by Chris Turner
He sensed there were priceless relics to be had in this region of the Zanthian steppes, lonely and haunted according to legend. Speedily he had researched the history of the purported legend of which Phon spoke, lingering long in the local museum in the old Romasque quarter at night: information confirmed by a regional geographer who had apparently visited the area many years ago. “’Tis a dry land of sarsens and sagebrush, peopled by nomads and isks,” the geographer said, “but sombrely bewitching all the same. The ruins of Lim-Lalyn are stark. You, pilgrim, will find the site at the base of the Majabi hills, heralded by pillars and fangs of carved stone, once which were obelisks and menhirs of the rulers of Ming and Mang.”
The proclamation impressed Risgan. He assembled a team of pack-beasts to accompany his troupe—five men—for the journey would take at least a fortnight there and back.
From the local stable and outpost at Bazuur, the retriever hired two sturdy-backed didors and five stout where-backs and three packbeasts of medium stature. As necessary adjuncts in their ambitious trek across the steppes north and west, he ordered three large bladder-drums of water, two durable tents, several tarps and a brazier for outdoor camping.
“There is a traders’ outpost at Xumanthe,” observed the stablemaster, “eight leagues north, if you require more supplies—or get caught in trouble,” he added somewhat cryptically.
Risgan gave a laboured laugh. “No worry of that. We are experienced relic-men and waysmen, and Jurna, this black-eyed devil wearing the gibbeth hide, is an accomplished journeyman.” Seeing the look of doubt on the stablemaster’s face, Risgan flourished a hand. “Study Kahel’s arrows well. They are of the finest quality and handled by an utmost adept.”
Red-bearded Kahel gave a curt wave. The stablemaster tilted his head in a sardonic attitude as if he had heard it all before.
The troupe left the blackstone city walls and hundred-foot high looming pavilions of the merchant city behind. After a few hours, they passed low hills and outcrops. The dwindling greenery on the way to Xumanthe almost alarmed them. The band clopped dutifully north and west, as the road of rutted stone curved its wild way through a low ancient valley. The region was didor country, those beasts half camel and bull moose, and things started to go awry early on. Out from a rocky hillside, a band of steppe riders came rushing forth, eight on rangy didors, one on a huge rhinoceros, a plum-purple monstrosity with eight double-edged yellow horns. They cut into the company’s ranks and almost decimated their numbers, if not for a dextrous dodging. A scout, riding on the back of a sizeable teratyx, flew aggressively overhead, aiming heavy stones at their heads. Half-petrified, Hape leaned aside, suffering only a bruised leg; Moeze was nearly brained by a rocky missile arcing from the heavens and carved with deadly spikes. The rhino stumped on to gore one of their slower packbeasts, trampling it under its hooves. The supplies were seized by didor attendants. Fortunately, under Risgan’s leadership, the five rallied forces. They charged the attackers and Kahel’s arrows felled two. Jurna’s knives flew true and debilitated three others. Risgan’s club connected with a sabre and smashed the glinting weapon out of an astounded didor-rider’s hands. On a sudden low risky swoop, the teratyx rider swerved close to Jurna, and the journeyman twisted in his saddle. Sensing an opportunity, he pitched his knives, skewering the foolish sky rogue in the throat. Clutching at a spouting neck, the villain toppled soundlessly to the ground and lay bleeding out in the slay brush. The others, seeing that these wayfarers were not the easy pickings they had imagined, fell back with yells and curses. Within moments the raiders fled up the hill. The rhino rider continued to face them down, whirling a lariat, but seeing that he faced Kahel’s deadly arrows, shuffled back toward the protection of the bouldery hillside as did the three remaining didor riders.
Risgan contemplated pursuing these buffoons, but he hesitated. What to gain from teaching them a lesson and risking jeopardizing his men’s lives? The last of the rogues disappeared, slinking back in disgrace into the scrub.
Risgan’s company examined the dead men. He saw the rough sunburnt features of steppe-men with flat noses and grizzled chins which did them no credit. They were an ugly lot, wearing charms and bone fetishes around their necks and ears.
