The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5

by Hugh Cook

  Nothing else could explain King Lyra's mysterious death in a bog in Chenameg on the occasion of that long-ago hunt in winter, shortly after Sarazin had seen the famous phoenix renew itself in a temple in Shin.

  – He murdered his father to win the throne. There- fore his death is due. I would be but an instrument of justice.

  And, with a little help from Douay, after Sarazin had despatched Tarkal he could surely seize the Slavemaster's cave complex, and set himself up as a warlord in his own right. It was all so logical, so natural, so inevitable that it was irresistible. -Killing Tarkal. That will be the hard bit.

  Sarazin's confidence in his bladework had been shaken since his clash with Douay in which Douay had defeated and disarmed him. But then, Douay was a greater warlord than the notorious Groth, and Groth himself had earlier displaced Tarkal as master of the Gates, which suggested Tarkal was no great warmaster. -Besides, I've fought him before. -And I won.

  Yes. And Sarazin remembered his own post mortem on his first duel with Tarkal. He could have killed the prince of Chenameg if his heart had really been in the fight – rather than in staying alive. -This time, I will kill him! So thought Sarazin.

  Then thought no more, for the raft hit rapids which made thought impossible, such was the terror of their progress. Terror at least for Sean Sarazin – for, tied and gagged as he was, he had not the slightest hope of survival if he was washed overboard.

  Lod and Tarkal, for their part, whooped in exultation as the raft plunged through treacherous turbulence and hissing chutes where water exploded into spray. The raft rocked, kicked, bucked, whirled round and lurched in a sickening fashion.

  Wave after wave of cold water swept over the pas- sengers. Sarazin – cold, cold! – shivered and shivered. Wondering if he would die of exposure before they ever reached the Gates. Then the raft nosed into the water and Sean Sarazin was lifted up and carried away entirely. He tried to scream. Gagged, he could not. Then an agonising pain tore at his scalp.

  'Got you!' cried Tarkal, hauling Sarazin back on to the raft. Then, leaning close to Sarazin, the Slavemaster said: 'You don't get away that easily. Oh no. For you're very special to me, oh yes, as special to me as Douay.'

  Then Tarkal kissed Sarazin on the forehead, gently, gently. Drawing blood was a pleasure reserved for the future. 'Gates ahead!' cried Lod. Sarazin thought: -Already?

  But of course. For the horseracing river trifled with distances which meant dawn-to-dusk labour for a man slogging along with a heavily laden pack.

  He closed his eyes as the raft ploughed down one last water-slope. The raft rocked and bucked as they churned through the final rapids. Then Tarkal screamed in triumph, and Sarazin knew they were out of the Gates. Or almost. He opened his eyes. Saw rock-snap spray, a water-splintered sun, and something out of nightmare swooping towards them. Something human screamed as wing-claws snatched it. Tarkal, screaming and swearing, drew his sword. The weapon went spinning as something whipped him away into the water.

  Lod drew his own blade – then thought better of it, and dived into the water. 'Kill the prisoner,' said one of Tarkal's surviving men.

  A subordinate drew steel, loomed above Sarazin. Who gazed upwards, eyes bulging in terror. And saw the sky shudder to shadow, saw his assailant's body ripped to the sky. -Neversh. The thought was a scream.

  And screams audible split the sky as another man was torn away. A scythe-sweeping tail slashed across the raft, mowing down the survivors. Sarazin closed his eyes. Then opened them. For: -This is the last of life. He did not choose to die in self-made darkness.

  So he gazed open-eyed at the scene. The Neversh in the sky, two of them. No, three. Four! Five! A full five of the monsters, nightmarish creatures of the Swarms, enormous brutes flailing through the air in front of the Gates of Chenameg, attacking the slow and the foolish with feeding spikes, grapple-hooks and clawed feet, sweeping and slashing with whiplash tails which could kill a horse or break a man in half.

  From the battlements of Douay's fortress at the Gates of Chenameg, crossbowers unleashed their bolts, shooting at the low-flying monsters. One floundered, sank low, then struggled for height and flew out of Sarazin's field of vision.

