Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (27 page)

He wiped the
fog out of his brain and staggered to the entrance, scrambling for
a plan of action.

The strength
of his mental faculties was returning. On stiff limbs, he stumbled
back through the passageway, squeezing himself out, instantly
blinded by the daylight. White clouds scudded by the blue sky; the
wind was a stern whip from the east—neither a good nor bad omen.
His temples ached and he rubbed them. Time had no meaning . . . but
fresh air would be an excellent therapy. The familiar tang of sea
air was welcome, however the sound of crashing waves spraying rocky
flanks of a headland did nothing for his headache. A thousand
whitecaps furrowed the sea; Illim Isle slumbered like a sleeping
giant in the waves. The pale whalestone shelf on which he perched
gave him a good view of the area and he nursed gently the thought
he was safe, hidden by the gendron and juniper.

Baus raised
his hands to shield his eyes. Following the mud flats to the empty
stretch of sandy beach southward, he saw the first breakwaters of
Heagram. A few lubberly scows rode the swells.

Baus knew that
to surmount the boulders looming above him comprised an inevitable
necessity. Pinched-lipped and haggard, he struggled to climb the
rocks. The sea fell thirty yards; the desolate tongue of exposed
granite—Gooler’s Point, swung out to sea.

Baus climbed.
Now high on the bluff, Baus’s gaze wandered north. There a
straggling shoreline of boulders and pillared limestone shelves
showed testament to eons of wind-torn waves. At onslaughts of white
surf, the water created a flute-like graveyard of rock. A swath of
rolling hills disappeared into goldy haze westward. Somewhere the
dells halted, and beyond lay a welcome road.

Baus allowed
himself a satisfied nod. He was sure this was the route to take.
The road, however, could only be freshly patrolled by constables,
and so he must take to the wilds.

Automatically,
he traced his eyes along the faint path that breasted the
ridgeline, finding it marked by generations of hooves of beasts:
goats and ibexes.

Heagram
remained a home to him no longer. He must turn his back on his
birthplace for the last time, set his sights on the seaside
vistas.

For a time he
trudged upon the barren outcrops and felt a new sense of freedom
high above the sea. His gaze drifted longingly to the west and he
let the faint fairy-blue gleam of the Tarnshorn Hills tempt his
hopes—no less the graceful ease of the white peaks that floated
luxuriously on the faraway horizon. The sight lulled his sense of
desperation. He strode faster. At times he cognized human
settlements hidden below: steeples, quaint crofts, tidy granaries,
silos, low-lying fences, byres, straw-filled sheds. The habitations
were all that remained between the road and the hills.

Tramping on,
he passed through the yellow furze and straggling shrub, up and
down the bald plateaus of granite and glacial boulders. He saw wild
and untamed countryside, and the sea! What an illimitable, moving
carpet of moody swells. Its ripples shimmered with the softest
aquamarine.

Baus revelled
in this trek. This newfound sense of openness, peering lordly out
over the sea, contented him. He was free, shed of responsibilities
and duties!

By the end of
the day, he was exhausted though. The last clouds cast long shadows
over the troughs of the land. At least there was no sign of
patrols. The afternoon’s descent into rocky gullies had left him
windburnt and drowsy. Three leagues he calculated he had made,
perhaps more—a lucky number, considering his notoriety as a
jailbreaker, a distance which he attributed to his seaman’s charm.
It dangled ever so proudly about his neck. With no apparent
shelter, Baus dared to sleep in the open—on a grassy outcrop,
overlooking Longman’s Point while the stars wheeled above him,
pricking the skies with their twinkling opalescence.

IV

Baus arose the
next day to clear skies and high winds. His belly was hungry and
the protests would know no surcease. He ignored the pangs, making
considerable strides along the ridge. By mid-morning, he reached a
less rugged patch where the foreshore had lost much of its look of
menace.

He halted,
musing, uncertain about the evolution of his pilgrimage. He peered
away from the morning sun, taking reconnaissance of a shallow
valley that spread before him. The main road was a mile to the
west. He had studiously avoided it as it bent its way gradually
toward his own path, but now he had no choice. The crossroads was
marked by a rickety sign with three arms angled respectively—to
routes south, west, and north:

Heagram: 3
leagues

Hamhuzzle: 4
leagues

Krintz: 12
leagues

The sign’s
characters became easier to read as he trudged closer to
investigate.

