by Chris Turner
Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
WOLF’S-HEAD
Rogues of Bindar Book I
Chris Turner
Copyright 2011 Chris Turner
Cover Design: Chris Turner
Published by Innersky Books on Smashwords
Discover other titles by Chris Turner at Smashwords.com
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
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It was in a dream that illumination dawned. Escape was so simple! Humiliating months of hard labour in a rag-tag gang of scoundrels had made him grim and cunning. As he chipped away at the mortar of the wall’s one loosened rock, the magical gladius gleamed. He reflected on how his curiosity for the arcane, his thirst for adventure had brought him to such an unexpected pass.
If only the cursed allure of the circus tents, the entertainments of the performers had not drawn him into a break from routine.
The stone gave way. Now there was no turning back . . .
CHAPTER 1
MARVELS AND MIRACULA AT HEAGRAM FAIR
From Chaplain’s modern guide to misconceived terms:
“Enchanter: One who brings plausibility to the most farfetched acts, fascinating the eye, the ear, and creating a sense of ‘suspended wonder’.
Common methods: sleight of hand, illusion, dissembling, hypnotism, alteration. Held in general contempt are snake-charming, hoaxing, trained owls, talking amulets and the like . . .”
I
Grey listless morn. A questionable time to be out catching rockgobblers on the beach, but here he was, Baus, a handsome youth, watching the surf lick the sand like mischievous serpents’ tongues. He had sea-green eyes, a tinge of swarthiness, a jauntiness to step, a canniness to gaze, an affability of voice. Not far from Heagram’s port, the beach stretched languidly, as did the sea, a quilt of deepest aqua. The drab, chill stillness promised nothing to improve Baus’s spirit.
While his creative faculties wandered over the less-than-optimal circumstance, he scuffed at the tow line anchored fast in the sand. Only yesterday he had been upbraided by Harky the shoremaster for inadequate productivity, namely, a measly dredging up of only four rockgobblers and two nibblers. Baus had impressed on the shoremaster’s mind the damaging effect of negative affirmations, but had received only stern reprimands in return.
He thrust himself back to his grey reality. The matted tangle of nets stunk of rotten fish; the joints were braced with iron, fickle with rust, causing his fingertips to bleed. Swoops of lavender cloud hung in swirls of muted colour. Northward ran a shoreline the hue of wharf planks; to the south, a broad expanse of mud flats, dark and slick in low tide. Almost at the edge of his vision, he discerned smoke rings—dragging above the low cluster of stone and timber buildings, the salt-washed precincts of Heagram.
Baus pulled back at the dark masses of his hair, scowling. Was there any way to get out of this dreary loop? He had a quick mind, deft hands, even a sensitive soul—how could he not try his luck at another occupation?
The idea seemed grandiose. He fingered his loose ponytail trailing down his back. Who was to say he would be any better off elsewhere?
Grimacing, Baus pounded the pair of brickboar breeches clinging to his thighs. He grunted at their sea-drenched and patched quality. Despite their disrepair, they fitted him admirably, accentuating his lean figure. A sea charm of translucent green hung on a cord about his neck, a gift from his father, very similar to a companion piece he kept in his pocket won in a dice match of ‘Varlets and Vixens’. He recalled the time well on Heagram’s quayside in Snogmald Tavern, his victory over a pair of ribald Brislin boatswains.
Normally he would be out sailing the Calaan—sheeting the one-masted fishing sloop and trawling for gallfish or snogmald, but the boat was currently hoisted on the wharf, facing repairs—the underbelly had been recklessly driven close to Fiddler’s reef and a hole was staved in her stern. As a result he was relegated to baiting the rockgobbler traps and repairing the gallfish nets and searching for razor clams and the odd mollusc which happened to wash upon the shore . . .
A league out to sea blossomed Illim Island whose cypress-rich mystery cast dull shadows upon the swells.
