The Wanderer's Tale (33 page)

Finwald stared in the Peladane’s direction, but did not say a word.

‘But what use is knowledge that has been taken, not learned?’ Wodeman demanded. He turned to Finwald. ‘You want to share in the Torca’s knowledge,’ he said, ‘to extract the bits you have use for, yet disregard the tradition that lies behind it. But how can you ever do so? Your magic is self-taught; you are first generation. Mine is part of a tradition handed down word-of-mouth for
countless
generations. I’ve been raised a Torca, so it is my life, as much a part of me as my arms, legs or head. My magic is as everyday a function as eating, not just some add-on, some acquired skill, as it is with you.’

‘We share our knowledge freely, gladly, with any who ask for it,’ Finwald protested. ‘We keep nothing to ourselves.’

‘Books, lengthy recitations, all that stuff you dabble in,’ Wodeman persisted, trying to explain, ‘they’re just the scraps we threw away, the bastardized remnants of a much older, greater way, one you will never understand. And you know why? It’s because what you seek, what you really seek underneath it all is not knowledge but
power
. Power without the learning. Power to get whatever you want.
Evil
power, as often as not. But know this, Finwald: you can’t do evil magic without ultimately harming yourself. That is why we never try to share our way with
magicians
like you.’

‘I think what we all want right now,’ Finwald insisted patiently, ‘is to get out of here. And for that we’ll need magic. Any magic.’

‘Then transform yourself,’ Wodeman said. ‘That is what magic is, as I said earlier. Use it to find out what it is you are
not
, so you may know what it is you may
become
. . .’ The sorcerer broke off and waved his hand impatiently. He was wasting his breath on the mage-priest. He would much rather have been telling this to Bolldhe. There were more pressing matters at hand.

‘What did you see, then?’ he turned to the others.

They told him all that they had witnessed: the shrew, the complex journey it had made, the well. While they talked, Wodeman nodded attentively. Finally he took a deep breath and explained:

‘I dreamt that my soul rose from my body and passed out of the confines of this place, this dimension. Long days through the awful morass did I travel, struggling to find my way. But eventually I came out upon drier land, where the going was easier. Though at one point I became lost in the trackless deeps of a wood, I soon regained my bearing, and after only another day and a night I finally reached a flat plain. Swiftly now I marched, and thence arrived at a road. This was a boon I had not dared to hope for, and from there the miles fair flew by. There was a delay when I reached a fallen bridge, and later on I was attacked by a Jaculus that tried to feed upon my spirit, but other than that the road took me straight on. And some time during the night, I came upon Bolldhe.

‘He was lost to me, however, and no amount of shouting would rouse him.

‘In the end I was forced to use a dream on him. It was a sore choice, for I had wanted to save my Erce-sent dreams for when he and I were closer together – but I had no other option. Nevertheless, despite the intervention of the Skela, I
think
he got my message. All we can do now is hope.’

There was a thoughtful pause.

‘Fascinating,’ whispered Finwald, ‘The soul as a pygmy shrew. What a concept!’

‘It’s not a spell I’d ever undertake lightly,’ the sorcerer admitted, ‘for once I project my soul, I have no control over it. It’s like a tame dove; I can send it out, and hope that it’ll return, but if it decides to fly away, well, that’s it . . . like the houseless souls that wander the wastelands, my soul would roam forever.’

‘Yet to send your soul on a journey so
far
. . .’ Finwald breathed in open admiration.

‘And at the end, the well? ’ added Appa, who had woken up a few minutes earlier.

‘Bolldhe’s mind,’ Wodeman explained, ‘as deep and dark as a real well.’ He sounded disturbed.

‘So what now?’ Nibulus demanded. ‘Is Bolldhe aware of our predicament?’

‘And more to the point,’ Paulus added, his fey-induced fear now held in check, ‘does he care?’

