Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (25 page)

“Aurimag
levelled his gaze upon the old conjuror and shot a quivering finger
in the air, tapping it down on his empty cage, thus imploring a
single fell word—

“‘
Gloriglastonifix
!’

“The rat
returned, not as a harmless rodent, but as a big black beast, fey
beyond imagining. It had a monstrous ten-foot high polyp-ridden
hide and four gyrating heads. The elephantine snout skidded around
like a mallet, knocking out the lamps like thunder-blasts and
snared Onzo the Optimist in a trunk. Aurimag ignored the
destruction, even as it inflicted a near mortification upon poor
Onzo. It was a demon, of course, drawn from the Zamariel
netherworlds. I daren’t name it. Unmercifully the thing stomped
about the chamber on rhinoceros-like legs. Aurimag stood there,
cackling like a hyena, unintimidated by the devil he had conjured.
Onzo would have died there had not Adelyheim the Healer
administered a healing curative. Others in our company called forth
our protective spells and charms, and at the very least we
immobilized the demon before it could do further damage.

“Aurimag
laughed in a most disdainful voice: ‘You cringing dawcocks! I have
conveyed this thing from the dismal past to the present—a snapshot
which you have witnessed and abhorred. Perhaps this is what shall
walk the earth in the future? Perhaps not. I defy you to claim such
a feat rivalled by any other. Let Llonon and his tawdry spectacles
drown in risibility compared to mine!’

“Woisper spoke
in his gravest voice: ‘Aurimag, you are a pompous twit! Your
neomancy has grown to capable effect, granted, but you have raised
nothing more than a demon. A frightful abomination!—of low standing
too. You have transgressed beyond the Code of Neomancer Ethics! You
must be punished!

“Aurimag
mocked Woisper. ‘You, of all Neons
^*
[
Footnote: The
neomancers of old, precursors to the modern day neomancers
],
should know that hypocrisy is a gift. What of all the failed
experiments, the hushed accidents and disasters that you personally
have wrought upon innocent creatures of the forests while acquiring
this knowledge of your ‘craft’? The bestial experiments foisted on
the animals and birds in the forests not far from the Brauvn?—you
merged their life essences with those of lesser intelligence. Human
too, if rumour be correct. What of those artificial species you
manufactured in your tubs in the murky cellars? Do you not know the
walls you built in the Branx forest no longer hold the ‘Wickles’,
as folk call them, and in the darkest hours of the night, they slip
through the cracks and haunt the forests of the Lim? Your
‘Sanctuary’, your pretentious Synod, is slowly disintegrating. Even
the crass experimentation is risible. I call you the worst
hypocrite of all, Woisper, and you can wallow in your sanctimony!
Fade and dwindle to mediocrity, be proud of your little rituals and
pedagogies while I shine. While your life passes as a mere fading
shadow, I shall be on the avant-garde edge of wonder, eulogized in
the texts of history!’

“Aurimag
whirled his black robe and sought to depart the hall—but not before
spitting on the floor like a peasant.

“Enraged
beyond measure, Woisper gave a roar: ‘Return hither, you arrogant
pretender! On that ornate account you are mistaken. ’Tis precisely
for these reasons that the Code was devised—to combat arrogance.
You are a scourge! A bane! A disgrace to these proceedings! I shall
punish you with forces beyond far Altair for your forbidden
reachings and your headstrong diatribe!’”

Ulisa paused
and Baus twitched, frowning.

“But Aurimag
had closed his ears. Woisper’s sermons were dull roars in his skull
and then he voiced a terrible curse upon the assembly, sauntering
insolently from the hall. Woisper was forced to act and was not so
noble as to be left untouched of angry hubris. Reaching out with
his mind, he sent psychic pins to thrust Aurimag’s limbs tightly
against the wall. Aurimag laughed. He pulled his hands free, but
not before Barbirius had leaped up and clamped Aurimag’s mouth from
the progress of any destructive evocations. Salmeister too dragged
Aurimag to Woisper’s secret chambers deep under the castle. They
worked terrible spells on him, stripped him of his powers, the ones
that he had toiled to achieve. Aurimag fought like a demon. Under
the fury of exorcisms, irons, torques and purgations, he resisted
the spells and counterspells, far-reaching to forbidden assaults of
body, mind and spirit. It sickens me to this day to recall the
event. Though I was not personally involved in the affair, the
tumult of Aurimag’s cries and his stormings drifted up to the halls
of the castle, reaching all corners of the keep for ears to hear.
Still in my mind they remain as shivering memories . . .”