He touched a
finger to his mouth. Was it better to head to Hamhuzzle? Or Krintz?
The town of Hamhuzzle was a well-known hub of trade, yet notably a
near nucleus to Heagram. Of Krintz he knew nothing. What comforts
it offered he could not guess. The state of the crabbed,
weather-beaten characters and the dilapidated condition of the road
admitted to a definite lack of traffic in this direction.

Baus squinted
up the ribbon of road. The rutted path continued to weave its way
up a knoll northwards and disappear into a stand of cedar.
Certainly the direction of Krintz was of better
consideration—particularly as an outlaw.

A twain of
covered wagons came beetling their way from the Hamhuzzle direction
and Baus beat a hasty path up the slope. Warily he watched as the
two caravans rolled themselves to a halt at the crossroads. The
drivers, both bearded and unkempt men, traded words before aiming
their wegmors toward Heagram. The snorting beasts created a din and
showed traits of the local breed with dun-coloured flanks and
upturned horns. A moment of settling, then the drivers whipped them
off toward Heagram and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Supply
merchants, Baus guessed. Poorly paid likely—carrying wares of
woollens, earthenwares and potatoes.

With the
sullen reminder of food, Baus’s stomach gave a constricted gurgle.
It had been more than a day since he had last eaten—hopefully a
deficiency he would remedy. With five cils to his name in his shoe
from his last wins at Flanks, the prospects seemed dim,
particularly when Krintz was two days’ march away.

By noon, the
trail dwindled to a straggling footpath. The larch thickened,
closed in about him in unfriendly fashion—a hunger also, of
depressing quality.

By afternoon
Baus was overcome with exhaustion and stumbled out of a copse to
fling himself down at the edge of a wide clearing, licking his
parched lips. An imposing larch cluster ringed the glade. Lifting
his head, he saw a rangy, grey-cloaked figure raising a mattock to
a small tract of land. Three wegmors stood tethered to a fence a
bowshot away. A dozen conical straw bales lay idly in the
furze.

Baus saw the
landtiller’s cottage was mostly hidden by a crowd of larch, with
cheery smoke rings curling from the chimney.

He felt
optimism and approached the tiller with confidence. The man was
tall, middle-aged and wore an all-weather jerkin with a straw hat
perched over a thatch of peach-coloured hair. The rhythm of his
hoeing denoted a sense of respectable innocence, thus augmenting
Baus’s confidence in his amiable approach.

The farmer
caught the approach of a stranger and immediately stopped his
hoeing.

Baus offered
him a salute. The farmer squinted.

“Being a
traveler from the south,” said Baus, “I seek no harm upon your
person or land. What can you tell me, old man, of this trail which
meanders into the wood?”

The farmer
paused before replying. “Only that none pass that way. The bridge
is wrecked—at Earden the river Saxe flows to the sea and is
difficult to traverse.”

Baus grimaced.
“This is discouraging news.”

“Call it what
you will.” The man shrugged. “The bridge has been defunct for an
age. Didn’t you know? What brings you to these parts?”

Baus shrugged
indifferently. “A regrettable incident in Heagram has left me
bereft. All to say, I seek challenges in other locales other than
Heagram. As for my name, my friends call me Baus.”

The man nodded
in understanding. “When I was younger, I suffered such
inconstancies.” The landtiller gave his head a wry shake. “Life
deals us strange turns, stranger! I am Rudik, a farmer, too old to
travel now, but I’m contented to stay here in this grove between
mountain and sea.” He seemed to warm to Baus’s manner. “I fish
where I may; I know secluded places up the coast of which many are
ignorant. I farm, I show good husbandry, I tend my crops and feed
my animals and my two sons.”

“An exciting
life,” observed Baus.

“Ah, you
think,” laughed the man with sly mirth. “A simple life, yes, but
not as shabby as others.”

Baus
acknowledged the truth of the statement. “What of Krintz?”

The farmer
leaned on his hoe with misgiving. “It is an old village, Krintz is,
as us codgers know. ’Tis as old as any along these remote sea
bluffs. The folk have their queer ways, but none come from there
now.” He broke off, musing. “The last time I remember a traveler
coming from the north . . . well, let’s just say that it does not
come readily to mind.”

