Fiction logo

Truth of the Wanderer

A Fantasy Short Story

By Charles BeuckPublished 3 years ago 26 min read
Like
Truth of the Wanderer
Photo by Luke Southern on Unsplash

The rod bent back in his hands as the bait sunk deep into the water was taken. Smooth, sturdy ash tugged hard, then hard again, and the hook was set. Waves of dark turquoise, tranquil and calm, gently lapped again the boat turned rickety by the passage of years.

Still, next to the lean man heaving and hauling on the jerking line, struggling and straining to reel in the scaled behemoth tossing and turning this way and that just beyond sight in the water, the boat might have been newly carved, still fresh from the limb. Tangled and snarled the frosty hair was that graced his head, a mane one would expect more befitting a corpse than a man struggling mightily against a denizen of the sea. More startling still were his eyes like chips of broken ice, a gaze that both chilled and calmed. Yet the face they framed was unlined, unmarred, and altogether untouched by the weight of years his unkempt hair and frigid eyes spoke of. A strange man.

Erland Stian he was called, a name not his own yet had become so in the decade he had spent in this small, peaceful fishing village on the coast. Of all the places he’d been it most closely fit his idea of home. Yet perhaps home was too strong a word, for he merely dwelt there on the outskirts, and had but few dealings with the people who truly found the place so. Even were he to reside there another fistful of decades he would still be the wandering foreigner, the man with the unknown past, tolerated but not truly welcome. So he was called Erland Stian, and that was who he was and would forever be to them.

The line slowed then slackened, lazily it languished now in the water. He reeled once more, hard, to make sure his line was still set in the jaw of the fish. One tug was all it took to reassure Erland that it yet remained hooked.

He sat back on the small wooden stool he’d carved himself from a log too dense and determined to resist the hard blows of his small hatchet to become firewood. Erland had exchanged a week’s worth of catch for a small woodcarving blade and spent the following year turning it into the stool he used now. The man had wanted to do the carving himself, arguing that Erland would save time better spent fishing, but he would not be swayed. Time he had in abundance now.

The fish weren’t going anywhere.

Yet for all that he assured the man, his catch today had been markedly sparse for the summer season. The few he had caught would be little more than his meal tonight, and perhaps a salted snack when he went out on the morrow. Hauling in this hefty beast made him glad he’d tried one more catch before calling it a day, and gladder still for the strength of his sturdy rod. Swiftly reeling the fish in, he pulled it up and over the side of his small craft.

The taste of excitement on Erland’s tongue turned to barren, bitter ash.

The fish, if such it could be called, was easily as large as the rest of his catch combined. However, rather than smooth, even scales, the creature was covered in jagged protrusions and spines. Worst of all was the skull-like head it was adorned with, which wiggled weakly back and forth on the wooden deck, yet the dark, empty eyes remained fixed upon Erland’s own.

“A Loqari,” his voice broke the quiet of the open sea into a thousand pieces, “I’ve caught a Skull-fish.”

Poisonous to be eaten, and seemingly possessed of a wicked intelligence, the Skull-fish was treated in these parts as a harbinger of ill luck and a visitation of death tailored to whomsoever caught it. Many had been the stories from the other fishermen of the village as to the cursed results of Loqari being caught. Ill-luck he could handle, but should the death he was thinking of find him here, far more than Erland would have their live abruptly cut short, and still worse, their souls bound to a fate worse than damnation.

A deep, frigid chill settled into the back of his neck at old memories dredged up from a decade and more ago. Memories of deaths too numerous and agonizing to describe, and the monsters cloaked in the flesh of men who had committed them. A shudder he hadn’t felt in years jarred him from his paralysis.

Recovering from his momentary inaction, Erland fumbled with his fishing knife several times before finding a firm grip. Bending over, he inserted the blade into the fishes jaws, attempting to pry them open and remove his hook, all the while its eyes remained fixed on his own.

Abruptly the jaws gave way to his knife, but one quick look at the wicked, curving fangs in that maw was enough to show how foolhardy retrieving the hook with a bare-hand was. Again picking up his rod, Erland pulled the Skull-fish again into the air and over the water. One quick slash and the cursed creature disappeared back down to the depths from whence it came.

