The Temple of Vitus
Page 4
A family took him in, for he had stumbled the last few steps to their fishing village three leagues from Fugis. Upon seeing his emaciated and haggard condition, the wharf-side fishermen gathered him up and gave him food and shelter for the night. Risgan had no coins to offer, save three measly curios hidden in his pouch, which they refused, professing that he could repay them by joining their fishing crew with Alred and his son Albrek. Every morning they went out every to troll for gizza.
Within a week, Risgan had healed himself of his wounds to tolerable shape, though he hosted new scars and bleak memories of the perilous flight through Mangor forest. Though he should have been the worst for it, he appeared to have recovered much of his vigour, much to the amazement of his hosts. They saw a half dead man arrive, and within days an energetic figure rise from the ashes, looking even younger than when he had come. In truth, Risgan did feel more spry; he looked a few years junior than when he had left Xoltux wrapped in the kodo’s tongue. Wryly he reminisced that the youth talisman’s magic had healed Varwa as easily as him, for it was during the handling of the nephrite during his showdown with the shaman, that the miracle had taken place.
A league out to sea, Risgan assessed his duties on the Drifting Sparrow, meandering in the drowsy heat, rocked by lazy swells. It was a mid-sized scow powered by a single sail, square-cut, equipped with foredeck, twin companionways, aft deck, fore cabin and a clever telescope which swivelled on a pedestal by the ship’s wheel. Nets were hauled onto the deck, assisted by Alred and his winch while his son manned the wheel. Risgan was relegated to sifting fish, bagging ‘Aukwoks’, ‘Ters’ or ‘Gizza’, which were consigned to the oily drums as and when necessary. Stoically, he accepted his fate, though he felt he could be doing better things, none worse than sitting in a gibbeth’s belly. The ritual lasted for a few fortnights, and Risgan gained muscles he never knew he had. He bore the sun-tanned look of a rugged sailor who had seen many moons of service. The Drifting Sparrow became Risgan’s temple and before long he grew attached to the hulk, accustomed to the rhythms, quirks, creaks, and shifts and sighs of the sea-battered scow. But the vessel had the unpleasant luck of being set upon by corsairs shortly after a morning’s haul when the gulls were swooping and crying for remains of fish. The battle had been brief; none too elegant, and Risgan was only spared his life, courtesy of his quick tongue and clever wit which seized the moment and sized up the dozen ruffians springing down on the deck, armed with sharp sabres and gizza hooks. Alred and his kin were cut down before a word had been spoken. Risgan mourned their loss, but realized there was nothing he could have done. After dispatching of their bodies, the pirates hauled their fish onto the decks of their own craft, a square-rigged, twin-masted barque, and a few other items of wealth. The captain and his mates examined Risgan with some saturnine regard.
“Well then, varlet, who are you, and what’s your story? Are you as quixotic as your dull friends who have died? They perished in vain—guarding this vessel and hoarding a few heads of fish.”
“They did,” cried Risgan, rising with zeal. “Know it your days are numbered. This vessel is protected by powerful spells!—Douran’s, Fevis’s and Fentlemeist’s. Marsimor, a magician feared amongst the Mage’s community, has enacted a malediction. His circle boasts high repute in these parts. Look carefully! I possess this seal—” he held up the Fuzuli curio “—an ornament passed from the mage to my own person—a rune of horror and vengeance!—one which will wreak woe on your miserable hides.” He held high the talisman. “See now and be afraid!” The relic gleamed with a black and red-edged light in the sun’s glare. It was the same given by Nalsi, which was mounted on a primitive runestone, the same he had been saving for just such an untoward occasion.
The superstitious pirates grimaced and stepped back, crowding around each other, feeling the same clutch of doubt and awe. A raucous laugh broke out as one spoke:
“This is nothing more than one of ’em pygmy-fetishes, Cap’n. Listen—we have here a funny little jester in need of a bloodletting.”
“Aye, don’t kill ’em too quickly, Cap’n! The blighter’s got h’self a quick clever mouth. Quick-tongued, if I’ve ‘eard one before. ’E’s got h’self another yarn to tell us, I believe.”
