by Hugh Cook
"It is true, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin. "Speech is one thing, but performance another. And of the two, performance tends to be the more difficult."
"Speech!" said Sham Cham. "You talk of speech? Why, in Locontareth I said I'd raise an army - and having said it, did it.
To speak is to act. Such is politics."
"To prove speech at swordpoint," countered Zozimus. "Such is war."
"Then let us prove!" said Sham Cham, not acknowledging that he had been countered at all. "We outnumber our enemies three to one. I would not claim to have mastered all the ingenuities of military science, but nevertheless would think brute force in such proportions to be a sufficient appliance for victory."
"My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, seeing that Zozimus was in need of his support. "I have long studied - "
"Then study some more!" retorted Sham Cham. "But study elsewhere, and in silence. I take no hectoring from pedagogs."
Sham Cham's earlier doubt was a thing of the past, and now he was resolved upon battle and victory. Or perhaps - there are people whose character is so constituted - his doubt was so great that he durst not admit to the slightest deviance from his chosen course. For often it is the man who is most frightened who is most resolute in action, for he knows that to reconsider will necessarily be to panic, and that to panic is to fail.
"Your wisdom is great, my lord," said Zozimus, "for Sken-
Pitilkin knows more of losing wars than winning them."
A monstrous slander, this! And - insult upon insult! - a slander which Sham Cham greeted with an approving smile. "Still," said Zozimus, in his most conciliatory tones, "my lord, to cross a river against the armed opposition of one's enemies is ever one of the harder exercises of war, and to force a way to Babaroth we must necessarily brute our way across the Pig."
"I have heard," said Sham Cham, "that the Pig is a very torrent of destruction in the spring, but that the river lies slumped in its shallows in the heat of high summer. It is the heat of high summer now."
"So it is, my lord," said Zozimus, "but the shallows of the river lie slumped between the steepness of its northern bank and the southern. The steepness of those banks gives the enemy considerable opportunity for defense."
"Still," said Sham Cham, "I am sure I can force a passage across the river, even if our enemies should burn the bridge."
"Then, my lord," said Zozimus, "having crossed the river, we should still have to fight our way through the forest which lies north of the river."
"That is what I am here for," said Sham Cham, a trifle impatiently. "To fight my enemies."
"True, my lord," said Zozimus, the velocity of his speech evidencing impatient exasperation. "To fight, yes, war is fighting, but only a boy would think it nothing but. War for men is equally a matter of choice and timing. I as a veteran bloody in my swordplay would choose to fight the Witchlord at the city."
"The city?" said Sham Cham, quite confused by the rapidity of Zozimus's speech, which typically became nearly indecipherable in its speed when its temper was threatening to lose itself.
"Babaroth is no city. It is but a town."
Sham Cham spoke in truth, for of course Babaroth was no more than a town - a town built on a small hill on the eastern shores of the Yolantarath, some two leagues upstream from the confluence of the Yolantarath and the Pig.
"The city which I had in mind," said Zozimus, "is the city of Gendormargensis."
Then Zozimus outlined his plan. The wizard proposed that they retreat; and construct rafts; and ferry their army to the western shores of the Yolantarath under cover of night; and then march on Gendormargensis, leaving the Witchlord in his ignorance to stab at shadows and grope at dust.
"This plan is a nonsense," said Sham Cham. "As I have said already, our business is not with the capital but with the emperor."
Sham Cham's intransigence dismayed the wizards. For the conquest of Gendormargensis would win them gold with which to pay soldiers; a population from which troops could be recruited; a fortified city from which to stand off their enemies; and a semblance of absolute victory, which would surely discourage and dismay those enemies.
Pelagius Zozimus said as much.
But was not believed.
"Gendormargensis is but a diversion from our business," said Sham Cham. "Our business is to smash the emperor in battle. When you say otherwise, I think you fearful of meeting this Thodric Jarl in battle. I think you have a pronounced over-respect of the
Rovac." Sken-Pitilkin endeavored to support Zozimus in his wisdom.
"My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, "in Gendormargensis - "
"In Gendormargensis," said Sham Cham, interrupting the scholar, "the dralkosh Bao Gahai awaits her enemies."
