Whatever he was wearing on his head, they could not identify in this light. It might have been a cap of sorts, maybe even a crested helmet of some peculiar design. In any case it looked as though it were made of a lobster-shell or possibly a whole crab, with the legs still attached . . . and still moving. But they could never quite see, for with his each movement it appeared to alter somehow, as if not quite sure what it was itself.
But above everything, it was their visitor’s eyes that their attention kept going back to. These regarded the company with a casual interest as cool as it was transient. There was a measure of affability there, but carefully guarded. This was a man who could like others (sort of) and be liked himself (sort of) but had seen far too much of the world to set any real store by such feelings nowadays.
Even as he spoke, his voice gave the impression that there was little in this world he cared about.
‘I must apologize for my little joke the other day,’ he began, ‘but it really was too good an opportunity to miss. There you were, six travellers from the South on their first day in the great Fron-Wudu, obviously on some sort of desperately important mission, never imagining for a moment there could be anyone else in these woods, let alone a dozen yards away. Heh heh heh. I just couldn’t resist a little prank.’
He trailed off, chuckling to himself, plainly amused by the memory.
The company sat regarding him in stony silence.
‘How long have you been spying on us?’ Nibulus asked quietly. Normally he would have been in favour of beating the truth out of the man with an iron bar, but this one had followed them for at least three days without any of them realizing it. Nibulus therefore opted for a more cautious approach. ‘I would like to know how much you heard. What do you know of our quest?’
‘Quest, is it?’ the man smirked. ‘How utterly riveting. No wonder you’re all so—’
‘Now listen, old man,’ Nibulus snapped suddenly, ‘I’m getting a little tired of all this! I want to know now exactly what you heard.’
The stranger rolled his eyes with boredom. ‘Yes, quests,’ he replied. ‘Terribly, terribly important things, quests; part of the very fabric of our being. And do you know what? Whether they succeed or fail, still, it seems the world goes on just the same. But to answer your questions, I have not been “spying” on you,’ he promised, taking out a telescope and peering at the Peladane through it, ‘merely taking an interest in fellow travellers. And what I’ve heard and how much I know of your business is hardly enough to blow the lid off anything significant, even if I cared to tell anyone else, which I don’t. Most of what I know is merely what I see here: a Peladane from Nordwas bearing the badge of the Wintus household, leading two mage-priests and a sorcerer, all from Wyda-Aescaland, a vagrant who speaks Aescalandian with a Pendonian accent, and a Nahovian mercenary. Such an odd mixture, and in so few numbers . . . it doesn’t take a genius to deduce that something unusual is up. Naturally, therefore, I was intrigued.’
‘And that’s really all you know, eh?’ Nibulus asked sceptically.
‘That, and the fact that you are headed for Melhus, via Wrythe, and that presumably means you’re after some relic – holy or unholy – in Vaagenfjord Maw.’
He scanned their faces in quick succession, reading their eyes, then guessed again. ‘Well, perhaps not a relic, but it does have something to do with priestly matters, or you wouldn’t have brought this wrinkled old prune along.’ He gestured at Appa. ‘In any case, it’s obvious that if you’re going to Melhus, it’s to plunder the old Rawgr-Keep. There’s bugger-all else to do there, I can tell you.
‘I’ll give you some advice for free: anything worth looting from that place was taken long ago. It’s been the biggest draw for tombraiders for five hundred years. Not that the Peladanes left much after their siege, but then they never do, do they?’
Nibulus should have been enraged at this. It was his duty to be enraged. This was the gravest insult to all that his kind stood for – even if his kind were all perfectly aware that it was the truth – and for most Peladanes it would have been met with instant retribution involving (at the very least) a heavy wooden club. But Nibulus had never been the zealous type, and there was still the matter of this man’s putting an arrow directly into the eye of that howling beast in almost near-darkness. Instead he contented himself with a snort of contempt. That was so much easier.
‘So how do you know – I mean, what makes you think I’m Warlord Artibulus’s son?’ he asked, ignoring the stranger’s impudent smirk. ‘I’m sure none of us mentioned him at any stage.’
