The Isk Rider of Bazuur

by Chris Turner

  With practiced precision, the masked rider donned his garb—his black and yellow cape and leather underpadding—and he grabbed his murderous sabre and slipped out, giving Risgan a gloating salute. If the retriever thought he was in any way better off—there remained no evidence. The isk-rider hurried down to a hidden cave where he unchained his midnight-black isk from the darkness of his stall. From there, as Risgan knew, he took to its back, flying low on the other side of the ridge, curling far north out of sight into the barrens. Then he would approach the city to wage his private terror on the denizens of Bazuur...

  Jurna, skulking in the shadows, had witnessed the villain’s departure and thought to intercede on Risgan’s behalf.

  Scrambling to the sanctuary’s door, he came slipping through the door and the heavy shadows that assailed him, paying no heed to Risgan’s instructions. He gave a low whistle at the sights he saw of rattling cages, slavering maws, grotesque snouts, slavering maws and the screams of restless beasts in the thick half murk. He found Risgan sprawled in a dejected heap in a corner, bound and bloodied.

  With swift hands Jurna cut his bonds with one of many daggers he kept belted at his side. He pulled Risgan to his feet.

  Risgan growled out a foul oath. “Jurna, I shall feed him to his buzzards!”

  “Aye, but we must not be too foolish next time.”

  Risgan apprised Jurna of Melfrum’s evil scheme. The journeyman stood back stunned. For a while the two examined the unbelievable sprawl of animals stuffed in their cages—birdlings, voles, mutated aardvarks, lizards, murderous isks, a dozen varieties of unnameables. Ruddy sunlight came glinting weakly through the double windows to the east which saw a sandy valley tumbling away toward Bazuur. The spires, pavilions and gleaming red roofs were dimly visible where Melfrum was at this minute committing his atrocities.

  “Let us free these beasts then,” advised Jurna. “At least the uninfected ones cannot be used for Melfrum’s evil ends.”

  A satisfied simper crawled across Risgan’s haggard face.

  The two pulled war-hammers and axes down from the walls. They each began striking the locks on the cages. Metal snapped and they thrust open the iron-framed double windows facing east to Bazuur and watched the bulk of the teratyx and balbou birds fly free. The isks in captivity gave rage-born screeches at the flight of their well-mannered cousins. Teratyx hopped to and fro, poking at the feed bins. The birds seemed unused to their new sense of freedom, perhaps not even realizing the windows were open.

  “This gives me an idea,” mused Risgan thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can use these caged terrors to our advantage... as a small surprise for Melfrum.”

  Jurna gave a conspiratorial wink. He prompted his friend for more detail. “Zemore and his henchman will certainly be cross to find their evil minions escaped.”

  “I daresay.” Risgan rubbed aching brow and pulled at the knots in his hair. “More concerned am I about these isks. How are we to deal with them, They are a nasty breed, Jurna. If they get loose into the wilds...”

  Jurna shrugged. “Why worry about that now? We could kill them, another option.”

  Risgan grimaced. “I am not a fan of wanton slaughter. “Better that we set a trap for Melfrum—”

  Risgan’s train of thought was disturbed. Several of the dallying teratyx had been squabbling over the right to feed; now pouncing on Melfrum’s work table, they spilled a large quantity of acid from the beakers on the floor, even as they sought to gain access to the many feed bins tucked behind. Meanwhile, more and more tubes and beakers were smashing to the stone. The sizzling acid had seeped under the edges of the cages and now a blue smoke was rising unpleasantly in foul clouds. The isks and hybrid monsters encaged nearby ripped at the bars, gnashed their beaks and stamped their feet. The acid-undermined floors of cages began to buckle. Several horrors twisted free. They began flying about in droves, causing Risgan and Jurna alarm. Risgan thwarted raking talons, ducking low. Jurna reached for his knives. Now, the isks fought with the teratyx over the remaining food. A dozen blue-eyed, black-feathered fiends alighted on the worktable to survey the spoils and pecked at teratyx who fought in a hungry frenzy. More beakers and caustic elixirs spilled to the floor, sending rivulets of murky brines, salts and alkaloids seeping slantwise toward the unopened cages. Mongrel-faced fowl, grotesque hybrids alike, shrieked at the clouds of vapour besieging them. They struggled free from their acid-eroded cages, loosed at last from their vile captivity.

