The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  Instantly the babbling monstrosity disappeared from sight, and then, amid the cyclonic howling of the vortex, a terrified screeching and cracking of bones could be heard. A second later the blurred shape of the broken Leucrota was catapulted, like a rock from a trebuchet, off the path to disappear spiralling into the yawning gorge below.

  ‘Bastard!’ cried Paulus indignantly. ‘That one was mine!’

  Unable to halt their headlong momentum, the three wolves immediately following the Leucrota into the fight also followed it into the outer currents of the Elemental, and were similarly whipped up in the same spinning, yelping, bone-cracking frenzy as their leader.

  While the expectant wayfarers looked on with excited but fearful eyes, the first wolf re-emerged from the spinning cone. Flung in the opposite direction to its leader, it crunched against the rocky slope with bone-shattering impact, then whimpered briefly and died.

  ‘Such power!’ Nibulus whispered, in awe despite himself.

  The second to be ejected was hurled back into the path of the oncoming pack, crashing right into their midst. The impact felled one of them and knocked another over the edge and into the hungry abyss below.

  The third beast, unexpectedly and with stunning velocity, was slung directly into the sorcerer himself. With the full weight of a mountain wolf cannoning straight into his body, Wodeman was knocked back with such force that he slammed into Paulus behind him. Hammerhoof reared up, staggering backwards a few paces on his hind legs, then all three defenders went down like skittles.

  Immediately the Air Elemental slowed, shrank and then stopped. With a sigh it departed. The spell was instantly over.

  Moments later, Nibulus looked up dazedly to find himself pinned beneath the dead weight of his own warhorse. His Great-sword was lying on the path several feet away, Wodeman lay just beyond, while Paulus’s mare was nonchalantly trotting off up the path. Paulus himself appeared to have slid right over the edge.

  And then there were the wolves, a whole pack of them still, just a few yards away, approaching slowly.

  ‘Methuselech!’ Bolldhe yelled as loud as he could. ‘Come back! It’s a trap!’

  Methuselech, however, was clearly in another world now as Whitehorse continued lurching headlong towards the waiting wolf pack.

  Bolldhe reined Zhang to a standstill, scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully, then without too much agonizing, turned back. He fancied his chances now far better with the two warriors and the sorcerer than with any of the others in their group.

  A perplexed and extremely fretful Finwald was the first of them he encountered.

  ‘Bolldhe,’ he demanded, ‘what’s going on?’

  ‘We’ve just fallen for the oldest trick in the book,’ Bolldhe replied hurriedly, ‘The wolf-pack’s split up – other half’s just up ahead.’

  Finwald gasped in disbelief, his faded brown complexion losing what little colour it had to start with. ‘But—’

  ‘No time for buts,’ Bolldhe snapped as Zhang squeezed on past, almost forcing Finwald’s Quintessa over the cliff. ‘We must get back to the Peladane if we’re going to get out of this.’

  ‘But where’s Xilvafloese?’ the priest demanded. Against all rules of his race’s pigmentation, his face was now pure white.

  ‘I don’t know,’ snarled Bolldhe, riding full-tilt back down the path. ‘What’s his religion?’

  ‘O Cuna, save us all!’ Finwald breathed heavily, and straight away turned the whinnying Quintessa to follow Bolldhe. The pure white of his skin had now developed faint traces of blue.

  By the time they had rejoined Appa and Gapp and herded them, too, back down the path, Methuselech was already forgotten. Barely conscious now, and with his face buried in the horse’s mane, only instinct kept his hands gripped on the reins. His mount was now picking its own way.

  Whitehorse snorted in sudden fear and stopped dead in his tracks, stamping his hooves on the dusty ground. The way ahead was blocked by a whole new pack of wolves, and they were less than half a minute away. The horse screamed in alarm; the track here was so narrow he could not hope to turn around, and even if he could, would never outrun the sprinting wolves. And his master was no help at all, slumped across his back and oblivious to the danger they were in.

