by Chris Turner
Risgan, who had uttered little during this time, was asked by Jurna how he had become a so-called ‘Relic Hunter’.
The adventurer replied in sombre tones: “My father was a miner, also a part-time wheelwright who fell to footpads one evening while walking home from the mines. My mother took up with an Arzeni glass maker and I have never seen her since.”
“A sad tale,” said Hape. “But how does this contribute to your relic hunting?”
“Patience,” growled Risgan. “There’s more to the story. I grew up under the care of my uncle, Doskim, who operated a small barge business on the Badan. One day, while commanding a barge to Osfar, I ran aground upon a hidden sandbar in low waters which stalled the hull. I hopped ashore, knowing I had a long distance to walk before I came to Baron Bousaka’s keep. There, I took short cuts through the woods and stumbled upon a curious mound endowed with a shrine of Panseon, the hooded god and father of Douran. Bored and fatigued, I thought to examine the mound. By interest, digging and hewing, I found under one of its crumbling foundations a brass-bound trunk of queer quality. It contained old valuables. I felt a rare sweat beading my brow. ’Twas like an epiphany!... Needless to say, I hauled that chest from its vine and moulder to Zanzuria and earned myself a sack of gold. Therewith, I quit the barge business to became a full time retriever—or salvager, if you like, and I have never looked back since...”
“An interesting tale,” remarked Jurna. “I envy your luck and the uniqueness of your path.”
Risgan thanked the journeyman and continued with his efforts of freeing his limbs. All such blessings would not amount to much if they did not escape this vile prison.
* * *
On the crone’s next visit, Risgan was in a brooding mood. The witch sat back to watch Hammish administer the prisoners’ victual and attend to their toilet wash-up. Flushing out the soiled buckets in the nearby drain, Hammish came jerking up like a loyal pet to attend new orders. Risgan watched with disgust. Afrid informed Hammish that a fleck of half-cooked rat’s meat still adhered to Kahel’s left cheek. Hammish, teetering abashedly on her block-like legs, swiped off the crumb after which Kahel retched to the side upon registering the nature of their repast. Hammish, excused from further duties, gave a quick cluck of satisfaction.
Risgan masked a strangled cough. His mind could not help but wander back to the array of midget statues huddled in the murk of Afrid’s secret workroom. He thought to probe her once more for information. “What were those weird pseudo-men I saw some days ago clustered in your studio?”
Afrid responded in a prim voice. “I call them Alkeli. The casts are products of alchemy and wizardry. Prototypes—the real subjects will be realized in due time.”
“What prompts such industry?”
“The floats are models—a next step beyond Hammish. Soon they are to become living creatures. Like yourselves. Of course, I will have to remove several of your innards—like the brain case, and the abdominal organs.”
Risgan stiffened in shock. “Is such hackwork really necessary?”
“I’m afraid so,” Afrid mused sadly. “Never fear!—the operation has yielded a seventy percent success rate and is relatively painless.”
Risgan cringed back with mounting dread, hoping for a way out of this snakes’ den by the morrow, which now seemed impossible without the use of his legs.
“For now, I attach this simple girdle,” added Afrid with helpful emphasis. “It bypasses the free motor functions of a living being, then applies a flux on the bio-organic cortex. The girdle, invested with Mylixean sorcery, allows an adept such as myself to control the subject’s reflexes. In such a way I will supplant flesh and blood and gain the husks’ will with perfect obedience. Isn’t that grand? Hammish, what do you think?”
The automaton nodded with a slave’s devotion. The lampshade head threatened to loll off as she nodded, “In all respects and regards!”
“Well, a rather attractive package for you all,” exclaimed Risgan sardonically.
“I agree,” the hag declared. “And now to business.”
She snatched up, or rather Hammish snatched up, the handles to Delpit’s bottle and rolled it out of the chamber with the unfortunate effect that its occupant became dizzy by the time he came to Afrid’s workroom. The door closed. Delpit’s muttered shouts reached an apex beyond imagining.
Screams and flashes of light came from under the door. Risgan shuddered. Around the cracks and edges and through the small peephole came a bright coloured blast. A silence reigned.
