The Isk Rider of Bazuur

by Chris Turner

  “Hand over the ozoks! We dislike being cheated at our own game, as you must well appreciate.”

  “True enough,” agreed Risgan, “Yet we have no wealth, rogue. We spent our last coins on the dames in the saloon next door to the Fortune Seeker.”

  The leader gave a harsh laugh. “I hardly think those sordid wenches would qualify for eighty ozoks of our money.”

  Laughter came from his henchmen and Risgan nodded with cheery good humour. “They were of rather low quality, however, your disrespect demands punishment!” He gripped his gibbeth bone and heeled his where-back straight into the pack. Kahel and the others surged forward with grim relish.

  The desert men charged with snarling yells of their own. They crashed together. The bandits sent lariats weighted with small rocks at the defenders. Moeze was unlucky to fall prey to the first whistling loop, nearly garrotting him. Hape, who had been practicing his knife throws prior to Xumanthe, threw a dagger which lodged in an astounded marauder’s gut—so now there were six ambushers.

  The magician recovered his balance, and launched a blistering spell of the blinding disc which momentarily confused his nearest foe, who spun about in astonishment clutching at his eyes. The magician reined in. He and Balael thrust out fists to knock the oaf off his turlyn.

  Kahel had waited calmly in the sidelines. His arrows now came in a storm into ripest range. Two came galloping out at him, and fell in moaning heaps, clutching at punctured arms and chests.

  Three were left squatting, nursing bruises on the parched grass, unhorsed by Risgan and his sturdy club. They looked sullen, beady-eyed rascals. Jurna scrambled off his where-back to confiscate their slingshots and the stones lying strapped to their mounts’ flanks.

  Risgan pulled up one whimpering bandit by the grey-speckled hair and shouted in his ear, “Who are you? What is your plan?”

  “Yimbir’s my name,” the one growled.

  “Well, Yimbir, what lands lie to the west?”

  The thief scowled and remained clam-lipped.

  “Answer!”

  “Steppe and wasteland, as any fool can see.”

  “Come now, man! We are treasure-hunters here, not halfwits... bound for the ancient ruins of Lim-Lalyn. We wish specific information as to the size, quality and location of this region.”

  “The place is a fable,” the man grumbled.

  “What?” Risgan gave him a buffet. “How do you know? I did not ask for negative affirmations. On the way to this hallowed site, we may pass others of similar quality, only to clamp hand to brow in chagrin and miss certain buried valuables hidden within caves and crevices. Now, what knowledge do you have of the ancient sites, graves or temples in this region?”

  The bandit put on a stubborn scowl and shook his grizzled head. He peered over to his half-dying fellows, but they offered no support.

  “Answer!” cried Kahel, showing the flash of a dagger in his impatient hand.

  The bandit grudgingly admitted that a cache of significant wealth might be found in the little-known pit encircled by a pillared mound five leagues north of the ravine known as ‘Eedler’s Grove’.

  “Very good,” said Risgan, giving an encouraging nod. “Tell us more.”

  “Men go there to collect water,” the thief announced sullenly. “’Tis known for its cool spring, its ownership also by the Huag steppe-men, who are fierce and dour, but has not been excavated due to local superstition.”

  Risgan nodded amiably. “This is as expected. We will take the northern detour this time, and for your sake, Yimbir, I hope we find something of value.”

  The brigand gave an involuntary grunt, for he noticed Kahel’s twitching fingers curling round his bow and the journeyman’s hand on his wicked gleaming sabre.

  The other two bandits had said nothing during this time and quivered in rage and uncertainty. Casting beady eyes left and right, they made desperate grabs for the slingshots at Jurna’s waist, but were clubbed down by Risgan and Jurna.

  Searching the corpses, Risgan discovered a gem scraper and a small specialty knife that had been robbed from them on their way to Xumanthe. “So,” grunted Risgan distastefully, “this is how the cutthroats make their living... waylaying innocent men on their way to the trader’s outpost.” He gave a sad grimace. The band took the extra mounts and supplies and left the corpses to rot in the sun, giving no quarter to those who deserved none.

