The Isk Rider of Bazuur

by Chris Turner

  Risgan rubbed his chin with reflection. “I daresay, I will.” He did not like the deprecatory undertone of the yardmaster, but he could not do much else; indeed, the young blond warrior seemed adept at his craft. With his brave sallies and disrupt-staff gripped firmly in fist he seemed unbeatable. He had a natural instinct for dodging, counters and an overall canniness of opponents’ attacks on the back of his teratyx. He swooped up and down, framing flamboyant sweeps and lunges of staff and steed. At one point, he even dared an impossible loop over his opponent’s neck, striking his opponent on the back of the neck, knocking him off his bird, laying him down in a sorry heap, where he lay groaning miserably on the sand.

  “Ha, that’s a cheaply-won move to fall for so easily, Maustu!” The yardmaster turned to Risgan. “I can give you Starbutter,” he offered gruffly. He pointed to a respectable beast chained to a claw-pecked stall. “She’s a fair mount with good endurance. Young and hardy, if not a little slower than the flashier Uisk breed which Ferios rides, yet she gets the job done!”

  “I’ll take her,” said Risgan, without a backward glance.

  The yardmaster showed surprise. “Do you not want to test the nag out? Surely you require a test fight?”

  Risgan shook his head. “I trust your word. Now, tell me more of this Ferios.” His eyes gleamed.

  The yardmaster went on about Ferios’s coups and talents and Risgan lingered to watch and assess. Being a good learner, he received insights and stratagems he never would have stumbled upon. He thought to press his luck. Introductions were made and Risgan, through means of subtle persuasion, came to share words with the young star. “Have you ever teratyxed before?” the young jouster asked him.

  “I am a Relic Hunter,” asserted Risgan, “not a jouster.”

  “Ah, you mean a grifter and a grave robber.”

  “Harsh words for a boy,” Risgan cried with a wincing grin, “striking my ear with a vagabondish and undignified ring.”

  Ferios grunted indifferently. “So you say. I’ll frame it in plainer terms: have you every flown a steed with wings?”

  “Not in any specific sense.”

  Ferios pursed his lips. Risgan watched him go through a series of facial expressions, hard put to discriminate whether the young man was amused or mocking him. “Very well then, old man, gear up! I’ll see you though a round or two. Hop on your charge. I see you have selected one already. I’ll give you a few moments of instruction. Take this disrupt-fanner and try to attack me.” He mounted his beast and with a practiced ease that Risgan envied, looked critically at Risgan’s gauche, half-hammed way of mounting. The jouster laughed and showed his senior the proper way of mounting and Risgan was soon in the stirrups and pushed out into the battle ring. Risgan was grateful for the help and awkwardly managed to turn his beast to face the jouster.

  Ferios worked Risgan hard and laughed at his spills which were many, and gave him supportive advice, particularly on how to use his disrupt-fan to lunge at a passing rider. “Choose when the moment is ripe, not when it is time to feint. Here, you lag when you should strike. You must feel your teratyx as a natural extension of your body! Look, you are too slow. My mother could whip you off your saddle on one of her bad days. Pull in those knobbly knees of yours. You should feel your teratyx like a lusty woman you ride in the heat of the night!”

  Risgan thought the metaphor a trifle florid but got the point.

  At break, Risgan approached the young rider while sweating under his cap, his lungs pumping. “You are a quick sort, Ferios. With your lean thews and sharp thoughts you have potential. A man of your skill should not be hidden away here in this sand pit. Nay! I say you should be exposed to more colourful environments. For example, out in the exotic lands of Farwen and Dorfur. In fact, I could use a fellow like you in my relic-hunting business. What do you say? Why not abandon this frivolous sport and join my brigade? Surely you tire of pursuing men’s backsides and busting their brains? We have in our company a magician, a very wise one with experienced years, an archer of repute and a practicing journeyman.”

  Ferios’ expression gave way to a blinking amusement. “Not very likely, Relic-monger. I am ill-disposed to thieves’ work. Withal, I am destined to the glory of becoming a great champion: a paragon after the likes of Destares the Destroyer, my line of ancestors, who would think nothing of me rutting about in the dirt like some hog, hunting for mouldering trinkets.”

