The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster coaaod-9

by Hugh Cook

  Ah, how sweet it is to contemplate this spectacle! The barbarian has been tamed! His sword has failed him, and so, with the sweet resignation of a milkmaid, he bends himself at last to the Book!

  And so the days passed; and the weeks; and the months; and sun piled up on sun, and moon on moon; and Guest began to mutter to himself in the foreign tongues, and found his dreams beset by their verbs, hooked verbs and winged verbs, verbs which crawled and verbs which tunneled, verbs with antennae and verbs with teeth. He imagined himself becoming a monstrous creature like the demons Ko and Italis, or like the therapist Schoptomov: a thing which sits and waits and broods and conjugates its verbs.

  Surely, on release – if release ever came – he would be a master of all the languages of the world. He would be as adroitly fluent in his linguistics as one of the jade-green monsters of the Circle of the Partnership Banks, or those lurking torturing machines which skulked variously in the mazeways Downstairs beneath Injiltaprajura or in the Stench Caves of Logthok Norgos.

  So thought Guest.

  But – alas! – the Weaponmaster had yet to start upon the complexities of Janjuladoola, or of Slandolin, or of the High Speech of wizards, when the peace of his scholarly studies was rudely interrupted. Guest was sitting one day beneath his fishing boat, with a fishing line laid out along the beach. He was fishing. No, he was not mad. Though his baited hook lay upon the sand rather than in the water, he was still fishing in earnest. He was not fishing for fish – he had eaten fish sufficient to feed a whale, and had no wish to catch another fin for as long as he lived. Guest Gulkan was fishing for seagulls; and, though you would be right in thinking this a cruel and vicious sport, it was the only way he could get himself any fresh meat.

  While Guest was so fishing – idly, for seagulls were few and far between that day – his peace was shattered by a battle-cry scream. Guest was jerked away from a semi-doze dream. He sat up in such a hurry that he cracked his head against his rowing boat. He swore, then rolled out into the sun, crouched on all fours then looked to the Door.

  There was a small group of people on and around the marble plinth of the Door. And Guest realized he could hear the hum of the Door in action – a hum which he had not noticed in his earlier drowsiness. The arch of the Door was filled with a screen of liquid silver.

  Hastily, Guest concealed the yellow bottle beneath his rags, then strode down the beach toward the strangers. If they had come to hunt him, then they would find him soon enough, since he had no caves or jungles to hide in. And, if they had come to rescue him, why, all he wanted was time sufficient to make a ceremonial burning of Strogloth's Compendium of Delights. Then he would be ready to leave his island.

  As Guest closed the distance with the strangers, he was confronted by the largest of them, a whale-built thing larger than any two-footed creature in all Guest Gulkan's experience. It towered above him. Its height was equal to that of the monsters Ko or Italis, and it towered over him all the more because it was standing on the plinth whereas he was standing on the sand. It had bulging cheeks and a skin which had the yellowness of vomit. Its eyes were small: glimmering buttons bright with malign suspicion.

  It had no ears.

  Not wishing to show any fear – and afraid he was, for the monster was armed with a monstrous species of crowbar, fit for the pulping of a hippopotamus – Guest jumped up onto the plinth, an act which made great demands on his courage.

  In response, the monster opened its mouth.

  Then it spoke, and, to Guest's surprise, its speech proved surprisingly intelligible. It spoke in a roughwork variant of the Galish Trading Tongue, that language which Guest had formerly been accustomed to use in his converse with Thayer Levant.

  "Who you be?" said the thing.

  Of all the questions it could have asked, this was the most surprising. In his exile on the island, Guest Gulkan had thought himself very much the focus of the world's concerns. He had imagined that his fate, whereabouts and destiny would be vigorously debated in Chi'ash-lan and Molothair, on Drum and in Obooloo. He had imagined demons, Bankers, wizards and warriors studying maps and debating his whereabouts. He had imagined quests, searches and hunts, all focused on him.

  To console himself when he had nothing else but the verbs as his comfort, Guest had studiously inflated his own sense of his own importance, until it had come to seem entirely logical to him that the whole world must surely be aflame with the news of his loss, and must surely be hunting for him.

