The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  Instead he just lay there across the horse’s neck and waited for the nightmare to run its course.

  Run its course it did. Right to the end.

  Sounds that were only half heard, half imagined, drifted up through the cleft on the poisonous air. They were like the voices of the dead, voices from the past, voices full of a brooding hatred fuelled by the passing of centuries. Methuselech kept his head down and tried to hold on to his courage; surely the night would soon be over and he would awake from this evil reverie.

  The voices, however, seemed so real that eventually Methuselech looked up through reddened eyes. Every slimy, dripping rock surface seemed to take on the shape of a snarling muzzle, flesh-ripping and dire. Every wispy growth of vegetation trailed lazily in the air currents like a dead man’s beard. And where pale patches of slime-encrusted rock showed through the ancient layers of moss that clung to it, Methuselech could see only the bones of mangled warriors.

  A denser mist crawled out to meet him from somewhere down below where the passage ended. Spilling up out of the shadows ahead it approached him like some primordial phantom of terror till he felt he was travelling down into the darkest, most fearful pit of his subconscious.

  Ah, if only it were just that!

  He could sense it now rolling towards him in a tidal wave of blackness. Something down there was waiting for him, lurking like a malignant, bloated spider. But still he could not turn back, even though he knew it would always claim its victim in the end.

  For it was Death that lurked down there: Sluagh, the final truth; the baring of his soul.

  Then, even through the fear that numbed his senses, Methuselech suddenly realized that he had ridden out of the confines of the cleft and they were now out in an open space. His horse finally stopped, as if unable to continue, and the cold wrapped itself around them like a moist cadaver’s glove.

  He looked about. On all sides rose great cliffs of jagged black rock, trickling with water and hung with glistening cobwebs, which soared up hundreds of feet to the distant sky above. Below them, scant inches to their left, the ground fell away into some kind of vast pit. Methuselech rubbed droplets of condensing mist from his eyes and peered over the edge.

  It was from here the mist emerged. He could see it slowly curling out of the pit like steam from a cauldron, washing past him on either side to disappear up the narrow cleft that led to the outside world. Beyond that he could see absolutely nothing, for whatever scant vestiges of light fell from above were simply swallowed up.

  He shuddered, in a sudden chilling spasm. It did not seem quite so dream-like any more. The thought that this might be real after all began to intrude into his mind.

  He leaned further over the edge, straining to hear. There was something else down there. In some distant place in his mind, he could detect a strange sound. It was like a chorus of lamenting voices singing a dirge for the dead – for themselves maybe, a last soliloquy for the Lost. He heard it not with his ears, but in the silence he could feel it, reverberating in his mind, reaching down into his soul. To his surprise, he found himself sobbing.

  What was down there?

  Then he gasped, for he now knew beyond all doubt that this truly was not a dream. He really was here, hell only knew how, and his companions were nowhere to be seen. He did not even know how long he had been separated from them. He felt more alone now than he had ever thought possible, so alone that he might as well be standing on the remotest planet in the universe, beyond even the distant stars. And still the cries of the Lost were ringing in his mind.

  Then there was a change in the air that caused Methuselech to shudder. The pathos of those cries had transformed into malice, as if something down there, something not of this world, was hungry for him and wanted to steal his mind. He could sense it rising out of the pit to claim him, rising with the mist that shrouded it. Panic gripped him, but he could not move. Whitehorse sensed it too, and stamped about the ledge in terror.

  Then came the cry: an ululating wailing of such demonic insanity and diabolic evil that every drop of blood was frozen inside Methuselech’s veins.

  It was the keening of Sluagh.

  Whitehorse screamed in response, and reared up high. With a cry of total despair, Methuselech was launched off the saddle. Arms flailing uselessly, he plunged into the blackness of the pit that gaped open to swallow him up.

  The horse, no more use now, bolted in a frenzy as fast as he could gallop, with Methuselech’s final cry echoing in his ears.

