by Chris Turner
Mulfax cried: “Weavil has been captured by the magician! That much is established. I told you: I saw the villain stuff the wretch into a jar before he disappeared over the wall. He floated into the beobar!”
“Well, Mulfy, what if Weavil escaped?” posed Tilfgurd equably.
Madluck asserted himself with importance. “What if Nuzbek simply fell from his balloon and broke his neck while Weavil ran away?”
“And what if the night is actually the day, and we are all dream figures in an ancient mind?” growled Canjun.
“Enough of your drolleries!” griped Skarrow. “I say we resume our hunt. We scour Grumboar all the way back to the bluffs, then we make hay and cut off the rest of the fugitives who are probably escaping by the mudflats this moment.”
Burkothes rubbed his chin in agreement. “It sounds reasonable. It would make tough going but I sense these rogues hope to reach Gooler’s Point by dawn.”
Haimes guffawed. “Recall that the Captain instructed us to regard Nuzbek’s capture as the highest priority.”
Skarrow skipped forward with an obdurate bearing. “Let the Captain deal with the magician. He is doing well busybodying with his schemes. I say we leg it to the shore, wash our hands of this fog-cursed woodland, find the rest of the rabble there.”
They grumbled in agreement and the majority made motions to depart. They gathered weapons and left Oppet behind still frowning at the deadheads. He did not want to leave. After a scuffle and some harsh words, they dragged his hide away. The snauzzerhounds tramped at their heels, whimpering, but there was nothing to be done. Baus lay submerged in the murk behind the stumps, breathing a gasp of relief.
The sounds of blundering died in the gloom. He staggered out of the water, hauling his dripping hide to the shore. Hunched he sat in the reeds like a bedraggled crow. As plagued as he was with racking shivers, he rubbed life back into his numb body, feeling terrible pins and needles. Lucky for him that he had taken steps to obfuscate his prints, otherwise he may be in Kady’s jaws right now. It wouldn’t have taken any genius to know for sure someone had scrabbled into the pool and lay hidden in the marsh.
In brooding silence, he felt the brush of wind. A lonely fierceness ached in his heart. Odd! Now that he was a free man he felt desperately alone. His plight had become a forlorn saga now that he was alone. Ironically it felt more daunting than that of being cooped up in any prison.
He squeezed the rankness out of his body. He felt the black tangle of hair fall in clumps as he shook his head. He peeled off more leeches from his skin than he would have liked to count. Hastily he summoned his wits. Many mishaps were on the way—no less as a wolf’s-head. An almost spent brand lay in the grass. Smoking in the mist, it was likely discarded by one of the officers. He snatched it up gratefully and his frigid fingers shook but began a hurried search for another brand at the glade’s edge. He whittled a length of spindlelfax, urging the tip to smouldering life.
Limping back to the rows of beobar extending north and east, he reviewed the facts: if he kept on, the forest would peter out and eventually lead him to the seashore as the harbour dipped like a hunter’s bow. There were sun-blasted rocks there at the north end to hide amongst. His scent could not stick amongst the rocks and prevail against the heady winds off the sea. If he could summon his wits enough to gain these rocks, perhaps he could take cover before Oppet’s hounds caught up with him again.
With shaky confidence, Baus tackled Grumboar’s fastness. He realized he had a fighting chance. A dogged glint gleamed in his eyes.
III
In the black hours of flight, Baus faced the tender balance between capture and freedom. Murmurings and disquieting hootings drifted to his ears. Grumboar forest lay wrapped in eerie abeyance like a grinning phantom.
He squinted in the gloom, caught unnerving glimpses of nocturnal eyes—orbs quietly reaching out at him through the black folds and staring back like claret candles.
Bats? Night hawks? Coyotes? Baus’s quick feet made short play of the miles. He passed no human company. His newly-acquired gladius made excellent work of the briar that reared in his path.
He might have ploughed two hours more through underbrush before he faced a misty hollow—and halting and listening, he perceived no sign of dogs, wolves or humans. A welcome relief! His plan might succeed . . . and became even more than a fugitive hope in his mind.
