Wolf's-head, Rogues of Bindar Book I

Rogues of
Bindar Book I

Chris
Turner

Copyright 2011 Chris Turner

Cover Design: Chris Turner

Published by Innersky Books on Smashwords

Discover other titles by Chris Turner at
Smashwords.com

This is a work of fiction. All the characters
and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are
used fictitiously.

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It was in a dream that illumination dawned.
Escape was so simple! Humiliating months of hard labour in a
rag-tag gang of scoundrels had made him grim and cunning. As he
chipped away at the mortar of the wall’s one loosened rock, the
magical gladius gleamed. He reflected on how his curiosity for the
arcane, his thirst for adventure had brought him to such an
unexpected pass.

If only the cursed allure of the circus
tents, the entertainments of the performers had not drawn him into
a break from routine.

The stone gave way. Now there was no turning
back . . .

From
Chaplain’s modern guide to misconceived terms:

“
Enchanter:
One who brings plausibility to the most farfetched acts,
fascinating the eye, the ear, and creating a sense of ‘suspended
wonder’.

Common
methods: sleight of hand, illusion, dissembling, hypnotism,
alteration. Held in general contempt are snake-charming, hoaxing,
trained owls, talking amulets and the like . . .
”

I

Grey listless
morn. A questionable time to be out catching rockgobblers on the
beach, but here he was, Baus, a handsome youth, watching the surf
lick the sand like mischievous serpents’ tongues. He had sea-green
eyes, a tinge of swarthiness, a jauntiness to step, a canniness to
gaze, an affability of voice. Not far from Heagram’s port, the
beach stretched languidly, as did the sea, a quilt of deepest aqua.
The drab, chill stillness promised nothing to improve Baus’s
spirit.

While his
creative faculties wandered over the less-than-optimal
circumstance, he scuffed at the tow line anchored fast in the sand.
Only yesterday he had been upbraided by Harky the shoremaster for
inadequate productivity, namely, a measly dredging up of only four
rockgobblers and two nibblers. Baus had impressed on the
shoremaster’s mind the damaging effect of negative affirmations,
but had received only stern reprimands in return.

He thrust
himself back to his grey reality. The matted tangle of nets stunk
of rotten fish; the joints were braced with iron, fickle with rust,
causing his fingertips to bleed. Swoops of lavender cloud hung in
swirls of muted colour. Northward ran a shoreline the hue of wharf
planks; to the south, a broad expanse of mud flats, dark and slick
in low tide. Almost at the edge of his vision, he discerned smoke
rings—dragging above the low cluster of stone and timber buildings,
the salt-washed precincts of Heagram.

Baus pulled
back at the dark masses of his hair, scowling. Was there any way to
get out of this dreary loop? He had a quick mind, deft hands, even
a sensitive soul—how could he not try his luck at another
occupation?

The idea
seemed grandiose. He fingered his loose ponytail trailing down his
back. Who was to say he would be any better off elsewhere?

Grimacing,
Baus pounded the pair of brickboar breeches clinging to his thighs.
He grunted at their sea-drenched and patched quality. Despite their
disrepair, they fitted him admirably, accentuating his lean figure.
A sea charm of translucent green hung on a cord about his neck, a
gift from his father, very similar to a companion piece he kept in
his pocket won in a dice match of ‘Varlets and Vixens’. He recalled
the time well on Heagram’s quayside in
Snogmald Tavern
, his
victory over a pair of ribald Brislin boatswains.

Normally he
would be out sailing the
Calaan
—sheeting the one-masted
fishing sloop and trawling for gallfish or snogmald, but the boat
was currently hoisted on the wharf, facing repairs—the underbelly
had been recklessly driven close to Fiddler’s reef and a hole was
staved in her stern. As a result he was relegated to baiting the
rockgobbler traps and repairing the gallfish nets and searching for
razor clams and the odd mollusc which happened to wash upon the
shore . . .

A league out
to sea blossomed Illim Island whose cypress-rich mystery cast dull
shadows upon the swells.

Baus lay down
his paltry basket of catches and slumped himself down on a wet
rock. A few lubberly scows bobbed out in the harbour—odd shapes
which he recognized as Mesmelter’s cog, Jubben’s
Gobblerbane
and Leaster’s
Windfall
. A large carrack rode the deeps—her
high hull riding proudly on the water. Her polished oaken masts
shafted high and her white sails hung limply in a near non-existent
wind. Likely one of Prince Arnin’s scouts, mused Baus—a presence,
which, outside of the capricious wind itself proved an unnerving
coincidence, indicating the presence of freebooters troubling the
seas.

Baus turned
his gaze away. The vessels continued in their courses, moving like
sluggish turtles confined to a grievous march across a trackless
waste.

A week passed
and he stood rooted in the same spot, staring out over the ocean.
How many days had passed? Without anything significant happening in
his life? Eking out this existence on the wearisome mud flats was a
tedium beyond measure. Was he really living? He scratched his
stubbly cheek and realized that there was no more time for waiting
. . .

A distant
clank of metal issued from a stone’s throw away. Following came the
faint trickle of laughter and a call of an ekloon dipping in the
wind.

Baus peered,
perked up ears, and saw past the crumbling sea wall a score of men
stretching tarps along the communal flats. Tepee-like canopies were
being hoisted upon sturdy poles. Why were they so animated at this
early hour?

