Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Baus inquired, “And this is a crime to be incarcerated for?”

  “It was not just on my lawn that the flea-hound pissed! It was on my precious bonsai—the one that I had grown for fifteen years. It was slowly being wasted away, poisoned by the bromidic bladder of that mongrel! Yes, I dispatched the mutt to purgatory. I also gave Klueshin, that jackleg barber, a proper thrashing when he came to complain of his dead dachshund. In fact, the lout put up such peevish resistance that I was forced to strangle him with my bare hands.”

  Baus nodded morosely, noting well the long span of years that Lopze had still to serve, hoping that more would be added.

  Quintlo, squint-eyed and high-strung, jerked a thumb over at Weavil. “What about little Poodle here? He seems overly crabbed, like as if he had a beetle up his behind; at least he offers us a few words, but that’s on a good day.”

  Baus offered a clarification: “Weavil is reticent, yes, but as a sensitive poet and scholar, he has suffered a mortification.”

  Paltuik exhaled a mocking grunt. “Mortification? And how is it any worse than what we have all suffered?”

  Baus spoke gravely, “Acting in temper and inebriation, he committed a faux-pas upon Captain Graves, which necessitated an accounting.”

  Tustok snickered. “Certainly an error if I’ve ever heard one.”

  Softened by the sympathy, Weavil outlined in detail Nuzbek’s insensitive, heavy-handed spell and how it had resulted in his despicable shrinking. Absorbing the story with uncharitable animosity, the prisoners rounded upon the magician. Yullen and Zestes reached up a hand and buffeted Nuzbek malevolently; others administered their own biffs and slaps in the form of jeering payback.

  Nolpin and Boulm shrank back on their beds. They awaited their own abuse; however, Nuzbek tore himself off his cot and faced his foes with jerky defiance: “Imbeciles! I merely transmogrified Weavil into a pygmy to rid this town of one less pest and narcissist! Not leastly because of his own inexcusable, rabble-rousing which razed my set. Listen, jackdaws! I shall now provide an unabridged narrative of the facts!”

  “Please do so!” urged Valere.

  Nuzbek exhaled before his pink mouth gave vent to a pedantic spiel of the events at Heagram Fair. He overstated his hopeless frustration and unrequited anguish with the heckling that had relieved him of his property, delivering his wealth to an absolute nadir. His address was conducted with alliteration, euphemisms and a more than usual amount of bombast.

  Notwithstanding, many of the inmates regarded Nuzbek with a sallow wariness which they showed with attitudes of scepticism and unease.

  Jorkoff offered a weighted comment: “If I didn’t witness Weavil’s own condition with my eyes, I would not believe a word of your tale, Nuzbag. How did you transmogrify him? The circumstance seems implausible!”

  Nuzbek’s expression turned grey. He spoke in an icy whisper. “In the face of rich thaumaturgy, nothing is impossible, oaf, for which I shall demonstrate.”

  Jorkoff quickly renounced the need for any substantiation. Zestes and Dighcan followed suit and rhymed off reasons also for such a bypassing.

  “Very well,” observed Nuzbek coolly. “I shall overlook this muckraking for once—but no more! My lenience is not infinite!”

  Dighcan interposed a rendition of his own pathetic chronicle, explaining how he had forced indignities upon Madame Faul, the Snogmald Tavern owner’s wife. She had taken great offence to the acts while he was in the throes of drunken debauchery. He went on to list other crimes, which the men laughed over and acknowledged with slab-sided grins.

  Zestes spoke, revealing his presence as a notorious pirate of the sea who had been beached by his so-called comrades. They rode the black mast and black flag of the caravel ‘Karkassus’. In an attempt to survive, he had ‘borrowed’ three wegmors from farmer Yahason to trade for sustenance. In time, the local Heagram constabulary had caught up with him; a week later, he was sentenced to fifty years for seaside pillagings and chicaneries numbering in the many. He was touted as the leader of the freebooter band, ‘Mixtus’, known by not just one of the sombre convicts.

  Of his own accord, Paltuik admitted that murdering the blacksmith’s brother, black-tongued Aingst of Heagram had been foolish. It was on a dark, beobar-shrouded section of the road between Heagram and Tavilnook that the two brigands, Aingst and Paltuik had lain in hiding, waylaying the moneylender Lapousis regularly known to travel the road at a certain hour by wegmor. They had leaped upon him, stolen his purse, bludgeoned him to death for his three hundred cils and his pouch of gold and then made off with his wegmor. The two robbers had argued viciously, with Aingst proving the loser. After hiding Aingst’s body in a secluded glade after a vicious brawl, Paltuik had fled with bloody hands to Heagram, but had failed to consider the beast he rode which was easily recognized and he was seized by the Heagram constabulary.