Baus paused,
stroking his chin. “What then of Aurimag?”

“After the
ordeal, he wandered about the castle like a lone ghost. He was
given a menial posting, an under-stewardship at the castle I
believe, but he disappeared less than a month later. Several
neomancers did too—including Woisper and Salmeister . . .”

Turning eyes
to Baus, she laughed morosely; her face was haggard, eyes dim.
“Alas, you know now why Aurimag is so sullen. He has shrunken us to
knee-high caricatures, encaging us forever. He thought us
responsible for his powers being stripped and the departure of his
dream. He could only catch four of us. I imagine that after this
harrowing purification, he became an amateur magician, struggling
with whatever small spells or prestidigitations he could muster.
Alas, it seems he has wandered far—to this out-of-the-way fishing
port of Heagram.”

Baus stared
pensively at the moon-beamed pool, wondering at the fate of
crossing paths with Aurimag; Ulisa jabbed at the mud. The shady
world of ‘Neomancers’, ‘Circles’, and enchantments brought a
chilled edge to his being. He stood up to leave. One thing was for
certain—Nuzbek’s shameless acts began to make more sense now. The
magician was out for blood and had visited odious spells on Weavil,
Woisper and Trimestrius.

As if reading
his lugubrious thoughts, Ulisa asked, “Where are you going?”

“To get away
from here.”

“There is more
to the story you must hear!”

“Not now.”

Ulisa caught
up with him and grabbed his hand. “Aurimag and I worked in close
association. Sorry to say I was harsh with him, even as he was my
apprentice,” she admitted. She seemed to have a need to confess. “I
made an example of him often in front of his peers. ’Twas a
mistake. His clever circumventions were annoying! He took my
teachings as pig-headed pedagogy. He begrudged me for my
rigor.”

“It seems
incredible . . . Though hardly enough to ambush you, shrink you,
and stuff you in a bottle?”

“It is. You
don’t know him.”

“But you are
young, and he old in comparison. How could you possibly be his
‘teacher’?”

“Looks are
deceiving,” she implied gravely. “In fact, I am quite his senior; I
am his superior in age, though you would not know it. I will have
passed my ninety second year this winter.”

Baus gave a
startled gasp. “How?—a youthful creature like you, looking half his
age?”

Ulisa beamed
with frank modesty, “I studied the arts of Longevity early on at
the Conservatory.”

“All is
explained then,” muttered Baus. He could feel his own blood
quicken—heady with a bizarre attraction to Ulisa’s exquisite body
which he could not quite pinpoint. “I must confess, despite all the
muskiness of this morass, I feel my own heart beating with a
passion at your presence.”

“That is very
gracious of you to admit,” she declared pleasantly. “But, as
circumstances go, I am many years your senior. The ‘Auric Allure’
is to blame for this. It pulsates with a rare energy, exaggerating
my emanation and playing havoc with your senses.” The sorceress
laughed ruefully. “A pity—I was not cognizant of the spell’s
strength while I was tutoring Aurimag. He must have fallen for me.”
She trailed off, looking penitent now. “I shall have to de-vitalize
the power—though a feat much easier said than done.”

Baus
maintained a sour expression. “This makes me feel so much the
better.”

“I’m glad you
see it that way. So—you will aid in this quest and ensure your
friend’s liberation?”

Baus demurred.
He was irked at the quality of Ulisa’s sing-song utilitarianism. It
smacked of opportunism. “That depends—what do you have in
mind?”

“Aurimag has
likely flown back to his lair—of faraway secrecy, or seeking an
equally distant burrow to hide in. I require the aid of several
colleagues to help me flush him out. You could be one of them. We
will traipse to Mismerion and then fetch these assistants—a journey
of no small magnitude—eighty leagues as the crow flies. What do you
say?”

Baus jumped
back in amazement. “Eighty leagues? I consider myself a man of
adventure, but not such a daredevil!”

Ulisa’s mood
became distant. “You are free to act as you wish; however, you
shall have to deal with the consequences.” She turned, staring off
into the night, pondering weighty matters. “Hearken! Others arrive
. . . we had best don our wits.”

Baus swung
around. Crashing saplings and cries now filled the air. He
unsheathed his dagger. There came a splashing from nearby, a crash
in a nearby pool, a swishing of underbrush and the approach of
several baying hounds. Tramping boots pounded the turf not two
score paces away.

