The Wordsmiths and the Warguild aod-2

by Hugh Cook

  The revelation shook Togura.

  "Tell me you'll join us," said Raznak the Golsh.

  "I'll think about it," said Togura.

  "You do that, young man. You do that."

  And he most certainly did, pondering the options while the hall filled with guests. Fifty heroes, all missing in action! Could it be true? If it was, then Raznak's offer certainly had its temptations. So who could he trust? Who could he believe?

  His troubled mind worried away at the problem until his cogitations were interrupted by the announcement of the arrival of Roly Suet. The young groom, fatter than most people but thin for a Suet, was dressed like a peacock. He looked calm – too calm. His eyes had a glazed, fixed expression. Togura suspected he had been drugged.

  "Enter the sacrifice," muttered a voice.

  "The things people do for power!" said another.

  Shortly after, the hum of conversation in the hall fell away to an absolute silence as Slerma entered. She was led into the hall and then seated by guides and helpers who made sure she kept strictly to the reinforced section. At the sight of her, one tender young lady blanched and fainted. Two old ladies, a spinster and a relict, began to titter, and then, unable to help themselves, broke into frank and horrified laughter.

  Slerma did not appear to hear. She stared around her, letting her eyes ooze slowly over the vast mounds of food which were on display.

  "Slerma will eat well," she said. "This is good."

  Two female Suets with fixed smiles draped a veil over her countenance, but Slerma mauled it away from her face. She had gone to a lot of trouble with her appearance, and did not want her efforts to go to waste.

  Slerma's makeup represented a unique experiment in abstract art. Stains of green and red were smeared across the flanks of her face, creating washes of gently undulating colour which swelled and contracted as she chewed her cud. She had applied mascara; dabs and dobs of black were scattered above her eyebrows, looking like the distant heads of soldiers peering over the brow of extensive earthworks.

  Togura felt it rude to stare, yet could not help himself. He was not alone. Slerma was as huge as he had remembered – if anything, worse. A buxom girl could have been made from each of her forearms, and a respectable whore from each of her thighs; her belly could have given birth to a regular conclave of washerwomen. Her fingers, as fat as sausages, looked deceptively soft and helpless; remembering the true strength of those bone-crushing hands, Togura shuddered. To think that he had almost been married to this!

  Watched by a disbelieving audience, the wedding ceremony was conducted.

  "If any man alleges prior claim to possession of this woman, let him speak now or forever afterwards remain silent," said the marriage celebrant, looking around sternly. No claims being forthcoming, he announced: "I find, rule and declare that there are no prior claims on this woman."

  "What woman?" cried a wit.

  Who was suppressed, strenuously.

  At the conclusion of the wedding ceremony, Slerma embraced Roly Suet, engulfing him in her arms. She held him close. She had decided to be very loving today. After a while, Roly began to make violent, animated movements with his arms and legs. It appeared he was suffocating. This was highly embarrassing! Senior Suets stood by, one openly wringing his hands, while people pushed and shoved to get a good view, standing on tiptoe and craning their necks. Gladiatorial sports were unknown in Sung, so they had never seen anything like it.

  Finally, Slerma released her prey. He slid down to the ground and lay at her feet, limp but still breathing. Taking him by the hair, she hauled him onto her lap, where he lay like a rag doll, his face plastered with red and green and black; he had been kissed.

  Someone cheered. Infected by an outbreak of mob hysteria, the others took up his theme; the hall rocked and resounded with applause. Slerma beamed. She was a success. She was glorious. She was beautiful. She was loved. Her happiness would have been complete if her father had been there to see her triumph, but unfortunately he was laid up with gout.

  Determined music began; the cheering died away, and was replaced by a babble of talk, gossip and speculation. The festivities were underway.

  As a skavamareen wailed along in the wake of a galloping thrum, Togura encountered a girl named Zona, who made it appear that she met him almost by accident.

  "Are you a Suet?" he said.

  "Yes. How did you guess?"

  "What else would they send to seduce me?"

  "The cheek of the animal!" she said.

  "A kiss would be a good way to start," said Togura.

