The others looked at him with a mixture of curiosity, caution, even discomfort, but also with a touch of amusement. He came over and sat down amongst them, and took another bite of meat.
‘What a place, though, eh?’ he continued fervently. ‘Have you ever known the like of it? Could we ever even have guessed such a place existed? I tell you, in these past two days I’ve done more living than in all the long years of my life put together! I’ve sprinted fleet with the beasts of the field, the wind on my face and grass whipping about my ankles. For hours did I run, yet there was no tiring. I’ve sung to the moon shining bright ’twixt the soughing branches of benighted woodlands. Through the icy waters of lakes have I swum like an arrow; spiralled joyously through shoals of brilliantly coloured fish that move this way and that as one; stroked the backs of huge silver carp that sang to me in haunting melodies. I’ve explored deep grottoes of quartz filled with unearthly inhabitants – whether plant or animal I know not – that I would never have believed possible outside a dream. I’ve sung with the birds, and talked with the beasts of the forest that came to my call—’
‘Oh yes, and what about?’ Kuthy cut in, nodding towards the haunch of meat in Wodeman’s hand. ‘Dinner arrangements?’
‘—And drunk deep of the salty red blood of this land!’ the sorcerer rejoined lustily. ‘Oh yes, for that is Life! And I’ll continue to drink of it till I’m sated! From earth that grinds in the crystalline deeps to air that spirals in vortices above the clouds, this land fills me up till I’m as giddy as a sot. I swear, never will I leave this place!’
At this last remark, there was a buzz of surprise – but little concern. The company’s wanderings here had been for the most part an exploration of this land, their quest all but forgotten; and it was only in a vague way that they were still heading north. Appa, however, visibly brightened.
Then Kuthy spoke up: ‘Yes,’ he said, gazing over the red-gold country about him, whilst propped up on one elbow, ‘I may even join you. Since I was last here, I’ve often wondered what it would be like, or even if it would be possible, to colonize Eotunlandt.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Wodeman, alarmed for the first time since entering this realm, and horrified even more than he had been at the house of Nym-Cadog. ‘You cannot be serious – not even you!’
‘Why not?’ Kuthy smirked. ‘Just picture it: a huge country hitherto untouched by people, teeming with innumerable unheard-of species of beast and bird, abounding with delicious, exotic, unheard-of fruits, vegetables untasted by any outsider, timber in countless new varieties. A land where the sun always shines. Everything here just waiting to be plundered. The natural resources are unequalled anywhere upon the face of Lindormyn. I’d be the first to delve my hands into its plenty. By the gods, I wouldn’t know what to do with it all.
‘Just think, here grow unique commodities of the highest quality. Imagine what I could charge for them! And all in such endless supply – especially the hardwoods. Well, I say endless, but I bet I could give it a damn good try, heh-heh.
‘Then there’s the countless thousands of square miles of fertile land just itching to be farmed – pastures of the richest grass stretching as far as the eye can see . . . wild game in abundance, with no shyness of Man nor any natural defence against him. They’d simply walk into my traps . . . stare inquisitively at the spear-tip about to be embedded in their skulls. Ha, what a picture! And who can guess at the potential for mining? In a land as bountiful on the surface, what must lie beneath? Rich minerals, precious metals, jewels even – and probably much more besides. I’d have mines belching out smoke across this land twenty-four hours a day.
‘What couldn’t we do, men such as ourselves? Practical men, hard-nosed, worldly-wise bastards like us, with a good head for business and the guts to go out and grab it; men unburdened by any thoughts of sanctity or respect.’ These last words he almost spat out, like a poison from his system, and stared around at his speechless audience.
‘Of course, I’d have to start small-time at first. That’s the problem in these parts – such huge distances. But with a little initial capital,’ he gloated, patting the pouch of emeralds at his side, ‘I’m sure I could get a small workforce together – plenty of slaves to be had from the Dhracus this time of year. A hundred or so? Yes, just grab as much as I could initially, then see what interest the merchants show on my return.
