by Hugh Cook
He picked up the larger pack by one of its shoulder straps and threw it to Sarazin. Who was almost bowled over by the weight. 'Grief!' said Sarazin. 'What's in it?'
'Oh, food and such,' said Douay. 'You couldn't travel with less.'
Sarazin thanked the magnanimous Douay for his mercy. And Glambrax, grinning, danced around the noble Douay, capering, bowing incessantly.
'Stop that!' said Sarazin sharply, horrified. This was no way to behave in the presence of one of the Favoured Blood!
Glambrax stopped capering, knelt, licked Douay's boots, then embraced him. At last, Douay slapped at the dwarf. Glambrax slipped away, grinning still.
'Must I leave?' said Sarazin to Douay. 'I would fain put my sword at your service.'
'Aye, mayhap,' said Douay softly. 'But black humours come upon me when I rage at dark and light alike then kill, aye, my blade terrible to behold for it glows with a light like blood. Then no steel can prevail against mine. Aye, stone itself gives way before my blade.' 'How so?' said Sarazin, amazed.
'It is a dark matter of witchcraft,' said Douay. 'This curse has lain upon the ruling house of the Scattered Empire for generations, that their sons will be beset at times with evil. Best you leave, Watashi, before the fit comes on me yet again.' 'You… you kill many?' said Sarazin.
'When the fit is upon me my servants feed my blade with victims,' said Douay. 'Aye, throw me cats and such. But, Watashi, despite my mercy there is a part of me which hates you still. I'll not deny it. When next the madness comes, I fear that cats will not suffice. My blade will hunt you, aye. And cut closer than shaving, I promise you that.' 'Perhaps a wizard…?'
'Man,' said Douay, you think I've not sought help from every quarter? Wizards are frauds, I've told you before. This is witchcraft, the real source of evil. This I must endure. Such is my burden.'
So spoke the noble Douay, his voice unwavering, a tragic courage written in his face. And Sarazin, humbled by such courage, such suffering, such grandeur in defeat, went down on his knees before this scion of the House of Hexagon, who permitted Sarazin to kiss his hand.
Then Sarazin was given back his own sword, sheath and swordbelt, x and was given new boots as well. With his equipment complete, he shouldered his pack and set off, with Glambrax as ever just a footstep behind him.
Thus, in early summer in the year Alliance 4328, Sean Sarazin and his untrusty dwarf Glambrax departed from the Gates of Chenameg and trekked east. They hoped to travel beside the Velvet River to the Araconch Waters, the enormous freshwater lake in the desolate heartland of Argan North. From there, they hoped to trek north through the dragonlands to a tributary of the Amodeo River, then follow that river downstream to the far, far distant seaport of Brine.
That seaport was in the north-east of Argan, and from there they could get passage across the seas to foreign shores free from the threat of the Swarms. And to a new life as… as what?
That question would, doubtless, resolve itself in due course. For the moment, what mattered was to make the journey. Burdened by their packs, Sarazin and Glambrax laboured up the ever-climbing path clinging to the southern side of the Manaray Gorge. Finally they reached the rough- cut uplands.
On they trekked, forever keeping the Gorge on their left. This was a land of bones, of shadows, of rock and wind, with shambling mountains dominating the horizon. A lonely land, despite the many marks which showed that other refugees had been this way.
Finally, late in the afternoon, when they came upon a rill of water threading its way between jumbling boulders, Sarazin decided it was time to make camp. They had not eaten all day, nor had they drunk. So first they slaked their thirst, then they broke open their packs and rummaged within. Most of the weight proved to be pemmican – rich stuff made not just with meat but with nuts and dried cherries also.
As well as food, they had a change of clothes apiece and several changes of socks and four empty leather water- bottles. They also each had a single oblong strip of canvas with lightweight ropes sewn to each corner. These would provide a little marginal shelter against the worst of the weather. 'No gold,' said Sarazin gloomily.
When they finally got to Brine, they would be stony broke. He would probably have to sell his sword to buy them a passage out of the place.
'Ah,' said Glambrax, with an evil little laugh, 'but we're not entirely without treasure.' 'What do you mean?' said Sarazin.
