This flamberge was neither too heavy nor too light, and its long grip meant that he could use it either one- or two-handed. It was not so different from his old broadaxe, really.
He studied the sword again, his curiosity growing with every passing minute. It seemed to possess an almost chameleon quality; by day it shone the colour of burnished copper, but in the dark it took on a deep, igneous blue, the colour of volcanic rock. Even in the dead of night it could be seen shining, as if some secret power churned within.
He held the blade closer to his eyes now, and stared deep beneath its mirrored surface, beyond its changing hues, down, down, into the very heart of its magic, where lay the source of its potency . . .
With a start Bolldhe recoiled – there were two eyes staring back at him! They studied him with a curiosity equal to his own. His heart beat faster, and he glanced over to where his companions lay sleeping, wondering if he should wake them.
He decided to take another look, cautiously this time, but steadily, reassuring himself that it had been merely a trick of the light. Suddenly he laughed in relief, as he realized that it was merely a reflection of his own eyes staring back at him.
With a quiet, nervous laugh, he wrapped the flamberge in his deerskin tunic, placed it carefully by his side and rolled over to go to sleep. It had been a long day, and beneath the boughs of Fron-Wudu the whispering leaves could weave the strangest thoughts into a tired traveller’s mind.
They were not alone in the woods that night. From the darkness of the trees, mere yards away, a pair of eyes glittered brightly, regarding the sleeping travellers with interest; two pale eyes that caught the stray moonbeam that found its way through the forest canopy, and glinted coldly in the dark. They were keen, but old, and had the look of eyes that have seen too much coldness and cruelty in the world.
Slowly they came forward, towards the company that slept, blissfully unaware of their new visitor. Not a sound could be heard as the prowler stalked forward, not the slightest crunch of a leaf underfoot nor the merest breath of air stirring.
Closer it crept, until it was only paces from the unmoving figures that huddled within their bedrolls at its feet. One of them was snoring, while another whimpered slightly in his sleep. But from the rest came only the sounds of heavy, regular breathing; dreamless, untroubled sleep.
A sardonic smile spread across its face as it stared down at them. Casually it fingered the hilt of a broadsword slung at its side, while with its other hand it loosely held a large dirk that gleamed dully in the moonlight.
Just then a snorting from nearby snapped the prowler’s gaze away from the sleeping men. Swiftly, silently, it made its way over to the slough-horse, and stroked his snout soothingly. Zhang did not know what to make of the stranger, but for some reason that he could not fathom, let it continue in its stroking, a privilege normally reserved for his rider only.
Smiling broadly now with strong, white teeth, the prowler slunk back into the shadows, and sat there. It never took its eyes from the sleeping company for a second.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny, despite the covering of ground mist that drifted into the forest from the marshes. The air was filled with the joyous sound of birdsong, and the adventurers all awoke with lightness in their hearts and eagerness for whatever the new day might hold in store for them. Breakfast was cooked with enthusiasm and eaten with gusto, and before long everything was packed away, and they were ready for the off.
‘Gather round, men, gather round,’ Nibulus hailed them as soon as he had finished securing the last piece of his armour across Zhang’s back. Now that they had left the torpor of the swamp-town behind them, the world had become once again the ‘domain of the Peladane’, and the night spent out in the woods had clearly rekindled the spirit of adventure in him.
‘Now as you are all aware,’ he began, enjoying the sound of his own voice more than ever, ‘this next phase of the journey is more likely to cause us trouble than anywhere else. Gwyllch writes that in his day a branch of the trade route extended from Myst-Hakel right the way through the forest up to Wrythe itself, and the roads were clear and well maintained, with post-houses every twenty-five miles! Wonderful, eh? Who could ask for more? Well, the answer is, of course, that we could, for nowadays there simply is no road, not even the faintest trace of one, and no other known trails. How times change . . .’
He paused to look around, then continued.