  He bit ferociously at the gag in his mouth. He needed his voice, his voice! To scream for help. All it needed was one person to dare the river and tow his raft to safety. But it was not to be, for the gag held. And if the defenders of the Gates looked at the raft, doubtless they saw but a scattering of corpses aboard – nothing worth swimming for when the Neversh were in the skies. -Tarkal lived.

  So thought Sarazin, bitterly. He was almost certain the Slavemaster had been knocked overboard by the same blow from the tail of a Neversh which had sent his sword spinning away. -Lod too. So who's dead?

  Glambrax was dead. That was for certain. Sarazin could see the dwarf lying beneath a man's corpse, blood guttering from a bloody headwound. Three dead soldiers were aboard the raft. The head of one had been smashed to pulp by a whiplash from a monster's tail. -Gods.

  The Gates of Chenameg were already receding into the distance. Sarazin looked left, looked right, scanned the banks for signs of human life. He saw baskets of abandoned laundry, unattended fishing rods, and cooking fires burning without human supervision. Most people had fled – and those who had not were lying as if dead, hoping to escape the attentions of the Neversh.

  A little further downriver, the raft drifted past a huge stockade of earth, logs and stones, a fortress raised by a company of men who hunted creatures of the Swarms for a living. As the raft went by, the shadow of a Neversh flickered overhead. And nobody within the stockade even thought of risking life and limb to retrieve that piece of river-refuse.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  A corpse-laden raft drifted down the Velvet River. Strong and steady ran the river. Not at the horsepanic pace of the Manaray Gorge, to be sure – but the river never paused, never rested. A man could outrun it or, indeed, outmarch it – but only briefly. Nobody could have matched the river's pace for a daylength journey.

  Noon came, then night. Then dawn. Then noon again. From the Gates of Chenameg to the city of Shin was, by river, a matter of about a hundred leagues, and, shortly after noon, the raft drifted past the ruins of that city.

  Briefly, it grounded on the shore. Then the current eased it away, and it floated downstream, towards the west. Sarazin by then was in agony, for, quite apart from the tortures of thirst, his hogtied body was wracked by cramps.

  There was no escape, for he had been tied up by experts. What was more frustrating than anything was the thought of his magic candle, still safe in one of his pockets. His enemies had not recognised it as the magical treasure it was, once a much-valued possession of a wizard. But it was useless to him, for he could not get to it. -And I had it all figured out.

  Tarkal was a fool, and he had been tricked so easily, conned into taking them back to Drake Douay. By rights, Tarkal should now be dead, and Sarazin should be on his way to becoming Slavemaster. But, as it was, Tarkal was probably drinking up large and listening to Douay entertaining his guests on the skavamareen – while Sean Sarazin was doomed on this downriver journey. Which, in all probability, would terminate in his death. On floated the raft, into night. Into nightmare.

  It was fifty leagues from Shin to the border between Chenameg and the Harvest Plains. And, while dawn was pinking the sky, the raft slipped across that border. There was no more forest to left or to right, only the flatlands of the plains. The river grew wider, slower, more leisurely.

  And Glambrax stirred.

  Raised his bloodstained head, vomited violently – then collapsed again. -Come on, you gutless dwarf!

  So screamed Sarazin. But this experiment in telepathy proved fruitless, for Glambrax had not stirred again by noon. Then the raft drifted through a breach in one of the dams which had once tamed the Velvet River for irrigation.

  At some time in the past, heroes had breached that dam, thinking to save their land from the advance of t
he Swarms. But a smooth grey bridge – manufactured by those monsters – now spanned the gap. On that bridge stood a keflo, a low-slung monster. Silent. Unmoving. Statuesque. Sarazin lay very still, staring at it. And Glambrax groaned. -Quiet! Quiet!

  Perhaps telepathy worked on this occasion, for the dwarf relapsed into silence again. It was not until noon that Glambrax finally crawled towards Sarazin and, after a struggle, released his gag. Then began to feed him water.

  Releasing the ropes was a slow business, which took the weakened dwarf till midnight. But it was done. So, when dawn came, both were free – but neither was good for anything. It was not until the next day that they managed to push the corpses overboard.

  On floated the raft. Much of the time Sarazin lay sleeping, dreaming of winter snow on the heights of the Ashun mountains, of voices far distant in time and space. He would wake now and then to a bloodstained raft stinking of offal and vomit, to the steelbright sun glittering on the riverflow. Overhead, the shadows of vultures.

