Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  Rudik returned, thrusting three apples and an extra half loaf of bread into Baus’s hands. “’Tis meagre fare—but better than nothing!” He laughed fondly. “Good fortune to you, Baus!” With a hearty salute, he returned to his work.

  Baus stuffed the items into his jerkin with gratitude. Yes, better than chawing wildgrass and blue furze in the wild. He set off at a lope across the clearing, noting that he would have starved if not for the generousness of his late benefactor.

  Baus gained the first silver-green patches of larch and took to the wegmor paths like the old man had said, but was plagued with a flood of qualms. Could he acquire funds in Krintz? Could he escape being hunted like an outlaw, a common wolf’s-head? The idea caused him strain. The earlier rumours of bewitchment spoken of were no less consoling.

  In more optimistic spirits, Baus confronted the meandering trail facing him. He felt assured that no one would come looking for him in these parts.

  As the late afternoon passed slowly, the dusk straggled in and many times Baus lost sight of the path which seemed to stray in all directions at once. He came to ever lonelier and lonelier vistas: glades, carpets of yellow bay flowers, hawthorns, hollows. There was something eerie about the lie of the land here: flora and fauna held an uncomfortable ambience—particularly the gaudy yellow flowers that stood out on their pale stalks and the green leaves with tender white stripes. The stems barely stirred despite the seaward gusts that tousled his own matted hair.

  Shadows scratched their way across the lands and Baus fought fatigue, finding shelter in a cramped hollow. ’Twas filled with ancient cedar, which to his astonishment, brought uncomfortable dampness as the night progressed. Famished, he awoke in the dark, accosted by foraging rodents. Twice by a claw-happy weasel, then a snuffling koot which harried him up a crooked tree.

  Hours later he crept down to fetch a bit of bread from the nook in a larch where he had left it high to avoid molestation from larger predators in his sleep. Chewing through the tough fare, he listened wide-eared to the lonely coyote calls, the baying of koots in the distance. It was answered by others, equally as estranged. Strange birdlike hoots stirred the silence; furtive shamblings of tiny feet, soft eddies and suckings of the sea, churning not a few bowshots away.

  Gradually Baus was lulled into a troubled slumber. He awoke racked with misgiving, stiff limbs and fogged brain. He watched as the horizon filled with low-scudding clouds. As Rudik had intimated, the Saxe was hidden by an alder grove a mile away. The waters were fordable only barely about a half mile upriver where the old grain mill reposed and the windmill leaned on an angle, basking like an ancient tower. The water was coloured mahogany; the rocks were smoothed by ages of trickle. The stream was wide, but shallow, and afforded a safe passage by means of limestone stepping stones, strategically laid out by previous pioneers.

  For a day and half he trudged. No sign of folk or beast did he discover. Gradually an ineffable loneliness crept over his being. Occasionally he emerged from tight knots of larch to stand upon a gusty promontory or to stare bleakly out upon the sea. There were many such naked points, wind torn and eerie. He spied a fearsome, three-masted barque, all black and wind-torn, lurching and bounding in the swells like a fabled menace—likely a ship full of dastardly rogues on a dastardly mission. The vessel slogged its way northward without flag, causing Baus to shiver, even though he was glad of its departure. He knew that ships of this magnitude were manned by pirates. He recalled the horrid tales of mariners unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with those bloodthirsty reavers—killers who plundered the coast, despoiling their victims, and leaving only a tearful waste in their wake.

  He moved on. Out of the knife-blade shadow, he ducked a flock of kite-thrush. Black beaks gave rise to raucous croaks which fought the wind’s howl. Scavenging fowl as these were incredibly dangerous; they had down-turned beaks similar to wegmor horns and hollowed out yellow eyes. They were evil, all round vicious cousins of the black-billed thrush.

  He stood at the edge of a glade, taking in the barren remnants of a trio of old wind-eaten columns. Trooping closer, he discerned a few toppled limestone busts of an unrecognizable statue, lying prone in the wind-blown grasses. Noses and ears had been shorn.