  The day passed in slow torpor. An abundance of sun and a scarcity of wind sapped the vitality from the company. The alleged treasure pit was farther than the thief Yimbir had avowed, now afternoon was soon growing old before they met the old crossroads at the forgotten town of Durne. The didors, sluggish beasts, were unfavourably inclined. Compared to the where-backs, these beasts were turtles and Risgan silently cursed their progress, but he knew that any didor could long outlast a where-back when water was scarce.

  The steppe-land was a haunt for mirages shimmering on the horizon. Castles and palm trees and other shapes materialized in the distance that never seemed to draw nearer. Risgan loosed a sigh. The pinkish ridges gave way to misshapen boulders and the bald tracts of grassland played tricks on his eyes.

  Durne was once a traders’ outpost like Xumanthe but a quarter of its size. Now it remained only a grass- and sand-covered heap of square buildings, with several shabby deserted yards and open stalls. The company took this as a sign and followed the northern branch, heeding the wooden clawmark on the crooked sign, which showed hard-packed earth webbed with cracks and weeds. The steppe’s sparse grass had faded to sand and now untillable soil.

  Hape and Kahel continued to mutter misgivings about this side venture and had to be quelled by Risgan. Already the steppes were proving dangerous and they suspected they were probably wasting their time on fruitless ventures. Risgan did not believe it and ignored their qualms and assured them that a true relic hunter always went with his intuition.

  Kahel gave a disgruntled grumble.

  Yimbir’s counsel coupled with Balael’s cryptic directions led the company quickly into the little known terrain of the lost steppe—the regions of standing stones and dim altars crouched on the brink of low inclines, a place peopled by marauding nomads of the ghost tribes.

  A drowsy dusk arrived, bringing with it its ubiquitous desert chill. The company set up camp in a knot of boulders which offered some protection from the nighttime isks. Soon the beasts would come to circle. Moeze fashioned a palisade of protective stakes around their camp which he infused with a limited amount of his magic—tailored to repel predators as unpredictable as the desert sloth and the seven-toed hrue.

  Isks were their primary concern, swooping low over the stakes to catch them unaware. Huge, midnight black creatures they were, with offensive bald crowns and slavering beaks and wing spans well over twenty feet. Easily one beast could lift a where-back or chew through a man’s arm without a moment’s notice.

  But the adventurers let their fires burn steadily into the night, fuelled by knotted deadwood that rooted nearby. Dry slay bush served as worthy kindling gathered just for such purpose. The dreaded isks dwindled, daunted by the flames, and the last of them ducked out of sight unhappily. The sounds of nocturnal predators came fully to their ears, punctuating the stillness with grunts and whines. The surrounding boulders took on an unearthly cast, much like the ghoulmen whom Balael claimed haunted the steppes and fringes of lands to the north.

  * * *

  By midday they came to the site to which Yimbir had alluded. The relic hunters saw an oval mound on whose outer lip was plastered a ring of low, stunted cypress: an oasis, evidently. In the depression below lay a pool of clear water. The travellers descended with enthusiasm to gulp down draughts of the welcome water and gratefully replenish their wineskins and barrels. They hauled out their tools.

  Around the pool, evidences of stone pillars could be seen, carved with weathered symbols and half-legible characters. Statues lay buried to their knees, tilted askew. Risgan felt a familiar thrill stirring up
his spine for spoils and he snatched up his pickaxe and his scrapers and set to work immediately. Much industry revealed little, even in the outlying areas which Yimbir suggested might contain treasure. Only a small superficial bounty presented itself amidst the echoes of previous failed excavations.

  The few finds caused dissatisfaction amongst the company. After two hours the relic-seekers stood up in dull-spirits and ire. Many sceptical eyes rested on Yimbir, who still raked the hard soil with a fury, digging with Risgan’s spare pickaxe while the retriever watched him critically. By late afternoon Kahel’s shovel struck a broken cask, or some metal basket which he instantly hauled up. They examined the finds under the glinting light of the failing sun with mixed emotion—a tribeswoman’s brooch, three badges of honour, a primitive ceremonial rattle and several bone-beads and broken pots of little intrinsic value.

  Risgan discarded the items without interest, save the rattle which he thought exuded a waft of ancient antiquity, or some other such magical significance, as confirmed by the magician Moeze who squinted at it with peculiar curiosity. Despite his artless inadequacy at wielding magic, the enchanter seemed to have a knack for at least identifying authentic thaumaturgical sources.

