Wodeman shivered. He pulled his wolfskin closely around him, and looked around. As he did so, he saw that Kuthy was gazing back at him. The soldier of fortune, he noticed, seemed as wary as he was, and his strange cap was keeping its filaments very much confined to itself. Both men nodded to each other, then stared about them into the night.
The following day they met the thieves.
As blithe and ebullient as before, the company had risen and journeyed out into another glorious day in Eotunlandt. The thought of the strangers the previous night was no more than another of this land’s manifold jokes, and in imitation Nibulus had whimsically donned his great helm, wearing absolutely nothing else below that. Paulus had been on the lookout for huldres to slice, as usual, and Wodeman had, unusually, decided to tag along with the merry company once more.
All morning they walked, encouraged – rather than guided – northwards by Kuthy, Wodeman and Appa now. The day was as vibrant as any in this land, and Bolldhe, like most of his companions, once again allowed himself to be possessed by the intoxicating spell of Eotunlandt. Since emerging from the tunnel, he had shed a large weight from his mind and, after a huge breakfast, all that remained for him to do was shed a large weight from his bowels.
‘I’ll catch up with you in a while,’ he called out to them, and dodged into the woods.
At once the green gloom and secret stillness of the trees swallowed him up. It had been windy out on the heath, a gentle, buffeting breeze that whistled musically and brought with it the sweet-sour perfume of elderflower and the joyful chorus of bird-song. But in here all was hushed. Bolldhe picked his way through the tangled undergrowth, and all he could hear was the sad moan of the wind in the high treetops, sounding down here so immensely distant.
Further into the woods he went. Here he felt no danger, and was heedless to the noisy crunch of his own footsteps that echoed throughout the trees. Soon he emerged into a small, beautiful glade. High, soft grass reached up to his knees, and an unseen rill chattered on its course. Great red-hatted toadstools the size of umbrellas stood around in clusters, as did creamy-white ones of a rather ruder shape. Bolldhe could smell the fresh green leaves of beshadowed bluebells, and hear the sweet, chirping soliloquy of a single blackbird that was eyeing him carefully from its nearby perch.
‘Perfect,’ he breathed, and dropped his breeches.
The soft blades of grass tickled his bottom playfully as he squatted down and hugged his knees. He instantly relaxed.
Bolldhe took his time. His companions would not get far, and he saw no reason to rush this, one of life’s real little pleasures. Instead he harkened to the gentle, muted woodland sounds about him. There were secret voices in that stream, he was certain, and once or twice he thought he heard what might have been an eerie yet beautiful singing far off in the depths of the woods. He looked up and saw that the blackbird was still staring at him. Now, however, he noted it was no longer singing, and in the absence of birdsong he was almost sure he could hear a soft, low chuckling somewhere behind him.
Better wipe up, he thought, and tore off a good clump of grass. Don’t want to get caught like this by any huld—’
He stopped dead as he felt the cold, razor-sharp edge of a blade pressing against his throat.
The tranquillity of the past few days instantly fled from him, and was replaced by that familiar ‘hot’ feeling.
No thoughts of death yet, though; he had been waylaid and robbed many times before. Just do whatever he, or she, or they, want . . .
‘Feuirigo binaenenu oememaevf anunsmapama,’ came a voice from not too far in front of him, and was immediately followed by a chorus of harsh laughter from all around. Bolldhe’s eyes swivelled frantically from side to side, but he could see no one.
Hvitakrist! he thought in panic. They were quiet! How . . . ?
Then several figures stepped out into view.
If there was any comfort in the fact that they spoke Bolldhe’s native tongue, then it was swiftly shattered when he beheld his captors. Suddenly Bolldhe felt even hotter, and thoughts of death were now very much on the agenda indeed.
There were five – no, six – of them, not including the one behind him holding the blade at his throat. And in all Bolldhe’s years of travelling, he had never encountered such a motley collection of menacing, lawless, internecine, low-life dross as these that stood before him now. Only two were human, the rest being a mixed bag of other races from all corners of Lindormyn. With wide, darting eyes, Bolldhe quickly scanned the line of footpads in front of him, and counted two men, a Hauger, a Boggart and (more worryingly) a Grell. But the one that most riveted his stare was the monolithic bulk of the armoured Tusse that loomed behind the men, at least three feet higher than they.
