Forsaken Magic- Witch of the Thorn

by Chris Turner

  Risgan loosed an inarticulate cry. He snatched at the youth talisman and with the other hand he seized his gibbeth club, which lay on the floor. He contemplated his chances against two armed attendants, but neither looked easy adversaries.

  Risgan’s eyes darted about; he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, framed indistinctly in the doorway, wrapped in loose brown robes. Mistis! What was he doing here? And who was that skulking rat behind him? Could it be Vosta? The dirty scavengers! How had they got here? Likely they’d poisoned the Pontific’s mind against him behind his back with lies and twisted truths—anything to gain possession of the fabled nephrite for which they hankered.

  Pantius leaped at him, his nails bared and ready to tear his throat out.

  Risgan staggered back. Not eager was he to gad about in the attempt at explanations. A dagger was drawn, from Pantius’s jewelled waistband. Instinctively, Risgan bared his club, while searching for another exit. The chamber was cursedly small. Only one egress—the open window, and a poor choice at that, for it was a long way down to the court below. But better than being spitted on the Pontific’s poniard.

  Risgan made an instinctive grab for the heavy drape by the window. It gave him a bare-edge head start as he swung out onto the roof and into the night air. Catlike, he landed on his toes on the slanted landing below, momentarily crouching as the Pontific’s dagger hummed dangerously close to his ear. It clattered on the tile and disappeared into the heavy folds of darkness. Risgan wasted no time. Sprinting up the adjoining roof, he gained its peak before another projectile almost caught him in the ribs. Even as he grunted, a strange hissing ball of light came spinning over the crest seeking his head.

  Mistis! Risgan cursed. No doubt a gift courtesy of the fey magician. Pantherlike, Risgan descended a small steep roof and grabbed at the next open window where he hauled himself in. Out of the servants’ chamber he sprang, then on through the opposite window. Leaping with desperation, he landed down into the west wing to vault out onto the eaves while the alley teetered below him like a gulch. The golden half moon hung lopsidedly in the misted sky, like some drunken sickle.

  His fall to the next roof was a long one. Being nimble and a good observer and lover of old architecture, he had noted the exact height at which he had mounted the Pontific’s study and the angle of the stones and the roofs on the march about the palace. There was only a hop and skip to the kitchens—then down into the north-west alley.

  In another life Risgan would have done well as a thief, even an acrobat, and he laughed at such pretence, considering his own relic-retrieving.

  An alarm bell clanged in his head—a real bell this time, from the direction of the palace’s armoury. The furor of booted feet rang in the upper halls.

  Risgan’s ears burned.

  What a cockup! He deplored this squeeze-play.

  A pair of sentries stood guarding the north arch to his ill luck, at the lip of the moat: sleepy figures who could not be seen from his vantage from the lower section of roof. When he dropped in front of them, they muttered oaths of surprise. One of the grim-jowled waysman struck out with his poleax. Risgan jerked back, an inch from decapitation. He prepared for another strike. The guard jabbed the curled weapon at his gut while Risgan dodged back blindly, swinging his club, barely avoiding a lethal slash which put a long nick in the man’s upper arm.

  Delicacy was impossible, so he clubbed his first aggressor down in a fury of defensive survival then ran from the other, who took up chase like an enraged gibbon. His ceremonial armour clanged after him down the paves.

  Risgan gained the footbridge. Sprinting over the greenish moat, he fled down the moonlit alley with a feverish haste, the jingle of the Pontific’s gold at his belt. Across several cross ways he weaved—through alleys and small nighted courts like a chased rat, knowing all the time that his life depended on his speed and cleverness.

  The sentry behind was encumbered by mail and accoutrements and Risgan was soon allowed a small advantage.

  He sucked in a breath. Buffering his face with his cloak to avoid detection of locals who might recognize him, he scrambled down a vacant alley looming in darkness. Another alley swung at right angles, crossed with only a single exit. A haven—for now.

  He threw himself under a layer of crusty old rain tarps, covering what was metallic refuse from a foundry. Lying there panting, he pressed himself closer against the cold cobblestones. No one had seen him. Before first light of dawn he would slink out of this hiding spot and make an escape. For now he must not move. Foolhardy to sally forth on the main streets now: guards would be crawling like spiders with palace waysmen.

