by Chris Turner
“Silence. Your afterthoughts are boring.”
Risgan snarled with cool displeasure. “If you will kindly unleash my legs—”
Afrid shook her head.
“So where does this leave us? Me, slouching in embarrassment, you lording it over me for the rest of my days?”
“You in the hold pen with the rest of my visitors.”
“Visitors?”
“Yes, the villains who have sought to rifle my collection. Not unlike yourself. May I remind you that I treat housebreakers with the utmost severity.”
“That goes without saying. But I deplore this mistreatment and—”
Afrid interrupted. “I strive after the precepts of Architrax, the Green Mage—a genius before his time. I became fascinated with the concept of automata and how they could be used to enhance the great sage’s research in a variety of fields. Architrax took his studies to eccentric levels, encompassing botany, elixirs, magical causation, astro-reading, fire throwing, and other worthy disciplines.”
“All well and good,” said Risgan, “but what has this to do with me?” He frowned in unease. “What happened to this Architrax?”
“He was put to flames by ignorants, a mob of vigilantes,” Afrid admitted. “They could hardly understand the profundities of his work.”
“This comes as no surprise. Which brings me to the topic of—”
“Some say I am a descendant of Architrax himself!” she called in a proud voice.
“I am not one to argue.”
“Hammish, please, attend these proceedings!... you know the drill.”
The ungainly automaton lumbered forth to search Risgan’s person. It deprived him of his weapons, the gibbeth bone and his various tools. When it uncovered the wish bone and the youth talisman, Afrid’s eyes grew round with wonder as it rolled from Hammish’s grasp to the floor and sparkled with an unquestionable brilliance. “Oh ho, what’s this?”
“Nothing, simply a gewgaw. The bone is a good luck charm which I keep on my person on a whim.”
Afrid sniffed in doubt. “I don’t care for the bone. You can keep that—it’s the shiny egg-like bauble that I am interested it. It exudes a waft of queer magic.”
“’Tis nothing,” said Risgan. “A simple run-of-the-mill talisman which gives eternal youth.”
Afrid’s eyes gleamed in interest. “Indeed! how does it work?”
Risgan became suddenly peevish. “Why should I tell you?—you imprison me in a thorny cage and use my heirlooms for dubious purposes.” He winced at the closeness of her thick wet lips and ridiculous fan of hair which glowed off and on, perhaps as an after-effect of her aberrant spell-weaving.
She reached for the skullish amulet tucked at her waist belt and Risgan hurriedly sought to divulge some of the information related to the youth stone. “Of course, I can always provide some background as a token of politeness.” Feigning a defeated grimace, he thought to gain an advantage. “One merely shakes the bauble and rubs it on his hands. Face and extremities also. Mind! The dark side only—for the light is known for its deadly side effects, which are not as of yet determined.”
Afrid gave a squawk of disbelief. She began to rub her palms and face on the light side not the dark, with a wry snigger, obviously suspecting chicanery. When nothing of menace seemed to transpire, she gave a snort of impatience. “There is no change or magic here.” Her visage she could see this plainly enough in the mid morning light reflected in the mirror on the wall.
“The magic takes some time to take effect,” remarked Risgan.
“Another of your fibs?”
“Nothing of the kind. I warn you, Afrid—the stone’s magic does not work too swiftly. The Lady Farella herself kept the curio in her possession for several weeks, and the magic did not take effect for a fortnight or more, even after regular application.”
Afrid swelled with displeasure. “This does not please me. Though, I have all the time in the world. I am not a young person anymore and will use the flux post-haste, also to forestall any inconvenience of age.” She held the nephrite in a jealous clutch.
Risgan warned: “Do not use up all the magic, Afrid. I require some for my own person!”
“By no means!” Afrid glared at the prisoner. “I will give you two options, Relic Hunter—first, you must comply with my wishes, and Hammish trundles you to the punitive holdings, or, I miniaturize you into the shape of a dwarf and carry you there myself.”
Risgan opened his mouth to object but Afrid cut him off. “Think quickly!”
“If you believe your lopsided choices will intimidate me—” Nevertheless, Risgan decided to gamble with his options, for he sensed an opening for pliancy. Producing a set of dice from his cloak which Hammish had not confiscated, he toyed with them with a theatrical flair.
“What are these?” Afrid looked on in suspicion. “More gewgaws?”
