The Wanderer's Tale (37 page)

He continued, encouraged by their interest. ‘Last time we heard from the place, there was just fishing, trapping and wet-farming. Humans and Haugers do the fishing and farming, Polgs do the trapping.’

‘Ungodly, degenerate
scum
!’ Paulus spat. He was clearly back to his usual xenophobic self.

‘So they can’t mind strangers too much then,’ suggested Finwald, ‘if they allow just anyone to settle?’

‘They ought to be glad of us, then,’ Appa suggested. ‘I bet they’d welcome some news from the South.’

‘They sort of accept them, eventually,’ Nibulus replied to Finwald’s question. ‘I suppose their sort just let people move in and stay because it’s easier than the effort of defending themselves against them. Typical of uncivilized, leaderless barbarians the world over. I doubt we’ll get any trouble from them, anyway.’

‘Not with a group as few as us,’ Bolldhe put in, though as a man used to travelling alone, he felt no threat whatsoever at the thought of arriving in any town, however outlandish. As far as he was concerned, all Myst-Hakel meant to him was warm food, rest and a roof over his head for a while. After four weeks of wandering about in the wilds he was greatly looking forward to that, even if it did mean yet another ceiling to stare up at.

They continued in silence again, until they met the giant.

The first one to hear the singing was Wodeman.

‘Be still!’ he hushed them. ‘There’s someone up ahead.’

At once they stopped in their tracks, and listened. There was a note in Wodeman’s voice that put them on their guard, and they had learnt to trust the sorcerer’s instincts by now. Even the bitterns in the reeds nearby ceased their croaking and froze still, their tiny, arrow-shaped heads pointing upwards.

Then they too heard it. At first it was impossible to tell what it was. A deep and warbling drone that rose and fell strangely, it was similar to a song, but no song any human might make. It could almost have been the moan of the wind through the rushes, except that there was no breeze to be felt. It could have been a wading bird or some other swamp creature, but there was a melody to it that was far too complex for that. It could even have been another marsh-dwelling wraith, for the song was weird and haunting enough, but none of the company felt any presage of evil.

A gasp from Paulus drew them around, and the bitterns legged it as fast as they could over the water.

‘Look at that!’ he breathed, pointing over to the left. There came a chorus of hushed exclamations as they followed Paulus’s finger and saw the giant approach. The scrub and swamp-grass over that side of the water must have risen at least ten feet tall, yet it barely came up to the newcomer’s shoulders. Wide-eyed and silent, the company watched it float gracefully along, gradually drawing nearer.

Then, without warning or any sign of surprise, it ceased its song and turned to look at them. Nibulus and Paulus gripped their weapons in alarm, but no one made a move. The giant continued to stare solemnly at them, not moving a muscle, floating on. Within moments it had glided out of its cover of tall grasses and was revealed to them in full, standing possibly twelve feet tall upon a large wherry. On it drifted, and they were just about to lose sight of it when the raft abruptly stopped.

‘Gjoeger,’ whispered Wodeman as the figure continued to stare at them.

‘Come again?’ said Nibulus uncertainly.

‘Swamp giant,’ Bolldhe translated in hushed tones. ‘One of the rarest of all giants. Hardly anyone has ever seen one, so make the most of it now . . . I myself have only seen three in my whole lifetime, this one included.’ He could not help smiling at this last little boast. ‘Don’t worry – they never interfere in other people’s lives unless they are provoked.’

‘Where’ve
you
ever seen swamp giants?’ Nibulus asked sceptically.

‘Usually in swamps . . .’

‘Why’s it staring at us like that?’ growled Paulus in agitation. ‘Why doesn’t it do something?’

‘Probably because it don’t know quite what to make of us,’ Bolldhe suggested. ‘As the Peladane said earlier, you don’t get many visitors to these parts.’

‘Or maybe it wonders why
we’re
staring at
it
,’ Wodeman commented. ‘Come on, let’s make contact.’

Despite a look of alarm from Paulus and the mage-priests, Nibulus nodded his assent.

