The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  Glambrax scrambled on to the plinth, hopped towards the arch, then jumped right through. But he did not disappear into another world or another time. Instead, he landed on the marble of the plinth, scarcely half a pace from where he had started. The Door was not working. It was nothing more than a hoop of cold metal stuck in some cold stone. 'Piss on it!' said Sarazin in frustration.

  As Glambrax suited actions to his words, Sarazin searched for the niche said to be set in the plinth. He found such a niche, but it was innocent of any star-globe. Sarazin sat on a rock, idly tossing a stone from one hand to the other, pretending he was thinking. 'What now?' said Glambrax. 'What do you suggest?' said Sarazin.

  'A night at the theatre, a couple of good ales, then we can catch a dog and rape it.'

  As Glambrax grabbed hold of a virginal stone and began to demonstrate his dog-raping technique, Sarazin sighed, and started to think in earnest. There was no sign of any recent intrusion into the valley. Green growth had repaired the blast damage where wizards had used flame against the Swarms. There were no fresh tracks. The Door, he suspected, had been shut for quite some time.

  'Do you want to use my rock?' said Glambrax. 'I've broken it in for you.' 'I want,' said Sarazin, 'to start building a house.' 'Whatever for? We're not going to stay here, are we?' 'Got any better ideas?' 'Hok,' said Glambrax. 'Castle X-n'dix.'

  'Dunderhead!' said Sarazin. 'It's half a thousand leagues from here to Hok. The full width of the Harvest Plains lies between us and it.'

  'Not so,' said Glambrax. 'Hok is but two hundred leagues distant.'

  'What a happy little optimist!' said Sarazin. 'I'll split the difference. We'll say it's 350 leagues away. That's 35 marches. Besides, we've no more food, and my boots are finished as it is. This Door may open tomorrow, then we can go through to – to-' 'To meet our ancestors,' said Glambrax, smirking.

  'You'll never meet yours,' retorted Sarazin. 'They'd flee from the disgrace on the instant.'

  In the end, Sarazin's will prevailed: they would stay. And wait. Hoping that the Door would finally open.

  Sarazin's plan was to build a house and live off the land. Erecting a shack proved easy enough, but land-living was a tougher proposition. Then Glambrax confessed to knowing the location of a couple of supply dumps back near the hunting lodge. A raid on those dumps uncovered great quantities of mouldering rice. Bit by bit, they carried the rice back to the Door. And ate, and slept, and ate again – and waited.

  After many days of eking out a miserable existence by the Door, Sarazin and Glambrax were flushed out of the valley by a keflo, one of the monsters of the Swarms. They eluded it – just! – then narrowly escaped death in the form of another gigantic green centipede.

  Clearly, the Swarms had pushed into Chenameg from the Harvest Plains, and were now in the Kingdom in quantity. Sarazin and Glambrax escaped south into rough-torn mountain heights where the Swarms could not venture. They now had a choice.

  First, to stay put and starve in the barrens above the treeline, where a hunter could not be guaranteed success even if the quarry was earthworms.

  Alternatively, to march east of south, descending into the desolation of the Marabin Erg then daring a march to the shores of the Sponge Sea. But the Marabin Erg was a man-destroying desert with a fearsome reputation, and the Sponge Sea itself was but a name from legend. Or…

  Sarazin recalled the interrogation of Atsimo Andra- novory, Erhed, and others. On deserting the quest hero Morgan Hastsword Hearst in the dragonlands near the Araconch Waters, Andranovory and his companions had eventually found their way down the Velvet River which, after flowing through the Manaray Gorge, entered the Kingdom at the Gates of Chenameg – thereafter running westward down to the Harvest Plains and the waters of the Central Ocean.

  This is what we do,' said Sarazin to Glambrax. 'We march widdershins through the mountains till we come to the Manaray Gorge. We follow the Velvet River east into the interior, then dare a passage across the dragonlands till we come to Brine.' Then?' said Glambrax.

  'We hope for a ship to Ashmolea,' said Sarazin. There's no hope left for Argan.' 'Gahl' said Glambrax.

