The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  Then Sarazin went on to say:

  'As token of my dedication to battle I take for this campaign the name Watashi.'

  A grim name indeed! Sarazin's men greeted it with further cheers, for he had given himself a name truly fit for battle. It meant blood, death, fear, murder, slaughter.

  And Sarazin exalted. For he had taken another step to fulfilling his prophecy. He was now known to all the world as Watashi.

  In the end, Sarazin's army amounted to 500 cavalrymen, 400 skirmishers and 100 military police. Thodric Jarl, with a lifetime's experience of war behind him, had no trouble organising this paltry force, and, late in the summer, they were ready to march to war.

  The night before Sarazin's army quit Selzirk, Sarazin sat up late debating with himself. Should he or should he not take his ring of invisibility, his dragon bottle and his magic candle to war? Once more, he read through the intelligence reports. The enemy, whoever they were, were not in strength sufficient to threaten Selzirk.

  This invasion, then, was not a matter of great moment. If Sarazin won, that victory would win him, at best, a transitory popularity. If he lost, the disgrace would be bearable, and he was unlikely to lose his life.

  He decided his magic was best reserved for a crisis which severely affected either his own life or the very survival of Selzirk. So he hid his magical artefacts away behind a loose stone in one of the walls of his own quarters, thinking that hiding place as safe as any.

  And, the next day, he marched from Selzirk with his army.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Shouda Flow: river rising in foothills of mountains little more than a hundred leagues east of Selzirk. A waterway of little importance since, unlike the Velvet River, it is not navigable, seldom floods, and tends to run dry in summer.

  Thus it came to pass that in the summer of the year Alliance 4326 the young warlord Watashi rode forth at the head of his troops. As he rode to war. Thodric Jarl let him bear the blade of firelight steel which had been Lord Regan's gift to him. His dwarf Glambrax, who rode beside him mounted on a donkey, carried the same crossbow with which he had done battle in Shin, in Chenameg.

  Sarazin's army moved a march a day — ten leagues between sunrise and sunset — keeping to the north bank of the Shouda How. Soon after passing the only dam on that river they received fresh news of the marauders, and quickened their pace. On the ninth day, when they were nearing the river's headwaters, their lead scouts spotted enemy outriders on the opposite bank.

  'What now?' said Sarazin. 'Should I cross the river and give chase?'

  'Given the quality of the troops under your command,' said Thodric Jarl grimly, 'your best hope is that the enemy will run away. I suggest you halt here to give them the chance to do just that.'

  Sarazin, with some reluctance, eventually agreed, and

  the army camped for the night. On the morrow, they rose to find the enemy on the opposite bank. Jarl did a quick headcount and estimated that Sarazin's men were out- numbered three to one.

  'Should we run now?' said Sarazin, on hearing this.

  'If they attack across the river, then yes,' said Jarl, 'definitely yes. But let's try to bluff them first.'

  'But if our bluff doesn't work,' said Sarazin, 'they could be on us in a moment.'

  'Could they?' said Jarl. 'Examine the river.'

  Sarazin did so.

  This close to the mountains, the Shouda Flow had shrunk in the summer heat to a weed-green creek. The bank on this, the northern side, was the height of a man. On the southern side it was lower. The enemy could charge into the river easily enough but, to get up the man-high bank on Sarazin's side, would have to leave their horses behind.

  'I wasn't thinking,' said Sarazin. 'Now — how are we going to try to bluff them?'

  You work it out,' said Jarl, who thought the question too elementary to deserve his attention. 'But think fast — there's a herald coming across the river now, possibly to parley.'

  There was indeed a herald from the enemy camp walking across the river, a green bough in his hands as a sign of peace.

  'How does he do that?' said Sarazin, fascinated by the sight of the herald's feet twinkling across the surface of the water.

  'Ask him when he gets here,' said Jarl.

  Then the pair of them withdrew to Sarazin's tent and waited until the herald was shown in. Whereupon Sarazin asked the man the secret of his water-walking.

  'I am descended from the High Elves of Izlarkloza,' said the herald proudly. 'Hence my ability.'