Baus lay down his paltry basket of catches and slumped himself down on a wet rock. A few lubberly scows bobbed out in the harbour—odd shapes which he recognized as Mesmelter’s cog, Jubben’s Gobblerbane and Leaster’s Windfall. A large carrack rode the deeps—her high hull riding proudly on the water. Her polished oaken masts shafted high and her white sails hung limply in a near non-existent wind. Likely one of Prince Arnin’s scouts, mused Baus—a presence, which, outside of the capricious wind itself proved an unnerving coincidence, indicating the presence of freebooters troubling the seas.
Baus turned his gaze away. The vessels continued in their courses, moving like sluggish turtles confined to a grievous march across a trackless waste.
A week passed and he stood rooted in the same spot, staring out over the ocean. How many days had passed? Without anything significant happening in his life? Eking out this existence on the wearisome mud flats was a tedium beyond measure. Was he really living? He scratched his stubbly cheek and realized that there was no more time for waiting . . .
A distant clank of metal issued from a stone’s throw away. Following came the faint trickle of laughter and a call of an ekloon dipping in the wind.
Baus peered, perked up ears, and saw past the crumbling sea wall a score of men stretching tarps along the communal flats. Tepee-like canopies were being hoisted upon sturdy poles. Why were they so animated at this early hour?
Uncertainty changed to understanding. The fall fair was in play!
Baus trooped back along the beach, surprised that he had forgotten. The pencil-gaunt shapes of Harky and Nillard caught his eye. They struggled awkwardly in the shallows, wresting a substantial wrack of tangled nets from the brine and heaving them over their shoulders.
Baus gave the pair wide berth, knowing it was unwise to alert them to his truancy.
He manoeuvred closer to the pier and the mud flats stretched out to the water’s edge where sounds of activity grew louder and more insistent. A sandier strip of beach graced the bluff’s toes further inland.
Baus strode on, arriving at a pillbox-shaped shelter of ill-fitted yew which rose out of the sand like a sore wound. A lurid sign was pasted above a copper goat’s bell and a club, reading ‘B-E-A-C-H M-O-N-I-T-O-R’. The individual who manned the booth was of no great stature. He sat on a high stool, wearing a mauve and black pin-striped uniform. He wore his hair straight and simple, stiff as rope, plastered to both sides of his head. A leather cord, outfitted with black pearls and gull feathers, was wrapped about his neck. Neither humble nor extravagant, this youth sported a pair of squirrelly ears, a flattened nose, moon-grey eyes and a disagreeable overbite which fixed his expression into a perpetual grin.
Baus forced out a greeting. Here was Weavil—town poet, laureate of odes, also known as ‘beach monitor’. He whittled a limb of sea-beech with innocent absorption. At his side clumped a tangle of nets and a
basket of sharp stakes, the product of his labours. In his spare time, the poet was obliged to weave nets and whittle stakes for the weirs, which at present were failing.
Baus tipped his head in a formal salute.
The poet made similar motions. “And where be we off to in such a mood of peccadillo, Baus? Tormenting limpets and cockles as usual?” His tone was phrased with a lofty courtesy.
“My greatest bondage,” replied the fisherman. “And you? Still on guard for Vrang, our elusive sea drake?”
“Never a sign!” admitted Weavil. Mock unhappiness seemed to trace a mischievous crinkle on his sea-lined face. “Though the legend says the monster will fly, crimson, mighty-scaled, one day past the Wistish Isles beyond the rim of the world!”
Baus made a sardonic retort. “Bah! I shouldn’t be giving energy to this legend, Weavil, or holding my breath for any drakes.”
“And who makes you the expert?” Weavil croaked. “Are they all monkey-tales? A duty ’tis a duty.” He cocked his head to one side and seemed more a weasel poking its neck out of a hole than a man. “I wonder about your wisdom . . . you still have not answered my question.”
Baus flourished impatiently. “I journey to Heagram’s fair—to reckon what is to be reckoned.”
