The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

by Hugh Cook

  Before long, the city was burning, most of the fires being set by defenders who sought to stir confusion through arson, hoping to make their escape in that confusion.

  But in the ruling hall of Locontareth there was no confusion, only a terrible haste, for under the direction of the wizard Sken-

  Pitilkin the final preparations for flying the roof were being made. Carpenters were checking that the roof was entirely severed from the walls of the hall; mighty warriors were risking the bursting of blood vessels as they winched the Witchlord's treasure chests to the heights; and other warriors were likewise trying to winch upwards Sken-Pitilkin's donkey.

  To this scene came the Witchlord himself, in company with Pelagius Zozimus. In honor of the crisis, the slug-chef Zozimus had dressed himself in his famous fish-scale armor, perhaps hoping that he should at least make a well-dressed corpse. The armor reflected the fiery blaze of arson-struck buildings, blood- red and glowering. Padding along behind Zozimus came the dwarf Glambrax, with the sister-witches Zelafona and Bao Gahai bringing up the rear.

  When the Witchlord saw Sken-Pitilkin's mightily laden donkey swinging upwards from a winchrope, he stopped short, as if hammered to a halt by thunder.

  "What," said Lord Onosh, "is that?"

  "It is a donkey, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin.

  "I know that!" said the Witchlord wrathfully. "But why in the name of blood are we wasting time trying to get the beast aboard?"

  "Because, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, observing with some alarm the pendulum-like motion which had begun to affect his free- swinging donkey, "I have an earnest desire to test the effects of flight upon the physiology of the beasts of burden."

  "Grief of gods!" said Lord Onosh. "What on earth for?"

  "My lord wishes to employ this airship in war, does he not?" said Sken-Pitilkin, looking anxiously upward at his much-burdened donkey.

  "He does," said Lord Onosh, referring to himself in the third person, which is one of those grammatical idiosyncrasies commonly allowed to the great.

  "Then," said Sken-Pitilkin, stepping backward from the possible impact zone into which the donkey might fall should the winch-rope break, "my lord should share my interest in discovering whether a horse can survive transport by air, since the survivability of horses under such circumstances is vital for determining the degree to which the airship can be fully employed in war."

  "But," objected Lord Onosh, moving backwards in step with Sken-Pitilkin, "that is not a horse but a donkey, and, being as overloaded as it is, it can be expected to expire of unnatural causes in any case, leaving aside all questions of airflight."

  At which point the rope which had been struggling to sustain the donkey's weight happened to break, and the beast was precipitated downwards, miring a certain slug-chef's armor with a great besplattering of fire-thawed mud. So the donkey died, thus becoming a martyr to experimental science.

  And Sken-Pitilkin lamented its loss greatly, though the pressure of events meant that the grieving process did not have time to run its full course, for the wizard of Skatzabratzumon was tying himself into his especially designed flightmaster's seat long before he had had time to absorb the full implications of the loss of his donkey.

  Others acted in likeminded haste, and so -

  "My lord!" said Sken-Pitilkin. "We are ready to fly!"

  "Ready!" roared Lord Onosh, still checking the chaining of his treasure chests, the padding of them, the bracing of the great logs which sustained them, and the torsion of the twisted ropes provided as back-up for their restraining chains. "We'll be ready when I'm ready, and not before!"

  But at last the Witchlord was satisfied, and tied himself into his seat.

  And so -

  When the great Khmar battle-bulked to the door of Locontareth's ruling hall with a battle-axe in his hand, Witchlord and Weaponmaster were atop the roof with a complement of half a thousand assorted wizards, witches, dwarves, bodyguards, scouts, soldiers, sub-chefs, carpenters, barley-factors and bootmakers.

  One and all, they had tied themselves into the flight-seats with bits of rope and length of old chain, thus preparing themselves for adventure or death.

  Meanwhile, down below -

  Khmar threw down the door to the ruling hall of Locontareth and led the charge inside -

  And the roof tore free with a scream of tortured wood. The roof tore free, and went spinning sideways, sliding over the city like a gigantic bat from the nether hell of Filch Molchops.