  She blushed, and Togura saw his suspicions were correct. The Suets had sent one of their expendable females to romance him. He was flattered.

  "Dance with me," he said.

  She yielded, so soon they were dancing the Dalataplash, kicking their heels and punching the air, whooping at the war-scream and shouting at the hoot, then embracing each other in the couple and the grind. She laughed a lot. She might have been sent, but she was willing. He was young, handsome and a hero, and a baron's son besides, heir to the estate if he killed his half-brother Cromarty. There was good meat on her bones; he knew himself lucky.

  They danced then ate, danced then drank, then danced again. Togura cast occasional glances in the direction of young Roly Suet, who seemed to be making a remarkable recovery from his traumatic experience with Slerma. The royal couple were not dancing: Slerma was still eating, with Roly at her side feeding her choice morsels from a bucket.

  "Would you marry me?" said Togura to Zona.

  "Would I if what?"

  "If I asked."

  "Ask."

  "That's no answer."

  "Still, it's the answer deserved. Are you a hero or aren't you?"

  "I'll think about it," said Togura. "Come, the music's wasting. Let's dance."

  And dance they did. She was smooth, lithe, clean-limbed and lively. He wanted her. She was his answer to the urgency of the flesh. She was part of a contract for a fabulous future. In the face of such offers, what wisdom in questing? Fifty men missing, most probably dead? Where was the temptation in that?

  It was many generations since Togura's ancestors had been sharp-bargaining Galish merchants, but, nevertheless, a trader's caution was still part of his heritage; he disliked unnecessary danger on principle, being entirely lacking in the kind of hang-devil recklessness which welcomes impossible odds.

  But Day!

  How could he forget about Day?

  How could he write her off like this?

  He tried to bring her face to mind, but failed. He could not remember what she looked like. He tried, in a dutiful way, to fabricate feelings of regret and remorse, but failed.

  "Kiss me," said Zona.

  And he could hardly decline.

  As they danced, the music grew louder. An old-fashioned canterkade beat out a rhythm in direct opposition to a new-fangled clay. A sklunk back-thumped, a chanter whined, a snot-pipe shrilled, then massied plea whistles hooted and honked, joining the screaming high pinions in a caterwauling fanfarade.

  "So what's it to be?" said Zona, as the last of the music jogged down to nothing. "Where will you sleep tonight and tomorrow? By some bone-rotting mountainside bog? Or elsewhere, far warmer?"

  "Give me time to think," said Togura, with a laugh of joy and triumph which he was unable to suppress.

  Already he knew his answer. It was no contest. The people of Sung – even the young men – were essentially too sane and sober to make good questing heroes. They seemed wild enough, with their feuding and fighting, but such localised sports are essentially civilised in that they never take you more than a couple of days from your own warm bed and a hot-bread kitchen.

  Though the Wordsmiths did not know it yet, Togura had just cancelled his quest for the index.

  "Let's find a seat," said Zona.

  "Let's," said Togura, coughing.

  "It's rather smoky," said Zona, waving a hand in front of her face.

  "Rat
her," said Togura, looking round to see who was smoking the acrid pipe.

  He blinked. His eyes were stinging. People were starting to shout. Somebody screamed. Suddenly Togura realised there were clouds of smoke curling and coiling overhead. People were panicking, rushing for the exits. Togura drew his sword, then looked at it in astonishment. Why had he done that? He sheathed it hastily, before Zona noticed. Zona?

  "Zona!" shouted Togura.

  His voice was lost in the uproar. She was gone. She had fled. Somewhere, a loud voice boomed, roaring:

  "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

  Togura jumped on a table.

  "Don't push!"he bawled. "People will get crushed!"

  But he was ignored. He coughed; the air was harsh with smoke. Looking round, he saw a disturbance. He saw part of a wall breaking down, admitting bright sunlight and a wedge of – masked men!

  "We're under attack!" shouted Togura.

  But nobody heard him.

  He jumped down from the table and waded toward the attackers. With Suets and their guests crushing each other to death in the jam-packed exits, he figured that the break in the wall offered him the best chance of escape from a building now definitely burning.

  He drew his sword again, and this time did not feel stupid for doing so.