  The riverbanks were empty. No monsters. The monsters of the Swarms were, doubtless, on the fringes of the occu- pied territories, hunting out humans, killing, slaughtering, ravaging. Here, in the heartland of the new dominions of the Swarms, Sarazin was safe, for the moment.

  He had endless time to think. And to sorrow. For what did he lament? For himself? No. For the loss of his world. He experienced.. . not exactly weltschmerz, no, not an abstract sorrow for the fate of the world as a whole, but grief for the loss of particular people.

  Not dear friends, no, he had been singularly short of bosom companions throughout his life, but perfectly ordinary people – servants, soldiers, tavern keepers, scribes, librarians, members of the Watch, even minor functionaries of the Regency. People he had known in passing, whose faces he remembered, and whose voices. -All gone, all fallen, all dead.

  What was amazing was how intensely they had all been involved in their own lives, passionately concerned with the power politics of the various milieus in which they moved, all with their own loves, hates, lusts, fears, joys, ambitions. -All now as dust.

  And what was most amazing of all was to realise that the outcome would ultimately have been the same even if Drangsturm had never fallen, even if the Swarms had never come. In time, all would have died, and all their works would have become as nothing. For such is the nature of a world of mortality. Mortality. -Mosf improbable of all improbabilities.

  So improbable that, even now, Sean Sarazin had diffi- culty in grasping the inevitability of his own death. He knew it was technically certain, sooner or later. But, while some things had changed, others had not: he was still the centre of his own universe, and found it near to impossible to imagine the universe carrying on without him. -Yet it will happen. -Or so theory says.

  Sarazin was much occupied with such thoughts, for Glambrax offered him nothing in the way of conversation. The dwarf had taken an almighty blow on the head, and was fit for very little except sleeping and sunbathing. Fortunately, the skins of both travellers were already suntempered – otherwise they would have been badly burnt on that downriver journey. For there was no shade, no shelter. But, of course, limitless water.

  Sarazin drank freely. Drinking of the Velvet River had almost killed him when he first arrived in Selzirk, but he had no choice. Besides, the river was much, much cleaner than it had been when people in their tens of thousands lived on the Harvest Plains.

  At length, the raft drifted past the walls and towers of Selzirk the Fair. Sarazin was tempted to land – then saw a single uncouth monster standing where there was a hundred-pace gap in the outer battle-wall of Selzirk.

  The river gate – that was what Lod had called that gap. Then Sarazin had called it a military obscenity. Or had Lod said that too? Sarazin could not remember. That conversation had taken place on the day of his return from exile, and he could not sort out the details in memory.

  But what he could remember was his high excitement, his enthusiasm, his confidence. He had been so certain that life was truly beginning, that power and glory awaited him. -Fool!

  That was the judgment Sean Sarazin passed on his youthful self as the raft floated on downstream, leaving Selzirk behind in the distance.

  He had been such a fool! So young, so feckless! He had not been destroyed by gambling, boozing, fighting or whores. But a callow pride had nearly seen to his destruc- tion regardless. If it had not been for the advent of the Swarms, he would still have been in the forests of Chenameg, fighting a futile guerrilla war against Tarkal of Lod. -But what could I have had if I had been wise? He could have had a career in the army. Going out every night to get pissed as a newt (to use Jarnel's death- less phrase). But what kind of life would that have been? -No life for me, that's for sure. -So I was doomed whatever I did.

  So thought Sean Sarazin, then forced himself to admit that it was not true. Nobody had compelled him to stay in Selzirk. He could have taken to the Salt Road and could have fled north or south. To Drangsturm. To Chi'ash-lan. Anywhere. He could read and write, he could speak Galish – he could have made some sort of life for himself wherever he went. -But that's in the past. Let's think of the future.

  So Sarazin did think of the future. But could see nothing for himself or his dwarf but bare survival. Downstream lay the delta of the Velvet River, a marshy place of tidal beaches, of islands and estuaries. The Neversh might overfly the delta, but it would be difficult for heavyweight monsters to operate in such terrain. There, no doubt, he could grub a living, surviving by eating raw fish, raw shrimp, raw marshbird.