  It was just then that a gust of damp-smelling air wafted out of the cliff-side just in front of his nose. Nostrils dilated and ears pricking forward, the horse turned his head to one side and saw a split in the rock-face. It was the narrowest of clefts, and had he not paused here he would have simply passed it by. The cleft, however, was just wide enough for a horse to squeeze through, and the moist air that issued from it smelt as if it came from a long way down.

  The horse could now hear menacing growls from the wolves as they sensed that their quarry was attempting to escape. As they increased their pace along the stony path, without further hesitation Whitehorse manoeuvred his ungainly bulk into the gap, and entered further into the cleft.

  At once he was brought up sharp. There was something about the smell of this new place that roused fear in his dull equine brain, and warned him to stay well clear. Whether it was the way in which the currents of cold damp air clung to him with their clammy embrace, or the scent of something ancient and long-forgotten down below, Whitehorse could not discern. But there was definitely a presence here that caused his instinct to scream at him to flee and take his chances outside in the open.

  Whitehorse was not accustomed to making decisions for himself, but a terrible snarl, sounding alarmingly close, made his mind up in an instant. With one last look behind him at the world of light, he threw caution to the wind, and disappeared deeper into the cleft.

  Immediately he was engulfed in a chilling darkness that surrounded him like the black hand of death. The vestigial warmth of the late afternoon was gone as quickly as if it had never been, but the vicious clamour of the thwarted wolves, now reaching the mouth of the cleft, propelled him on further into the darkness.

  Behind him the pack went berserk with fury at losing their prey, snapping at the entrance to the cleft in frustration. But they knew all too well about the dark places of the Blue Mountains, and nothing would get them to follow the horse down there.

  But Whitehorse knew nothing of these fears, and plunged on and on into the darkness. He could hardly see a thing ahead, but was goaded on by the shuddering howls from behind. In his panic he did not realize they had already given up the chase; and, as long they were still within earshot, he was not even going to think about stopping.

  There followed a nightmare for the terrified beast, racing through a chilling, cobwebby dankness that tore the breath from his lungs as if he had plunged into the waters of an icy black lake. His choice, such as it was, having been made, he kept galloping onwards over the slippery wet rocks to whatever awaited below.

  Nibulus had to think hard and fast. In fact he probably thought harder and faster than he had ever thought in his life. But as he lay there, his legs pinned beneath the dead weight of Hammerhoof, and stared fixedly into the hypnotic eyes of the predators just yards away, the sum total of all this hard cogitation merely amounted to a frenzied: Oh hell, I’m going to die!

  He tried to haul his numbed legs out from under the horse, but the animal, clearly not about to get up for some time, was far too heavy to shift. He tried to stretch one arm back far enough to grab his sword, but it was just too far away, and in any case he would not have been able to wield it from this supine position. He roared for help as loudly as he could, but the only voice that responded was the echo of his own.

  Nibulus arched his head back, desperately scanning his surroundings for anything that might help him. It was then that he spotted Paulus’s bastard-sword lying upon the path where the mercenary had dropped it as he fell. It was a sword of renowned sharpness, he knew, and could be used in a pinch . . .

  He stretched his arm over as far as it would go. If he could only reach it, he might be able to convince the wolves that this was one prey b
etter left alone. Or at the very least, he might go down with some dignity befitting a Peladane, instead of being torn apart like a snared badger back home, set upon by a pack of hunting dogs and their turnip-brained, beetroot-faced Aescal masters.

  But the straps of his armour constricted his movement, snagging painfully at his arm so that he could not hope to reach the blade.

  As yet the wolves seemed unsure as to what to do. The complete and swift removal of their leader had changed things, for clearly the Leucrota had been their guiding influence. Some merely crouched there, ready to make a run for it should any further display of magic threaten. Others had already decided not to risk finding out and these scampered off.

  But it was the third group that was most worrying, for they kept slinking forward tentatively on their bellies, undecided if their target was capable of magic.

  If only I could convince them that I can, thought Nibulus desperately, and instinctively raised his gauntleted hand before him and began rotating his index finger in the same way he had seen Wodeman do. It was a bluff that would use up his lifetime’s supply of luck, if it worked, but it was all he could think of at this time.

