One hand idly picked at the notches along the haft of his broadaxe as he thought back over time. Exactly how many ceilings he had stared up at these past eighteen years, Bolldhe did not care to contemplate. But each time he did so, he was reminded of past ceilings, past beds, past hostelries . . . Past towns, past realms, past continents. Pel-Adan’s holy self, he must have stared up at more ceilings than . . . well, how depressing.
Most of Bolldhe’s nights were spent sleeping rough, which he had long since grown used to. On backstreets that smelt of rubbish and sour milk; in filthy cattle byres; in wet, leafy hop fields; on crowded decks of river-boats; in cemeteries and refuse tips that stank of rotting carcasses; on needle-covered forest floors; high in the trees of rank, mosquito-infested jungles; in the deep cool sands of sighing deserts; on horse-wagons jolting their way through the night; upon precarious rock ledges; in ruined temples; under stone bridges – he sought anywhere in fact where he could avoid the relentless, merciless attention of curious but unwelcoming people.
Those were the worst thing he had to face. Rain, though dismal, he had little problem with after all this time on the road. Night-borne insects, though annoying, he could put up with. Even the danger of predators he could sleep through. But people, they were something else again: ‘Eh, mister! Where from? Why here? What want? Bed? Guide? Weed? Other men here not good, but I from mountains – I honest. Eh friend! Where go? Why not talk? Why you like this? Yeah, well, to hell with you, then!’
Always prying, pestering, grinning, fawning, trotting out the same old lines, same old lies, same old tricks; hanging around seaports, ferry docks, horse-dealers’, lounging about trying to make a fast one; thieves, guides, creeps, black-marketeers, cultists, never leaving him alone, following him, asking, asking, asking, until he thought he would go mad . . .
Faces staring, teeth grinning, beggars begging; surly looks, sidelong glances, blades loosed in their scabbards, furtive hands beneath cloaks with knuckles whitening around hilts. Bolldhe seethed in silent bitterness, still staring at the ceiling, his body stiff with remembered injustices. Sometimes he would carry on right through such a town and not stop till he had left it and its diminishing ranks of inquisitive inhabitants behind him, denying himself the temporary surcease from hunger and hardship that such a place could offer. Anything rather than face that leering throng.
Why could they not just all shove off and leave him alone?
In his more paranoid moments he would allow himself to believe that they were punishing him on purpose because they were jealous of his freedom. But deep down he knew it was a hard, merciless world, and those who dwelt in it had to be just as hard and merciless. He was no different himself.
Sometimes he would become so ill he did not even have the strength to be angry – and he would be pushed to his very limits just to stay alive.
‘Why do I carry on?’ he suddenly blurted out from his bed, only now realizing how he had been muttering to himself all this time.
It was not even as if he enjoyed the travelling. After just a year or so of it, he had found that one place – no matter how exotic – began to look much the same as any other. Once you’ve seen one mountain or desert, you’ve seen them all. The lure and romance of the road he had felt so strongly as a boy, living at home with his mother in far-off Moel-Bryn, had long since vanished. And the freedom he had craved all those long years ago now felt more like a cage than his dull little boyhood home had ever done.
At least in those days he could still dream . . .
Bolldhe turned onto his side and his eyes fell on the cloth pouch he used to keep his charms and baubles in. And that was another thing, he reflected bitterly; it was not even as if all his travels amounted to anything. What had he achieved in all these years? That little purple and blue bag contained almost the sum total of his years on the road. Trinkets of little intrinsic value, ones that had simply caught his eye here and there in some bazaar. Shiny, quirky, dangly novelties he had taken a fancy to. Nothing more to show for a lifetime of great adventure.
He let out a long sigh. Many a time he had been tempted to give it all up and settle down to a normal life. But he had never found anywhere in all his wanderings that really appealed to him; not one single place with enough attraction to keep him from the endless road that ever beckoned him, leading out the other side of town. The open road he hated but could not relinquish.