  Upwards it flew, spinning like a woodchip caught by a tornado. In flight it screamed, and most of its passengers screamed too. One chair broke free, and the carpenter who was strapped to that chair went flying away, snatched to his doom.

  He was gone before he could scream.

  Then the airship began wheeling downward as fast as it had earlier gone upward. Down it came. It slammed into snow, the early winter snow of Tameran. As the airship slammed, the greatest of the Witchlord's treasure chests burst asunder, and a full five men were instantly killed by the lethal catapulting of ingots of gold and lumps of tarnished silver.

  So the airship slammed It slammed, and it bounced.

  Like a stone skipping across water, so the roof bucked across the snows. Entire trees cracked like toothpicks beneath the down- slam of that roof. With a howl of incontinent breakage, the roof smoked through the night like an avalanche. A cottage unfortunately placed in the path of the experimental terror-weapon was smashed to smithereens, and all its occupants were reduced in an instant to so much cannibal jelly.

  Then at last, with one glissading slide, the roof creamed smoothly across the snows, shuddered once, then halted. There was no sound but for the night wind, and the upbuck ruckus of vomiting as dozens of inexperienced air adventurers methodically chucked up everything they had eaten within living memory.

  "Where are we?" said Lord Onosh, shakily cutting himself free from his seat.

  "South," said Sken-Pitilkin. "South of Locontareth. I hope."

  In fact, Sken-Pitilkin had grown a trifle disorientated while trying to navigate his hurling wooden batwing through the wilds of the night. But the wizard of Skatzabratzumon was nevertheless firmly of the opinion that they were indeed south of Locontareth, and probably south by a good few leagues. And in this he was ultimately proved right, and let this be noted as an additional proof of his sagacity, his scholarship, and his capacity for keeping a cool head under conditions of great stress.

  "So we are south," said Lord Onosh. "Very well. Then let us be going, because I want to be far further south before the dawn."

  Whereupon the rest of the air adventurers cut themselves free from their chairs. Then they would have fled, only Lord Onosh was still tender of the security of his treasure chests, thinking to put his trust in bulk bullion now that he had so few men to his name. So scouting parties went out into the night to loot from the peasantry whatever horses, ponies, donkeys, mules, cows, bulls, pigs, dogs, wheelbarrows and carts could conceivably be used for the transport of treasure chests; and at last, as dawn broke bleary eyed over a clownish convoy of raucous disorder, the Witchlord and his people began their retreat to the south.

  They were hoping, of course, to gain the road to the distant port of Favanosin, and thus to make a swift escape toward the sanctuary of foreign lands, and the safety of the southern shores of the continent of Tameran.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Favanosin: a town which geographers believe to lie some 640 leagues from Locontareth along a southbound trade route which passes through territory long regarded by the Witchlord's regime as being hostile.

  Immediately after the dramatic wreckfall of Sken-Pitilkin's flying roof, all was confusion, and the rest of the night was not much better. But, as day dawned, the Witchlord's forces began to fall into some kind of order.

  "Grief of a dog!" said Rolf Thelemite. "My ear is torn!"

  And indeed the Rovac warrior's left ear had been damaged, and his golden snake-serpent earring had been torn away altogeth
er.

  As Rolf Thelemite was lamenting the loss, the gray-bearded Thodric Jarl came up to him and addressed him in the Rovac tongue.

  Rolf turned pale, and thereafter ceased his moaning.

  "What did he say?" said Guest, a little later.

  "I cannot tell you," said Rolf Thelemite despairingly.

  But Guest was able to deduce Rolf Thelemite's plight for himself. The unfortunate Rolf had sworn to kill Guest if Guest made war on his father - but had been untrue to his oath.

  Doubtless Thodric Jarl had told Rolf that he had more than a torn ear to worry about - and Rolf, an oath-breaker accursed of Rovac, had feared his imminent demise.Guest shared his perceptions with the dwarf Glambrax, who agreed that Rolf was doubtlessly doomed.

