not Pel-Adan and his loyal followers who have always been the foremost stumbling-block to Olchor’s malign machinations? So does it really seem so improbable to you that the Sword of Pel-Adan – the very talisman of your cult – is the key to Olchor’s downfall?’ He studied them closely and then added carefully, ‘Do you not believe in the power of your own god?’

  Well, that just about did it for the council at Wintus Hall. The Warlord had entirely misjudged the mood and reactions of both the Peladanes and the mercenaries. The ensuing uproar denouncing the mage-priests and their blasphemy was visibly apparent to those at the head table in a sea of furious red faces, slobbering tongues and glaring eyes:

  ‘Insolence!’

  ‘Get him out!’

  ‘Stand down, preacher man!’

  ‘Shove off, beanpole!’

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  Finwald looked down in despair. The visions he had of raising a vast army of highly trained soldiers were fading from his mind with every chant of outrage.

  ‘You’re not handling this very well, are you?’ Nibulus stated mildly.

  This at least could not be denied; the hall was emptying so fast it looked as if someone had pulled a plug from the floor of Wintus Hall. Within just ten minutes the company were staring at an audience of no more than thirty men. As the last Peladane stormed out of the hall, he yelled back at the Warlord: ‘How can you allow this infidel to speak thus?’ Artibulus stared expressionlessly at the man, who quickly continued his exit. Soon, all that could be heard of the departing Peladane were his echoing footfalls, and then were all gone. Finwald’s grandiose plans went out of the door with them.

  The remainder sat uncomfortably on the desolate benches, each with an embarrassingly large empty space to either side of him. Gapp noted with displeasure that the grim-faced mercenary with the crow’s feathers sticking out of his hood still showed no signs of leaving.

  There was a profound silence in the chamber, interrupted only by the occasional cough from one of the diminished audience. Nibulus began drumming his fingers on the table-top; Gapp wanted to bury his head in his hands.

  ‘Well,’ announced Finwald, ‘as I was saying—’

  ‘I wouldn’t say anything,’ Nibulus interrupted. ‘We’ve lost enough of them as it is.’

  Finwald frowned and lowered the brim of his hat to cover his eyes.

  Then Appa spoke up coldly, ‘Well, what are you lot waiting for? If none of you believes this is any more than fairytale nonsense, why don’t you just leave too?’ There was a distinct note of challenge above the defeat in his voice.

  Methuselech, perhaps feeling sorry for his friends at the table, stood up and replied simply: ‘Because we don’t believe this is nonsense.’

  ‘No,’ interjected another. ‘The Wintus family has too great a reputation to risk throwing it away on the dreamed-up fantasy of some upstart mage-priest.’ He then stood down, happy with himself for managing to insult both Finwald and the Wintuses in one statement. But at least it seemed their scanty audience was willing to hear more.

  Nibulus stood up and tried a different tack, one which he knew was more likely to win them over than any sense of obligation, and that was pay! Warlord Artibulus did, after all, control exceedingly large amounts of money.

  Ah, now you’re talking. Artibulus nodded in approval.

  Terms and conditions of service, estimated duration, individual precedence, all these Nibulus outlined as briefly as possible, and left till the end the thorny subject of finally destroying the rawgr-lord Drauglir, assuming he was even still alive. But before he could expand on that, he was interrupted by one of the remaining soldiers.

  ‘We don’t know if that thing is still alive, and to be honest I couldn’t give a damn any more. So long as we get properly paid, that’s all I’m bothered about, but we still have to work out how to kill him before we get there. If he’s still about, there’s no way then I’m going to stand around while you lot are still bickering about how to destroy him.’

  Nibulus sighed. ‘Look, if it pleases you, we can use every method suggested to us: pierce the heart and brain with silver, and also with a magical blade; set the bugger alight, drown him in gravy, stick a billhook up his backside, whatever . . . I can pass round a sheet of parchment right now and you can all write down any method you want. That way everyone should be satisfied, so long as we’re properly equipped beforehand. Finwald . . . ?’

  ‘My method,’ Finwald replied, holding up a silver shortsword. ‘I possess no magical blade, so have had this one made.’

  ‘This is all very well,’ butted in the last soldier irritably, ‘but according to my count we’ve listed no less than eleven different ways to kill the bastard. Exactly how long is it going to take to complete all of those, and just what is Drauglir going to be up to while we’re doing all this to him?’

  ‘Twelve ways,’ corrected Appa, and all heads turned towards him.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Nibulus said, ‘I was wondering when we’d get round to Bolldhe.’

  The balding, red-faced foreigner did not show any reaction. He knew the ways of men better than most, and clearly was not about to waste his time trying to convince anyone of anything. Remaining seated, he merely nodded and returned his gaze to the table-top in front of him.

  So, instead, the old priest Appa rose to address the prospective campaigners. ‘Brave enemies of Olchor, a while ago I had a vision. In that vision my lord Cuna told me — ’

  ‘Oh no, here we go again,’ said a bored voice from the rear.

  ‘He told me that I too must accompany my colleague Finwald upon his quest.’

  This was met with a burst of cruel but predictable laughter. Though none of them had actually been there, the Far North was well known to be one of the harshest and most inhospitable regions of the known world. Appa, however, did not exactly look the hardy sort.

  But the old priest was undeterred: ‘Yes, I, Appa the worn-out old cleric, was told I must also make the journey to Vaagenfjord Maw. And there was one destined to go with me, one who has
already travelled the world. This man, Cuna revealed, would arrive unexpectedly from the East, going by the name of Bolldhe. And though not a follower of Cuna, he would be sent with Cuna’s blessing. For he is the one destined to destroy forever the Evil of Drauglir. Yet he would have no understanding of his mission, or even how to accomplish this sacred task.’

  At this Bolldhe simply smiled and nodded.

  ‘But at the end,’ Appa went on, ‘he would know, and it would be up to me to help enlighten him. That’s how my vision ended – but a week later the very man arrived amongst us.’

  All eyes were now on the traveller. He certainly did not look anything special. Judging from the weird array of clothing and accoutrements, he could hale from just about anywhere on the face of Lindormyn. Apart from the rawhide trousers, deerskin tunic and stoatskin cloak, which might have been purchased from any trader right here in Nordwas, nothing else he wore looked familiar. Everything else was alien to them: the garnet-studded leather belt from which hung a lizard-hide waterskin; the necklace of bizarrely shaped teeth sporting a large and opaque pale-blue gem in the centre; those heavy jade bracelets covered in exotic runes; the scimitar-shaped brooch-pin . . . And what about the strange tattoos on the backs of his hands: some kind of horned serpent, or dragon perhaps? Clearly this was a well-travelled man.

  But why was this ordinary-looking man attired so extraordinarily? Though obviously no warrior, he did at least look fit in a wiry sort of way; a man who could look after himself. He had about him the ragged, unsleek look of a wild hare: in the constant watchfulness in his eyes and the careful way he held himself. While Peladanes and mercenaries lounged, this man seemed taut and ready to spring away at the first sign of danger, a man canny enough to dodge any opponent, or double back with a speed that would throw off any predator.

  In short a loner, and a survivor.

  All eyes remained on the traveller, but if they expected him to say anything, they were in for a long wait. Bolldhe just gazed back at them with an expression that seemed to say: Yes, can I help you?