The Wicked and the Witless

by Hugh Cook

  'This is bitter news,' said Sarazin, 'and much I could say which I will not. Well then ... I will swear to make no move against you. We will behave as people of breeding should. Till the end.'

  'Sean,' said Lord Regan, 'that's spoken as a man. And I will most certainly take you at your word.'

  There, then, the matter should have ended. The making of oaths is the most sacred undertaking of manhood, for if men were not true to their word then trust would become impossible. And, if trust became impossible, then only the most barbaric expedients of murder and genocide could secure peace between men and between nations.

  Thus Sean Sarazin, having given his word, should have

  gone into captivity. However, unfortunately Sarazin had long lived in Selzirk, a vicious city given to degenerate ways. And there he had frequented with lawyers, whose crime against humanity is the systematic perversion of language.

  Moreover ... it was not just lawyers who had taught Sarazin bad habits. For even the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl had once shown him how to worm his way out of an oath. Thus, though Sarazin had once sworn to go questing for the tectonic lever, he had never made the slightest attempt to do so.

  So . . .

  Sean Sarazin had sworn to make no move against Lord Regan, therefore he would not. However, reason- ing like a lawyer, he argued that his dwarf was an entity separate from himself, therefore instructing his dwarf to attack Lord Regan would not constitute oath- breaking.

  And even if it did — frankly, after all he had been through, Sean Sarazin was not prepared to be thwarted at the last moment. In Hok there was life, liberty and friendship. In Stokos, only stifling imprisonment, and torture perhaps, and quite possibly death. So Sean Sarazin instructed Glambrax — and gave him the green candle.

  The green candle. Oh most precious of enchanted objects! The last of his remaining gifts from the druid he had encountered so long ago in the forests of Chenameg. The ring of invisibility had failed him, the dragon- bottle had proved a bitter disappointment, and the magic mudstone had long since been used, but the candle remained.

  What would it do? Summon a dragon, a genie, a ghost, a wraith? Call up ghouls and demons? Satisfy wishes? Or do something miraculous but utterly useless? Sarazin could only hope.

  Glambrax acted that evening.

  When Lord Regan was dining in his cabin with wife, dwarf and Farfalla's son, Glambrax took it upon himself to open the lanterns one by one and trim the candles within. When he came to the last lantern, he took out the green candle. And lit it.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  When Glambrax lit the green candle, the result was almost instantaneous. Smoke exploded from the candle in nauseous gouts, a stench worse than skunk and corpse mingled. And Lord Regan cried aloud in wrath and grabbed for the dwarf, but was met with a knife.

  Glambrax stabbed once, twice—

  Jaluba screamed—

  And again and again—

  And screamed—

  And Lord Regan was falling, toppling, going down, the dwarf hacking, blood spurting and spraying—

  Jaluba no longer screaming but retching, and Sarazin writhing on the floor, choked by nausea, the smoke having just about done for him, the stench unendurable—

  And the door flew open stormed into—

  Smoke boiling, a breath was enough, the men were flailing, gagging, chucking up, wrecked or retreating—

  And Glambrax drove steel home once more, once more, but that was thrice more than was necessary, for Lord Regan was dead for real.

  The candle still alight, smoke leaping from the wick in a series of coughing explosions. Glambrax had it still in his left hand.

  Glambrax stuck the bloody knife in his belt, grabbed Sarazin by the scruff of the neck and hauled him from the cabin. Shortly they were out on deck, the candle still coughing, smoke still exploding, Glambrax himself very green at the gills.

  But still upright, for the dwarf was possessed of a toughness not given to men. After all, he was his mother's son — and his mother had been the truly formidable witch Zelafona.

  'Put it out!' gasped Sarazin, clawing for the candle. 'Out, or I die!'

  Glambrax thumped him, hard. And, as he fell to the deck, put in the boot. Some of the ship's soldiers and sailors were fleeing for the rigging, some trying to hide themselves below, and others launching the ship's boats. All this by the last glimmering light of sunset.

  A few tried to attack the source of the smoke — but fell back reeling.

  'Gods!' groaned Sarazin.

  Then vomited helplessly, stomach knotting up in helpless agony. He upchucked again as Glambrax grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to the side of the ship.