‘The one thing in our favour is that, according to the little information Wintus Hall managed to glean from the trappers who have ventured this way, the forest directly north of the marshes is not quite as dense as the rest; the trees are widely spaced, and there is little undergrowth to slow us down. But we have to keep going in a reasonably straight line northwards, so we are going to have to steer ourselves by the sun, the stars and any other method that presents itself. Well, lads?’
‘No problem,’ stated Wodeman.
‘No problem,’ repeated Bolldhe.
‘Heading due north, then,’ the Peladane continued, satisfied, ‘we should, in phnmnm days’ time, reach the lower foothills of the Giant Mountains, and thence come out of the forest. From there we can travel along the higher ground, above the level of the trees, and follow the mountains that will take us west, then swing round north again. Once we get into the northerly regions it will become colder, even at this time of year, so I do not want any delays, all right? Remember, we don’t want to have to make our return journey in winter, so I will not tolerate any slacking, any feebleness, nor any . . .’ – he tried to think of the requisite third word – ‘. . . weakness. Appa.’
But Appa was not listening. He was looking at their leader, but he was concentrating his attention upon anything other than what the man was saying. For if he listened to that, he knew, his resolve would simply collapse into the emptiness within his frail heart, and he along with it. One day at a time, he repeated to himself over and over in his head, just like the mantras he counted off on his prayer-beads. One day at a time . . .
‘Continuing further north will bring us to the coastline,’ Nibulus went on, ‘which we can follow west until we come to Wrythe. And there the length of our stay will depend on how we are greeted by the townsfolk—’
‘Ha!’ came a voice from somewhere. The Peladane looked around to see who had spoken, but he could not tell. Frowning, he continued:
‘Wrythe,’ he said, as if savouring the word, ‘what are your people like nowadays, I wonder? Word has not come to us out of that place for time out of mind, which in itself is not very encouraging. But for myself, I see little point in being worried before we have even got there, since there is no obvious reason to suppose they should be hostile. But we must still take every precaution not to offend them. All we want there is to get ourselves a small boat and replenish our supplies. And a chance to get warmed up a little, eh? Failing the whole package, just the boat will do. Failing that, we either steal one, which I would not recommend, or turn round and head straight back home. Which we’re not going to do, of course. We are going to get across the sea, and Wrythe is the only way across. The Jagt Straits offer no other route across to Melhus Island, and—’
‘You could always cross from the Last Shore to Stromm Peninsula, where the sea freezes over.’
All six men spun round in alarm and immediately drew their weapons. Who had said that? They stared towards the trees in the direction from which the voice had come, but there was nothing to be seen.
‘Who’s there?’ barked the Peladane. ‘Come on, show yourself!’
Nothing.
They quickly spread out, weapons at the ready, and searched the surrounding area. But not even Wodeman could find a single trace of anyone. It was as if the forest itself had spoken.
‘Spriggans,’ Paulus suggested, his pale eye narrowing in hatred.
‘Come, men,’ Nibulus ordered at length, glancing nervously over his shoulder. ‘The sooner we leave these woods, the better I’ll like it. Follow me!’<
br />
For three days the company trod the needle-carpeted floor of Fron-Wudu in silence, wending their way steadily through the sombre, lancet-arched vaults of the forest in constant wariness. The woods were, as Nibulus’s trappers had promised, not as dense as they had feared, and the going was not particularly difficult. But this comforted them little, for though the way ahead was clear, unhindered by any real undergrowth, it was this very deadness that unnerved the Aescals. The thick, spongy layer of brown needles that covered the ground yielded no vegetation at all. The trees, too, seemed devoid of life, rising as they did like great iron pole-axes into the sky, bristling at the top with sharp, dark-green needles. No birds sang, no animals scurried, and there was not the slightest sound of insects. Even the light that fell down through the treetops was grey and cheerless.
Wodeman stared about himself in disbelief; these woods were more alien to him than any place he had travelled through yet. Dismayed, he began to wonder if the Earth-Spirit dwelt anywhere outside the forests of Wyda-Aescaland at all.