‘Not one place,’ he reflected, ‘and not one . . .’
He broke off the sentence, but could not so easily break off the thought: Not one place, not one person. There, he had admitted it.
Bolldhe knew he possessed unique qualities; his self-reliance and fierce independence could not be equalled. But for all his uniqueness, he still lacked many of the attributes that would make him more ‘human’. For one, he lacked the basic capacity to love. It simply was not there and, whether it ever had been, in his youth perhaps, he was unsure. But if it had, he had somehow been cut off from that warm sun of affection at such an early stage in his emotional growth that the seeds of love had simply withered.
Bolldhe might occasionally tell himself that it was his travelling lifestyle that denied him the opportunity of finding that special person who might give him peace, but it was not just that. He reached over to the pack he always kept close at hand, and drew out a small mirror made from glass laid over a square of highly polished silver. In its perfect surface he now studied his not-so-perfect visage. True, he had never been a looker by anyone’s standards.
There had been moments in his earlier travels when he had found some kind of friendship. While travelling over vast stretches of uninhabited desert or steppe, he had been forced to team up with others, usually merchants or drovers with their accompanying guards, who were undertaking year-long journeys along the overland trade routes with hundreds of camels, horses and bison. At first he would remain aloof, for he was Bolldhe the Wanderer and knew more than they did about travelling. But as the journey progressed there would invariably be times when everyone, including himself, would have to pull together – call it teamwork if not friendship. It did at least free him from the shackles of his loneliness for a while, and allow him once again to feel the thrill of adventure, to enjoy the sun and wind on his face, to enjoy in company the romance of watching the pinky-orange sun go down over some strange, exotic horizon.
Though he could never admit it, those were the best times he had ever known. But for the rest of the time he was like a ghost drifting amongst humanity but unable to join in. Like an outside observer at some festival or wedding, he could only watch and listen, knowing it was nothing to do with him.
‘Loneliness,’ he pronounced aloud, ‘the Great Soul-Eater.’
A sudden knock at the door aroused Bolldhe from his daydreaming. Irritated at this invasion of privacy, he swung his legs to the floor, walked briskly to the door and yanked it open.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What you want?’
Finwald, taken aback both by Bolldhe’s unfamiliar accent and his brevity, replied, ‘I just wondered if I could have a word. It won’t take long.’
Bolldhe sighed. ‘We already are,’ he said. He could still do with more time to sort out his thoughts on his permanent loneliness; the last thing he needed right now was company.
‘I have to talk with you,’ his unwanted guest persisted.
Bolldhe held the door open for him, and let him make his way to a seat.
‘Well, what is it you want to say to me?’
Finwald realized that small talk was not the order of the day here, so he cleared his throat and began.
‘I know there exists a great difference of opinion on how to slay the Rawgr, so I don’t want to go over the same ground again.’
‘Good,’ Bolldhe interrupted, stretching himself out on his bed again. ‘So don’t.’
Finwald continued, ‘We all know where we stand on that point, and Appa seems to be content to leave the whole problem in your capable hands.’ He paused for the
traveller to reply, but Bolldhe continued to stare up at the ceiling.
‘Only I’ve asked him several times now,’ Finwald went on, perching uncomfortably on his hard stool, ‘what exactly this other method is, involving you, and why he puts such great faith in it. Do you really know how to do the job?’
Bolldhe turned to him and said simply, ‘No. Why? Should I?’
Finwald was, to say the least, a little surprised, and more than a little irked, by Bolldhe’s apparent unconcern. ‘Well, yes, to be quite honest, I think you should know.’
‘You know,’ replied Bolldhe. ‘You said so at the council. So what’s your problem? Starting to have doubts already?’
‘I know, yes, but I’m very concerned about Appa. His mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be, and his ideas are getting more and more fanciful with each year that passes.’
‘How old is he, then?’
‘Seventy, I’m told.’
‘Really? He looks older.’
