Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (20 page)

Baus recalled
the perfervid incident involving Weavil in Nuzbek’s tent and
wondered if it were similar. He only vocalized a smiling, offhand
acknowledgment.

Trimestrius’s
ears perked at the comment and he agreed. “The final day Aurimag
put to me a spate of questions about the ‘Oblong’, or some weird
talisman, and its source—a thing of mindless unreason, a strange,
fractured prism or pyramid that would strip men of their minds and
mental powers—something that he seemed in the past to have come
into contact with. I was totally without understanding as to the
device or its perfidious nature and its relevance to my
predicament. He claimed that I was a traitor, that with my
associates of the Circle, I had spied on him, committed treachery
so vile as to be punishable by death. To this, I could only claim
ignorance. No solace could I offer this wicked blackguard on the
subject of the ‘Oblong’ or the neomancer’s wretched dark hate for
the entirety of the Circle.

“Out of my
mind’s eye, I suddenly remember spying snatches of an ungainly
apparatus cached in the backdrops of his cave. The grotto was
hidden below the dark roots of the great phantom elm—tubes,
luminous rods, dials, beakers, flasks, vials, funnels—a maze
entwined and conjoined, bearing multiple fluids and arcane unguents
and oils and bubbling slimes of greenish-brown filth. Vapours,
stenches and miasmas—they all filled me with great dread and
contaminated that fetid space during the endless decanting and
distilling, always frothing and bubbling alongside the unsettling
whines of engines, gears and pulleys which spun and turned their
power—all for some haunted purpose. A huge arcane disk pulsed
luridly in the air, floating and twirling on high above all the
pots and beakers—like a flattened saucer from hell, blindingly
yellow. It marked the fuel and source of the great engine that was
Aurimag’s part alchemic, part mechanical apparatus, but whose soul
seemed driven by litanies and forces born centuries earlier and
that came whispering mystically from his bloodless lips. Of that
oleaginous liquid that he spread on my skin, I knew nothing, except
that when I was shrinking, I knew it would be some agent that
promised midgetness for an eternity. My body oozed strength; my
limbs slackened like dough. I felt like a water bladder that
becomes suddenly deflated by the prick of a knife. My body sagged,
it become a bleak empty vessel! I felt my gladius thrust in my hand
before me. I was imprisoned in one of Aurimag’s ghastly spheres,
entombed in a vile liquid in which I am still drenched, but which
somehow kept me alive . . .”

Baus mused.
“The yarn is a most odd rendition.”

“Odd? You call
it odd? I call it scandalous! Do not mock me, rascal, or I’ll have
your tongue!” His tone became sharply unpleasant.

“I do not mock
you,” professed Baus in a voice of easy assurance. “It is merely
odd
that you should mention the word ‘neomancers’ in your
lengthy story.”

“Why is it
odd?” Trimestrius demanded, his thin-edged blade circling up to
Baus’s ribs.

“Enough of
your pricks and barbs!” Baus cried, leaping back with rancour. “I
only meant to say that there is a magician here who dwells on these
premises who calls himself a ‘neomancer’, or something like it—so
at least the slip came from his lips.”

Trimestrius’s
eyes blazed with wrath. “A magician? Describe him!”

“A tall
willowy man, skinny legs, a long back-sloping brow, narrow cheeks,
black hair, a love for black hats . . .”

“It couldn’t
be . . .” The dwarf squinted his eyes half shut and flourished his
rapier close to Baus’s privates. “The eyes! Describe the eyes!”

“Beady! Beady,
as a snake’s, set together craftily like a rodent’s, amber not
brown.”

“And the
nose?” urged Trimestrius fervidly.

“Pug and
round!—like a small ape’s. The lips are thin and white. The
disposition is pompous as a wegmor in heat. What more do you want?”
Baus cursed. “Shall I proceed to describe his toilette? Look, the
hour is late! and I wish to return to my dormitory.”

Trimestrius
sank to the ground with moaning anguish. His face was wet with
grief and a grey cloud passed over his face and looked as if he had
been struck a blow. “It is he!” He clutched at his hair as if
seized with a vertigo. “I shall carve out this blackguard’s
gizzard. I shall feed it to him in cups of broth of his own urine!”
He lurched up, poked the rapier’s needle deeper into Baus’s belly.
“Where is this inhuman rogue?”

Baus blinked
in amazement. “Yonder in the hive along the south wall. Is this all
you wish of me? The rogue’s name is Nuzbek.”