  Discoveries as this came numerously and as dispiriting as they were Baus took up the trail once again. The signs of what appeared ‘grave-markers’ began to appear in greater numbers. Amongst patches of rubble and old stone, stone slabs and plaques and gravestones stretched in the grassy emptiness inscribed with cryptic declamations—

  “Beware the remorselessness of the Dakkaw!”

  . . .

  “Curse he who hoards—we foist multiple maledictions on the Dakkaw!”

  . . .

  “On the way to Krintz may venturers beware! A hefty curse be laid on the Dakkaw’s deeds. I, Druli, cousin of Falon, driven of hope and comfort, despair for my kinsman’s welfare!”

  Baus frowned. The disclosures were queer. Who was this Dakkaw? What prompted such frightful writing?

  Baus attributed the significance as anything other than an omen, but was largely unsuccessful. An upsurge of superstition chipped away at his confidence.

  The day progressed, but any attempt to decipher the nature of the queer avowals gave way to bleaker ruminations. At any rate, he decided to steer clear of this ‘Dakkaw’. The person or creature referenced had indubitably perished a long time ago, along with the crumbling wretched fanes and the weathered markers he passed in plenitude. A speculative part of Baus’s brain could not wholly dismiss the fact that the absence of wayfarers in this region could hint of doom and was not entirely explained by the ruggedness of the landscape and the absence of roads.

  Baus thrust the thought out of his mind and pressed himself to industry; he would take these noteworthy clues as counsel for caution. With all speed he forged ahead.

  V

  The following day Baus felt himself in better spirits. He had managed to snare a rabbit and cook it over brambles and twigs fired with a chunk of flint he had found. He bent his way northward, up the coast through the brightening wilderness. He had passed an evening free from wandering koots; now he enjoyed fresh air that filled his lungs to invigorating effect. A taste of fall majesty was in the air; the vistas towered over the sea and high promontories formed such impressive vantages for studying the grandeur of the coral-blue, white-foamed sea that much of his apprehension began to diminish. He had put significant leagues between himself and Heagram, and now a gentle valley spread itself at his feet: majestic ruins, leaning towers, arches of archaic design. For a half league or more, granite pillars, alabaster fountains, wind-carved obelisks sprawled shamelessly. He was amazed to spy a jumble of dilapidated grandeur stretching nigh as far as the eye could see. He had never witnessed such a ruined city—or heard of anything like it in these parts.

  Nursing his wonder, he saw a large structure dominated the city. It was more massive than the other buildings and appeared a curious intrusion, in better condition than its peers, glinting sharply in the distance, but even from this vantage, Baus saw a convoluted roof pitched on many angles and supporting two towering spheroids, bronze and crusted with verdigris, and flanked by iron towers.

  Baus frowned and descended the hill warily. He set a course for the edifice, bending gamely down into the ruins. He followed overgrown paths, flagstoned promenades, narrow alleys that threaded their way through the undisturbed city. He ventured past a domed amphitheatre, then a shady vine-covered court, which gave way to crumbling alcoves. He crossed a footbridge, and paused to marvel at a line of battered colonnades whose onyx entablatures seemed intact, but whose wooden rooftops had long since disintegrated. The intricacy of the ancient town perplexed him. Snatches of murals caught his eye, where majestic barques rode on blue seas and whose pigments had almost faded . . . butterflies and sunflowers abounded. All offered a strange glimpse into the past, a hazy pastiche of a time no more. What had this city been in its days of glory? Why had it been de
serted?

  Baus trudged more cautiously under an archway. The hanging vines caressed his shoulders in a shivering way but led to more footbridges, where he paused to arrive at the forecourt heralding the imposing fortress. The twin spheroids gaped down on him with authority; a great sundial lay couched at his feet, weed-blurred in the shadows. A ruined peristyle stood forlornly to the side while an overgrown garden reached fingers in from the right.

  Baus stepped over the fallen blocks, marvelling at the quality of the massive breadth of them. He entered the courtyard. The edifice seemed to close in on him, shadow-hampering him like some great phantom. There was something odd about the structure, almost disturbing. As if the pretentious construction was a veneer, given the quality of the other buildings half gobbled and disintegrated by time. There was a peculiar impression of tight-lipped mystery that wafted about this place. It whispered of time-lost energies, secrets in the past when riches came from fabulous sources.