  The dwarf was in a bad temper, which did not improve when the violence of the mountain upthrusts forced them to descend once more to the lowlands of Chenameg to dare the danger of the Swarms and seek passage through the wilderness to the Gates of Chenameg. Such were the dif- ficulties of their journey that it was early summer before they finally drew near those Gates.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Gates of Chenameg: western end of Manaray Gorge where Velvet River issues into Chenameg.

  Sarazin expected no hindrance to his projected journey up the Velvet River to the Araconch Waters. But, on drawing near the Manaray Gorge, he found hordes of refugees camped at the Gates of Chenameg. Many were newcomers like himself, driven east by encroaching monsters.

  The Velvet River, pouring from the Manaray Gorge in a turbulent torrent, could not be ascended – except by salmon. Precipitous cliffs forbade escape to the east but by one narrow path clinging to the southern side of the gorge. The Gates were heavily fortified, and the Lord of the Gates taxed all who used that path. Sarazin's first impressions were: Mud, stench and noise.

  Mud from unpaved ground trampled by thousands. Stench from sewage unburied. Noise from pranking children, wailing babies, howling dogs, ranting roosters. Everywhere Sarazin looked there was something to offend his sensibilities.

  Why waste our efforts feeding dogs when the world slips to disaster?' said he.

  'Because we in turn on dogs may feed,' said Glambrax. 'Look!'

  Indeed, at a nearby stall dead dogs were hung up for sale, while others, their hind legs broken so they could not escape, waited for purchase and slaughter.

  Other uncouth meats were on sale. Rats, mice, carrion crows, toads, frogs, snails, worms. And stranger things, such as lumps of flesh of phosphorescent blue. Hard jelly tinged with green. Thin sheets of pliable, transluscent red flecked with gold. To his relief, Sarazin saw one could also buy fish.

  On enquiry, he found the alien meats he had failed to identify were the flesh of monsters of the Swarms. Men hunted such in highly organised bands of two or three hundred, armed not just with spears and crossbows but also with powerful arbalests originally designed for siege warfare. 'So the Swarms can be fought,' said Sarazin with relief.

  "That is scarcely news,' said a stranger. 'For the last three thousand years and more the Landguard have defended the Far South against any monsters from the Deep which fluked a passage past Drangsturm.'

  'But now we know the secret of this combat too,' said Sarazin.

  'There is no secret, unless you call weight of numbers a secret. A crossbow well-handled can bring down an elephant, so it is no surprise that stray monsters fall to our companies. But when the odds are reversed, when the Swarms come east in their thousands, then we must leave or die.' 'Why linger then?' said Sarazin.

  'Why not?' said the stranger. The days are no longer in Brine, the sky no more blue in Ashmolea. I work as a hunter in Karendor's company. It won't last forever, but it's a good life while it lasts.'

  'Then – you're one of these who hunt against the Swarms?'

  'Indeed. Would you care to join us? We're always looking for good men.' 'I'll think about it,' said Sarazin.

  'You do that. You'll find us in the stockade downriver from this – this mud. You can't miss it. The stockade's the size of a castle, a huge wall of earth, logs and stones, with the head of a green as a trophy over the gate.' 'A green?' said Sarazin.

  'A green centipede,' said the stranger. 'Come, man – you have the look of a soldier. Why hesitate? Join us today. We'd find work for your dwarf as well. Smoking meat and such.'

  'I am but newly arrived,' said Sarazin, 'and there are some people I would like to look for first. But if I find them not, you may see me at your door tomorrow.'

  Then he parted company with the stranger and explored the refugee camp further. But saw not a single face he
knew. He asked after friends, acquaintances – even enemies. Fox? Farfalla? Lod? Lord Regan? Jaluba? Thodric Jarl? Amantha? Benthorn? Plovey? Tarkal of Chenameg? The quest hero Morgan Hastsword Hearst? The wizard Miphon? Blackwood of Estar? Madam Sosostris?

  He heard rumours of some of these, but the rumours were contradictory, so he despaired of learning the truth. Tired and hungry, he considered his options. He must find employment soon, or starve. In this camp, food could only be bought for gold or silver, and he had neither.

  At last, late that afternoon, Sarazin decided to present himself to the lord of the Gates. What could he offer such a lord? Why, his sword and his service, of course. He was a trained soldier, an experienced army commander, a veteran of battle. Perhaps, too, he could give the man his bard. It would be a pity to part with such a treasure, but the gift might sweeten the audience should the lord of the Gates prove hostile.