‘Ho, Gjoeger!’ Wodeman called out confidently. ‘Over here!’

At first the swamp giant continued to peer at them dumbly, but presently it began to approach, propelling itself along powerfully but gracefully by means of a great barge pole.

‘Be careful what you say,’ Bolldhe cautioned them as it drew near. ‘They look far more simple than they actually are.’

I’ll be ready for it if it tries anything
, Nibulus thought bullishly.

‘Yes,’ added Wodeman, ‘they’re the only giants to use magic.’

Magic?

The Gjoeger drew up to them. It was built to the general proportions of a man, except for its arms, which hung down past its knees. The pole was held in great hands the size of paddles, with long fingers slightly webbed, that ended in short talons. Long hair the colour of marsh-weed hung in matted clusters around the broad shoulders, and it was dressed in a single, loose-hanging garment of strange design, the same glistening, dark-brownish grey as its hair. In contrast its face glimmered palely in the fading evening light, like the cleanly picked bones of the dead that lie just beneath the surface of ponds. Deep-green, liquid eyes regarded them inscrutably from its almost batrachian yet highly intelligent face.

‘Hail!’ Nibulus cheerfully greeted the giant. ‘Fair be the weather upon your most honourable aquatic trade. I trust the currents are in your favour, the wind at your back, and the mud not too . . .’ – he sought for words – ‘deep. May your floats be forever buoyant, your hands without cramp . . . and not too clogging the weeds upon your pole.’

He stopped there. The Gjoeger was not responding at all. But, then, what exactly was one supposed to say to a twelve-foot, magical, amphibious wherryman? What did they talk about? And what, now that it came down to it, did Nibulus actually want?

‘They do speak Aescalandian, don’t they?’ he demanded.

‘Ssenh M’bngo lihd-sna Mnorbn-Mlud na’ frhornm,’ the giant commented.

‘I doubt it,’ Bolldhe hazarded, to the astonished vexation of the Peladane.

It was Wodeman who hit upon the idea of trying to communicate with runes. He brought out his little leather pouch, squatted on the muddy path and spread the little hazelwood tiles out before him. The giant leaned closer and peered at them, then nodded his head hesitantly.

‘Think he understands those things?’ Nibulus asked.

‘These runes have been used throughout the North for thousands of years,’ Wodeman replied. ‘By all races, too. They bypass language, and go straight for the mind’s eye.’

He placed the runes of
The Road
,
Water
and
Gold
before him. The Gjoeger squinted a moment, then smiled.

‘Hrn-Mnon’fa Drzkh-thula!’ he enthused, and motioned for them to come aboard.

‘I guess he does, then,’ Nibulus said, shaking his head in wonderment. They all boarded the raft, letting Zhang eagerly go first, his hoofs clattering noisily upon the boards.

‘Drrgn’m du’adh Nno’marmn-niobh, Mnsenh da fforrim’mdh?’ the giant asked politely when they were all aboard.

They looked at each other dubiously.

‘Myst-Hakel?’ Bolldhe ventured.

The Gjoeger cocked his head as if considering this destination for a moment, then simply shrugged and pushed them out into midstream.

Hemmed in by the tall swamp-grass that rose about them on all sides, the company’s view of their surroundings was limited. Now and then during their half-hour journey with the wherryman they would glide amongst the grassy, floating islands of the moorhens, their occupants blinking at them beadily as they passed. Snipes there were too, probing the silt with their long, needle-like bills, and storks aplenty, unafraid of the boat and its strange company. Huge nets they would pass, that were suspended either just above or below the water level by great long beams of pliable wood; and, appearing more frequently the further they went, there were low, hump-backed bridges of a single log with a rope handrail, and maybe the odd skinny mongrel nervously nosing its way along its awkward wooden surface.

Such bridges obliged the passengers to crouch down whenever they passed beneath them. But, strangely enough, they noticed this never seemed to apply to the Gjoeger, who would remain perfectly upright even though he loomed a few feet above these bridges, and would then simply pass
through
them.