  Risgan curled his mouth in a sour grin, deciding at that instant that Ferios was a youth whose grand conceptions of himself would someday lead him to peril. With that in mind, the relic hunter destined to tumble the peacock when the opportunity arose. It happened soon enough. A quick jab to the chest and an unexpected parry knocked Ferios sideways. Risgan followed up with a clean kidney punch during a close sweep and the jouster tumbled to the sand, white-faced and breathless, more shocked than hurt.

  Risgan, feeling sorry for the youth, gave him a helping hand up. “Remember, do not feint before you have positively cited an opening, if I recall your advice and your metaphor of a lusty woman. Remember my offer, Ferios! You would do well to take it, or perhaps learn a few things along the way.” Risgan paused and gazed reflectively at his new ruffled mount, which returned him a curious look of affection. “Starbutter indeed! Aerwiler is much more fitting.”

  * * *

  An attack from the isk-rider came early in the morning on the east side of the Didor pavilion. Risgan, unpacking his wares, noticed that few vendors were about—perhaps the relic-mongers were targeted for the attack? Kahel and Moeze were busy organizing the display and arranging the table with Jurna fussing over the transport balloon while Hape was off below on an errand. They felt the giddy rush of fetid wings and cry of croaking defiance. Despite Kahel’s skill and true aim, the archer’s arrows were bent mysteriously on the isk’s hide as if protected by some spell or copper shield as it made its shrieking descent. The black-masked rider, eyes sallow and threatening mayhem under his abominable hood, made a slow show of taunting his opponents with his sabre, teasing them with its gleaming tip, as it sliced garments and drew blood. The pikes that vendors had posted at the corners of their kiosks were useless. Such rods were snapped instantly by the rider’s curved blade, or torn askew in the beast’s powerful beak. The choicest wares lay slashed and scattered.

  Risgan jumped on his table, protecting his own goods, which numbered in the many, including a rare amethyst-crowned holy sceptre taken from the abbey-ruins of Do-Beipin. The retriever brandished his gibbeth bone and the marauder swooped low to knock him off his perch. Risgan recovered; he scrambled back up to the table, club clenched in a fist. Bone connected with blade and the clash sent shocks up each man’s arm. The sinister rider momentarily plunged headlong, unsettled in the deadlock he faced as he continued his perilous path. With squawks and curses, the menace flew off. Risgan was greatly relieved and applauded for his bravery; even the obnoxious Zemore had put in a reluctant clap-clap who seemed at first stunned by the attack and its brevity, then stared at the relic hunter with a queer and brooding dislike—an emotion over which Risgan still puzzled.

  “Look!” came a sudden cry from a citizen. “Zemore’s stand is the only one untouched by the marauder.”

  “’Tis true,” others cried.

  Zemore turned an innocent glance to the crowd. He tucked a soft hand to chin. “Well, who would have thought?”

  “Here, let us make use of the master Zemore’s beads,” cried other boisterous ones amongst the crowd. “These pellets then must guard magical power to thwart the creature!”

  Zemore beamed. He blushed and smoothed his moustache. “Well, imagine! And here I am, a mere citizen, happy to aid the burghers of this borough in a humble capacity when the time demands.”

  To Risgan’s nausea, Zemore turned out a decent profit, selling his ‘crustacean charms’, as he called them, to superstitious fools. Some half-wit had labelled them as a ‘defence against the sky terror’.

  Risgan shook his head wi
th resignation. “Only oafs of the utmost gullibility would be duped by such fake charms, Jurna. There is something queer going on here, which smacks of chicanery.”

  The journeyman agreed.

  “Perhaps we should look into this matter of the ‘marauder’ a bit more carefully.”

  “I daresay we should; the reward is substantial.”

  “It is, and, as I mentioned before, more profitable than relic-hunting.”

  * * *

  So came the day of the general tournament and the deciding of petty squabbles which was the custom of Bazuur for many generations. Risgan, confident, lean and feeling younger than ever, felt a rare vigour that he had not for some time, also some quality practice behind him, what with the tutelage of Ferios. The disrupter-fan felt good in his palm. His cheeks were puffed, radiant; he had scrubbed himself so his skin was rosy. He had other tricks up his sleeves—like the gibbeth powder and the kraken horn—both which inflicted on any other man than the odious Melfrum, would be tastelessly excessive. Somehow he doubted that the churlish shop assistant would fight a fair fight this day.