  "While we held the ascendancy," said Glambrax cheerfully,

  "Thodric Jarl would do nothing to disturb the peace between Witchlord and Weaponmaster. But now we are defeated, so there is no reason why he shouldn't disturb the peace as much as he wants."

  So it was that the young Guest Gulkan and the dwarf Glambrax deduced that their good friend Rolf Thelemite stood in danger of immediate murder.

  "What can we do about it?" said Guest.

  "Well, we could place bets," said Glambrax.

  "An excellent idea!" said Guest. "I wager that Rolf lasts a week!"

  "What then is a week?" said Glambrax.

  "It is an uncouth measurement of days," said Guest. "A measurement devised by wizards, and arcanely used in their most secret histories."

  "How many days?" said Glambrax.

  "Why," said Guest, finding himself at a loss, "fewer than twenty, I think."

  "You think!" said Glambrax. "For a wager, we have to know! I wager that Rolf lasts three days, not more."

  "Then my money will see him alive for six," said Guest.

  "What money?" said Glambrax. "Name a sum. And show me you have that sum in your pockets!"

  Thus did the valorous Guest Gulkan and the sturdy dwarf Glambrax address the threat which faced the unfortunate Rolf Thelemite; and Rolf was never far from their thoughts in the days that followed.

  As the Weaponmaster and the dwarf wagered on Rolf Thelemite's fate, the army from the air-wrecked roof made its way south, accompanied by an uncouth assemblage of baggage animals which were heavily burdened by the imperial treasure chests.

  Of course, at the outset, that force numbered scarcely a half a thousand men; but whereas retreating armies are normally diminished by deaths, stragglings and desertions, this one grew - albeit not by much.

  Everyone in Locontareth's defending army had known at least this much of the Witchlord's plan: that he intended to retreat south toward Favanosin. And Khmar, launched as he was upon a furious and unparalleled course of slaughter, gave every surviving defender the strongest of all possible incentives to join that retreat. For Khmar was making an example of Locontareth, brutally punishing resistance to deter other cities (Stranagor in particular) from resisting him likewise.

  Fearing the knives of the example-maker, those who escaped from Locontareth on foot or on hoof soon quested south, and some of these - inspired by an entirely reasonable terror of Khmar - managed to catch up with those who had escaped from the beleaguered city on a flying roof. So it was that, as they moved south, Witchlord and Weaponmaster enlarged their small army, until the balance between recruitment and desertions saw its numbers level out at just short of 600 men.

  In the anxiety of the retreat, Lord Onosh found his son Guest uncommonly buoyant, and was hard put to place the reason. For had they not been defeated? Had they not been driven from the city?

  Had they not just lost a great empire? Did they not stand in fear of losing their lives? So was the boy drunk, or was he mad? Or had Sken-Pitilkin or some other been maliciously feeding him strong drugs unfit for human consumption?

  On brief enquiry, the Witchlord soon discovered that the young Guest Gulkan was in high spirits because he had made himself the lord of a great gambling pool, and in concert with the dwarf Glambrax was fleecing lesser gamblers, winning wine, and money, and the favors of the army's few ragged camp followers, and extra rations into the bargain.

  And the gambling did not concern the running of horses or the jumping of frogs - no, it concerned the date of Rolf Thelemite's murder!

  Lord Onosh promptly summoned his wizards, the sagacious Sken-Pitilkin and the slug-chef Pelagius Zozimus. He explained what was happening.

  "Why, my lord, it is all true," said Zozimus. "I myself am betting that Jarl will murder Rolf when we get to Favanosin."

  "I think that optimistic," said Sken-Pitilkin. "I don't think

  Rolf will be murdered at all, at least not this year. I've bet that he won't be murdered till Midsummer's Day at the earliest."

  "I will not have anyone murdered in my army!" said Lord Onosh, outraged. "You will halt this business of murder right away!"

  "But, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin. "Both Rolf and Jarl are

  Rovac warriors, and all such warriors are the natural enemies of wizards. Why should we then care if they kill each other off?"