“Nothing of the sort. These are my instruments of pleasure. How be we roll on a wager? Double or nothing? Smiling Minxes says I walk free from this abominable abode. Snarling Boars says I owe you a two-day indenture for whatever you desire. ’Tis a simple wager. What do you say?”
Afrid held up a stubborn hand. “I am not one to gamble in a sleazy game. Perhaps another time.”
“Then try—”
“These die look irregular and skewed, as if heavy with plating.”
‘Nonsense! They are as pure as the day they were cut.”
“The matter is decided! Games and chatter comprise distractions to me. We must proceed to the punitive chamber at once.”
Risgan pushed hands out in disfavour. “I formally object to such course. If you recall, my feet are squared to the planks.”
Afrid snapped fingers with annoyance. “I grow tired of this charade.”
Further objections proved useless and Risgan was prodded along by Hammish, who dragged him rudely across the floor. With Afrid’s help, the three edged past the thorn tree, shuffling with grunts and curses into a small dark chamber set off to the side, of rather large dimensions.
The chamber’s high ceiling disappeared into cobwebs and grey murk. Risgan saw a single window only admitting a thin watery light. Five miserable figures huddled in the gloom in various stages of confinement—a sorry lot, but nevertheless, one could not be too choosy of his company in the company of a sorceress.
“Attention all!” bellowed Afrid. “May I introduce your new comrade—Risgan, a Relic Hunter.” Afrid ticked off the malfeasants’ names one by one as they peered up in loathing: Hape the Homeless, Delpit the Critic, Jurna the Journeyman, Kahel the Archer and Moeze the Magician.
Risgan was not overly thrilled to discover that all men wore faces in similar stages of woe, contorted with untold privation. Kahel’s heavy lids showed an angular droop and his face, an expression Risgan thought odd for a weapons’ master, was riddled with sores. The man’s eyes were sharp, wary and critical. His arms and neck were clamped tightly in a wooden stocks and the matted curve of his head showed greasy red hair. The archer sported a stubbly beard and two garish rings stuck on thick ham-fingers. Moeze the Magician wore a pretentious silver robe and belied any sense of being any sort of serious spellcaster, with all his innocent airiness and boyish face and lank black hair covering his eyes. The aggressive glass cubes and prisms buzzing about his head seemed to vibrate with a painful warning every time he dared to wander outside his confining perimeter, testament to Afrid’s saturnine jocularity—and Moeze’s weak skills in sorcery.
Delpit the Critic wore an unkempt cloak and sported a philosopher’s beard. The wiry, rag-haired bohemian was stuck in a large glass bottle with a narrow neck which allowed a pinched exit only under the most strained conditions. Homeless Hape’s morose face and doe-like eyes showed an innate guilt, as if he were ever eternally doing something wrong. In rags and vagabond dress, he hung suspended a yard off the floor like some martyr of doom, lifted by some kind of fabulous spell, doubtless another power of Afrid’s derivative necromancy. The Journeyman Jurna wa
s confined to his own grey corner, garbed in the heaviest of gibbeth cloaks, dressed in a black expression of comic resignation. But his face showed something of relief at the sight of a new captive. Two gigantic birds, ravenish isks of some foul breed, sat with knobbly legs chained to either wall. The birds allowed the journeyman a limited perimeter only in which to walk without getting pecked to death.
These were Afrid’s captives and Risgan studied them with mixed feelings. Afrid and her minion departed, leaving Risgan stewing with his thoughts, confined to a shadowy wall near Jurna and his isks. She had rooted his feet to the floor too, so he could not lift a leg.
Risgan spoke sombrely to the magician Moeze: “Why don’t you craft spells to rid yourself of the hag and these rotating constraints which hinder you?”
Moeze gazed at him with dull vacancy. “Everyone is full of ideas, aren’t they?—do you have a more specific method for conjuring such spells?”
Risgan raised brows in surprise. Jurna gave a mocking grunt. “Moeze’s magic is simply underpowered. He’s flummoxed by powers beyond his means. Still recovering from Afrid’s astounding cubes and string of prisms, you see.”
Risgan looked at the journeyman with curiosity. “How is it that you fell afoul of our little dictator anyway?”
“That’s a subject which offers little of interest to the casual listener.”
“What of you, magician?” growled Risgan.