Then Glambrax showed his master the trophies he had carried away with him from the Gates of Chenameg. During the formalities of the farewell, Glambrax had succeeded in picking the pockets of the noble Douay – and had stolen not just one bard but both of them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
'How could you?' said Sarazin furiously.
As the dwarf scrabbled to escape from his master's anger, Sarazin grabbed him by the hair. You're not going anywhere!' said Sarazin.
'So kill me then,' said Glambrax truculently. 'Where's your gratitude?' 'Gratitude?' said Sarazin. 'For what should I be grateful?' 'The bards! I thought you wanted them.'
Sarazin was ready to weep. Or to pound Glambrax to a pulp. How could he live with the shame? The noble Douay had forgiven him, after all the terrible things that had been done to him after his arrest by Sarazin's minions – and had been repaid by this outrageous act of theft.
Sean Sarazin could not even keep his dwarf in order. Yet he had once had such pretensions of grandeur that he had imagined himself as ruler of the Harvest Plains! Sarazin shook his dwarf.
Then pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the stones.
'I should kill you,' said Sarazin. 'But it wouldn't do any good.'
Glambrax made no answer, and in fact stayed stolidly silent for the rest of the afternoon.
Evening came, then night. Sarazin, depressed and exhausted, laid himself down to sleep. Though he was sleeping on stones, he was so fatigued that he slept solidly until he was woken at dawn by jubilant birdsong.
He rose and stripped himself. Took a piss. Looking at his cock as he did so. A peasant's cock. Ugly piece of animal anatomy. He had once flattered himself by thinking it intrinsically imperial. Had so deluded himself that he had thought himself worthy of a princess. Well…
He had no delusions left now. He was what he was: a homeless beggar bereft of all prospects.
Carefully, he washed himself with water from the rill. It was cold, and, shivering, he was glad to warm himself by the fire Glambrax had started. The two said nothing to each other as the sun rose, stretching early morning shadows across the landscape.
Sarazin was stiff and sore from yesterday's long hard march – and from the damage done to him by Drake Douay. But, after he had treated some of his aches and pains with a little liniment which some thoughtful person had included in his pack, he felt somewhat better, though his eyes were sore and he had a dull headache.
As he breakfasted on pemmican, he considered his options. They could always turn back, march all the way to the Gates and return the stolen bards to Douay. But what if Douay yielded to one of the black angers he had spoken of, and killed both Sarazin and Glambrax on the spot? 'We'd better go on,' said Sarazin.
Glambrax made no answer. Sulking? Or meditating? No, he was just otherwise engaged: busy grubbing dank clumps of noxious matter from the depths of his nose.
'Up!' said Sarazin. 'Up on your feet and get moving.'
By noon, both man and dwarf were footsore and thirsty. They had filled their waterbottles at their campsite before setting out but durst not drink unless they really had to – for there was no telling when they would next find water. Flies were pestering about Sarazin's face. Irritated, he slapped at them. Hard. Then, after hurting one of his ears, slapped with more care.
He started looking for somewhere cool, somewhere they could shelter to rest. After resting they could push on when it was cooler.
So thought Sarazin. But it was not until late in the afternoon that he spied a suitable place – a deep and dark- shadowed cave. Invigorated by such a welcome sight,
he strode towards it gratefully.
'Have a care,' said Glambrax, who by now had decided that he once more knew how to speak. 'There might be dragon or basilisk within. Or ogre – or worse!' 'Worse?' said Sarazin. 'What's worse?' 'A lawyer, perchance,' said Glambrax, and cackled.
But Sarazin went on regardless, imagining cool depths of batstone darkness and chilled water falling drip by drop. He found the cave noisy with flies – and from it breathed a stench which made him retch. But before he could flee, he saw all. The wounds, the heads, the limbs, the corpses deliquescing. He stumbled away from the cavemouth and collapsed insensible in the sun. He was roused by a boot in the ribs.
Opened his eyes. Saw shadows, boots. Heard voices. Muttering. A harsh laugh. '… meat for the Slavemaster…'
He stumbled from the ground, reaching for his weapon. And was hit from behind, bashed, knocked senseless. He measured his length on the ground and lay still.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Sean Sarazin had been ambushed by one of the many gangs of brigands which worked the territory between the Gates of Chenameg and the Araconch Waters. If Sarazin and
Glambrax had not been taken there and then, they would inevitably have fallen victim to one gang or another before they completed their journey, for only large and well- armed parties could hope to travel unmolested.
