by Hugh Cook
Bribe the Rovac! Buy yourself a victory! For it won't be Jarl who dies. Oh no. If it's blades in earnest, it's you who dies. And you're running out of time to do something about it."
"You underestimate me," said Guest. "I have my sword, and I've spent my life training in its use."
"Your life!" said his tutor. "Boy, you're still wet from the egg! If you don't trust me, then trust the city. All over Gendormargensis, men are placing bets, and the odds predict your speedy death in battle."
"When we fight," said Guest, tempted into the heat of argument despite himself, "it won't be me who does the dying. I've killed men and, and I've trained for killing more, and what's Jarl so special about?"
"A man is a man," said Sken-Pitilkin. "And a boy a boy."
"I'm no boy!" said Guest in fury, though of course at the age of 14 he was very much a boy.
"A boy, verily, to be so easily provoked," said Sken-Pitilkin calmly. "Why, you're as irregular in your humors as one of the Akromian verbs."
"Jarl will be boy enough to bury when I'm through with him," said Guest. "You want to be rich? Then bet on my fortunes!"
"I'm not a gambling man," said Sken-Pitilkin. "But as soon as our lesson is over, I'm going to wager a month's salary on your early death. I'd be a fool to pass up a chance of profit so certain."
"Certain!" said Guest, rising to his feet. "I'll show you what's certain!"
With that battle-smash threat, the young Weaponmaster boiled out of his room, driven by the steam generated by the heat of his anger. However, once having boiled in such an impressive fashion, he found his wrath evaporating almost as swiftly as it had been generated.
So where to now?
In the harshness of its winter, Gendormargensis was no place for idling out of doors. Its bleakness was ruled by the wind-slam rain which slushed the streets to a turgid muck, the frigidity of which beaked eagerly through the cracks and chasms in the Weaponmaster's filthy boots. Though Guest was an emperor's son, the congenital disorder of his gear ever made him look like an impoverished refugee from six years of mountain-path campaigning.
Ever so slowly, the young Weaponmaster began to feel ever so slightly stupid. Should he go back inside? And lose face by apologizing? Never! Even so ... he half-wished Sken-Pitilkin would exert his authority and order him back inside. But his elderly tutor appeared to have given up on him, at least for the moment. Guest Gulkan summed his options, and quickly, the weather being a disincentive to extended meditation. He could quest to Rolf Thelemite's sickbed and seek to rouse the man from his convalescence. Or he could at last yield to the advice of his betters, seek out Thodric Jarl, and bribe that Rovac mercenary to throw their fight in Enskandalon Square. Or, if still bent on dueling Jarl to the death, he could practice those sword-skills which he had been honing for so long.
Or -
But here Guest Gulkan left off thinking, for an oncoming messenger was hailing him.
"Ho! Gulkan my man!"
It was the dwarf Glambrax, his pet dwarf and his father's favorite fool.
"Ho!" said Guest.
"Ho-ha!" said Glambrax.
"Ho-ha-ho-ho!" said Guest.
This went on for some time, the pair bawling at each other in the strumpeting wind like a couple of madmen, for this was a nonsense-game they had brought to perfection in the last year or so. But at last Glambrax swapped nonsense for sense.
"Zelafona, my man," said Glambrax, thus venting to the winter air the name of the witch who had mothered him.
"If I'm to be Zelafona," said Guest, "then I'm naturally woman, not man, though I doubt I'd be woman of yours."
"Zelafona," said Glambrax, ignoring this sally in favor of his business. "She wishes to see you."
But Guest had no wish whatsoever to see Glambrax's mother, who, after all, was Bao Gahai's sister. Doubtless she had good advice for him, but he was brim-full to the ears with good advice already, was drowning in the stuff, considered it noxious, said as much, and proposed that he detoxify himself with some hard spirits in the nearest tavern of convenience.
"With Rolf," said Glambrax.
"Oh, if we can liberate him, then yes," said Guest. "By all means with Rolf."
So they took themselves off to the infirmary where the convalescent Rovac warrior was laid up in bed, recovering from the aftermath of an attack of scarlet fever. They found Eljuk Zala seated by Rolf Thelemite, reading to him from one of Sken-Pitilkin's books of geography. Guest Gulkan and Glambrax wrested the book from Eljuk Zala and pitched it into a half-full chamber pot, then swept the invalid and his nursemaid away to the nearest tavern. There Guest got very drunk, his companions got almost as intoxicated, and Guest in his bravado told all the world how he would hack Jarl to pieces on the morrow, then take the fair Yerzerdayla as his own, and bed her with all the ferocity of strength at his disposal.
