by Chris Turner
“And this pale bit of bone?” inquired the druid, pointing to the other relic shaped like a fishbone that had spilled out.
“A good luck charm, nothing more. Surely you do not want to confiscate that too?”
The druid waved a hand. “I’ll let it go. Anything else?”
Risgan shook his head.
The druid reached for it, but thought better of it. For the moment he gave it only a cursory inspection.
Wild cheers and drunken shouts drifted from the common grounds, and Risgan imagined Kahel and Jurna indulging in too much swamp-rot grog with the other hunters.
“Oafs,” murmured the druid under his breath. “A waste of a life all that ale-guzzling so early in the day. You, I trust, are not of that breed?”
Risgan shrugged. “That depends on the circumstance.”
Afrid hissed from her cage of thorn. Risgan stared at her with a contemptuous resignation. She had the face of a young imp and looked ever in fouler mood than before, if such was possible. Risgan instinctively reached for the sealed pouch at his side, noting the cursed nephrite hid there, was there no more.
“A wretched creature,” muttered the druid.
“She has committed great sins,” agreed Risgan.
“No greater than any of ours,” the druid sighed. “Each man or woman thinks his sin is less than the one beside him.” Dodonis signalled to his attendant. “Bring in the prisoner.” The attendant bowed and left.
“Stay with me a while, Risgan. I wish to show you something.”
Dodonis shifted to the table, wise enough, Risgan noted, to use gloves instead of bare hands to handle the nephrite.
A crafty glint entered the druid’s eye, as he surveyed Afrid glowering in her cage. “Yes, my little witch. Soon you may yet help me in certain tasks invested upon me by Mygar—this new talisman may help along the way also.”
“What tasks are these?” barked the hetman.
“Nothing which you have not already instructed me in. Only to appease his whims.”
The hetman glowered with the memory.
Risgan curled his lip in disgust. “You would do well not to enlist on the witch’s help. She’s treacherous. Shall I expound on her deeds?”
The druid held up a hand. “That is not necessary.”
The servant returned. A giant accompanied him, hauling in a captive whose head was covered in a baggy brown hood. The man, an older slave, Risgan guessed, was thrust forth heavily roped at the wrists and wearing heavy shackles on his ankles from which depended a chain in the hands of his hulking captor. Risgan had never seen a man so large and tall. Risgan stared up at him in awe, evoking the amusement of the druid.
“This is Warscax, our jailer.”
The giant gave the chain a proprietary yank. “You asked for this knave, my lord?” The jailer wrinkled his nose at the stench. “You’ll want to bathe him soon enough.”
“To where he’s going, Warscax, he will hardly need it,” Dodonis commented dryly.
The prisoner snarled with hate.
“Spit all you want, Moginax. Your fate awaits you. You slit the throat of Verix, our talisman-maker. Remove the hood.”
The giant pulled back a flap of the hood to expose a crooked nose and leering mouth.
The grim captive rasped, “Verix was a cheat who frauded my sister and deserved his fate. His magic power tricked her.”
“No matter. It is not your call to take another’s life.”
The prisoner spat a wad of green filth at the druid’s feet.
“Very pretty. Recalcitrant to the end. Pity. That is why you must die.”
“I care little for your dogma or the laws of this society,” said Moginax. “Wülv, your false god, has done nothing for me. Only dress me in filth and with rags and pile me with ignominy. I spit on knaves like you and your hetman who break laws every day, like allowing these filthy raiders in our village.”
The hetman bristled. “See to it that he is punished.”
The druid had no answer and looked away with a glassy stare. Risgan felt awe and pity for the condemned, who looked one step closer to death.
Dodonis ripped back the hood more now to reveal a surly face with red welts, pocks and scars. Dodonis gripped the nephrite with a thick leather glove and shifted it toward the prisoner, raking it across his pocked cheek and bare arm.
The prisoner stiffened, opened his mouth for brief instants they gurgled several incomprehensible words. He hawked another wad of filth, jumped and jerked about spasmodically, yanking at his chains. His grey hair stood on end then became a shiny brown colour and his skin looked much younger and his eyes blazed and gleamed with vitality.