A moody
expression came over the his face. “I am not certain, but rumour
has it that some terror grips the region. Whether it be physical or
spiritual, I know not—only I’ve heard tales of bewitchment in those
glades, and that the abandoned ruins of the settlements between
here and Cant’s Cove are fey. Krintz is a far distance, and as I’ve
said. No sane person ever tracks this way to offer news.”

Baus resumed a
manner of easy camaraderie. Hunger tore at his guts, but he would
not show it and proceeded to casually cite maxims and
pleasantries.

“I’ll warn
you, friend, there are no roads in those parts,” declared Rudik
abruptly, “only ghosts. The seaside is riddled with boulders,
dizzying heights, chasms, gulfs. They are as much hazard to the
casual wayfarer as the bite of a tung snake! The region is far too
perilous to fish, except by intrepids. Adepts like me who know the
way are exceptions . . .”

The darkness
fell from the landtiller’s face. “Well, if you mean to track all
the way to Krintz—then I can at least tender you this advice:
follow the track and never stray from it. ’Tis tended by the ibex
which know better than human folk. Stray not a yard from their
margin! There’ll be little to aid you in case you fall afoul of
some unnaturality. The bridge may still be awash at the Saxe, in
which case it will take you upstream. You’ll come to Flander’s
mill; there you’ll find a decent place to ford. In the meantime, I
can offer you this bag of apples, a bit of bread perhaps, some good
luck. By the grave, you look thin! You could use a bit of fat!”

“I could,”
agreed Baus with favour. The farmer went off to gather the viands
and the cottage door jangled open. Baus for the first time saw two
boys, tossing hay nearby in a growing pile. The youths sported
peach blond hair like their father and sported eyes of matching
blue. The croft’s wegmors munched happily away.

Rudik
returned, thrusting three apples and an extra half loaf of bread
into Baus’s hands. “’Tis meagre fare—but better than nothing!” He
laughed fondly. “Good fortune to you, Baus!” With a hearty salute,
he returned to his work.

Baus stuffed
the items into his jerkin with gratitude.
Yes, better than
chawing wildgrass and blue furze in the wild
. He set off at a
lope across the clearing, noting that he would have starved if not
for the generousness of his late benefactor.

Baus gained
the first silver-green patches of larch and took to the wegmor
paths like the old man had said, but was plagued with a flood of
qualms. Could he acquire funds in Krintz? Could he escape being
hunted like an outlaw, a common wolf’s-head? The idea caused him
strain. The earlier rumours of bewitchment spoken of were no less
consoling.

In more
optimistic spirits, Baus confronted the meandering trail facing
him. He felt assured that no one would come looking for him in
these parts.

As the late
afternoon passed slowly, the dusk straggled in and many times Baus
lost sight of the path which seemed to stray in all directions at
once. He came to ever lonelier and lonelier vistas: glades, carpets
of yellow bay flowers, hawthorns, hollows. There was something
eerie about the lie of the land here: flora and fauna held an
uncomfortable ambience—particularly the gaudy yellow flowers that
stood out on their pale stalks and the green leaves with tender
white stripes. The stems barely stirred despite the seaward gusts
that tousled his own matted hair.

Shadows
scratched their way across the lands and Baus fought fatigue,
finding shelter in a cramped hollow. ’Twas filled with ancient
cedar, which to his astonishment, brought uncomfortable dampness as
the night progressed. Famished, he awoke in the dark, accosted by
foraging rodents. Twice by a claw-happy weasel, then a snuffling
koot which harried him up a crooked tree.

Hours later he
crept down to fetch a bit of bread from the nook in a larch where
he had left it high to avoid molestation from larger predators in
his sleep. Chewing through the tough fare, he listened wide-eared
to the lonely coyote calls, the baying of koots in the distance. It
was answered by others, equally as estranged. Strange birdlike
hoots stirred the silence; furtive shamblings of tiny feet, soft
eddies and suckings of the sea, churning not a few bowshots
away.

Gradually Baus
was lulled into a troubled slumber. He awoke racked with misgiving,
stiff limbs and fogged brain. He watched as the horizon filled with
low-scudding clouds. As Rudik had intimated, the Saxe was hidden by
an alder grove a mile away. The waters were fordable only barely
about a half mile upriver where the old grain mill reposed and the
windmill leaned on an angle, basking like an ancient tower. The
water was coloured mahogany; the rocks were smoothed by ages of
trickle. The stream was wide, but shallow, and afforded a safe
passage by means of limestone stepping stones, strategically laid
out by previous pioneers.