Swiftly he moved to the rest of his catch. One by one, he pitched them over the side after the Loqari.

“To the Beauty of the Sea, take my offering, that I might gain your favor,” he said with each fish returned to water. When the last was gone, Erland sliced his palm and dripped a few drops of blood after them.

“To the Devouring Deep, take my offering, that you might find more worthy prey.”

Barely a moment after the last words left his mouth, the still air stirred into a mild wind and began to blow through his white hair. Casting his gaze to where the gust was coming from, a shiver ran down Erland’s spine.

Darkened clouds crowded the horizon, building and buoyed by the wind, they were coming towards the coast. At the sight of the forbidding front, Erland quickly moved to take up his oars. A prayer to each of the greater gods followed every stroke as he made his way to shore.

“Gods, please,” in a voice unused to begging, “don’t let them find me here. Let it be just a storm.”

It took him an hour to bring his small boat back to the ramshackle dock used by the other villagers. By the time of his arrival, the rest of the fishing boats had already been moored, as his was the boat that often went farthest out from shore.

Since his frantic, silent prayers, and many glances over his shoulder at the onrushing storm, Erland had begun to calm down. The Loqari had been surprising but it was still a fish, and the storm was likely just a storm, though perhaps a bit bigger than the norm. With swift, sure movements in hands now steady, Erland deftly tied the complicated knots that would ensure his boat would ride out the weather and remain at the dock once it had spent its fury. In an afterthought, he tied down his carved stool as well.

Turning from the completed knots Erland, pole in hand, lightly hopped upon the quay. Letting free one last tension filled breath, he released as much of his remaining pent up stress as he could. Only those he knew him well would have known just how ill at ease he remained. With luck none of them would be following on the heels of the summer blow coming tonight.

Sharing a nod with two old salts packing their nets away, he turned right to move through the outskirts of the village to head to his small shack in the nearby hills. Normally he’d move left and deeper amongst the buildings to the small market to sell his catch, but he had none today, having returned it as a bribe to the Goddess Masdona, Mistress of the Sea.

He didn’t make it far before someone called for him to stop. Turning brought him face to face with a young girl hurrying over to him from the direction of the market.

“Why aren’t you stopping by my stall today?”

Erland shrugged and held out his hands to show they held no catch today. “Sorry young one, guess nothing was biting in my usual spot.”

Her face took on a look of mock anger at his familiar quip, “You should call me Gretchen now, since I’m the one who determines the price of your fish at father’s stall.” She stuck her tongue out, which to Erland’s surprise was enough to bring a slight chuckle from his chest.

Misinterpreting the sounds of his amusement, Gretchen retorted with a quip of her own. “Maybe if you used a net instead of that old pole you’d actually catch something.”

Erland leaned in close and ruffled her dark hair. He knew well how she hated it. “Maybe I have and simply sold it to Rufus at his stall.” He stuck the tip of his tongue out to mirror the young girl’s look.

Despite the jesting nature of his words her brow furrowed in worry and remembered loss. Since her brother had been lost to a squall last year that had come ravenously reaving up the coast, Erland’s catch represented a good portion of the fish Gretchen was able to sell, as she herself was too young to go out on her own, and her father, Hector, tended to stay closer in to shore in respect to his wife’s wishes. Miren, her mother, had been kind to Erland when he first had happened upon the village, but he well knew she more unbending than any old oak when it came to protecting her husband and daughter from their more venturesome ways.

“Besides,” he interjected to drag her from her sad remembrance, “I wouldn’t begin to know how to actually care for a net. The first snag on some submerged stone or tree would see me return to this old rod rather than suffer the endless waiting for someone else to fix the silly thing.”

At his words she reluctantly conceded his point. Good with the knots he was, but untangling a fouled net was a wholly different thing. With no experience in it, he would end up losing what profits he made to the other fishermen that he’d end up paying to mend it for him.

“Do you have anything for supper? I can fetch you some of the lesser catch from my stall,” she offered, “Like as not no one will be buying fish after the storm comes though tonight for a few days, bringing as it will all that salt on the wind.”