“Nuzbek, is
it? Well, we shall go and visit this ‘Nuzbek’,” crowed the dwarf
with delight.

Baus sniffed
uncomfortably at the thought. “I don’t advise the act. The villain
is securely kept, but hardly the monster-mongering death-bringer
that you describe.”

“Of that we
shall see!” Trimestrius cried with fury. Rubbing his damp locks, he
demanded: “Can it be so easy to slay the louse who delivered me so
much misery? Yes! If luck holds, then I must truly be a man
blessed!”

“It is still
an ill idea.”

“Hold your
tongue, Master Baus.”

“Snauzzerhounds haunt the hither side of the wall,” persisted Baus.
“They cognize intrusion at the merest drop of a pin and shall wake
the entire compound.” He motioned to the watchtower. “Look. Over
there stands Skarrow guarding the tower as you see to the south.
The sentry Mulfax stands aside the dormitory. Soon the lookout will
rouse himself from his spell of immobilization and descend on us
with snapperwhip and poison dagger. Better to climb back into your
bottle where I can cache you and recover you at a later time.”

Trimestrius
laughed at such a preposterous idea. “You are an amusing fellow,
Baus. Suffice it to say that I shall not follow these instructions.
So where does that leave us? Attend! I suppose we must see about
these rare hounds, won’t we?” He piked a jewelled finger into the
air. “Trimestrius, Prince of the Third Realm shall not to be
deterred by a few mangy curs, or a twain of drunken watchmen!”

Baus sought to
delicately dampen the volume of the green-robed man’s boasts. “Hush
now! I shall leave you to your deeds whilst I repair to my
pallet.”

“Do not utter
quips in my presence!” railed the nobleman. “I have plans for you.”
He blocked Baus’s way and brandished his sword. “You are a likeable
sort, Baus, but a bit slow, neso let us keep it that way. We have
destinations in common—amongst other important missions. Speaking
of which, what business have you in this bleak yard? I have
prattled on overlong while you have barely tweedled a dull note
from time to time.”

Baus
acknowledged the truth of the statement. “I am currently on the
lookout for means to escape this ‘yard’. If you regard, we are
surrounded by four very insurmountable walls.”

“And what of
it?”

“It seems that
a mutual enemy has been responsible for our incarcerations and I
point out that this ‘enemy’ is at least yours, and has buried more
of your colleagues at our feet.”

Trimestrius’s
eyes flashed with dark amazement on Baus. “You say there are others
like me interred under the earth?”

“I do. I
thought to uncover at least one of them, namely you, and search for
magical items or puissances that might be employed in securing an
avenue for my freedom. But I was interrupted, as you can see. Now
modulate your tone! Skarrow guards the south precincts with sharp
ears.”

“I grow weary
of this fellow ‘Skarrow’.” Trimestrius skipped about with his lips
knitted in displeasure. “Skarrow can fly down from his perch if he
likes, but I shall disembowel the cretin if he annoys me. Now, what
about these ‘other individuals’ in these jars?”

Baus refused
to shed light on the mystery until Trimestrius had at least quieted
down, at which point the little man put two fingers in his mouth
and loosed a loud whistle.

Wincing with
exasperation, Baus snatched at the midget’s fingers, but
Trimestrius clicked his heels and strutted about in a very wide
circle, smirking and hoisting his sword in time with his
marching.

Baus fixed
lips into a distasteful grimace. It seemed that matters were
worsening and he must take decisive action. Skarrow was on the
brink of sensing a disturbance and Mulfax’s head bobbed, a sign of
reviving from his stupor and delivering woe. Baus’s well-formed
plans would be for naught.

He took a deep
breath and leaped backward toward Trimestrius’s hole. The little
tyrant came resentfully after him, his wandering blade questing for
Baus’s navel.

A sudden
inflexible cry rang through the air.

Mulfax’s!
Almost as suspiciously, there followed a distant rumble of thunder
drifting from the seaward direction.

Trimestrius
spun short, surprised by the disparate sounds. Distracted, he did
not perceive Baus reach for Nuzbek’s baton and touch him on his
damp cheek.

The dagger
tumbled from Trimestrius’s grasp. The dwarf stood immobilized. His
head was half turned in a perplexed grimace.

Quickly Baus
hefted the irritant back into the jar. The touch released the spell
and the dwarf began to squirm in passion.