And nobody could hope to travel unobserved.
Once captured, Sarazin's fate was to be sold to the Slavemaster. The Slavemaster was the greatest gangster of them all, a warlord who traded with the lesser gangs and, from time to time, put together convoys which went to the Araconch Waters to trade with the greater warlords who had set themselves up in business there.
Sarazin, sick and sore, asked no questions about the Slavemaster as he was driven east along a track which never strayed far from the Manaray Gorge. At last, he was brought to a walled stockade built without a formidable cave complex.
There he was given leave to rest while they awaited the arrival of the Slavemaster. Rest he did, sprawled full length on raw rock, too weary by then for curiosity, regrets or despair. Glambrax stretched out beside him, for once too wearied for mischief.
For some time Sarazin lay there, almost comatose. Then he heard someone call his name. 'Ho, Sarazin I' said Lod.
Was it Lod? It certainly sounded like Lod. So Sarazin opened his eyes, and looked up, and saw… Tarkal. 'Do you recognise me?' said Tarkal, his face inscrutable.
'You are Tarkal of Chenameg,' said Sarazin wearily. 'You are of the Favoured Blood.'
'And you are Sean Sarazin, our honoured guest,' said a familiar voice, and, yes, it was indeed Lod, as large as life and as merry. And before Sarazin knew it he was being stripped of his clothes and bundled into a hot tub. After a bath came a massage, then sleep, blessed sleep in clean linen, as unexpected as his experience in Drake Douay's guest room, and every bit as welcome.
Tarkal of Chenameg, the Slavemaster himself, gave Sarazin two days to rest and recover before he invited him to dine with him. Glambrax attended the meal, as did Lod. Amantha was nowhere to be seen, and Sarazin did not like to ask where she was.
Throughout the meal, Lod and Glambrax made most of the running, chaffing each other, joking and jesting, punning and storytelling, while Sarazin and Tarkal sat in silence, preoccupied by their own thoughts. At that dinner, Tarkal wore one of the bards which had been taken from Sarazin, while Lod wore the other. Sarazin wondered if he would ever get them back.
During the meal, Glambrax told outrageous stories about the terrible Drake Douay, who, by his account, had tried to torture Sean Sarazin to death. He gave a spirited and improbable account of their escape from Douay.
'… and just as well we escaped,' said Glambrax. 'For he'd sworn to cut up young Sean as ratbait.' 'What about yourself?' said Lod.
'Why, no, not me,' said Glambrax, 'for I never tortured him as Sarazin did.' At that, Tarkal finally spoke: You tortured Douay? 'In Selzirk,' said Sarazin.
For he could not deny responsibility, even though the actual inflicting of pain had been done by other hands. You were lucky indeed to escape,' said Tarkal.
'Oh, lucky enough,' said Sarazin, in no mood to tell the truth, since it would have been a laborious process to unstitch all of Glambrax's lies – and, besides, the truth was shameful, involving as it did the theft of Douay's bards. 'Still,' continued Sarazin, 'you've been lucky yourself.'
What?' said Tarkal. To be ruling here? As Slavemaster? There was no luck in that, friend Sarazin. I was in the right place at the right time.'
'Of course,' said Sarazin. 'Ruling in Shin and all.' It would have been easy for Tarkal to remove himself and his people from Shin to the wastelands long before refugees were on the move in great numbers. 'But why then didn't you set yourself up at the Gates?'
'Oh, I did,' said Tarkal. 'When word reached Shin that the Swarms were invading, I saw my opportunity. I saw what must inevitably happen. There are few routes of escape, and the Gates are one of the best. So I set myself up as lord of the Gates.' 'Then – what? Douay came?'
'No. A brute called Groth pushed me out of the Gates. Douay – or Lord Dreldragon, or whatever you want to call him – came later. I've never met him. Yet.' 'You're thinking of meeting him?' said Sarazin.
'I'm curious,' said Tarkal. 'Curious to see what he might do with Sean Sarazin.'
He said it quietly. Watching Sean Sarazin. Who saw Glambrax wink at him. The dwarf had anticipated this!