"Why, yes, yes, so she does," said Pelagius Zozimus, "surely, yet she is but a witch, and the killing of a witch is no big matter for either man or wizard."
Though both Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin had from time to time taken the part of witches in the past - Sken-Pitilkin out of mercy, and Zozimus for reasons of unscrupulous ambition - neither placed any value on Bao Gahai's personal survival.
"The wizards of Argan," said Zozimus, "long ago disposed of most witches in a mighty pogrom. As a sometime member of Argan's Confederation of Wizards, let me assure you of the extreme limitations of the Witchwoman breed."
"So Bao Gahai survived pogrom, did she?" said Sham Cham.
"She did," affirmed Zozimus.
"Then," said Sham Cham, "clearly she is mightier than all your wizards federated in their anger!"
Thus did Sham Cham make clear his mortal terror of the dralkosh Bao Gahai, a terror which had conditioned all his thinking about the current campaign. Sken-Pitilkin found this terror quite extraordinary. After all, it is usual for people to fear what is near and discount what is distant, yet in Sham Cham's case things were quite the reverse - and, when put to the question, the leader of the tax revolt declared he would rather face an army than a witch.
"Well," said Sken-Pitilkin, "supposing you defeat Lord Onosh here and now, what say Bao Gahai marches forth against you? You see? One way or the other, you're doomed to face your greatest fear before you're finished."
"No!" said Sham Cham. "She'll settle for Gendormargensis.
Gendormargensis, that's hers. I'll keep Locontareth. Peace, see.
The empire cut in kingdoms. Gendormargensis, Stranagor and Locontareth. Three kingdoms. A recipe for peace."
A recipe - so thought Sken-Pitilkin - for friction and for war. The wizards redoubled their efforts, reminding Sham Cham that Thodric Jarl had had days to reinforce his defensive position on the Pig, and that the Rovac were vicious in defense.
In his heart of hearts, Sham Cham knew himself to be no military genius, so at last called in expert advice to evaluate the counsel of wizards. To be precise: he brought in the Weaponmaster Guest Gulkan, who was known to have defeated Thodric Jarl in single combat in a duel in Enskandalon Square; and he brought in Rolf Thelemite, who by his own account was mighty in war, and had led many an army to victory against impossible odds. Sken-Pitilkin chose to stay to see what damage Guest and Rolf would do, but Zozimus threw up his hands in disgust and stalked from the conference lest he lose his temper and do something unpardonable.
"What would you suggest?" said Sham Cham to Guest.
"Attack," said Guest promptly. "Attack, for this Jarl is a man like others, and here he is weak, and we can smash him." Guest spoke with the confidence of a true believer; for Guest had defeated Jarl in single combat, and hence thought him weak. Guest was still ignorant of the fact that he owed his survival in Enskandalon Square to Sken-Pitilkin, who had used powers of levitation to trick Jarl's feet from under him.
Here the blame for Guest's derelictions must be place fairly and squarely at the feet of the Emperor Onosh. Lord Onosh was, by and large, capable of doing the hard things. But on that occasion he had weakened. When Guest had dueled Jarl in Enskandalon Square,
Lord Onosh had allowed himself to be persuad
ed into an act of incontinent mercy. So the boy Guest had survived, living thereafter with an exaggerated sense of his own ability, and becoming a danger to the very emperor who had saved his life.
Remember this, if it is your destiny to be an emperor! The seat of power is a seat of decision, and weakness in decision is the doom of the governed and the governors alike.
"The wizards speak of this man Jarl as being large in reputation," said Sham Cham.
"Why, a giant in reputation," agreed Guest, "but I've seen him in his injuries with tears in flood upon his face, and that was over nothing, a trifling matter of broken bones."
So spoke Guest, he who had never yet had to live with the worst of pain, far less to live with spearing pain from step to step, from breath to breath, from moment to moment, and each of those moments but a hair from a flinch.
"So," said Sham Cham, "so you suggests - "
"He speaks from the folly of his youth," said Sken-Pitilkin.
"In the truth of my wisdom I suggest rather that we send forward two wizards in their wisdom to deal with the wild men according to their wiles and thus avoid the wrath of woolly war."
