Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

by Chris Turner

  The Dakkaw touched his cheeks with great fondness. “Right then! Smartly now! There are folks I’d like you to meet. Baus—meet Rilben! Valere—Rilben, and Rilben, Baus, a renowned wayfarer—as is Valere, a real life sea captain.”

  Rilben bowed and showed an admiring face. “Rilben the Bête, at your service. Many honours, sirs!

  Valere acknowledged the salutation; Baus muffled a cough.

  “Rilben is my ‘associate’,” explained the Dakkaw urbanely. “He is a creature, or rather pseudo-baboon, from descent in the Tarnshorn hills.”

  Baus narrowed his brows. “This is an appreciable distance.”

  The Dakkaw nodded vigorously. “I discovered Rilben in my travels across the Tarnshorns in a land called ‘Bête’. It was in my youth,” he exclaimed fondly. “Rilben was then only a pup, the breadth of my hand.”

  “Intriguing, if not beguiling,” remarked Baus incredulously. “And what prompted such fortuity?”

  “Ah . . . you ask. Who knows the ways of consequence more than Rilben? The imp was no bigger than my toe when I found him sprawled and abandoned in a lonely glade by his peers.”

  Baus clapped his hands in consternation. “Whatever becomes the world when one discovers travesties exposed in glaring condition?”

  The Dakkaw agreed. “I had hidden Rilben in one of my pockets, whilst traversing the snow peaks of Tarnshorn, and then transported him to the Tevers pass, the stony gulches, and the windy swales of Sarch.”

  “An ingenious itinerary,” complimented Baus.

  The Dakkaw blushed. “I thought so.” Fondness and nostalgia crept into his face. “Rilben had a pet, oh what was its name? I forget!”

  “Moddly Middy!” Rilben sniffed sharply. “It died. Dear Moddly! How I pine for my vole-rat!” A tear dripped from the ghoul-ape’s eye to splash on the floor.

  Baus sought to ameliorate the mood. “Yes, Rilben, I bet there are others floating around Bisiguth—in some ratty hole or dusky corner.” Baus chuckled at the notion.

  Rilben brightened; he clenched his sagging shoulders erect. “I shall begin an immediate searching for such a creature.” The ape turned to rummage but the Dakkaw called an order: “Rilben! Do not neglect your duties!—there are a hundred chores of maintenance around my mansion!”

  The ape responded tartly: “I have automatically begun these tasks, sir.” He swaddled off in a huff, engaging in his search.

  The Dakkaw tsked affectionately. “Rilben! What an unassuming fellow—perhaps a trifle simple, but what of it? Where were we? Ah, yes! Whig the Rigs . . .” He gave a smirk and a processional flourish.

  Baus made a polite correction. “Actually, we were on a tour of the ceremonial shields and associated regalia.”

  “Quite right! Baus, you are a sharp fellow; you shall go places!”

  Baus acknowledged the acclaim, pointing to the tarnished cymbals and age-cracked oars pasted to the wall. The Dakkaw was pleased and began to launch into a lengthy oratory of the history of the oars when he clutched at his ears in anguish. “Dags! I have forgotten Cedrek again. The swain is likely at his end with hunger!” Grumbling grimly, he clopped to the trapdoor and set feet near the foot of the stairs. Almost apologetically, he chided them, “I have been so busy with you that I have neglected Cedrek’s needs. It has been a full day—is it irresponsible? Nevertheless, time for his ablutions—a necessary though rough engagement.”

  Baus and Valere exchanged grimaces and the Dakkaw trooped down to the crypts with a lit torch. Slamming the trap shut, he paused to take his bearings, and they heard only the thud of his footsteps, and a creepy series of low-pitched howls. A ratchety sound suddenly came drifting up through the planks, then an ominous clank of chains and unyielding metal. Wails ensued, then a feeble moan, which Baus marked similar to one he had heard on his first stumbling upon Bisiguth.

  Another oath filled the air, followed by a buffet, then a muffled groan, and the sound of a sloshing liquid—there was a terrible thrashing. Then, more ratchety commotion, superseded by blubbering and several complaisant sobs.