When the next day blurred to life, Guest Gulkan woke but slowly. He was sullen and hungover as he made his way through the dull morning light to Enskandalon Square, where he was scheduled to meet Jarl in combat.
Lord Onosh was there already, waiting for his son. With Lord Onosh was the dralkosh Bao Gahai, in company with her sister Zelafona and Zelafona's dwarf-son Glambrax. Others were there also: a full two hundred assorted warriors, servants, tribesmen and beggars, together with vendors selling hot chestnuts and cups of warmed-up horseblood diluted with hard liquor.
Present amongst that gathering was Eljuk Zala, and there too were the wizards Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin and Pelagius Zozimus.
Conspicuous by his absence was Rolf Thelemite, who was spending that morning in his bed in the infirmary, dead to the world as a consequences of his over-indulgences of the night before.
On arriving at Enskandalon Square, Guest Gulkan did not address his father, but instead ignored him entirely as he stripped off his furs and began practicing some swordstrokes. It was immediately obvious to the Witchlord Onosh that Guest Gulkan had been training intensely while encamped by the Yolantarath. But it was also painfully obvious to Lord Onosh - and to most other onlookers - that the boy's improvements fell far short of making him battle-worthy against such a formidable opponent as Jarl.
We must remember that Guest Gulkan was still a boy of 14, and though his stature could be mistaken for that of a man, he was a very child in his folly when he thought to match himself against the battle-hardened brutality of a grown man a full ten years older that himself.
When Guest was done with his swordpractice, he at last turned to his father and grinned.
Then the Witchlord Onosh saw that his son Guest had no plans of dying that day, but instead thought he would hack down Thodric Jarl and walk from that place in triumph. Unfortunately the young Guest Gulkan had become over-confident in battle through his success in killing bandits - poor wretches who were usually half- starved and often half-mad and leprous into the bargain. His over-confidence had been boosted by the marked improvement he had lately made through his training.
"Father," said Eljuk Zala, tugging at the Witchlord's sleeve to win his attention.
"Eljuk," said Lord Onosh, acknowledging the presence of his favorite son.
"He thinks he can win, doesn't he?" said Eljuk.
"It would seem so from the grin," said Lord Onosh.
The Witchlord's voice was measured. It was not easy for him to stand here waiting for a Rovac warrior to come forth to hack down his son. But one does not win an empire through softness of spirit, nor can an empire be held by one who fears to do the hard things, or to have them done on his account.
"But," said Eljuk, "but he's going to die. Isn't he?"
"We are all of us going to die," said Lord Onosh. "The only question is, when."
"I - I don't want Guest to die," said Eljuk.
The plaintive tone of Eljuk's voice made Lord Onosh turn and look at him. The Witchlord's scrutiny revealed to him a surprising fact: Eljuk had been crying.
"You really want him to live?" said Lord Onosh.
"But of course," said
Eljuk, as if it was obvious. "Of course I want him to live. What else would I want?"
The innocence of that response almost made Lord Onosh weep.
As Lord Onosh knew full well, if Guest survived this day of testing then he must necessarily and inevitably kill his brother Eljuk. Guest had the will to power and the bloody resolution necessary to seize and hold an empire, whereas Eljuk -
Poor Eljuk.
"You've never denied me before," said Eljuk.
"No," said Lord Onosh. "I haven't."
Lord Onosh had never been able to deny the boy anything. Not since he had sentenced the boy to die.
Character shows itself early, and when Eljuk had been but a small boy his father had seen that Eljuk would never be emperor.
He was too conciliatory, too sentimental and far too self- effacing. Whereas Guest had a will to power and a violence to match it, and hence could definitely be emperor, though in all probability a bad one.
Possibly: a very bad one.
When Lord Onosh had realized the strength and ferocity of Guest Gulkan's bloody temper, he had seen that everything possible must be done to postpone the boy's ascension to the imperial throne, in the hope that the passage of years would mature him and mellow him. So Lord Onosh had named Eljuk as his heir, thus dooming Eljuk to die. It is one of the invariable rules of human affairs that power always ends up in the hands of those who want it most; and so, since Eljuk had the misfortune to lack all taste for dominance, it was a foregone conclusion that he would inevitably be murdered, if not by his brother then by some other.