‘I can’t answer that question,’ Wodeman replied. ‘All I can say is that he’d
better
care, or none of us is getting out of here. I’ve now done all that I can. I’m afraid, Finwald, that my magic has more to do with questioning answers than answering questions. Like your own religion, it is a search for truth, and truths change as constantly as do people.’

‘So our lives depend solely upon the whim of that wanderer,’ Finwald exclaimed. ‘Cuna help us all!’

‘Was it ever otherwise?’ Appa asked provocatively, and he of all of them seemed the least worried. ‘For that is the very nature of this Quest. Always was . . . But don’t be too quick to judge Bolldhe; people change as constantly as the truth, eh, Wodeman?’

‘They transform,’ agreed the nature-priest, ‘and with any luck, that’s just what I’ve helped do with Bolldhe.’

‘Don’t you dare meddle with my charge!’ Appa suddenly barked. ‘If there’s any transforming to be done with him, I’ll do it myself.’

Finwald laughed placatingly. ‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said as quietly as possible to Wodeman. ‘What I want to know is, how could you effect that spell – your transformation, if you will – when you are unable to work any other spell in this wretched place?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Paulus, ‘like getting us out of here?’

‘Because it is simply not possible,’ Wodeman protested. ‘My magic comes from tapping into the universal mind of the world, but here we are not
in
the world, not in
our
world. We are totally cut off from it.’ He hesitated a second. ‘I can’t be certain, but I believe that it was by a Ganferd, a waylaying spirit of fey, that we were led into this realm; and so in the realm of fey we are now trapped. I can change nothing in here, neither the bars, nor locks . . . nothing. I can only change my own soul. Our only hope, I’m afraid, now lies in help from outside.’

There was one further attempt at escape, despite what Wodeman had said. The soul-journey of their shaman had greatly inspired Finwald, and he decided it was time to try out something of his own.

‘Vocal, somatic and material,’ he explained to his audience, ‘are the components of any good spell. Hear the vibrations of my incantation, see the movements that tap into the power of my body’s median points, know the chemicals and fluids that course through my system . . .’

Thereupon he began to clench his stomach, wriggling and grunting, whilst simultaneously chewing upon a foul-smelling leaf he had extracted from some inner pocket. The others looked on with interest, but were not much surprised when all this produced was a sudden eructation from the magician’s backside.

Undeterred, he continued, and after a time, to everyone’s amazement, he actually seemed to be getting somewhere. There was an undeniable feeling of pressure coming from the cage he sat in, and a manifest aura of power, crackling and spitting, like a coiled serpent of fire writhing around the bars on all sides, about to strike. Sweat exuded from the priest’s forehead like blood, and his face became a twitching, contorted mask of relentless concentration. The build-up of energy was massive, awesome, even frightening.

Then with a silent explosion of arcane power, all four sides of his cage suddenly burst outwards, and slammed with a resounding clangour against the walls of their gaol.

And the roof of the cage, unsupported now, came crashing down upon Finwald’s head and knocked him out cold.

The watchers slumped back in their cells dejectedly.

A long time passed. It might have been hours, it might have been days. None of them was yet dying of thirst, so it could not have been too long. But the waiting, it felt that there would be no end to it. And all the while Finwald remained unconscious upon the floor, breathing shallowly but never stirring.

Gapp was reminded of that long night in the Blue Mountains, before the wolves attacked.

Throughout it all, the company neither saw nor heard any sign of their captors. No food or water was brought to them. There were no sounds from outside the dungeon. It began to feel as if they had been abandoned in this hole to die. They could only talk, they
had
to talk, to distract themselves from the crippling numbness and cramp increasingly afflicting their caged bodies. At times even this diversion was not enough to quell the feeling that they would go mad.

And they would sleep. Fitfully. Never enough to give them rest, but enough to give them dreams. Disturbing dreams.

Eventually their confinement began to affect them so badly that it was as if the very bars of their cells were closing in upon them. There was then not a single one among them who would not risk his life for just one minute of freedom, one brief moment of running as fast as he could, stretching his giddy limbs and feeling the wind and the rain upon his face.