  'When I say jump,' said Glambrax, 'then jump.'

  Sarazin was incapable of making a reply. Peering down at the night-darkening sea, he made out a boat below, its crew about to cast off. Further spasms seized him.

  By the time he had recovered, Glambrax had scrambled down into the boat with the candle still coughing in his hand. The crew had fled, diving to the sea, careless of shark-risk or drowning. The boat was his. Could he but make it.

  'Jump!' shouted Glambrax.

  Sarazin mustered his strength and jumped. He hit the sea by the side of the boat with a tremendous splash. And, by the time he surfaced, Glambrax had extinguished the candle and was ready to haul him aboard.

  There was little left of the candle — just a small stub scarcely the length of a thumbnail. It had got them out of one predicament, but they could not count on it for much in the future.

  Sarazin was nearly incapacitated by the after-effects of the candle. If escape had relied upon his strength, then escape would have been impossible. But Glambrax rowed them free of the Green Swan, rowed out into the deepening night, then raised their boat's minuscule sail.

  They could have been captured, had the crew been fit to work the ship. But most of the Green Swan's crew were in a state almost as bad as Sarazin's. A few could have manned a small boat and pursued the escaping prisoner and his dwarf — but they lacked anything to inspire them to such a feat.

  Thus Sarazin and Glambrax made good their escape, and, in due course, landed on the shores of the Willow Vale.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  By the time Sean Sarazin and his dwarf reached the shores of the Willow Vale, the Green Swan had already sailed to Stokos. While Sean Sarazin was telling his news in Hok, other news was being told in Stokos — with predictable consequences.

  But, for the moment, all that mattered to Sean Sarazin was his homecoming. Homecoming? Yes, after the bitter- ness of exile, a landing on Hok counted as that. Hok was, after all, a part of the Harvest Plains — and, more to the point, was inhabited by friends as well as strangers.

  It was strangers that Sarazin met first. He and Glambrax were arrested by a mounted patrol and taken two leagues inland to a small fort. The commander of that fort was Thodric Jarl. The Rovac warrior was dressed as ever in iron-studded battle-leathers, and looked strong, fit and hearty.

  'Sean!' cried the bulky-bearded Thodric Jarl, and embraced him.

  'Is my mother here?' said Sarazin. 'My father?'

  'Both Farfalla and Fox are in X-zox,' said Jarl. 'Most of our people dwell safe in X-zox, for we're often raided by marauders from Stokos, though they've yet to summon up the courage to invade in force. We use the Willow Vale for farming only, and as pastureland for sheep and cattle.'

  'Are Fox and Farfalla well?' said Sean Sarazin.

  'Both fit, both healthy, both well,' Jarl assured him.

  'Do they rule, then?' said Sarazin. 'Are they the lords of Hok?'

  'Nay,' said Jarl. 'Hok is ruled by Heth, who holds the land in trust for a greater ruler.'

  'Heth?' said Sarazin. 'Did you say Heth, or Hearst?'

  'I know nothing of the fate of Morgan Hearst,' said Jarl. 'After Hearst left the Harvest Plains he disappeared to sight. No, it's Heth I'm talking of. Heth. You remember. Don't you?'

  But Sarazin didn't.

&
nbsp; 'Never mind,' said Jarl, with a laugh. 'No doubt once you reach X-zox Heth will explain everything to you himself.'

  'I live for that day,' said Sean Sarazin, in a tone suggest- ing quite the opposite. "Meanwhile, what about Peguero? Have you news of him? And Jarnel? And Celadon? Has anything been heard of him?'

  While Sarazin had never been close to his brothers — indeed, they were still very much strangers to him — he was eager to learn of their fate.

  'All three of your full brothers were here once,' said Jarl, 'as indeed was your half-brother Benthorn. But, like others, they have chosen to flee to the west, to the Scattered Islands and lands beyond.'

  'Why should they flee?' said Sarazin.

  'Because our war with Stokos threatens our destruction. But as I say, it's but a matter of raiding for the moment. The mountains protect our people in X-zox. Besides, Epelthin Elkin is still masquerading as a wizard, a bluff which helps us keep Stokos at bay. Intimidation, that's the thing.'

