Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Baus gave a conciliatory wave. Leamoine and Tustok lifted both their heads from their clam-gutting and voiced similar opinions of scorn. Baus and Weavil huddled guiltily around the fish pile while Tustok gave a flippant condemnation, “We’ve a job to do before six, or there’ll be no dinner. Graves gets rubbernecked when his fish aren’t cleaned!”

  Weavil remained uncompliant; Baus tore the vial from Weavil’s fingers. “You see what you’ve caused, pest? Patience, Tustok! I was in the midst of repairing Weavil’s button on his soiled vest. I have been hard-pressed to keep him properly attired in all this kerfuffle!”

  Weavil choked on the declaration. Baus congratulated himself. He sang a stanza of ‘How the Seaside shimmers when the new Year brings balm’ while Weavil fumed. The afternoon passed; Baus did not relinquish his hold on the item.

  Skarrow prowled the yard a Flank’s thrust away. Ever vigilant after the theft of the jars, he surveyed the prisoners’ lethargic slime-sifting with suspicion. Twenty drays later of snogmald and eelfish, he came back merrily to collect the knives.

  Dinner came; Flanks was up next. With Dighcan omitted from play, there was a certain lack of flamboyance to the game, there being no referee, no formal rules of the play. The unconstrained atmosphere turned to a rampant crass carnival. Baus took advantage of the mood, precipitating Zestes into losing his belt.

  Baus took possession of the belt but Zestes contested Baus’s throw. He put forth appeals. Witnesses vouched for the legitimacy of the throw and Baus was allowed to keep his prize despite Zestes’ continued complaints that the toss had been ‘illegally lodged’. Baus buckled on Zestes’ belt and he sat out placidly for the next three rounds. The behaviour caused a stir, but when the browbeating and upbraiding had faded, all were happy that Nuzbek’s sabbatical was long enough to reduce their losses.

  VII

  That night, so keen was Baus on acquiring Nuzbek’s wand that he almost gave himself away. At half past midnight, he stood grinning like a goat before Lopze and Zestes’ dozing forms. The twain seemed to have absorbed Nuzbek’s vacated space like hungry snogmald.

  Finger to lip, he hitched himself closer. Groping carefully between the bedmates he obtained the talisman, finding it exactly where Nuzbek left it. Baus’s lips parted in triumph: the baton slipped smooth as glass from Nuzbek’s flea-infested pillow.

  Exhaling softly, Baus stepped away from the slats, creeping back to his bed. Examining his prize, he found it ornately wrought, black as jet, comprised of a stiff shaft of wegmor horn tiled with inlays of silver near the tip, slightly tapered.

  Valere and Weavil drowsed to either side of him. The seaman’s mouth hung half open while Weavil grimaced on each breath. Baus debated whether to wake the poet, but decided not to—a better idea struck him.

  He touched the tip of the wand to Weavil’s nose and awaited results. Abruptly the large head lay frozen, while the chest neither heaved nor the mouth suspired. Weavil’s lips looked like two cold strips of elastic, dull as spoons. The restless tossing had ceased, as if the poet were dead.

  Baus gave a contented grunt, convinced now of the cogency of the baton. It seemed laughable that a fleeting fear had nagged him or that he would not be able to wield the curio.

  At the other side of the room, Baus saw the prisoners dozing in synchrony. A fugitive thought crossed his mind: should he acquire Nuzbek’s cape which lay underneath Zestes’ hip?

  The impulse faded. Of what use was a dysfunctional scrap of canvas without magic?

  Baus peered carefully out of the barred window. Dighcan snored like a babe under the sill. Mulfax stood facing the door, grasping at his pike, ever on the alert.

  Baus pulled himself back carefully from the window and reviewed his options. The barracks’ lock had remained ever unrepaired since Nuzbek had jimmied it; perhaps that fact alone caused Mulfax consternation, and his suspicion.

  A sturdy bolt had been drawn edgewise across the jamb, a situation which posed significant dilemmas to Baus’s program. How could he exit? For a long while he crouched pensively in the gloom, waiting for an answer to come.

  Suddenly as if by mischance, a figure emerged from the darkness—Vibellhanz, stumbling his way from bed to latrine. He was ambling toward the far side of the chamber. Baus became alert of the hazard of the situation, nor was he ignorant of the prospect of a lummox fouling his scheme. Four feet away, the convict passed obliviously, like a dazed sleepwalker. If the haggard convict had seen him crouching by the door, he did not show it.

  Mulfax finally grew fatigued and plopped himself down on the veranda steps. The bolt was closest to Paltuik’s cot. It could not be reached by Dighcan’s smelly body.