‘Oh, come come, you sell yourself short!’ the other chided. ‘The son of Artibulus is well known throughout the North. How many other people do you know with the name Nibulus?’
Fair point, Nibulus conceded.
‘Yes,’ the man continued, ‘Nibulus Wintus: only child of the Warlord of Wyda-Aescaland. No brothers, no sisters . . . married, yet still no children.’
‘So who are you?’ the Peladane interrupted. ‘You still haven’t told us your name!’
‘Kuthy,’ the man stated simply. ‘Kuthy Tivor.’
There was a stunned silence broken only by the sound of the stranger adding more wood to the fire.
Kuthy Tivor! It was a name known to all of them; a name spoken of in stories from one end of the continent to the other, from the westernmost isles of Pendonium to the Brunamara Mountains that formed the eastern frontier of Vregh-Nahov, and throughout all the lands between. Even in Qaladmir they had heard the name. Stories were told of him in a hundred different languages, lays were sung of his deeds, and there was not one race in all the lands of Lindormyn that did not speak of his adventures (with the possible exception of the Gjoeger, who had never taken to his ostentation and considered him a bit of a show-off, if truth were to be told).
He was a warrior, a traveller, an adventurer, a bounty hunter, a soldier of fortune; even an accomplished flautist, some said, though he himself hotly denied this defamatory slur. Kuthy was a true legend in his own time, the last of the living heroes.
But was this grizzled, irksome old wanderer that now sat amongst them truly the hero of a hundred songs? Their scepticism was voiced most eloquently by their leader:
‘Bollocks!’ Nibulus scowled.
‘No, it’s true,’ Appa chipped in, though there was reluctance in his voice. ‘I’ve read his soul; and this, at least, isn’t a lie.’
Again they stared at him in wonder. Kuthy merely smiled back, and nodded, inclining his head towards the aged priest. Then he got up and squatted with his backside to the fire, steaming dry his damp patches.
‘So are all those stories about you true, then?’ asked Finwald, trying to mask any traces of admiration that might be peeping out from under their mantle of indifference.
Kuthy continued to warm his rear end over the flames and wood-smoke without response. Eventually, just as Nibulus started to say something, he cut him short, replying: ‘Oh, I very much doubt it; people have a habit of elaborating on the truth. Makes what they say sound so much more interesting, makes it worth a story. To be honest, I could go to relieve myself in the gutter and a few weeks later it would’ve become exaggerated into an entire saga. No, you don’t want to believe what people say. It’s mostly rubbish.’
This, at least, they could believe.
‘So what brings you here, then?’ Appa asked in a conversational tone. He had not forgiven the man for calling him a wrinkled old prune, but he was determined not to show it.
‘Just got down from the North,’ Kuthy replied. ‘Had some business up at Trollbotn, in the Ildjern Mountains, you know? And was on my way to Godtha to collect my wages. I was going by the northern coast way, aiming to go all the way to Wrythe, as a matter of fact: going to sell my sledge and dog-team there before heading down the Dragon Coast to Ghouhlem’ – he held his moose-gut whip up for them to see – ‘but the dogs got killed by Jotuns, so I’ve had to leg it all the way down here. Been travelling weeks now, what wit
h having to hunt along the way and everything . . . I was going to stop off at Edgemarsh – Myst-Hakel – to get myself sorted out a bit before heading west to Ghouhlem . . . But then I came across you lot, sleeping in the woods like a bunch of militia-reserve squaddies. Thought then I’d tag along a bit, see if there was anything in it for me, you know . . .’
The implications of what he had just told them were not lost on the company. ‘Business at Trollbotn’ was open to a wide variety of interpretations, but all of them unbelievably dangerous. If he had gone there alone, then either he was a fool, or the songs and stories greatly underestimated him. And Jotuns? Those terrible slayers of the frozen wastes, the ice giants . . . to have escaped them must have been worthy of a saga in its own right.