  Chapter 11

  Togura, dizzy with smoke, fear and excitement, hung back as the masked men attacked. His drawn sword was strictly for self-defence. He was them close in on Roly Suet, who fought as best he could, crowning one with a food bucket and kicking another in the privates. They overwhelmed him and carried him off.

  "Give me back my man!" said a vast, slurred, grubbling voice.

  It was Slerma. She was not pleased.

  A man slashed at her with his sword. She threw up a forearm to defend herself. By rights, sword versus arm should lead to instant amputation. But the blade scarcely managed to cut deep enough into her blubber to reach the bone. Next moment she had seized the miscreant by neck and by ankles, and was tearing him apart. As Togura blinked, gaped and boggled, the man ruptured and split, spilling -

  Togura closed his eyes, feeling sick.

  By now, others had realised what was going on. Suets and guests, arming themselves with tables, chairs, carving knives and roasting spits, gave battle. Those with no weapons flailed at the attackers with jackets, coats, cloaks and capes, seeking to entangle their swords or beat them down so they could close for a stranglehold. Roly's kidnappers were cut off from their escape route. Two sat on Roly, holding him down, while the others fought in the burning building.

  Slerma, thinking the battle was going against her side, went to the rescue.

  "No!" screamed Togura, seeing her bulking off the reinforced section of the floor.

  But he was not heard or was not understood or was ignored. Slerma rumbled ahead, spitting and growling, ready to defend her true love with her life, ready to kill, crush, mutilate and mangle. Some of the masked intruders fled howling at her approach. Slerma advanced in triumph.

  Then floorboards broke beneath her, precipitating her into the abandoned mine shaft below. The invaders raised a cheer, and began to prevail. Then a squad of musicians joined the affray, their instruments becoming weapons of war.

  As battle raged,huge bubbling roars came from underground. Slerma was still alive, and most indignant about her predicament. Two suets, overwhelming an invader, tossed him into Slerma's pit. Shortly his pitiful screams maimed the air, then came a slubbering groan, and then – from him, at least – silence. The din of battle masked the sounds of feeding.

  Togura, sword in hand, skirted round the outskirts of the brawl, making for the daylight. But a masked fighting man stepped forward to confront him.

  "Who is it who dares to trifle with Barak the Battleman?" shouted Togura.

  "Me!"

  And the masked man tore away his disguise. It was Cromarty, claymore in hand.

  "Crom!" cried Togura.

  "None other," said Cromarty, grinning with open delight. "And what have we here? Why, why, it's little Tog-Tog. Gather round, boys. Now it's really party time."

  But there were no boys to gather round.

  "You're on your own this time," said Togura.

  "That's all right," said Cromarty, evenly. "I'll manage."

  And, turning ferocious without further ado, he attacked.

  Their war-blades clashed. Togura sliced Cromarty's thigh. Cromarty nicked his nose. Blooded, they broke apart, coughing and panting, their eyes stung with tears as smoke whirled about them. They began to circle, posing fiercely and talking tough.

  "Come closer," said Togura, "and I'll slice you from pox to piles."

  "Not so hasty, salami minor, or you'll be eating your arsehold for breakfast."

  "Talk's cheap, you son of a slut."

  "A slut? Look who's talking. I raped your mother on the night she died."

  "Shut your filth and swallow it."

  "Believe me, Tog-Tog. She loved it. She asked for more and more and more. She licked my – "

  "Liar!"

  A burning beam crashed down between them. A smaller timber fell, striking Cromarty, knocking him to the ground with a glancing blow. As the building broke up, the fight was breaking up. People were running for their lives. Togura started to scream a threat at Cromarty, but broke out into a fit of coughing instead. His half-brother was lost in the swirling smoke. Togura sheathed his blade. A man came blundering his way, blinded by blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. It was Roly Suet.

  "This way!" shouted Togura, grabbing him.

  Roly tried to fight him.

  "It's me, stupid! Barak the Battleman, rescuing you!"

  Togura hustled him out into the street. Smoke reeled up into the sky. Roly, coughing, tried to wipe the blood from his eyes. The street was filled with skirmishing fighters, rearing horses, screaming children and indignant citizens of all descriptions.