‘I agree. And I also agree with Nibulus that it’s far too old to be setting off on quests. Especially to the Far North. He’s got twenty-two sheep to think about, and that cow of his that he dotes on so much. He ought to content himself with looking after his flock . . . I’m seriously worried for him, you know.’
‘He seemed happy enough to come along,’ Bolldhe replied blandly.
‘But why should he?’ Finwald persisted. ‘It’s ridiculous! I tell you, Bolldhe, he’s sinking into his dotage, and . . . And if we’re to go trolling off into the worst of the wildlands, the last thing we need is a millstone like Appa around our necks. All because he has this mad idea that he alone can guide you in killing Drauglir . . . Look, I’m not putting him down or anything. What I’m saying is he means well, but anyone can see that concepts like goodwill and truth aren’t going to be enough on this quest.’
‘Aren’t those the same things your cult is all about?’
‘I think you’re missing the point—’
‘I think you’re missing the point.’ Bolldhe said. ‘Your friend Appa thinks he must come and that without him, or me, this whole adventure is in vain. There’s not any telling him otherwise.’
Finwald rose stiffly and paced around the room. He gazed momentarily out of the window, then turned back to Bolldhe.
‘How did you come to meet Appa?’ he asked.
Get lost, Bolldhe thought, for the manner of their meeting was still a sore point with him.
A few days ago Bolldhe had ridden into town from the southeast. It was a dark and windy night, heavy with the threat of a storm, and Bolldhe was feeling in a dark and dangerous mood himself. As he crested the hill that looked down on the warm, orange lights of Nordwas, that old disdain for ‘civilians’ began to stir in him again. He coaxed his horse into a canter, just fast enough to cause his cloak to billow, yet slow enough to make him look menacing in his approach. Despite the weather, there was a crowd of revellers in the market place as he rode through, but no one much seemed to notice his intimidating arrival.
So he stabled his horse and went into the nearby inn. Any attempt to play the part of the cloaked and hooded stranger who sat smoking a pipe by himself in a dark corner was thwarted because all the dark corners were already occupied by other enigmatic strangers. So he had to content himself with sitting at a brightly lit table in the middle of the room, being chatted to by a group of hop-farmers from Ottra, who did not find him particularly unnerving.
It was then that Appa arrived, as if somehow expecting him. Once he spotted Bolldhe, he walked straight over to him as though he knew him, and sat down at the table. That was how it happened.
Bolldhe now looked away from Finwald and replied, ‘Oh, I just came into town a few days ago, and Appa got talking to me at that inn down Pump Street.’
‘The Chase, you mean?’ Finwald looked puzzled. ‘Appa doesn’t normally go into places like that.’
‘Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.’
‘No, I don’t doubt you . . .’ The priest was still frowning. ‘So, what happened next?’
‘He bought me a pint, then asked me if I could help him.’
‘You two had met previously?’
‘Never seen him before in my life. As I said, I’m new in town.’
‘So what did he say to you, exactly.’
‘Something mad about him having a dream in which his god told him that unless I go with him to Melhus Island the whole world will come to an end. That sort of thing.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ Finwald replied. ‘And what did you think about that?’
‘Sounded fair enough to me.’
‘Really. So you decided to come along with us?’
‘Looks like it,’ Bolldhe finished, yawning languidly. Normally he hated people asking him questions, but on this occasion he was partly enjoying it.
‘I don’t believe it!’ Finwald exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Some old priest – a total stranger – just comes up to you in a tavern and demands that you accompany him to one of the worst hell-holes in all Lindormyn, and all because he’s had some crazy dream, and you believe him?’
‘I don’t know why,’ Bolldhe confessed, ‘but I just do.’
That much was true, because Bolldhe never went along with anyone unless he had some reason of his own for doing so. His only vocation was himself, therefore it was an essential part of his nature that he would do things purely on whim. Nearly every journey he had taken, he had done so on a whim. He was a wanderer. So why not? he had thought at the time; he had never seen the Far North and it might be exciting and different. It was a hard land, of course, but who better than he to explore such a place? And it was not as if he expected any real danger there. Just as well, as Bolldhe was no warrior.