But at the mention of Ghouhlem, Bolldhe and Nibulus exchanged knowing glances across the fire. As far as they were concerned, anyone in the pay of the Dhracus must have few reservations, if any at all, about whom they worked for. The Dhracus were a race regarded with both awe and fear by all others, but mercifully kept themselves to themselves in their isolated lands of Godtha and Ghouhlem.
They shifted uneasily, not sure what to say after that. This man clearly had even fewer scruples than he was letting on.
It might have been the wind or their own tiredness, but to the onlookers it really did seem that the ‘legs’ of his hat seemed to unfold themselves and wave in a macabre way about his head.
Bolldhe called to mind one of the stories he had heard of the Tivor. He was said to have a terrible secret, some unspeakable aberration that afflicted his head, and that was why he wore this hat, this strange helm that he would never remove in public.
Nibulus looked as if he were mulling over something important in his head. At length, he seemed to inwardly shrug, as though he had just made a decision. ‘I suppose it remains for us to thank you for helping out just then,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know what that visitant was, but I’m glad you gave it one in the eye. And I don’t mind admitting I’m impressed; that was a marvellous shot, especially in the dark. A man of your talents could be a useful ally in these uncertain lands . . .’
He paused. Now that he had said it, he was not sure he ought to have. The words had sounded better in his head than they did out in the open. All around him eyes were cast down, and someone coughed. No one said anything more for quite a while.
Eventually, however, the silence altered, very gradually, from one of discomfort to one of expectancy. Perhaps their leader’s idea was not so bad after all. They had already lost two of their number, and that was before the really dangerous part had even begun. And obviously Kuthy knew these lands better than any of them . . .
The idea was just beginning to take on a more solid form in their heads, when Nibulus continued: ‘You do know what that thing was back there, don’t you?’
Kuthy Tivor hesitated. It was a hesitation that told them that no, actually, he didn’t. ‘Whatever it was, I would not like to meet it again. That arrow went straight into the brain, and yet it could still run away. Whatever it was – is – it isn’t going to die in the normal way . . . so we’ll have to have a care. It could easily return, and I can’t guarantee to manage such a lucky shot next time.’
‘We will have to have a care?’ Paulus echoed. ‘Who said anything about you coming along?’
‘Nobody, Long Lad,’ Kuthy replied, ‘but I reckon it’d be wise for us to stick together till sun-up at least, for all our sakes. You swiped the biggie a good ’un yourself, and it won’t forget either of us.’
They settled down for what remained of the night and did not speak further. Paulus, however, remained standing, eyeing the newcomer with enmity. His gaunt form appeared like Death itself, standing there in the night, surrounded by mist, the long sword extending out from his black coat.
Eventually, he turned back to watch the trees, keeping his solitary vigil.
Paulus’s vigil did not end when it got light, however, or as the company broke camp later that morning. For, much to his disgust, it now seemed that the newcomer had decided to take as an outright invitation what the Peladane had surely only hinted at. There he was, rolling up what scant baggage he had and, by all appearances, preparing to set off with them. What was more, nobody seemed to be raising any objection. In fact, they seemed reluctant to say anything at all.
‘This is the way to Godtha, then, is it?’ the mercenary questioned him finally as they began their day’s trek northwards. ‘Or to Ghouhlem, or even Myst-Hakel?’
‘By a slightly more circuitous route,’ Kuthy replied, not bothering even to look up at the mercenary who walked by his side, glaring down at him.
‘Of course,’ Paulus clicked his tongue, ‘I was forgetting – you know these lands so much better than we do. It’s just that, last time I looked, I’m sure the Dhracus lands lay distinctly west, or south-west . . . And I’m even more sure that Myst-Hakel lies to the south, seeing as that’s the place we’ve just come from.’
‘I don’t mind helping out for one more day,’ Kuthy informed him without stopping. ‘These woods are likely to be more dangerous for you now, and I can take you by quick ways that are out of harm’s way . . .’
‘You’ve been following us for three days at least already,’ Paulus stated coldly, ‘heading northwards.’
But it seemed that any question marks hanging over their new companion’s head were, for the present, going to go unanswered. The priests were not now quite so forthcoming with their affirmations of trust in Kuthy but, with a beast abroad, everyone appeared to prefer the risk of the Tivor’s presence to his absence, no matter how untrustworthy he might otherwise seem.