  The Dakkaw emerged gamely from the basement. His face was flushed, his eyes were gleaming and he carried in his hand what looked like an immense glass-spice vial. “Lucky that I attended to that niggling task,” he intoned bluffly. “On a side errand, this amber-root was my trophy; it will do well to season the pheasant I mean to trap for us on the morrow! Let us repair to bed! Tomorrow is to be a long day; I am fatigued with all this miscellany!” He clapped his hands, prompting them up the stairs.

  Up the long flight of stairs Baus and Valere were nudged by the Dakkaw. Down a wide, disorderly hall the ogre marched, directing them to their chambers, rubbing wrists with contentment. Though sparse and somewhat austere, the chamber was perhaps less littered with refuse than the rest of the abode and contained at least a stout bed on which the two might flop.

  Baus screwed up his face. “I need soft covers in order to sleep comfortably, Dakkaw. Not to mention a room less cluttered. This much you should at least provide your guests for politeness at least.”

  “Arrest your mischief!” The ogre showed Baus yellow teeth. “I have ears like a bloodhawk and I shall sleep close by!”

  Two doors down he stalked and retired to his bedchamber. His tread was as heavy as gongs. He locked the black-plated door behind him.

  Smitten with despair, Baus and Valere forewent an escape. Bypassing a listless argument over who would receive the better half of the bed, they slumped, groaned with exhaustion and sighed like two old beggars. No sooner had their heads touched the pillows, when they were fast asleep.

  VIII

  The next morning, Baus cried out imploring the Dakkaw to set them free from his hideous keep.

  The ogre stood framed hugely in their bedroom doorway, like a gigantic breed of ox. Globe eyes glimmered like polished spoons; huge comic hands swung metallically as if plumb bobs on the end of iron-twined hawsers.

  The giant seemed to consider the request with an air of affection. “A means exists. I will give you the option to solve one of my riddles, then you can walk free.”

  Baus clapped his hands in contentment.

  Valere guffawed, “And if we fail to crack it?”

  “Everything remains as before.”

  “Then we have nothing to lose,” said Baus.

  “Logic would dictate. Shall we begin?”

  The two wagged their heads.

  “To our first riddle! What is red, blue, and fits on the end of a shoe?”

  Baus scratched his head with puzzlement. Valere peered cock-eyed up at the Dakkaw.

  The Dakkaw bawled, “Too slow! Well, here is another! What lives on water and on land, and to date can nothing withstand?” Again Baus and Valere bit their lips.

  “Dags, you two jacks are dim. You say you are riddle men? Poddycock!”

  Baus gurgled out a boyish chuckle, “A dogfish, then.”

  The Dakkaw signalled failure.

  Valere heaved himself up and announced, “Cuttleswipe, or a crake.”

  “Wrong on both counts.” The Dakkaw flourished a ringed finger. “You two clowns are useless when it comes to riddles! Guess again!”

  Baus and Valere consulted each other. They mumbled testy arguments. Trying several angles, they pooled their ideas with blurts, assertive taunts, maledictions, but nothing seemed to assist.

  The Dakkaw began to grow impatient. “I haven’t all day, swains. You call yourself seamen! Tach! Well, do you finally give up?”

  “Never! Furnish us time,” cried Baus. “We require concentration.”

  The Dakkaw gave an impudent snort. “Concentration is all well and good when it is administered with analytic skill. Not with vapid jabber. Now! Speak! I grow fatigued with all the fluff.”

  “Right, Dakkaw,” agreed Baus. “Let us think. I ask for a very basic hint as to the nature of the riddle and you give us sneers. Is this too much to ask?”

  “It is!—I simply refuse to supply any hints!”

  M
oonstruck with rancour, Baus shook his head. “Without a clue, we surely cannot answer.”

  The Dakkaw regarded him cheekily. “Then in that case I must cancel your chance at freedom. As an aside, not a single soul has guessed a single riddle of mine to date—not even proud Varanges the Wise, or Chanstros the Music-Maker. What do you think of that?”

  Baus gestured to indicate that he thought little of it. “And now, Dakkaw, how are we to recognize that our answers are in fact inaccurate, if you do not at lest tender us the correct responses?”

  “The query is inflammatory!” bristled the Dakkaw. “Now, if the answer is not quite obvious, there is none at all. It is neither fish, nor half mutants or birds, like you blindly spout, which never embark on land.”

  The brusque exclamation marked an end to the game and Baus and Valere were invariably obliged to forfeit their only chance at liberation.

