consequences, even by one such as Wodeman, who had dealt in them all his life. But it was all they had, and that just might be enough to tip the balance . . .
Wodeman the wolf-man, Wodeman the Torca, Wodeman the Dream-Sorcerer, was to accompany this poor, confused traveller on his quest – and through his servant Erce would pass on to the man his moon-knowledge.
Wodeman leapt high in the air, like an insane frog, in a sudden burst of energy. Armed only with his Spirit’s dreams, he was to be the guardian of the entire world of Lindormyn.
Not wanting to waste any time, he set off immediately for Wintus Hall. He bounded through the trees, chattering excitedly to himself, running as swiftly as a deer. On crude sheepskin boots he made hardly a sound, and his wolfskin flapped behind him with a wildness that was mirrored in his eyes. Before long he had left behind the sanctuary of the wood and relinquished its dark whispering depths to all those that dwelt in it.
And watching him go, its black, emotionless eyes blinking in the sunlight, was the raven perched high on a branch, a sprig of hazel in its beak.
THREE
The Wanderer
T HERE WAS STILL MUCH open country between Wodeman and the town. A dirt track raised high on an ancient dyke ran through rolling meadows of rich green grass thick with wild flowers; on and on until open pasture became fields protected by hedgerows blossoming with the fresh light hues of late spring. Fields gave way to livestock enclosures, then a muddy cattle-market, and finally the untidy, smoky straggle of wattle-and-daub hovels that huddled against the stockade wall. Beyond this protective barrier awaited the pungent and colourful streets of the town proper, Nordwas itself.
Pungent was how the few cultured visitors described this frontier town. And it was as if, during the last couple of weeks, it had positively embraced this reputation, growing more pungent with each passing day as more and more travellers arrived.
This always happened when word of the Peladanes’ latest campaign got out. The town would fill up with all sorts: mercenaries and merchants, actors and acrobats, artisans and partisans, souvenir-sellers, storytellers, oracles and seers, purveyors of beers, dodgy puppeteers, slavers and freemen, jongleurs and gleemen; freaks, quacks, tregetours and preachers, bear-wards and showmen with all sorts of creatures . . .
And any other sort of money-maker one could think of. The town would become gripped by a kind of gold-rush excitement that was self-propagating and very hard not to get caught up in. Wherever one went one would encounter ordinarily decent and shrewd townsfolk walking around with that faintly glazed look of the terminally beguiled, pink of face and open of mouth, desperately trying to sell anything from a chair leg to their grandmother, then tearing around trying to spend their newly acquired coppers on the sort of things too worthless even for a Yuletide cracker.
Here in Nordwas every kind of currency became legal tender, everything from zlats to zibelines and all in between. There were other coins, of course, which were essentially thin off-cuts of the embossed copper, silver or gold cylinders used elsewhere in Lindormyn, but these were rare in such northerly parts. Here, being more practically inclined, the folk of Nordwas preferred zlats: squares of copper or silver or gold cut from a single large sheet: much easier to make, and no waste. Merchants from far countries would bring rare stones of enormous value, but in this region sardonyx, topaz and amethyst were still preferred as currency, being more abundant in the local geology, and their value easier to gauge.
But perhaps the most unusual form of currency in Nordwas was the zibeline. Made from the fine but tough leather of the sable, these ‘bills’ were branded with an ornate crest that was difficult to counterfeit, and the higher denominations were even signed by all six officers of the mint. In Lower Kettle
Wodeman the wolf-man, Wodeman the Torca, Wodeman the Dream-Sorcerer, was to accompany this poor, confused traveller on his quest – and through his servant Erce would pass on to the man his moon-knowledge.
Wodeman leapt high in the air, like an insane frog, in a sudden burst of energy. Armed only with his Spirit’s dreams, he was to be the guardian of the entire world of Lindormyn.
Not wanting to waste any time, he set off immediately for Wintus Hall. He bounded through the trees, chattering excitedly to himself, running as swiftly as a deer. On crude sheepskin boots he made hardly a sound, and his wolfskin flapped behind him with a wildness that was mirrored in his eyes. Before long he had left behind the sanctuary of the wood and relinquished its dark whispering depths to all those that dwelt in it.
And watching him go, its black, emotionless eyes blinking in the sunlight, was the raven perched high on a branch, a sprig of hazel in its beak.
THREE
The Wanderer
T HERE WAS STILL MUCH open country between Wodeman and the town. A dirt track raised high on an ancient dyke ran through rolling meadows of rich green grass thick with wild flowers; on and on until open pasture became fields protected by hedgerows blossoming with the fresh light hues of late spring. Fields gave way to livestock enclosures, then a muddy cattle-market, and finally the untidy, smoky straggle of wattle-and-daub hovels that huddled against the stockade wall. Beyond this protective barrier awaited the pungent and colourful streets of the town proper, Nordwas itself.
Pungent was how the few cultured visitors described this frontier town. And it was as if, during the last couple of weeks, it had positively embraced this reputation, growing more pungent with each passing day as more and more travellers arrived.
This always happened when word of the Peladanes’ latest campaign got out. The town would fill up with all sorts: mercenaries and merchants, actors and acrobats, artisans and partisans, souvenir-sellers, storytellers, oracles and seers, purveyors of beers, dodgy puppeteers, slavers and freemen, jongleurs and gleemen; freaks, quacks, tregetours and preachers, bear-wards and showmen with all sorts of creatures . . .
And any other sort of money-maker one could think of. The town would become gripped by a kind of gold-rush excitement that was self-propagating and very hard not to get caught up in. Wherever one went one would encounter ordinarily decent and shrewd townsfolk walking around with that faintly glazed look of the terminally beguiled, pink of face and open of mouth, desperately trying to sell anything from a chair leg to their grandmother, then tearing around trying to spend their newly acquired coppers on the sort of things too worthless even for a Yuletide cracker.
Here in Nordwas every kind of currency became legal tender, everything from zlats to zibelines and all in between. There were other coins, of course, which were essentially thin off-cuts of the embossed copper, silver or gold cylinders used elsewhere in Lindormyn, but these were rare in such northerly parts. Here, being more practically inclined, the folk of Nordwas preferred zlats: squares of copper or silver or gold cut from a single large sheet: much easier to make, and no waste. Merchants from far countries would bring rare stones of enormous value, but in this region sardonyx, topaz and amethyst were still preferred as currency, being more abundant in the local geology, and their value easier to gauge.
But perhaps the most unusual form of currency in Nordwas was the zibeline. Made from the fine but tough leather of the sable, these ‘bills’ were branded with an ornate crest that was difficult to counterfeit, and the higher denominations were even signed by all six officers of the mint. In Lower Kettle
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