‘And then . . . then, once I’d got a whole damn army of slaves, I’d build a trade route, road and all, right through Fron-Wudu, up to the very entrance of the tunnel itself. Start a trading post there, build it up to a whole town, with me as Big Boss holding all the rights . . . jack up prices because folk’d have nowhere else to go. Expand the tunnel, cut out space for a few underground staging posts along it at intervals . . . hostelries, even a few whorehouses, especially if we can round up a few dozen huldre-girls. Who knows what unique pleasures they could give a man, eh, Paulus?’
A brief sound of whimpering could be heard from the mercenary’s lips.
‘Yes, “The Tunnel of Love”, I’d call it – nice and dark, just right for the ambience. And then – and then I’d simply ravish this land! Ravish it like the virgin it is, a virgin on its knees. I’d log the forests bare, farm the land till it bled, charge top prices in rent, then just sit back and do nothing, and I’d still make more money in a year than the High Warlord of Pendonium makes in a lifetime!
‘I’d be the richest man that ever lived!’
He turned to the company to check their reactions, and was not disappointed. As one, they just sat there gaping at him in horror.
Quietly, he laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the dwellers of Eotunlandt would never allow that to happen, unfortunately.’
Then Paulus drew closer. Of all of them, he was the only one to show no aversion to these ideas. ‘Huldres are no problem,’ he assured Kuthy, ‘I could even start an arena here . . .’
‘Really?’ Kuthy replied. ‘Sounds good to me (you sicko).’ Then he added softly to himself. ‘I wasn’t referring to the huldres . . .’
He turned away from them, fished in one of his pouches and drew out a small whetstone.
Only Wodeman’s keen hearing had picked up these last cryptic words, but he was still too upset by the soldier of fortune’s mercenary homily to ponder them. ‘I feel so sorry for your sort, Tivor,’ he began. ‘To dwell in these lands and yet remain so unmoved by it all. You’re no different from the Peladanes!’
‘Whoa, hold on there!’ Nibulus protested, not sure whether to be offended or amused by this unexpected comment.
‘Hold on, nothing!’ the Torca ranted. ‘This is no different to what it was like in my forefathers’ time. When your ancestors first came to our lands, they acted exactly like this rawgr who sits amongst us now. They forced my people to exploit their own land to ruination; they exacted a terrible tribute from every man, woman and child; and if one died, his quota was passed on to his kin. And they corrupted us to our very soul. Hired us as runners, scouts, guards – even miners . . . Why do you think I hold your sort in such low esteem?’
‘What’s so bad about mining?’ Nibulus asked, not sure why he was even having this argument, but joining in anyway. ‘Metal is the hallmark of civilization; it’s what raises us above the level of the Animal.’
‘Och, it makes my gorge rise just to hear you say that, Master Wintus,’ Wodeman replied in genuine pain. ‘The only iron my forefathers ever wore were the manacles your household bound them with, and the only gold was the pennies they placed on their dead eyes.’
The wildfire in him was dimmed now, and he had returned somewhat to his old self. Kuthy had that sort of effect on people.
‘You walk in the light of the sun, you people,’ Wodeman persevered, ‘but its warmth never reaches your heart. You are like the stone of the crypt.’
‘Maybe so,’ Kuthy responded. ‘I’ve trod the paths of this world and others, and if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that after a while, once you’ve seen one n
ice tree, you’ve seen them all. And after that you see only firewood.’
At this, all the others looked hard and meaningfully at Kuthy. The Tree was one of the most sacred symbols of Wodeman’s belief, and to refer to it as ‘firewood’ (or, even worse, ‘nice’) was akin to likening the Sword of Pel-Adan to a bread-knife, or the Torch of Cuna to a matchstick.
Wodeman, however, had by now decided that mere words were beneath him. They were the stuff of ‘civilization’, and he wanted nothing more to do with them.
‘Marauders,’ he muttered to himself, and turned his back on them all.
Perhaps it was Wodeman’s mention of marauders, spell-woven into reality by this land of fey magic and dreams, but just as the sun was setting the company did spy some people that evening.