  Quintlo recounted his own glum chronicle which began almost as an anecdote a winter before last when he had stowed away in the hold of the cargo hauler, ‘Sea Dancer’ sailing from Brislin. As the vessel lay docked under the new moon by the old pier at Heagram, Quintlo attempted to steal away with a double sack of jewels purloined from the captain, but was caught off-guard by wandering dock patrol. Seizing the gemstones, the watchmen dragged him to prison for accounting.

  More tales were exchanged. Eventually, the men took to yawning and their beds—except Baus, who lay awake, remaining very alert to what nocturnal shenanigans Nuzbek would attempt next.

  V

  Nuzbek’s gambit was not long in coming. The moon had risen to its zenith when Baus saw the magician sit upright in his bed. His gaze drifted out the window where Ausse shuffled about on the veranda like an old geyser. The magician roused his chums; they gathered toe clipper, twine and jade cape, and crept to the window.

  Nuzbek reached past Dighcan’s supine form. He ensorcelled Ausse. He ordered Nolpin to take the accessories and they snuck out into the night leaving Baus blinking in amazement.

  Without a thought, Baus padded down to the Flanks field and established a clear avenue. He slunk into the darkness, stalking Nuzbek and his cronies with cunning. The night was cool—a silver moon shone high in the sky. The ramparts were lit in chiaroscuro. Keenly aware of mishap, Baus saw Nuzbek loitering amongst the dwarf-shrubs in the place where the jars lay buried.

  Nolpin and the magician lay down cape, ropes and clipper and poked about, sizing four equidistant holes along the outside of the fabric. They managed to fit four equal-sized pieces of rope through each hole: Nuzbek gave a harrumph of satisfaction. Baus stared, fascinated. Nuzbek drew the rope tighter together to form a primitive grip of the four ends and pulled the cape up into the shape of a balloon. Germakk’s largish head began to nod in his post up top the watchtower. Nuzbek hoisted the canopy up in the air. He studied it critically. From Baus’s perspective, the invention looked like an upside down umbrella, or some vile parachute. Nuzbek drew forth a strange, amber-sheened pyramid from his cloak; he ignored Nolpin and Boulm’s mewling remonstrations.

  Baus frowned. The lurid luminescence of the pyramid was unsettling and he resisted the urge to creep up and gain a more compelling view. Nuzbek placed the adjunct carefully beside the other equipment and articulated more vocables. He gesticulated. The pyramid seemed to seethe with a malfeasant pulse, suddenly to vibrate very fulsomely with a low hum.

  The device flickered suddenly hues of an eerie maroon, then changed to an eldritch, polychromatic flavour. A spray of light struck out at the umbrella. The fabrication blossomed to life, canvas bellying as if with invisible air. It righted itself up. Nuzbek grabbed at the ropes which he gripped with triumph. In the manner of a gangly balloon, the conveyance began to float up in a slow motion, hovering half way up the wall, leaving Nuzbek’s boots dangling above the ground like magic ornaments.

  Nolpin stumbled back on his heels. Boulm stood staring frigidly, crossing his fingers as if to ward off a curse.

  Nuzbek rose a good two feet before the
buoyancy of the device slackened and left him stranded. His muddy boots scraped against the stone. Muttering nonsensical words, the magician began to sink slowly. Finally his feet touched the turf and the spell was broken.

  Baus crept back with profound wonder. So here was Nuzbek’s plan! To elevate himself over the wall, treasures and cronies and all.

  Nuzbek did not seem entirely satisfied with the manner events were proceeding in, evidenced by the way he slapped at Boulm, cursing him silently as the lackey tried to assist the magic device by lifting him up by the shins.

  The pyramid refused to offer more magic.

  Nuzbek kicked it.

  The pyramid became vibrationless. Nuzbek’s face grew dark with annoyance. His eyes lit suddenly with an idea, as if recalling some litany recessed in the back of his sinister memory. An arcane verse dredged from time fell forth from his lips:

  Agowon Subra Satchwen!