  Risgan pocketed the rattle. He told the seekers to keep looking for spoils.

  By dusk, the seekers had found nothing. They were all tired and frustrated, and Yimbir, a quivering scarecrow of fatigue, silhouetted in the grey-rosy light, gulped loudly at his substandard fate. An attempt on his part to move his place of excavation out of the depression beyond the cypresses and slink out of sight was met with scorn. Jurna sidling by, herded him back to the place by the pool, forcing him to continue his labours. The team watched with sober approval as Yimbir dug and cursed. Risgan built a small fire to boil some tea.

  There came a sudden rustle and creak of leather from behind as guardian Huags tribesmen rode in numbers around the mound and circled their astounded group. They were lean, dark-skinned men with fans of isk feathers in their hair and stuck up on their arms. They dismounted from their turlyns with a stern grace much like the judges of Marnion, and Kahel jerked himself to attention. His bow could not handle the lot of them, nor could Risgan’s club, so they stood poised for the worst. The turlyns could easily charge and trample them on an instant’s notice. But they did not.

  “What is the meaning of this, you brazen grave-sackers!” called the chief angrily, brandishing a stony fist. “Why do you desecrate our revered resting grounds of Bvon, our benign god?”

  “No offence is implied,” consoled Risgan. “We search only for leeks in this dry oasis of respite to fry with our lamb. Look in our saddlebags; you will see that there is plenty of meat for everyone.”

  The chief gave a humourless laugh.

  “We are just in the process of building a large fire pit,” added Risgan, “which requires special handling, hewing and digging.”

  The headman ignored the claim. “What of your picks, those odious iron spikes, which scar the lands beyond the ring of a simple pit?”

  “These are instruments of potency,” Risgan explained suavely, “used for expediential purposes. As I explained, we require a large cooking ground. The terrain is harsh, peppered with falker’s stone and iron roots of babao trees. The impedances stretch far from the plains to this sanctuary.”

  “I sense a tone of subtle pretence here.”

  Risgan gave an innocent shrug. “Sense as you will.” Pushing Yimbir forward with humility, he sought to account for the blame. “Here is the source of your incontestable disfavour, o’ wise one! A heathen—a heretical churl, he blatantly led us to this sacred grove under the facade that the grounds were merely a public lavatory, in addition to being replete with desert leeks.”

  Yimbir gave a startled protest. “’Tis not true, Elder! They lie! They lie!” he cried.

  The chief stared aghast. “Explain this blasphemy, rascal! Can it be true?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” admitted Risgan sadly. “I need only point out that Yimbir’s avid hewing transpires on ceremonial ground. He is the mastermind behind these desecrations, as you clearly see.”

  Yimbir guiltily threw aside the pickaxe. “Lies, all lies, Elder! Only a mooncalf would believe such rubbish. Every thief from Xumanthe to Patouli drinks from the sacred pool, or at least treads on the hallowed ground. How am I only to blame?”

  “Silence!” commanded the elder. “You have already admitted your own guilt. You will be sacrificed to the sacred ghoulmen who prowl in numbers on the nearby hallowed ridge. Arrest your pitiful mewling. The end does not last long.” The elder made a sign. Several of a troop of sombre-faced warriors descended on Yimbir to drag the struggling bandit to his knees and cart him off into their custody. Risgan nodded with approval. He noted these tribesmen favoured the muddied feathers of the royal guard in their hair.

  “Now that the sacrilege has been partially atoned for, let us speak civilly,” the elder advised gruffly. “I trust that you will observe ordinances and restore those consecrated items that you have doubtless disinterred?”

  Risgan gave a gallant sweep of hand as if it were foremost on his mind. “A few mouldering bibelots, nothing more, Chief, which I instantly covered up with the utmost respect—” He led the elder to his own recently-covered up hole, which was filled by the fortuitous excesses of Yimbir’s digging.

  The chief made a grunt and a doubtful face. He personally dismounted from his turlyn to make private searches through their belongings and though he and his dour comrades picked through the sum of their saddlebags and cloaks, they found nothing incriminatory.