“Thank you, Gretchen,” Erland said, “but I have some salted herring still back at my hut.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged, “I’ll see you on the morrow then?”

After only a slight hesitation, Erland nodded agreement, at which point Gretchen gave a slight wave and made her way back to her family’s stall. Again heading to the outskirts of the village, Erland pondered his agreement.

Though he had only gotten to know her well since she’d taken over from her deceased brother, Erland was surprised to find that he took an easy enjoyment in her company. Her wit, though short of his own, was nonetheless sharp and made for enjoyable conversation, something that had been sorely lacking over the years since he had escaped his master’s people.

At the thought an echo of the earlier shudder found its way down his spine as he passed by the last outlying building. He paused and cast a look back over his shoulder in the direction Gretchen had disappeared in. Gods willing the Loqari would direct its curse at him and him alone. Far better for him to die at sea, eaten by one of the sharks that infest these waters, than to see his past catch up these people in its jaws as well. All unbidden, the worst memories of his past returned to him.

Memories of the other villages that, like this one, had been nestled against the sea. Memories of black ships with black sails, crewed by the damned remnants of the dead made animate again. Worst of all, memories of their cruel, powerful master with hair like the deepest winter, and eyes like chips of ice.

It was a long, worrisome walk back to his hovel.

Hours later, once night had truly fallen, and the torrential tumult of that titanic storm bearing down with all its wind and rain and fury upon the coast, Erland found himself doing something he had not done in the decade since he had built his lonely hovel upon the hill. Lighting one of his few, precious candles, he set it aside on the floor to provide light for him to work in. Moving to the corner of the room, he shifted his simple bed and simple sea chest out of the way, pulled out his simple fishing knife, and then bent over the newly bared spot on the dirt floor. Using the blade as a simple trowel, Erland began clearing the dirt away.

It wasn’t long until his efforts revealed the top of an oaken cask, simple in decoration but sturdy in construction. With the dirt cleared away, he used to blade to pry open the lid of the cask. Though sealed tight, after several minutes of grunting effort he was finally able to get it open. At the sight of the small, crumpled sack, with the slight smell of old death within it, Erland felt a sense of relief.

Leaving the cask where it was, he pulled the sack free to set it next to his sea chest on the floor. Gently untying the old knot holding it closed, Erland opened it up to reveal an old yellowing set of human bones. Lightly he brushed the dust away and, after setting the bones of the sack in a pile on the floor, he picked up the parchment that had been buried with them.

Though it had been years, the proper pronunciation of the guttural speech of the northern ice-covered lands from which he had fled came easily to his tongue and lips. In rolling verse he intoned the words to the spell of animation, his breath fogging in the air. Cold wind battered about his body, chilling him with its frigid embrace, yet the candle remained untouched and unflickering as the magic of his ancestors stirred the air. As the last words left his lips, a loud cracking sound rent the air like a span of ice giving way under its own weight.

Weariness hit him then, yet it was bearable, as a renewed sense of warmth followed quickly on its heels. Settling back against the edge of his bed, he waited to watch his spell would take hold. It had been a long time after all.

He didn’t have to wait long until the bones began to take on a silvery sheen from where they lay on the floor. Several minutes passed before Erland started to grow irritated.

“I can tell the spell worked,” he said testily, “Get up lazybones.”

From the floor came a soft sigh, like a breeze through a face without lips, which is what the skull was.

“Give me a moment, a moment,” the skull said, “it has been years, many years, away from this old body of mine.” The teeth of the skull’s jaw clicked closed. “Let me get reacquainted with these bones, my bones.”

At the skull’s words, Erland gave a sigh of his own, “I had hoped your time away would have cured you of that irritating habit of yours.”

“What habit, what habit?”

Erland scrunched up his face, “That habit, that habit!”

If a pile of disconnected bones could shrug this one would have. “Sorry Erland, so sorry. It’s just the way I am, I am.”

Shaking his head in response, Erland said, “Nevermind, just pull yourself together. We need to talk.”

