The Isk Rider of Bazuur

by Chris Turner

  Risgan could never know how he had escaped the long arm of the Adjudicator. It seemed that his newfound youth had something to do with it—an older, more arcane magic that created some buffer between him and the time reckoning.

  Aging and youthing—they were not unlike time-slip. An interesting conjunction of two magics, one cancelling the other out, Risgan postulated. The old time-smith was another anomaly—incontestably, his science was flawed. He did not put it past the rancorous wretch to cook up some scheme to make him magically appear back at Fiffiholth!

  Such a fear kept Risgan’s brooding long into the day; his travels took him to an ancient valley of a dry seabed where on the crests of ridges stood out old decrepit castles built from time out of mind. There was mournful grandeur about this locale: lofty crows ranged the battlements and only the hollow sighing of a forlorn wind touched the shored cornices and crumbling rookeries of what was left of the ancient settlement. Antiquity had passed into erosion. The eeriness of this place was only surmounted by the lost aura of lore and mystery.

  Risgan grinned... He fashioned long strides over boulder and shale and deigned to climb the knolls and explore the keeps, the first in which he discovered a trunk of old weapons: rusty dirks, silver sabres, ancient shields with rare heraldic emblems—also large unbuffed coins of which he selected a few of the finest. Risgan’s face creased with joy at the discovery. It was easy conquest of treasure.

  In the second castle, he discovered unearthly moans and the chill of ghostly spirits which prompted him to make a hasty exit.

  Even as he retreated, he glimpsed another fantastic monument—bathed in incredible sumptuousness. It was a rich aquamarine palace of such dazzling proportions that it stunned the eyes—diamonds, emeralds, gold and silver, every gem in between, crested the turrets and the spires of this venerable edifice. Windows of rainbow colour looked out upon the desolate emptiness. It seemed a very far way away on the edge of the hill and unreachable, but in his heart of hearts Risgan yearned to explore it, walk among those fine halls and galleries. Yet it was far too distant to trudge to in an instant and he suspected it must be either a mirage or some manifested magic.

  The valley was unpopulated save for a few dozen citizens who wandered the plains with glazed eyes and faint groans. They collected buckets of water from a spring and tended a garden of flowers with white blossoms and drooping heads in a tight row.

  Not for the first time, Risgan jerked a look over his shoulder. He half expected to see some ruffled enemy come tripping upon him—the fist of some cold fate snatching him back into the Time Horizon, for example. But no such untoward thing happened.

  His eyes focussed on the new setting: primitive, time-eaten granite bastions near an arm of the edging hill. A twisted basaltic tower reared with forlorn majesty. At the base of the tower an orchestra of constructs spread which could have been described as masonry similar to Dasbir’s contrivances: pedestals, slabs, cross-linked braces, statuary.

  Risgan signalled the attention of an elderly man who was barelegged and dressed in worn sandals and a thin smock of leaves, tending to the meagre gardens breasting the old court. The man was in train of wheeling a barrow of tepid water.

  “That is the site of Er-Daleth,” he explained in regard to Risgan’s curious expression. “It heralds the way to the old palace.”

  “A pity,” replied Risgan. “The constructs strike a rich resemblance to icons I have recently seen.”

  “They should, as they are the master works of the renowned Time Dwarfs who thwarted the witch Zsmlid.”

  Risgan gave a sober nod. “I have some familiarity with the legend.”

  The man showed a pleased interest in the admission and others arrived, gazing at Risgan with curious expressions and languid sighs, clad in their threadbare tunics and sun-bleached sandals. Gaining confidence, Risgan asked them: “What is the meaning of all this industry? Why do you trundle about with so much water and sober faces?”

  “Sir,” cried a young maid, “we are sworn to guard the grave of the great Badrik, Brave of Yul, the most favoured of the Adjudicator’s minions. He was charged with the defence of the large citadel you see yonder.”

  Risgan craned his neck. He saw the ancient keep, at which he winced, noting that the articles he had recently rifled were from this very place. Feeling more backlash looming over his shoulder, he tugged at bulging shoulder-pack and kept the information to himself.