  The pyramid pulsed to life, sputtering an incongruous light. The magician expressed exultation and snatched at the parachute anew.

  A shout lanced from the direction of the tower.

  Baus jerked around in time to catch Germakk clomping down the stairwell. He was scrambling at a great rate. Baus dove back toward the dormitory.

  Nuzbek uttered an expletive and snatched up his accessories. He seized Nolpin by the elbow and they both ran at a full tilt toward the barracks. Boulm trailed behind.

  Baus whisked past Ausse, swiftly concealing himself in his bed, dragging the covers over his head as he busied himself with controlling his breathing. He was beside himself with wrath: through excessive risk, he could have compromised his plans.

  Nuzbek, Nolpin and Boulm burst through the door. They scuttled to their pallets and pretended slumber, while Baus, glancing through the fold of the blanket, saw the magician fervently caching his parachute under his own blanket, with Germakk’s silhouette sliding through the barred window like an eel. The guard pressed his square face against the bars of the window. His expression was of suspicious displeasure. He seemed unsatisfied that the rhythmic rising and falling of the men’s chests was innocent.

  Germakk returned to inspect his workmate with significant scepticism. Ausse appeared enmeshed in some sort of trance, frozen like an ice statue, unnaturally poised. Even the wave of a provoking hand seemed not to disturb him.

  Germakk seemed further mystified by his partner’s blue eyes which remained glassily open as a hoarfish’s, and at the absence of any twitch of mouth or tremor of cheek. He circled round the back and gave his partner a slap on the face. Instantly the sentry jerked himself to attention, blinking like an owl.

  “Never sneak up on me like that!” Ausse cried, white-eyed.

  “Sneak up on you? What are you babbling about?” Germakk snatched at Ausse’s weapon. “It’s not healthy to be dozing standing up, is it? Especially when some villain can sneak up behind you and slit your throat.”

  Ausse growled, “You’re one to talk! What are you doing down from your perch? Graves’ll have your privates if he hears how you abandoned your watch.”

  Germakk blew hot air through his lips. “Graves is an overbearing oaf. I saw furtive movements in the yard and I went to investigate certain sinister peeps.”

  “Really? What kind of peeps?” jeered Ausse.

  His colleague pointed toward the north wall where the clinging shadows hung eerily. “Gibberish, monosyllables, similar things—but I chanced to glimpse a large bat, or some kind of bulb. It was rising and falling, then suddenly it was motionless, as if suspended in the air—a most bizarre thing—given the circumstances—enough to give a man the heebies.”

  Ausse peered at him as if he were mad. “You’re a ninny, Germakk. Perhaps you saw ghosts, or even coyotes masquerading as ghosts, gambolling up the wall like floating spectres.”

  “Now you’re mocking me,” groused Germakk.

  “Smarten up! Too many late nights with no ale has made you hallucinating bulbs and bats and other floating phenomena.”

  “Shut up.” Germakk grimaced. “You’d better watch your back, Ausse. If there’s one thing I know, is that skullduggery’s real. Take care! You’ll be the first to die. Don’t trust any of these hooligans. Especially Dighcan and his ‘buddy’ the magician. They’re murderous wretches. If you get your mouth wagging to Graves, remember, he shall hear of your sleep-walking.”

  Ausse opened his mouth, but Germakk had already stalked off with a curse.

  Digesting the information shrewdly, Baus gathered his wits. He did not wish to attempt any more excursions to the north wall, nor did he sleep any more that night.

  * * *

  At breakfast, Graves assembled the prisoners. He pulled Germakk and his crony aside and seemed discomfited by the news they had to offer.

  The prisoners huddled in a sullen knot, conversing in desultory whispers. The three gaolers scoured the barracks: a rigorous inspection that revealed nothing of interest, save for Nuzbek’s poke-holed cape and some frayed bits of rope which prompted Graves to pace ever the more fretfully before the group.

  “Last night or the night before,” he announced, “a remarkable incident took place, insofar as several articles, including my four bottled homunculi seem to have disappeared.”

  Dighcan put on a shocked expression. “A tragic loss, Captain, and I wholly sympathize with your loss.”

  “Silence!” thundered Graves. “If the jars are not returned to me at once, you shall all receive punitive ministrations.”

  Dighcan stirred in anger. “This is unjust! How can we be blamed?”

  Graves waved an angry hand. “Easily. Unless the jars are returned, the edict stands. The canisters did not just walk off on their own accord—somebody appropriated them and hid them somewhere.”