  Whether he was telling the truth or not is, of course, another story. Sarazin was inclined to believe him, for he liked the herald on first acquaintance — not least because the man addressed him in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, language of his childhood, language of his youth.

  "Now to business,' said Jarl, also glad to be speaking that same Geltic.

  Yes,' said Sarazin, beginning the work of bluff. 'First, you'd better know that this isn't my whole army. This is just the advance guard. In fact—'

  The rest of what Sarazin said is predictable enough. The herald listened, took it all in, then said:

  Your message will reach my commander's ears in undiluted form.' (Or, to quote the herald more exactly: with no tea in its coffee.) 'But,' continued the herald, 'whether he chooses to believe it or not is nothing to do with me. My own duty is to deliver a message to you from my commander.'

  'What is that?' said Sarazin.

  'My commander is prepared to send forth a champion to meet a champion of yours in single combat in the middle of the river. Both will fight with bare blades, no shields and no armour. Combat will be to the death.'

  'How much do you stake on this fight?' said Sarazin.

  Much,' said the herald. 'If your champion wins, we will withdraw back to the Marabin Erg from whence we came. If our champion wins, your army will march away and let us cross the river unhindered.'

  'What then?' said Sarazin.

  'Then you are at liberty to attack us. All we want is to get across the river without a fight. Is it a deal? A duel to decide whether our side retreats or crosses the river unhindered. What say?'

  Yes!' said Sarazin. Then, feeling heroic: 'I myself will champion the Harvest Plains.'

  Yes! This was the ideal way for a war to be decided. By single combat between champions. More importantly, Sarazin could thereby win personal renown from this campaign. A military enterprise which had till now seemed the most unpromising of routine operations suddenly offered him a chance of deathless fame and glory.

  'Bare blades,' said the herald, reminding him. 'Oh, and did I mention helmets? No helmets.'

  'Fine,' said Sarazin. We will meet unhelmeted in mid- stream with bare blades and no armour.'

  'Be ready soon,' said the herald.

  And departed.

  'Did I make the right decisions?' said Sarazin, turning to Jarl.

  'That's for you to say, not me,' said Jarl. You're the boss.'

  Then Jarl got to work. Already there was a buzz of noise outside the tent. For the herald had given Sarazin's soldiers news of the agreement in turn for a few twists of tobacco, and now those same soldiers were laying bets on the outcome of the forthcoming fight.

  Sarazin had been wearing his best silks when he met the herald, but Jarl ordered him into his sweaty old leathers. Then, working swiftly, Jarl prepared Sarazin for combat by wrapping so many turns of cloth round his middle that it seemed he had a veritable paunch.

  When Sarazin saw Glambrax grinning at him — a wicked, knowing grin was his — he felt forced to protest.

  'The agreement was no armour,' said Sarazin.

  'Armour is stuff made out of steel and such,' said Jarl.

  'But cloth in such quantity can often turn a blade,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is defined—'

  'You're here to win a war,' said Jarl. You're a soldier, not a lexicographer.'

  'As a soldier,' said Sarazin stiffly, 'I have my honour.'

  Yes,' said Jarl, 'and your men have lives of th
eir own which they'd rather not lose for that honour.'

  'If I die that's my business,' said Sarazin.

  'If you die,' said Jarl, 'many of your men will die trying to stop the enemy crossing the river.'

  What are you talking about?' said Sarazin. 'I agreed to the herald's terms! If I die, my army withdraws then the enemy—

  'Shut up! Here, put on this cloak, it'll hide the cloth. Here. Rope for a belt. Tie the cloak in close, you don't want it catching on anything. Got your sword? Good. Take this.'

  'What? Mud!?'

  'Mud, yes, mud!' said Jarl fiercely. 'Mud in his eyes, that's the first thing. Mud and blood, that's what wars are made of.'

  Then he led Sarazin down to the river's edge where hundreds of loud-talking soldiers were already waiting. They cheered hoarsely when he unsheathed his sword. On the opposite bank was a similar boisterous congre- gation. Sarazin had no time for second thoughts, for Jarl was already hustling him into the water. Glambrax followed.

  'Back, mannikinl' said Jarl, swiping at him with the back of his hand. Jarl missed.