  Cautiously Baus crept onto the edges of Paltuik’s bed. He balanced on his knees to poise on the window sill. He was pleased to note the fact that Mulfax’s back was trained to the door. Reaching through the window, he could just grasp the iron bolt without disturbing the volatile Paltuik who lay comatose face down on his pallet.

  With greatest care Baus lifted the bar from its hinge. A tiny scrape. He pulled himself back into the dark chamber and crept crab-like to the door, tugging it inward like a thief. Any louder sound would be a dead giveaway. He slipped through the gap like a wraith, creeping up behind Mulfax who remained unaware of his presence. A small, well-placed jab and the idiot would be standing immobile . . .

  Baus gave him a light tap on the elbow. Oddly, the guard only swatted at his arm is if bitten by a mosquito.

  Baus shrank back. Why was Mulfax still moving?

  Baus became rigid. Moments ago, he had frozen Weavil with the merest tap—

  He pitched his mouth into a grimace. Of course! The rod must apply itself to an exposed area of flesh. It could not work otherwise, namely through clothing.

  Baus nipped forth, aiming the rod to the back of Mulfax’s head.

  The sentryman’s flesh became one with stone—the totality of paralysis was complete, reduced him to a lifeless mannequin.

  Baus resisted the urge to prod Mulfax. That mistake had already been committed by less thoughtful peers. A test could only prove unproductive, as only too vividly exemplified by Germakk who had awoken his fellow guardsman by pokes of surprise.

  Baus stepped down from the veranda, pleased at his progress. The silver moon shone with force to detail withered shrubs, parched gorse, ghostly sand. He calculated that twenty minutes remained before a return visit was necessary to secure Mulfax—enough time to remove the dislocated stone from the east wall. Perhaps a foolish endeavour—only Weavil could squeeze through the orifice and escape. Yet was it worth a try? Still, a wandering guard might spy the loosened masonry and expose his plan.

  No—escape by the eastern wall was an all or nothing affair.

  Then how was he to escape?

  Baus cursed himself for his vacillation. He had not meditated enough on this important fact. Where could he go? Reconnoitre the south wall? Scale the portcullis? Chancy! He daren’t sidle too close to the watchtower for fear of Oppet’s indomitable hounds or Skarrow’s detection.

  Baus sank to his haunches; his heart beat with frustration. The temperature had plummeted significantly, leaving the air dry and a frosty patina settling on the ground. Ruefully Baus put his attention on Nuzbek and his cursed umbrella-based conveyance. How convenient it would be to command that vehicle! But he had no magic by which to command. The pyramid remained cached somewhere on Nuzbek’s person—in the murk where he traded jests with Dighcan.

  Baus fidgeted. Perhaps a clue lay along the northern wall. The idea was evocative.

  With a careless grunt, he scrambled to his feet and loped gingerly out in the frost-dusted terrain.

  The plaintive call of a coyote drifted over the wall. Its effect was like a sharp lamentation on the lonely silence. Looking up into the star-jewelled sky, he saw the northern rampart rising intolerably high; the beobar loomed as a satin curtain; the foliage was monstrously frost-dusted in higher, swarthier ranks. No rope or ladder was long enough to
access those twining boughs tucked in knots and clusters below the highest plumes. Aside from a few vagrant breezes, all was still.

  Baus strained eyes upon the turf, the place where Nuzbek had buried the jars. Four equally-sized vessels were interred underfoot, each with its own eccentric and desperate occupant.

  Baus caught himself wondering: why were they so dangerous? The creatures held allure—but did they house magic? If so, an idea flashed in his mind . . . would it hurt so much to unearth one of the inhabitants and check if he/she sheltered enchanted items? The risk was large, but the rewards were great.

  Baus bit fretfully at his nail. Perhaps five minutes had elapsed since his last stunning. He must not waste time. The possibility of one of the unearthed things leaping at his throat in a bout of madness . . . it was not negligible . . . but then again, speculations of this sort were only presumptions.

  Dropping to his knees, he began to claw furiously at the turf. One inch . . . two inches. His nails suddenly scratched at hard metal.

  He spread away the sand. A tantalum-coloured lid gleamed in the moonlight. The metal was cold, hardly graspable, but it was inviting. Some effort would be required to dislodge the cylinder from the ground, but another thought: better to let the glass rest in the earth in the event he had to cover it up quickly.

  Baus cranked the lid around. It erupted in a grating creak—an action which made him wince and required the use of his full force.

  The lid snapped ajar. Tock! A strange pressurized pop like water gurgling from a snail’s shell. Out came a hissing gloop of musty airs, like a preserve of ancient pickles.

