The Wanderer's Tale by David Bilsborough

were himself, Nibulus and his two uncouth friends, Finwald, Appa . . .
    . . . And that weird-looking foreigner who had entered earlier with the old priest. Who exactly he was, Gapp could not guess. He did not look anything special, at first sight just a balding, red-faced bloke in his thirties with bloodshot, bulging eyes and a bit of a strange leer.
    Gapp appraised him for a moment longer and then was suddenly struck by a profound sense of melancholy. This emotion startled the boy considerably, for he could think of no reason for feeling this way. Unlike most of the mercenaries, this one looked neither brutal nor psychotic, nor did he seem to evince any of the arrogance and superiority that were the natural disposition of the typical Peladane. Could it be possible this was no warrior?
    But there was nevertheless something about him that frightened the boy. There was something bleak and unsettling in his bloodshot eyes, in the way he kept himself very much to himself, not even conversing with Appa. It was all very suspicious, a mage-priest of Cuna associating with one such as this, and Gapp had an ominous feeling that this man was a harbinger of deep, dark secrets. The thought stirred up all the sadness, fear and loneliness in Gapp that he would rather forget. Particularly the loneliness.
    He shook his head to clear it of such nonsense. The newcomer, he remembered now, was just that fellow Bolldhe, who had something significant to do with the quest; the one whom Appa had insisted must come along for the good of them all.
    But exactly what did Appa mean? So far he had not given a single hint as to why this stranger was so important. And it did seem a tad suspicious that the cleric should be hatching secret plans with a foreigner—
    Suddenly there was a fresh disturbance at the front of the throng. Someone new was pushing through to the head table, gesticulating and calling out urgently. It was yet another foreigner – really foreign this time – with dark skin, billowing robes and (of more immediate concern) a vicious, five-foot length of shining steel gripped tightly in both hands. In one dextrous bound he was suddenly clear of the crowd, and landed noiselessly upon the table right in front of Nibulus.
    ‘Death to the Green Ones!’ he cried, sword held high above Nibulus’s head.
    Gapp and the others at the table gaped in horror, but Nibulus himself remained motionless. Then the huge blade sliced downwards . . .
    . . . And stopped less than an inch from the Peladane’s skull.
    ‘Hi, Methuselech,’ Nibulus said cheerily. ‘Would you like a drop of wine?’
    The desert warrior lowered his sword gently and, all in one movement, he sheathed the weapon in its scabbard, then jumped to the floor and clasped his old friend in a joyous embrace.
    ‘Xilva!’ Nibulus laughed. ‘Glad you could make it, old pal.’
    Gapp’s eyes were wide with wonder. Though he had heard stories of the famous Methuselech, as had everyone in Nordwas, until now he had never set eyes on him. And what a sight he was, with that huge curved sword, the ornate hood with its tassels of braided wool hanging down his back, and the two fine golden chains that ran from each pierced ear to a pierced nostril. Incredible! Who here in the drab northlands would have the audacity to dress like that? This tall, lithe, handsome soldier of fortune evoked all the mystery of the legendary southlands that had fascinated Gapp so much since early childhood. This was about as exotic as it came, and Gapp’s heart surged with a giddy excitement at the thought of the days to come. In that one brief moment, his soul was filled with a bottomless yearning for adventure.
    ‘Fatman.’ The newcomer beamed, his open smile mirroring the happiness evident in Nibulus’s face. ‘It’s great to see you.’
    The man’s olive complexion and long jet-black hair, kept out of his eyes by a scarlet headband, identified him as a member of one of the tribes of desert-folk who dwelt in