The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  The ring was hot on Sarazin's finger. Getting hotter. It hurt, it hurt! It burnt! As they rounded a corner, Sarazin dropped Glambrax then wrenched the ring from his finger. Threw it to the ground. Where it burst into white fire. With sun-bright flames it consumed itself, then was gone, leaving only an ugly rust-red scar on the stonework of the street to show where it had been.

  Sarazin watched the immolation of his hopes and dreams from the nearest doorway. Then one of the monsters of the Swarms edged round the corner. A small black and tan dog stood in the middle of the street barking furiously at it. A moment later the dog was trashed to a raggage of blood and bone.

  Sarazin slammed the door, bolted it, and joined Glam- brax on a quick retreat to the cellar.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  They dwelt in cellars and sewers, in stormdrains and rat- squeeze underpassages, in crypts and boltholes, in shadow and darkness. The cold rains washed the sewers clean. The Velvet River itself ran cleaner than ever before in living memory.

  —What were we then? A pollution on the face of the earth?

  —I know not. But know our destiny now. To be rats to our lords, the Swarms.

  That was what Sarazin told himself. But he believed it not. Surely some hero would come, some force, some power, to liberate Selzirk from the Swarms. Sometimes, he toyed with his magic green candle, the last piece of magic left to him. Did that perchance have the power to save Selzirk?

  The trouble was, he had not the slightest idea what the candle could do. The druid who had given it to him had not known. It might prove dangerous rather than helpful.

  —I'd best not use this until I know what it does. Or until my life's so deep in danger that there's no other way out.

  Thus thought Sarazin.

  In those dismal days, it was some consolation to him that at least his mother's palace still stood fast against the monsters. He approached, sometimes, at night. Flame wrathed up from the moat, no longer quiescent but ferociously alive. Sometimes he saw figures on the battle- ments. Long after midnight, strange lights sometimes

  writhed around one of the eight towers which had long been sealed against humankind.

  — The wizards have reclaimed their own.

  Thus thought Sarazin, and knew it for truth.

  He could see, now, what had happened. When the Swarms had invaded Argan North, the wizards by Drangsturm had fled by any means available. Some had come to Selzirk and reclaimed the ancient wizard fortress which had been the foundation of Farfalla's palace.

  —Perhaps those who guard the walls are the same wizards who came through that Door in Chenameg.

  That would explain much: Drangsturm fell; the wizards fled through a Door north of Drangsturm; the Swarms pursued them through that Door.

  —Should I myself try that Door? Is there any hope of safety through such?

  Sarazin played with the question, but made no serious attempt to answer it, for he still hoped for Selzirk to be saved, liberated, rescued.

  Since the Swarms were more active by day than by night, Sarazin and Glambrax slept through most of the day, waking each evening to begin their activities. On one such evening, they were up in a belfry spying on the Swarms as those monsters settled to take their rest, and planning a raid on a warehouse where they hoped to find something decent to eat.

  That was the evening that they saw a mountain moving in the distance, crossing the Harvest Plains like something out of nightmare. Then Sarazin truly knew his hopes for rescue were futile. The world had gone mad. When moun- tains take to walking, what next? Will the sky take to falling?

  'Tonight,' he said to Glambrax, 'we leave the city.'

  'To go where?' said Glambrax.

  'To Chenameg,' said Sarazin. To the Door.'

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  After enduring many hazards — the worst of which were in human form — Sean Sarazin and Glambrax finally reached the hunting lodge which had been the headquarters of the guerrillas who had fought under the command of Fox in the highlands of Chenameg South. They found it burnt to the ground, together with all its outbuildings. Nearby, they found a man tied to a tree, but, as he had died of starvation or exposure some days previously, he proved less than informative.

  'At least nothing's gnawed the corpse,' said Sarazin. 'That proves there's no monsters hereabouts.'

  'Or else,' said Glambrax, grinning, 'that their taste is for fresh meat only.'

  'We'll see,' said Sarazin, somewhat uneasily.

  And, without further ado, set off for the Door where he had once almost met his death in a confrontation with the Swarms. He had trouble finding the place. In company with Glambrax, he spent three days trekking back and forth through the hills, searching for the deep-cut valley where he had dared his sword against a gigantic green centipede.

  They spent the nights in the trees for fear of monsters, and, in consequence, were ragged with lack of sleep by the time they finally found the valley. Fortunately, there were no live monsters in evidence, though the tattered remains of a giant centipede and of one lesser beast showed Sarazin he had not imagined the brutes.

  The Door was there, too.

  The steel archway, wide as a man's outstretched arms, still stood on the marble plinth. However, it no longer hummed, and was no longer filled with shimmering grey. Instead, Sarazin could look through the arch to grass and sky.

  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.