Baus ignored
the dwarf’s struggles. He replied with blows. “Carefully there,
swain! Into your shell.” A fierce knock on the crown thrust the
plumed troublemaker down into the foul brine. Baus grinned. The lid
clasped shut and Baus gave it a satisfied twirl.

The pounding
of boots immediately thundered nearby.

Baus flung
himself to the ground. A visceral instinct told him to wait, that
capture was impending, so he groped about in confusion in the sand,
his fingers grasping a sizeable pebble which he hurled toward the
barracks.

The stone
smacked against the side face, creating a dull thud.

The footfall
halted. Baus snatched another projectile and hurled it in the same
direction. It found another trunk, that of a lone hazel in the
center grounds and produced further tumult as it plunked down onto
a shell pile.

Baus snatched
a look over his shoulder. Mulfax was speeding in the new direction.
The guard raised a pike, ears cocked wildly. He bounded toward the
pile of clams.

Wasting not a
second, Baus flung sand over the hole. He seized the midget’s
gladius and ran helter-skelter toward the barracks. He saw the hilt
was inlaid with moon sickles, the guard like a serpent’s coil.
Intriguing. The gleaming goldness of the instrument whispered of a
magical presence, which Baus did not resent having on his person.
The weapon seemed gifted of a hue so brilliant as to enthral the
eye.

He shook his
head; unlikely that he could keep such a prize. He pitched the
weapon into his pouch and had only just gained the front deck and
lurched into the dormitory before Skarrow staggered on site. The
guard’s whip was held high. He waved a guttering torch in front of
the window. He had not seen Baus, but was ready to enforce a
penalty on the skulker. Cognizing sudden commotion, Skarrow
pre-empted his rush. He came dashing down to the hazel tree to join
his partner. Mulfax came blindly about, spearing clams looking for
hidden escapists, but there were none. He scratched at his ears in
perplexity. “Come out, you sordid villains! I shall skewer your
black hearts with this pike.”

Some of the
prisoners were roused by the ruckus. And upon seeing Baus’s entry,
they raised astounded outcries, but Baus hustled quietly to his bed
and threw his head under the covers. Weavil noticed his friend and
peered at him with distaste. Baus ignored the scrutiny—there were
other things of more pressing attention.

Mulfax burst
through the door moments later. Skarrow was on his heels, whip
snapping rudely, pike and torch held aloft. Mulfax’s black-beard
ran down his chin with oily disgrace and Skarrow’s heavy chest
puffed with annoyance.

“Who comes and
who goes?” demanded Mulfax fulsomely. “It seems there’s been a pack
of miscreants skittering about the yard! Well, who owns up to the
violation?”

Valere grunted
up from behind a pair of blurry eyes, “Pester us with your drivel
at a more appropriate hour, Mulfy. You and your girlfriend can
plainly see that we lie cached here as snug as maybugs. Count us if
you like: one, two, three, Zestes, Paltuik, Lopze, Yullen—”

“And surely
several angels more,” ribbed Zestes.

“Cease your
japery!” ordered Mulfax, incensed. “A serious circumstance has
presents itself.”

Lopze looked
up with concern. “An obnoxious dabchick? Or just a killer
tamegendron on the loose?”

“Quiet your
tongue!” growled Mulfax. “I heard human voices, not a fowl.”

Leamoine’s
eyes blinked dreamily under the glare of the brands. In his most
captivating voice, he gave a sweet blowing kiss to Mulfax and
lodged a complaint: “Post your inquiries to Baus, Mulfy dear.
Moments earlier, we saw him loitering by the door, attempting to
hide his breach of curfew.”

Baus scrambled
erect with a throat thick of protest: “Careful with your
accusations, Leamoine! Must I be designated a blackguard, monitored
and judged while I simply rushed forth on my way to the latrine to
investigate an uproar?”

“Enough of
this inane disputation!” rasped Skarrow, cracking his whip. He
turned coldly to Mulfax and demanded: “These whispers of
intruders—wouldn’t be perceived as the same coming from Nuzbek’s
bottles on the first night, Mulfax?”

“They
certainly are! But those were muffles only. These were actual
voices. Recall, the fleeing figures that I glimpsed under the
beobar.”

Skarrow made
an inarticulate noise. “Enough laughter, mugs.” The whip came
careening down. “You saw for yourself. There were no intruders
there, Mulfy! Not even a little whelp like Weavil could be up to
mischief.”