  Many citizens had launched grand balloons in the air. They towed ornate, gilded gondolas and litters of carved balsax, conveying whole parties of spectators up and down the sky.

  Risgan marvelled at the incredible flotilla of shapes now crawling below the clouds. He had never witnessed such a colourful panoply, or such commotion: countless polychromatic globes straddled the air, some low, some high, with a riot of people on the spectator seats, cheering for their favourites. Presently both rich and poor raised hands in applause, the gaudily dressed and plain, the old and young. In the middle row sitting under a regal awning were the Three Residing Magistrates, merchant magnates who decided the political and business welfare of Bazuur and her proud people.

  Fig candy and baskets of sautéed leeks were served with eel-kebab, doled out by vendors to hungry patrons. The day was bright; the skies fair and the stone benches ranked tier upon tier with the most zealous of spectators.

  First up on the tourney was a series of disparate cases that awed even Risgan—the Bard of Balt versus Bazuur’s own minstrel Dyle, over rights of the popular song-singing of ‘Faralfoo’, a new ballad and favourite amongst the townsfolk; next, the merchant Zimander to duel with his neighbouring kiosk vendor, the saddler Courn, over a stolen gaggle of geese; finally Baron Sauld versus the aesthete Hulde, over a delicate matter involving an alleged indiscretion with his wife.

  No blood was spilled during these high dramas of sport and tension, but there came plentiful bruises and aches, also rankled spirits, which stirred the crowd to galling antics, and ultimately blowhard displays and lewd bluster from the contestants. Rising balloons were sent exploding into flames of confetti in commemoration of the winners.

  Melfrum wore a serene face during all this time. His stout frame was perched in his usual seat on the lower tier of the southern seats and he was dressed in an impressive robe of gold and blue; on his head he wore a crimson casque of a decorated, scalloped marpha, crested with gold rings. At the clang of the starting bell, he flew promptly out to the centre of the battle field to hear the solemnities of the referee and to greet his opponent.

  Risgan dutifully accepted the challenge, flying on Aerwiler, his own scrubbed, grey steed, to a place where the two adversaries hovered for some time facing each other, a yard off the ground.

  The referee intoned: “Please, gentlemen, I wish a fair fight. Folk and nobility are here for entertainment, not a free-for-all blood-letting. There are to be no stabs of fatality, groin punches, or garrotting of fellows’ steeds or opponents’ necks, only a simple restraint and etiquette, practiced with the best intentions, disrupter held high and abiding by the skilled movements of destriers, as is the old custom and ways of the knights of Bazuur. So, you have been told! Barring that, there are invariably no rules...”

  The official’s hand swept down. The beasts, on cues from their masters, rose over a dozen feet in the air and circled each other with healthy disdain. Each eyed the other’s flanks and necks for an opening, or some subtle weakness which might prove the difference between winning or losing. A tactic of intimidation, as Ferios had counselled Risgan well beforehand. Following years of patterned ritual, Risgan’s teratyx reined in; it flew at Melfrum’s steed in a fury.

  To raise disrupter prematurely was to give away one’s advantage. Risgan flashed it now at the last instant. These confrontations, he observed, were usually quick and decisive—the more relaxed and assertive opponent was the one that took the clean win. Melfrum smiled evilly in his confidence, as if knowing that his hard-won experience far outweighed one cocky outlander’s aplomb.

  Melfrum’s teratyx, rotten to the core, jabbed out its hideous black buzzard’s beak at its rival teratyx. Risgan started, caught unawares, glimpsed a flash of tiny teeth, filed sharp razors clipping a critical section of his mount’s left wing off.

  Aerwiler buffeted and spun. Risgan cursed sorrowfully. At the same time, Melfrum swung about, grinning with whimsical assurance, He punched out his wicked-looking disrupter, veering back for another riposte and a decisive humiliation. Risgan’s chest felt the impact, sending him into a tailspin. He fell lopsidedly, dangling from the saddle, while only his questing fingers clutching the stirrups for balance kept him from falling headlong to the sand. With feet dangling ten feet in thin air, he was the one about to feel Melfrum’s spike, as he had feared. The giant stood up in his stirrups, disrupter pointed at a fatal angle. Doubtfully Risgan braced himself, knowing Melfrum would hardly stop at his opponent’s simple tumble. A daring idea flew into his head. He disengaged and pulled himself up with his legs mobile at the last moment.