"Woolly war?" jeered Guest. "That's a nonsense! War is not woolly. Sheep are woolly. What were you thinking of?"
"I," said Sken-Pitilkin with dignity, "was thinking - "
"You were thinking you were a sheep!" said Guest. "Woolly war! Really!"
Sometimes it will happen that an adult will mispeak himself in front of a child, and the child will thereafter not let the matter rest, but will strive to keep the error green in memory. So it was with Guest Gulkan on that occasion.
Rolf Thelemite then added his own boast to Guest Gulkan's advice, and those federated dunces routed the sagacious Sken-Pitilkin. Both Rolf and Guest were young; and drunk with bravado; and intoxicated by thoughts of victory and power; and Sham Cham, being likewise afflicted, was in no mood to heed counsels of caution, not when his own forces outnumbered those of the Witchlord by three to one.
"Three swords can cut a single head," said Sham Cham, when he summed up their debates, "be that head a jester's or a queen's."
So it came to pass that on a bright and shining morning the mighty Sham Cham awoke from dreams of revolutionary tax reform, and marched his army to within battle distance of the Pig, there to confront the army of the Witchlord Onosh, lord of the Collosnon Empire.
Then forth from the Witchlord's ranks rode Thodric Jarl, riding under a flag of truce. Jarl was received by an ad hoc embassy which included Sham Cham himself, and Guest Gulkan, and Rolf Thelemite, and the wizards Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin.
"Hail, Cham!" said Jarl.
"Hail, Jarl!" said Cham. "If you have come to present me with your surrender, then I am ready to receive it. My forces outnumber yours by a matter of three to one, therefore your defeat is inevitable."
"I dispute it," said Jarl. "To defeat me and mine, my lord and me, you would need to have odds of a thousand to one in your favor. As you have not the forces to compel a victory, yield me your heart. Then we can negotiate."
"Heart," said Sham Cham, puzzled by Jarl's idiom. "What do you mean by my heart?"
"I mean," said Jarl, "that bloody organ which beats in orgasmic fury underneath the larger of your paps. Give it.
Surrender it. Then there will be a peace between us."
With that, the gray-bearded Thodric Jarl produced a silver platter from a saddlebag and invited Sham Cham to deposit his palpitating blood-beater upon the shining surface of that platter.
"You are drunk," said Sham Cham.Sken-Pitilkin and Zozimus, both veterans of past encounters with the Rovac, knew that Jarl was not drunk but, rather, intoxicated by the uplift of the moment.
"Drunk?" said Jarl. He laughed. "No, not drunk. Not drunk, but joyful."
Then Jarl cast the silver platter into the mud. Mud sprayed up into Sham Cham's face, and his horse reared, and Jarl wheeled his own horse and rode back to the lines where the Witchlord Onosh waited with his horsemen, apparently ready to charge.
Sham Cham wiped the mud from his face.
"So," said Sham Cham. "It is war. Very well then. Force against force we will meet them. Force against force we will meet them - and throw them back into the sea."
His choice of idiom betrayed his origins. Stranagor lies by the sea, and the throwing of great quantities of people into that watery organ which dominates the planet's physical geography has ever had pride of place in Stranagor's iconography of war.
Then Sham Cham prepared his horsemen for the charge.
With battle about to be joined, the restlessness of men and horses caused such disorder in the ranks that the wizards Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin were able to work their way toward the rear without attracting undue attention to themselves. Though Zozimus looked like a very eleven warrior in his fish-scale armor, and though Sken-Pitilkin in his fisherman's skirts looked a grim and warworthy skirmisher, neither had any intention whatsoever of wasting their substance in battle.
Do not think less of them for this! It is true that both wizards had sworn themselves to Sham Cham's service. Still, both firmly considered that they could best serve the revolutionary army by offering it their wisdom. Wisdom having been rejected, what else could they do but sit back and watch?
Well ....
They could have used their special powers, of course. But a wizard's powers are soon exhausted by the demands of a battlefield, and both Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin preferred to preserve their strength until it was needed for purposes of personal survival.Guest and Rolf remained to the fore of the army's mounting disorder. Both were seated on over-aged geldings rather than the high-spirited stallions to which they had aspired; and both were becoming increasingly glad of the stability of their mounts, for the tension of war-ready men was communicating itself to the army's horses, and those beasts which were more highly-strung were becoming close to unmanageable.
