The Wanderer's Tale

by David Bilsborough

  ‘Empty, I said, not hidden,’ Bolldhe corrected him, surprised that anyone had actually been listening to his story earlier that morning sufficiently to remember that bit . . .

  He paused. Finwald was staring at him rather intensely all of a sudden. The mage-priest’s hands had balled into fists, and it looked as if he were not breathing.

  Suddenly he leapt up.

  ‘Come!’ he urged as he strode across the room. ‘There’s something not right about all this. I think we should take a look at this mine of yours, right now.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bolldhe stammered.

  ‘A feeling,’ Finwald said, ‘a presentiment. I do have them, remember?’

  He wrenched the door open and shouted out to the others, ‘Nibulus, get your armour on. And you, Paulus. We’re going hunting.’

  Without so much as a backward glance, Finwald marched off into the clammy heat of the morning.

  The others stared at each other in bewilderment. What was all this?

  But obviously Finwald had ‘seen something’ again, just like he had ‘seen something’ two and a half months ago, which had induced them along on this mad adventure in the first place.

  Out of curiosity more than anything else, they helped Nibulus on with his armour and hurried after their precious augur, wherever he had got to by now.

  A while later they all stood at the bottom of the mine’s entry-shaft, glancing around uncertainly. Each one of them now carried a flambeau that had been steeped in pitch so that it burned with a strong, oily heat, giving off a steady emission of black, acrid smoke. All except Bolldhe, who held the bull’s-eye lantern, which he had been much relieved to find safe in the temple-dormitory. Nibulus, rather eccentrically to Bolldhe’s mind, had strapped his torch to one side of his helm, in the way of the adventurers depicted in the woodcuts back home in the Wintus Hall of Trophies. He led the way boldly, filling the whole passageway with his Tengriite-clad bulk.

  ‘You certainly do pick the most charming places for your late-night wanderings, Bolldhe,’ Appa snapped as he extricated one of his shoes from a patch of sucking muck.

  ‘Not my choice, old man,’ Bolldhe replied tartly, training his lantern’s beam suspiciously on every bump and niche in sight. ‘Beats me why any thief would choose it, either.’

  Even with company this time the constantly shifting shadows were making him so jumpy that after barely two minutes he was almost a nervous wreck.

  ‘Look to your back, Paulus,’ he warned the man at the tail end of the line. ‘You don’t know what might be lurking down here.’

  Paulus, however, merely paused to adjust the weight of his bestudded leather cape upon his shoulders. He maintained his silence, and continued with his black sword waving before him like a cockroach’s antenna.

  Of all of them, Finwald looked the most serious. His face was set in concentration, his brow furrowed like those leathery old farmers he drank with at The Chase, and his black eyes stared intently ahead into the path of the lantern-light. He uttered not a word.

  The party splashed along the freezing tunnel slowly, carefully picking their way.

  ‘Down here,’ Bolldhe said quietly, pointing to the hole that opened up to their left. His heart raced madly.

  ‘You went down there on your own?’ Nibulus wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.’

  Bolldhe was by now too scared to register the compliment. He was hearing those screams in his head again, and with them the far-off rumbling of the sea. He directed the lantern’s beam down into the shaft, and the others crowded around to look.

  The Peladane stroked his blade, weighing the sword in his hands. Bolldhe studied his face and tried to gauge the temper of their leader, and whether or not he was taking this escapade seriously. But the Peladane’s features remained impassive. After a quick readjustment of his armour, he said, ‘All right, Bolldhe, keep close behind me, and keep that lamp directed ahead of us at all times. The rest of you, keep your wits about you, and be ready to act swiftly and precisely; I don’t want you crowding any more than—’

  He never even finished the sentence. All eyes were now staring fixedly at the horror rising out of the shaft towards them.

  ‘Shit!’ cried Nibulus in alarm, and leapt back from the hole.

  Immediately panic gripped the company. Torches swept about wildly or were dropped to the floor, weapons swung, men screamed and bodies writhed in a melee. Exactly what happened in those brief moments none of them would ever know, but afterwards all they could remember was the panic, the insanely dancing flambeaux and the sound of the Beast. Deep and liquid, it snarled its way up out of the darkness in savage, shuddering breaths, as terrible as the Rawgr itself.