  Isks flew everywhere, clawing at the bars of their fellows. Shrieks came in shrill waves at the promise of escape. The isks knocked over more cages until many of the still-entrapped creatures pecked and clawed their way out through the weaker, upturned, iron bottoms without the help of acid.

  Risgan and Jurna jumped back in horror. The place was now becoming a bedlam of roaring freaks.

  The two intruders scrambled for shelter, choosing a tight space behind a clot of heavy wine barrels. The shrieking and tearing of flesh continued and Risgan and Jurna huddled in grimacing fright, holding their ears, trying to shut out the hellish keening and the ghastly gnashing. The voracious isks were unmerciful and killed one another like carrion beasts, but were more concerned for their gobbling up the last of feed and escape, so they ignored the quivering humans’ pitiful presence. The last of the creatures eventually squeezed through the windows into the dry heat of the late afternoon. Only a few of their ilk still remained, rattling cages in disconsolate envy.

  An eerie stillness descended over the sanctuary. Risgan mopped at his brow. The skin-tingling horror had left him enervated. Jurna, likewise, sat in an unsteady crouch. He was rattled by the sudden anarchy caused by the isks. “I wonder about these mutants.”

  “You think?” croaked Risgan. “They are a predatorial menace. I hate to see them ravaging the countryside.”

  Jurna gave a plaintive rasp. “We can do nothing now. Our humanitarianism has worked against us. But worse, Risgan, if the fiends fell into warlike hands. Recall, Melfrum was to sell them to the Kulthians anyway.”

  “True, but what do we do now?”

  “We wait,” muttered Jurna grimly.

  * * *

  It was many hours later that approaching dusk fell over the abbey and Melfrum came creeping back to his hideaway, stooped and pecked with angry welts. He walked with a pronounced limp. Risgan and Jurna saw him from a hidden cubbyhole. He seemed unsurprised to discover that all the chains were snapped and cages sprung, save for the last few cages with the stoutest bars; obviously someone or some menace had loosed his pets. His outrage was beyond mention. From the hidden place where Risgan and Jurna huddled, they saw him claw at his wounds, having met up with some unpleasant misfortune, a scourge of his own making, Risgan suspected. Amidst the broken cages, spilled acid, guano and general disarray, a particularly loathsome lizard still pawed at the bars. It paced its cage, squawking unctuously, casting the isk-rider a sinister glower.

  “Risgan... where is Risgan?” shrilled Melfrum. “His presence is required immediately! In fact, I demand him to appear. There are several languid maids who request his attendance; I believe, also, an anonymous donor of wealth who owns a large purse.”

  Risgan stepped out the shadows, aloof and staid. “And where are all these maids you speak of?”

  Melfrum made an offhand gesture. “They seem to have run off, probably impatient of waiting. Pity! A voluptuous blonde seemed extremely pliable. Well, what of it? Even if she was garbed in a see-through, diaphanous shift of white diapon, ’tis only me, your old friend Melfrum—remember? The one whom you sent a dastardly gift in the form of a hundred spiteful isks?” The black rider teetered back, gauging Risgan’s reaction. He motioned casually to the reams of cuts, rips and tears in his garment. Risgan saw bloody tears of flesh beneath clearly visible. “But attend, I see you have brought a chum!”

  Risgan nodded frankly. “Indeed, Jurna has become somewhat of a close friend these days, a pleasant shadow at my side.”

  Melfrum clapped hi
s hands with contentment. “So comforting to have the support of boon companions and loyal allies lies close at hand.”

  “But where is your own mate, Zemore?” Risgan asked with concern. “Has he not troubled to witness the reduced state of your menagerie?”

  Melfrum gave a weary sigh. “I’m afraid Zemore is singularly preoccupied at the moment. It seems he took it in his head to become a presumptuous martyr after the horde and other demented creatures you loosed into the air ravaged the pavilions. The fat fool sat by his podium, watching the rampage with smug quixotry, believing that his silly crustacean talismans would actually repel such a menace, which they didn’t. When the city-folk saw their alleged talismans useless against the onslaught of these new invaders, swooping and tearing and devouring and ruining their stalls, they became fractious and cried out a plea for justice. All felt they had been swindled. The townsfolk thought it was some promotion—ever in the midst of the marauder, namely I—that the demented horde would actually choose to abandon attack, in light of their hoisting a medley of sacred, magical crustaceans in their hands. Those people were gravely gored by isks but the survivors demanded their ozoks back, to which Zemore blandly refused. Thus, a retinue of the city guards came dragging him off to prison. And now, I have returned to my sanctuary, awed by the mystery, wondering how such enemies have been loosed.”

