Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I (26 page)

He thrust
himself carefully deeper into the mire, forcing his limbs to obey
and curb their cursed shaking, numbed as they were. He hoped that
his time-sensitive plan would not be derailed by
technicalities.

A battered
Oppet gained his pets and stood quivering when he saw the two lying
limp. “Kady! Zappy! Oh, woe! What has become of you?”

He gave a
terrible moan, thinking them dead. He shrank to his knees,
muttering endearments, and discovered they were of no use and he
bowed his head, weeping in turn as Skarrow and Haimes came
struggling out of the woods. “Hoy Oppet, what has brought such doom
to your dogs?”

The dogmaster
shook his head sorrowfully. He peered at the foremost hound,
emotion choking his throat. Its front paws were splayed in an
unnatural poise. Haimes, Burkothes and Canjun circled round the
supine masses and gazed on Oppet in awkward helplessness. Kady’s
face was carved into a ghoulish rictus; Zappy’s eyes had rolled
back showing the whites of her eyes, as if the creature had
witnessed a devil.

Oppet reached
out a trembling hand. Almost at once, the hound leapt to life with
a mouth full of snapping teeth. Zappy nearly chewed off his fingers
before he bowled over Haimes. The two scrambled back, uttering
astounded cries. The shaggy tail struck out at Kady, and with the
breaking of the spell, the other hound now struggled to her feet in
a fit of confusion.

Tilfgurd
rocked back on his heels. “Hoy! Do dead dogs come back to
life?”

“Nuzbek has
enchanted them with magic!” blustered Mulfax. “Pay attention, men!
Dire spells are in the air. The magician must be near.”

The officers
spun about, brandishing their swords. Madluck and Skarrow stared
about, expecting the magician to come vaulting out of the air,
pitching bolts of lighting at them. Burkothes’s grave silence
infected them with only a chill as the dark beobar hung about them
in brooding clots, watching them with dispassion. A faint blue mist
seemed to huddle above their heads.

The dogs set
up a wretched keening. They ranged back and forth along the edge of
the pool, seeming to detect an unlawful presence far out in the
slough. They wagged their tails, lifted their snouts to the
air.

Skarrow stood
back, with arms crossed bluffly on his chest. “Well, it appears the
enchanter is out there somewhere. Who’s going in, lads? Oppet, your
hounds appear confounded, so that may well construe a good tiding.
What do they see?”

“Who knows?”
piped Mulfax.

Skarrow
snapped back, addressing Madluck with a sour grin, “Any news from
your squad?”

“None,”
Madluck muttered. “We have rounded up Jorkoff and Zorez. Some other
rogues were hiding in the spongebush by the old sea wall and the
dogs flushed them out. Some of their cronies fled to the shore
where they fuddled the snauzzerhound’s scent, but for the most they
headed north, to the shallows.”

“Where’s
Graves then?” demanded Tilfgurd.

Mulfax pointed
toward the black-blue trees beyond the pool. “Somewhere west with
Ausse and Germakk. They’re searching for Nuzbek out there and his
cronies—Nolpin, even Valere. The Captain dredged up a posse from
Heagram to be headed by Jukeneb and Diangule. The last I heard they
had caught up with Quintlo and Vibellhanz. One’s dead. The rest are
still running.”

Madluck shook
his head with wonder. “What a cock-up! I can see only a demotion
for us: an insufferable breakout, convicts running wild, dogs
playing dead. It doesn’t add up. Uncanniness lurks in the air. For
a flash I suspected the magician was playing us a foul trick. But
now, I wonder, with Mulfy harping on about Nuzbek flying up over
the wall on some kind of weird broomstick.”

“It was a
balloon, you maroon!” grunted Mulfax “—or some sort of fantastic
floating sphere. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I’ll bet you
did,” mumbled Madluck facetiously. “What of the little green monkey
from the jar who you say killed Boulm and fled into a tree?”

“That was some
little imp.”

“Don’t forget
the little purple-hooded dame Nuzbek almost scooped up and
bottled!” chimed Burkothes.

“Bah, you
rogues are incorrigible!” muttered Mulfax.

Burkothes
shook his head with comic effect. “Balloons—little green men—I
don’t know what you two have been drinking, but those imps in the
jars managed to escape and I know that we’re in a mess of trouble
unless we can recapture them.”

“Here, let’s
have none of that talk!” cried Canjun. “It’s bad enough as it is.”
He jabbed his pike into the ground. “Let’s get these wombats—easy
as pie.”