Hard as nails and casually murderous of eye, they all bore vicious weapons of war; and all of these were pointed directly at Bolldhe. He swallowed hard.
‘Afternoon,’ he greeted them in a small, croaky voice.
One of the men twisted his mouth in what may have been a smile, and the Grell’s mouth split into a wide, fang-filled leer that was definitely not. It was accompanied by a cat-like hiss, and Bolldhe could smell its rank breath above even his own excrement.
Hell-Adan, I hate Grell! was all Bolldhe could think as he stared in transfixed loathing at the blue-black hide and long, acid-green, spiked hair of this particular member of that odious race.
It was true; wherever he had travelled, Bolldhe had always steered well clear of the stockaded villages of that particular race. Like all self-respecting folk, he had an aversion to close association with other peoples, having contact with them only when he had to. But in the case of the Grell, he would go a full day’s travel or more just to avoid them. There were many men, he knew, who did seek them out for their own various dubious purposes, but in Bolldhe’s opinion the only humans that mixed with their sort were those who were every bit as bad as the Grell themselves: pimps, racketeers, bootleggers, mercenaries, and – yes, once again – Olchorians. These last might find use in them as temple guards, bodysnatchers or even torturers – for the Grell had a reputation for brutality. They also had a reputation for profligacy, which many found particularly gratifying. Their females were too loathsome, fetid and ‘sticky’ for even the most desperate, but the male bawds had of late become very popular with well-heeled ladies who had too much time and money on their hands.
This one in front of him bore three throwing-axes of the variety popular amongst the sea-wolves of the Crimson Sea for indulging in live target practice. But Bolldhe guessed this one was not a pirate; judging by the net he carried and the pole-flail with its three spiked balls, he was probably used to working as hired muscle in a bawdy house.
Bolldhe suddenly felt the blade at his neck pressing closer against his pounding jugular, and all such thoughts immediately froze. The next instant, strong little fingers were enmeshed in his hair and his head was wrenched back painfully. A muted cry escaped his throat, and he stiffened even further. Then a sharp kick in the spine shot a red fire of pain throughout his body. Almost falling backwards, while still squatting with his breeches around his ankles, he was held thus by cruel hands and forced to stare upwards.
He heard the thieves advance.
‘Janenu, ichva bebana, peqquci nunapena?’ one of the humans demanded.
It was the language of his home country, Pendonium, though tainted with an outlandish accent and in a dialect he had never heard before. Janenu meant ‘where’, and peqquci nunapenadenoted ‘your precious’ or ‘your beloved’. This could mean either ‘Where is your money?’ or ‘Where are your friends?’ (Ichva bebana was the term used to describe a bowel disorder that dogs picked up from scavenging in latrines. Bolldhe dismissed this as irrelevant.)
‘Kinasema oevf-laet doerst!’ he jabbered frantically, using the most basic register of Pendonian he could manage, and hoped for the best. Whether they knew of his companions or not was unimportant. At all costs he could not be seen as a lone traveller,
without allies.
Bolldhe trembled with fear, and felt horribly vulnerable in his de-bagged state. Still he was forced to stare skywards. Then a circle of faces appeared on the perimeter of his vision, cutting out the sunlight. One in particular regarded him closely. It was a hard, cruel face seemingly designed to convey a dread sense of sanguinary malice. Thick-set and brutal with pale, clammy skin, it was framed by black hair that was long and lank, and clung wetly to the neck and shoulders. The lips were like thick slugs, and the tiny eyes were like those of a pig, and black as a shark’s – soulless. Lice and maggots crawled about this apparition’s clothing.
‘So,’ it said in Pendonian, ‘you’re a Peladane. Well well, interesting. We’ll have to introduce you to Eggledawc; he’ll like that’ – Bolldhe whimpered as he felt gloved hands run over his kneecaps – ‘. . . and I’m sure he’d like to introduce his war-hammer to these here.’