So far they had not seen any local inhabitants, but it was not long before they caught their first glimpse of some buildings, at the moment just the tops of towers off in the distance, that could be seen poking above the screen of tall grass. Gradually they drew nearer to these towers, and soon they could see them clearly. A great temple built of light-coloured sun-baked clay rose up out of the swamp. With turrets of weird and intricate design, and walls with rounded, undulating crenellations, this was clearly the work of a more ancient and civilized culture than that which inhabited the town currently. Presumably this temple was dedicated to the fire god Nibulus had mentioned earlier. Standing well over sixty feet above the water level, it served as a marker-post for any who might become lost in those jungle-like marshes with their maze of weed-choked channels.

As the company were ferried closer to this anomalous edifice, they finally caught their first sightings of the locals. Nibulus hadn’t been wrong; most were human or Hauger, but some were Polg. All were on boats of one type or another, and every one of them immediately stopped whatever they were doing upon spotting what the Gjoeger had brought in his wherry. They stared silently, motionlessly, expressionlessly as the newcomers drifted past.

‘Hands on money-belts, men,’ Bolldhe warned his companions quietly, ‘and have your weapons ready. If anyone try to talk, keep going. Don’t talk unless you must, don’t look them in the eye, and above all try not to look wealthy.’

‘How exactly does one go about not looking wealthy?’ Nibulus demanded.

‘Well, don’t stride, for one thing; try shuffling.’

Through the gawping fishermen and trappers they continued, trying not to stare back, but trying at the same time to sneak the odd sidelong glance at these unfamiliar people. The humans and Haugers were dressed in light, loose clothes of drab greys, greens and browns, while the Polgrim favoured deep, richer colours and also wore furs and skins.

Ahead there were yet more boaters, fishing, weed-cutting or seeing to their traps, and soon the first dwellings came into view. In sharp contrast to the grand temple that towered over everything, these were much humbler, more transient structures. Supported on stout poles, these ramshackle huts were made out of flimsy planks of wood nailed and lashed together crudely to provide shelter cheap and easy to build. They appeared every bit as damp and miserable as the people who dwelt within them. Pale, half-seen faces peered out at the travellers from gloomy interiors; dour-faced men in woollen hats and wizened old Haugers smoking weed lounged in doorways, and these too stared at the uninvited newcomers. In fact there was not a single inhabitant that did not stop and stare.

The six men began to feel increasingly uncomfortable as the swamp giant propelled them into the midst of this silent audience, and the late summer evening seemed a little too sticky. Looking behind them, they noted with consternation that the boaters they had passed earlier were now following them, muttering quietly amongst themselves and pointing, though still at a respectful distance.

Soon the tall swamp-grass petered out, and the whole of the town rose before them in plain view. From an Aescalandian point of view, Myst-Hakel was, to say the least, highly unusual. Gapp, had he been there, would have described it as ‘exotic’. This was true in so far as it was bizarre and foreign-looking, but it was noticeably lacking in that certain romance, colour and beauty which the word tends to imply.

Centred around a broad knoll, the town rose out of the wetland like an island. The low knoll itself supported the larger houses, which were built from the same clay-mud as the temple, and to a similar, if simpler, design. The houses that encircled this knoll, however, were completely different; like the outlying shacks the company had already passed, these seemed no more than a collection of shabby little huts, built upon stilts, all interconnected by a criss-cross jumble of shackleboard walkways. They huddled together in a disorderly manner, clinging to the periphery of the knoll in much the same way the floating moorhen-nests they had seen earlier anchored themselves to the riverbanks – or, perhaps more aptly, like drowning men clinging around a life-raft.

The group on the wherry sailed on into the shanty town, in amongst its maze of poles, cabins and walkways. The first boats comprising the floating night-market were beginning to arrive, laden with an assortment of dubious and unpleasant-smelling wares. Here also were found larger vessels that served as houseboats, strung with washing lines and milling with children. Some were setting out bowls on the flat roofs for the evening meal, whilst their mothers toiled in the smoky interiors below. All such vessels looked to be in serious need of repair.