  When they had finally managed to calm down the terrified animal, Bolldhe and the others wasted no time in entering the cleft themselves. Whitehorse would not be dragged back inside for anything, so was left stamping and whinnying on the cliff path outside.

  ‘Just what happened down there to scare the horse so much?’ said Finwald.

  ‘And what’s happened to Methuselech?’ Nibulus wondered.

  None of them actually heard the keening, but just before Whitehorse re-emerged an inexplicable disquiet had suddenly settled on them all.

  Nibulus led the way, the only one among them who really wanted to venture down into this place. Though extremely wary, he led them down without hesitation in his urge to reach Xilva.

  What they all felt in the damp and gloomy rock fissure perturbed them but it was nothing to what they felt as they drew near the pit itself, and heard the keening from close up.

  As one they all froze, faces blanching in horror. As that terrible cry hung in the air, there was not one among them who would not have turned and fled all the way back to Nordwas, had their horses not also been rooted to the spot. No one now spared a thought for Methuselech or the quest. The fear they felt transcended anything they would ever have believed possible in this world.

  Then the howl ended, trailing off into a forlorn sob of such devastation that the travellers felt as if their life-force was going with it, drifting into eternity upon a black wind of endless despair.

  Finwald gaped ahead of him with his face prematurely old. In a voice numbed with death-fear he gasped: ‘What in hell was that!?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ stammered Nibulus, ‘and I’ve no intention of finding out.’

  All of them turned tail and fled for their lives back up through the cleft. If Methuselech was down in that pit, then there was nothing they or any other power in the world of Man could do to help him.

  With his own last wail of utter despair still ringing in his ears, Methuselech lay, gasping for breath, in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the pit. Broken and bleeding, he was not so much fighting for life as fighting for death.

  His eyes were open, but he could see nothing in this pitch blackness, could not see what place this was in which he had finally met his end, could not even see the carnage that had been wrought upon his flesh.

  It was a mercy, for had he been able to behold the travesty that his body had become he would have been reminded of all those tortured and mutilated corpses he had witnessed during the sacking of the cities of the South. He was coughing gouts of blood from his smashed torso, and his right leg stuck out at an insane angle, he could tell without being able to see, the splintered bone protruding in several places.

  As for the rest of him . . . He was dying, that much he was certain. Already the coldness of death was creeping over him. How much more of this agony must he endure before his life winked out?

  Now he lay, far beyond the help of his lost companions and totally at the mercy of whatever agent of darkness it was that had made that dreadful keening noise. Tears welled in his eyes, at the devastating loneliness he felt now that he had fallen away from the world.

  Moments later the air all around him crystallized into shards of ice. Methuselech stiffened, not breathing, not moving, his pain almost forgotten. The silence closed in, and the whole world stopped to listen. Something was watching him. The suspense seemed to last for hours, yet only for one heartbeat.

  Then he heard the watcher approach . . .

  The company
did not stop. By the time they had emerged from the cleft to where Whitehorse awaited them, Appa, Paulus and a still-dazed Wodeman had caught up, having ridden up on the recently recovered Hammerhoof. Thus reunited, they continued their flight to the northern ridge as fast as the poor light allowed them. And when it became so dark that the path became impossible to see, still they did not stop; each member of the company dismounted and, with torches lit to see the ground at their feet, led their horses on by the rein.

  For the first time since he had joined this quest, Bolldhe brought out his bull’s-eye lantern. Unlike most of the company’s equipment, this had not been provided by Wintus Hall; it was his own, and was possibly one of his most prized possessions. None of the others could make out what he was handling, had never seen this item before now. All they could hear was a rapid sawing sound, and then suddenly a powerful beam of light sprang out into the night, the like of which none there had ever seen before.