  * * *

  Within a quarter of an hour the Dakkaw departed Bisiguth. He took with him his big willow hunting bow and a brace of small fowl. The skin of beer and extra snares were already strapped on his shoulders.

  The bolts of the massive bronze door clanked shut; Baus and Valere were left brooding in the tomblike Bisiguth.

  The twain exchanged rebellious glances and contemplated the grey gloom of their bedchamber. The surroundings were glum; dispiriting shadows hung everywhere; glazed black beobar trim and filigreed wainscoting gazed back without compassion.

  The door was left unlocked—the ogre had kept his promise. In effect, they were imprisoned like rats in a big littered cage.

  Up and about to work they scrambled, prowling the manse for a means of escape. The only notable discovery was a set of repositories and doorways favoured with huge brass knobs all along the living room walls. They branched into many corridors; the rooms beyond were filled with a ghastly assortment of junk—grimy relics and other bits of weird refuse that the Dakkaw had hoarded in his spare time.

  A thin watery light filtered down from the casements, revealing significantly finer details of Bisiguth’s interior than yesterday. An old marble staircase, rising to a black-plaited wooden balcony, engraved with nymphs and luscious mermaids in suggestive poses. The wood was cracked, pitched in frightening formations, but did little to enlighten them, nor did it lose its velvety splendour in the half gloom. The hallway which encircled the second storey appeared to house its own doorways which led to other archaically-designed rooms, which were in turn locked.

  Bisiguth, as it turned out, was partisan to many strange marvels—like the old porcelain wall fountain, bubbling and soundlessly burbling with waters of purple luminosity. An elk head mounted over the armoire had black, authoritative eyes which followed them whichever way they turned; then there was the eerie stone paves, embedded into the planks at random intervals. Phosphorous, unsettling faces were embedded there, reminiscent of gargoyles and demons that glared back at them. Charms? Spell-blockers? The context was unclear and Baus shook his head. Additionally the staircase steps seemed to meld one step at a time in the opposite direction that the climber wished to go. Baus was at a loss to decipher its significance, or origin, sponsoring in him an odd, depressed flavour. He brooded that these were some magical mysteries that the Dakkaw had accumulated in his travels and that he would not speak of.

  In their own bedchamber, a small diamond-shaped pane looked out upon the pale courtyard. Long shadows lay tucked in the dawn’s sparse light. Toppled statues tickled with prickle weed and shrub-rot were in evidence below—a place they could not reach. The closet revealed a set of old jerkins with the smell of old leather, and other archaic bits of clothing: belts, hats, boots, trousers, all voluminous to the fit. A set of polished skulls were dyed blue, scattered on the floor under a stack of clothing. Baus thought the instance unorthodox. In idle reverie he manhandled the skulls like a court fool in a hand each. Valere dismissed the puppeteering as juvenile. Baus tossed the skulls in the closet, frowning, chiding Valere for his lack of imagination. Baus gave his time to other pursuits: the examination of furniture in the downstairs hall. Through grey murk sat the old table, its haggard collection of chairs, and barbaric, hanging chandelier giving it character. Various items littered the floor. Higher above rose the miniature oriels and the groined ceiling.

  Baus shook his head in wonder. Where to start searching amidst all this rubble? As for Rilben, it appeared the ape had hidden himself again in a convenient location. At least there was no small lack of raw materials, and it was from these, that Baus and Valere began to fabricate the first legion of a plan: a battering ram made out of planks and meal sacks.

  The scheme proved tedious. The front door was jammed and too heavy to crack open with even the best of their efforts. They endeavoured to craft a makeshift grapple—one manufactured of bent nails affixed to segments of rope. To loft the grapple on high was an option absurdly impractical. The windows were too high. Nor could they access any convenient place from the banister in which to lob the construction. Even the trap door under which ‘Cedrek’ lived, was barred heavily with brass and impossible to lever open.

  Baus and Valere slumped heavily on the floor and attempted a discussion to clarify their escape. Rilben, rather unexpectedly turned up behind a suit of armour, surprising them with an oil brush and rag. He highly discouraged the prospect of escape with a wagging finger. The companions ignored the advice. They resumed their scheming. After several gambits they came to a dead end; Baus threw his hands in the air. The Dakkaw had pondered all the angles. Escape was futile. Midday had arrived, and they were no closer to liberation. Cedrek’s moans and laments continued to fill the gloomy hall while Rilben’s orthodox, pedantic instructions irked them to no end.