  "Togura!" yelled a black-masked fighter standing at bay some distance up the street. "Give us the boy!"

  Togura knew that voice. It was his father. As Baron Chan Poulaan cut away the sundry Suets opposing him, Togura fought to control a frightened horse. He mounted up. The animal almost threw him, but he got control. He helped Roly up behind him. Cromarty came stumbling out of the building, still armed with his claymore.

  "Cut him down, Crom!" roared the baron, wounded now, but still fighting his way toward them.

  Half-blinded by smoke, Cromarty glanced round then attacked. Togura kicked him away, getting slashed on the calf in the process. He saw a gap in the scrabbling fight, and rode for it, with Roly hanging on for dear life. Behind him, the Suet's Grand Hall collapsed with a prolonged crash, sending burning debris sprawling across the street.

  The baron was separated from his sons by a pile of burning wreckage. Gathering his wits, Cromarty ordered the nearest half dozen warriors to join him in pursuit. Seizing what horses they could, they did.

  Togura rode for hell and high clappers, taking the road to the palace. When they came to the outskirts of the piggeries, he reined in the horse, thinking them safe. Then he looked round and saw the pursuit closing in behind.

  "You should have stayed in the town!" yelled Roly. "We would have lost them in the side streets."

  "Thanks for the good advice," snapped Togura. "It's brilliantly timed."

  He was tempted to push Roly off into the mud and the slother, but resisted the temptation. Roly was what Cromarty wanted. Togura was not going to let him have it that easily. Togura kicked the horse in the flanks, and they rode past palace and piggeries. The road, such as it was, soon plunged downward. They hastened down recklessly, making one of the fastest descents ever of that particular piece of track, which was known as the Slippery Skaddle. The pursuit followed remorselessly.

  "Where are we going now?" cried Roly, as they started down a track between bogland and gorse.

  "Ahead, unless you've got a better idea," said Togura.

  He knew they were now on the Fen Rou
te, a raggle-tag half-road picking its way across some of the worst country in all of Sung. The horse was close to failing, but before it could collapse they came to Skob Crossing, a festering marsh crossed by a disintegrating one-step bridgeway.

  "Dismount," snapped Togura, getting down.

  When Roly hesitated, Togura gave him a push. As the Suet scrambled up out of the muck, Togura, half-running, ventured the creaking bridgeway, which was green with moss and soggy with wetrot.

  "Don't leave me!" cried the plaintive Suet.

  Togura paused long enough to shout "Follow!" – then was off again. The Suet scuttled over the bridgeway behind him. Skidding, slipping and sliding, they panted down a rutted track. Behind them they could hear Cromarty and his mobsters baying at hight hunt.

  The track grew narrower, and became overgrown. They sprinted through nettles, yelping. Blackberry clawed at them. They shoved aside vines, hoping none were poison ivy. The gaunt trees overhead, their leaves a caltter of autumn, were drenched with draggle-moss, blighted by canker and pockled with fungus. Rory, glistening with sweat, was failing fast.

  "I can't – keep – up," he gasped.

  "I'd guessed that much," said Togura. "Down! Take cover! I'll lead them off."

  And he shoved the Suet into a thicket of clox, kicking his backside when he hesitated. Then Togura ran on, holding his side, for he was getting the stitch. He blinked as sweat scabbed into his eyes, stinging fiercely. He could feel his strength failing. Behind him, the enemy cheered. They had him in sight now.

  Togura slowed almost to a walk as he padded up the knoll ahead. On the far side was a narrow strip of swamp, just too wide to jump across. Togura sprinted down, tore a rotten pole tree from its foundations and swiftly probed the water, failing to find its depth. It was green with swamp grass; to the casual eye it could have been any depth from ankle onwards. Quickly, Togura nipped round the flank of the swamp, then used his snapped-off pole tree to thrust and stir, confusing the surface of the swamp so it looked as if he had sprinted straight through it.

  Cromarty and his bounders came panting over the knoll. They saw Togura on the far side of the swamp, apparently untangling himself from some barbarian thorn.