The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  You know very well who I am and what I am,' said Elkin. You know all Selzirk would turn against me if it was known that I was a wizard of Ebber.'

  'Very well!' said Sarazin. 'Kill your blackmailers! I'm sure you have the power. I well remember what you did to me.'

  'Ah,' said Elkin, "but you are but one person. Those who now contend against me are many. This is an underworld conspiracy I'm up against. The gangsters concerned are four score in number – far more than I could handle at once.'

  You underestimate yourself,' said Sarazin, 'Why, you nearly killed me when I… when I tried to force your will for my benefit.'

  'But you were close,' said Elkin. 'It is easy to control people who are close. As distance increases, so does the problem of control. I cannot get all four score of my enemies under one roof to control them.'

  'Then turn one against the others,' said Sarazin. 'Make one a weapon of murder.' ‘I cannot do that,' said Elkin.

  'But you made me ride to Smork to attack Tarkal!' said Sarazin.

  'Nonsense!' said Elkin. You wanted to go. You demanded to go! Against my best advice you insisted on going.' 'True,' conceded Sarazin.

  'It was very minor magic I worked that night,' said Elkin. You expected to go. So I only had to give you the illusion that you were doing what you had chosen to do.'

  'But,' objected Sarazin, 'Fox came along with us. You persuaded Fox to the mission to Smork.'

  'No!' said Elkin. 'I did no such thing. You yourself did the persuading when Benthorn wanted to kill his father Fox.'

  'So I did,' conceded Sarazin. 'But – you had to create the illusion of my presence in the minds of all the people there.'

  'Easy!' said Elkin. 'It was night, so I conjured you in their minds simply as a voice and a shadow. Both shadows and voices are trivial illusions. Fox sought to grapple with you. If he had grabbed you – why, I could not have conjured the flesh. He would have found himself holding smoke.'

  'It was, still, a powerful illusion,' said Sarazin. 'For, while I lay insensible in Selzirk, my experience was that I rode with Benthorn and the others to Smork.'

  'Ah!' said Elkin. 'But remember what happened before I launched you into the illusion!'

  ' I had that funny turn,' said Sarazin. I feared… I feared the epilepsy.'

  Yes,' said Elkin. 'A standard trick of the wizards of Ebber! Before launching someone into a world of illusions, give them cause to think themselves very sick indeed. Then they will read any flaw in the illusion as a symptom of their sickness.' 'Cunning!' said Sarazin.

  'Necessary,' said Elkin, 'for this magic is exhausting to exercise and limited in its effects. You see, the night of the raid on Smork I never made you see or do any- thing contrary to your expectations. Nor did I tamper with your will. You acted that night of your own free will.' 'I see,' said Sarazin.

  'So,' said Elkin, 'I cannot oppose an extensive criminal conspiracy with magic. I could not make one criminal murder his fellows. At best, I could kill a few of them – but then the survivors would betray me promptly. So I have a choice: to stay here and be blackmailed or to come with you to Hok.' 'Why not go to Drangsturm?' said Sarazin. The southern sun is too hot for my liking,' said Elkin. 'Really!' said Sarazin.

  'Well,' said Elkin, 'if you must know, I have political enemies in the Confederation of Wizards. I cannot return to the Confederation's castles at Drangsturm because those enemies would prove my death. I am an outcast. A pariah. An exile.' 'But what will you find in Hok?' said Sarazin.

  The most valuable commodity in all the world,' said Elkin. 'Time! Time to plan my next move. Whatever that might be.'

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tor: a ferocious blood-drinking ogre whose brutal rule made Stokos a sink of iniquity, its coarse, licentious society characterised by devil worship, lawless debauchery, feuding torture and death.

  Then Salvation arrived. A religion arose to free Stokos from the ogre's cruel oppression. Guided by notions of purity, chastity, Universal Benevolence and other High Thoughts equally as beautiful, the priests of the Flame overthrew Tor, and now are leading Stokos towards a radiant future under the guidance of Gouda Muck.

  Unfortunately, the ogre Tor refuses to die. He dwells as a bandit in Hok, a mountainous province of the Harvest Plains just a few sea-leagues from Stokos. Moreover, he does not live quietly, but proves his unprincipled depravity by sending kamikaze squads to infiltrate Stokos, subjecting the nascent Utopia to the worst kinds of ter- rorist outrage: arson, kidnapping and assassination.