Madluck
glared. “Enough of your clever boasts.”

“So why are we
standing around then like a bunch of hens then?”

Oppet raised a
minatory finger. “Because the snauzzerhounds have led us to this
glade, which is of some importance. Someone is out there. I know
it—my dogs do not trouble themselves unnecessarily.”

All eyes
turned to the pool. “So then, what next? I’m not going in there,
are you?” wheezed Madluck.

Skarrow rubbed
his palms with grimacing unease. “Then let’s get out of here.”

Burkothes made
a sour glottal noise. “Your pets are playing us for fools, Oppet,
scaring us half to death with their wanton tendencies.”

Madluck
whined: “Oppet, can you not motivate your hounds to cease their
whining and come up with convicts in their teeth? My ears are half
baked.”

“By absolutely
no means!” cried Oppet. “Kady has suffered a fright and howls for
good reason. Zappy has been smitten no less with some sort of
thaumaturgy.”

The animals
affirmed the assessment with snuffles and whines.

Oppet brought
out sweetmeats for the two and fixed his eyes with wry distrust on
the deadheads. “Not likely, Zappy,” whispered Oppet. “—But
certainly not impossible . . . ’Tis peculiar that we haven’t
crossed paths with those rogues Baus and Weavil. Their comic tricks
could not have prevailed over the course of our searches . . .”

Oppet knelt by
the water’s edge and noticed something pertinent. “The trail
terminates here by this log, then it veers off toward the north.
The large footprints are a grown man’s. This much I know. Here are
a smaller set, as one of those midgets that Mulfax rants on
about.”

Burkothes gave
a snort, “We just came from that way and none of us discerned hide
nor hair of any persons, large or small.”

“We might have
missed an important fact,” persisted Oppet. “If we retrace our
steps, we might discover some clue.”

Mulfax cried:
“Weavil has been captured by the magician! That much is
established. I told you: I saw the villain stuff the wretch into a
jar before he disappeared over the wall. He floated into the
beobar!”

“Well, Mulfy,
what if Weavil escaped?” posed Tilfgurd equably.

Madluck
asserted himself with importance. “What if Nuzbek simply fell from
his balloon and broke his neck while Weavil ran away?”

“And what if
the night is actually the day, and we are all dream figures in an
ancient mind?” growled Canjun.

“Enough of
your drolleries!” griped Skarrow. “I say we resume our hunt. We
scour Grumboar all the way back to the bluffs, then we make hay and
cut off the rest of the fugitives who are probably escaping by the
mudflats this moment.”

Burkothes
rubbed his chin in agreement. “It sounds reasonable. It would make
tough going but I sense these rogues hope to reach Gooler’s Point
by dawn.”

Haimes
guffawed. “Recall that the Captain instructed us to regard Nuzbek’s
capture as the highest priority.”

Skarrow
skipped forward with an obdurate bearing. “Let the Captain deal
with the magician. He is doing well busybodying with his schemes. I
say we leg it to the shore, wash our hands of this fog-cursed
woodland, find the rest of the rabble there.”

They grumbled
in agreement and the majority made motions to depart. They gathered
weapons and left Oppet behind still frowning at the deadheads. He
did not want to leave. After a scuffle and some harsh words, they
dragged his hide away. The snauzzerhounds tramped at their heels,
whimpering, but there was nothing to be done. Baus lay submerged in
the murk behind the stumps, breathing a gasp of relief.

The sounds of
blundering died in the gloom. He staggered out of the water,
hauling his dripping hide to the shore. Hunched he sat in the reeds
like a bedraggled crow. As plagued as he was with racking shivers,
he rubbed life back into his numb body, feeling terrible pins and
needles. Lucky for him that he had taken steps to obfuscate his
prints, otherwise he may be in Kady’s jaws right now. It wouldn’t
have taken any genius to know for sure someone had scrabbled into
the pool and lay hidden in the marsh.

In brooding
silence, he felt the brush of wind. A lonely fierceness ached in
his heart. Odd! Now that he was a free man he felt desperately
alone. His plight had become a forlorn saga now that he was alone.
Ironically it felt more daunting than that of being cooped up in
any prison.