One minute the pile of bones just laid there growing silver, the next a completed skeleton of imposing height sat crossboned on the floor across from Erland. He’d asked once how Waldron was able to do that, but the irritating wight had simply replied that was for him to know, only him to know. Blasted irritating thing.

“And would you take on your proper form?” Erland asked with some exasperation, “It’s hard taking you seriously when you’re sitting naked across from me.”

“Naked?” the skeleton cocked his head, “I can’t see what you mean, though that would make sense since I have no eyes, no eyes.”

Erland put his head in his hands. Now he remembered why he had dismissed the wight for so long. He’d come get away from his past for a time, and, needless to say, having a ‘naked’ wight running around would see him burned at the stake or worse.

“Please, Waldron, this is serious.”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way, your way.” The skeleton stood up and walked over to the sea chest, bending over to open it.

“And could you put the doubletalk away?”

The skeleton paused in the act of opening the chest, casting as intense a look as could be delivered by a skull with no eyes back towards Erland, “Is it that serious?”

“It could be.”

After a brief moment, Waldron nodded before again bending over the sea chest. Inside were Erland’s remaining clothes, admittedly threadbare and in need of replacement, but Waldron simply tossed these aside to get at the far more precious items underneath. Making soft sounds of happiness, as though being reunited with a long lost friend, Waldron pulled out an old signet ring with a rampart wolf, as well as a gold band carved to match.

Of all the things Erland possessed, those two items were easily the most precious. Belonging to Waldron in life, they allowed him to take on his true wight form after he has been summoned, otherwise he’d simply be a skeleton that would fast regress to the limited intelligence of that inferior type of undead.

Putting them on, the slight silver glow coalesced around his form and the skeleton turned into a pale, dark-haired man of middle years, dressed in the archaic garb of lords to the south from a century ago. Most striking of all, however, was his eyes, which were the soft yellow of precious gold, and indicated that he was an undead being who had broken free from the control of the master who had made him.

“Very well, you have my attention,” agreed Waldron.

In short order, Erland briefly told Waldron what had happened the past ten years, the name ironically given him by the people of the village, and finally how he’d caught a Loqari and the curse it supposedly brought down on his head.

“That’s it? That’s your serious threat? A weird looking guppy that could give you a rash if you catch it?”

Erland shook his head, “That was much my same reaction when I first heard the tales about it, but you should have seen how fast the storm front gathered after I’d tossed it back into the water. Even an on the spot sacrifice to both aspects of Masdona did little to quell my ill feeling.” Worst of all was the feeling that his old master and his remaining apprentices had returned to attacking isolated villages and towns by sea following large storms, to insure that their prey wouldn’t be able to escape.

“No surprise there, the Queen of the Sea was always more interested in catching men than providing fish,” seeing the worried look on Erland’s face, Waldron quickly added, “but there is no point taking chances with a storm like this.” A loud crack of thunder accentuated his point.

“Thank you,” Erland tried to say, but was interrupted by a large, long yawn. The ritual had taken more out of him than he had thought. He was too long out of practice.

Waldron made a slight smile, “Ok fearless necromancer, why don’t I take the first watch?”

Though Erland mumbled something about not needing to sleep more than a few hours, having Waldron again up and about eased his remaining tension, and before he could offer more than a half-hearted protest, he was asleep in bed.

With Erland safely and soundly asleep, Waldron assumed a meditative position on the floor near the simple door of the hovel. Sealed shut with a sea-tossed spar, Waldron felt secure enough in its strength to hold back the hard and heavy driving wind and rain of the storm.

Concentrating hard, his restored eyes sealed shut, first sight, then sound, then smell, then all sensation fled his mind.

After being, well, dead for so long the meditation was easy, since all it required was achieving a state of nothingness, which until less than an hour ago that had been where he’d been. Or what he’d been, he couldn’t remember. Whatever it had been, it had been peaceful. No pain. No sorrow. Just endless, blessed nothingness.

For all that he was glad he was back with Erland.