  Risgan opened his eyes in wide surprise. “Jurna and I had no idea that a simple deed could have caused such negative impact. The isks were thirsty, malnourished, and abused. Being souls of compassion and solicitude, we sought to free them, if not indirectly, and relieve them of their misery.”

  “A kind thought,” remarked Melfrum, “but which leaves our delicate business unresolved. Now, prepare to die!”

  Risgan brandished his gibbeth bone; Melfrum hoisted his bloody sabre. Uttering guttural snarls, both prepared to fight to the death, with Risgan vowing to let no similar fate befall him as he had recently suffered. Jurna rounded in for a role as backup, clutching his trio of daggers.

  Melfrum cared little for daggers. He was wounded aplenty and weary from his arrogant terrorization which had gone awry. Wrath and loathing clouded his reason as he gave in to an anger that had no lid. If he were walking into a trap, he did not mind for he had never dreamed that two foes would accost him in his lair.

  The isk-rider fabricated a deadly sweep. Risgan ducked. The lean breadth of shiny metal struck the great lizard’s cage nearby sending a shower of sparks. Risgan danced around the back of the cage. He teased the marauder into lunging again, snarling in rage, impervious to the numerous cuts and abrasions he wore. He took the bait, springing like a lion. A savage advance had Risgan nearly pinned to the lizard’s cage.

  Melfrum sneered in exultation. The beast slithered in behind with anxious, tongue-flicking interest.

  Jurna threw the dagger, striking Melfrum’s raised forearm. The isk-rider cried out in pain. He lost his grip on the sword and yanked his injured arm away in an involuntary surge of anger, but unluckily too close to the bars. The lizard within snapped out a crocodile snout and seized the limb and made short work of Melfrum’s clenched fist, working the fingers with grisly dexterity.

  Howling, the villain yanked with all his might at his mangled fist. Such would not give.

  Risgan and Jurna darted back, breath heaving, blinking in clinical interest. Tiring of the spectacle and the ear-piercing shrieks and sobbing howls, they seized the villain and pulled him away from the carnivorous reptile.

  “Now, Melfrum,” explained Risgan, “for all the deaths you have caused, you must now face Douran.” With an unembellished flourish, he raised his club.

  “Wait! Quarter!” wheezed the beastmaster. He wrung his mangled hand with the garment of his other. “We are all decent folk here. Forsooth, the acceptable thing to do is exercise decorum.”

  “Where was your decorum when you planned on feeding me to your pets, do you not remember?”

  “A boast, a jest.”

  “Mayhap, but what of the innocent folk you murdered?”

  “Fools, only,” Melfrum whined. “They killed themselves by falling in front of my sword, or pitching their ridiculous balloons too close to my path. Only idiots would continue to launch pleasure craft in the wake of my undisguised terror.”

  Jurna gave a half-barking laugh. “Your logic is faulty, Melfrum, and your manner crude. I say we strap you to the back of your isk and let your beast fly free.”

  Risgan rubbed his chin in reflection. “The idea has merit, Jurna, though the punishment has a symbolic flavour which is perhaps too abstract.”

  “A more direct reckoning then?” the journeyman inquired. “We could inject him with this syringe—” he gave the cloudy shaft of glass a meaningful squirt as he squeezed a modest portion toward Melfrum’s leg and buttocks. Melfrum cringed back with a peal of curses.

  Risgan sighed softly. “We could, Jurna, we could. Still, I am taken by your initial idea. You are such a creative thinker!”

  Jurna bowed. “You are forgetting Bazuur’s reward.”

  “How true. It may be impossible for us to prove that this lummox is the marauder after all—what proof do we have?”

  Melfrum howled in assent. “You then must abandon your silly scheme.”

  “Not at all! Wrap up his stub, Jurna. We wouldn’t want poor Melfrum to leave us too quickly from blood-letting.”