Eljuk might - might! - have survived as ruler of some trifling little peacetime principality where he could have been played as a puppet by wise and remorseless councilors. But life amongst the Yarglat did not facilitate charades of puppetry. In seeking to rule the Yarglat, Eljuk must surely die, and Eljuk -
Eljuk did not realize that he had been sentenced to death, and that was the measure of his folly, a measure of his total unsuitability to hold the throne.
"Eljuk," said Lord Onosh, "when I am dead ... "
"May you never die," said Eljuk piously.
"Birth is death," said Lord Onosh harshly. "As I was born, so must I die. Then - Eljuk, when I'm dead, there won't be anyone to stand between you and the world."
"There'll be Guest," said Eljuk.
"Guest, yes," said Lord Onosh. "So what if - Eljuk, brothers quarrel. Two brothers, one kingdom. The story plays a thousand times in history. It never has a happy ending."
There was a stir amongst those gathered in Enskandalon Square. Thodric Jarl had arrived.
"Save Guest," said Eljuk. "Then - then write it down for me.
Don't tell him, but write it down. Write that - that I asked you.
Then when I'm emperor I'll show him what you wrote. Then he'll know I saved him. A debt, you see."
Lord Onosh doubted very seriously that any such posthumous revelation would could for much when an empire was at stake.
Still.
What else could he do?
Eljuk would never be able to hold the empire. He was too ... too innocent. Too nice. Whereas Guest ... well, Guest was a fool, a brash and ignorant over-confident fool. He drank too much, kept bad company, piled up gambling debts, was rude to powerful people such as Bao Gahai, and according to Sken-Pitilkin's account he was a scholar of truly grotesque incompetence.
But despite all these defects the young Weaponmaster had demonstrated a ruthless resolution that his brother Eljuk lacked.
He had set his heart on hacking down Thodric Jarl; he had trained for the purpose; he had avoided all temptation to escape from the duel by bribery; and here he was today, bent on consummating his folly.
Lord Onosh summoned Sken-Pitilkin with a finger and made his wishes known.
"My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, once he understood what his emperor wanted.
"You won't do it?" said Lord Onosh, detecting a note of resentful resistance in Sken-Pitilkin's voice.
"My lord, this - this boy Guest, he's, in his impetuosity he pitched a book to a chamber-pot."
"It was your book, I suppose," said Lord Onosh, suppressing his extreme irritation at finding his tame wizard bothering him with such a triviality on such an occasion.
"It was, my lord. It was - "
"Give me your bill and I'll pay it," said Lord Onosh.
At which Sken-Pitilkin gave up all hope of making the Witchlord Onosh understand the gravity of Guest Gulkan's crime.
For the book which had fallen to the chamber pot had been a book of geography; and ancient; and stocked full of wisdom; and decorated in its margins with a multitude of irregular verbs; and it had been ruined entirely by its drenching, and was quite irreplaceable, for gold would not serve as its replacement, no, nor ivory either, nor silver, nor any measure of shimmering silks and unbroken hymens.
"My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin remotely. "I hear, and to hear is to obey."
"Good, good," said Lord Onosh testily. "Then get on with it!"
Thus commanded, Sken-Pitilkin positioned himself near the fighters, and prepared to put his powers of levitation to work.
This he did discretely, without anyone in the audience realizing what was happening. So, when combat was joined, Thodric Jarl's feet were hooked from under him by the arts of Sken-Pitilkin's magic, and down went Jarl in the snow and slush. Guest Gulkan promptly tried to hack off Jarl's head, whereupon Sken-Pitilkin secured the sideways deflection of the Weaponmaster's sword, ensuring that it did but hack a bloodline in Jarl's gray-haired scalp.
There was supreme art in that studied deflection, but not one person in the audience understood that art. To the audience, it seemed merely that Jarl had slipped, and that Guest had blundered away his chance to decapitate the fallen Rovac warrior.
Thodric Jarl was down on the ground, bleeding profusely from the cut in his scalp. Blood poured from his head, sluiced through his hair, teemed down his face in rivulets then clogged in the gray of his beard. The Witchlord Onosh promptly declared that Jarl had been defeated, and that Yerzerdayla was therefore Guest Gulkan's prize.
