Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (32 page)

“Moddly
Middy!” Rilben sniffed sharply. “It died. Dear Moddly! How I pine
for my vole-rat!” A tear dripped from the ghoul-ape’s eye to splash
on the floor.

Baus sought to
ameliorate the mood. “Yes, Rilben, I bet there are others floating
around Bisiguth—in some ratty hole or dusky corner.” Baus chuckled
at the notion.

Rilben
brightened; he clenched his sagging shoulders erect. “I shall begin
an immediate searching for such a creature.” The ape turned to
rummage but the Dakkaw called an order: “Rilben! Do not neglect
your duties!—there are a hundred chores of maintenance around my
mansion!”

The ape
responded tartly: “I have automatically begun these tasks, sir.” He
swaddled off in a huff, engaging in his search.

The Dakkaw
tsked affectionately. “Rilben! What an unassuming fellow—perhaps a
trifle simple, but what of it? Where were we? Ah, yes! Whig the
Rigs . . .” He gave a smirk and a processional flourish.

Baus made a
polite correction. “Actually, we were on a tour of the
ceremonial
shields and associated regalia.”

“Quite right!
Baus, you are a sharp fellow; you shall go places!”

Baus
acknowledged the acclaim, pointing to the tarnished cymbals and
age-cracked oars pasted to the wall. The Dakkaw was pleased and
began to launch into a lengthy oratory of the history of the oars
when he clutched at his ears in anguish. “Dags! I have forgotten
Cedrek again. The swain is likely at his end with hunger!”
Grumbling grimly, he clopped to the trapdoor and set feet near the
foot of the stairs. Almost apologetically, he chided them, “I have
been so busy with you that I have neglected Cedrek’s needs. It has
been a full day—is it irresponsible? Nevertheless, time for his
ablutions—a necessary though rough engagement.”

Baus and
Valere exchanged grimaces and the Dakkaw trooped down to the crypts
with a lit torch. Slamming the trap shut, he paused to take his
bearings, and they heard only the thud of his footsteps, and a
creepy series of low-pitched howls. A ratchety sound suddenly came
drifting up through the planks, then an ominous clank of chains and
unyielding metal. Wails ensued, then a feeble moan, which Baus
marked similar to one he had heard on his first stumbling upon
Bisiguth.

Another oath
filled the air, followed by a buffet, then a muffled groan, and the
sound of a sloshing liquid—there was a terrible thrashing. Then,
more ratchety commotion, superseded by blubbering and several
complaisant sobs.

The Dakkaw
emerged gamely from the basement. His face was flushed, his eyes
were gleaming and he carried in his hand what looked like an
immense glass-spice vial. “Lucky that I attended to that niggling
task,” he intoned bluffly. “On a side errand, this amber-root was
my trophy; it will do well to season the pheasant I mean to trap
for us on the morrow! Let us repair to bed! Tomorrow is to be a
long day; I am fatigued with all this miscellany!” He clapped his
hands, prompting them up the stairs.

Up the long
flight of stairs Baus and Valere were nudged by the Dakkaw. Down a
wide, disorderly hall the ogre marched, directing them to their
chambers, rubbing wrists with contentment. Though sparse and
somewhat austere, the chamber was perhaps less littered with refuse
than the rest of the abode and contained at least a stout bed on
which the two might flop.

Baus screwed
up his face. “I need soft covers in order to sleep comfortably,
Dakkaw. Not to mention a room less cluttered. This much you should
at least provide your guests for politeness at least.”

“Arrest your
mischief!” The ogre showed Baus yellow teeth. “I have ears like a
bloodhawk and I shall sleep close by!”

Two doors down
he stalked and retired to his bedchamber. His tread was as heavy as
gongs. He locked the black-plated door behind him.

Smitten with
despair, Baus and Valere forewent an escape. Bypassing a listless
argument over who would receive the better half of the bed, they
slumped, groaned with exhaustion and sighed like two old beggars.
No sooner had their heads touched the pillows, when they were fast
asleep.

VIII

The next
morning, Baus cried out imploring the Dakkaw to set them free from
his hideous keep.

The ogre stood
framed hugely in their bedroom doorway, like a gigantic breed of
ox. Globe eyes glimmered like polished spoons; huge comic hands
swung metallically as if plumb bobs on the end of iron-twined
hawsers.