A ruddy colour returned to his face. His coarse, black hair felt no longer a featureless tangle down his raw-boned cheeks, but glistened wetly in perspiration. His eyes gleamed with that single-minded purpose which only the passing, glaring-eyed coyotes could appreciate. His thoughts strayed to Ulisa—and her disclosures of Aurimag—the neomancer.
His lips instantly compressed. The arcane faction to which the woman belonged was no more than a source of perplexing vexation to him.
The group was likely a squabbling bunch of pretentious occultists whom he would make efforts to steer clear of. As for ‘Aurimag’, he would extract his justice at a later time. Ulisa, the dwarf sorceress was pulchritudinous no doubt, but a trifle ‘utilitarian’ for his tastes. Quite a deal too miniature for the purpose of what premierly came to mind. Still—her adroit powers, mysterious and puissant, could come in handy, particularly at a time like this.
He threw his muscles into his plight. Onward he fled, to his destiny. He edged his way with resolve seaward through the brush, down to the last ghost-fringes of the beach. He hooked his brand in a sapling’s nook and crept wisely down to the foreshore where the surf pounded relentlessly—like a soft mallet’s drumming. Perhaps a mile distant, he saw cloying mudflats whose smell rankled his seaman’s nose, which he guessed sensed the sighing waters rising to mid-tide.
The gloom was not inconsiderable. Baus hovered in an almost numbing crouch. Dampness crept into his bones; his legs ached. At least he was screened him from prying eyes.
Up and down the beach he peered. No torchlight or human presence showed themselves. He acknowledged that on this lonely tract of beach he was the only savvy occupant.
Baus bent his legs back to the wood; he gathered up his torch. A course north was the most optimal, but certain misgivings detained him. To jaunt amiably down this beach with glinting torch was a poor course.
He shielded his flame with his body and let his half-loping run up the mud flats take him to the jumble of rocks up shore where he would find respite from roving patrols.
He spent the night in a cave, blinking in hunger, but managed to spear an eelfish with Lolispar in a small tidal pool under the light of his brand. He roasted it over the tip of his flame, and in grunts and gulps devoured the meat, lay down on his side, finally to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
Hours passed. He awoke shivering, to find his torch spent and pale rays of dawn lancing down from the slits in the upper dome. His trousers were soaked; faint amber patterns played on his face; it reminded him of earlier times when he explored the hidden caves up the coast. He snapped out of his reverie, finding the water risen to his ankles. Cursing, he found his brown overcoat soaked. The tide was intruding itself on his domain. Where ignorant slumber was bliss. Baus could not suppress a groan at the vile memory of last night’s harrowing chase.
He wiped the fog out of his brain and staggered to the entrance, scrambling for a plan of action.
The strength of his mental faculties was returning. On stiff limbs, he stumbled back through the passageway, squeezing himself out, instantly blinded by the daylight. White clouds scudded by the blue sky; the wind was a stern whip from the east—neither a good nor bad omen. His temples ached and he rubbed them. Time had no meaning . . . but fresh air would be an excellent therapy. The familiar tang of sea air was welcome, however the sound of crashing waves spraying rocky flanks of a headland did nothing for his headache. A thousand whitecaps furrowed the sea; Illim Isle slumbered like a sleeping giant in the waves. The pale whalestone shelf on which he perched gave him a good view of the area and he nursed gently the thought he was safe, hidden by the gendr
on and juniper.
Baus raised his hands to shield his eyes. Following the mud flats to the empty stretch of sandy beach southward, he saw the first breakwaters of Heagram. A few lubberly scows rode the swells.
Baus knew that to surmount the boulders looming above him comprised an inevitable necessity. Pinched-lipped and haggard, he struggled to climb the rocks. The sea fell thirty yards; the desolate tongue of exposed granite—Gooler’s Point, swung out to sea.
Baus climbed. Now high on the bluff, Baus’s gaze wandered north. There a straggling shoreline of boulders and pillared limestone shelves showed testament to eons of wind-torn waves. At onslaughts of white surf, the water created a flute-like graveyard of rock. A swath of rolling hills disappeared into goldy haze westward. Somewhere the dells halted, and beyond lay a welcome road.