  Baus inched his way back, amazed. Bubbles formed on the liquid’s surface, popping and breaking like sea spume. A green cap surfaced, plumed with white feathers. A small clothed head poked its way up and Baus heard a dolorous sigh. A set of hazel eyes blinked, twinkled like soft, glowing jewels. The mouth opened, showing a fine set of polished teeth. The figure rasped:

  “Who are you? Why is it so dark?” The silky-beige locks were plastered wetly against the pale, raw-boned cheeks.

  Baus scrambled back in shock. The figure had uttered words. Logically, this meant he or ‘it’ was still alive.

  Baus finally found his voice: “Is it nightfall, or am I dreaming? You are in Heagram prison. A leprechaun? —a sprite? I am Baus of Heagram—alive, but how can you still be alive after so much internment?”

  The figure arched his way forth with a fractured croak. He shook his head with contempt. “What do you mean, who am I, villain? Who in the devil are you? I am Trimestrius the Third . . . Third Descendant of the House of Witherwell of Desenion. Can you not see the pedigree embroidered on my vest?” He thrust out his chest, which displayed a faded, triple-ruffed, stylish green doublet on which he looked down in amazement to find himself plunged in a foul liquid that was half buried in sand.

  His brows knitted in confusion. “What? I am soaked in brine and encircled in glass! Very unsatisfactory!—my own voice seems strange to my ears! As if I haven’t talked in an age. Hellfire and damnation! Has it been that long since I harboured voice or memory?”

  Green eyes flashed upon Baus with suspicion; the midget pinched his face into a dark mask, curling lips back in bewilderment. The realization of his own smallness had plunged him into a catalepsy. He flung out his rapier, gleaming sullenly in the moonlight.

  “Heagram, you say, eh knave?” Flourishing his weapon, he stabbed out at Baus with reckless force. “Where in the name of Hellspot is that? No dissembling either, you uncouth rogue, or I tickle you with my bodkin, which is magical and as you see is plainly what I call Lolispar.”

  Baus forced himself a reply of friendly wonder: “Heagram is on the northern shores of Bindar—past Tavilnook and Brimhaven.”

  The figure did not seem to recognize the names. Idly, he frowned, pulling at his ear. “Are they far from Aurenham?”

  Baus frowned. “Where is that?”

  The newcomer glared at him. “Where is Voduspur, my valet, and why am I not at Desenion in my chamber?”

  Baus shook his head in perplexity. “These names mean nothing to me.”

  “Do they not?” The little green-garbed dwarf’s astonishment was considerable. “You don’t know Desenion—or Aurenham?. . . The emerald keep of the Magistrar? The three ancient turrets? Ridiculous!” The dwarf leaped out of his jar, stumbling toward Baus with awkward speed—an action conceivably remarkable for one who had been entombed for a great length. His drenched doublet was plastered to his skin, the hose no less tight; the figure underneath was sleek, and a well-shaped man of youthful bearing and impassioned temperament. The offensive liquid that dripped from his garments reeked of musselwort and vinegar, and not surprisingly, the frame he bore seemed to rock with a strange paroxysm threatening to twist him from inside out.

  Baus hastened back. The incident smacked of weirdness. He could only conjecture what Nuzbek’s spell had done to the poor creature.

  “I remember!” shrilled the homunculus. “Oh, for the love of Galaspar!” His swollen face was ashen; he seemed stricken with a grief and loss beyond parallel. “My place of ancestry! Beloved Desenion!” He threw his hands over his eyes and emitted a plangent cry that flew into the night, distressing Baus to the extreme.

  “It was on Saelsmir moor! In the light of the afternoon haze—on an ill fate set against me—in the form of the Huarbane.”

  Baus expressed perplexity but the little man persisted. “The crafty, murderous Huarbane—sent by Aurimag! A Lolarpian horror, hatched from a chicken egg of evil —a creature of myth; it would strike terror into anyone’s heart, let alone the bravest knight!”

  Baus expressed sympathy at the irregularity.

  Trimestrius bridled at the condolence. “Picture it! Standing chest high, guarding four wood-block stumps of legs—a thing of ears, fangs and talons, a poison mat of dirty brown, furred and horrible to behold—and these, the best of its qualities!”

  A quivering palsy had come over the little man. “Just to peer at the thing was an exercise of revulsion! It came to smite me and take my castle! Aurimag bred it himself!”

  “Who is Aurimag?”