Moeze shrugged, his lip drooping in a peevish displeasure. “If I had my magic items, I would fare better against this foul trickster! May Douran torture her! I will remind you that my talismans were once puissant and were only confiscated by devious means.”
“If devious means stupid, then I agree,” growled Kahel. “After you offered to show the hag your bag of tricks, as a fellow sorcerer, you may as well have offered up your neck to the executioner.”
Moeze resented the simplification. “Afrid duped me by feigning a mood of camaraderie. And you, Archer, are you any wiser? You fared little better, yielding to her mildest spell, a simple push of the weakest mind-pulsing coercion along the vorticular.”
Kahel flashed his eyes at Moeze. “The witch simply asked to see your wares and you, the artless fool, obliged.”
“A mistake which will not be repeated,” snapped Moeze.
“And you, stranger, what story have you to tell?” asked Jurna.
“I’m a relic gatherer, as you have heard. I required shelter from wandering gibbeths and decided to stay the night in Afrid’s manor. A mistake. I fell prey to her persecutions even after a few attempts at bribery.”
There were grunts of commiseration. “This does not strike me as surprising,” declared Jurna. “Have you no weapons to assist you, relic hunter, such as a knife, stiletto, poison dart to help deal her a woe?”
“Sadly, no. If I had, I would offer them. They were all impounded by her minion, this wretched Hammish creature.”
Kahel gave an exasperated sigh. “This is very inadequate.”
Jurna croaked out a laugh. “Not so inadequate as Homeless Hape here. The fool readily admitted that he was trespassing on private property when Afrid stumbled out of her hidey hole after a midnight meditation. Even a child of eight could have weaved a better story than that to save his skin.”
Homeless Hape piped up in a meek voice. “Brand me for being a truth-teller, Jurna. You, the famed Journeyman, caught unawares while foisting prurient advances upon a near to life doll in a cobwebbed corner. Frogmarched then to your captive corner, bound by isks by her brainless automaton, Hammish.”
“The doll,” Jurna clarified, “was a living breathing projection of illusion, which the witch had prepared as some part of her hideous lures.”
“Gentlemen,” soothed Risgan, raising his hands in judicious appeal. “Quibbling shall not solve our problem. I suggest we pool our heads and come up with a plan.”
“A sensible idea. But what might that be?” snapped Kahel.
“Something that is both efficacious and devious. Something strikes me as queer about this Hammish character. The answer lies in her to our liberation... shh, somebody is coming.”
They all made efforts to look as innocent as possible. Risgan, taking the cue, took a relaxed stance and fixed his face into an obeisant simper.
Afrid arrived, wearing a cool grin. A horrid serpent with white wings was coiled about her shoulders. The creature was green, equipped with white fangs and sported an offensive grinning mouth. The tail rattled whenever Afrid gestured. The tongue lapped playfully at her neck. “Meet my pet, Marna!” she sniggered. “She’s more docile than she seems.”
Surprised at the others’ moans, Risgan greeted the creature with a warm enthusiasm.
“Ah, you like my pet, do you Risgan?” Afrid chuckled. The snake flew through the air to lick Kahel’s scowling face, who had perhaps uttered a rude complaint. Hearing a mumbled disparagement of her personality, Afrid commanded her pet to restore order to the archer, which it did, whipping Kahel’s face and hands playfully with its dextrous tail. Jurna, mouthing chuckles, was next to suffer the creature’s persecutions, given a constricting embrace, coils wrapped about his ribs while white leathery tongue arched rough curves on his chin and slithered to tickle his lips in foul sweeps.
Risgan stared aghast. “What was that for?” he asked with wonder.
“Jurna is a sly villain,” explained Afrid. “He was projecting nasty thoughts at me—I could tell by that twisted smirk on his face— perhaps me bound and skewered with red hot pokers, or restrained for more lascivious purposes.”
Jurna muttered a jovial protest to the accusation in between the snake’s caresses. “That is a pleasant fantasy, and couldn’t be further from the truth.”
“Now you disparage me,” Afrid gave a jocular titter. “Now Marna, you mustn’t fondle Jurna too frivolously. Remember—he is to be used as a peon for my experiments upcoming. I have special uses for all of these rogues.”