  Nibulus truly came into his own that day. Deprived of space and bereft of the light Bolldhe should have been providing, the Peladane nevertheless somehow managed to keep his head while all around him turned into pandemonium. Channelling every scrap of his training and experience, his great strength and a barrelful of fear-induced fury, he threw himself at the Beast and brought his Greatsword to bear in a series of vicious, well-placed blows. He never caught sight of the nightmare clearly, only brief flashes of some terrible apparition in the frantic light: great fangs, huge, blood-hued talons, a mane of black hair flailing about behind it. It was probably fortunate that Bolldhe had dropped the lantern.

  Then the clash of metal – green sparks flying into his face and smouldering in his stubble – a sword being wielded with great strength but little skill – the crackle of magic from behind – moans of terror and despair – hastily babbled prayers – the stench of sweaty terror . . .

  Then Bolldhe, screaming something in his own language, hurling a flask of torch-oil full into the face of the monster – the arc of a flaming torch flying overhead – a flash of fire – a hideous howl of agony – the smell of boiling oil, singeing skin, ignited hair that thrashed about in a whirlwind of smog-belching flame –

  And the horror was gone.

  Gone in an echoing, gibbering wail; gone in a trail of smoke as its bristling mane trailed fire behind it. Down into the depths of its lair. Sobbing in misery and defeat.

  Silence . . .

  Then a voice, straining to hold itself steady:

  ‘Just grab that sword, and let’s get the hell out of here!’

  Finwald’s voice. No one disagreed.

  Three days later, Bolldhe was still feeling sick. The day after their ordeal in the mine he had woken up in a state of deep malaise, which during the course of that day had waxed into a black depression. The following day had seen no improvement, and by the third it had developed into a physical illness. No efforts on the part of the healers made any difference.

  His companions, by contrast, exuded vitality: they were positively twitching with energy and vigour. The sudden excitement of the conflict – though it had terrified them at the time – had both thrilled and animated them, and by the time they had arrived back at the temple they were suffused with the kind of dynamism none of them had expected in this torpid little swamp town.

  Shouting and chattering excitedly in the safety of their dormitory, the first thing they had done was to allot the monster’s sword to Nibulus, in recognition of his valiant deed. But the Peladane had insisted that it should be Bolldhe – who had inflicted the only real injury upon the beast with his flask of oil – who should receive the trophy.

  This had surprised everybody, not least Bolldhe, for it was not like their leader to be so self-effacing. But then there was also the suspicion that Nibulus was merely being practical; he would not give up his beloved Unferth for anything, and the already encumbered warrior was not about to further weigh himself down with another burden.

  Finwald had at first seemed a little put out by this. As far as he was concerned, the sword was too good for the likes of Bolldhe. But he could see this decision was out of his hands, and did not raise any serious objection.

  Bolldhe, though, had want
ed nothing to do with the weapon at all, and had regarded it with a distrust that bordered on loathing. But in the end he had relented. This was not because of Nibulus’s persuasions, nor due to any sense of pride in his prize. It was simply for the pragmatic reason that he had clearly lost his broadaxe for good, and this finely crafted weapon was the best he was likely to come across in these uncivilized lands.

  All three magic-users had cast spells over it, and all three were in no doubt that it was in some way enchanted. It was only Finwald, however, who was convinced that it was just the sort of magic weapon that they needed against Drauglir. He was very excited about the whole affair, even going so far as to claim that with such a sword their battle might already be won.

  They had all studied the weapon with great curiosity. It was strange indeed. None of them could put an age to it or hazard a guess at its origin, for the style was totally bizarre. The hilt, large and heavy, was wire-bound and blackened with age. The cross-guard was straight and unadorned, much in the manner of the ancient swords of the Northmen before their decline. And the blade was like none any of the company had ever seen before: snaking out from the cross-guard, it was razor-sharp, double-edged, and undulated like the backbone of a serpent. It was almost beautiful in its craftsmanship.

  ‘It looks like the kind of sword we used to call “flamberge”,’ Nibulus had announced, ‘a firebrand – a tongue of fire.’