  * * *

  True to his word, the Dakkaw returned as daylight was fading. The ogre clutched new game: a white sea termagon, two small shrews, a brown-backed pheasant. His face was suntanned; he looked well-exercised and full of energy as the companions peered and could not help but feel jealous. Smelling of inviting scents: fall air, sycamores, beech, fallen leaves, fresh vistas—he afforded them stories of the day, voicing a polite inquiry into their own affairs. The companions had little to say, outside of a ribbing with Rilben. The ogre offered sympathetic remarks and set about preparing the evening’s meal—a pheasant goulash and termagon pâté of quality. Baus fingered the thin ganglestick deep in his cloak. The Dakkaw served the hot dishes while Baus contrived a means to slide near his side, guarding Nuzbek’s rod with a hopeful gleam in his eye. Somehow he sensed encouraging outcomes.

  The intimation turned out to be misleading. The Dakkaw was quick to deduce chicanery and conveyed orders for Baus to keep a better distance. “Take your seat, skulker! I would think you harboured an ice pick in your pouch to plunge into my brain! Tell me of marvels, not prowl about my domain like an errant dog. I know little of you two swains—only that you are escapists from prison.”

  Valere gave a sullen twitch. “What of it?”

  The Dakkaw’s face congested. “Refusing to humour me, Captain, will result in your being thrust below with Cedrek. Together the two of you may review your obstinate streaks. For free room and board, I demand benevolence! Boons which number to the count of two!—first, a reception of capable company, second, an earful of salient news from the outside.”

  Sensing no alternative, Valere told a tale of how he had escaped the Constables, witnessing Tustok and Yullen being torn apart by snauzzerhounds. The Dakkaw’s eyes gleamed at the news, especially about the violent capture. Valere affirmed that he had barely escaped the death-hounds by scrambling up the cliffside by the sea, hiding in clumps of furze where he could to stake out Gooler’s Point. Baus related a much more optimistic tale, of how he had fooled the magician Nuzbek who had been sentenced to the flaptrap and had escaped the compound only after suffering days in the flaptrap and flown about the air on an occult-rigged parachute while clutching jars of miniaturized homunculi.

  The Dakkaw laughed at the ludicrous visual and listened w
ith fascination when Baus described of the magician’s sentence to the ‘hive’ for a jocular misunderstanding. “Nuzbek seems an interesting fellow,” remarked the ogre. “I would rather like to meet him one day as he has quite a summary of squalid little tricks up his sleeve.”

  Baus put on a sour face. “Perhaps you would not think Nuzbek so ‘enchanting’ if you really knew him. He is actually a rebel neomancer of Mismerion who applied to the Circle but was denied.”

  “Indeed!” The Dakkaw looked more interested. “Mismerion is in the far southern reaches of Sloe. I should have guessed. To anyone of learned disposition, he would know these places. Hardly are ‘neomancers’ a breed more than obscure sorcerers with strange ideas and inordinate abilities. They are of an ancient lineage, once known as the ‘Neons’.”

  Valere pulled heavily on his beard. “You seem to know a lot about these people. Their history sounds ominous. I knew there was something sinister about that pretentious Nuzbek . . .”

  The Dakkaw was only obliged to agree; he wanted to know more but Baus had become peevish and claimed that there was little that he could say other than Ulisa was a neomancer and Trimestrius a nobleman who had crossed the magician.

  “What of Rilben?” inquired Valere, motioning to the meal plates. “Does he not eat?”

  The Dakkaw set down his fork. “Rilben does not eat in the normal sense. I have not wholly discovered the method of his ingestion. Though the rats in the manor seem to avoid him. Here is the nub of the matter: he is a tragic substitute for dinner company!”

  Baus nodded in sympathy.

  Valere gave a grunt. “What does the ape’s eating habits have to do with us?”

  “Nothing. Let us speak of other matters.”

  The matter was dropped. The evening dragged on. The Dakkaw, pensive, mercurial, enjoyed their tales and exploits with polite courtesy and became ever drowsier with the wine. The twain secreted hopes that false conviviality may bring them an opportunity for acquiring his keys.