Delpit seemed not to have managed a successful escape and Risgan now drooped. A new, unfathomable horror was in play. Who would next face the machinations of Afrid?
“Well that’s that,” muttered Kahel with cynical apathy. His teeth gnashed. “One gone, five to go.”
“Any ideas?” grumbled Jurna.
“None,” said Kahel.
* * *
The witch returned some time later with her hair on end. She wore a smile of broad satisfaction. At her heels trailed Delpit, now lean and clipped, refreshing their toilet buckets with a vacant look, staring from a pair of sightless eyes and wearing an abominable girdle, much like Hammish’s.
Risgan’s jaw dropped in dismay. There was a strange seam sewn lengthwise across his forehead as if he had been recently stitched up. Risgan licked his lips. The others gaped in horror and spoke to Delpit in whispers but he seemed not to hear, or answer when Afrid barked sharp words at him and she pointed out that their comrade was a ‘Critic’ no more.
“You see—” she chuckled whimsically “—my first live project in the flesh is a success!”
“Undoubtedly,” observed Risgan.
“You shall rot in Douran’s pits, you greasy snake!” hissed Jurna.
“Tut, tut. Insults are gross chaff gnawing at the hems of visionaries. I’m immune to them. A certain antagonism is expected of my work. True. Like the work of so many geniuses before me. Yes, Risgan, don’t look at me so morosely—your turn is coming.”
The door closed with a thud.
Risgan mused with energy. “Time is of an essence!” he growled. “We must work fast and I suggest we muster up a plan, as I am next on the list. The key lies with this shameless ‘Hammish’. If we can disable her, snatch her key or catch her off guard, then we have a chance of escaping this miserable hutch. Notice the bizarre contraption strapped around Hammish’s waist. You heard what the hag said: ’Tis some kind of sorcerous accoutrement. If we can somehow dislodge it, we might be able to disarm her automaton and be out of this contemptible burrow.”
“Agreed, but how?” grumbled Jurna. “The witch commands puissant magic. Recall how Kahel ended up in the stocks.”
“I do, and wish no reminder,” grunted Kahel. “I’ll alert you to the fact that before this fiasco I was called the ‘Ghost Phantom’, in reference to my unmatched stealth in the forests.”
“A fat lot it did you—caught bare-chested by Afrid,” sneered the Jurna.
“Some shock or warp exudes from the girdle,” muttered Hape.
“No matter,” Risgan called, “we must be cleverer than this witch. One step ahead of her tricks!—her ‘girdle’, in fact, if I might particularize.
Moeze hissed for silence. “Afrid’s barbarity is infamous. The cruel fact is, that the girdle is invested with a waft of eldritch powers—including electric shock—and may be inaccessible to our reach.”
“We do not need pessimism here,” chided Jurna. “The facts are plain. We are locked in a horror-filled room, trussed up in diseased restraints, fed only once a day by the repulsive Hammish who tends our toilet while we are humiliated continually by Afrid’s ghastly snake.”
The captives muttered in restless accord. Risgan, pushed to the point of desperation, shocked them out of their torpor. He rocked himself to his knees, flapped his arms, tried to knee-bend his legs to freedom.
To no avail. Nothing seemed to affect the spell of the stasis. His fellows grew bored and settled back into the
ir lassitude. By a painful degree of stretching, nearly tearing his knees out of their sockets, Risgan managed to free a leg. He gasped, a gratified snarl flicking off his lips. The feat was accomplished by no simple means, only a fresh youthful strength. With a growl of exultation, Risgan uprooted his other leg, minus the boot. Gloating in triumph, he peered about at his near sapped comrades, ready to attack Afrid’s dark magic head on.
Jurna’s isk guardians clucked their gutturals, flapping wings and occasionally buffeting the journeyman for sport. Meanwhile, sounds of Hape’s wheezing rasps echoed in the dimness. The vagrant seemed unwell. A faint reek of unwashed bodies struck Risgan’s nose with the unmistakable waft of foul tempers and contempt that hung heavily in the gloom.