  And Glambrax, chuckling, dodged past the Rovac warrior and hastened after Sarazin, who was swiftly sinking as he waded forward. Ankle deep. Then knee deep. He would be up to his waist if this went on! His one consolation was that his foeman was having similar problems.

  'Let go of me!' said Sarazin, as Glambrax clutched at him from behind.

  'I can't,' answered the dwarf. 'I'm in love with you.'

  'Tough,' said Sarazin. "You're the wrong sex.'

  'Ah!' said Glambrax. 'So that's the secret! I was won- dering what won your horse your favours when all my efforts—'

  Sarazin tried to cuff him, and almost lost his sword while doing so.

  'Attend to your front!' yelled Jarl from the riverbank.

  Sarazin's enemy, waist-deep in mud and water, was labouring steadily towards him. The man's elegant silks were torn away by an underwater snag, revealing the blood-red lacquered armour which he wore.

  'Blood!' said Sarazin. 'He's in armour! Glambrax, will you let go of me!?' 'If I let go I drown.' 'Drown, then!'

  'I would if I could, master, but it's against my religion.'

  'Gah!' said Sarazin, gripping his sword more tightly.

  Onward came his f oeman, brawning through the water with lumbering strength invincible. By now, Sarazin's men had seen that the enemy challenger had cheated by wearing armour. They began to jeer, to beat spears against shields. Sarazin scarcely heard the noise, for his concentration was devoted to his foe.

  Then—

  He put down a foot but felt nothing. Betrayed by a pot- hole, he struggled for balance. Teetered one-footed on the edge of the pothole. Then felt the edge crumble. He snatched a breath — then the river swallowed him.

  Spluttering, Sarazin surfaced. Glambrax was riding on his shoulders, legs locked around his neck. His sword? Gone! And his enemy was close, closing, white teeth grinning.

  'Shit!' screamed Sarazin.

  He ducked beneath the surface. The sword! The sword! It had to be there! In confusions of water, weed and mud he thrust, probed, raked, grappled — and laid his right hand open as he found his weapon's blade.

  With the sword secured, Sarazin struggled to the surface. Stale air exploded from his lungs. He gasped, gasped again, spat, squidged water from his eyes. Gripped his sword's hilt double-handed. Blood streaming between his fingers. Coughed harshly.

  You die,' said his challenger, ponderously, raising his weapon to strike.

  Then floundered backwards, clutching his throat. Sarazin seized the opportunity, and stabbed. His dying enemy flung wide his arms: and Sarazin saw a miniature crossbow bolt buried in the man's throat.

  You!' said Sarazin.

  'Good shooting, eh?' said Glambrax, with a grin in his voice.

  The men on the northern bank were hooting with triumph. Were mounting their horses. Sarazin turned and — too late! — saw what they were doing. With a scream of triumph, Sarazin's cavalry squadrons charged. Straight down the bank to the swampmud river.

  "No!' he screamed, waving his arms frantically. No! No! No!'

  But it was useless.

  Soon, half a thousand horse were floundering in the river, some already starting to drown. With wild halloos, the Rice Empire's heroes attacked their helpless enemy, despite the best efforts of their officers to restrain those heroes.

  Soon both armies were helplessly bogged in the mud. 'Shit!' said Sarazin, punching his head from sheer frustration. Where the hell was Jarl?

  The answer came a bare ten heartbeats later when Thodric Jarl led Sarazin's skirmishers on the attack.

  'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed the Rovac warrior.

  Clad in nothing but a loin cloth, Jarl leapt down the bank and into the river, sword in one hand and a knife in the other. The skirmishers, most as lightly dressed as he, followed like so many rabid rats. Barefoot they came, screaming in excitement:

  'Wa-wa-Watashi! Wa-wa-Watashil'

  Some of the smarter of the boot-burdened enemy cavalrymen were already struggling out of their heavy mud-logged battle-gear. But the skirmishers were on them before all but the quickest could escape their burdens.