“A plan of providence!” The poet jumped down from his perch. He crowded his companion with eager enthusiasm. “Perhaps I shall taste the annual festivities too.” He smoothed out his pin-striped vest and straightened up taller in his seat. “Not on this instant though, as I am engaged in ‘shore duty’, upon which I must wholly focus.”
“A sensible plan,” declared Baus. “It is unthinkable to dip in the waters of the Flam while on duty.”
Weavil gave an admonitory grunt. “The razor clam and dogtooth fern surely slice the flesh and sting the bones. You know well that Prefect Barth has instructed me to monitor all people who approach the water. ’Tis a known fact that my sole agency is to spy out drakes and inform the masses of possible hazards and perils!”
“’Tis truth, and only too evident by your modest signage. Yet my remarks remain unaltered—I advance to the fair, and with that, I bid you good day.” Baus sauntered off, whistling a happy note while Weavil gazed enviously after him.
II
The port of Heagram was populated with many folk of many qualities. It hosted a venerable, old-style architecture rich with stone-carved fountains, flagstoned plazas, vined archways, antique buildings and esteemed monuments. An old bell tower stood off to the centre of Beerstrom’s plaza. Curiously, a phalanx of varnished boats and retired seacraft flanked the cool, cobbled Sea Alley. Tending toward the river tumbled an array of low pilings in the harbour, pot-darkened at their bottoms and supporting a collection of wide wooden slats. A host of sailcraft, including the swift two-masted Wind Stallion and the voluptuous Latitude Fey lay moored, while farther along the pier, in somewhat murkier waters, dories and lighters lay berthed, along with junk fishing boats, scows, cogs, paint-peeled and barnacled. Since the beginning, Heagram harbour had been shaped in the form of a sickle where the two rivers, the Flig and the Flam joined the Poesasian. Now Baus saw narrow wooded peaks riding past the conjunction of the two watercourses. Several warehouses, the boatwright’s yard, a collection of foundries and Durgen’s scrapyard, made themselves known, also the old gravel road, Castaway’s Trail, which wound its way past Muoffen’s mill and up the Flam’s nearest foreshore. Inland past the pubs and valestone residences loomed the grand town hall and a picturesque schoolhouse, with freshly painted yellow roof. Behind rose ranks of woody briar-oak, tinged with a late summer green. On top of the bluffs the old lighthouse shone from a glassy beacon, heralding craft from the sea.
People were arriving from all quarters: by sailboat, along the inland road, in wagons, carts, and on wegmor mounts. Folk, primarily from Brimhaven, Tavilnook, Adzeton, Britobur and Hamhuzzle, were eager to mingle. They were of mixed sorts, though some ventured from as far as Owlen and the seaport of Brislin, realms of the famed Prince Arnin. There was no small opulence or lack of breeding here!
The river ferries buzzed. At this hour, three new caravans clacked their way down the boarding ramps, saddled with a ragtag of bumpkins. Atop their beat-up wheelbacks and rickety, clattering carts, banjo players beat out jangly tunes. A larger three-masted sailship lay anchored out in harbour, from which at a distance, an elegantly-polished pennoned skiff pushed its way brightly to shore, ferrying grandees from Owlen.
Baus took this all in at a moment’s glance. Booth tenders continued to load goods into drays which they hauled over to the fairgrounds with the help of town work-dogs. Wares and accoutrements, horns, bugles, cauldrons, cages, wooden baskets, easels, poles, banners and flags moved as one. Odours of fried eel, oil-cake, pogo kelp and sausage signalled the grand feast planned for the afternoon which Baus hoped to attend, estimating that he would dine well and that there would be a record turnout today. The streets were clogged with carping animals, beasts and carts and it was hardly noon. Through the seaborne cloud, patches of blue sky presaged fair weather. The day’s festivities were now rich in motion, filled with golden sunbeams, flagpoles and steel-tipped masts that were a-glow.