  Baus could not immediately appreciate the quality of the archaic spheroids though. What was the purpose of the things? Why were they placed so obliquely? Lightning rods? Decorations? Functional embellishments of unknown nature?

  He rejected the surmises. The building, he guessed to be some sort of fort, perhaps an abbey. The walls were limestone, with streaks of dun and green clouding the exterior. A single brass door centered on the façade; it had a moon-mossed lintel. No ordinary door was this, standing nine feet tall and looming in the daylight rivet-studded.

  Baus stood several paces from the doorknocker. He could not help but gaze on in awe at the weighty brass and a coat-of-arms inlaid on either flank of the portal. To the left arched a roaring scorpion; to the right, a hooded falcon inclined with a piercing eye. Crenellated ramparts stretched to infinity at either side—an illusion only. The walls terminated into smaller, lower defensive outbuildings . . .

  The spheroids dwarfed him. He frowned anew. There were no low-lying casements on the façade; only six diamond-paned oriels that spread equidistantly, high up near the roofline. They were plum-darkened, as if covered deliberately from the inside.

  Baus pitched himself forward, pausing before the door’s wide, cracked steps. In the deep shadow he halted mid-step. A slightly moribund sound impinged on his senses, prickling the small hairs on the back of his neck. The sound was not immediately comforting—a muted, vacant lament, exuding a waft of helplessness—this from the cracks of the stone, perhaps of some creature confined within.

  Baus grimaced and hurried back, feeling his skin crawl. Only silence greeted him: the rustle of weeds in the wind, the call of an ancient sea bird. The blood hammered in his ears. He twitched, fatigued and out of sorts.

  He turned to go, but his eyes caught a brief glimpse of a small grate at ground level. The opening was perhaps a foot wide, twenty to the door’s side. He could not help but investigate.

  He moved toward it fascinated like a hound and found the portal no bigger than the roundness of his face, yet blacker than black. The mesh was tucked a foot beneath court level and cool airs issued from the grate; indeed, the mouldy press of vapours which caused him to shrink back. Something dwelled within—of what, he could not guess.

  Baus back-pedaled his way out of the courtyard, stumbling over a toppled stone. He picked himself up and perhaps twenty paces later, felt a chill run up his spine. The appeal returned, filling his ears with a ratchet-like grimness. The sound appeared remarkably human.

  He contrived to bolt in the opposite direction—far away did he leave that place and its disturbing ambience . . .

  * * *

  The miles drifted by.

  Silently Baus reprimanded himself for his graceless worry. Suppose there was someone trapped down there, should he not lend aid?

  He shrugged. Provocations of this kind entailed perilous futures, and he was not ready to shoulder any more at this time.

  A guilty reminiscence of Weavil’s plight pricked his conscience. He had left an innocent to a bleak fate like Weavil and a display of callous unconcern would catch up to him sooner or later. He knew that perhaps his own self-fulfilling prophecy invited cataclysm down the road.

  Baus thrust away such rogue feelings. They were unproductive.

  Ever more grimly he plodded on.

  It was perhaps early in the afternoon when he came upon a large byre. It was the first so durably constructed in this area since he had left Rudik’s croft. Baus mused. Unlike the barns common to the region, this one was made of blue stone—in fact, it was cunningly constructed. Griffins decorated the eaves; remarkable gargoyles graced a polished exterior. A sharp, goblin-traced roof, tiled with red clay reflected the noonday sun and Baus saw the structure was minimally landscaped, but unnaturally large and seemed to betray a sense of unmitigated eccentricity and the amplitude of an owner, whoever that may be. Brown switch-vine grew in plenitude along the seaward face. A massive pine door, stained from rich resins and age, leaned ajar.

  Baus moderated his enthusiasm. To intrude upon such a construction was an arguable venture. He stared from a distance with a profound interest. The edifice seemed inviting enough, yet still slightly out of context with its goblin-like effigies and the massive sturdiness. Perhaps the warmth of its interior could provide a brief respite for his weary limbs?

  Baus picked at his teeth. Was such a safe idea?

  A long low wagon was thrust up casually against the north face. The hollow lowing of a wegmor issued from around back.