"But," said Lord Onosh, "as the boy Guest has recently been guilty of a scandalizing delinquency, it is fitting that his possession of Yerzerdayla be tied to his punishment for that delinquency."
Then the Witchlord Onosh publicly denounced the boy Guest on account of the fact that he had seen fit to dunk one of Sken-
Pitilkin's codicological treasures in a chamber pot. The emperor announced Guest's punishment:
"On account of his delinquency, the boy is not be permitted to take possession of the woman Yerzerdayla until he is 18 years of age."
Lord Onosh declared that Yerzerdayla would meanwhile "reside in chastity" under his own roof.
The Witchlord Onosh felt that he had resolved things rather nicely, winning a margin of four years or so in which to arrange for Guest to discretely surrender Yerzerdayla to Thodric Jarl. But in the interim, he must move quickly to separate Guest and Jarl, lest they find some excuse for a rematch.
Accordingly, that evening the young Guest Gulkan was summoned into his father's presence. There he found Zelafona, the aged but elegant sister of Bao Gahai, and her dwarf-son Glambrax.
"Guest," said Lord Onosh. "You are leaving Gendormargensis.
Tonight. Glambrax and Zelafona are going with you."
"Leaving?" said Guest. "But why?"
"Because," said Lord Onosh, "Thodric Jarl has sworn a bloody oath to kill both you and Sken-Pitilkin. In fact, unless my spies misheard him, he swore to butcher every wizard in the world."
"Then," said Guest calmly, "you would be well within your rights to chop him into dogmeat, for every wizard in Gendormargensis lives in your protection."
"So they do, so they do," said Lord Onosh. "So, for their protection, my wizards are joining you in exile."
"Exile?" said Guest in alarm. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm sending you out of the empire," said Lord Onosh. "Have you heard of a p
lace called Alozay? Have you heard of Molothair?"
"No," said Guest.
"Sken-Pitilkin swears he has taught you of both," said Lord Onosh. "And in detail. Molothair is a city, and Alozay an island.
The city of Molothair sits on the island of Alozay, and serves as the capital of that archipelago known as Safrak. You can place Safrak on a map, I trust?"
"I can place anything on a map," said Guest. "A cup, a plate, a pot or a branding iron. Give Molothair or Safrak into my hand and I will place them on any map of your choosing."
"Come," said Lord Onosh impatiently, "you must know the places which we're talking of, for Safrak - oh, never mind! Sken-
Pitilkin's the geographer, let him then lesson you. You'll have plenty of time for lessons on your journey."
And with that Guest Gulkan was dismissed, and was sent away to pack up for his journey into exile.
Name: Guest Gulkan.
Birthplace: Stranagor.
Occupation: student.
Status: barbarian-in-training.
Description: aggressive Yarglat male who lives his life as if determined to play the role of barbarian to the bloody hilt.
Hobby: the tasting of beer (often, and in bulk).
Quote: "It wasn't me and I didn't really mean to do it, and anyway the bitch bit me." (Said at the age of eleven, when he was caught barbecuing Viranessa, the silky-haired lap-dog which had long been the prize possession of his brother Eljuk Zala.)
So it was that Guest Gulkan departed from Gendormargensis in the depths of winter and made the arduous journey to the islands of Safrak. He did not go alone but was accompanied by two wizards, a witch, a dwarf and a bodyguard - the people in question being the wizard of Xluzu named Pelagius Zozimus, the wizard of Skatzabratzumon named Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, the aged but elegant dralkosh named Zelafona, the dwarf Glambrax and the doughty Rovac warrior named Rolf Thelemite.
Though Rolf was not properly recovered from his attack of scarlet fever, they nevertheless made good time on their journey out of the Collosnon Empire.
From Gendormargensis they traveled, making the journey down the frozen Yolantarath River on a sleigh drawn by the fur-dogs known as ubeks. Some 200 leagues south-west of Gendormargensis, and just downstream from the trading town of Babaroth, the Yolantarath is intersected by the Pig River. Guest Gulkan and his companions pushed their way up the Pig. "Push" is very much the operative word, for the winter-frozen river was pocked with tree trunks and derelict rocks, and the clearness of its ice was rutted by the journeying of many traders.