Jurna nosed closer to the edge of his perimeter and chanced to notice Risgan’s skulking. He voiced his measured approval. “Excellent work, Risgan.”
Kahel gave a wild hiss. “Pay heed, treasure-monger! Release this catch on my accursed yolk and free me first. It is of top priority. I ache for my quiver and my arrows which lean up against the wall.”
Risgan gave his head a stubborn shake. “Do you wish to arouse Afrid’s temper against me? We enter a critical phase of this project. I do not wish to jeopardize my advantage and several days of planning. Be patient, archer... listen! here comes Afrid.”
Indeed, approaching footfall resounded outside the door and Risgan pushed his feet regretfully back into the mangled boots and stood there, pretending innocence.
Afrid gave Risgan a sidelong glance upon entering. “You look exceptionally happy, Relic Hunter. As if an old lover has sent you a flower. Perhaps you share a private joke at my expense?”
“Nothing of the sort. It would be foolish course indeed.”
Afrid nodded with triumph. “Well, ’tis time for Marna’s exercise—are you ready?”
“So early?” inquired Jurna.
The snake flew through the air and made her rounds: each captive receiving his greeting with snorts and slithering and licking of faces, visiting Risgan last, to his utter contempt.
Noticing the quickly-disguised jerk of Risgan’s knee out of its stasis, Afrid gave a sudden jerk of hand. “Here now, relic-monger—what’s all this? A free limb? Are you ribbing me?”
“Not at all!” laughed Risgan carelessly, “just a small quirk of my double-jointedness. Nothing to worry about. Go back to your workshop and feed Marna her sweetmeats.”
Afrid gave a hearty grin. “Marna is sated. Now this involuntary lifting of leg represents a flaw in my spell-weaving, perhaps. It must be instantly corrected! A matter of personal pride. Well, to work. I will make the necessary reparations.” At a touch of her skull amulet, she resealed Risgan’s leg and Mylixean magic seemed the most efficacious for the purpose. Testing to see that neither leg would budge now with certain jabs of a sharp hairpin into Risgan’s calf, Afrid stood back in reflective appraisal. Risgan howled at the state of his pricked limbs and his new confinement. On quiet feet, Afrid departed, leaving them to their thoughts, but promising to return soon enough.
Veins popped out on Risgan’s forehead as he rocked himself to his feet, trying to free his legs again. He gyrated in frustration, made the most comic motions, with only sprains and contusions his reward.
Kahel grinned with sinister approval. “Perhaps this small setback shall teach you an important lesson, Risgan. Had you freed me, you might not be mouthing curses and wrenching your joints as you are now.”
“Archer, must you be so blunt?” Risgan snarled. He stretched, heaved and swayed. Nothing seemed to loosen the new stasis and his arms sagged in defeat. Sinking down in a dismal crouch, he wrapped arms about his head like a baboon. His haunches straddled the cold floor. He realized he would never free himself by such means of direct manipulation.
* * *
In the dark of the night the prisoners slept. Snores and fitful wheezes accompanied the flutter of Jurna’s troublesome isks. Risgan was bone-tired, but lucid enough with a fierce headache to keep himself awake. He knew that if he drowsed overlong, he would limit his chances for survival. He roused the others with a wrathful start. “Hurry up, laggards! We must evolve a plan of escape prior to the next feeding!”
There came sleepy yawns and a restless stirring.
Kahel hissed. “What of escape?” Irked at being woken, he muttered, “As I recall, we’re stalled on the fact that one of us must roam free of his restraints in order to incapacitate the automaton. Have you overlooked this detail, Risgan?”
“Time is running out!” called the relic hunter.
“The question is singular,” mused Moeze. “’Tis a good starting point, of discussion, at least.”
“If I had my swords, I would rive these evil birds and the witch of their lives!” snarled Jurna.
“Aye, and had I my arrows, the witch would have no eyes and no heart,” muttered Kahel.
“And if I harboured my spells—”
“Enough of these inane boasts,” cried Hape, covering his ears.