Baus licked
his lips, peered grimly about. “We must fly! Tally ho. Not to seem
repetitive, we—”

Baus’s
statement was cut short. While his back was turned, an irregular
event occurred. An extraordinary glow permeated the surrounding
trees.

He whirled in
wonder to behold the pool, a pulsing luminescence, momentarily
dimming. Then the water shimmered and the same luminescence he had
seen earlier effusing from Ulisa’s aura when Nuzbek was ready to
smite her in the gaolyard, became real.

He stiffened,
straining to train eyes into the fog. Only a marked glow showed
there, then a small yellow zigzag, disappearing like a firefly,
fleeing into the murk.

Ulisa was
gone—so too was the luminescence.

A voice of
encouragement spoke in his mind: ‘
Trust your instincts, Baus—we
are only the true makers of our destinies, nothing else . .
.
’

The friendly
mind-push was gone. And Baus felt a sickening sensation that
cleaved his heart; his limbs felt limp; the sense of the chill
raged faraway. But he was left to his own devices—in a desolate
glade, crisp with dew and musk and a criss-crossing of tree
shadows. Was he dreaming? It took some convincing to accept that he
was encircled with the same lonely beobar trunks surrounding the
prison yard.

II

Baus had not
liked the penetrating look in the neomancer’s face before she had
disappeared. A brisk chill gust infected him with doubt. He had
never felt so isolated; yet he was free from the walls of the yard!
On swift wings he fled.

The thrashing
of boots and the yammerings of voices jolted his reverie. Over his
shoulder, he saw torchlight glinting through the tree gaps, less
than a bowshot away.

He wrenched
himself to action and fled astride the pool. He was no more than a
few yards away from the edge of the forest before he ground to a
baffled halt. Here was a new surprise: a set of separate yipping
and yapping sounds. Dense trunks and the prospect of new foes
blocked access from escape.

He shrank
back. He was surrounded—by dogs and men.

Baus raced
back to the pool and knew the fear of a cornered animal. He slumped
down on the fallen log, hearing the thump of his sinking heart.
Defeat was cruel, especially when he had made such progress. With
eyes fixed miserably into the mire, he saw a dull reflection of
himself: a mute and sardonic caricature. Why had Ulisa abandoned
him? The vague, capricious firefly was a turncoat—could it have
been her enchanted way of sending him a subtle message—that he had
been on the border of abandoning Weavil, so why not she, him?

He felt a
vagabond plan forming in the back of his mind. It was fight or
flight. The pool, the dogs, Nuzbek’s magic ganglestick . . .
perhaps—

He wiped out
the trace of his prints near the edge of the pool and ran
frantically back and heard, without warning, Oppet’s two horrors
burst in the glade. They snuffled and clawed, baying like wolves,
ogling him with rare malice.

Baus gripped
his black baton. The first canine leaped. He flung out an end.

The rushing
hulk fell in a sliding mass of jaws and teeth. Maw yawning agape,
the thing croaked with its flapping tongue eventually stilling. Now
its twin bounded from the side, snapping at Baus’s legs—but not
before Baus had brought the ganglestick down on its hoary snout. It
sagged to the ground in a frozen heap. “There you go, you vile
stabbing curs!” Baus hissed. “Lie down and die like the mongrels
you are!”

For a brief
second, he limped back to the pool at a running jump. His ankle had
been gored and the cold water shocked him as he sank up to his
knees in gunky water. Slimy things twirled about his ankles, which
he ignored, but the creeping sensation from the snauzzer graze was
a tough enough injury to reckon with. Out at the center of the mire
he slogged his way deeper, wading neck deep, teeth chattering in
the rank slough. The twin deadheads tottered nearby, close enough
to touch.

He chose a
place behind the nearest sagging trunk and tucked his body in
close. Nose deep he sank into the mire—waiting.

The moments
passed . . . the glade was filled with a rush of bodies. Perspiring
faces, shouts, wrath: all a mix of mayhem.

Amongst the
ragtag Baus recognized Mulfax, Tilfgurd, Madluck and a grimy lot of
others. They were grim-faced with limbs and hands scored from a
dozen cuts of bramble; the whole disciplinary troop flourished a
host of weapons—swords, pikes, whips, and daggers. If anything, the
posse wielded aspects of crazed men whose mission of recouping
their losses drove them to unpredictability. From behind a
crouching mass of spindlefax Skarrow lurched, then Canjun, Haimes
and Burkothes. Their weapons were cocked, hacking ruthlessly at the
spine-backed shrub, slewing a path toward where Baus hid.