  In whdt was more or less a waist-deep swamp, the half-naked skirmishers had the edge and then some. Knives, hatchets and sickles flashed bloody in the glitter- ing sun. Men bubbled blood, clutched hands of mud to gaping intestines. Mud-blind, blood-blind, a swordsman

  staggered, was struck by a rock, pierced by an arrow, was—

  But Sarazin could watch no longer.

  Some considerable time later, the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl found Sean Kelebes Sarazin sitting dazed on a rock some five hundred paces distant from the river. Glambrax sat at his feet, barbecuing a frog over a frugal fire.

  Silently, Glambrax tore free a frog's leg and offered it to Jarl, who accepted it with a nod and ate it slowly while he studied Sarazin. The young man's leathers were damp, his legs clagged with mud. He had not cleaned his sword.

  'We dine at twilight,' said Jarl. 'Roast horsemeat. And, for those who like that kind of thing, long pig.'

  Then he turned and walked away.

  But shortly sent one of the army's barbers to cleanse Sarazin's swordhand, anoint the wound with the crushed garlic which Jarl favoured as an antiseptic, then bind it with clean white cloth to protect it from the summer dust and the summer flies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tyte: province in north-west of Harvest Plains. Most prominent feature is some 2,500 square leagues of swamp- lands lying north and south of the River Iggle.

  'It was horrible,' said Sarazin. 'Blood, filth, screams. And — and the horses. That was the worst of all, the horses. I saw the skirmishers — well — I saw—'

  Lost for words, he threw up his hands in disgust. Here, in the Voat Library, amidst the dusty smell of ancient books and manuscripts, it was harder than ever to under- stand such barbarity.

  'You must have seen things as bad in Chenameg,' said Epelthin Elkin. 'I understand that peasant revolt in Shin was a moderately sanguinary affair.'

  Yes, but that was against peasants. One might expect a brawl with the mob to be ugly. But this — this was army against army. You know. Honoured foes and all that. I expected—'

  'Honour? Glory?'

  'Something! Not . . . not deaths so indecent. What's worse — they ate the dead. Thodric Jarl organised it. At least half of the men took part. They were — they were disgusted with themselves, yet at the same time they were grinning. Laughing. It was — it was obscene.'

  'So,' said Epelthin Elkin, resting an old hand on a treasured book.

  Sarazin waited for revelation, but none came.

  'Is that all you can say?' said Sarazin.

  'I could say many things,' said Elkin. 'But what would be the point, when you know them all yourself? You know, for instance, that warfare is not your metier. You were not born to be a warlord. However, with effort, you might yet make yourself a tolerable poet.'

  'Bu
t that's just the thing!' said Sarazin. They want me to do it again. War again. In Tyte, this time. They want me to bring the anarchists to heel. To collect back taxes for the last ten thousand years or whatever it is.'

  'Jarl's going with you, I suppose,' said Elkin.

  'No,' said Sarazin. 'He says I don't need his talents. He says the job's too simple. What he really means is that it's hopeless however brilliant the general.'

  'Why so?' said Elkin.

  'Because tactical brilliance is useless when your soldiers are neck-deep in mud!' said Sarazin. 'So Jarl won't help. But I thought maybe you could give me some ideas. Either to cope with the situation. Or else to get out of this fix.'

  'I thought your brother Celadon was taking care of Tyte,' said Elkin.

  "No' said Sarazin. 'Celadon was in Shin till I got there, and now he's been sent back there again. Jarnel was supposed to conquer the anarchists, but he failed. It's a hopeless job. Right now he's off with Peguero hunting bandits in the Spine Mountains.'

  'Well,' said Elkin, I'm sure they're having the time of their lives.'

  'Oh, doubtless,' said Sarazin. 'They're like kids playing at ores and elves — only they're getting paid for it.' 'Doesn't that suggest anything to you?' said Elkin. Sarazin thought about it. 'No,' he said, finally. 'It doesn't.' Elkin sighed.

  When you go to collect taxes in Tyte,' said Elkin, 'you'll have young lieutenants equally as eager as your brother. So! Unleash them. Let them go sloshing through the mud in pursuit of the anarchists. Meanwhile, you find a nice, dry spot by the seaside and camp there till it's time to come back to Selzirk.'