The snake dutifully withdrew, lifting its crusted wings to beat against the stale air. The thing’s scaly coils settled once again about Afrid’s shoulders and Afrid sighed. “Now, who is next to receive Marna’s affections? Nobody? Well! Let us partake of some more caprice.” The sorceress floated up through the air by magic and settled on Hape’s shoulders with absent-minded amusement. She rocked her legs on his chest like a small schoolgirl. Was it true—or did Afrid seem younger than Risgan last remembered? His jaw dropped. Afrid’s ridiculous coiffure seemed lighter in colour and her gait more lively. Wrinkles and frown lines had disappeared from her mannish face. Over to Risgan the hag floated and tweaked his whiskers with a playful flirtation, only to settle against Jurna and gave him a sloppy wet kiss. “Ah, I adore it when you are all so surly! Indeed, I shall miss your company when you are all rendered automata in my collection... well, let us rejoice over these short-lived moments.”
To the cadence of cursing jeers, the sorceress took her leave. Strutting through the doorway like a smug princess, she slammed the door with a clang.
“Rotten hag,” cursed Jurna.
“Witch,” grumbled Moeze.
“Filthy harridan,” said Kahel.
* * *
A period of days passed and Risgan grew haggard from privation and confinement. His legs, pinioned like tree roots, ached with a torment he had never known. To stand for hours on end like a stork then squat like a hedgehog in a rude, fixed posture offered little in the way of dignity. Always came the mutter of Afrid’s vile gloating from her workshop, a nagging drone that seeped under the door. She boasted to Hammish, or some inanimate minion, of her advances in Mylixean science and the alchemy of automatonicism.
Risgan had gotten used to these infrequent visits on Afrid’s part when she squinted at them like lab animals. Afrid, tired of new spells, had come to check on her captives once more late in the day, wondering how Risgan was faring with his new friends.
“’Tis a joy having a new circle of peers,” Risgan admitted in a lofty tone. “When a man is
thrust into new groups, the inspiration of fresh company brings him new insights, and an enhanced social engagement, which provides scope for special learning.”
Afrid clapped. “I am impressed, Risgan. You seem to be making the best of the circumstances. Then what particularly have you learned?”
Risgan cleared his throat and looked off into space. “I have learned from Moeze that too much philosophizing and not enough action and attention to technique impair the art of any serious wizard’s practice.”
Afrid arched brows in respect. “Very profound. Perhaps I should pay more heed to the wizardling’s mumblings...”
The gigantic black isks guarding Jurna fluttered in urgent need. Afrid, in strict response, pulled out a seed bin in the shadows along the far wall and drew some chaff and tossed it at their feet. Then she sat back, careful to stay out of reach of their deadly beaks. Jurna stayed frozen within the radius of his confinement while the birds fed noisily. Hape’s ghostly shape hovered low over the floor, affording a bird’s-eye view of the scene while Moeze’s sullen cry echoed across the room as another scorching, floating cube grazed his arm...
* * *
The prisoners had much time on their hands during their captive hours. They passed the moments trading stories and insights into life and ghastly predicaments. Jurna, for example, had apparently been a gibbeth hunter once, for many years in fact, and liking little the high risk of falling prey to razor teeth and claws, had become an official scout and tracker to various people of importance. Moeze in sharp contrast, had taken apprenticeship with the mad magician, Lokus of Vonver, whose talents had been small, and was ultimately rejected by the magician’s guild after his perpetual cock-ups. He had attempted to learn his craft from books and by watching cheap illusionists in the town fairs. With little success. Delpit, on the other hand, was inaugurated into the Critic’s Circle at Bazuur at a young age. He had held promise until he exposed a certain prominent rhetorician in a standoff and was thus shipped out to the nearest swineherd’s village as punishment. The critic had become a wanderer after that, a sometime vagabond and orator, distrusting the prejudices of common society. By reasons of penury, he finally stumbled upon Afrid’s manor and the rest was history. Hape was driven out of Bazuur for reasons of vagrancy and had worked his way south, ending up, in a moment of terrible fate, sleeping a night at Afrid’s mansion. Kahel, the bastard son of a middling lord in faraway eastern Furtia, had little in the way of opportunity. His sire had rejected him, and Kahel had taken out his frustrations with bow and quiver on the butts behind the graveyard. The archer had become adept with marksmanship and took up with Lord Vascus of Ganamia who required a bodyguard and hired attendants, only to find his paragon in Kahel. Kahel was always getting into scuffles and found himself exiled after a small misunderstanding over the rights to a spitted boar, resulting in the death by arrow of one of Vascus’s men.