  Then Sean Sarazin had to tell his sorry news. Lord Regan was dead — and Sean Sarazin the much-betrayed had wasted not a single tear lamenting his deathl — but Jaluba still lived.

  'The wench knows the Words,' said Sarazin. 'If she tells all in Stokos, then the enemy can open the Passage Gates and the Lesser Tower itself.'

  Jarl saw the danger, and was soon riding for X-zox in company with Sean Sarazin and dwarf, meaning to personally oversee the defences of the mountain-protected enclave and the underground passage which led to it.

  Inland went the riders until they had almost reached the Eagle Pass. Then they turned west and marched up an arm of the Willow Vale. Since Sarazin was here last, a road had been laboured through the wilderness, allowing them to travel swiftly to the cliffs in which the Eastern Passage Gate was set.

  Sarazin remembered it as being black, but it proved to be a dark blue stained with streaks of opaline iri- descence. Squarebuilt it was, and five times manheight. Warm and dry it was, vibrating faintly beneath his fingertips.

  'Open it,' said Jarl.

  Then Sarazin said the Word, hoping he had got it wrong. But he remembered correctly, for the Word had been something he had diligently committed to memory during his earlier travails in Hok.

  And the Passage Gate opened.

  By vanishing.

  Within was the flickering blood-red passageway lit by dragon-head lamps. Sarazin remembered that all right. He remembered what he would see at the far end of the passage, too, when he exited into X-zox. He would see a rock-tumbled goat-footed pastureland reaching away for ten leagues or so to the sea. In fact . . .

  When Sean Sarazin opened the Western Passage Gate and stepped into X-zox, what he saw was a valley ter- raced for intensive cultivation, a valley where he could see at a glance at least a half dozen villages.

  A proper path had now been cut in the steep-scrambling slope leading upwards for a league or so to the cliff heights where stood the Towers of X-n'dix. The Greater Tower was, as ever, sealed against entry, its bone-white heights soaring skywards for half a league with a jade and jacinth dragon draped around it.

  But the Lesser Tower, that pile of sculptured skulls, bones, heads, fangs, claws and other pieces of anatomy both human and alien, was accessible as always. Within dwelt Epelthin Elkin, who greeted Sean Sarazin warmly when he arrived with Jarl and Glambrax in tow.

  The old scholar was wearing a faded, much-patched robe of green and purple. Once it had been a truly gorgeous garment, but the rigours of life in Hok had aged it rapidly. Elkin, however, was unchanged. For as long as Sarazin could remember, the old man had looked much the same. Wisp-frail grey beard, grey hair pigtail-plaited, mahogany skin walnut wrinkled, sky-zenith eyes bloodshot but sharp, stance upright as ever.

  I'm afraid I bring bad news,' said Sarazin.

  Then bravely told how he had foolishly revealed the secrets of the Gates to Lord Regan and Jaluba. And how Jaluba still lived.

  Then we must expect invasion from Stokos,' said Elkin gravely.

  'Magic may perhaps defeat such invasion,' said Sarazin.

  'Have you brought magic with you to X-zox, then?' said Jarl, with a laugh. 'Don't look to old Elkin for any! He is but a fraud, as I've told you already.'

  Which reminded Sarazin once again that the Rovac warrior did not know that Elkin was truly a wizard. Well? Could Elkin's magic save them from invasion? The old wizard of Ebber had often pleaded weakness in the past — had in fact insisted more on the weaknesses of magic than its strengths.

  Of course, a little bit of Sarazin's magic green candle remained, safe in Glambrax's keeping. A potent weapon indeed! But such a fragment would not burn for long. To think that such might repel an invasion was at best a poor joke.

  But . . .

  Why should Stokos be at war with Hok? There was no reason that Sarazin could see. Perhaps the conflict could be resolved by treaty.

  'Elkin,' said Sarazin, "Pray tell, what quarrel has Stokos with us?'

  'Come,' said Jarl, 'this is no time to talk politics. You'll be wanting to meet your mother. And your father, of course.'

  When Epelthin Elkin had first explored the Lesser Tower — years ago, in the course of Sarazin's campaign in Hok against the ogre Tor — he had found many doors, cupboards and chambers which he could not open.