  But despite their wonder at Bolldhe’s ‘little-magic’ they wasted no time in idle talk. At the head of the line now, Bolldhe shone the lantern’s beam ahead to light their way, and thus they continued. On they marched, over the ridge behind which, had it been lighter, they had been expecting to see their first view of the Northlands.

  It was a journey full of anxiety, with many a backward glance, and a fear of what might lie ahead around each corner. They were now going inexorably downwards, plunging down narrow ravines and steep slopes into the dark, twisting passages of the mountains’ hidden valleys.

  Eventually, exhaustion and mental strain overtook their fear, and Nibulus was forced to call a halt. They had arrived at a cirque, a hollow hemmed in by high, sloping walls that gave them some protection from the cold wind that was blowing from the North.

  ‘You’ve all done well to make it this far,’ Nibulus commended them as he listened to the lonely wind buffeting through the unseen passes and clefts around them. ‘We may as well camp where we are; I can’t see it getting any better.’

  ‘I don’t fancy camping here,’ Finwald muttered in spite of his exhaustion. ‘It feels like Death; just listen . . .’

  They paused. Though the wind passed over them, it brought with it odd sounds that could never quite be discerned. There seemed to be voices, high and screaming, or bestial and muttering. The very air was alive with the uncanny cries of phantoms that flew through the secret places of this region. These mountains were unfriendly at the best of times, and had little mercy for outsiders; but here on the very threshold of the Northlands, they were no place to be at all.

  Appa wagged his head madly in agreement. ‘’Tis an evil place still, I can sense, not a place any man should have to walk at all, at all . . .’

  Let alone spend the night! Gapp thought, choking down his fear as stoically as he could.

  But they had little choice. Bolldhe, being more used to camping out alone in similar (if less disturbing) places, did not wait for the others, but unsaddled Zhang, spread out his bedroll on the most level piece of ground in the hollow, and set about preparing his and his horse’s rations.

  Seeing no alternative, the others followed, and within half an hour, they had all settled down for the night.

  Bolldhe and Paulus took the first watch.

  Nibulus forced down the knot that was forming in his throat. During their race along the mountain path he had not had time for any thoughts other than flight. But now that they had put some distance between themselves and the horror back there, grief stole over him fully. He shook his head, dumbfounded, and cursed the ill chance that had claimed the life of the best man he had ever known. It was just so stupid! He should not, could not have been taken. It served no purpose that he could see, no purpose whatsoever. Xilva, he cried in some place deep in his soul, you stupid foreign toe-rag, what am I supposed to do now, with you gone? And what the hell am I going to tell Phalopaeia?

  Now as he pulled his bedroll over his head, a strange sound began to escape from him, one that no one had ever heard the Thegne make before now. It was a strangulated sound, one of constriction, of anguish – a sound that did not want to be made. But it was one that was escaping from him nevertheless.

  The company chose not to hear it.

  In the hooded light of the bull’s-eye lantern Bolldhe and the mercenary sat staring with wide eyes into the blackness that lurked just beyond the radius of illumination. At each sound emerging from the dark, their heads would snap round to investigate. But not one word passed between them.

  Then Paulus said softly, ‘It’s a strange and wondrous device you bring with you.’

  Bolldhe turned in surprise to stare at the hooded figure sitting just a few yards away. In the light from the lantern, only the sharp, beaky nose could be seen protruding from under the cowl. The mutilated eye was hidden in shadow, for which Bolldhe was thankful; this night contained enough horrors as it was.

  Paulus said no more, continuing to stare out into the night, but Bolldhe noticed the mercenary’s hands flexing constantly on the pommel of his bastard-sword, a nifty weapon that could be wielded one- or two-handed. He realized he did not really know this taciturn Nahovian at all. Since the commencement of their quest, Paulus had kept his distance from the rest, more so even than had Bolldhe himself.

  Bolldhe had to admit to himself he was intrigued. That was probably the first time the grim mercenary had spoken to anyone in the company without its being necessary, and it seemed odd that he should choose Bolldhe.