Baus allowed himself a satisfied nod. He was sure this was the route to take. The road, however, could only be freshly patrolled by constables, and so he must take to the wilds.
Automatically, he traced his eyes along the faint path that breasted the ridgeline, finding it marked by generations of hooves of beasts: goats and ibexes.
Heagram remained a home to him no longer. He must turn his back on his birthplace for the last time, set his sights on the seaside vistas.
For a time he trudged upon the barren outcrops and felt a new sense of freedom high above the sea. His gaze drifted longingly to the west and he let the faint fairy-blue gleam of the Tarnshorn Hills tempt his hopes—no less the graceful ease of the white peaks that floated luxuriously on the faraway horizon. The sight lulled his sense of desperation. He strode faster. At times he cognized human settlements hidden below: steeples, quaint crofts, tidy granaries, silos, low-lying fences, byres, straw-filled sheds. The habitations were all that remained between the road and the hills.
Tramping on, he passed through the yellow furze and straggling shrub, up and down the bald plateaus of granite and glacial boulders. He saw wild and untamed countryside, and the sea! What an illimitable, moving carpet of moody swells. Its ripples shimmered with the softest aquamarine.
Baus revelled in this trek. This newfound sense of openness, peering lordly out over the sea, contented him. He was free, shed of responsibilities and duties!
By the end of the day, he was exhausted though. The last clouds cast long shadows over the troughs of the land. At least there was no sign of patrols. The afternoon’s descent into rocky gullies had left him windburnt and drowsy. Three leagues he calculated he had made, perhaps more—a lucky number, considering his notoriety as a jailbreaker, a distance which he attributed to his seaman’s charm. It dangled ever so proudly about his neck. With no apparent shelter, Baus dared to sleep in the open—on a grassy outcrop, overlooking Longman’s Point while the stars wheeled above him, pricking the skies with their twinkling opalescence.
IV
Baus arose the next day to clear skies and high winds. His belly was hungry and the protests would know no surcease. He ignored the pangs, making considerable strides along the ridge. By mid-morning, he reached a less rugged patch where the foreshore had lost much of its look of menace.
He halted, musing, uncertain about the evolution of his pilgrimage. He peered away from the morning sun, taking reconnaissance of a shallow valley that spread before him. The main road was a mile to the west. He had studiously avoided it as it bent its way gradually toward his own path, but now he had no choice. The crossroads was marked by a rickety sign with three arms angled respectively—to routes south, west, and north:
Heagram: 3 leagues
Hamhuzzle: 4 leagues
Krintz: 12 leagues
The sign’s characters became easier to read as he trudged closer to investigate.
He touched a finger to his mouth. Was it better to head to Hamhuzzle? Or Krintz? The town of Hamhuzzle was a well-known hub of trade, yet notably a near nucleus to Heagram. Of Krintz he knew nothing. What comforts it offered he could not guess. The state of the crabbed, weather-beaten characters and the dilapidated condition of the road admitted to a definite lack of traffic in this direction.
Baus squinted up the ribbon of road. The rutted path continued to weave its way up a knoll northwards and disappear into a stand of cedar. Certainly the direction of Krintz was of better consideration—particularly as an outlaw.
A twain of covered wagons came beetling their way from the Hamhuzzle direction and Baus beat a hasty path up the slope. Warily he watched as the two caravans rolled themselves to a halt at the crossroads. The drivers, both bearded and unkempt men, traded words before aiming their wegmors toward Heagram. The snorting beasts created a din and showed traits of the local breed with dun-coloured flanks and upturned horns. A moment of settling, then the drivers whipped them off toward Heagram and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Supply merchants, Baus guessed. Poorly paid likely—carrying wares of woollens, earthenwares and potatoes.
With the sullen reminder of food, Baus’s stomach gave a constricted gurgle. It had been more than a day since he had last eaten—hopefully a deficiency he would remedy. With five cils to his name in his shoe from his last wins at Flanks, the prospects seemed dim, particularly when Krintz was two days’ march away.
By noon, the trail dwindled to a straggling footpath. The larch thickened, closed in about him in unfriendly fashion—a hunger also, of depressing quality.