  So, of all possible questions, the one addressed to him by the monster was the most surprising. For what was the thing doing on this desolate island if it was not hunting for the great Guest Gulkan, the famed and fabled Weaponmaster, the hero of the Stench Caves, the Emperor in Exile?

  Seeking to buy time so he could puzzle over this conundrum, Guest braced himself for possible action, and said:

  "Who asks?"

  But before he could be answered, a monster came bursting through the Door – a brute of a thing as gray as one of the Janjuladoola, its neck frilled with a collar of ruffled armor from which great man-tearing spikes projected.

  Moments later, the monster was dead, killed by the swift reactions of those it had incontinently assailed. The speed of the battle-blades of his new companions told Guest they were all trained for war. Dangerous men, then. He scanned the dead monster, noting the heavy-duty claws on its feet, and the mud on those feet, and the dead leaves plastered to its underbelly. On the slender evidence of the mud and leaves, he guessed that the thing had come from the Old City in Penvash.

  But -

  "What is it?" said Guest.

  "No member of my family, you can be sure of that," said one of the bloodthirsty ruffians who had helped kill the thing. Guest summed the man. An Ashdan. Beyond his prime. Bald. Hard death in his weathered blue eyes. A battle-worthy confidence in his shoulder-width stance. A warrior's training confirmed by the methodical cleansing of his blooded blade. Guest realized that blood was still dripping from the blade of his own sword, which had taken its share of the gray-skinned monster's lifeforce. He should clean it, but -Guest wanted time, time to think, time to question, to find out who and what and when and where and why. But the Ashdan was already ordering his men through the Door. But to where? Where were they going, and why?

  "Where does this Door go to?" said Guest.

  "You know about Doors, do you?" said the Ashdan. Guest almost gaped at the question. How could the fellow be so stupid? Of course he knew about Doors! Else how could he have arrived on the island?

  Even as he was thus thinking, and parrying the question with a joking reply, Guest remembered the rowing boat. Of course! The Ashdan had seen the rowing boat, and had presumed that Guest had arrived on the island by means of that vehicle! So he didn't know who Guest was! Or how he had got here!

  Even as Guest was figuring that out, his companions were bustling through the Door at the scramble.

  "What did you say?" said Guest, realizing the Ashdan had said something.

  But the Ashdan, having done with dialog, went plunging through the Door himself.

  It was like a battle. Everything was happening too quickly, with not enough time to sit down and figure out what was going on, or why, or who was involved.

  As Guest was thinking then, two more men came through the Door. The first hacked at Guest, who almost died then and there.

  But his sword was in his hand, and a short and vicious battle saw him hack down both of his would-be murderers.

  "What the hell is going on?" said Guest.

  Then, unable to answer that question on his own account – and realizing that he was now alone again, if corpses be not counted as company – the Weaponmaster plunged through the Door.

  To his shocked surprise, Guest found himself by Drangsturm.

  Drangsturm, of all places! Yes, and the wrong side of Drangsturm at that!

  During his time at the Castle of Controlling Power, Guest had studied the fortifications of Drangsturm with a battle-c
ommander's diligence; and, on a march from the Castle of Controlling Power to the Castle of Ultimate Peace, he had taken every opportunity to back up study with scrutiny.

  So Guest could place himself with a great degree of exactitude, and was surprised to find his small group of new companions were entirely ignorant as to where they were. He started to explain, and, as he gave his explanations, he realized one of his companions was – why, it was Rolf Thelemite!

  Wasn't it?

  It was now so many years since Guest and Rolf Thelemite had last seen each other that Guest was not certain of this identification. When Rolf had bodyguarded Guest in the city of Gendormargensis, both had been mere striplings. Since then, the battering of the years had seen them mature, age, thicken and change. Yet -Guest caught Rolf's eye, and Rolf gave him half a wink.

  So it was Rolf!

  Then Guest began to conjecture wildly. Maybe Rolf was engaged in a plan to rescue him. Maybe Rolf had been directed to the island by Shabble, or by Sken-Pitilkin, or by Thayer Levant. Maybe there was conspiracy here, and danger. Maybe Rolf was rescuing the Weaponmaster in defiance of his Ashdan master, the bald-headed warrior who seemed to be in charge of the party. Maybe -

  But at this point Guest was forced to abort thought in favor of action, for a gigantic green centipede came trundling across the landscape, forcing all to retreat through the Door.