“Spells,” continued Kahel. “Spells!” he jeered. “That is what we need. Even Hape here would have more luck with your spells than you, wizard.”
Moeze clamped his jaw shut. Crossing arms on his chest, he gasped. Even then, a large crimson prism, attracted by the movement, came flashing close to sear the magician’s forearm.
“Ah!...” The magician let out a wail of grief.
The prisoners muttered in apprehension.
“At least we can decide on who will summon Hammish,” suggested Risgan, trying to block out Moeze’s keening.
There were grunts of agreement.
“Let us partake of a bit of small play then,” hissed Risgan, ducking slyly. “We cannot hash out our decision by argument or dice alone, ergo we shall arrange a trial by lots. You there—Moeze! Snap to attention. A little pain does a man good. The first man to spit the longest distance wins. The loser, well, is relegated to summoning dear Hammish. I will spit first, since it was my idea.”
The idea incited sullen murmurs, to all except Jurna, who liked a good joke now and again and smiled a wolfish smile.
“How can you think of games right now?” called out Moeze, nursing his seared arm.
Kahel grunted out a laugh: “Risgan is that man for whom Douran crafted the term ‘deranged’. All the same, I cannot summon phlegm at this time, owing to the vicious clamp that my neck has been lodged in for the past month.”
“No matter,” said Risgan. “The other contestants suffer similar setbacks and continue to exhibit positive spirits. Look at Hape, for instance—he is a nonpareil.”
“What of him?” growled Moeze. “Do you think he has it hard, relic hunter, bobbing on high? What of me? Do you think it’s pleasant being surrounded by scalding prisms?”
Kahel thundered, “Silence! Must I squat here shackled and yoked only to have my personal space polluted by incessant bickering?”
Grudgingly the prisoners launched their spit balls. All fared well, save for Hape’s which struck Kahel on the back of the neck. There came a scathing argument over who had committed the outrage, and all denied it.
The next round commenced; there was a second impingement and disagreement of who had hawked the farthest, since many, like Kahel, had limited scope of vision. Barbed words were traded and petty insults flew, resulting in the prisoners agreeing that Homeless Hape was to be the guinea pig, much to his dismay.
“Well, that settles it,” declared Risgan.
“Wait,” Hape grumbled. “Why summon Hammish when she will come naturally to the door at our next feeding?”
“A good point.” There was a pause and a blinking of eyes. “Risgan, have you any words on the matter?” inquired Jurna.
The relic hunter scowled. “The concept is persuasive yet neglects to address an important issue: the certain imminent consequences, if, for example, Hammish is accompanied by Afrid. Please realize, I am next up! One of us must walk free in order to put Hammish out of commission. Let us draw straws on
our fingers to see who that person may be. Thumb defeats forefinger, forefinger defeats pinky, pinky defeats index.”
“The idea is ridiculous,” interjected Moeze.
“In what way? Have you any better ideas?” Risgan sighed.
“When in doubt, feign indifference.” Moeze flapped his hands down in resignation.
* * *
There were no more visitations for the evening, by Afrid, Marna or Hammish, and the men slept in fitful gloom, coming in and out of troubled dream. In the early hours before dawn, Hammish came peeking in through the peephole, as a prelude to their breakfast feeding.
Risgan was prepared. When the automaton stuck a painted eye through the peephole, she found them all sleeping as if dead. Risgan sat crouched, legs rooted frog-like, chin resting on his chest. Kahel hung in the stocks, seen only as a brown ruff of unwashed hair and slack fingers, limp as dead shrimp dangling from the yoke. Hape floated in midair in some holding field, his eyes closed, but no regular breath coming from his lips save a low gentle wheeze. Moeze, was curled in a painful ball, his eyes shuttered against the endless shapes that floated ghoulishly about him.
Hammish poked a suspicious hand through the hatch with greater fervour. “You’re all playing dead now, are you?”
Jurna lolled his tongue for effect.
“Very well!” called the automaton. “I’ll enter this pigsty and expose your deceits in full. If I sense a trick, know it that Afrid will hear about it! It will go the worse for you.”