  ‘Yes,’ Finwald had added enthusiastically, ‘a flame to fight the fires of hell! You could even name it Flametongue . . .’

  Bolldhe stared at the object doubtfully as it lay on the table where the mage-priest had placed it for him. But he took it up anyway and, as he held it in his hands for the first time, a clear image had suddenly popped into his head. No, stronger than an image; this was more like a vision:

  It involved a heath, a desolate and forsaken place of sparse, yellowing tussocks of grass that bent in an unquiet wind. Beneath a grey sky it lay, a sky heavy with stormclouds. At the far end of this heath, a great drop – a cliff that looked out over a troubled sea. And standing right at the edge of this cliff, a figure. This figure was too distant for any precise details to be made out, but there was a familiarity about it that Bolldhe could not quite put his finger on . . .

  Puzzled, Bolldhe carefully laid the flamberge back on the table. Perhaps he was turning into a genuine oracle after all.

  It was probably from that moment that his depression had set in. He was increasingly troubled by a nagging feeling that would not leave him, and it grew worse with every hour that passed. Maybe it was caused by the Beast? None of them had any clear idea what had attacked them, though an Ogre, a Jutul and even a Kobold like they had seen in Nym-Cadog’s realm, were suggested. But whatever it was, it did seem very strange to Bolldhe that a monster like that should wield any weapon at all. That creature had been one of tooth and talon, and surely a savage beast like that had no need of any man-made weapon. The sword had slowed it down, made it clumsy, and in the end perhaps lost it the fight. Had it not been thus encumbered, it would have doubtless made short work of Nibulus and the rest of them, yet it had held on tight to the flamberge like an old friend – or a new toy.

  Bolldhe wondered. Again, that nagging thought at the back of his mind . . .

  Each time he studied Flametongue his depression grew worse. A bitter taste clung in his mouth, and a gripe had settled in his stomach. Each night he lay awake for hours that seemed to have no end, and each morning the warm sunlight mocked him in his melancholy.

  Whatever the Beast had been, it had brought home to Bolldhe his own fragility and mortality far more than any other encounter he had suffered on this journey so far. The road ahead now seemed a never-ending, futile folly, fraught with dangers along its entire length.

  And at the end of that road, if he arrived there at all, waited only Death.

  Bolldhe had taken to brooding all day over such black, morbid thoughts. He shunned his companions, and they in turn shunned him.

  In the days leading up to the company’s departure from Myst-Hakel, it was not only Bolldhe who was in a black mood. Paulus, too, appeared to have something on his mind, something which was turning his customary dourness into something even more acerbic. He looked constantly haggard and drawn, and while the others in the party were trying to complete all the final preparations before they set off, the Nahovian spent his days wandering about like a zombie.

  On the eve of setting off, he lay awake all night in the temple hall, staring up at the ceiling. A chill mist had crept in through the windows, and his companions slept fitfully, huddled under the warmth of their furs. But Paulus had cast his covers aside, long ago having given up the idea of sleep. His one good eye wide open, he gazed up into the darkness above him and ruminated.

  Sleep had similarly abandoned him for the past few nights. Always he would lie there awake while his mind buzzed with thoughts; each night dragged endlessly as he tossed and turned, grumbling irritably and constantly readjusting his covers. His body yearned for the sleep he so badly needed, but his brain would not allow it. Then, after an eternity of fidgeting restlessly, the sound of birdsong would filter through the windows, followed by the first hints of dawn’s cold, grey light. Outside, early risers would shuffle past, coughing and mumbling as they carried their tin basins and slabs of soap down to the jetties. Whereupon Paulus would curse and fidget some more, but still sleep would not come to him. It was only when the temple hall was lit by the brighter glare of early morning and the townspeople were all up and about their daily business that he would finally feel a merciful heaviness descend on his surviving eyelid, and sleep would soon follow.

  In this way the mercenary had managed perhaps two or three hours of sleep each morning, and later he would wander about looking pale, drained and lethargic, only half-alive. This night – their last in Myst-Hakel – was no better. In fact if anything, it was worse. They had to be up early the following morning, and Paulus knew that this would cheat him of even this brief chance of sleep. The thought of the coming day’s hard trek across the remainder of the Rainflats to Fron-Wudu, in his current state of exhaustion, agitated him even more.