  In early summer in the year Alliance 4326, Sean Sarazin – now known to the army as Watashi – marched forth from Selzirk with six hundred troops under his command. He was bound for the province of Hok, there to do battle against the dreaded Tor, a man-demolishing ogre from Stokos, the swordsmiths' island.

  This time, Sarazin had good, reliable troops, so doubted he would need any military police. Nevertheless, a three- way agreement between Regency, army and Watch saw Thodric Jarl join the expedition with twenty volunteers from the Watch, all sworn to maintain discipline.

  Each day, Sarazin took the place of honour right at the front of the army, ahead of the dust and stench of his trampling troops. Epelthin Elkin rode there also, and they talked idly of this and that as they made their way south- west towards Hok's distant mountains. Glambrax, mounted on a donkey, and armed as usual with a crossbow, rode to the rear, diligently memorising the army's repertoire of scatological songs.

  Day by day it grew hotter and hotter until one day Sarazin finally stripped to the waist and rode on half- naked, luxuriating in the sun's heat. His amulet, catching the glitter of the sun, excited Elkin's curiosity. 'What is that?' said the wizard.

  'A great treasure,' said Sarazin, passing it over. 'I bought it from Benthorn. It's an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom.'

  'I doubt it,' said Elkin. 'For no elves have dwelt in Argan for the last ten thousand years or more. If, indeed, there were ever such things as elves at all.'

  You mean… you mean I was conned?' said Sarazin. 'I was tricked? This is worthless?' Yes,' said Elkin. 'It's just a trinket.' And he pocketed it. Casually. 'Give me that!' said Sarazin, suddenly furious.

  Elderly wizards – and grim, ascetic elderly wizards like Epelthin Elkin in particular – do not take a childish interest in worthless baubles. You want this?' said Elkin. 'Very well! Have it!'

  And he tossed it to Sarazin, who snatched it from the sky, his hand a hawk-swift talon striking.

  'All right,' said Sarazin, breathing heavily. Tell me. What does it do? Does it command minds? Rule armies? Conjure dragons? Break mountains? Raise storms? Summon the dead? Or what?' 'Nothing like that,' said Elkin dourly. 'Then what?' said Sarazin.

  'If you'll trust an old man with your toy for another moment or two, I'll show you,' said Elkin.

  Sarazin hesitated, then handed over his amulet. Elkin studied it with care, then nudged one of the silver stars, and a man's voice began to speak in a sonorous, long- winded language which Sarazin strongly suspected was the High Speech of wizards. 'This,' said Elkin, 'is the bard.' 'A bard?'

  The bard. Scholarship knows of only one. This must be it: the lost bard of Untunchilamon.' Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin, startled.

  Thus the druid Upical had named the leader of the dread of dragons which lurked within Sarazin's magic snuff bottle of leaf-green jade. 'You've heard the name, have you?' said Elkin. 'Yes,' said Sarazin.

  He wondered whether the wizard would pry within his brain for the details. The thought of such intrusion made his flesh crawl. But Elkin simply said:

  That's not so surprising, for Untunchilamon has fame in the east, though it is little known in this part of the world.'

  'Pray, then,' said Sarazin, 'tell me of Untunchilamon, and of this bard for which I paid all of fifty skilders.'

  As he stressed his ownership thus, Sarazin held out his hand for the bard. Reluctantly, Elkin gave it back to him.

  'This is no instrument of power,' said Elkin, 'but I lust f
or it, since it is of limitless value to scholarship. The lost bard of Untunchilamon holds the voice of antiquity's greatest poet, Saba Yavendar.' 'Saying what? Secrets of magic? Of treasure? Of power?'

  'Reciting his Warsong and, his Winesong in their entirety,' said Elkin.

  Sarazin, who knew of these famous epic poems, under- stood why a scholar like Elkin would long to own the bard.

  'It is known as the bard of Untunchilamon,' said Elkin, Tjecause Untunchilamon is where it was last seen. It was lost within living memory when a time of troubles came upon that island.' 'Where is this island, Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin.

  'It lies mid-ocean between Argan and Yestron,' said Elkin. 'There the magic of the east meets the power of the west. The wizards of Argan are the stronger, but the sorcerers of Yestron command effects more subtle and various. The conjugation of these-' 'Do they breed dragons on this island?' 'What? I was talking about sorcery.'