  So thinking, Sarazin dared the challenge of the guards of the Gates. "Who are you?' said the guards.

  'Know that I am Sean Kelebes Sarazin, named in battle as Watashi. I demand an audience with the guardian of these Gates.'

  'What about the halfling at your heels? Your servant, is it? Or your clown?'

  'I,' said Glambrax, proudly, 'am Aldarch the Third, Mutilator of Yestron.'

  'A clown, then,' said the guard. 'Enter, the pair of you! Our lord may be amused by clown and clown- master.' Who is your lord?' said Sarazin.

  'He goes by several names,' answered one of the guards, "but hereabouts we call him sir.'

  Once inside, Sarazin was not asked for his weapon, but was flanked by two armed and armoured guards, leading him to suspect that the warlord he had come to see was not in the habit of trust. Glambrax, however, trotting along behind them, was not flattered with a guard of his own.

  Since much of Argan's skill was being funnelled through the Gates of Chenameg, the master of those Gates had no trouble recruiting talent. Many carpenters, stonemasons, architects and labourers had entered his service, and had raised all manner of buildings for his delight. One was a high-gabled throne room with a floor of cold grey flagstones.

  On admission to the throne room, Sarazin found it doubled as an armoury: a wealth of weaponwork was hung on its walls. But Sarazin had no eyes for steel. All his attention was given to the blond runt who sat on silken cushions on a throne fashioned from black iron. -Oh no! The lord of the Gates was grinning. Welcome,' said he.

  'My lord,' said Sarazin, 'I am at your service.' And gave his most courtly bow to the master of the Gates, who was none other than the pirate Drake Douay.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Name: Drake Douay.

  Occupation: undisputed master of the Gates of Chenameg. Status: a hero of the Age of Darkness which has come upon Argan with the fall of Drangsturm. Description: compact body marked by scars from heroic battles with bloodthirsty Yarglat barbarians from Tameran, evil pirates devoid of pity, man-devouring sea serpents and fell monsters too numerous to detail.

  It is to be regretted that some of the scars which mar the beauty of the noble Douay are the consequence of prolonged torture endured in Selzirk after his capture by minions of a certain ungentleman named Sean Kelebes Sarazin, also known as Watashi…

  While Sarazin's head was still bowed, Douay snapped his fingers. In response to this command, his guards grabbed Sarazin and relieved him of sword, sheath and swordbelt. 'Search,' said Douay.

  This single word provoked a strip search. Sarazin protested at this humiliation. A guard hit him. Hard. In the solar plexus. Sarazin went down on his knees. The pain was paralysing. He could not breathe.

  'Not so rough, man,' said Douay, jumping down from his throne. 'I've my own pleasures to take with this bitch.'

  Sarazin, kneeling naked on cold stone, found his breath, raised his head and said: You call me a bitch?'

  'Aye, and a thief,' said Douay, striding forward. Sarazin's few possessions had been piled in a heap. Douay scattered them with a kick, then fished out the bard from the wreckage. "What's this?' he said.

  The bard,' said Sarazin. 'The Lost Bard of Untunchi- lamon.'

  TVIy bard!' said Douay. Won by me in Ling, aye, from Guardian Machines who screamed for my death as they fought me. Right proper it served me, aye, saved a whole ship from mutiny once, for such is the power of the thing. Then this bitch Watashi stole it from me. A thief, aye, that's what he is. His dwarf's a thief into the bargain!'

  With that, Douay scooped up one of Sarazin's boots and hurled it at Glambrax, who, thinking himself unobserved, had been detaching a dagger from a weapon rack on the northern wall. The boot missed, and Glambrax fled.

  Taking the dagger with him. Douay did not bother order- ing a pursuit.

  'I – I apologise for the bad behaviour of my dwarf,' said Sarazin.

  'The bitch thinks to apologise,' said Douay. He grabbed a hank of Sarazin's hair and yanked. Hard. 'Apologise! That's what he thinks to do. But for what? For a worthless dagger, that's all. Not for the larger things. Blood, bashings, beatings, threats, kidnap, arrest without trial, torture, unlawful detention, aye, I could go on, but life's too short for the catalogue.'