Risgan rubbed his chin in thought. Kahel retrieved his arrows from the dead men and beasts. Surly disdain was chiselled in his rough features. Though their losses had been minimal—a where-back and some useful tools, water kegs and dry food along with some inconvenient bruises and bloody wounds—spirits were significantly dampened. The company limped on down the rutted stone path, wondering what next would assail them.
Before long, the hills flattened and the valley opened up to a grassy, limitless plain. The traders’ settlement became visible: a rough conglomerate of square white mud brick buildings, baked in the sun at the site of two major intersecting roads. A didor yard occupied the main square, walled with tall cacti and wooden posts mantled with glass shards. The structure comprised the town’s main source of interest, containing every gamut of didor and mangy musk-antler to fast-running turlyn and rhino. There was every kind of beast for both the poor and the rich.
Caftan-clad steppe-men were scrubbing mounts, unloading dusty cargoes from packbeasts, and watering turlyn at the communal wooden trough. Scavenger birds wheeled and croaked to Risgan’s distaste. He had enough of birds after Bazuur’s predatorial isks. Those swooping creatures diving over him searched for scraps of food that the steppe-men had discarded. The dusty, half-cobbled streets were littered with filth. Toothy smiles peered up at the new arrivals, assessing the newcomers for profit. Risgan ignored the attention. He pushed on to a decent inn.
With dignity, they came abreast the Fortune Seeker’s Inn, a sun-baked stone cube, containing a hub of nationalities: didor rustlers, nomads, traders and ruffians. After securing their beasts in the open stable—tipping the ostler a few extra ozoks for expert handling against thieves—the adventurers braved the common room, a brightly lit chamber packed with bodies. The dog-eared patrons looked up in mixed wonder to behold the new arrivals: Risgan in his faded leather jerkin and black boots wore a saturnine smile, Kahel guarded an expression of gruff amusement and seemed confident, if not proud of the bow on his back and the short-cropped red hair and daunting ragged beard. Jurna wore a crooked grin, elbow knocking at the gleaming scimitar belted at his waist. Hape gaped awkwardly at the gathering, short and slight with a slight vagabondish droop. He was garbed in brown cloak and hood. Moeze, tall, sallow and skinny, stood apart with silver cape, lank black hair and slender fingers resting on a hidden object under his robe.
The air stank of undercooked meat, hot and thick smoke. Grog from men’s shouts and breath wafted aplenty in this seedy pub. Scorpion fights flourished in a dugout pit confined to one quarter while gambling took place of various illicit games in a dimmer section at the back. Men wore turbans and scarves; bandannas were wrapped loosely around necks and waists. These were lean desert traders, nomads, didor stealers, turlyn riders, rednecks, opportunists, a usual crowd of swindlers, cutthroats and sharpers, whom Risgan had seen much in his travels.
The relic hunters attempted to mingle with the riffraff. They asked questions about the region and laughed at jokes and smiled affably, while inquiring about supplies and safe routes to the heat-scarred lands to the west.
At a table of justo players—a lively game played with glass tokens that slid in tubes of clay—four men sat clinking tokens and chatting garrulously. A burly red-bearded rascal shouted at Jurna over the din, “You fools are numbskulls to venture out into the steppes at this time of year, especially as such a small band.”
Another croaked in a half jeering voice: “Aye, I’ve seen others attempt it, and never come back.”
Jurna offered a sympathetic response and studied the game intently as if to see if he could figure out a winning angle. Risgan did likewise, no less bitten by the gambling bug. He was eager to gain profit after a dry spell of funds.
The two dissected the
game for an hour while thin-boned Hape and brawny Kahel wandered off to the bar to partake of the local alcohol—methrin, a sour plum spirit fermented in cactus juice. The two shared common concerns: the riskiness of their foray was high and they spoke at length of it in low tones. Risgan’s gambling lust was stirred at the prospect of winning gold. Yes, there would be treasure aplenty they must necessarily uncover at Lim-Lalyn, but why not indulge in some nest-egg gathering before? He and Jurna conferred with each other after much analyzing of the game and Risgan laughed and pounded a fist into his palm.