Erland had been but a slight white-haired youth when a master necromancer by the name of Onde had taken him on as an apprentice. After several years of violent raids along the southern coast, Erland, ill-suited to such a life of that inflicted such horrendous suffering, had used what necromancy he’d learned to turn the undead constructs back upon his master. In the confusion, Waldron had made a break for freedom, but he hadn’t gotten far before finding he would sink back into a final death unless bound to a necromancer. That night he had found Erland, exhausted and injured, hidden deep in the forest to which he had fled. Necessity had bound them together, but for all that Waldron had found a kindred spirit and a friend worthy of his loyalty.

Shrugging off his idle musings, Waldron thrust his mind further into stillness. So deep did he go, that if he’d had a functional heart it would have stopped. Finally sunk down into the deepest level of his meditative state, Waldron became aware of a distinct feeling of foreboding that seemed to rise silently from beyond the storm front on the sea. He’d felt this before, indeed it was similar to the same sensation that animated him now, though it was infinitely more vile and menacing. Now aware of its presence, it was as if an oily slime of dark intent was following in the shadow of storm now battering the coast.

Perhaps Erland had been right to worry.

Waldron settled in to wait what the morning would bring.

When Erland awoke the storm had stopped but it full night had yet to relinquish its grip on the land. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he muttered to himself, “That’s strange, I feel like I’ve gotten a full night of sleep.”

“You have,” came a voice from by the door, still sealed shut tightly. “A thick fog has rolled inland, though not so much so that the sun shouldn’t be burning it away. Looks like you were right about your guppy.”

At those words the events of yesterday come rushing back to Erland. The Loqari. Waldron. The spectral threat now real and fast approaching. Throwing off the thin sheet to lie forgotten on the floor, Erland quickly dressed. His traveling clothes on, he moved next to pack all the things he would need for an extended trip, as well as what few personal items he possessed.

“Ahem,” Waldron interrupted him, “aren’t forgetting something?”

Without a word, Erland pointed into the opposite corner of room.

“Great. I don’t suppose you’ll help with the digging?” Waldron asked hopefully.

Before he could finish the question, Erland was already shaking his head. “I’m going out to take a look,” he moved to take down the spar holding the door shut, “I suggest you hurry, we might need them before long.”

Grumbling to himself about climbing out of a hole back into life, only to dig another one, Waldron nonetheless set to work with a will. Pack thrown over his shoulder, Erland ducked through the doorway into the foggy morning to see how bad their situation truly was.

The fog was thick, and carried a hint of pungent death. It was as he’d feared. Onde was already making landfall. Oh how he wanted to take Waldron and run. The worn road, more so a large deer path, ran behind his hovel into the trees and the safety of the mountains to the south. He was staring that way when Waldron emerged, armed and armored in the baroque fullplate of his time. Built like a moving fortress, he cut an imposing figure, and the large flamberge he so casually wielded with his undead strength, he would make all but the hardiest living warrior nervous.

Unfortunately they faced no such warriors today, only undead and at least one powerful necromancer to command them.

Seeing the direction he was looking, Waldron asked, “So, what are we going to do? Fight or flee?”

At the wight’s words, the obvious, sane answer nearly escaped his lips. But then a young face, framed by brown hair and wearing a mischievous grin came to his mind. After all the kindness and distraction from monotony Gretchen had given him, he would be a mighty coward and no true friend not to save her. For that matter the whole village had been accepting in their way, far more so than could have been expected had they known his true calling.

“Neither,” he said, “we go to spread the warning, then make fast our escape from the village.”

“Good,” said Waldron, “I’m glad your heroic side didn’t rust away in that fishing boat of yours. Where to first?”

Speaking quickly, Erland outlined the layout of the village and the route of their escape. Having done so, he then led the way down the hill.

The further down the hill they go the thicker the fog gets. Finally coming to the edge of the village it quickly comes apparent to the duo that a fire has started somewhere down by the dock. Once Erland thought he heard a scream cut through the fog. Onde and his undead had already made landfall then. There was less time than he thought. They picked up the pace.

Moving swiftly between the buildings, Erland began calling loudly for the villagers to flee into the forest. With any luck at least some would hear him and find their way to safety. He just hoped he wasn’t too late to save Gretchen and her family.