As the moment of battle neared, the Weaponmaster Guest was concentrating too intently to suffer fear. He was visualizing the clash of sword against sword, practicing tactics by imaginative immersion. The restiveness of the horses made him remember his brother Morsh Bataar, crushed beneath a horse, his leg wrecked by the weight of the animal. He must leap clear if his own mount went down. He must -
"Guest!"
"What?" said Guest, irritated at being interrupted by Rolf Thelemite. "What is it, Rolf?"
Rolf looked worried.
There was a simple explanation for this:
He was worried!
"Guest," said Rolf, "I've something to tell you."
"Then spit it out, man!" said Guest.
"It's about Jarl," said Rolf. "Jarl and me. He made me promise. Before he ran, I mean. Back in Locontareth. He made me swear. It was an oath, he made me swear an oath."
"What oath?" said Guest, since the question was obviously expected of him.
"He made me swear to kill you," said Rolf.
"Kill me!" said Guest. "You swore an oath to kill me?"
"Yes," said Rolf. "But only - only if you really went to war against your father."
"What else could I do?" said Guest.
"Well, kill Sham Cham," said Rolf.
"What!?"
"Yes, yes, kill him," said Rolf in eagerness. "It's obvious, obvious! Look! He's riding up and down, ride up, a sword, a single blow! We'd spur for escape, we'd be gone, he's dead, as good as dead, just say the word!"
"Rolf," said Guest, "I can't kill Sham Cham, for I'm sworn to his cause in solemn alliance. I've sworn to make war on my father."
"But if you do," said Rolf, despairing, "then I must kill you, for I've sworn an oath. Or if I don't kill you, then - then I'll be an oathbreaker, an oathbreaker accursed of Rovac."
"Then accursed of Rovac you will have to be," said Guest.
"For my doom is to fight the Witchlord, and I fight him today."
Rolf couldn't believe he was serious.
"But, Guest," said Rolf. "That's - that's your father out there!"
Rolf Thelemite was sweating under the obdurate weight of the sun. A fly fed on his sweat. He was burdened by the heaviness of chain mail, the chafing of leather, the intolerable sweatiness of his feet in his boots. His left ear itching where his dangling gold-snake earring was threaded through the flesh.Guest was watching him. Unsmiling. Guest was only 16 years old, but today all traces of any childish sentimentality were a lifetime removed from his nature. Rolf sensed a sameness about Guest and Jarl. Both were missing a layer of humanity: lacked a sense of the reality of pain. Especially the pain of others! Hence they were dangerous. While Rolf knew how to make a boast, Guest knew how to live one. And Rolf found himself afraid of the Weaponmaster.
"Guest," said Rolf, making one last try.
Then Guest reached out and took Rolf by the throat. And squeezed. Hard enough for Rolf to feel the swordsman's strength in the fingers. Strength sufficient to kill by crushing. When Guest released the pressure, Rolf coughed, spluttered, touched tentative fingers to the flesh of his throat. Felt the fragility of the structures there.
As Rolf was still groping at his throat, Guest gave Rolf's horse a hearty kick. Thanks to the beast's sturdy temperament, it did not launch itself into an all-out charge. But even this stolid and aging animal was not immune to the feverish anticipation of battle, and it had danced a dozen paces before Rolf was able to rein it in.
With reins in his left hand and his right on his sword, Rolf turned to face Guest Gulkan. Under the hot sun, a gust of wind blew horse-smell and battle-dust between the Rovac warrior and the Yarglat youth. They were estranged by dust and distance. Guest's face was blurred by the dust, by the harshness of the sun. He was no longer Rolf's familiar friend. Rather, he was an anonymous Yarglat, a stranger, a horselord driven by the dynamics of war.
And he was turning, wheeling his horse in response to an order which Rolf had not heard, though others had heard it, must have, for Sham Cham's horsemen were wheeling en masse, and in moments they were sweeping forward in a war-whoop charge. Rolf Thelemite's horse, over-excited, surged forward in a positive gallop.