  – Crow old and die, doubtless webfooted before I die.

  So thought Sean Sarazin, then fell asleep to dream of rain, grey and endless, rain spindling down through fog, of his hands old and withered, his spine curving. Old man Sean Sarazin, a living ghost in the marshlands, a dying dwarf croaking at his feet…

  He woke with the certainty that the dream was pro- phetic, that his future was known and could not be escaped. And he became so depressed that thereafter he roused himself only to drink and to void wastes. His depression persisted until the day he woke to find the raft adrift in Lake Ouija, a tidal bulge in the river just south of Androlmarphos – and realised there were people on the shore.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  When Sarazin and Glambrax were taken from the raft, they were so weak that they were consigned to an infir- mary in Androlmarphos, and there they were fed for days upon broiled fish and the flesh of seabirds. As Sarazin's strength recovered, what he craved was not food but information. However, his keepers gently declined all requests for a briefing, saying it would tire him too greatly.

  After three days, however, Sarazin was judged strong enough to see visitors, and was asked if he wished to receive any.

  'An academic question,' Sarazin said. 'Surely nobody knows I'm here. And who in 'Marphos would know me?'

  'On the contrary,' he was told. 'Everyone in the city knows of your arrival. As for those who wish to see you…' He was given a list. A long list.

  There were people who had known him in Voice, Selzirk and Chenameg. Soldiers who had served under him in Tyte and Hok. Friends of friends and friends of the friends of friends. Servants and tavern keepers, poetasters and minor functionaries of the Regency. The very people whose demise he had so sincerely lamented as he drifted down the Velvet River on his raft.

  Now that he knew so many to be alive and kicking, his desire to see them was zero. Though he did want a long talk with someone – anyone! – so he could bring his knowledge of current affairs up to date, he had no wish to be a tourist attraction, which was what he obviously was.

  However, two names on the list of would-be visitors demanded his attention: Lord Regan and Jaluba. 'Those two,' he said. 'I'll see those two.' 'When?' 'Now!'

  As it happened, Lord Regan and Jaluba did not attend Sarazin until the next day. They came together, hand in hand – and, to Sarazin's startlement, Lord Regan introduced Jaluba as his wife.

  'My dearest and nearest
,' said Lord Regan, and kissed her.

  Lord Regan was wearing a skyblue military uniform, whereas Jaluba was – despite the heat of summer – wearing a coat made of fitch fur.

  Sarazin had to admit that Lord Regan had made an excellent choice. Jaluba was but twenty years of age – and she was delicious. Any man would have wanted her. Sarazin did not begrudge Lord Regan possession of the woman, who sat quietly, the very picture of a damsel demure.

  Nevertheless, Sarazin begrudged the marriage inasmuch as it made it impossible for him to demand the answers to some of the questions he had had in mind. Such as: where the hell had Jaluba gone to after she disappeared from Selzirk? Why had she disappeared on the day Plovey of the Regency had raided Sarazin's quarters? Had she perchance had anything to do with the theft of a bard, a prophetic book and certain documents from Sarazin's quarters?

  However, plenty of other questions remained. And heartfelt greetings were scarcely over before he was asking them:

  'How did you come to 'Marphos? And – where is my mother? I heard she'd fled to the Rice Empire. What about Fox? My father was going to seek your help. That was back in the autumn. There was a Door in Chenameg and – oh, it's a long story, but he was coming to see you. Jarl, too. What happened to them?'

  'They reached me, one and all,' said Lord Regan. Tour mother and your father both. And Jarl. When the Swarms came, I went south to Narba to seek a passage to the Scattered Islands. But Fox and Farfalla went with Jarl to Hok. Jarl persuaded them they could find refuge there.'

  'It's true!' said Sarazin. 'Didn't Jarl tell you about Elkin, about X-n'dix?'

  'Oh, I've heard all about that,' said Lord Regan. 'Jarl told me – and, besides, I've heard all about your war stories thrice over from Jaluba's lips.'

  And Lord Regan and Jaluba squeezed hands, then kissed. 'Well,' said Sarazin, 'can I get to Hok?' You could walk,' said Lord Regan. 'What about ships?' said Sarazin.