  The chief nodded peremptorily. “Very well! Go, then! And let this be a lesson to all your ignorant meddling.” He shook a commanding fist. “But be forewarned, though. I have earmarked you to Bvon, our benevolent deity. Further infringements will be punished without mercy!”

  Risgan took up the elder’s advice with a solemn propriety. He expressed his further discontent at Yimbir’s churlish manners. Sounds of chaos, scuffles and screeches resounded to their ears beyond the mound before there was an abrupt blow, a chop, and a helpless squeal which only terminated in a muted sobbing.

  Balael blinked his agreement. “Boors, these bandits. It comes as no surprise that Yimbir must meet his doom—though he and his brethren do have pertinent uses, as has been witnessed of late.”

  Risgan agreed, although somewhat sombrely.

  The company retreated from the unseemly sounds and breathed undeserved relief.

  “An awful lot of work for nothing,” reflected Jurna.

  “At least we were not caught red-handed by the Huags,” Hape remarked.

  Risgan gave a throaty laugh. “You think?” He y removed the heavy blanket covering one of the didors’ backs and craftily revealed the false extension to the pack-mount’s hind hump. It was a bag tightly wound and containing many significant relics. “I anticipated the visit of these busybodying desertmen and by dint of experience, thought to avoid an embarrassing misunderstanding. Look!” he cried. “Two bronze star-finders, a broken pot, some chert awls and a series of other bric-a-brac. We were duped by the mendacious Yimbir, agreed, but let us put duplicity behind us. The thief, doubtless, is contemplating the scope of his misdeeds this very moment, if the ghoulmen haven’t had their way with him. But, I natter on. I quite fancy this rattle.”

  “A mere child’s gimcrack,” growled Kahel. “Throw it away. ’Tis worthless, despite Moeze’s claims.”

  Risgan jealously pulled the item closer to his side. “By no means! Your pessimistic attitude towards antiquities throws a cloud of apathy over us all.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” grumbled Kahel.

  To this pronouncement, all were in accord, except Kahel. Risgan looked back to the retreating Huags and forwarded the company a solemn warning. “Listen! We must continue future excavations with a maximum of vigilance. This is my counsel.”

  There were mutters of mixed agreement.

  * * *

  As
they made their way back to Durne, the troupe kept sharp watch for marauding tribes. From the crossroads, they plunged on through the cherry-plum gloom even as night was almost upon them. Kesharian raiders set on them on the fourth day and Kahel shot arrows until his fingers bled. He unhorsed two desert men, lean as foxes, faces reddish-brown as dun deer. Risgan clubbed a desert rider in the groin who had swerved close and tried to disarm him with his heavy didor net. The turlyns’ forked antlers, which the where-backs lacked, became battering rams against enemy mounts, for which Jurna had fashioned a deadly lariat, worse than the tavern thieves’, and snared many turlyn riders from a distance, pulling them in to be speared through the vitals by Balael. Hape had become a menace with his slingshot recently confiscated from the Xumanthian bandits. Balael fought no less valiantly, a master of sabre, club, slingshot and lariat. Overcoming his timidity, Hape threw knives with capable skill while Moeze chanted incantations which stopped many a stone sling or arrow from being lodged in their necks.

  Eighteen tribesmen fought against their six, and the bandits looked to have won. Dislodging Risgan’s relic pouch, they veered in for the kill. It was a key point in the battle. Risgan, taken with foolish sentimentality, jumped down to retrieve the purse, for it contained his youth talisman. At the same moment a moon-faced rider glimpsed the ancient rattle that had spilled forth. He stopped short. His look of stunned horror surprised even Risgan. The rider turned tail, cowering amongst his people, gesticulating, gibbering, and their whooping chief was given to momentary silence.

  On an impulse, Risgan snatched up the rattle and gave it an exuberant shake. The relic contained some sort of eldritch stones or beads and its eldritch clatter prompted a fear and had the superstitious running amongst the tribesmen was a source of wonder. All enemy ears trained in Risgan’s direction. Many fled on turlyns; three on foot. The remaining riders were either too spooked or too injured to flee.

  Nodding knowingly, Risgan thought to employ tactics of similar nature should a band of primitives pounce on them unawares.