  Such was Douay's anger that Sarazin knew his only hope of survival was to kill his foe. 'May I stand?' said he.

  'Our four-legged bitch wishes to perform for us,' said Douay. 'To show us the lesser breeds can dare themselves upright on two feet only. Very well then. Stand!' So saying, Douay released Sarazin's hair.

  And Sarazin rose, knowing he would only get one chance. It would have to be a killing blow. A straight blow to the throat. Douay struck.

  Down went Sarazin, struck while still thinking, still rising. Down he went, hands flailing at the ground to break his fall. And a boot smashed into his ribs. And: -And I'm going to die!

  But he did not die. He was still alive when he was bundled into a bloodstained torture chamber and strapped down to a torture bench.

  The torture chamber was warm. The shutters were closed against the day, keeping out the winds. Heavy iron cooked slowly in braziers. Hot. Red hot. 'Comfortable?' said Douay.

  'What do you want?' answered Sarazin, speaking with difficulty, half-convinced his swollen jaw was broken. 'The truth,' said Douay.

  Sarazin, bound to cold wood, looked up at Drake Douay and saw a face as loveless as that of a rapist. Douay was no longer grinning. The beating he had given Sarazin in the throne room had been but a game. Now the real business of revenge was going to begin.

  'Torture' continued Douay, as Sarazin held his silence, 'is an acknowledged road to the truth. They say as much in Selzirk, in any case. Do you dispute it?' 'Selzirk has fallen,' said Sarazin.

  'Then regard this as enquiry historical,' said Douay. 'I will prove out Selzirk's methods by iron upon flesh.'

  What do you want to know?' said Sarazin, with a sense of ^! rising desperation.

  'Why, the truth!' said Douay. 'Nothing more, nothing less. You will number for me the fish in the sea. Then prove that number or perish.'

  'Prove?' said Sarazin. 'How can I prove anything when I'm naked on a breadboard?'

  This is no breadboard!' said Douay. This is a butcher's block. As for the how – why, that's your problem. Do well, Watashi. Do well – and you might live till morning.'

  With that,. Douay turned and departed, leaving Sarazin in the hands of the torturers, who were two in number: black-masked men who looked as if they enjoyed their business. These rubbed their hands, grinned at each other, then picked up instruments variously rough and sharp.

  'Come now!' said one. You're not going to cut off his toes, are you?' 'Why? What do you think we should do?' 'The teeth! That's the thing to start with.'

  'Oh no no no! I can't abide the sound of crunching teeth.' 'Well, you know how I feel about toes.' 'All right then, let's start with the nose.' 'Agreed! The nose!'

  One of the men opened the jaws of a pair of nose-cutters, loomed over Sarazin, and- And Sarazin fainted.

  When Sarazin recovered, it was night. He w
as still strapped down, utterly helpless. In terror, he looked for his torturers. They were nowhere to be seen. But dull fire glowed red in a brazier where iron was heating still, ready for their return.

  Sarazin's nose was still in place. But they would come back. They would hurt him, would cut him, would beat him. And he had no hope of escape, no hope what- soever. Helplessly, he began to cry.

  He sobbed, alone, lonely, utterly bereft. Hot tears blubbered from his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. It was not fair! How could they do this to him, to him, Sean Sarazin? 'I did nothing wrong,' he said. But nobody answered, of course.

  The fire glowed red. The darkness creaked. Wind was at work on the shutters of the torture chamber. And Sarazin's tears eased away at last, and he was left cold and shivering. Waiting for his torturers to return. Waiting for his death. More afraid than he had ever been in his life.

  At last, the grey dawn came like a cutthroat. The ashes in the brazier were cold. A whisk of wind found its way beneath the shutters, feathered the ashes, shifted a few to the floor. Sarazin shivered. Then heard footsteps. Soft footsteps. Creeping, creeping. He sucked on his tongue, summoned up saliva, moistened his dry throat, then said: 'I hear you, Douay.'

  'It's not him, moron,' said Glambrax. 'It's me.' The next moment, Glambrax was beside Sarazin, cutting him free with a dagger. When Sarazin's bonds had been severed, he got off the torture bench – and promptly collapsed to the floor. 'What ails you?' said Glambrax.

  Wly back,' said Sarazin, in agony. 'It's given way. I can't get up.'