The giant
seemed to consider the request with an air of affection. “A means
exists. I will give you the option to solve one of my riddles, then
you can walk free.”

Baus clapped
his hands in contentment.

Valere
guffawed, “And if we fail to crack it?”

“Everything
remains as before.”

“Then we have
nothing to lose,” said Baus.

“Logic would
dictate. Shall we begin?”

The two wagged
their heads.

“To our first
riddle! What is red, blue, and fits on the end of a shoe?”

Baus scratched
his head with puzzlement. Valere peered cock-eyed up at the
Dakkaw.

The Dakkaw
bawled, “Too slow! Well, here is another! What lives on water and
on land, and to date can nothing withstand?” Again Baus and Valere
bit their lips.

“Dags, you two
jacks are dim. You say you are riddle men? Poddycock!”

Baus gurgled
out a boyish chuckle, “A dogfish, then.”

The Dakkaw
signalled failure.

Valere heaved
himself up and announced, “Cuttleswipe, or a crake.”

“Wrong on both
counts.” The Dakkaw flourished a ringed finger. “You two clowns are
useless when it comes to riddles! Guess again!”

Baus and
Valere consulted each other. They mumbled testy arguments. Trying
several angles, they pooled their ideas with blurts, assertive
taunts, maledictions, but nothing seemed to assist.

The Dakkaw
began to grow impatient. “I haven’t all day, swains. You call
yourself seamen! Tach! Well, do you finally give up?”

“Never!
Furnish us time,” cried Baus. “We require concentration.”

The Dakkaw
gave an impudent snort. “Concentration is all well and good when it
is administered with analytic skill. Not with vapid jabber. Now!
Speak! I grow fatigued with all the fluff.”

“Right,
Dakkaw,” agreed Baus. “Let us think. I ask for a very basic hint as
to the nature of the riddle and you give us sneers. Is this too
much to ask?”

“It is!—I
simply refuse to supply any hints!”

Moonstruck
with rancour, Baus shook his head. “Without a clue, we surely
cannot answer.”

The Dakkaw
regarded him cheekily. “Then in that case I must cancel your chance
at freedom. As an aside, not a single soul has guessed a single
riddle of mine to date—not even proud Varanges the Wise, or
Chanstros the Music-Maker. What do you think of that?”

Baus gestured
to indicate that he thought little of it. “And now, Dakkaw, how are
we to recognize that our answers are in fact inaccurate, if you do
not at lest tender us the correct responses?”

“The query is
inflammatory!” bristled the Dakkaw. “Now, if the answer is not
quite obvious, there is none at all. It is neither fish, nor half
mutants or birds, like you blindly spout, which never embark on
land.”

The brusque
exclamation marked an end to the game and Baus and Valere were
invariably obliged to forfeit their only chance at liberation.

* * *

Within a
quarter of an hour the Dakkaw departed Bisiguth. He took with him
his big willow hunting bow and a brace of small fowl. The skin of
beer and extra snares were already strapped on his shoulders.

The bolts of
the massive bronze door clanked shut; Baus and Valere were left
brooding in the tomblike Bisiguth.

The twain
exchanged rebellious glances and contemplated the grey gloom of
their bedchamber. The surroundings were glum; dispiriting shadows
hung everywhere; glazed black beobar trim and filigreed wainscoting
gazed back without compassion.

The door was
left unlocked—the ogre had kept his promise. In effect, they were
imprisoned like rats in a big littered cage.

Up and about
to work they scrambled, prowling the manse for a means of escape.
The only notable discovery was a set of repositories and doorways
favoured with huge brass knobs all along the living room walls.
They branched into many corridors; the rooms beyond were filled
with a ghastly assortment of junk—grimy relics and other bits of
weird refuse that the Dakkaw had hoarded in his spare time.

A thin watery
light filtered down from the casements, revealing significantly
finer details of Bisiguth’s interior than yesterday. An old marble
staircase, rising to a black-plaited wooden balcony, engraved with
nymphs and luscious mermaids in suggestive poses. The wood was
cracked, pitched in frightening formations, but did little to
enlighten them, nor did it lose its velvety splendour in the half
gloom. The hallway which encircled the second storey appeared to
house its own doorways which led to other archaically-designed
rooms, which were in turn locked.