‘I’m not a Peladane!’ Bolldhe blurted out, again in Pendonian. ‘I’m from Hrefna!’
Hrefna was a huge, wild and largely forested region of northeast Pendonium. Furthest away from the capital Ymla-Eligiad (in terms of influence, if not distance), it had always been a dark and ungovernable place, and was by and large abandoned by the Peladanes. Over the years it had become the haunt of outcasts, thieves, disillusioned ex-Peladanes and the darker presence of the Dhracus from neighbouring Godtha. As far as High Warlord Godwin Morocar of Ymla-Eligiad was concerned, Hrefna was pariah, but it did serve as a convenient, self-ruled buffer zone against Godtha. Otherwise, the less he had to do with it, the better.
But if Bolldhe had hoped to curry some favour by claiming he was from this place, he was soon brought face to face with the reality of the situation when his inquisitor cried ‘Liar!’ and smote him.
Bolldhe’s mind exploded with unbelievable agony, and his legs buckled beneath him. For several seconds his world turned white. When finally, gasping and retching, his sight returned, sickly colours writhed before his eyes, and he could see his fingers twitching horribly. His lips tingled, and the left side of his face felt numb. Then he heard a soft bubbling, and could smell burnt skin.
Oh gods! he thought in disorientation and nausea. What the hell was that?
With his mouth very close to Bolldhe’s ear, his tormentor said softly: ‘And I only rapped you lightly that time.’ The grinning man then held the weapon in front of Bolldhe’s face, and he knew he had spoken the truth. It was a heavy mitre of black iron. Such mace-like sceptres were usually little more than a spiked ball on the end of a stick, but this one was more antique and intricately wrought. It radiated menace and power like a wizard’s staff.
The man continued: ‘Lie to me again, and I will strike a little harder, and boil the skin from your bones. You’re not from the forest, for you talk like a westerner, or a southerner from Arturan perhaps. When you meet Eggledawc, then you will hear a true Hrefna accent.’
He gave a nod, and Bolldhe was released, to collapse to the ground. Though various points, blades and clubs were being pressed into him, he savoured the cool, soft grass against his burnt face, felt the freshness and life in it, breathed in its vibrant pungency and tried to bury himself in it.
Then he was yanked back up, and stood staring about himself. In the next few seconds, he appraised the outlaws.
The tormentor with the mitre was a big hard bastard, that was for sure. Death hung about him like a shroud. It was in the pits of his eyes, the lines and scars of his heavy face, even in his swagger. And those big hands looked as if, without any need of weapons, they had ripped the life from many a screaming victim, while he had chuckled.
More worrying still, Bolldhe recognized something unmistakably ceremonial, almost religious, in both the raiment and the arrogance of this beast, which was borne out by the Kh’is that he now saw sheathed at his belt, that distinctive Olchorian sacrificial dagger with its undulating blade. Were these cut-throats servants of Olchor, then? Just thinking about that brought the choking taste of vomit to Bolldhe’s mouth. For if it were true, his death would be a heinous one.
He looked closer at the man’s garb for any sign, any badge, of the Evil One. About his shoulders the oppressor wore a navy-blue mantle, and beneath it a leather doublet of deep purple hung with bright iron scales. Neither garment bore any device or token of Olchor. But when he turned around to say something to the Tusse, Bolldhe saw embroidered upon the back of his mantle three characters. He stared closer, and was astonished to realize these were not Olchorian sigils, but runes of the Torca!
Olchor’s Death’s-Head, the rune of Erce, and Cuna’s Torch. All together.
What in the world could that mean?
And what was the big man doing travelling with all these non-humans? Why would he choose such brutish, bestial company? It seemed perverse.
Whilst ostensibly keeping his eyes upon the ground as if in deference, Bolldhe did manage a few swift glances in their direction, surreptitiously eyeing each of them up and down. His trembling legs could hardly hold him up, and his dread was such that he could feel his gorge rising inexorably. But he was well aware that if he were to stand any chance of getting out of this one, he had to know (or at least begin to guess something of) his enemy. He compelled himself to concentrate.