  “An implausible deed!” objected Ausse. “We were on vigilant watch.”

  Graves gave a sarcastic grunt. “I have conversed with Oppet on this matter and he has concluded that none passed the gate—in fact, his testimony supports the theory that you solely are to blame for the theft perpetrated on your watch.”

  Germakk and Ausse stammered. The prisoners bantered; Nuzbek seemed to pick at his teeth in a most reflective manner.

  “Well, Nuzbek,” called Graves jeeringly. “What have you to say about this? You seem quite collected. The weird curios were yours, after all.”

  “The mystery is wholly perplexing. I would hazard a guess that the imp Trimestrius or the mountebank Woisper managed to escape. The spells of containment are not altogether infallible, or possibly, by sheer chance, one or more of the wretches may have wrenched open a jar and returned to rescue his colleagues.” He scratched at his chin with a certain doubtful reflection. “A more apposite theory is that one of your prisoners stole them. If the miscreants are not apprehended, the risk upon us becomes insuperable! I advise you, Captain Graves, to take reparative action!”

  “Do not counsel me!” snapped the warden.

  Nuzbek made an insolent sound. “You have heard my opinion and now you know what is required.”

  Graves turned sharply to Baus and Weavil. “And you troublemaker—you harbour more knowledge of Nuzbek than anyone here. Any theories?”

  “None,” cried Weavil, his eyelids pinched. “Decipher your own conundrums. You shan’t receive any beneficence from me.”

  Baus interceded a polite concession. “Weavil remains slightly agitated for reasons of his midgetness. You must forgive him for his impertinence.”

  Graves gave a caustic snort. “Weavil has dug his own hole, and so must lie in it.”

  Weavil chirped contempt. “Bilgewater! I could care less for your theories or Nuzbek’s, regarding the collection of imps.”

  Graves spoke with easy irony. “Then who will save us when we are all murdered in our sleep, as Nuzbek says by these fey creatures?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Santa Claus—or Buster the Bear,” growled Weavil.

  Baus, sensing ill effects to come, divulged what he knew of Nuzbek’s chicanery
. But while on the first sentence he desisted, judging that such disclosures would invariably hinder his own cause—particularly in reference to his own curfew violations. He opted for a simpler, if not broader explanation: “Captain, these freakish individuals are alive!—warlocks or sorcerers I believe they are, of some insidious nature. From Nuzbek’s disjointed hints, I believe they are invested with certain evil faculties. What do you say to that, Nuzbek?”

  Nuzbek glared. “Not much.”

  “Psychokinesis? Teleportery?” Baus mused. “The possibilities are endless! Now, if these figures use the sum of their powers upon us, we are all snake bait as Nuzbek has alluded. Hence, and in such wise, I urge you to surrender us for release, Captain—if only to forestall such a contingency, and alleviate us from otherwise injurious malaise.”

  Germakk choked on his tongue. “Captain, you can’t—”. He rounded on Baus. “You would suggest that we let you all walk scot-free from here? An unlikely occurrence!”

  Lopze brought forward a galled outcry. “Enough raillery! Baus’s words are sagacious! His argument is sound and germane and it is imbued with a conviction that is compelling.”

  “True,” announced Zestes. “Our lives are all in peril. Baus is our only invaluable comrade, a laudable spokesman who plays Flanks and augments our purses with bander.”

  Many agreements came supporting the cause. Valere locked arms with Zestes and they twirled arm in arm. Dighcan caught Quintlo in a clapping jig, and Zorez, Tustok and Karlil held up fingers and cat-called.

  Baus moved to the front of the group and held up his hands. “Peace, brothers.” Signalling for a space of silence, he entreated the men to quell their enthusiasm and allow the Captain to speak.

  Graves gave a nod of a saturnine amusement at the courtesy. “Keep up the charade, Baus, for if any can do it, it is you. You have won excellent rapport with your bedfellows—bravo! Indeed you are a jocular fellow, bringing a merry cheer to this stark world of the yard. As for liberating the compass of your mongrel breed, that would be a breach of judiciousness—if not sanity. What would the innocent inhabitants of Heagram say when, tossed in the ditch, robbed of all chastity of their dulcet daughters, they lie broken and maimed? Would they come bloody-jowled to me crying, ‘Captain, you permitted Dighcan and Zestes to foist atrocities on our persons? Why?’“