Everyone except the Nahovian, he himself mused with rancour, as he resumed his position at the rear.
‘I have a suggestion to make, if you don’t mind,’ Kuthy informed them as they made camp at the end of that day’s march.
The air was noticeably colder nowadays, the warmth of the late summer wanting to have nothing to do with this place. These woods were more dreadful and fear-laden than any of them had previously imagined and, to cap it all, Wodeman had done another of his disappearing acts sometime during the morning. It was his way, they all knew, but now . . . ?
Everybody was edgy and, deep in their hearts, they had to admit they wished they had never entered Fron-Wudu at all. An uncomfortable pause now followed Kuthy’s comment, loud with the unspoken thought from everybody: Oh no, here it comes . . .
‘It occurred to me earlier on today that, now I’ve come this far, it seems hardly worth my while going all the way back south just to reach Myst-Hakel, and then to proceed all the way through the Herdlands to Godtha. No, if you like, I can take you north-west through the woods from here, right through the forest, and bring you out near the Seter Heights. There you’d be almost within sight of Wrythe, and I myself wouldn’t be far from the Dragon Coast; it’d work out favourably on all sides.’
They had spent a whole day with Kuthy Tivor, and though none of them now would totally trust him, the thought of his protection and guidance in this cold, hostile land, where they had expected to find none, did seem more than a little tempting.
‘So we’d part company at the Seter Heights, then,’ Nibulus stated, wondering where the catch lay.
‘That would be the obvious place,’ Kuthy confirmed.
‘And nobody need make any diversions for anyone else’s sake,’ Finwald cut in. ‘Sounds all right to me.’
‘If it’s a short cut,’ Appa opined, ‘it gets my vote.’
No one said it in so many words, but there was a general feeling amongst them that they would like to get this part of their journey over with as quickly as possible.
‘Good,’ said Nibulus. ‘Then it’s decided, we—’
‘But, before we make any hasty decisions,’ Kuthy interrupted him, ‘I do have an alternative suggestion . . .’
Oh no, it has come.
‘. . . One that would halve your journey.’
They all eyed one
another doubtfully. ‘And that is?’ Nibulus asked.
Kuthy grinned. ‘Why do you need to go all the way west, through all that treacherous forest, only to cut back east again as soon as you reach the northern coast? Let’s face it, Melhus Island is as directly north of us as you could hope, from here. As the crow flies, it cannot be more than half the distance.’
‘I take it you use the term “as the crow flies” metaphorically,’ Finwald put in, ‘or is that your intended mode of travel? For if we’re to do as you suggest, it’d have to be that way.’
‘What?’
‘Well, far be it for me to gainsay one who claims to know these lands better than we do, but your plan does appear to neglect the small matter of the intervening mountains.’
‘He’s right,’ Nibulus admitted ruefully. ‘According to our seers back home, not to mention dear Gwyllch, the Giant Mountains are the largest and highest range in the entire continent, and one which has never been breached by man. Never. Not even Gwyllch’s Paladins managed to get back home that way.’
‘I thought they all went back to Pendonium by ship, the same way they came?’ Appa asked.
‘Not Gwyllch’s company,’ Finwald informed him. ‘His lot had never come that way in the first place. Gwyllch’s reward for all his loyal service and bravery was the long march south: back the way he’d come.’
Nibulus smiled fondly at the Lightbearer and his knowledge of this history, even with such a cynical take on it. ‘It was his duty,’ he pointed out, ‘and I’m sure he didn’t raise any objection.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he absolutely loved it.’
‘Months earlier,’ Nibulus continued, ignoring the priest, ‘Gwyllch had been despatched to Nordwas to lead the Aescal battalion from there – overland – to meet up with Bloodnose and the main force at Wrythe.’
‘And once the job was done,’ Finwald cut in, ‘that was where his “duty” took him: to lead the Aescal contingent – or what was left of it – back to Nordwas. While Bloodnose meanwhile took the easy way home.’
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