The Tusse, at nine feet, was at least a foot taller than the blacksmith back in Myst-Hakel, and much bulkier. He was encased entirely in an enormous suit of plated mail, which was surmounted by a sturdy little helm that sat atop his small head like a mead-bowl. In one hand he held a bhuj, a massive meat-cleaver of notched, blackened iron. In the other, he gripped a maul: the five-foot-long mace that was wielded two-handed by humans. He looked, frankly, unstoppable; more like a Jutul, one of the fire-giant smiths of the underworld. Unmoving, he simply stared at Bolldhe, without hint of expression or thought.
If this was really a band of thieves, then this one presumably was not the one sent to shin up drainpipes.
In the same hand that held the bhuj, the Tusse gripped a leash, at the other end of which was tethered the Boggart. It was as stunted and hirsute as any Boggart the world over but, unlike the bulk of his race that were normally to be seen scavenging on the periphery of civilization like pariah curs, this one had attitude. The small, tusk-like teeth that thrust up from its lower jaw were gold-capped, and on its hands it wore a pair of bagh-nakh, or spiked knuckle-dusters. It glared at Bolldhe ferally, and salivated.
‘Careful, Peladane,’ the mitre-bearer warned. ‘The males of their species don’t like being stared at in the eye. Think on, or Grini here might decide to search for the future in your entrails.’
Grini. Yes, that was the name inscribed on his collar. Bolldhe quickly turned away. The Boggarts’ shamanistic rites were well known; they would pull out the innards of their victims, and in them try to divine the future. (Their futures invariably turned out to be red and steaming, which perhaps was not so inaccurate after all.)
And then they would eat them.
The hunched-up Grini was passed back to his master, the one who had been holding the knife against Bolldhe’s throat. Unsurprisingly, this one turned out to be a Polg. This cocky little shit sauntered over to take the leash, and as he did so treated their prisoner to his best intimidating sneer. It always amazed Bolldhe how the Polgrim found it so easy to look down at races that were at least a foot taller than they. Was it practice, he wondered, or were they genuinely and inherently the most arrogant little vermin on the face of Lindormyn?
As ostentatious as the worst of his breed, this Polg was arrayed in clothes of deep red, green and brown, all hung about with silver and gold, and he sported a moustache that was almost long enough to hold his trousers up. An assegai spear with a leaf-shaped tip was strapped across his back, and a haladie was stuffed into his belt. Both weapons were typical hunting tools of the Polg elite. The haladie, had Bolldhe been in a better position to appreciate such things, was especially impressive: a kind of ‘double-dagger’, it had two long, gracefully curved blades, each exten
ding from either end of the grip, and by the aura he had felt as it was held to his artery, Bolldhe guessed this one was magical, possibly the kind that could return to its wielder like a boomerang.
This is bad, Bolldhe thought, this is terrible. Such weapons . . . ! This lot were far better equipped than any group of mere thieves should be; they were more like an expeditionary taskforce than wandering rogues. Bolldhe’s thoughts reached out for his quest-mates, wherever they might be now. But there was little comfort in any notions of a rescue from them. What could they do against adversaries such as these?
At a word from the leader, the only other human in the group stepped up to Bolldhe. Though this one had blond hair tied into a very long and greasy horsetail, the two men were sufficiently alike to be brothers; both were large and muscular, with brutish, pig-eyed faces. But unlike his funereally clothed brother, this one preferred to show off his physique. His jacket had been removed and was tied about his waist, so his knotted torso was bare.
As he approached he made a sudden lunge at Bolldhe with his voulge. The heavy, spiked blade sang past Bolldhe’s face, missing his nose by a scant fraction of an inch. Bolldhe jerked back and fell on his backside, and the thieves roared with laughter.
The blond man grinned like an idiot, and Bolldhe forced a similar smile through his dread, though by now he was on the verge of tears.
‘An inch closer and you’d be dead on your feet, fucker,’ the voulge-man breathed. He glared psychotically at his prey, then thrust the long haft of the weapon into the ground. Bolldhe peered at the blade with wide eyes; it was coated with some old stain that stank unbelievably. Was it poisoned?
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