  He edged his way around the side and discovered a pair of untethered beasts. They were munching furze and inspected Baus with a vacuous indifference. He was soon to discover a small iron plough, a tidy garden, a bed of corn-squash, carrots, arrowroot and leeks. An annex erected to the barn’s flank denoted an egg-laying hen-loft? A rabbit hutch?

  Nothing seemed menacing here. Yet, something hovered on the edge of his perception, as invisible as thought. Suspiciously Baus searched about for signs of human activity. None was evident. How puzzling! Only the sound of hissing wind and the twitching of the wegmors’ tails graced his ear. The ripe scent of forest drifted from the nearby meadow. There was the stuff of aromatic cedar, musk, decomposing leaves, larkspur, asphodel.

  Gaining some conviction, Baus gave the door a tug. He entered the confines with a trace of fear.

  A sawhorse and a long worktable dominated the foreground. A ball peen hammer, nails, screws and saws hung on hooks on the nearest wall. The instruments were ordinarily set lower down but they were irregularly large and demanded room. The facing wall supported a rack of rabbit skins hanging in tandem. Another massive table resided in the centre with stout legs. In the shadows stood numerous wood-carven effigies, of fantastic girth: foxes, antelopes, hares, geese, wild wegmors. Baus’s jaw dropped. A great mug and other edibles sat on the table, protected under a glass jar. All were enormous. Baus could see that an inordinately large aspect permeated all things—mug, tools, sawhorse, carvings, furniture. On the back of the high-backed chair hung a cloak of custom leather affixed with iron rivets. This, too, was suggestive of an oversize being. What reasonable human being could fit in such a garment?

  Baus’s lips twitched with misgiving. Obviously the person, or persons, who claimed ownership of this well-kept barn were of an appreciable configuration. A cautious individual would be wise not to cross paths with such a person, in fact, make efforts to steer clear.

  He cast furtive glances at the statues and pulled at his lip. He could not automatically condone his presence here, but nor could he detect any palpable evil, try as he might outside of a hobbyist’s playground. Moreover, what was there to lose from a reconnaissance? Baus set forth to inspect the victual set on the table, with inquisitive care.

  A wedge of oatcake, a tureen of brown mead, a slice of cold sausage—all laid out in plain sight under a bell jar and appearing edible and fresh.

  Baus licked his lips. To prolong any hunger for the sake of prudence seemed absurd. To indulge in food that was not one’s own, however, sugg
ested a flagrant act of theft. Nothing under the table suggested any elaborate trap. Lures, deadfalls, snares seemed absent.

  Why should an individual leave fresh sustenance for a wandering wayfarer to devour?

  The question remained unanswered and the altruism of the circumstance stymied Baus.

  However Baus’s temptation grew and the victual remained untouched, harbouring a scent of appealing quality.

  Baus glanced about in perplexity. He thought that perhaps the owner had stepped out momentarily to complete an errand? Yes, that must be it!

  Baus congratulated himself on his reasoning. Partaking of the food, he would be off as quick as a weasel: the dweller or landlord would be none the wiser.

  Further vacillation continued, but Baus swiftly devoured the mead and sausage and departed the byre in satisfaction. Whoever had provided the lunch would be somewhat bewildered by the missing portions, but what of it? Would he not, in similar condition, offer sustenance to a downtrodden wayfarer? Surely! Gratified with this further reasoning, he made excellent progress toward Krintz, along a route of peaceful transit through rolling hills, flowering asphodel and fragrant heliotrope.

  An hour passed. The lands sloped down toward the sea, rife with more strange, yellow, slightly acrid asphodel. More startling ruins came to notice—chipped pedestals, crumbling birdbaths, porticos, weatherworn alabaster gates . . .

  Around a small copse the path now took a downward turn and Baus halted before a brilliant glade of yellow flowers. A wondering gasp hung on his lips. Flowers of such effulgence abounded in astronomical numbers! The field was sprawled with golden splendour: cornflower, saffron, lemon, mixes of paintbrush purple. Indeed, such a wonderful prism of colour stung his eyes! A thin path wound its way through several hundred feet and Baus moved forward toward it like a captive hound.