  Some of the undecided ones promptly made up their minds and hurried away back down the path. The rest froze, but still remained uncertain.

  To add emphasis, Nibulus now began imitating the sonorous chanting of the sorcerer. He did not know the precise words to the spell, being of some strange, archaic woodland tongue he could not hope to comprehend, but then he doubted very much that the wolves did either. He improvised as best he could, and chanted so loudly and earnestly that he began to feel himself being transported along with the magic of the spell. He even started to believe in it himself.

  To his utter amazement, it actually appeared to be working. Those last few wolves finally turned and slunk off with their tails between their legs, and were soon gone.

  Nibulus stared after them in incredulity, hardly daring to believe what he had just accomplished. ‘If only you could have seen that,’ he declared to the unconscious shaman sprawled out on the path up ahead.

  The smile of satisfaction suddenly vanished from his florid face when he heard a stifled grunt nearby. He snapped his head around to scan the edge of the path, but saw nothing.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, confused.

  ‘Who the . . . bloody hell do you think?’ came the voice again, more clearly. ‘It’s me, Paulus! I’m here . . . just below the ledge and I . . . don’t think I can hold on . . . much longer . . .’

  But there was nothing Nibulus could do to help him, stuck as he was under the crushing weight of his fallen horse. Nothing, that is, except bawl at the top of his voice and just hope that one of the rest of the company was still within earshot.

  ‘Xilva!’ he bellowed as loud as he could. ‘Finwald!’

  Nothing. He tried again. ‘Bolldhe!’

  He lay back, panting, his face beaded with sweat.

  A few seconds later, he heard the welcome sound of approaching hooves . . .

  It did not take long for Bolldhe, Gapp and the two priests to arrive and haul the gasping and cursing Paulus back up onto the safety of the path. There he lay, pouring with sweat and already shaking spasmodically in the first stages of a fit. They nervously left him to it and concentrated on dragging Nibulus out from under his fallen horse.

  Luckily the Peladane had not suffered any broken bones, while Hammerfoot, though still unable to get up, did not appear to have any injuries other than a nasty gash to the side of his head after his fall. Wodeman, too, was still breathing but would clearly remain comatose for quite some time.

  The newcomers glanced about themselves in confusion. ‘Where’re the wolves?’ Gapp asked finally.

  ‘Gone,’ gasped Nibulus, struggling with difficulty to his feet. ‘Either gone back the way they came or down there.’ He jerked a thumb down towards the gully.

  They looked at their leader in astonishment and awe, wondering how, even with his redoubtable skills, he had managed to drive off their terrible pursuers whilst he was still trapped beneath his warhorse. But Nibulus kept his silence; this was the stuff legends were made of, and he was not about to cheat the skalds of their chance to sing his praises.

  Appa set about trying to retrieve the shaman through his magic, while Finwald went over to the Peladane.

  ‘Nibulus,’ he said urgently, ‘we’ve got to get going. Bolldhe says that Methuselech was heading straight into another pack of wolves up ahead.’

  ‘Another pack?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bolldhe interjected. ‘They must have split up earlier—’

  By now Nibulus was already limping along the path towards Paulus’s mare, grabbing his Greatsword as he went. ‘Come on, you lot,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got work to do! Appa, bring Wodeman with you as soon as he’s ready, and Flatulus, stop messing about and get your backside over here!’

  But Paulus was not going anywhere for the time being. Already his one good eye was bulging feverishly. This was going to be a bad one . . .

  Leaving Appa, Wodeman and Paulus behind, they came upon the second pack almost immediately, trotting down the path towards them. Without a second’s delay, Nibulus charged straight at them. Now released from the influence of the Leucrota, the wolves did not seem quite so bold, and when they saw the howling warrior charging towards them they simply turned round and scarpered the way they had come. This had been a bad couple of days, and quite frankly they had had enough.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Nibulus, reining his horse in. He cast a look back at his followers as if to say, ‘See, told you I was good.’