It was not easy to see clearly, for the light had now fled the lower grasslands, robbing them of their many shades of green. Now, save for the peach-gold blush of the snowy peaks that ringed the horizon against the deep azure of the sky, the whole of Eotunlandt had turned grey. Not a flat, lifeless city-grey, but an infinite variety of profoundly rich, living greys: the shadow-hues of grass-green, earth-brown, sunset-red, sky-blue, and all between. Thousands of tiny points of light were opening, and bobbed and wove among the trees and grasses all around. Far from signalling an end to the day, the dusk heralded the overture of a million tiny awakenings. The faerie-night was just beginning, and a thin silver mist crept across the ground.
And there, away to the North, could be discerned a line of figures. It was as impossible to gauge their distance as it was their race; in this twilight world of shifting grey shadows and roving pinpricks of light, dimensions were unsure, and the Old Magic ever tricked the eye. Maybe it was only illusion, but if so, it was illusion that was shared by the whole company. Moving purposefully from south-east to north-west, a line of about a dozen figures, maybe more, could be seen. They were just black shades against the grey-green of the misty grasslands, and no details could be made out. But some appeared to be carrying poles over their shoulders, and many had large, misshapen heads. Possibly horned. The occasional red spark, whether fire or reflected sunlight, glinted from them.
Paulus was on his feet in an instant. ‘Huldres?’ he inquired of the keen-sighted Wodeman, stroking his blade and sniffing the air as if there were a bad smell upon it. The sorcerer held up a hand to silence them all, and focused all his senses in the direction of the diminishing figures.
From the North a wind was blowing. All heard its steady approach. First the rustle of leaves and groan of ancient boughs, then the eerie whistling of the high grass just below them. And finally the sudden patter of rain against their faces. It was not a strong wind, but it bore a brief, flurried scatter of distant noises: the sudden call of birds; voices, harsh and mean; stony laughter; the ring of metal.
Then the wind passed, and with it the sounds. The darkness deepened, and the vision was lost.
‘Any ideas?’ Appa asked nervously as the others sat back down.
‘Yes,’ their leader replied cheerfully. ‘Let’s have dinner!’
To this the others readily agreed, and set to building up a large fire, the marching newcomers now forgotten. Appa stared at their activity, then glanced back worriedly to the darkling northlands. A sudden hiss of hatred at his side caused him to spin around in fright; he looked up to see the gaunt shadow of the Nahovian towering over him. The pale light of his one eye glimmered coldly from his cowled face as he spoke low to the priest.
‘Huldres,’ Paulus confirmed, and gave Appa a meaningful look before he departed. ‘Be on your guard tonight.’
Appa shook his head in bewilderment. Complete fruitcake, he thought to himself, and unstrapped his pack.
For the first time since he had entered Eotunlandt, the beginnings of a cloud began to form on Appa’s horizon. It could have been the group of strangers earlier that was causing this, but more likely it was the disturbingly neglectful attitude of his companions just now. In any case, it went some way to reminding the old man of his purpose – their purpose. He would kick their arses into gear again on the morrow. And with this timely reminder came the memory of who he was, or rather, what he was.
For he was a Lightbearer, and had been neglectful of one of his main duties, namely healing. Their injuries, though mending with marvellous speed, had still not been properly treated, and as he began seeing to the deep gashes, bruises and crudely cauterized wounds that colourfully adorned his companions’ bodies, he wondered just how long they might have all languished in this land of enchantment, had not that mysterious line of figures begun to shake a little of the glamer from him.
He waddled over to Paulus first, possibly the least spellbound of the party, and certainly the most grievously hurt. The Nahovian stretched out his leg and let Appa get on with it, while he himself continued glaring northwards and sharpening his blade. To the rhythm of the Lightbearer’s elegiac mumblings was added the shink-shink-shink of whetstone against blade. Paulus could not seem to stop himself doing this, and was at it seven or eight times a day.
Other sounds there were too that seemed to rise in protest at Appa’s priestly incantations: the hiss of a colder wind through rasping grasses, the rattle of drier twigs in the treetops, the cawing of harsher birds. Those bobbing points of silver light began moving up the hillock towards them, and then trembled just beyond the radius of the fire, as if in indignation. There was a dark cloud of resentment building over their heads that was growing with each minute. Appa did not stop his ministrations, but he was aware of just how coarse and alien his chanting must sound in this huldre-world.
By the time he had finished, the fresh sparkle that had brightened his eyes had dimmed somewhat, till Appa began to look more like his tired old self. He settled himself down into a hollow, and remained very quiet and reflective.