  Yes, but. Dragons. Do they breed them? On Untun- chilamon?'

  'I have no idea what meats they raise on the island' said Elkin testily. 'Perhaps they eat dragons, perhaps chickens. Or perhaps they breed both. If you wish to know what blood adorns their table, then a long journey awaits you.'

  Dragons are not bred for the table,' said Sarazin. 'I know that already.'

  You speak in ignorance,' said Elkin. 'For the imperial dragon of Yestron is a dish most valued at banquet. The flesh, however, is rank and rancid unless the beast has been fed for the most part upon honey. Hence imperial dragons are usually raised in the vicinity of beehives, which is unfortunate because-'

  'Do they have imperial dragons on Untunchilamon? Are they fierce?'

  'What's wrong with you?' said Elkin. Your mind's all over the place. For the truth of Untunchilamon, I suggest you quest to the island yourself. I'd be interested myself in your report, since much of the rumour which has come to the attention of scholarship is, I suspect, untruthful.'

  They were then interrupted by Thodric Jarl, who wanted to discuss arrangements for their camp that night. And Sarazin did not thereafter question Elkin about bards, dragons and Untunchilamon, for, much as he wanted information, he feared the wizard might become too curious.

  Sarazin's ring of invisibility and his dragon-bottle were treasures beyond price. His magic candle also per- haps had its value. He feared that the wizard of Ebber, if he learnt of their existence, might be tempted to steal them. Admittedly, the valuables were safe from instant theft, since Sarazin had left them behind in Selzirk – just as he had for the campaign in Tyte. But he did not trust Elkin.

  Perhaps – though he denied it – Elkin did indeed have the power to change minds permanently. He might be able to force Sarazin against his will: to send him back to Selzirk to retrieve the dragon bottle, the ring and the candle, and to bring these treasures to his lair in Hok.

  Even the bard, which held nothing but poetry, had tempted the old wizard powerfully. So the greater treasures must stay a secret lest they prove to be Sarazin's death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Hok: fair land of sky-soaring peaks adorned with beauty in dawn and twilight alike (a poet's opinion); a barren land of sheep farts and peasants impressed by the eloquence of the same (opinion of a cosmopolite); a bitching hole, a galgize sludgeon, a regular sunth (opinion of a long- suffering footsoldier who actually had to march through the place with a pack on his back).

  Thus Sarazin marched south towards Hok. His mission wa amp; simple: to meet the ogre Tor in battle and kill him, capture him or drive him out of Hok.

  Tor's territory was the Willow Vale, a substantial valley opening on to Hok's southern coast. To get there, Sarazin would have to march his army over the Eagle Pass, which was high, narrow and easily defended. His maps of the pass were poor and long out of date, but he decided against sending out scouts to reconnoitre the place, fearing this might alert the enemy to his approach.

  Near the mountains, the land became flat and marshy. Pools of stagnant water rankled with insects. Fat, slow, bumbling flies the size of a fist droned through the long, hot, sweating afternoons. They settled upon necks, arms and faces, unwelcome as the hand of a child molester.

  'Graap groop greep greep,' sang a million million freckled frogs, welcoming the conquering hero. Sarazin shuddered.

  This place was all too much like the approaches to Tyte. Then he raised his eyes to the mountains and was reassured. Good rock awaited: not filthy wastelands of slime where cackling anarchists could mock his blundering scouts by day and night alike. -But how much mud parts us from the mountains?

  The foremost soldiers were already walking ankle-deep in mud. At first the rest followed in a column, but this meant the last of the men were walking through mud trampled to knee-deep liquid filth, and the baggage wagons were getting hopelessly mired. So Jarl had the army spread out in a line abreast.

  In its wake, the army left bog-sprawling footprints and slovenly wheelruts which slowly filled with the glitter of water.

  Where do we sleep?' said Sarazin in something like despair, for he saw nowhere dry.

  Once, on his long campaign in Tyte, he had spent nine days up to his waist in liquid mud. He had scarcely slept at all – though he had hallucinated often. If he had to endure that again, he would – he would- -I would die!

  Mud, mud, mudl Everywhere! No wood for fires, either. Just the evil green of luxuriant grasses growing hot, rank and feverish. A hallucinatory flash of kalaidoscopic colour from the wings of a dragonfly. 'We sleep in liquid mud,' said Jarl.