  ‘Wondrous device?’ he replied. ‘You mean the lantern?’

  For nigh on five years he had carried it everywhere with him, and for Bolldhe, ever the pragmatist, it had proved more useful than any weapon. Small and lightweight but very tough, the bull’s-eye lantern had been wrought in Trondaran, the tiny, isolated mountain-kingdom of Jyblitt the Hauger King, and was consequently of a craftsmanship unequalled in all of Lindormyn.

  Its cylindrical brass frame held a long thin rod of xienne – a light, yellow metal that burned with a fierce light when shaved – that could be plunged up and down into the top of the cylinder to whittle it and at the same time ignite the shavings through friction. The flame was shielded by specially treated silk stretched over the brass frame, and this lamp itself nestled inside a slightly larger leather sleeve attached into an intricately carved ivory handle. This sleeve was lined on the inside with highly polished silver mirrors that would, once the brass frame was snapped up into the sleeve, reflect and focus the flame’s light through just one hooded aperture, thus concentrating a powerful beam. Thus this flexible artefact could either be suspended sleeveless by its fine silver chain, lighting all around it, or sheathed in the sleeve so as to project a bright beam straight ahead.

  Like so many other rare minerals found only in Trondaran, the source of xienne metal was a secret jealously guarded by Jyblitt’s subjects, and how Bolldhe had come by such a precious object was a traveller’s tale in itself.

  But in answer to Paulus’s unexpected interest, Bolldhe simply replied, ‘Yes, it is rather handy, I suppose.’

  Paulus did not make any immediate response. Minutes later, however, he spoke up again.

  ‘In the land I come from, we call such spirits Vardogr.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That shade that cried out earlier,’ Paulus explained, ‘we call it Vardogr.’

  ‘I have heard the word,’ Bolldhe replied, ‘though I do not fully understand the meaning.’

  Paulus glanced quickly at Bolldhe, his one sound eye reflecting as a single point of gold in the lantern’s light. ‘You know of this word? How so?’

  Bolldhe shrugged, not wishing to prolong this conversation any longer than need be. ‘I heard rumours of such a shade when I was passing through your territory earlier this year.’

  ‘You have passed beneath the boughs of Vregh-Nahov?’ Paulus asked, surprised. Then he relapsed into silence once more.

  At further length, and to Bolldhe’s surprise, the mercenary began to chant. It was a d
eep and sonorous incantation, almost discordant, yet rising and falling in such a way that made it difficult to judge whether it was a song or a poem. But the descant seemed to Bolldhe as mournful and haunting as the cry of gulls on the Shore of Death.

  And it went like this:

  ‘Into darkest reverie,

  We sink, and dream, and see,

  Dark thoughts like phosphorescent sea-draugrs float by.

  Vardogr dances before our eyes like Ellyldan above the quagmire,

  Floats by, out of reach,

  Its laughter echoing through the lightless deep.

  The man, he knows his death awaits him,

  ’Neath benighted windowsill Vardogr lurks,

  Keening his death knell.

  No morning shall come for him.

  Lych-light shines, the siren sings,

  Stronger now by far,

  But Marmennil-chains bind the hands that might have turned those voices away.

  Utrost is hidden in the fog

  That swirls around the mast,

  Dark sea laps against the hull,

  Whispering the Ancestors’ voices.

  The Wyrm of our world’s ending tightens its coils,

  Draws round full circle,

  For Sluagh sweeps through the mind,

  Rake and broom in hand.

  Bolldhe did not comment and, after an awkward silence, Paulus muttered, ‘It is composed in the ancient tongue of my people, sung by our bards, the akyn, and maybe loses something in the translation.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bolldhe agreed dismissively. ‘Quite a lot, by the sound of it. I’ve never heard such rubbish in all my life.’

  Paulus visibly flinched. A strange expression clouded his face, and he uttered not one further word that night.

  SIX

  Wasteland