Bisiguth, as
it turned out, was partisan to many strange marvels—like the old
porcelain wall fountain, bubbling and soundlessly burbling with
waters of purple luminosity. An elk head mounted over the armoire
had black, authoritative eyes which followed them whichever way
they turned; then there was the eerie stone paves, embedded into
the planks at random intervals. Phosphorous, unsettling faces were
embedded there, reminiscent of gargoyles and demons that glared
back at them. Charms? Spell-blockers? The context was unclear and
Baus shook his head. Additionally the staircase steps seemed to
meld one step at a time in the opposite direction that the climber
wished to go. Baus was at a loss to decipher its significance, or
origin, sponsoring in him an odd, depressed flavour. He brooded
that these were some magical mysteries that the Dakkaw had
accumulated in his travels and that he would not speak of.

In their own
bedchamber, a small diamond-shaped pane looked out upon the pale
courtyard. Long shadows lay tucked in the dawn’s sparse light.
Toppled statues tickled with prickle weed and shrub-rot were in
evidence below—a place they could not reach. The closet revealed a
set of old jerkins with the smell of old leather, and other archaic
bits of clothing: belts, hats, boots, trousers, all voluminous to
the fit. A set of polished skulls were dyed blue, scattered on the
floor under a stack of clothing. Baus thought the instance
unorthodox. In idle reverie he manhandled the skulls like a court
fool in a hand each. Valere dismissed the puppeteering as juvenile.
Baus tossed the skulls in the closet, frowning, chiding Valere for
his lack of imagination. Baus gave his time to other pursuits: the
examination of furniture in the downstairs hall. Through grey murk
sat the old table, its haggard collection of chairs, and barbaric,
hanging chandelier giving it character. Various items littered the
floor. Higher above rose the miniature oriels and the groined
ceiling.

Baus shook his
head in wonder. Where to start searching amidst all this rubble? As
for Rilben, it appeared the ape had hidden himself again in a
convenient location. At least there was no small lack of raw
materials, and it was from these, that Baus and Valere began to
fabricate the first legion of a plan: a battering ram made out of
planks and meal sacks.

The scheme
proved tedious. The front door was jammed and too heavy to crack
open with even the best of their efforts. They endeavoured to craft
a makeshift grapple—one manufactured of bent nails affixed to
segments of rope. To loft the grapple on high was an option
absurdly impractical. The windows were too high. Nor could they
access any convenient place from the banister in which to lob the
construction. Even the trap door under which ‘Cedrek’ lived, was
barred heavily with brass and impossible to lever open.

Baus and
Valere slumped heavily on the floor and attempted a discussion to
clarify their escape. Rilben, rather unexpectedly turned up behind
a suit of armour, surprising them with an oil brush and rag. He
highly discouraged the prospect of escape with a wagging finger.
The companions ignored the advice. They resumed their scheming.
After several gambits they came to a dead end; Baus threw his hands
in the air. The Dakkaw had pondered all the angles. Escape was
futile. Midday had arrived, and they were no closer to liberation.
Cedrek’s moans and laments continued to fill the gloomy hall while
Rilben’s orthodox, pedantic instructions irked them to no end.

* * *

True to his
word, the Dakkaw returned as daylight was fading. The ogre clutched
new game: a white sea termagon, two small shrews, a brown-backed
pheasant. His face was suntanned; he looked well-exercised and full
of energy as the companions peered and could not help but feel
jealous. Smelling of inviting scents: fall air, sycamores, beech,
fallen leaves, fresh vistas—he afforded them stories of the day,
voicing a polite inquiry into their own affairs. The companions had
little to say, outside of a ribbing with Rilben. The ogre offered
sympathetic remarks and set about preparing the evening’s meal—a
pheasant goulash and termagon pâté of quality. Baus fingered the
thin ganglestick deep in his cloak. The Dakkaw served the hot
dishes while Baus contrived a means to slide near his side,
guarding Nuzbek’s rod with a hopeful gleam in his eye. Somehow he
sensed encouraging outcomes.

The intimation
turned out to be misleading. The Dakkaw was quick to deduce
chicanery and conveyed orders for Baus to keep a better distance.
“Take your seat, skulker! I would think you harboured an ice pick
in your pouch to plunge into my brain! Tell me of marvels, not
prowl about my domain like an errant dog. I know little of you two
swains—only that you are escapists from prison.”