The druid stepped back with wonder. “The magic of youth and age. So, the sorcery is real!” He turned to Risgan with a new look of appraisal and twisted the gem in his palm to expose its lighter side. He raked it cruelly across the prisoner’s other cheek. Moginax loosed a howl of anguish and stiffened and his hair seemed to grow to a lighter shade of grey.
The druid gave a sharp inhalation. Rubbing his chin, he frowned at the glimmering relic, whose mystical dusky-red glower could inspire the imagination, especially of the ambitious. “So, I must keep this object in my possession for further study.”
“Have it as you want, Dodonis,” said the hetman. “I’m weary of spellcraft and have no head for this magic. See to it that Risgan meets me in my chamber after you are done with him.”
The druid nodded. “Very well, lord.”
The hetman turned on his heel. Dodonis had few more words to share with Risgan and ordered Warscax to thrust him into a back cubicle, little more than a closet. Risgan, waiting at the door, gnashed his teeth in fury, trapped as he was in the dark. He heard many grunts and howls and pleas. A flapping and scuffling, as of vials and pots tumbling off the table. He winced. Some time later, the door jerked open and the druid stood akimbo, lips parted, hair askew and his chest heaving. The hooded figure lay slumped in a heap and Risgan feared he had killed him with his liberal application of the nephrite’s magic. “I have no further need of you,” the druid said. He gave a brisk flourish and signalled to the jailer. “The magic is alive and well. Take him back to Vardot.”
The Caerlin guards escorted Risgan to the hetman’s longhouse near the communal hall. A break had been called from the early training session, for several of Mygar’s men loitered about the communal grounds, plopping apples in their mouths from the dinner barrels or ogling the Caerlinean women. Risgan waited in impatience before the hetman’s door. The sound of angry voices ensued, slipping from under the cracks.
“Mygar comes from a powerful line of warriors,” said the hetman. “His family lineage is on the Herstag side of the wolf. I have promised you to him.”
“It is ridiculous,” came Arcadia’s voice.
“I have promised you to him…to keep safe the clan and peace in our land.”
“Then you’re a bigger jackass than I assumed. They make a mockery of our customs, Father, camp next to us with their boors and motley clot of wild animals, and even harry us, goading us on their hunts. Do you think they’ll stop at me, Father? He’ll demand more and more of you—until you have nothing left.”
“Perhaps, but I know of no other way at the moment. You do need to marry.”
“It’s Lokbur I love,” she cried.
“Lokbur?” the hetman snapped. “Forget him. He has good intentions but can do nothing against Mygar’s mettle. You saw what happened to him today.”
“Why don’t you fight him? Are you that cowardly?”
“And be cut to ribbons? Is common sense stupidity? He has too many wild men. He watches us like hawks. We aren’t what we used to be, Arcadia.”
“Then let us train, Father. We’ll trick him, ambush him.”
The hetman’s weary grunt came back as a muted hiss. “We’ve been through this before, Arcadia. I admire your spunk, I really do, you have the fighting quality of your ancestors in your blood, particularly your mother’s. But it’
s not enough. We can’t win this war.” He sighed. “It’s a shame Malcina passed so suddenly.”
“Better to die fighting than to be a kept animal,” she muttered. There came the sound of breaking pottery and the door jerked ajar. Arcadia stormed out, almost bowling over Risgan. She pushed past him, angry tears in her eyes. The golden arrow rattled in her quiver. “Out of my way, you outlander.”
“Milady—” said Risgan.
“Go! I don’t want to see anybody now, or listen to any more dogma.”
After the outburst, the hetman ambled out with a weary step, running his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat. He was in no mood to see Risgan or any others and flourished a quivering hand. “Go back to the training ground. I’ll see you in the evening.” He closed the door.
With a shrug, Risgan hastened from the hall after Arcadia. He caught up with her, out of breath. “Milady, wait.”
“You,” she huffed. “I told you to go away. You can do nothing for me.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Milady, If I can help you in any capacity, I will.”