  Jurna took care to bind the beastmaster’s hand with an excruciating tightness and with a wrap of animal cloth that one of the isks had fouled recently in its excitement to escape its cage.

  Risgan retrieved his wish bone and youth talisman. He wrapped the latter in its shroud of black silk.

  Jurna, spying the flash of the dazzling underside, snapped out a blunt question. “What is this peculiar bauble you always carry with you?”

  “An heirloom of sorts. Nothing of intrinsic value. Melfrum, in his idiotic vengeance, thought to deprive me of it. Now, at least in spite, I can retrieve my gem and rub it in his face.”

  Jurna grunted. He seemed barely satisfied, but after helping Risgan haul the villain to his feet, they stood mutely, assessing their handiwork.

  They dragged the rogue outside, to the cave holding the isk. The creature was muzzled and chained thanks to Melfrum’s caution and scrupulousness and so facilitated the process of strapping the oaf to the beast’s reeking hide. The isk, unmuzzled, was cut loose. With a raucous cry the bird arched its wings, pedalled ratchety talons to leap several feet skyward, suddenly flying north, always to the barrens, from where it would never return. It receded now, a sullen blot on the blood-stained horizon.

  “And the lizard?” inquired Jurna.

  “We leave it here.”

  Risgan winced. “I hate to see a beast caged, Jurna. We can’t just leave it here to starve. The creature is largely responsible for our victory and innocent of Melfrum’s machinations.”

  Jurna heaved a gusty sigh.

  Following a careful scheme, the two contrived to smash the last loop of its padlock while the two leaped in mutual practicality on top of the largest cage. The lizard appreciated some of the forbearance Risgan and Jurna had exhibited and gave them a tactful nod with its camelish head. It broke through the door, many dull rattling roars later and slithered down the boulder-strewn ridge to disappear into the ochre gloom.

  So Risgan released the last miserable beasts from their confinement and they descended the hillside and retrieved the where-backs. Glumly they rode back to Bazuur.

  * * *

  The city was a different place now. Black flags hung at half mast on every pavilion; people everywhere walked in hunched gloom. Pennants hung shredded; banners, tents and awnings were likewise torn. Back at the storeroom in Bazuur’s distillery district, Hape, Kahel and Moeze filled the adventurers in on details. They had witnessed a terrible scourge. Isks flew in abandon. They had barely escaped being mauled themselves by hiding under tables or barrels or rolls of handcrafted carpets. Melfrum, caught in the thick of the fr
ay, had been nearly gored to death and pecked off his mount, but the villain had cleverly escaped, dodging this way and that on his steed which commanded superior speed. The isks, after harassing the city and taking whatever food and prey they could find, had taken wing and fled north to the desert. So far, none had returned. The relic traders had seen Zemore hauled off to the detention centre by angry officials to face trial by duel against the city champion, Ferios.

  Risgan gave a grim smile. “The fool will fare no mean fate at the hands of Ferios... Still, I wonder if Zemore’s judgement is a little too merciful for practical tastes... ?”

  “What does it matter? We are not lawbringers,” cried Kahel with exasperation. “Speaking of purposes, Moeze here has said there is a magician friend of his who talks about a legend of a lost caravan of buried treasure somewhere out in the barrens. ’Tis a mythical bounty of wealth. What say we desert this debilitated market and ply our skills northward?”

  “A grand idea.”

  The companions deserved a well-earned rest, and all slept peaceably, save for some troubled dreams.

  2: Lim-Lalyn

  1: Civin’s thunder

  Risgan was favourably affected by the tale of treasure spoken by the magician, Phon, a friend and new crony of young Moeze. He put himself to thinking. The loss of the reward for the isk-rider’s capture had put certain financial stresses on their ensemble’s future: the merchants of Bazuur were struggling to recover their business from the destruction wrought by the isk marauder and his mutant, ravenish isk horde. Clientele was dwindling after the terror so long in their midst. The relic hunters had sold most of their wares, to cover their costs of carrier-balloons, shop-space, and the daily rent levied by the merchant guild for the privilege of displaying in the Bazuurian pavilions. Risgan felt pained to have traded off his teratyx steed, Aerwiler, which had helped him win the duel against his enemy Melfrum... but nothing was to be done.