Risgan put on a show of indignant disapproval. “Your low-caste talk strikes no terror in me.”
“Aye, nine lives this ’ere one’s got,” cried another. Three teeth stuck out his black maw. The bandit advanced, waving a scimitar, black bandanna wrapped about his balding head, showing dragons and the slit moons of the pirate brotherhood, which fluttered in the breeze. “Let ’im speak. He’s got another tale afore we sail and send ’im to Hades’ Hole!”
“Quiet, rogues!” advised the captain rudely, pushing his mates out of the way. He raised palms. “I’m sure this gentleman has more amusing tales to share, should we squeeze them from him.”
The dialect of these thugs would have amused Risgan any other time, except now when numerous gullet-swabbing blades swarmed about his neck—clutched in the hands of roguish cretins who had so bloodily disposed of his friends.
“Aye, a whole lot more yarns, I’ve got,” Risgan said growlingly. He thought to play the cutthroats against each other—if only to gain himself a few moments more of life. “If you survive Marsimor’s magic, which at least heralds the spell of the distended brain, then you’ll wish you were less crass in your jests!”
“Aye, we’ve ears for jests, varlet! Keep ’em coming. Tell us more of this Marsimor yarn.”
“Where are you fine men heading?” Risgan stalled. “Certainly not out for a fishing excursion?”
“What’s it to you, boy?—and that ain’t a yarn. I think you’re heading for a wee walk on the plank, if you don’t wizen up. Keep ’em stories coming. How old ’er you anyway? A few days past puberty?”
Risgan petulantly forwarded an assertion that he was not a day less than forty five.
Wild roars erupted from the crowd. “See how funny ’e is?”
“Never mind,” barked the captain. “This lubber seems to have a bit of nerve.” The captain seemed a lot brighter than his doltish henchmen, without the annoying dialect that Risgan found hurtful to his ears. “We head to Snaggler’s Point, just off Windman’s Bay. We seek the lost ship of Vistes the Valiant. Once a year his ghost ship rides, so the legend says in the fog of pale magic blue. The caravel’s fat with all her spoils the day she sank! Ripe for the picking, so we means to get her and carve us up a merry portion of her treasure!”
“An admirable expedition!” commended Risgan.
“Ain’t that the truth?” echoed the captain.
Jester, the captain’s mate, a small, blunt-nosed, sneaky brute, made a jocular comment which stirred the rogues. “Captain Karshan says we is looking for a few stout mates, we is—to accompany us on this here voyage and share the spoils with fearless reavers and adventurers in which we number few.”
Risgan did not like the looks of this dirty oaf, nor the treachery etched in the eyes of his misfit mates. He demurred and put on a thoughtful expression. “Ordinarily, I might put in for such a post, Sir Rogue, being a blithe sort, but sword-fighting and hackwork are not my style of late. A bout of over-adventuring in Mangor Wood has made me dulled of late. I am too old for this roguery, withal.”
“Too old?” The declaration spawned wild laughs and the captain muttered a biting oath. “We could leave you on Deadman’s Isle, then—’tis a few leagues out to port. The shark infested waters there are no joy—but I hear a few men have lasted up to thirty days on that isle on coconuts and caterpillars, that is, before the cannibals stormed in on war canoes to hunt them down with their poison arrows.”
Risgan’s hand fluttered nervously to his throat. “In this case I must accept the challenge of boatswain, which would be sheer folly on my part to bypass.”
“A sensible plan,” muttered the captain. “Then let us to it.” Beaming broadly, he bawled, “Ivith! Harvix! Welcome our new rogue to our clan.”
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There were hisses and cheers, some less exuberant than others. Risgan made mental note of the lukewarm exclamations and managed to amble his way without persecution about the midship deck. On high flew the red, black and yellow banner of Yaster’s Revenge. So the barque was named, and Risgan was spared his hide—for now, at least.
* * *
So ends the preview for The Temple of Vitus.
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The Temple of Vitus
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The Isk Rider of Bazuur
The Temple of Vitus
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Table of Contents
1: Grinneth
2: The Temple of Vitus
3: Dihbas
The Bones of St. Isis