By afternoon Baus was overcome with exhaustion and stumbled out of a copse to fling himself down at the edge of a wide clearing, licking his parched lips. An imposing larch cluster ringed the glade. Lifting his head, he saw a rangy, grey-cloaked figure raising a mattock to a small tract of land. Three wegmors stood tethered to a fence a bowshot away. A dozen conical straw bales lay idly in the furze.
Baus saw the landtiller’s cottage was mostly hidden by a crowd of larch, with cheery smoke rings curling from the chimney.
He felt optimism and approached the tiller with confidence. The man was tall, middle-aged and wore an all-weather jerkin with a straw hat perched over a thatch of peach-coloured hair. The rhythm of his hoeing denoted a sense of respectable innocence, thus augmenting Baus’s confidence in his amiable approach.
The farmer caught the approach of a stranger and immediately stopped his hoeing.
Baus offered him a salute. The farmer squinted.
“Being a traveler from the south,” said Baus, “I seek no harm upon your person or land. What can you tell me, old man, of this trail which meanders into the wood?”
The farmer paused before replying. “Only that none pass that way. The bridge is wrecked—at Earden the river Saxe flows to the sea and is difficult to traverse.”
Baus grimaced. “This is discouraging news.”
“Call it what you will.” The man shrugged. “The bridge has been defunct for an age. Didn’t you know? What brings you to these parts?”
Baus shrugged indifferently. “A regrettable incident in Heagram has left me bereft. All to say, I seek challenges in other locales other than Heagram. As for my name, my friends call me Baus.”
The man nodded in understanding. “When I was younger, I suffered such inconstancies.” The landtiller gave his head a wry shake. “Life deals us strange turns, stranger! I am Rudik, a farmer, too old to travel now, but I’m contented to stay here in this grove between mountain and sea.” He seemed to warm to Baus’s manner. “I fish where I may; I know secluded places up the coast of which many are ignorant. I farm, I show good husbandry, I tend my crops and feed my animals and my two sons.”
“An exciting life,” observed Baus.
“Ah, you think,” laughed the man with sly mirth. “A simple life, yes, but not as shabby as others.”
Baus acknowledged the truth of the statement. “What of Krintz?”
The farmer leaned on his hoe with misgiving. “It is an old village, Krintz is, as us codgers know. ’Tis as old as any along these remote sea bluffs. The folk have their queer ways, but none come from there now.” He broke off, musing. “The
last time I remember a traveler coming from the north . . . well, let’s just say that it does not come readily to mind.”
A moody expression came over the his face. “I am not certain, but rumour has it that some terror grips the region. Whether it be physical or spiritual, I know not—only I’ve heard tales of bewitchment in those glades, and that the abandoned ruins of the settlements between here and Cant’s Cove are fey. Krintz is a far distance, and as I’ve said. No sane person ever tracks this way to offer news.”
Baus resumed a manner of easy camaraderie. Hunger tore at his guts, but he would not show it and proceeded to casually cite maxims and pleasantries.
“I’ll warn you, friend, there are no roads in those parts,” declared Rudik abruptly, “only ghosts. The seaside is riddled with boulders, dizzying heights, chasms, gulfs. They are as much hazard to the casual wayfarer as the bite of a tung snake! The region is far too perilous to fish, except by intrepids. Adepts like me who know the way are exceptions . . .”
The darkness fell from the landtiller’s face. “Well, if you mean to track all the way to Krintz—then I can at least tender you this advice: follow the track and never stray from it. ’Tis tended by the ibex which know better than human folk. Stray not a yard from their margin! There’ll be little to aid you in case you fall afoul of some unnaturality. The bridge may still be awash at the Saxe, in which case it will take you upstream. You’ll come to Flander’s mill; there you’ll find a decent place to ford. In the meantime, I can offer you this bag of apples, a bit of bread perhaps, some good luck. By the grave, you look thin! You could use a bit of fat!”
“I could,” agreed Baus with favour. The farmer went off to gather the viands and the cottage door jangled open. Baus for the first time saw two boys, tossing hay nearby in a growing pile. The youths sported peach blond hair like their father and sported eyes of matching blue. The croft’s wegmors munched happily away.