  “Badrik fell in battle,” the maid advised, “against the horde of ghoul men who rode the Borgar apes and overpowered the city guard with their horror and magic. Now we revere Badrik’s heroism and his final resting place, which is here, as we tender the good wishes of the Adjudicator, lest a terrible misfortune plague Yul and curse our race forever.”

  “And the ghoul men?” inquired Risgan.

  “They are dead things,” she rasped distastefully, “smote by magic wielded by the Adjudicator’s magician, Akares!—sadly, after the fall of Yul. We Yulgites continue to observe the age-old custom, for fear that the spirits of the ghouls will return and besiege Yul’s honoured castles. We are the descendants of old Yul... once-powerful lords who lived in the keeps you see upon the ridge. Now we are peasants. Such is our fate.”

  Risgan blinked. Such superstitions amused him, but in practicality he dared not offend the locals. Respectfully, he bowed his head. “A noble cause, Lady, and I admire you for your fortitude. Keep on. Flower-growing is a worthy ambition and a profitable pursuit. I wish you the best of luck!”

  The Chief Headman, suspecting insincerity in Risgan’s response, strode to confront him. “Do you mock our customs then, Outlander?”

  “No, I merely remark that I walk free in this valley and water no plants or serve no god. The fury of the Adjudicator does not touch my fair head.”

  The Chief Headman clutched the slaybush wreath at his brow with gruff hands. “What know you of our Adjudicator? Do you suggest we shirk our duty?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” objected Risgan. “I only observe what I see with my own eyes.” He brushed at his lavender pupils.

  Several of the younger crew had overheard the remark and muttered comments. It was obvious that they resented such thankless work and chose to drop their hoes and spades and buckets on the spot. They left the Chief Headman in the lurch.

  The Headman gave a croak of anger. “Look at what you’ve done!” He implored his people to return. “Your sacred duties call!”

  One rumbled, “See here, old codger, we’re not the vapid fools you think we are. We aren’t watering Badrik’s little hilsacups or dainty lilies. Yet as the outlander has made clear, we remain unscathed from the curse of Badrik.”

  “Now look at what you’ve incited!” cried the Chief Headman wrathfully. He brandished his cane. “There will be restitution! The Adjudicator will deal with infidels as you properly!”

  Risgan shrugged his shoulders. So many angry people. He continued on his way.

  Not far away from the Headman, he turned an eye back to notice that the sumptuous palace had faded to a dull grey cast. Odd! The jewels on the spires and facades had turned dull and dead where once they were glittering and fulsome; the ornate coat of arms engraved on the blocks, gone too, as tufts of ash—also the colourful flags and pennants. Could it be the ridiculous flouting of the legend?

  Risgan scratched at his cheek. The splendour of Er-Daleth was gone in a puff of smoke, yet despite such wonder, he was not about to linger any longer.

  The Chief had returned in force with a posse of twenty stalwart villagers. They were eager to exact vengeance on Risgan. In their minds here was a dissident who had destroyed the last link of their heritage.

  Risgan fled on swift feet. The mob charged after, familiar with the terrain, while his pack was heavy and he was weary. He was about to jettison some of the spoils of Er-Daleth at the top of the small rise, but then gained an inspiration. A stream lay below, likely the same that was fed from the bounteous springs. The water lay flat and ripple-less. He c
arried a bit of bamboo straw tucked in his cloak, which he used now as a pipe. Quickly he clamped it between his lips and thrust himself low in the water, pack and all, sucking air through the reed while he hoped to maintain absolute obscurity. The vigilantes thundered by in droves. Catching no sight of their quarry, they doubled back, grumbling, casting suspicious glances at the languid water, continuing their march up the other side of the hill, deciding that the crafty rogue had gotten far ahead of them.

  A long time later, Risgan poked his nose up. He saw nor heard nothing. No waving staves or water buckets. The valley was quiet, with a timeless emptiness, etched with that same yellow unreality that he had witnessed back at Fiffiholth.