  Risgan breathed out a curse. The city slept, and while the gates were shut, he would wait...

  An hour passed. Then another. He heard the background thrum of voices and steel slithering from scabbards, and new activity: shouts, cries, general bedlam. A new search? He frowned. Obviously the Pontific was livid with the failed capture of him. Risgan could not forget during this time the dog-snouted face of Vosta peering in the door of the Pontific’s study. Curse his treacherous hide! Mistis and Vosta must have followed him when he was summoned for the mission. So that had been the illusive figures tailing him. They had waited at the golden door of the palace, pleading entry under the pretence of passing important information on to the Pontific and recounting their tale of lies and scandal. Risgan ground his teeth. The audacity of the blackguards was beyond imagination. His head swam with anger.

  Why wait for daybreak to exit Zanzuria then? He chewed his lip, struck with a sudden idea. Sneaking out from under his tarp, he ducked close to the cobbles. He slunk quiet as a mouse along the lines of thick black shadows and patches of stone. Down to the canals he loped on the western side of the city, still a league from the Badan River. No time to stop at his friend Replex’s residence. A shame. He was on the wrong side of town. Likely it would be watched by wary eyes.

  Risgan spied Replex’s gondola tied to the stone pylon at the canal’s jetty. A bat flitted out of the bow, then fled into the night. Across the canal, a few tired wharfers were battening down boats before tripping to the clubhouse from where lanterns winked and the clink of glasses tinkled. Risgan stared down dubiously at the slim, battered craft. Nothing more than a long low getaway boat with ribbed sides. The pole was in plain sight, hinged at the gunwales, obviously a sign that Replex felt no concern at the prospect of thievery.

  Risgan’s cheeks curled in a grin. His friend smuggled contraband to and from Zanzuria and would not mind the absence of this miserable craft, particularly after all the business Risgan had given him over the years. Necessity posed that he commandeer his boat...

  No great loss to abandon his trunk of relics at the theatre, meagre as it was: the Pontific’s minions would seize it anyways and wait there forever for his return. But they would not find him. A thrill of anticipation gripped his gut; he almost relished the thought of new adventures... things had become somewhat stale in Zanzuria...

  Risgan patted the bag of the Pontific’s gold tied at his side. He chuckled, thinking that not all luck had abandoned him. He unmoored Replex’s craft and negotiated the placid waters with his single pole. Then passed under a small arched bridge and dark overhangs until he was well out of the city, under the tall looming outer gates still unbarred under the night’s embrace and at the confluence of the Badan.

  The moon passed behind a thick cloud of darkness. The full weight of reality pressed in on him. Soundlessly, he slipped downriver.

  Thornkeep

  Risgan paddled himself downriver, keeping far from the shore. He was distressed by the sloshing of water in his boots. He hopped sidewise to discover a leak in his craft—Replex had been remiss in maintaining its underbelly. Groaning, he pulled at the oars, struggling to guide the sinking gondola shoreward. The thing was wallowing fast and Risgan bared his teeth in the dark with frustration. Silver ripples shimmered on the moonlit surface. The Badan was well known for the thrukules which inhabited it, ruthless p
arasites infesting men’s guts. He vowed not to suffer such a fate. With a fury he paddled. Yet the more desperate his efforts grew, the slower his craft crawled, and in the end, he was forced to abandon it, dogpaddling for shore with fierce frustration.

  His gondola listed, the bottom swamped in a foot of water, with him sputtering to keep his lips from the infested waters. He scrambled onto the shore, stumbling amongst the driftwood, pawing himself clean and wiping his mouth, nose and ears. At the last minute he realized that his bag of coins had slipped from his belt and sunk to the bottom of the river. Risgan’s lips worked in a cry of dismay. His craft bubbled under—also the last hope of any quick escape from the Pantius’s realm...

  The sounds of crickets faded; the crick-crick gave way to birdsong as he trudged glumly along the shore while the moon slipped away and the sky became a shroud of hazy mauve-grey. The Lune mountains shimmered to the west, a fairy blue colour. Far north lay the Mazgul forest, olive-green and fox-brown, cut by the Badan river which shifted in lazy, random patterns. To the south, grey clouds covered the horizon, the way back toward ill-veiled Zanzuria a sore sight. Yet he must get to the other side of this cursed river! Bounty hunters would be on him soon. There lay the Mazgul forests... a respite... while here in open country he was no better than a sitting duck to the Pontific’s scouts, men-at-arms and network of spies.