“What can you do?” she wailed. Her face was a tear-streaked mess. Her hands thrust in her vest and fixed on a charm in the shape of small unicorn figurine which she worked in her palm. “I pray to you, mother Driadis,” she said, “that you will send these wretched invaders far away. That you will guide me on my path and tell me what I should do.” She closed her eyes and murmured several prayers in a tongue Risgan had never heard.
At that moment, Risgan saw a strange light in the sky at the fringe of the forest. The form of a unicorn, he guessed, the head at least, but with the body of a woman. He blinked to ensure he wasn’t hallucinating. She floated up into the boughs and stood on a branch clutching a golden arrow. He blinked again and rubbed his eyes. “There!” he cried. “Look! Arcadia, a sign.” And yet, when he looked again the image was gone and the huntress was striding away.
Risgan wet his lips and cast her a solemn gaze. An urge of whimsy came over him that he could not fully explain. “I have the wishbone,” he blurted. “I am not without means. I will employ the magical might of this talisman to make things right between you and Lokbur.” He pulled it out, pale blue shimmered, and yet, it looked an almost ordinary thing. “It is the only thing your father and his druid didn’t confiscate from my person.”
She stared at the talisman with curiosity. “What is it? Is it better than my unicorn charm? It seems not to work any more and I grow doubtful of Driadis’s power.”
A brief flare of memory surged in Risgan. He recalled the unfortunate predicament leading to his exile. The Pontific’s wrath. The heat of the Lady Farella who had been at the heart of it all and who had left an impression on his heart, which he could not rid himself of.
“I acquired it at the market in Zanzuria some weeks ago. The rest I’d rather not say. They are sensitive issues.”
She shrugged and turned toward the enemy camp.
“Where are you going?”
“To face down Mygar.”
Risgan blinked and ran to get Jurna. The journeyman loitered by the communal well, waving his sword and trading angry words with one of Mygar’s hunters.
The two caught up with Arcadia and together approached the wolf chief’s hut where amongst others he lived with his wild band in the makeshift camp. The place was a shambles, dogs roaming around sniffing piles of garbage, some smoking heaps. Stray fires burned and crackled, over which huddled figures roasted river eel. A band of crude huts lined the river bordering on swamp; hunters milled about with their women, ragged-haired and unkempt, hints of rough song and rude talk lurking about the periphery.
A stag head was nailed to Mygar’s door, the carcass given to his stray dogs to devour. Risgan curled his lip. Arcadia’s mouth hung loose as the dog’s muzzles tore at the meat and the naked ribs of the carcass with growls in their throats. “You butchered that stag for your own sport.”
“And what of it?” said Mygar. “The dumb beasts are here for sacrifice.”
“The gods will curse you,” she spat.
“Not my gods,” Mygar laughed. He thrust out a long arm and snatched the golden arrow hanging in her quiver. “From now on, I’ll be the guardian of the magic arrow.”
She gasped, reaching for it. “You can’t.”
He slapped her hand away. “I just did.”
“It’s sacrilege. The arrow is the symbol of our people.”
“Not any more. I’ll use it to slay these pesky isks that invade our skies. So far you’ve been incompetent and haven’t managed to thwart the leader of the flock.” He tossed the golden arrow to Svengar who came ambling up, and they both laughed.
“Take it to Dodonis,” Mygar instructed. Have him ensorcel it with richer magics. By eventide of my wedding, we’ll have cleared the skies of every isk from here to Bazuur!”
Arcadia turned away in disgust. She marched off, fuming while Jurna cast the chief and his crony a chilly glare and Risgan hurried after her.
Risgan caught up with Arcadia and made efforts to speak but she jerked back in anger. “That louse has stolen the symbol of our ancient power. It will demoralize the clansmembers and weaken us even more.”
Risgan gritted his teeth. “I will get it back for you.”
She blinked at him with amusement. “Are you some miracle worker, relic hunter? First my love life you promise to repair then you pledge you’ll return me my clan’s magic talisman? Pah! What can you do?”
“You’d be surprised,” Risgan said dryly.