  “Dissolute Aurimag, yes! The neomancer from the dark cave, the Cave of Passions and Puissances—Aurimag who called himself, ‘Gayire’—’The Golden One’—that, in the old Lengish tongue. What a joke that was. A blasphemy! ’Tis a sick sacrilege that the villain still lives! I had only to mount my wegmor and be taken away by the beast, but I chose to stay and fight—fight for my demesne! Weapon at hand, I slashed out, but the Huarbane bit into my wegmor’s neck and blood corded in three directions. My brave steed fell while I was afoot only with my rapier and wits to guard against the fiend and the malevolence.”

  “Disturbing luck.”

  “Silence! The monster rushed at me on all fours—with hot breath upon my visage, its thorny bulk a mass of twisted muscle. I retreated, but it pounced, bringing talons from upon high. I ducked—and while the thing poised like death’s nightmare, gleaming silver, I raked Lolispar across its guts in a moment of cold triumph. I spilled liver and organs and putrid things best not described across the glade. Ensorcelled from Loespring pool with Telulric magic it was by Faeta, the long dead Arch-Neon and wood nymph of the Nderian hills. I was about to deal the creature its demise when a mouldy net was strewn over my head; I was hemmed in from all sides, by cutthroats who beat me with cudgels and called me foppish names in crude, thuggish voices. They taunted my manliness. Lolispar slipped from my grasp; I could no more cut the strands that held me than cry for help. I would have carved that troupe of craven lilybellies from limb to limb but—” Here he paused to take in some air, and with grave disgust gathered his wits. “There were four of these vile foes in the brigand band and they seized my gladius and threatened my fair body—all an unspeakable nightmare. How I would dress them with agonies worse than Montgrainz, the Demon Crow if I could enact it all over again!”

  The quivering figure gave a rueful exhalation;
painful recollection debilitated him. “I realize that the beast was only a ruse posed by Aurimag to ensnare me as I was hauled into that mouldy net and back to the Brauvn forest. I was tormented by those grinning, leering faces—a drama which I shall never forget!”

  Baus addressed Trimestrius with solemn concern: “A sorry predicament. Now, as to this business about the creature . . . alas, I digress . . . and yet you are alive, friend, which brings me to profess to puzzlement—how came you to be immured in this jar?”

  Trimestrius’s eyes flashed with bitter, insensate hate. “It was Aurimag—he performed his most depraved deed on my person to date. A mage, as I have adumbrated—but he was a mad mage—full of reptilian conceit and the most diseased of schemes. In exchange for auguries and divinations, I traded with him spices, wines, enchanted perfumes, even narcotics, incenses, essences and unguents acquired on my travels to the southern realms of Karsh and Sloe. I had come to gather some knowledge of the wretch, though I dreaded visiting his lair couched gloomily alongside the Lim river. Others were set against him—Sangdorn, head of the Mismerion Circle, now deceased, and his sympathizers: Ulisa the Utilitarian, Woisper the Wilful, Salmeister the Saturnine, Barbirius the Bellicose, Nojoar the Nourisher—to name a few. Aurimag was especially enraged when those of the Circle denied him entry into the Synod of ‘Eleven’. Old Cascnus, the Theosopher, had died, leaving a small space for another amongst the neomancers. Aurimag believed he was the next in line to walk amongst their ranks.

  “Yes! It is all coming back to me.” Trimestrius’s voice trailed off. A sad, empty hollowness played on his features; his expression mirrored memories of confusion and despair.

  Baus considered the dwarf’s animated monologue a threat to his fragile situation and made a sudden gesture of offense.

  Trimestrius skidded lugubriously away. Baus could not snatch him as he stabbed idly at the soft turf with his blade. “Alas—those days are all a blur in my mind—but as for the open position at Mismerion, I remember there were contenders present, and that Aurimag expected to win the round with ease with his newly acquired thaumaturgics. After his audition to the Circle at Mismerion—it was on the 11th of May—I was sent on a pressing errand, to pass a certain scroll to him. I was merely a peacekeeper, nothing more. I delivered the scroll, a deed which the Circle had invested upon me, abiding a trust which I was owing to them. Upon reading the parchment, Aurimag became stiff with resentment and so utterly dismayed that he seemed ready to commit murder upon me. It was evident he believed I was in cahoots with the Eleven—can you believe it? What could I have had to do with them?—fortunately I escaped the cave, for I knew the woods in all directions. All the mossy dells, the tanglewoods, brooks and brakes, spanglewoods and rills, all in the district of Desenion. When Aurimag’s reason was compromised, he was pitched into a mood of rancour that aroused vengeance on any creature, living or dead. Too late he sent his spectral minions out to shadow me!—insectoid cynersyks, cautervosps, creatures with green and vermilion chitin, and their cousins—great blue bottleflies with pods and protrusions on their bodies that can scoop up a quarry like a mantis. They were huge and they passed my precarious hiding place tucked in the hollow of a maboar stump.”