Baus paused to critique the fairgrounds and turned a watchful eye toward a sprawl of new tents. Balloons and flagpoles rippled freely in the salty breeze. Thirty five aisles in total stretched over Glane’s Glade, like pathways through enchanted gardens. Excited people clustered about with their pets: tinkers, salespersons, hawkers, gamesters and performers. Fine displays of fire presented themselves, animal roars, booms, cacophonies of riotous voices, shouts and calls—presumably all intentioned to impress the new visitor, calls which touted the excellence of certain entertainment and exhibits. Baus ducked as a firecracker ripped through the sky, heralding the launch of a circus act while hot smoke rose above the tents ten aisles down.
Baus cocked his head: there was more than a usual gaggle of stiltwalkers, fire-blowers and sword-swallowers. This year there were acrobats, clowns, jugglers and tricksters of all sorts. Of late Heagram Fair had become more of a carnival than a local exposition.
A sidewise glance confirmed that visitors were arriving at a central lane. Baus nodded to a group of retired fishermen, including the old sea geezer with a greasy pipe hanging out of his tobacco-stained mouth, Vesler. He passed a clot of children who smacked down candy floss, then to a huddle of women dressed in blue caps and white gowns. They were tittering over a mass of embroidery, discussing the latest fashions, while in separate soap and flower booths. Baus recognized three maids with whom he had made recent intimate connections. To avoid any awkward confrontations, Baus made a wise detour, ducking into an oddment booth where he acquired a moustache of black straw, felt hat, and wide-brimmed glasses. Expertly he angled them over his eyes from experience. The last time he had bumped into Tersa, he recalled the foremost of the trio had reacted very unkindly to his association with Salys and the significantly more buxom Roxa. Ah . . . what to do with these petty grievances?
Moving along in discreet fashion, Baus skipped several booths, amazed and appalled at the abundance of bric-a-brac and tawdry confections: bells fastened to wire, dancing puppets in water jugs, glow figures on pogo sticks, garish glue-paper costumes, an endless variety of house ornaments. Kiosks were packed with knickknacks, gewgaws of all sorts! Nothing triggered any profound interest for Baus.
Half way along the third aisle, he stumbled upon a booth of ancient relics: primarily shells and glass and pewter. Something of more substance!
Here he found the booth manned by a pair of merchants, from the west, he judged—denizens of Ikule or Hilgimi. The foremost vendor was completely bald and sported an out-moded waxed moustache. He snapped to attention. “Yes, your pleasure, Seigneur?” His partner, an individual of great corpulence and arm, darker of complexion and attentive of eye, remained placidly composed.
With languid ease, Baus examined the wares with a scholar’s eye. The centre piece loomed twice the size of a man’s
skull. A large shell inscribed with a hanged man’s corpse comprised the outer bulk, around which several primitive figures engaged in curious ritual.
“Aha, Seigneur, I see you are eyeing the Dulfiog special. You have good taste. A remarkable piece of antiquity this is, even for eyes as old as mine! Migor, my colleague—and my brother—has no idea from where it came.”
Baus acknowledged the information with academic interest. “The article is intriguing—yet undoubtedly of origin traced as faraway as Zanderland.” He scratched his brow, barely noticing the approach of Migor with large hands spread wide: “Perhaps one may argue a different claim. Uyu and I are in a muddle over which primitive caste the relic may have been born to. The Koyo? The Negir? The cannibalistic Recendu? All are equally plausible. The world is a tribal mishmash of cultures, societies and traditions, you know?”
Baus tapped a finger of uncertainty to the object. “My conviction would be that of the Negir.”
“A high-minded guess,” growled Uyu with a flourish. “Recall! The bygone era with which we are dealing is obscure, even to polymaths. The roots of the rare item are real. In the mystic witness texts of the god Yarma, the period involved is barbaric, as that of the Zelthoxian age, its peer.” He leaned forward to better assess the customer’s perspicacity and confided, “I must say that this piece is selling for an affordably low price of sixty-nine cils.”
Baus gave a strident croak. “A piece like this may go for as high as thirty-four cils in a market of monarchs! If I harboured enough funds to spare the trinket, I would offer you five cils, nothing more.”