'You joke, of course,' said Sarazin, casually. 'For you have honour, surely. Douay is a monster, a brute addicted to slaughter and torture. He hates me as he'd hate a sister- killer. Tarkal, I know there's true nobility in your nature, thus… your jest frightens me not, for I know it for what it is.'
Tarkal chewed on some fish, spat out a stray scale, then said:
'Indeed I jest. Tomorrow, Sean, I'll let you go east. I'm running a convoy east to the lords of the Araconch Waters. You'll be my guest of honour on the trek.'
'Tell me then,' said Sarazin urbanely, 'what manner of lords be these? In the history I learnt, the shores of the Waters were empty of human life.'
'Indeed,' said Tarkal. 'Well, Lod can tell you the ins and outs of recent history.'
And Lod obliged, telling of the sanguinary events which had accompanied the mass influx of refugees, of the lordlings who had made themselves suzerain over one wretched piece of rock or another, of war, murder, killing, torture, organised rape, slavery, cannibalism, oppression, treachery and assorted bloodbaths – history in miniature, in fact.
Late that night, Lod came in secret to Sarazin and told him another tale. According to Lod, Tarkal hated Sarazin intensely because, in Lod's words:
'Your marriage to his dear sister Amantha was but a form of rape.'
By Lod's account, in the morning Sarazin would be seized, gagged, tied, taken down through ever-descending caves to one which opened by the shores of the Velvet River, deep in the sunless depths of the Manaray Gorge.
'There,' said Lod, 'you will be loaded on to a raft and taken downriver to Douay. Do you understand?'
'I understand,' said Sarazin, gently, 'that you were ever a joker, Lod, my friend. But tonight I think the joke in the worst of taste. Surely it is an evil thing for you to thus impugn your brother's honour. Why, I remember when once you swore he sought to murder you!'
'So he did,' said Lod darkly, "but I've purchased my life through the worst kind of abasement.' 'You've roused my interest,' said Sarazin. 'Pray tell!'
'Now you joke!' said Lod. 'Your life is at stake! You must run, run, run tonight or you're doomed, dead, done for!'
Lod became so insistent that, at last, Sarazin realised that Lod was not here on his own account but on Tarkal's. So he allowed Lod to chivvy him into his clothes, and then to lead him to freedom – and, when Tarkal triumphantly ambushed them, Sarazin consented to scream in feigned terror and despair.
Though he found the whole performance hard work, for he was not one of the world's natural thespians.
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CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next morning, Sarazin was hogtied and loaded on to the raft that was to take him downstream to the Gates of Chenameg. Tarkal and Lod were both coming along for the journey, as were half a dozen fighting men.
'Why does my dwarf run free?' said Sarazin, for Glam- brax was capering on the raft.
'He has sworn himself to my service,' said Tarkal. 'At least until we reach the Gates.'
'Glambrax!' said Sarazin. 'How could you? You vile, treacherous, gamos-sucking turd!'
In response, Glambrax simply hauled out his shlong and pissed all over the unfortunate Sean Sarazin. Who screamed in wrath which – this time – was not feigned at all.
Then, mercifully, Sarazin was gagged, which meant he need do no more acting. Tarkal's fighting men untied the raft and pushed it out into the flow of the Velvet River and away they went, bucketing down the swift-flowing river which sprinted between the sullen walls of the Manaray Gorge.
In truth, Sarazin was worried about his reception at the Gates of Chenameg. Drake Douay would doubtless have a lot to say about the theft of his precious bards. However, Sarazin hoped the truth would serve. Glambrax could take the blame – and a whipping, too, if Douay decided that was what he deserved.
Unless the anger of madness was upon the noble Douay, nothing worse should befall Sarazin and Glambrax at the gates.
But then man and dwarf would be back where they had started from, unless Sarazin could turn this situation to his advantage. Unless he judged Douay wrongly, the man, however noble, had a bloody sense of humour. Perhaps Sarazin could tempt him into arranging some gladiatorial games. -Me versus Tarkal. That's the thing!
Sean Sarazin knew he had sinned by his crimes against the Favoured Blood as represented by the noble Douay. But it would surely be no crime for him to fight and kill Tarkal, even though he was of low birth – for Tarkal was a murderer. Sarazin knew it.