* * *
Later that day, Risgan ducked back behind the shadows of the blacksmith’s home and unwrapped the wishbone from its black cloth. He rubbed it until it was warm in his palm just as the peddler who had sold it to him had instructed him. He closed his eyes. With all his strength he wished that Arcadia might have her dreams realized. It was a longshot. Whether the magic was potent enough to fulfil such a request, Risgan did not know. He only knew that if it worked, it could save this village from disaster. He also knew it only worked if the bearer believed in the magic. He had seen it work in the hands of the Pontific’s young son in the market of Zanzuria. A miracle had happened. He snickered, recalling the horrified shrieks of the courtiers as they crouched bare-assed in the market.
That evening when the blacksmith Kevil had retired, Risgan gathered close to his companions around the hearth and spoke in low whispers. “We must retrieve the golden arrow—for Arcadia and her clan.”
“What, are you crazy?” Kahel griped. “Why should we risk sticking our neck out for these people? They hold us here against our will and would slay us if either of the two warring chiefs demand it. I don’t know why we are not contemplating an escape right now.”
Jurna looked at Risgan. “He has a point. We could probably sneak past their scouts this very minute.”
“Except we’d have to collect my relics...which are in the druid’s hut now along with the arrow, and we still have Afrid to deal with.”
“Sod Afrid!” sneered Kahel.
Risgan ignored Kahel’s outburst. “I have ulterior motives in my thinking, Kahel. I’m thinking three moves ahead. The golden arrow is a weapon that we can use against Mygar. He’s our real enemy. Steal it and we have leverage against him—then we can escape. If we try to sneak out of here, they will come after us with their horses and men and cut us down. Without it, it will be a tough road with many risks. We can kill two birds with one stone, and get my relics back.”
Kahel turned away with a growl. “Count me out.”
“Fair enough. Hape?”
“Me? Why me?” He looked around blankly, seeing their expectant looks.
“They will not suspect you, plus you are good at creeping around in the dark.”
“What? And you aren’t?” Hape was clearly not pleased with the arrangement.
“Moeze,” breathed Risgan, “this time you and your wonky spells can come in handy. Pay Dodonis a little visi
t and draw him out. Get him off balance while Hape grabs the golden arrow.” He smoothed his hands.
Kahel shook his head in disgust and walked away.
“Moeze? Are you in?”
The magician gave a silent nod.
“Good, then I will work as overseer. Jurna, you are backup. Stay here and hold the fort. Run interference if things go sour.” Risgan took him aside. “Convince Kahel to help you, if you can.”
Jurna grunted with a grin. “Right.”
Hape sighed and made motions to creep out in the dark.
“Hape, wait—” Risgan grabbed his shoulder “—don’t forget my piece of nephrite. I must have it back!”
Hape gave a crisp nod.
Jurna looked at Risgan in bewilderment. “Are you obsessed with that thing? Something unhealthy about that relic. It has a dusky look to it.”
Risgan pursed his lips; his youthful hands clenched. “Let’s just say, Jurna, it is more important than you think.” He forbore telling him about its sinister youth-and-age magic and the hold it had on his own. There was no way to communicate such things without raising alarm.
* * *
The night was wholly dark, black as the burnt pot, and the moon, a waxing crescent, lay obscured behind ragged clouds. The communal fires had burned low and voices drifted as mere murmurs, ghosts of the night, with straggles of drunken men returning from their revelries to their lodging to recoup for another day of hunts and training.
Crouching low, Risgan crept on stealthy feet. Moeze and Hape loped after him across the common grounds past the bridge to the other side of the village where the druid’s hut resided. A golden glow spilled from the open window. The druid was still up, hard at work. Risgan gave a short sigh. Perfect. He grinned. Ducking between a pile of firewood and two squared-off compost bins, he motioned the others forward. Moeze clutched his silver disc in a pale hand. He rapped on the door and Risgan ducked back deeper in the shadows.
The druid answered. “Who is it? Oh, you? What do you want?”
Moeze bowed. “Moeze the magician, at your service, Dodonis. Pleasant to see you. I hope the evening is treating you well—”