  They came out on a mountainside of precipitous ice and driving cold, a mountainside so high and bleak that Guest was more than half-convinced it was a part of Ibsen-Iktus. There they thought themselves safe, but the centipedes attacked them through the Door.

  They fought viciously with one of the monsters, by brute strength precipitating it from the plinth of the Door, and sending it hurtling down the mountainside in an avalanche of snow which saw it precipitated over a cliff. Guest realized he was fighting in the company of great warriors, for none shirked combat. But one of their number was dead by the time the silver-shining screen of the Door suddenly snapped out of existence, amputating the head of one of the monsters.

  Then Guest asked the obvious question:

  "Who was controlling the Door for you?"

  "Nobody," said the Ashdan. "We had a star-globe. We left it where we started out."Guest was all the more perplexed to know who he was dealing with. Who were these people? Adventurers? Bandits? Pirates?

  Deserters? How come they were so organized for action, yet so disorganized in their management of the Door? If they were bent on exploring the Circle of the Old City of Penvash, then why hadn't they left a party to guard their star-globe? And who were the people whom Guest had fought on his own desert island? Guest was about to ask about this last point when he checked himself. For a dreadful possibility occurred to him. Two men had assailed him on his desert island, and he had killed both. But maybe those men had been in the service of the Ashdan with whom he was now in dialog! If so, then what would happen if this whole party went right round the Circle of the Door and discovered the corpses?

  Realizing he might have some explaining to do, Guest wondered if he should make his escape. He clutched the yellow bottle under his rags. He could toss it to the snows. Then, as it slid down the mountainside, following the path of the avalanching centipede, he could turn the ring on his finger, which would cause him to get sucked into the bottle.

  Should he do it? Guest flexed his fingers, which were rapidly losing all sensation. If he was going to act, he must act soon, else he would be quite incapable of turning the ring. The shock of transit from tropical heat to iceland mountainside was telling on him, and quickly. All warmth had been stripped from his body already, and he would be a casualty of the cold unless he did something, and quickly.

  Meantime, his companions were arguing angrily, arguing in a babble of voices, discussing the possibility of killing and cooking one of their number. Grief of gods! What manner of people was he mixed up with?

  No sooner had he asked himself this question than the Door abruptly reopened. One of the adventurers – apparently in danger of being immediately slaughtered and cooked – bolted for safety. Guest expected his companions to go yahooing after him, hot for slaughter. But they hesitated.

  Why?

  Everyone was going to freeze to death unless they moved quickly!

  Then Guest took a better look at his new companions, and realized that all of them were dressed for cold weather. He caught sight of bits of grass sticking out from the lumpy jackets of one or two of that number, and realized that some of them had used vegetative padding to supplement the warmth of their clothing. A good trick, but not one Guest could emulate, not when he had nothing but snow available as padding. Guest flexed his fingers. Or tried to. His gloveless digits were so stiff he would be hard put to turn the ring.

  Decisions, decisions!

  He was right out of the habit of making quick decisions, but the weather was giving him a helping hand. The bottle or the Door!

  Choose! Choose now! Or die! Guest chose, and led the way through the Door, through to -

  "Mother of god!" said Guest, in disbelief.

  He was on a battlefield. A battlefield, of all places!

  Some of Guest's new companions shared his shock, so he did his best to steady them, speaking as a leader should.

  The earth was dusty, and the sky was black with thunder. The air boomed with drums, wailed with screams, roared with fear. But battle had not yet been joined. As Guest's companions mobbed around him, he realized he was standing slap bang between two armies, and that war was about to be joined.

  "There is war here," said Guest, wondering if his own selfpossession might allow him to displace the bald-headed Ashdan as the leader of this band, "hence there is opportunity."

  So he said. But what he did not add was that the opportunity was mostly for death, for maiming, for capture and imprisonment, for suffering and thirst, for fear and for terror, for trauma and regrets.