  The thump of a patrol came from nearby—three armed soldiers cantering on low-lying where-backs: horned and shaggy beasts.

  Risgan stifled a curse. How had the patrol happened on him so quickly? Flinging himself to the ground, he fingered the club at his belt. Vosta again? Wincing with anger, he pored over his past actions. Only the trader knew his haunts that intimately, being a fellow retriever at a time in the past. He clutched at the sodden wish bone in his pocket and wished the menace to disappear. Oddly, the bone grew warm in his fingers. Risgan blinked. The party suddenly turned away, apparently distracted by a small animal, as seemingly insignificant as the sound was.

  Could the magic be that extant? Risgan twitched in new hope. Inching his way along the wet ground, he hoped to elude the patrols and to find better cover from the dampness. He managed to conceal himself in some shrubs while the group was occupied.

  Staring at the wish bone, he was struck with a disturbing truth. Obviously the curio harboured some magical power—an ability to shift natural events. But it was much beyond his understanding.

  Risgan took to the scant trail winding down the riverside, he hoped to cross the river before day’s end. Not to his surprise, he passed several small farmsteads where teams of where-backs in idly. The swishing of their tails and their fat bellies gave an impression of abundance and him an instant idea. He slunk to an unmanned croft far back from the river. From the rickety stable he contrived to ‘borrow’ a small where-back—a mule of stumpy quality but a look of determined mettle. The local farmer wouldn’t mind—a charitable sort he hoped, a Morphor perhaps, one who would understand its loss. Risgan left a few prayer beads in compensation for his theft, hoping that the where-back could aid in his disguise as a peddler. Such a beast would hardly assist in speed, but Risgan could not be choosy at this time. Likely by now, messages had gone out by carrier pigeon to the neighbouring kingdoms. Messages describing a tall shaggy brute with quick feet and a gibbeth femur as weapon. It was inevitable that he would be caught, and it was something that he dreaded like the plague.

  Minutes passed. Acquiring the steed, he greased his tawny hair back with mud from the barnyard and applied a bit of dung to the wish bone and the youth talisman. A small shovel from the shed proved useful for some digging if the opportunity arose. He snatched up a straw hat pegged on a nail, pulled it low over his forehead then made his clothes appear all the greener by squeezing on them the juice of several bagor leaves and aromatic plants that grew by the river. It was filthy work but there was nothing to be done. He was not a master of disguise for nothing.

  The day wore on and Risgan, trudging alongside the river, wandered a region of butter-oak and sprawling olapio which marked the green pastures of farmers’ fresh-sown wheat. The odd carven boulder reared up like a menhir while whereunts and ibex grazed drowsily in the fields. The river leaned to his right and he encountered few wayfarers in this district. He kept his feet close to the dull-sheening water with the road to his left and himself as far from view as possible.

  The odd fisherman paddled in a rowboat or a lazy barge inched by on the currents. A few docks pocked the shoreline where timber-cutters loaded wood onto a moored barge or stevedores loaded bales onto other moored craft. Risgan gave these men and their activities wide berth.

  He came to more small villages and sure enough, encountered a band of where-back riders—Baron Bousaka’s soldiers by the look of them.

  Risgan exhaled a sharp breath. The sky-blue eagle standard rose high on their pennons at the where-back’s rumps; Risgan duly noted the sullen, inflexible expressions of the men.

  “Halt!” cried the lead rider at Risgan. “We are on the lookout for a rogue, a relic-hunting rascal, who spoiled the Pontific’s pageant with some magic and caused the Pontific’s associates significant distress.”

  Risgan muttered under his breath, scowling under the reek and dirt of his disguise. “I hope you capture this rogue and beat his hide silly for me.”

  “We shall, no doubt of that. And what is your story?”

  “I’m just a simple bumpkin on his way to the fish market, sirs. I plan to catch more on the way. I leave you to your business. Good day.” He gave a ceremonious salute and took up his journey.