  He lay awake in the damp, marsh-scented mist that rolled in from outside, and pondered the reason for his recent insomnia. It was due to the incident at the mine, of course. But it had nothing to do with the Beast itself. No, he had seen nothing whatsoever of that terrible adversary, having been too far back down the passage when it was encountered.

  Being rearguard had its advantages. It meant he could unobtrusively hang back a little, and explore the tunnel much more thoroughly than his companions, just in case there were any discarded valuables they had overlooked.

  So while they had gone ahead in search of Bolldhe’s axe, Paulus had lagged behind to do some searching around of his own.

  But it was not treasure that he had found. No silver, no precious uncut stones, no interesting baubles. Nothing valuable at all, in fact. But he had found something that had interested him.

  It was a little shutter set in the wall, about head-height – old and rusted, but not so rusted that his powerful fingers could not prise it open.

  And out of that open shutter emerged a cold blast of air from what had to be a vast empty space behind; an icy wind that chilled his face and stung his eye, and brought with it rumours of far-off, running water. Rumours of a splashing, gurgling, thundering current . . .

  . . . and, barely audible above the rush of water, the forlorn wailing of a voice.

  Is anyone there? – Please, let there be somebody there! – I’m so cold . . .

  Paulus had promply snapped the shutter closed, cutting off both the icy blast and the ghostly voice it had carried.

  But it was not fear that had made him do so. It was gratification. For there was a certain grim satisfaction in ignoring that voice and its desperate, hopeless plea for salvation. He relished the thought that he had sealed its owner’s fate forever. It somehow assuaged all the bitterness he had
felt at the Kjellermann, the dire loathing he had felt that night for all those happy, pretty people who had laughed at him as he sat there on his own.

  Now that voice, with all its lamentable pitifulness, its terror and its despair, repeated itself over and over in his mind.

  Gapp Radnar’s voice.

  Days later, out on the moors, a low sobbing rose into the night. Deep and bestial, it echoed long and far from its pit, reaching out across the swamp-waters, through the tall reeds and bulrushes that whispered amongst themselves in nocturnal secrecy, and drifted over the creaking shackleboards towards the sleeping shanty town. By the time it filtered through the shuttered windows and barred doors of the stilt-huts, it could hardly be heard, sounding no more than a low wind that moans from afar. Scant heed was paid to it by the townsfolk, huddled within their gritty and mist-dampened blankets against the terrors that rose from the swamp and into their dreams.

  Again the lament rose, forlorn as the crake’s cry, distant as the last glimpse of the waning moon that lay reflected upon the wind-rippled surface of the marsh-pools, and as hopeless as the hearts of the moonrakers who dredged their waters.

  Then the Beast emerged from the mineshaft and revealed itself. A gigantic, lumbering monstrosity with swinging arms, curving fangs, and filthy black hair that had grown uncontrollably from the mean little top-knot it had possessed when first the company had encountered it many miles to the south.

  Wodeman had guessed right; this whole region was indeed riddled with caves, a vast subterranean network of water-carved and interconnected tunnels that honeycombed the rock beneath the Rainflats. And it was by negotiating these troglodyte paths that the Beast had arrived at the silver mine, escaping the entombment of Nym-Cadog’s collapsed barrow. All that way it had forced a passage, howling its madness, pain and hatred in the dark confines of the earth, driven by an unholy lust for vengeance, and swelling in size as its wounds worked their abhorrent transmutations.

  For such was the way of the Afanc. Bastard child of Incubus and priestess of Yeggeth-Dziggetai, it was neither huldre nor human, belonging to neither world yet forever trapped between. Though terrible had been its injuries sustained at the hands of the company from Nordwas, it could not be so easily destroyed. Not even the stroke of Unferth that had cloven its head could put this hybrid beneath the turf. For with every wound it received, Afanc was not dimished but enlarged – after a period of dormancy – its body distending from within as foul fluids pulsed through it to swell its stricken organs.