The voice in the woods had had an extremely unsettling effect upon the company. It had spoken their language, giving them advice; but then it had disappeared. Paulus’s suggestion that it was the voice of Spriggans was met with scepticism; he was always imagining fey spirits wherever they went. Appa’s suggestion that it was the voice of an angel was rejected even more contemptuously.
That voice had sounded human . . .
Daytime saw the company glancing nervously around at every distant snap of a twig, though the cold mist that hemmed them in restricted their vision to only thirty yards or so. By night there would always be two of their number keeping watch as the others slept. None of them was in any doubt that some time soon, something was going to happen.
On their fourth night in the forest, it did.
‘Nibulus! Finwald! Everybody, wake up! Quickly!’
The Peladane immediately threw his covers aside and grabbed for his sword. ‘Whassup? What is it?’ he said foggily. ‘Wha’s going on?’
He looked up to see the dark shape of Bolldhe staring down at him. The two priests at his side groaned cantankerously as they stirred from their slumber. Wodeman, though still and silent, appeared to be fully awake already.
‘Shh!’ Bolldhe hissed, then pointed. ‘Over there . . .’
Nibulus’s gaze followed his finger, and tried to peer through the dark. The moon had not even reached its hemisphere yet, but the first glimmers of dawn rendered at least a hint of light. As he continued to stare he could just about make out the silhouetted figure of Paulus, some way off, frozen into immobility. Judging by the way the crow’s feathers were angled, the Nahovian was facing away from them, staring out into the mist with his sword held out in front of him.
‘What is it, Bolldhe?’ Nibulus whispered. ‘What’s he seen?’
‘I don’t know,’ came the hushed reply. ‘He didn’t say – just leapt up all of a sudden and whipped out his sword. I know he’s very superstitious, but he must have sensed something more than huldres to act like that.’
Noiselessly, the company hefted their weapons and crept over to where the mercenary stood.
Then they heard it, something blundering through the woods not far off. Something very large and heavy, which sounded as though it was coming their way.
‘Quick,’ hissed Nibulus. ‘Find some cover, but stay close! Bolldhe, mount your horse. Everybody, be prepared to run if need be.’
He need not have bothered. Everybody knew exactly what to do. With a silent efficiency the company took up positions and waited, the mist dripping off their faces like cold sweat.
Now they could hear it clearly. The crunch of living wood as branches were splintered asunder. The hoarse breathing of some large animal gulping in great lungfuls of air and rasping them out again. Heavy footsteps pounding upon the carpet of needles, getting nearer with every step.
Whatever it was, it moved on two feet, but was far heavier than any human.
Step by purposeful step it came closer.
Suddenly there was a sound off to their right, and they swung around in time to see a figure emerge from the trees, bow in hand.
But then from in front of them again, a thunderous animal bellow echoing through the silent forest snapped their heads back around. Just beyond the crouching shadow of Paulus they saw a huge shape approach. They had only enough time to register it before it crashed into the clearing and was upon them: great, lumbering arms that swung heavily at its sides, a trail of shaggy hair that streamed behind it, and from within its dark head two points of light that gleamed at them malevolently.
‘HIT IT FROM EVERY SIDE!’ roared Nibulus in fury, and hurled himself into battle – just as Paulus flung himself out of its path and dealt it a ferocious back-slash with his hand-and-a-half sword.
Arms spread wide, the beast set about itself in a fit of berserk savagery. Cries arose from the elder mage as he cowered in fear upon the ground. War-cries and roars and screaming echoed through the trees . . .
Suddenly the monster flung up its arms and clutched its face in agony. It screamed horribly, thrashed about at its unseen attackers and desperately tried to claw the arrow out of its eye. The company leapt back and watched in complete bewilderment as the beast staggered away from them, still howling in pain.
The arrow, wherever it had come from, was embedded deep in its eyeball. With only the flights and the last two inches of the shaft visible, it had gone straight through and lodged in the brain.
With a final shriek of utter despair echoing after it, the monster fled back into the trees, and was gone.
