Free The Wanderer's Tale by David Bilsborough

to immolate the body in fire,’ persisted the archer, to whoops of triumph from others nearby.
    But Finwald would not be deflected. ‘Wrong! According to every demonology I have found, and which I have shared with my honourable associates here at the table’ – there was a nod of assent from the Warlord – ‘the only way to destroy a rawgr-lord of Olchor is to pierce the heart and the brain with a magical blade. Failing that, a weapon of silver-plated iron will do. Any other method will most decidedly not do. That is a fact.’
    There followed a heated debate on sundry ways of killing a rawgr-lord, which raged on for nearly an hour. Most stuck firmly to the popular belief that burning was adequate. A few, mainly foreign mercenaries, had also heard tell that silver-plated iron would work, and sided with Finwald. But no matter how eloquently he argued, the priest could not convince them that a sword through both heart and brain was the surest solution. Finally, in frustration, he said, ‘Then if you are right about immolation by fire, how come it failed the last time?’
    As soon as the words had left his mouth he cursed himself for his own stupidity. He knew what was coming next.
    ‘How do you know it did fail?’ was the reply from a hundred throats. ‘It is only you who claims otherwise. For all we know, Drauglir was slain there and then.’
    Finwald took a deep breath and, truly believing his conviction would save the day, proclaimed: ‘It is not I that claim this truth; it is my god.’
    Straight away the very air of the sweaty chamber turned even sourer, as close on a thousand voices bawled out their disdain. It sounded like feeding time at the hyena house. Finwald closed his eyes in despair, while Nibulus covered his face with one hand, not sure whether to groan at his dwindling hopes of raising an expeditionary force, or to laugh at Finwald’s stupidity. Gapp merely looked away – he simply was not here in this hall any more.
    The derision continued until Appa once more rose to his feet.
    ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust us on this,’ he croaked in irritation. ‘If you refuse to believe that it is Cuna who has revealed this message to him, then just believe that it is your own deity too who warns you. If there are any here who simply cannot accept the possibility that Drauglir yet lives, they may as well leave right now, for we have no need of them!’
    Many took up this challenge and immediately departed. They had heard enough. With a third of the assembly now walking out the door, and those remaining only doing so because of the presence of the Warlord himself, Finwald had to try a different approach – his last-ditch attempt to win them over.
    ‘Is not your god Pel-Adan considered the greatest enemy of Olchor?’ he inveigled. ‘Is it not Pel-Adan and his loyal followers who have always been the foremost stumbling-block to Olchor’s malign machinations? So does it really seem so improbable to you that the Sword of Pel-Adan – the very talisman of your cult – is the key to Olchor’s downfall?’ He studied them closely and then added carefully, ‘Do you not believe in the power of your own god?’
    Well, that just about did it for the council at Wintus Hall. The Warlord had entirely misjudged the mood and reactions of both the Peladanes and the mercenaries. The ensuing uproar denouncing the mage-priests and their blasphemy was visibly apparent to those at the head table in a sea of furious red faces, slobbering tongues and glaring eyes:
    ‘Insolence!’
    ‘Get him out!’
    ‘Stand down, preacher man!’
    ‘Shove off, beanpole!’
    ‘Out! Out! Out!’
    Finwald looked down in despair. The visions he had of raising a vast army of highly trained soldiers were fading from his mind with every chant of outrage.
    ‘You’re not handling this very well, are you?’ Nibulus stated mildly.
    This at least could not be denied; the hall was emptying so fast it looked as if someone had pulled a