Moeze, picking up on Risgan’s enthusiasm, thought to interject his fledgling magic into the group of a dozen men taking bets on the scorpion fights, which in itself was a game of questionable luck. The magician had been secretly studying the play with fervour, watching the white, clicking creatures and their lethal, quivering crimson tails. With the help of the erstwhile Afrid the sorceress’s purloined amulet, he made unobtrusive motions of hand and wrist, all this with the intention of undermining the stinging strikes and the scuttling attacks of the arachnids thus manipulating the outcomes. One scorpion fell dead before an adversary’s stinger, and there ensued a chorus of rankled cries.
Bags of coins changed hands. Several had wagered deeply and were not pleased. “’Tis not natural!” protested one gambler. “My beast was whole and vigorous and hale. Meanwhile, Braznod’s champion seemed to double sting its own back most cack-handedly! I almost sense a taint here.”
One sharp-eyed observer, a stocky man garbed in desert smock and the crimson boots of a Zanthian didor trader jerked an accusing thumb at young Moeze. “Who is this skulking stripling then? A hexer?” He grabbed Moeze by his thin wrist so he could not escape and the amulet fell to the floor.
Moeze tried to break free. He cried out about slander, making innocent protests.
“Aye, and what’s this—a dame’s ear ornament then? A cheater! I dislike the skullish look of this face etched on this stone and its accompanying flying demons. I hear ceaseless words mouthed at our champions every time they draw stingers.”
“An irregular tic,” explained Moeze primly.
“So you say. But what enchantment comes from your lips?”
Risgan spoke quickly to the magician’s defence. He and Jurna interceded before Moeze could be cut down and accusations turned on them. “The stripling is one of our own,” growled Risgan. “Accusations against him fall upon our entire crew. Tread carefully, rogues. At most, our idiosyncratic friend here must learn to control his inane muttering, isn’t that right, Moeze?” He grabbed the magician by the scruff of the neck. The young magicker nodded vigorously and Risgan thereupon flashed him a resentful scowl. Moeze’s simper was infuriating and he stood pale and trembling in the dim light, his lank black hair plastered to his sweat-beaded brow.
“I will take Moeze’s place at the bids,” Risgan promised heartily, “and I know no magic. Here are my ozoks.” He held up his hand of coins.
The other players grumbled, but they muttered out an agreement.
Moeze retrieved his grungy amulet before it could be ground under the boot-heels of the discontented gamblers. Risgan lost several rounds and drank three flagons. It was a wise move which disarmed the mob. His chosen scorpion in the glass vat was slow and lost often. Jurna joined in a bout too, but only managed a few draws. Strangely, neither of the two seemed put out by their losses; they sat drinking, whistling songs and swapping tales at the nearby table.
Later in the evening, the same shifty-eyed man who had berated Moeze approached the three. “I could not help but overhear your ambitious ideas, pilgrims. They are impressive, but stupid. You will need a capable guide for this journey of yours. A position, for which I, Balael, volunteer at low cost.”
Risgan raised his brows. “Really? I assure you, there will be no fees paid out to con men.”
“The steppe is a dangerous place,” Balael countered. “Withal, I know of this fabled place, Lim-Lalyn, for I have seen it with my own eyes. ’Tis foolhardy to venture so far with such few men. There are many enemies out there of the honest trader... Negir, the Kesharians, turlyn riders, not to mention the cannibalistic ghoulmen and the roving isks.”
“And the scorpions,” piped up a listener with a toothless smile.
“So, I’ve heard,” grumbled Risgan.
Kahel arrived with Hape and voiced a sneer, “What makes you so impervious to marauders then?”
Balael turned to him with sharp surprise. “I live for danger!—I am here in this scum hole, aren’t I?—look about you. What do you see?”
“Smoke? Filth . . ? Fights and two bit drunks?”
“No. Desperate men, renegades, blowhard thieves, hustlers with nothing to lose, nowhere to go. They will sell their own daughters for a few grubby ozoks. Men on their last legs, ready to go for broke. They will go all or nothing.”
“And so, what of it?” grunted Kahel.
Risgan tended to believe Balael’s claim while Kahel gave an insightful mutter. “They can all knife a man in the ribs for a glass of this terrible brown plum rot.”
“That too, friend. Life is short.” Balael laughed sadly. “After you’ve seen one isk and one bandit, you’ve seen them all.” Beneath a gritty smile, the guide showed them a grim mouth of half-black teeth, this after spitting a gob of tobacco-root on the floor.