Up until recently his world had been a steady, unchanging one, in which Good was Good, and Evil was Evil. But Eotunlandt? Where did that lie? Though not exactly Evil in the way Olchor and his followers were, the land of the huldres was hardly Good either – he had only to think of Nym-Cadog to remind himself of that fact. It was a ‘middle place’, a twilight world trapped between Nordwas to the South and Melhus to the North. Yet it had healed him when he was on the point of death, and sustained him where his faith had not.
Back home, he recalled with growing unease, fey had seemed the unwelcome intruder, warded off with chants, curses and crudely fashioned ‘turning’ devices manufactured by the hands and hearts of superstitious, sterile old men. Here, however, fey ruled supreme. It was their land, and he the intruder. He was defenceless in the realm of the foreigner, and he began to feel afraid.
Appa drew his grey woollen cloak tightly about him, curled up against the night and, with one hand clutched around his stone talisman he drifted off to sleep.
Through the pathless woods to the North, a lone hunter prowled. Old eyes the colour of glaciers pierced keenly through the dark; predator’s ears twitched at every sound; feet fell softly as a cat’s. Yet despite its stealth, it was well aware of the countless eyes watching it go by. Intruders! they seemed to spit. Get out! Get out! Get out!
A new infection had entered the land, and it had to be cut out.
The hunter emerged from the deepest heart of the forest into more open woodland, and stared around. Suddenly it froze. Through the mesh of branch and twig, a red beacon-bright fire glared. Without a second’s hesitation, the prowler sprinted through the trees towards it.
The fire reflected like blood upon the dirk it carried as it ran. Rapidly, noiselessly, it approached the men as they reclined, chattering idly around the fire. It was scant yards away now, and still they were dumbly unaware of its presence. Only a second before it leapt into their midst did the tallest one cry out in alarm. Then it was among them, kicking a million orange sparks into the sky and scattering fiery brands asunder.
The group of campers, stunned for a second by Paulus’s sudden warning, instinctively fe
ll back with their hands before their faces. Then Paulus lowered his sword.
‘Idiots!’ the newcomer cursed as he stamped out the embers. ‘I could see your fire for miles.’
It was Kuthy, and for the first time since they had known him, he was livid with anger.
Appa gibbered slightly, and pulled his bedroll about his head. Nibulus bellowed with sudden laughter, while the rest glared at their visitor in silence.
Kuthy glared back at them. ‘I could’ve slit your throats as easily as slicing bread while you lay around gossiping,’ he spat. ‘This is no rambling holiday, you know!’
Nibulus continued to chuckle. ‘Do you know how long it takes me to slice just one round of bread?’ he asked. The others lay back down to rest, muttering. Kuthy regarded them with eyes poisoned with contempt.
Laugh away, southerners, he said to himself, while you can. We’ll see how funny you find it tomorrow . . .
After the commotion of the sudden intrusion had died down, the travellers, all together at last, had lain down to get some sleep. Wodeman, though, felt far from tired. An unending succession of feelings kept washing over him, and for the first time since entering Eotunlandt he was jittery. Chief among these feelings was the sense of being watched. It seemed to him that, below their hillock, an entire legion of hostile, spiteful creatures was closing in. He could hear a constant multitude of strange sounds all around: hoots, hisses, croaks, snuffles and the unfamiliar calls of many other unguessable beings. He could feel their watchfulness, their resentment. The wind, too, was cold, and Wodeman felt uncomfortably exposed to this open country.
But there was something else besides. For on this night, he sensed, a new infection had indeed entered the land, and it seemed to the sorcerer that it was an infection wholly more pernicious than any they themselves represented.
Into Wodeman’s mind came a presentiment: something else had just blundered into Eotunlandt, and it was contaminating the very air that went before it. Flowers wilted as it passed, leaves turned brown and forest berries lost their sheen, turned rancid and dropped off. The creatures of the earth went to ground at its approach, birds veered away and cried shrilly as if stung, and insects, their wings crisped, simply fell from the air. At the touch of its feet, grass blackened and smoked, vines recoiled and the crystal water of streams turned jaundiced and feculent.
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