  Since then, the elderly wizard had sought to open these, hoping to find treasure left by the Dissidents who had built Castle X-n'dix. Elkin had been largely successful in his efforts, and, while the amount of treasure he had uncovered was zero, this did mean that there was plenty of living space within the Lesser Tower.

  It meant, for example, that Fox and Farfalla had a room to themselves. A small room, admittedly, but dragon- lamps within gave light, and an arrowslit allowed a view of a fraction of the sky.

  Though Jarl had told Sarazin his parents were fit and well, Sarazin found his father ill, his skin an unhealthy yellow. He had hepatitis. Sean Sarazin, who had been long

  laid up in bed with the same disease after his disastrous campaign in the marshlands of Tyte, knew just how miserable his father must be feeling.

  Still, the occasion was joyful regardless. A time for kisses and embraces.

  'Do you know,' said Farfalla, 'we're getting married.'

  'When?' said Sarazin.

  'On Midsummer's Day,' said Fox. "Not long to go now.'

  'Congratulations!' said Sarazin.

  Then, after a great deal of talking — he had adventures to tell of, and his parents had tales of adventures of their own — he finally got round to telling the bad news. About the Words.

  'The enemy can likely breach the Passage Gates,' con- cluded Sarazin soberly.

  Then,' said Fox, 'your next step must be to see Heth. Have you been told yet?'

  'Told what?' said Sarazin.

  Fox and Farfalla looked at each other. Then both broke into laughter.

  'What's the joke?' said Sarazin angrily.

  There was no joke as far as he could see. He had betrayed a secret vital to the defence of X-zox. Now he was due to confront the ruler of that land, the mysterious Heth, who would surely be most unhappy with him. Sean Sarazin had survived the wrath of other princes, true — he had lived through his encounters with Drake Douay and Tarkal of Chenameg. But could he be sure of surviving a third such encounter?

  He was not optimist enough to count on it.

  'Go,' said Fox, waving away Sarazin's questions. 'Go. See Heth. The sooner you know, the better.'

  Sarazin, brain positively boiling with unanswered questions, was taken by Thodric Jarl to Heth's quarters.

  'How does Heth like to be addressed?' said Sarazin anxiously. 'As Lord Heth? King Heth? Lord Emperor Heth?'

  'Don't worry about that,' said Jarl firmly. 'Remember what I told you. Heth is not ruler in his own right. He does but hold Hok in trust for a greater ruler.'

  Sarazin was scarcely reassured, but put a brave front on it regardless as Jarl led him into Heth's quarters. There they found the man himself seated on
a goatskin-padded chair, sharpening a sword. He looked up as they entered. He was a big man. Blond. And, to Sarazin's eye, undistinguished.

  'Hello, Sean,' he said.

  'Hello . . . Heth,' said Sarazin uncertainly.

  'Don't you remember me?' said Heth.

  'Should I?' said Sarazin.

  'I was your prisoner once.'

  Sarazin began to sweat. Not another person with a grudge against him!

  'I've had many people technically my prisoner,' said Sarazin. 'Anarchists in Tyte, though if I remember cor- rectly there were but two of them, and both lepers. But, after a battle by the banks of the Shouda How—'

  'I was your prisoner in Hok,' said Heth.

  Sarazin stared at him.

  Then:

  'Not. . . not the commander?' said Sarazin. 'The com- mander of the Eagle Pass? Tor's minion.' 'The same,' said Heth.

  And now, of course, it all came flooding back. The capture of Heth when Sarazin's men stormed the Eagle Pass when they first invaded Hok. Heth forced to march with Sarazin and his companions to the Eastern Passage Gate. Heth compelled to travel with them to X-zox. Heth forced to swear . . .

  To swear . . .

  You swore an oath,' said Sarazin slowly. 'An oath of fealty, was it not? The words . . . the exact words . . .' The exact words escaped him.

  'I swore lifelong loyalty to you,' said Heth. 'I swore that if King Tor died then I'd follow you forever, to death and beyond. And Tor is dead. So . . . welcome to your kingdom, Lord Sarazin!'