  “Wait!” one of the riders scoffed in a gruff manner. He wore a formal blue-blazoned tabard. “You seem to have characteristics of this rogue—a tall, slippery-tongued varlet with a breezy air.”

  Risgan frowned. “That insinuation is most demeaning. You call me a varlet for being tall? I’m no relic-trader, as you can plainly see. I ride this mule like a penniless rube and take no spade.”

  “Then what is this small pick or odd-looking scoop I see bulging through your cloak?” He rode over and rifled Risgan’s garment.

  “A ceremonial piece only,” protested Risgan. “I am a devout Morphor, a man who worships the work of the field and power of the soil growing its wondrous wheat. The scoop is a universal icon, serving only to double as an instrument for cleaning up after a bowel movement.”

  “That’s a stretch,” the other muttered. “I sense an ironic tone to your words. That, and an inordinate amount of mud on your face. What is all this filthy green stuff too, smeared on your cloak then? It carries with it an offensive reek, also a queer sheen, which accompanies the smell of sow’s cider.”

  “The sheen is simply a trick of the light,” Risgan explained, “the green, a nasty consequence of tumbling down a hill nearly into the foul river. I lay there in a daze and swooned. I advise you to steer clear of the river! There’s noxious bagor weed that itches. As for the mud—”

  “Enough of your prattle.”

  “No, wait, Hardrad,” called another. “I wish to hear more about this alleged ‘mud’. Well, what of it?”

  “’Tis easily explained.”

  “Please do.”

  Risgan bit his lip, thinking fast. “As I stooped to drink water by the brook, a queer molefish—well, jacktrout jumped and landed on a lily-pad, thus disturbing the mud at the bottom of the pool and splashing me with this grime.”

  “Is that so?” There was a pause of ironic incredulity. “Do you take us for duffers?”

  Another growled, “Aye, why did you not lave your face free of the mud?”

  “And spoil the luck of having a rare creature bestow a boon upon me? Madness, sirs! I could suffer infestations from the local thrukules. The idea is folly.”

  The lead rider continued in a strained questioning voice full of scorn. “You’re a sweet talker for so dull a bumpkin wrapped in your peddler’s garb. I think, also, a suspicious peddler wrapped in such tawdry garb with few wares on the back of his mu
le.”

  “The explanation is simple—”

  “The time for explanations is over, peasant! Seize him! I believe this scoundrel to be this rogue we’re after, travelling in a dung-clinging disguise.”

  Several hands reached for Risgan. Before he could contrive an escape, he was pulled off his mount.

  “Here now, have a care with my gear!” cried Risgan.

  A scout splashed water over his head and removed the straw hat. Squinty eyes flashed at him then stared queerly. “Here, now! You’re that same yellow-headed rascal I saw laying the spell on my lord, Baron Bousaka in the market!”

  “That’s a fantastic yarn!” protested Risgan. “Have you been drinking river water?”

  “Enough! Bind him.”

  The baron’s men brought rope and before Risgan could resist, he was coiled, corded and bound tightly by hemp. The seven waysmen rifled his cloak for coins but left the talismans, which looked little better than child playtoys. On a whim, a rider seized the wish bone and tried to use it for his own gain.

  Without success. Others followed. Bawling out demands for women, fame, riches, and other prizes, they grew boisterous when nothing happened and they cast Risgan dark looks.

  Risgan asked for the curio back if only for sentimental reasons. They laughed at him and stuffed the bone in Risgan’s breeches. Grimacing at the abrasion to a sensitive member, Risgan bawled out threats but they covered his head with a burlap sack and slapped him on the back of the mule where he lay helpless. The youth talisman they avoided, owing to the large amount of barnyard dung that Risgan had smeared on it. The lieutenant tied the mule’s tether to his saddle and Risgan was soon bumping harshly along the road.

  Hours passed. After a brief camp, the riders made way again to the baron’s estate and Risgan’s pleas were ignored, no less his bribes which were dismissed. Much idle talk took place around the topic of the Pontific and his beautiful consort during this time. Risgan learned that the bounty hunters would layover at Bousaka’s castle high in the wooded hills to arrange shipment of their prisoner back to Zanzuria, likely with a hefty reward in waiting.