Risgan saw the steppe-man to be a short, well-muscled man with tanned shoulders. The newcomer’s grey eyes dominated a rosy bluff face with a snub nose and the cheap green ear bangle dangling in one ear suggested a drifter with no small amount of his own down-and-out luck.
“Well,” reflected Risgan after a time, “we have with us already a competent journeyman, an archer, and our magician, Moeze, with whom you’ve already been acquainted. Then you have myself—a practiced retriever versed in the arts of treasure-hunting.”
Balael gave a cynical grunt. “Pah, if your magician is a reflection of your combined talents, then—” he gave a noncommittal shrug.
Risgan made a sour face, taking offence at the implication. “Your judgements do you little credit, Balael. What do we know of you?”
“For a mere two ozoks a day, I can guide you to water holes and shady cypress galore—to ruins nary a soul has heard about, to caves where the isks don’t fly.”
Risgan rubbed his chin. “Tempting. But I will give you no ozoks, only perhaps an equal share in the spoils.”
The man mulled it sullenly over. “Very well, Retriever, but no other ‘tricks’.”
“Right then. We set off tomorrow at dawn. Be ready.”
The man grunted his acknowledgement. He retired for the evening, taking an early leave to prepare his gear.
Risgan and Jurna meanwhile had picked up the justo game again. A fresh confidence brimmed in their faces. They feigned the breezy manner of light-hearted drunks. The players themselves sat at the nearby table and invited them over cheerfully, knowing that dullards as these were fresh marks, having shown their greenness already at the scorpion pit. Risgan, however, was less enamoured, recognizing in one of the gamblers, a sot vaguely similar to one of the villainous louts who had attacked them earlier that day. He could prove nothing, of course, but as the teams lost round after round of bids and the outlanders’ pile of ozoks grew higher and higher, grumbles of contempt became more evident from the lot and fists banged down loudly on the table. Wrathful glares rode the heels of sour insults. By the end of the night, a brawl erupted and several drunken men were turfed out in the sand by the strong-armed landlord and his brothers. Risgan and Jurna were not of this drunken category. They remained pleasantly sober and relished in counting their spoils.
Risgan, still muttering furiously at the men he thought were the thieves from before, held his tongue. Owing to a lack of beds, the band was obliged to sleep on hard benches in the storage room hanging off the taproom. They accepted this with small grunts, for the floors of the storehouse in Bazuur had been even harder. The innkeeper provided them with dirty woollen blankets a
nd lumpy pillows; the cloth helped somewhat to shield hip bones from the uncompromising wood and yet Risgan and Jurna were still restless from the game and sought to brave the entertainment next door. With new wealth jangling in their pockets, they had heard festive music thumping through the walls, and privately learned that lively women attended the saloon. So it was that they didn’t get to bed too early...
* * *
At dawn’s light the relic-seekers paid their fare and struck out as a group west into the arid wastes. A mosaic of red and gold light glimmered at their backs. There was a steppe-land chill gripping the valley and they looked like mummies wrapped in their loose grey robes. Viewed from on high by the curious-eyed far-circling isks, they were like small insects to be preyed upon when night fell. Low ridges spanned the horizons—leagues of stray emptiness, dotted with odd twisted trees or a lonely copse of slay bush. Bazuur was long gone, so too the green forests of Fadnar which were but forgotten fog wisps in their minds.
The where-backs, those yak-like beasts with shaggy reddish fur and golden boar tusks, clopped on dutifully. Balael stayed always in the lead, with the extra pack-beasts to the side. Then came Jurna, Hape, Moeze and finally Kahel, with yew bow bobbing at his side. Risgan took up the rear, his gibbeth club dangling at his hip while the didors tramped at his heels, searching for the sweet seed he always carried in his saddlebags.
A cloud of dust presently rose behind them over the hill and caused Risgan no surprise. He saw seven leathery men riding their turlyns: hybrids of where-back and didor with antlers and two humps. They beat a casual path toward their company, the same men Risgan recognized as the justo gameplayers from the Fortune Seeker’s Inn.
Risgan gave a deep frown. The bandits brandished clubs and slingshots, and announced their mission in terms only too frank: