by Chris Turner
“This is my magician, Moeze,” announced Risgan sombrely, “an accomplished enchanter, who I believe, would be more than willing to show you a few tricks of his own.”
Zemore pushed out both hands with impatience. “I have not time for amusements. As you can see, I am incredibly busy with customers, who come in droves and waves. I am hard put to fashion enough of these isk-charms as it is. And with paying people on the prowl, we must be on the ball. Look around you, relic hunter—see how Melfrum scrubs so scrupulously!”
“Oh, come now, don’t be a prude!” chided Risgan. “Moeze and his magic are really quite a scream.”
Moeze gave a series of earnest nods, each an endorsement of his prowess.
Zemore furrowed brows, as if realizing that he was not going to get rid of these pests. Nevertheless, before he could object, Moeze had sucked in a breath and had blurted out a strange string of lilting syllables, which brought an unnerving tension upon the air. He thrust two fingers on high and Zemore ducked as if waiting for the sky to fall.
Nothing dire happened. Only clumps of Melfrum’s black hair began to dislodge from his scalp and float away in a peculiar fashion. Passer-bys noticed the tufts and began to chase them in curious amusement; others swatted at them or slashed them away with swords. Melfrum gave a savage cry of dismay. He ran around grabbing for his hair.
Risgan emitted an endearing laugh. “A clever stunt, Moeze. You are a card. Bravo!”
“A small miscalculation, and misfire,” apologized the magician.
The bully Melfrum was not amused. He flew over with rancour to deal Risgan’s magician a beating, but Risgan interceded and restrained his hand. “Hold off, oaf! All’s fair in jocularity. The stripling’s only a boy learning a few tricks, so be patient. He’s studying ‘Afrid’s causations and maginations’, I believe.”
“I do not care a fig what he’s studying, relic-monger. The fool’s a menace.”
“Perhaps, but ’tis a free world, isn’t it? Go elsewhere if you wish no vagaries.”
Moeze had already launched into his next trick of the day, which involved a drama of certain choice pieces of Zemore’s crab meat becoming lighter than air—up and about they did a fancy jig, frightening customers off like there was no tomorrow. Many bolted and Zemore was infuriated. A silly reaction, perhaps, but Zemore called out for the constable. Barely masking his chuckles, Risgan made long strides to the band shell to get as far away from the tumult as he could. He dragged Moeze behind him.
“Be careful with your stunts.”
Jurna who had witnessed the whole spectacle, muttered wryly, “A little rich, Risgan, don’t you think? What did you hope to gain from that?”
“Nothing much, outside of a little fun, but I did notice that our friend ‘Melfrum’ was very careful to keep his crate half-concealed in the back. The chest was crafted of a peculiar wood, balkxam cedar, if I don’t miss my guess. Carrying a strange waft and mark on its left side—two fish and eagle.”
“It’s a Jijipan seal,” ventured the journeyman.
“Precisely. The place is far away, Jurna. In Melfrum’s balloon carrier, he carries a knout with peculiar three-pronged wisp—normally used for chastising didors. Very large ones. Perhaps a weapon of his choice? Such to incite a particular demonic ‘isk’ to fly?”
Jurna rubbed his jaw reflectively.
“Notice the boots now,” continued Risgan. “They were covered with red soil. ’Tis not native to Bazuur—only to the regions north and west. So Melfrum’s been out in the barrens. Whatever for?”
“All questions to add a little intrigue,” offered Jurna. “Where does he keep his isk, I might ask?”
Kahel, who had arrived a few moments earlier, perked ears and was briefed on the discoveries and offered to spy on the mysterious Melfrum.
“A good idea,” said Risgan. “He goes away now by balloon. You must follow him on foot, Kahel. Take a didor if you need one.”
The archer grunted and hastened to descend the nearest column.
* * *
Zemore exhibited no suspicious behaviour that day. In fact, the merchant seemed even more placidly satisfied at the day’s sales and the many ‘marauder-gems’ sold.
Kahel returned later that day from his excursion, three leagues west from the city, speaking at length about a boulder-strewn ridge. Dust covered his breeches and jerkin and skin. Scowling, he reported to Risgan his finds: “I lost the villain, but Melfrum came up the other side of the ridge. He put his pet bird in a cave and disappeared into an old abbey or sanctuary.”
“Interesting. Did you see what went on in this ‘sanctuary’?”
Kahel frowned. “I peered in a low window and saw more of his pets, many of them plopped in cages, with abundant weapons hanging from the walls. Misfits, isks, a whole horde of them. ’Tis like he’s breeding an entire zoo of them.”
“Very singular. Anything else?”
Kahel shook his head with displeasure. “Melfrum is a secretive man. He loves his privacy. Nothing more.”
“Good work, Kahel. Perhaps we will pay a visit to Melfrum’s menagerie ourselves?”
“And do what?” cried Jurna incredulously. “The animals are likely under lock and key.”
“Something will avail itself, Jurna. I think Moeze can think of some bee to throw in Melfrum’s bonnet.”
“Not I!” snorted the magician. “I wish no part of this evil man’s enterprise or whatever degeneracy he is mixed up in.”
“Come now, don’t be a dandy!” chided Kahel.
“No, leave him,” hissed Risgan. “I need you two, Moeze and Hape, back here to run interference on Zemore if he attempts some crafty subterfuge. The charm-seller hasn’t managed to get away with all these crimes thus far by luck alone.”
“Is Melfrum still at the sanctuary?”
“For now,” muttered Kahel.
“Well, we shall go there then,” Risgan announced.
Kahel shook his head with brisk obstinacy. “I am tired of journeying. I shall stay here with Moeze and Hape.”
* * *
So it was that Risgan and the journeyman braved the journey together, hiring two, tusked where-backs from the city stables. A teratyx-powered balloon would have been easier, but more conspicuous to the eyes of Melfrum. With the thought of reward, the two drove their beasts hard. They stuck to the indistinct foot trails and copses of slay-bush far off the main road as they rode west.
By mid afternoon they came to the foot of a long steep ridge, pocked with reddish boulders and scrub. The hint of a stone abbey stood lonely on the crest—obviously the place that Kahel had hinted at. It was a long way up and umber shadows spilled down half the valley and cast most of the hillside in a sombre stain of graveyard eeriness.
The vigilantes took the climb on nimble legs, concealing themselves behind patches of dark scrub and crumbling boulders when they could, on the off chance that the villain might be peering out of the windows of the keep and espy them. They did not directly engage the forbidding half ruined bastions. Instead, they meandered around the back of the abbey by circuitous route, navigating a crude path amidst boulders and spiralled rock to come around the western flank of the ridge to halt somewhere a quarter way down the slope. The full force of the westerly sun hit them in the eyes; it lit up the reddish sandstone with crimson furor.
The fort was larger than expected—great limestone pylons thrust down from upon high into the rocky earth. Slay bushes grew wildly out of the ancient mortar. The foundation was cracked. Four turrets crowned the steep basalt roof and a bronze, leaning spire stuck in the middle. For what purposes, Risgan could not imagine. It was a forlorn, empty place. An eerie stillness gripped the area, permeated only by the cries of crows and the moan of a hot wind arcing round the eroded rock formations.
Far below, the valley basked in a glare of nascent red: a desert, a swath of dry gulches, stickbrush and red blister weed. Possibly even more distant ridges wallowed in the leagues of seductive light, much like the one on which
they now stood, but they could hardly see farther into the sun.
The two presently glimpsed Melfrum’s balloon tucked at the entrance to a square-topped outbuilding. It was eroded with age.
Risgan whispered secretly to his partner: “If I do not emerge from this hell hole within a half hour, do not come after me—assume I am dead. Call the city guard. Get a team of armed soldiers out to arrest the villain.”
Jurna nodded, though he did not plan to obey such orders.
“In the meantime, stay out of sight!” came Risgan’s final command.
The retriever crawled closer, entering through a back door of carved goblin oak, stained with age.
Eyes adjusting to the sharp darkness, Risgan crept down the foyer and through a wide hall. He rounded a sharp corner from where he heard a muffled rustling and an indistinct muttering.
Peering stealthily, he discovered a burly form, fussing with feed bins and rusted cages in the near darkness. Risgan could hardly restrain his wonder. The place was full of cages and wing-flapping birds as Kahel had described. Large ones—isks. Dozens of antique weapons hung from the walls: morningstars, knouts, battleaxes, hammers, swords, sabres. An old stone stairway curled its creepy way up to other bat-haunted levels from where grotesque, cracked and etched figures hung: saints, gods and other mythical creatures. Moth-eaten ropes trailed down from the webbed darkness; once they carried bells at one time, or holy relics, guessed Risgan. A notched table with small candle flickered to the assistant’s left. The table was filled with bottles and pots and surgical instruments. A few censers lit up the hall, hanging from old brackets in a mouldered wall. Three rounded windows looked to the east, admitting a weak light, from the place toward distant Bazuur. The figure, muttering to himself, had not noticed the intruder... to Risgan’s gratification.
Melfrum chastised a caged birdling with a poker that he stabbed through the iron bars semi-jocularly. “There now, Elfrex! You know you mustn’t bait your comrade. Spats also must eat, even though his victual is a tad bitter!” He gave a grunt and the creature another galling prod and finished with a melodious chuckle before he administered it some sort of medicine, or food, by means of a long, evil-looking syringe. Risgan saw, appalled, that the beast was some mixture of goat and flying wasp. What was the rascal up to? A necromancer? He saw other beasts encaged: a part reptile-sphinx, a massive turtle, three malamanders, bat-like mastakons. But amongst the majority of these creatures, were isks.
Risgan crept forward smitten with awe and curiosity, inching his way closer through a doom-ridden maze of cages and crates and foul smells and peculiar instruments ranging on the floor. In the half-gloom, he saw unearthly and terrifying things. The looming shadows showed masses of cages. A creature flicked out a sudden scaly tongue at him. Risgan loosed a gasp.
Melfrum, alerted by the sound, whirled about and came striding forward, fist clenched on his sabre.
Risgan cursed his luck. He tried to back away from the sinister hall, but realized it was too late.
“Oh, what have we here?” clucked Melfrum. “A little elf out for a stroll?”
Risgan drew himself up with hauteur. “I seem to have stumbled in the dark, Melfrum, lost my way, nothing to worry about.” He scowled with disfavour. “Do you know any exit? What is all this obsessive cagery of yours?”
“Ah, you marvel at my menagerie?” cried Melfrum gleefully. “A hundred different species of beast I guard, conveyed from wide regions of the world. All by balloon.”
“You don’t say?” observed Risgan. “But what prompts such eclectic stockpiling?”
Melfrum gave Risgan a candid frown. “The answer is almost so basic as to be embarrassing. But not appropriate for this informal discussion—thus, I shall bypass a response.”
Risgan seemed to find the reply unsatisfying.
“You found my little hidey hole—that’s impressive, Relic-hound! ’Tis not everyday that one can advance this far.”
“Notably, but you should be ashamed of yourself for keeping all these impoverished creatures. Look at their moulting wings, and their mange! All are miserably kept. I should report this cruelty to the animal guild at Bazuur posthaste.”
Melfrum gave a soft chuckle. “Somehow I doubt you will make it that far.”
The relic hunter noticed the meaningful grin hooked on Melfrum’s slab-sided visage. The villain advanced with sinister intent, sword gripped. Risgan swatted out with his gibbeth club. Melfrum easily parried. The two countered, dancing like rogues amidst the clutter of cages and crates. Loud bangs and grating scrapes stirred the beasts to restlessness. The fighting grew more intense. Risgan was sorely strained; he felt fatigue from his hot journey up the hillside and the tasking galloping to the abbey by where-back. Now he cursed rudely and rued his last words to Jurna. Between him and the journeyman, they could have trounced this rogue!
Ill luck fell upon Risgan as his half stumble over a refuse shovel predicated. A coil of webbed, chitinous member wrapped gently round his right arm plunging him backwards against the mesh. Melfrum pounced on him, removed his weapon. The beastmaster kneed him in the belly and slapped him hard on his back with the haft of his sabre.
Risgan toppled, gasped, struggled to rise but the man was bigger, faster, and stronger.
The rogue bound Risgan’s wrists and searched his person, pocketing his coins and wish bone. “Ho, here, what’s this?” he exclaimed, holding up a glittering bauble.
“A rare relic and gem,” Risgan intoned. “Leave it alone. ’Tis a fragile heirloom.”
The rogue laughed. “Not anymore.” He pocketed the youth talisman and wish bone and saw Risgan start.
Risgan masked a silent secret grin for he noticed that the isk-rider had touched the dark underside of the aging talisman. Enthralled by its beauty, Melfrum pulled it out once again and turned it over in his hands admiring its aesthetic grace under brooding brows. “You are an irritating little man, Risgan, you know, with your crooked nose stuck in everyone’s pie, trying to make a quick name for yourself. Pity it will be forgotten, along with the rest of your rabble—including that flunkey magician of yours. After the tourney, Zemore warned me to take care of you speedily, and how easy that has become, thanks to your dim-witted busybodyness.”
“The game is not over yet,” said Risgan boastfully. “You will never succeed.”
“We shall see about that!”
After securing Risgan with more twine, the beast-monger calmed his distraught pets and patted a cage, eliciting a shriek from a particularly aberrant isk that was trapped within. Risgan tensed, for he knew how dangerous his situation was. Nearby, a wooden trap, set into the floor with iron bands and rusty rings led to unknown subchambers. Melfrum, sensing Risgan’s fearful flick of eyes, spoke in an offhand way, “I apprenticed to Rufustas, a misfit breeder of animals with a penchant for feeding his horde peculiar herbs and elixirs. To make them whole and hale again. I studied Rufustas’s techniques, and observed many of his errors, thinking to devise practical improvements. The old breeder died abruptly, mauled by a morvix on which he doted too familiarly. Truly a tough fate. I inherited his menagerie. Needless to say, I extended his researches into a whole new science of my own. Regard! I feed these mongrels pollop beads—a bitter transformative powder—collected from the rare twisted tree that grows out in the middle of the barrens. The pods are somewhat poison, if one takes them directly, a magic if you like, which seems to turn these animals into, well—the nasty critters you see. I even have created a liquid version of the pollop—a highly concentrated formula—which I administer through this trusty syringe.” He flourished a palm and held up the wicked needle which he poked through the mesh after a deformed snout came flashing out to gnaw at his hand. “Ah, Sembly, quiet down! The failures,” he laughed cheerfully, “—or evil by-products, I transport them to the Zanthian Wastes by balloon to die there or survive. Sembly might be one. Better that they chaw on the nomads than citizens of Bazuur—although of late, I’m questioning that conviction.”
/> “A depraved practice,” grunted Risgan.
“Actually no. My ‘practice’ is to breed an army of these misfits, which I hire out to the highest bidders, for example, the miserable despot to the far west, a certain Diocides. He is hungry for power and challenges the rebel Kulthians on his borderlands. This should be a most lucrative transaction, for I learn that Diocides has come across a hoard of gold and treasures recently robbed from Erythian raiders far south.”
“You are a contemptible plotter,” croaked Risgan.
“Perhaps, but business is business, Risgan. You of all people should know that. I use these playful forays to Bazuur as a means to test and train my animals. Their beaks are sharp and their claws are unblooded. First I loose them on easy targets, the balloons and their pliable rigging, after which I graduate them to real, human targets.”
“And what is Zemore’s part in all this?” Risgan demanded. A cloud of despair threatened to overwhelm him. More than ever, he wished to set this villain straight, but his talismans were confiscated, most notably, the wish bone. “Obviously you two rogues are in cahoots.”
“You would think, but Zemore generally gives not a fig what I do.” Melfrum sighed. “So long as he capitalizes from my terrorization and I continue to disrupt his competition. I only take my birds out on test runs to train them. I would not even deal with the old koot Zemore had he not discovered my base of operations one day while sojourning on balloon. He threatened to expose me then. For the moment we are civil partners, but truly are confirmed enemies.”
At the admission, Risgan began to feel an easing in his spine. He considered it time to assert a bid for his own welfare. “No need to punish me, then, Melfrum. Let me walk free. I will keep your foul secret—provided, you stop these senseless killings.”
Melfrum gave an insidious laugh. “And who are you to advise me on anyway, Relic-monger? From my position, it looks as if you are the helpless wretch who should beg me for mercy. Nonetheless, pressing business calls and I must leave you to stew over your substandard sleuthing.”