  The sun pawed its way westward, splashing a muted luminescence on the faraway castles and the bleached ridges. Risgan shivered. The air was growing colder. He knew a night chill was quick in coming. It seemed that days passed on an interminable road. The lands grew sallower and dustier around the edges. Twice he toyed with the idea of turning back to Fugis, but desisted, feeling depressed at the thought of starting all over again. The leagues passed behind him and the empty ridges and endless bouldery valleys gave him a sense of lost hope. With a sigh, the relic hunter toed his feet to the upcoming hills—shimmering and basking low on the horizon.

  At twilight, Risgan had seen the last of his food and water, and felt defeat. He paused at the foot of a sun-baked crossroads with a rickety sign propped up by a pile of ancient rocks. The sign pointed the way back to ‘Er-Daleth’. Realizing eastward lay ‘La-El’ and northward, ‘Dogas’, he murmured anew. The southern destination was obscured, but he could just make out the word ‘Zanzimar’.

  Risgan sank to his knees. A sigh of despair passed his lips. Perhaps he had come to the end of his rope... sky and land had turned to a featureless sepia. No bird or breath of wind stirred in this desolate land and time felt utterly heavy.

  In the midst of this unearthly lull, a young girl came striding by and halted to peer down at him pityingly. She was dressed in a leather jerkin and carried a tiny spade. Her mode of arrival was mysterious and gave Risgan an instant start. His stare lingered long upon her thin frame, with his only feeling a vague thought as to whether the figure was real or imaginary.

  “I am lost too,” the girl declared. She lifted a white hand to indicate the sign. “These places are unfamiliar. Which way are you going?”

  He peered uncertainly upon her. She looked so much like him, as if kin: proud cheeks, brooding mouth, lavender eyes, and curly tawny locks.

  Risgan tossed a pebble idly on the ground and gave a light laugh. “Each path is as woebegone as the last, girl. Does it matter where I go? If I had my choice, I’d probably recommend La-El. At least there, there are some women.”

  The girl tsked. “Indeed, we both carry spades, so we must have something in common.” She gave a boyish shrug. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Indeed, you may,” Risgan responded. He examined her in detail; his eyes rested on her spade. It seemed much like one he would have carried in his early days of relic-hunting. “Whence came you, child? And what is your name?”

  “I come from Ravel, and you must now guess who I am. Three chances I will give you!”

  Risgan stared at her with amusement. “Who are you to toy with me, maid? I’ll not make three guesses, you’ll tell me right off.”

  The girl fixed him an impudent grin.

  He must be dreaming, of course, and Risgan shook his head indulgently. He reached out to grab her arm, but she leaped back and Risgan fell almost flat on his face he was so dizzy, disoriented and fatigued from his jaunt in the wastes and lack of water.

  He picked himself up with haste. He looked back and the figure was gone. A mirage. She had never been. His sneer was a foul roar.

  Risgan’s world was falling apart. The distant ridges seemed to swim before his eyes. He felt like a beached mackerel. The sun, a hazy ruby orb had flattened at the edges to become something else, a sad grinning shape from which other strange monsters leaped. He clutched at his head, fighting vertigo. He saw many stone giants leaping after him, at the edge of his perception, slavering gibbeths, frothing thieves, bounty hunters, a gold-black-garbed marauder on an isk, a shrunken sorceress with braids in her hair, some midgetish fiend juggling a belt of amulets...

  Risgan’s mouth hung slack. He tried to run, but the wretched girl was always in front of him, flashing a mischievous smile.

  “So, have you guessed who I am?” she laughed.

  “Douran?” he cried.

  “Nay.”

  “Mystifis the Vengeful One?”

  “Nay again.”

  “The Winged being who flies out of sight? Besimeeth the horrible?”

  “None of these, poor wayfarer. The fools that we are: we don’t know what we have at the moment, and then we throw it all away. I am your future daughter, Ravel—also the Adjudicator.”

  Risgan began to feel a horror entering his stomach. “So—there is an Adjudicator—on this side.”

  “Of course, and she is not a stern old man as you might think. You are a fool, Risgan—an impulsive, sardonic, opportunistic fool—rash and sometimes brave, but definitely a fool.”

  Risgan nodded his head in agreement. “So, where does this lead?”

  “Nowhere—except with you showing me some respect, and perhaps having a little faith in the powers you cannot see or hear. Any of which you have no comprehension.”