  At first they all feared the worst for Methuselech, expecting to come upon a pool of blood and their companion torn apart. But as they searched frantically, it became obvious that there had been no such encounter. Had the horse and rider careered over the edge? Had Methuselech managed somehow to scramble his horse up some high place the wolves could not follow? They searched and they searched, and called out his name.

  Then a shout from Finwald brought them running. The priest was now concentrating on a part of the cliff with a worried look on his brow. There a dark and narrow cleft broke the rock-face, a corridor deep down into the mountains, out of which whistled a dank, evil-smelling wind. As the others crowded round, he held up a finger to quieten them.

  ‘Listen,’ he said softly. ‘Can you hear it?’

  They listened intently and, faint now but growing louder, there could be heard the approaching sound of stumbling hoofbeats echoing out of the darkness, like some form of horse-riding wraith coming out of the earth itself, maybe from a time long past and best forgotten. And then, carried on the eerie currents of air, rose a terrified whinnying.

  Far down into the cleft had Whitehorse gone, the frightened and confused animal descending ever deeper into the very core of the mountain. Far above, a thin ribbon of daylight filtered down, but only enough to hint at shapes and to play tricks on the mind.

  Whitehorse stumbled on down the rocky slide while his rider seemed totally unaware of anything around him. There had never been a time that the poor horse could remember feeling so completely alone, so utterly beyond the reassuring guidance of his master’s hands. Where was that warm safety and control he had known all his life?

  He snorted in alarm and stared wild-eyed into the darkness ahead. There were things around him now, things that his dull horse brain did not understand but that his instincts detected. They floated towards him, forming out of the frigid, eddying mist to weave cobwebs of fear about him. Nasty, evil, sharp-pointed things that wanted not him but his master.

  He wished his master would wake up.

  But Methuselech had awoken, though he did not yet realize it.

  Moments earlier his tormented conscience had risen out of its insensibility into the new world about him. He had been dreaming of great, black, loping hell-hounds with teeth that glowed and gaping jaws that belched fire.

  And those hideous eyes!

  They w
ere chasing him, and he was running for his life through a bewildering maze of rocks that spewed magma and turned into the faces of his companions, grisly, leering faces that spat at him as he passed. There was Finwald, wrapped in a cocoon of leathery bat-wings, his black hair flying about him in the frenzied demon-wind that howled around him, with hollow black eyes piercing into Methuselech’s brain. There was Appa, a brittle skeleton covered with tight-stretched, yellowing skin, a horrible dead thing that should have withered away long ago. There was Radnar, a despicable little imp holding a pair of sharp, gleaming blades that dripped Methuselech’s own life-blood. There was Wodeman, a snarling werewolf from the darkest recesses of night, ready to leap out and tear his heart from its shattered ribcage. There was Paulus, a howling, gibbering obscenity, melting in his fury. There was even Nibulus, his own friend, now a stone giant in rusted iron armour, who reached down for him with massive hands, taloned fingers twitching uncontrollably in anticipation.

  Then he saw Bolldhe, who looked back at him and smiled wickedly. Bolldhe turned and beckoned a second figure, who moved over to stand directly in Methuselech’s path.

  Methuselech stared at this newcomer. It shimmered like a white shroud, and he could see right through it. He looked back imploringly at Bolldhe, but the traveller had now vanished. All that remained was the shade directly in his path. When it raised its hood, Methuselech gasped. The face of the ghost was his own.

  ‘Methuselech Xilvafloese’ – its voice resonated like a funeral bell being tolled deep underground – ‘I am Sluagh. I am your death.’

  Then he awoke with a start to find himself lying face down on something warm and familiar. Was he in bed? Yes, surely, for it was dark enough . . .

  But, no, he could not be awake. In his mind he was still riding Whitehorse, riding him down a narrow, stony passage . . . and why was it so . . . terrible here? So dreamlike?

  No, he must still be asleep.

  Still not aware of it, Methuselech was fully awake, yet in this place, for all he could tell, he was still trapped in his nightmare. Had he known for sure that this was reality, he might have sat up and reined his steed about and headed back to find the others.