  A warrior rode from the army to the west. He was mounted on a heavyweight black horse, and from his accoutrements Guest summed him as a Yudonic Knight of Wen Endex. One of Guest's new companions said something to the rider. Guest failed to catch the words, but they must have been mightily provocative, for those few words precipitated a fight.

  Moments later, the rider was dead, and his horse likewise.

  One of the killers started drinking the blood of the horse, and another – not to be outdone – started drinking the blood of the man. Guest realized the monster with the oversized crowbar had gone through the Door, with one or two of his fellows. The others – those of them who were not greeding on blood – had fallen to arguing. Guest took the opportunity to grab Rolf Thelemite by the arm and drag him out of earshot of the others for a private word.

  "Rolf," said Guest. "It's Rolf, isn't it?"

  "Who else would it be?" said Rolf Thelemite.

  "Then – good to see you, man!" said Guest, gripping his erstwhile companion by the shoulder. "Now, tell me, what's going on here?"

  "Well," said Rolf Thelemite, "it's a long story."

  A long story, and one which Guest was not to be favored with. For, as Rolf Thelemite geared himself up for the telling of his tale, a savagery of pale-skinned warriors came leaping out of the Door. They were barefooted, had leather breeches, had sheepskin jackets, and were armed with spiked clubs, with spears, and with swords.

  In the melee which followed, Guest was separated from Rolf Thelemite. And, as the fighting ended, Guest realized that the two armies of the battlefield were starting to march toward each other, bent on starting a larger war.

  "Rolf!" said Guest.

  "Here!" said Rolf Thelemite, who was standing on the plinth of the Door. "I'll see you later!"

  And, with that, the Rovac warrior vanished through the shining silver screen of the Door. Guest hesitated.

  He had two choices, both unpalatable. He could pursue Rolf Thelemite and his mob through the Door. Or he could stand here and get himself embroiled in a battle.

  Another ho
rseman came riding from the west, bearing down on the Door. And Guest, realizing this horseman might be riding for revenge of his fallen colleague, fled precipitately through the Door. He found himself in a huge darkness. A cave? He caught sight of the moon, and realized it was night. Then someone or something moved in the night, and Guest, fearing attack, plunged back through the Door.

  No sooner had Guest plunged – jumping through to searing sunlight – than the silver screen of the Door snapped out of existence. Guest glanced back to confirm what his ears had told him. The Door was closed! So here was sun, here was sand, he was back on his island, but the blood -

  The sand stretched away.

  Thirty paces away, a totem pole.

  Sand hot in the sun.

  Sand scattered with bodies.

  Corpses of men and corpses of monster.

  And the sand was fringed with a circular arena, the walls of which were of white marble. The arena's steeply-sloped tiers of seating – packed with people, all of them yelling and roaring – reminded Guest of Forum Three, the lecture theater in Cap Foz Para Lash. Then, with a shock of recognition, he realized where he was.

  He was standing in the Grand Arena of Dalar ken Halvar (otherwise known as the Great Arena, and, to scholars, as the Kilsh Dilsh Dalsh Tantasand).

  He saw the corpses of those death-lizards known as striders, their heads pulped. He saw dead men. And he saw crocodiles.

  Crocodiles very much alive! By the look of them, they looked hungry! And they were coming in Guest Gulkan's direction! Guest looked around at the packed arena.

  "It's me!" he roared. "Guest Gulkan! Friend of Plandruk

  Qinplaqus!"

  But the Weaponmaster's shout was drowned by the maelstrom of the crowd's rioting enthusiasm. Dalar ken Halvar recognized him not. He was in the arena, alone in the arena, alone with his sword, and the crocodiles were closing in on him. There were dozens of the monsters.

  But could they climb the plinth? Guest glanced around, and saw that the sand had been ramped up at the back of the plinth. He guessed that the ramping had been done especially for the convenience of the crocodiles. The steel arch looked unclimbable. But just thirty paces distant was the totem pole. Guest gathered his wits and ran for the totem pole. But a man stepped from its base and challenged him with a sword. The man was barefooted, wore leather breeches, wore sheepskin jacket – and was, Guest realized, one of those who had so lately been engaged in a m?l?e on the battlefield Guest had fled. Moreover, now that he examined it closely, he realized the totem pole was jam packed with such savages.