  Then, without warning, dismounted. His hand lunged for something, throwing up a spray of mud and water. He hauled a pink snake to daylight. A snake? No, it was an eel. An eel? A worm! A worm as thick as a wrist and as long as a leg.

  Sarazin opened his mouth to say something – and a fist-sized fly tried to wing its way into the slubbering warmth within. Sarazin battered at the thing with such force he nearly broke his jaw. He swigged a little sun-hot water from a leather bottle, swooshed it round his mouth then spat. He shuddered, imagining he still felt the fly's touch upon his lips.

  'What happened?' said Jarl, who was bundling the struggling worm into one of his saddlebags.

  'A fly kissed me,' said Sarazin, doing his most heroic best to joke about his trauma.

  'FunI' said Jarl, mounting up. 'Sandpaper your hps and they'll be right enough.'

  Sarazin wondered what Jarl wanted the worm for – then decided he would rather not know. As his horses plodded on at baggage-wagon speed, the young com- mander studied his soldiers. He heard the occasional coarse guffaw, the odd snatch of song. His men were happy enough. But… after a night in the mud? 'Tonight,' said Sarazin. Yes?'

  Tonight we won't stop. We'll march for the mountains – we can hardly get lost. I reckon we'll be there by dawn. Hard rock and, with luck, some firewood with it. What say?'

  'It's your decision,' said Jarl. 'It all depends on whether the mud deepens closer to the mountains. If you'd sent scouts forward to reconnoitre then we'd know. I can't for the life of me think why you haven't done so.'

  You never suggested it!' said Sarazin, stung.._ You shouldn't need me to hold your hand,' said Jarl. •A great help you are,' said Sarazin bitterly, and sig- nalled his heralds to come to him that they might receive his orders.

  Then screamed with rage and slapped his cheek, splatter- ing a huge fly which had been pestering at his sweat. He looked at the ghastly mess on his hand then swore, then dismounted and, for want of anything better, wiped both hand and cheek against the flank of his horse.

  At least there had not been monstrous flies in the marshlands of Tyte. Hies of regular size, yes. And leeches, swamp snakes and bad-tempered eels which bit. But nothing quite so disgusting.

  At dawn they reached the mountains which rose in walls from the mud. The sheer escarpments were interrupted by a narrow, steep-rising valley. This led to the Eagle Pass – and it was obviously impassable by baggage wagons. 'What now?' said Sarazin. You work it out,' said Jarl. Sarazin cons
idered. Then spoke.

  "My campaign fails if the enemy can hold the pass against me. So my priority is to seize the heights. I need speed. Surprise. Every day's delay increases the chance that the enemy will discover my advance and reinforce the pass. So we'll leave all our baggage here and march light and fast now, today, immediately.' 'Not immediately,' said Jarl. 'Let's have breakfast first.'

  They breakfasted. Then marched. At dayfail, they were near the top of the valley. And early the next day they reached the heights. A hundred of the enemy defended the pass, but these – to Sarazin's disappointment – surrendered without a fight in the face of overwhelming odds.

  Still, he was delighted by his success. He had seized a major objective. His bloodless victory had given him a taste for more. Conquest, triumph, glory. It was good in itself. Beautiful, beautiful! "f

  Sarazin had the enemy's commander dragged before him. This was a big blond peasant who, after being cuffed a couple of times, admitted that he spoke Galish. His name, he said, was Heth. Interrogation proceeded.

  'We thought attack unlikely from the north,' said Heth. Why do you march against us? We're not at war with the Harvest Plains. Our enemy is the usurpers who have overthrown the rightful rule of kings on Stokos.'

  'Don't give us that nonsense,' said Sarazin. You're supporters of the evil ogre Tor, as well we know. You fight with an ogre against human beings. You should be ashamed of yourself!'

  'Ashamed of what?' said Heth. 'Of honour? Of loyalty? Of patriotism?'

  This argument could have gone on for a very long time indeed, but Jarl, with something of a growl, inter- rupted. Then demanded to know the disposition of Tor's forces.

  Most of our men guard the coast,' said Heth. We always feared attack from Stokos, hence women, children, animals and stores are kept in a camp in the northernmost part of the Willow Vale. If you descend from the Eagle Pass then you will come upon that camp directly.'

  'Good news,' said Sarazin, happy to believe it. Then it occurred to him that Heth might be lying. So, watching Heth carefully, he said: 'But it could be a trap.'