He squeezed
the rankness out of his body. He felt the black tangle of hair fall
in clumps as he shook his head. He peeled off more leeches from his
skin than he would have liked to count. Hastily he summoned his
wits. Many mishaps were on the way—no less as a wolf’s-head. An
almost spent brand lay in the grass. Smoking in the mist, it was
likely discarded by one of the officers. He snatched it up
gratefully and his frigid fingers shook but began a hurried search
for another brand at the glade’s edge. He whittled a length of
spindlelfax, urging the tip to smouldering life.

Limping back
to the rows of beobar extending north and east, he reviewed the
facts: if he kept on, the forest would peter out and eventually
lead him to the seashore as the harbour dipped like a hunter’s bow.
There were sun-blasted rocks there at the north end to hide
amongst. His scent could not stick amongst the rocks and prevail
against the heady winds off the sea. If he could summon his wits
enough to gain these rocks, perhaps he could take cover before
Oppet’s hounds caught up with him again.

With shaky
confidence, Baus tackled Grumboar’s fastness. He realized he had a
fighting chance. A dogged glint gleamed in his eyes.

III

In the black
hours of flight, Baus faced the tender balance between capture and
freedom. Murmurings and disquieting hootings drifted to his ears.
Grumboar forest lay wrapped in eerie abeyance like a grinning
phantom.

He squinted in
the gloom, caught unnerving glimpses of nocturnal eyes—orbs quietly
reaching out at him through the black folds and staring back like
claret candles.

Bats? Night
hawks? Coyotes? Baus’s quick feet made short play of the miles. He
passed no human company. His newly-acquired gladius made excellent
work of the briar that reared in his path.

He might have
ploughed two hours more through underbrush before he faced a misty
hollow—and halting and listening, he perceived no sign of dogs,
wolves or humans. A welcome relief! His plan might succeed . . .
and became even more than a fugitive hope in his mind.

A ruddy colour
returned to his face. His coarse, black hair felt no longer a
featureless tangle down his raw-boned cheeks, but glistened wetly
in perspiration. His eyes gleamed with that single-minded purpose
which only the passing, glaring-eyed coyotes could appreciate. His
thoughts strayed to Ulisa—and her disclosures of Aurimag—the
neomancer.

His lips
instantly compressed. The arcane faction to which the woman
belonged was no more than a source of perplexing vexation to
him.

The group was
likely a squabbling bunch of pretentious occultists whom he would
make efforts to steer clear of. As for ‘Aurimag’, he would extract
his justice at a later time. Ulisa, the dwarf sorceress was
pulchritudinous no doubt, but a trifle ‘utilitarian’ for his
tastes. Quite a deal too miniature for the purpose of what
premierly came to mind. Still—her adroit powers, mysterious and
puissant, could come in handy, particularly at a time like
this.

He threw his
muscles into his plight. Onward he fled, to his destiny. He edged
his way with resolve seaward through the brush, down to the last
ghost-fringes of the beach. He hooked his brand in a sapling’s nook
and crept wisely down to the foreshore where the surf pounded
relentlessly—like a soft mallet’s drumming. Perhaps a mile distant,
he saw cloying mudflats whose smell rankled his seaman’s nose,
which he guessed sensed the sighing waters rising to mid-tide.

The gloom was
not inconsiderable. Baus hovered in an almost numbing crouch.
Dampness crept into his bones; his legs ached. At least he was
screened him from prying eyes.

Up and down
the beach he peered. No torchlight or human presence showed
themselves. He acknowledged that on this lonely tract of beach he
was the only savvy occupant.

Baus bent his
legs back to the wood; he gathered up his torch. A course north was
the most optimal, but certain misgivings detained him. To jaunt
amiably down this beach with glinting torch was a poor course.

He shielded
his flame with his body and let his half-loping run up the mud
flats take him to the jumble of rocks up shore where he would find
respite from roving patrols.

He spent the
night in a cave, blinking in hunger, but managed to spear an
eelfish with Lolispar in a small tidal pool under the light of his
brand. He roasted it over the tip of his flame, and in grunts and
gulps devoured the meat, lay down on his side, finally to sleep the
sleep of exhaustion.

Hours passed.
He awoke shivering, to find his torch spent and pale rays of dawn
lancing down from the slits in the upper dome. His trousers were
soaked; faint amber patterns played on his face; it reminded him of
earlier times when he explored the hidden caves up the coast. He
snapped out of his reverie, finding the water risen to his ankles.
Cursing, he found his brown overcoat soaked. The tide was intruding
itself on his domain. Where ignorant slumber was bliss. Baus could
not suppress a groan at the vile memory of last night’s harrowing
chase.