  The apparition disappeared and Risgan was left with a mouth as dry as sand. He stood in the middle of the crossroads, feeling a hollow fear running across his shadow. A man apart, slightly empty, lost.

  He took up the path to Zanzimar, stumbling like a sleepwalker. The edge of his horizon seemed to fold inwards on itself; now the world began to slip sideways, collapse, degrade, implode like a crushed egg... He tossed away his self-indulgent perceptions. Once more, the voice reached out from the depths of the horizon, “Fate is hanging on a thread, Relic Hunter...” It tore at him like an isk claw. “At every moment, we decide our fate, at every turn of dice, every word said or not said, deed done or not done. I can become real—if you want me to.”

  His daughter’s eyes shone like suns before him, vivid, winsome points of light, edged with a hypnotic promise. He felt tears well in his eyes. Her eyes were so childlike, so like him, yet so solemn and full of hope. The cryptic words cleaved his heart—they sounded like echoes of rain in his skull. He didn’t know what to make of them. What did the messages mean? What was his mad mind trying to tell him?

  The girl snatched at the youth talisman from his pouch. She caressed the dark underbelly and Risgan tottered in dismay. He reached to stop her. A stony cry stuck in his throat. He was unable to prevent her from making contact, as he watched with sad confirmation while she aged briskly before his eyes, first into a beautiful girl, then a maid of seventeen, then into a woman of full-blown maturity. She retained her inborn vigour, her pale eyes of greenish-blue mystery, her body a testament to lean physique and arresting looks with a striking poise. Yet finally she changed to a graceful grey matron of indeterminate age and while she was fading to a skeleton, her eyes sunken and parched—Risgan’s mouth opened in a cry of despair at the proud white bones and hideous skull. It was the last thing he saw.

  * * *

  Risgan awoke in a sweat. He lay at the balloon way in Bazuur dozing on the trans-passenger bench. The balloon had not yet arrived; it was hours late. The balloon master was not present. The conductor had not come. An old woman snored on the bench opposite him, causing him blinking wonder.

  He felt old and tired. Sores and stiffness assailed his joints. A dream then? He laughed. The interminable trek across the Zanthian steppes had left him chronically ingrained with aches and pains and now, weighing heavily with the burden of this horrid nightmare. Or was that a dream too? It must have been a dream? The relic hunter felt helpless. He wallowed in a strange confusion. So here he was at the balloon way ready to travel to Fugis again? To what, await the
Adjudicator’s revenge?

  Risgan gave a rasping laugh. The Adjudicator was a phantom, a spectre of his evil dream. He searched his person, trying to remember what last he carried on him at Er-Daleth: riches, weapons, new tools... But now he carried none of that, only five ozoks and some familiar odds and ends. No new fine hat or new sabre. He uttered a glad sigh of relief. A dream. His boots were as worn as the day he had left the traders’ post at Xumanthe.

  But how long had he been lying there? Blinking rapidly, Risgan felt the oddest sense of déjà vu. He gave his head a distasteful shake and heard the familiar whisper of a muttered place, ‘Ycon’ or ‘Fugis’, or some other destination. He paled. How had he known the destinations in his dream then? There were no signs about for ports of call, nor had he talked to any passenger to his recollection. He flashed on an insight and wagged his head ironically. The conductor must have uttered the names prior to when he fell into his stupor.

  Yes, that must be the reason.

  Risgan found it difficult to believe.

  The attendant approached and asked his destination, ‘Fugis’ or ‘Ravel’ and Risgan paused, with an eerie thunder crashing in his ears. More than ever he felt a pawn of satiric forces...

  “Ravel”, he murmured.

  * * *

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  The saga continues! Read the next book in the series: The Temple of Vitus

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  4: (THE TEMPLE OF VITUS excerpt)

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  Risgan felt significant trepidation walking the gangplank to the balloon bound for Ravel. His effort to bypass the voyage for fear of the omens induced by his dream became overshadowed upon recalling the pitfalls of travelling these same roads by foot. Gibbeths, wizards, obscure flying foes... all haunted the outlying realms. He heard favourable reports of the town Ravel from the few people at the ticket booth, and on simple trust, decided to risk it.