Rounding a corner he finally comes to Gretchen’s home. A simple affair, what little character it had was quickly going up in smoke, as the fire had begun to spread from the waterfront. Erland barely noticed the flames, however, as Gretchen came sprinting out of the quaint home. She was screaming, and then she was falling.

Hardly was she out of the house when the roof began to cave in. In seconds it was gone, but not before two men had followed on the heels of Gretchen. Disgusting and dressed in the decomposing garb of sailors, one had what looked to be a filet knife stuck in its chest, whereas the other’s head had been beaten into a pulp. At the sight of the zombies Erland’s heart grew still heavier. The only reason that knife would be imbedded in the zombie was if Gretchen’s parents had been inside at the time. With the house collapsed, and still a burning inferno, its impossible that they had survived.

He berated himself for his inaction when he saw the pair of zombies inexorably begin to catch up to Gretchen lying prone on the ground, still crying in fear and sorrow.

“Waldron, take the zombies! I’ve got the girl!” he cried over the roaring of the flames, which had spread all around them.

Nodding quickly, Waldron stepped around Erland to take the zombies at a sprint. Four hundred pounds of undead killing machine ran shoulder first in the zombie nearest Gretchen. So hard was it hit that the thing was hurled up and away from Waldron to land in the pile of burning rubble that had been Gretchen’s house.

Taking advantage of his momentary loss of balance, the other zombie hit him hard in the back. The armored wight barely flinched underneath the blow. Turning to face it, Waldron negligently flicked his blade with one hand, once, twice, and then a third time. The zombie fell in pieces.

Squatting down by Gretchen, Erland quickly checked to see if she had any wounds in need of dressing. Finding none, he picked the softly crying girl up and began to make for the direction that had come from at the fastest speed he could.

It quickly became apparent that carrying both his belongings and the girl was slowing him too much so, without hesitation, he began to toss his pack aside. Before he could, however, Waldron, sword sheathed on his back, tapped him on the head and rolled his eyes.

“Give her to me. You’ll both need those supplies.”

Having handed the girl over to the far stronger Waldron, they made much better time from village, and in short order had made it back up to his hovel. Out of immediate danger, Erland looked down at the village. It was completely burning now, yet even so he could make out figures beginning to reach the outskirts of the village. Hope turned to despair, however, when his keen eyes made out their shambling gaits. Not villagers then, but more zombies.

Having paused in their flight, Waldron set the girl down. Crawling forward, she looked down the hill at the burning remains of her life. Gretchen ceased her soft cries and raised her tear-stained face to look at Erland. Her lips moved but nothing came out. She was still in shock.

“I’m sorry, young one,” Erland said sadly, “I wasn’t able to save them.”

A long moment past before the words finally sunk in. Closing her eyes, she slumped forwards in an exhausted heap. Waldron bent to pick her again, but Erland shook his head.

“I’ll take her, Waldron,” he said quietly, looking down at the girl, “So long as we walk the deer path I can bear her weight.”

“Just as well,” Waldron replied, “If I held her much longer she’d start to get a chill,” he proffered his hand, “I’ll take your pack at least.”

Having handed the pack over, Erland stooped to pick up Gretchen. Regret filled his heart looking at the exhausted girl. She had lost far more than he this night, but gods willing she wouldn’t lose any more. He and Waldron would make sure of that.

They both cast one last, final look over the burning village below before turning to head into the shadows of the trees. Erland was the last to turn. For a long, silent moment he watched as ten years of peace and contentment disappeared in the now black-tinged fog. The injustice of it made him want to weep white-hot tears of rage, to yell aloud at the wrongness of world that would see Gretchen grow up without a mother, without a father, without a home. But the words would not come. The tears would not fall. He’d long known the truth behind the suffering of the world. Wordlessly he turned and followed Waldron into the trees, his parting thoughts about the curse the Loqari had inflicted upon him.

Erland Stian he was, and was again.

Fantasy
Like

About the Creator

Charles Beuck

Avid reader and writer of all things fantasy, sci-fi, and history. Lucky husband and proud dog dad trying to make the author gig work in my free time. BA in Psychology, and MA/PhD in Political Science, sometimes exert influence on my work.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.