Barely recovered from their shock, the travellers spun around to face the newcomer with the bow. Four sharp blades and two staves were aimed towards it, and six pairs of legs were coiled ready to spring.
‘Just who the hell are you, creeping round the woods on this night?’ demanded Nibulus. ‘Speak up quick, or bleed profusely!’
‘Now, now,’ the man said in a placatory tone, ‘is that any way for the son of the great warlord Artibulus Wintus to speak to me?’
The deep voice conveyed a strong sense of pride and authority, and possessed an accent very similar to Bolldhe’s.
‘Who are you?’ Bolldhe repeated the Peladane’s inquiry, advancing upon the stranger with the flamberge ready. ‘How do you know so much about us? Was it you spying on us in the woods the other day – and telling us about the sea freezing over?’
‘Put away your sword, Pendonian,’ the stranger replied in a calm, almost bored tone. ‘I am not your enemy – my treatment of yon beast can attest to that. But to answer your question, yes, it was me you heard the other morning, though I was certainly not spying on you.’
‘Then what were you doing?’ Nibulus ranted on. ‘You neither showed yourself nor answered my challenge. We are on a mission of great import and do not take kindly to being toyed with!’
‘Oh, for Nokk’s sake,’ the newcomer sighed, ‘if I’d known what a bunch of mewling infants you were I’d have left you to deal with that beast by yourselves. But . . . I can sympathize; I used to get pretty shaken up by that sort of thing when I was a novice.’
‘Novice!’
‘It’s all right, Nibulus,’ an unsteady voice said at his side. ‘This stranger means us no harm. I have read his soul.’
Nibulus halted in mid-strop and turned to look at Appa. The old man, still looking half-asleep, was even now wrapping himself up in his bedroll again against the chill of the night.
‘Really?’ the Peladane said. ‘You can do that?’
‘I can and I just have,’ replied the old priest, ‘as can young Finwald here.’
The younger priest nodded, and set about lighting the kindling they had prepared earlier.
‘So, perhaps we could help Finwald with the fire, and shed a little light on our friend here. Then maybe he could introduce himself.’
The fire was soon burning brightly and the travellers gathered round it, glad to huddle within the g
olden glow that was for a time pushing back the terrors of the night. Only Paulus remained on his feet, standing apart from the company, still on his guard. He continued to scan the night shadows uneasily.
In the light of the campfire, the stranger was revealed to be a man of about fifty years. Weathered skin, creased and pocked with infinite detail like a map of his life, stretched over a sharp-boned face that was unshaven and ungentle, hard as ogre-hide. Only around the eyes was it soft; though they themselves were cold and hooded, refusing to give anything away, the skin surrounding them could not so easily disguise the man’s life story, and it was lined by an entire world of sorrow and care.
A high brow gave him a look of considerable intelligence, confirmed by the fact that he seemed to be reasonably fluent in several languages including Aescalandian and possess a working knowledge of many other language groups.
This cosmopolitan air was evident in his raiment, too. He was dressed in a garish mix of garments from diverse (and in most cases, unknown) cultures, that conflicted not only with each other but also with the man himself: military tunic of faded green sendal with brass buttons and mandarin collar, ‘barbarian’ rawhide saiga-skin thrown loosely over this, khaki cavalry boots of scuffed and patched cordwain, violet-and-gold cummerbund that had seen better days. The whole ensemble gave the immediate impression that he had done his shopping in a very badly lit second-hand clothes bazaar.
It was only when one took a closer look that their quality became apparent: gold embroidery of the most exquisite detail could occasionally be seen glinting dully in the firelight as he shifted himself. Though faded and more than a little threadbare, it was still there under the grime of the years.
The sheen from various items about his person continued to attract glances from his audience; whalebone ice-skates slung at his belt on one side, an ivory-handled elk-gut whip coiled on the other, two dirks (one in each boot), in his cummerbund a strange, heavy dagger with notches down the side that he called a ‘swordbreaker’, and a broadsword (an Aggedonian temple sword, he informed them later) that came from a land so remote not even Bolldhe had heard of it.
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