  Melfrum came charging through and Risgan swung about and scissor-locked him like a trapeze artist, gaining Melfrum’s mount. The big man was momentarily dumbstruck, grunting obscenely and slipping sideways off his steed. Risgan twisted his legs up and around him and forced himself on top of the bigger man’s chest, using the leverage of his beast, and began pummelling him with fists, not knowing if these were exactly legal in such a duel, but hardly caring.

  The two lost grips on the teratyx. Risgan and Melfrum tumbled in synchrony to the sand with a mighty thud. Melfrum gave a pained wheeze as he lay supine with Risgan straddled on top.

  With courtly dignity, Risgan rose unharmed. His adversary lay gasping, struggling to pump air back into his lungs, though eager to cover up his forearms which showed a damning mark...

  The residing officer scuttled to the dueller’s deciding scene and blurted out a formal announcement: “Melfrum! Servant of Zemore, you have lost this duel. Risgan has won. You shall pay the sum of the fines—ten ozoks. You shall be levied an additional fifty ozoks for losing, the penalty of all duels, so is the custom of Bazuur.”

  Risgan gave a glib laugh, realizing how easily the city paid for its opulent pavilions.

  Melfrum roared out a bellow of outrage. He grumbled ear-smarting oaths: “This is an improper ruling, Judge! We both fell at the same time. At best, I see a draw here. At worst, a disqualified round.”

  The officer gave a smiling head shake. “By no means. Being first to strike the turf, the combatant loses. Risgan remains the winner.” He held up the retriever’s arm high and showcased it to the crowd.

  There came great ‘halloos’ of acclaim and cheers as they circled about the grounds.

  “The victor of this grand duel!”

  More cries arose. A winner’s balloon was sent into the sky.

  Risgan, gratified, released himself from the official’s grip and folded arms in an attitude of judicial percipience. “I trust, Melfrum, that this episode has brought a valuable lesson in the ethics of fair play. A small reminder also regarding the penalties for ungrateful behaviour and vainglory against one who was always in the right.”

  Melfrum gritted teeth until his tongue seemed to bleed.

  Within moments, two stern fellows came riding up on wavering beasts—a jilted shoemaker and hi
s rascally landlord in a dispute over a double-charging of rent...

  * * *

  Well after the trial and in the comfort of their lodge in the distillery district, Risgan murmured to Jurna: “I have a better idea who our marauding ‘Vapiz the Viper’ now is.”

  “Oh, who?” Jurna inquired.

  “Non other than Melfrum. I saw the tailored burn mark on his lower arm. He reigned in on me and I caught a glimpse as I clung to him, pummelling him with my fist. Remember when I saw the same mark on the isk-rider as he swooped low that day at the Onyx pavilion? The black fabric was pulled back on the wrist and you saw it as well as I, the star with a cross in it and the dragon. Unless it is a rare coincidence, Melfrum and Vapiz are one and the same.”

  “This then explains a lot.”

  “It does. A convenient racket then. Zemore increases his sales through terror; Melfrum, well, I don’t know what the oaf’s game is, except possibly a trickling down of gold. Somehow, it strains the limits of believability.”

  Jurna whistled in hollow wonder. “Somehow the clam-polisher trains these beasts of his. Where? Isks are nobody’s slaves.”

  Risgan and Jurna traded puzzled frowns.

  * * *

  As planned, on the following day, Risgan began a closer inspection of Melfrum’s work area atop the pavilion. On a whim he brought Moeze with him, who seemed at best, to create chaos wherever he went flaunting his fledgling magic.

  Zemore gave the two perfunctory greetings. “Ah, Risgan. Good to see you again. Business is good?” His voice was tinged with an icy formality of false heartiness.

  “Booming. Couldn’t be better.”

  “And who is this sallow young fellow with you? I have noticed he hobgoblins about your booth from time to time, with nose buried in a musty book or some such, pretending to be a scholar. All the time he bears the vituperations and disdain of passer-bys with poor grace. I wonder? He looks like a cast off shrimp.” This earned chuckles from Melfrum who hovered in the back of the kiosk, scrubbing crustacean shells, hardly able to refrain from Zemore’s joke. Despite Melfrum’s recent loss and few facial bruises, he seemed surlier and uglier than ever.