Finally, they did hear something.

There was someone just on the other side of the door. Right on the very edge of silence, so quiet that they could not even be sure it was there, they thought they could hear a chilling sound, a laugh perhaps, or a whisper, like myrrh-smoke trailing through the strings of an un-tuned violin. It was a sound that held within it the soft sibilance and assured patience of a spider’s chuckle, coupled with the wraith-like tread and hidden malice of an assassin’s footfall. It was the kind of sound to associate with trails of oozing silver on cabbage leaves.

A
click
– sharp and jolting to the heart.

Wheels and cogs, well-oiled in their casing, levering to.

A
snap
!

And the door creaked open. A feel of new air, oily and warm, wafted in through the portal. With it came a sweet, cloying smell, the scent of Huldre-Home. Paulus’s breathing accelerated hoarsely.

Then a voice as mellifluous as it was terrible:

‘My Spriggans inform me that you are on the way to the island at the top of the world, bent on awakening the Hell-Hound . . .’

Fumbling in panic for weapons that were no longer there, the men stared at the darkness at the top of the steps from where the voice sounded.

‘And I, Nym-Cadog, am to do nothing? Then shall my dormancy be rewarded in full.’

The speaker stepped from the shadows, and stood before them.

‘Nym?’ Nibulus whispered, too stunned to be any more eloquent. His throat felt blocked, an entire throng of words, it seemed, piled up behind, waiting to be spoken.

The figure before them was not Nym-Cadog – at least, not the plump, rustic little old lady who had invited them in for dinner the other day. About twenty-five years (and at least that many pounds in weight) had fallen away from her, revealing a vision of such stunning and unearthly beauty that even Appa was transfixed. Her skin, milk-white and flawless, now radiated a faint inner light that, like the moon’s reflection upon a still crystal lake, would surely vanish in ripples if mortal hands were to touch it. Her eyes were large, black and sparkling, all-enveloping pools of ancient knowledge and fey magic. To look into them was like gazing up at the vast firmament of space upon a clear night, causing the beholder to feel utterly small and insignificant. In her sharp features could be recognized a perfect blend of ephemeral yet timeless beauty, spritish mischief, animal cunning and back-stabbing cruelty. Black hair, bramble-spiked and lengthy as a willow’s fronds, tumbled around her shoulders and plunged on down to her thighs, while covering her sylphlike body was a close-fitting, one-piece garment of such blackness that it swallowed up all light that came near.

She appraised them as a scientist might study a collection of insects.

‘Well?’ she continued as she moved down the steps. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

At this point the prisoners became aware of two figures looming behind her. They did not remember them following her down the stairs, though the beauty standing before them was without doubt a sufficient distraction. In any case, there they were now, two great hulking bastards of such odious and brutish ugliness that it was a marvel how such a vision as Nym-Cadog could suffer to be seen with them.

Of basically human form, they stood over eight feet tall, but were so grotesquely muscled that their arms appeared almost as separate creatures, hanging down to the ground and terminating in spasmodically twitching fingers each the size of a cucumber. Each sprouted a bristling mop of ankle-length, ginger hair, under which a large, red nose stuck out like a marrow. Eyes that were no more than pink slits and a cavernous, slobbering mouth added the final touches to their comeliness, while yellow drool dripped from a jungle of misshapen fangs.

With a celerity the eye could not follow, Nym-Cadog thrust one hand into the nearest cell and grabbed its occupant by the arm. Nibulus did not resist, but could not help gasping at her remarkable strength.

‘A big man . . .’ she said, licking her lips hungrily, then drew his arm out between the bars to sniff it properly, ‘. . . whose opulence smells unmistakably of the elite. I’ll warrant you are the leader of more than just this pack of curs that trail at your feet?’

‘Who –
what
are you?’ the warrior replied evenly, not attempting to retract his arm.

‘I am a lady of great estate . . .’ she replied with a knowing smile, then suddenly bit his arm, drawing blood, ‘. . . and taste.’