But there had also been something about Appa himself that had helped persuade him. There was definitely something about the old priest and beyond him, some urge, a feeling, that called out to Bolldhe.
This feeling was not new, either. For the past few years Bolldhe had been wending his meandering way westwards again, through the Kro Steppes, Tabernacle Plains and Vregh-Nahov, as if guided by Fate. He had no particular desire to return to his native Pendonium, lying further in the west, he assured himself, yet somehow his feet seemed, by ways however circuitous, to inexorably draw him back there. Now in this room, this tiny dorter above the chapter house of Wintus Hall, he sensed his thoughts being tugged back once more to the land of his childhood.
Whether he liked to admit it or not, Bolldhe was coming home. Already he was close enough, back in a country where at long last they spoke a language related to his native tongue. But he did not tell Finwald any of this. He had not even told Appa. They were his private thoughts, and were going to remain so.
Finwald sat back down and inquired, ‘You must have a great deal of faith in Cuna, so are you a Lightbearer?’
Bolldhe snorted. ‘No, I am bloody not!’
‘Then what are you?’
‘Nothing,’ Bolldhe said sullenly. ‘I don’t worship any of your deities.’
’But you do believe in gods?’ Finwald persisted.
‘Oh, I believe in them, yes,’ Bolldhe answered. ‘I seen too much sign of the gods to believe other: temples, villages, whole towns razed; nations enslaved; countries going to war over some petty god squabble . . . Some gods exist, some don’t; but it make no difference to me, because if they exist or not, no way they’re getting any worship out of me.’
Another of Bolldhe’s unique characteristics of independence was that he did not possess that singular mental quality of humans that enables them to deny utterly in their minds that which they must secretly realize to be true, or conversely. He could not therefore make a choice of his beliefs depending on whether they might advantage him or not.
‘I was brought up Peladane,’ he continued reflectively, almost to himself. ‘But I soon recognized that creed for what it is . . .’
Bolldhe broke off and silently rebuked himself. He had not m
eant to give anything at all away about his past.
Finwald was having much difficulty in taking in the enormity of what Bolldhe was telling him: that a man, any man, could exist without faith or creed seemed simply too abhorrent to believe. Bolldhe, however, was used to this reaction, having encountered similar all over the world, and it often amused him to witness such exasperation.
Realizing that he had come up against a brick wall, Finwald decided to leave it at that. He tried another approach: ‘Well, why are you here in Nordwas?’
Bolldhe smirked mischievously. ‘I’m an oracle,’ he replied.
In a way it was true. Bolldhe was indeed an oracle. He told people’s fortunes for a living. If you could call it a living.
It was an odd career for someone brought up to become a warrior. In the small town of Moel-Bryn, in the country of Pendonium far to the west, he was the son of a Peladane, therefore he and his brothers had been brought up as such. His earliest memories were dim, but he did remember always hating the strictures and indoctrination he had been subjected to from an early age. At some time during Bolldhe’s childhood, his father had been killed in a far-off land, and later still, when he was about fourteen, something in the boy had just snapped. Without any warning, he had snatched up his sword, grabbed a few provisions and left home, never to return. He still to this day did not know what had prompted this move; it had just happened without warning, like a bough breaking suddenly under too much snow.
It was fortunate for the youth that Moel-Bryn lay at a crossroads located along an important trade route. He gained employ at first as aide to a mercenary guarding a caravan on its way to the Crimson Sea. But the company was not to his liking, and after six months Bolldhe had struck out on his own. At first, rather naively, he had wandered from village to village in search of work as a casual labourer, but the sort of money he made from such toil hardly enabled him to survive, let alone put something aside for his continuing travels. What he needed was a trade, something that would earn him plenty of money over a short period of time.
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