Uncertainty
changed to understanding. The fall fair was in play!

Baus trooped
back along the beach, surprised that he had forgotten. The
pencil-gaunt shapes of Harky and Nillard caught his eye. They
struggled awkwardly in the shallows, wresting a substantial wrack
of tangled nets from the brine and heaving them over their
shoulders.

Baus gave the
pair wide berth, knowing it was unwise to alert them to his
truancy.

He manoeuvred
closer to the pier and the mud flats stretched out to the water’s
edge where sounds of activity grew louder and more insistent. A
sandier strip of beach graced the bluff’s toes further inland.

Baus strode
on, arriving at a pillbox-shaped shelter of ill-fitted yew which
rose out of the sand like a sore wound. A lurid sign was pasted
above a copper goat’s bell and a club, reading ‘B-E-A-C-H
M-O-N-I-T-O-R’. The individual who manned the booth was of no great
stature. He sat on a high stool, wearing a mauve and black
pin-striped uniform. He wore his hair straight and simple, stiff as
rope, plastered to both sides of his head. A leather cord,
outfitted with black pearls and gull feathers, was wrapped about
his neck. Neither humble nor extravagant, this youth sported a pair
of squirrelly ears, a flattened nose, moon-grey eyes and a
disagreeable overbite which fixed his expression into a perpetual
grin.

Baus forced
out a greeting. Here was Weavil—town poet, laureate of odes, also
known as ‘beach monitor’. He whittled a limb of sea-beech with
innocent absorption. At his side clumped a tangle of nets and a
basket of sharp stakes, the product of his labours. In his spare
time, the poet was obliged to weave nets and whittle stakes for the
weirs, which at present were failing.

Baus tipped
his head in a formal salute.

The poet made
similar motions. “And where be we off to in such a mood of
peccadillo, Baus? Tormenting limpets and cockles as usual?” His
tone was phrased with a lofty courtesy.

“My greatest
bondage,” replied the fisherman. “And you? Still on guard for
Vrang, our elusive sea drake?”

“Never a
sign!” admitted Weavil. Mock unhappiness seemed to trace a
mischievous crinkle on his sea-lined face. “Though the legend says
the monster will fly, crimson, mighty-scaled, one day past the
Wistish Isles beyond the rim of the world!”

Baus made a
sardonic retort. “Bah! I shouldn’t be giving energy to this legend,
Weavil, or holding my breath for any drakes.”

“And who makes
you the expert?” Weavil croaked. “Are they all monkey-tales? A duty
’tis a duty.” He cocked his head to one side and seemed more a
weasel poking its neck out of a hole than a man. “I wonder about
your wisdom . . . you still have not answered my question.”

Baus
flourished impatiently. “I journey to Heagram’s fair—to reckon what
is to be reckoned.”

“A plan of
providence!” The poet jumped down from his perch. He crowded his
companion with eager enthusiasm. “Perhaps I shall taste the annual
festivities too.” He smoothed out his pin-striped vest and
straightened up taller in his seat. “Not on this instant though, as
I am engaged in ‘shore duty’, upon which I must wholly focus.”

“A sensible
plan,” declared Baus. “It is unthinkable to dip in the waters of
the Flam while on duty.”

Weavil gave an
admonitory grunt. “The razor clam and dogtooth fern surely slice
the flesh and sting the bones. You know well that Prefect Barth has
instructed me to monitor all people who approach the water. ’Tis a
known fact that my sole agency is to spy out drakes and inform the
masses of possible hazards and perils!”

“’Tis truth,
and only too evident by your modest signage. Yet my remarks remain
unaltered—I advance to the fair, and with that, I bid you good
day.” Baus sauntered off, whistling a happy note while Weavil gazed
enviously after him.

II

The port of
Heagram was populated with many folk of many qualities. It hosted a
venerable, old-style architecture rich with stone-carved fountains,
flagstoned plazas, vined archways, antique buildings and esteemed
monuments. An old bell tower stood off to the centre of
Beerstrom’s
plaza
. Curiously, a phalanx of varnished
boats and retired seacraft flanked the cool, cobbled
Sea
Alley
. Tending toward the river tumbled an array of low pilings
in the harbour, pot-darkened at their bottoms and supporting a
collection of wide wooden slats. A host of sailcraft, including the
swift two-masted
Wind Stallion
and the voluptuous
Latitude Fey
lay moored, while farther along the pier, in
somewhat murkier waters, dories and lighters lay berthed, along
with junk fishing boats, scows, cogs, paint-peeled and barnacled.
Since the beginning, Heagram harbour had been shaped in the form of
a sickle where the two rivers, the Flig and the Flam joined the
Poesasian. Now Baus saw narrow wooded peaks riding past the
conjunction of the two watercourses. Several warehouses, the
boatwright’s yard, a collection of foundries and Durgen’s
scrapyard, made themselves known, also the old gravel road,
Castaway’s Trail
, which wound its way past Muoffen’s mill
and up the Flam’s nearest foreshore. Inland past the pubs and
valestone residences loomed the grand town hall and a picturesque
schoolhouse, with freshly painted yellow roof. Behind rose ranks of
woody briar-oak, tinged with a late summer green. On top of the
bluffs the old lighthouse shone from a glassy beacon, heralding
craft from the sea.