  "And besides," said Zozimus, "if we interfere in their mutual murders, it will give them excuse to band together and murder us."

  "Which would be a great loss," added Sken-Pitilkin, "for, if rumor is true, my cousin Zozimus has just designed a new and delicious recipe for slugs, a recipe most pleasing to your palate."

  "It is true," said Lord Onosh heavily.

  Then the Witchlord dismissed his wizards and called for the witches Zelafona and Bao Gahai. After short discussion with the Witchlord, that pair of females took Thodric Jarl aside and had a long discussion with him. After which Thodric Jarl was seen to be looking uncommonly queasy for the next three or four days; Rolf Thelemite's spirits rose; and Guest Gulkan's ebullience ebbed as his gambling syndicate broke up, rumor having established that the fine sport of Rolf Thelemite's murder had been effectively terminated by a killjoy Witchlord.

  Thus did the valorous Guest Gulkan and the sturdy dwarf Glambrax save their friend Rolf Thelemite from a certain death at the hands of the murderous Thodric Jarl; for it is certain that, had Guest and Glambrax not been so keenly apprehensive of their friend's impending murder as to encourage an entire army into gambling on the event, then Lord Onosh would not have been so swiftly and so decisively moved into terminating that threat.

  With Guest and Glambrax thus entered into the ranks of friend-saving heroes, the lords of Locontareth escaped from the marauding Khmar and retreated with their army down the road to Favanosin, at first in disarray, but later in warlike formation, with vanguard ahead and rearguard behind, with scouts on the flanks and sentries posted nightly to vigil out the dark. They feared pursuit; and, as they distanced themselves from Locontareth, they also began to fear the violence of the south.

  The south was hostile to the Collosnon Empire, and there was no safe refuge there for a former ruler of Gendormargensis.

  However, since the Witchlord Onosh had wisely extracted his treasure from Locontareth, his fugitive army had good gold to buy its necessities - or most of them, for the locals either did not have spare clothes to sell, or had them but refused to sell them.

  So the army rapidly grew ragged; for the speed with which the barbarity of thorns and the lubricity of mud can reduce a splendid army to a horde of ragged beggars is nothing short of amazing.

  Though the army could not replace its increasingly tattered clothing, it was able to feed itself through purchase, hence had no need to pillage - and so was able to march far south without being forced to bring the natives to battle. But Lord Onosh soon realized that the southrons were arming in his wake; that a force of indeterminate strength was dogging his rearguard; and that the country ahead was being roused and wakened.

  In the face of this uncomfortable knowledge, Lord Onosh held a council of war.

  They were then in a forest which was heavy with the smoke of an army's campfires. They had halted early, because ahead of them
was a small river. To continue, they must cross it: and people had been seen moving furtively on the other side. Thodric Jarl deemed it a good place for an ambush, for the far bank was steep. Hence they had halted for their council of war.

  As they would go no further that day whatever the council's decision, Pelagius Zozimus had set himself to turn out a meal, and was presiding over a simmering cauldron from which there rose the most delicious smell imaginable. Near that cauldron, as if drawn there by the potency of its aromas, was a ragged assembly seated on fallen logs.

  There was the Witchlord Onosh, dressed like a beggar in his refugee rags. The dralkosh Bao Gahai. The old but elegant witch Zelafona. The dwarf Glambrax, a belt of fifty scalps around his waist, whittling a flute from a human thigh bone with a wicked little knife. Guest Gulkan himself, the Weaponmaster in his glory.

  The Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite and his murderous compatriot Thodric Jarl. The sagacious Sken-Pitilkin. And, of course, the slug-chef Zozimus himself.

  "We have not troops sufficient to pursue our original plan," said the Witchlord.

  "To get to Favanosin, you mean?" said Guest.

  "No!" said his father. "Favanosin was but a ploy! Remember?

  Our original plan was to make a great arc to Gendormargensis, and seize that city while Khmar pursued us in the south."

  "That was not our plan," said Guest. "That was Jarl's plan.

  Or your plan too, maybe, but never mine."

  This was provocative, and Lord Onosh had to struggle mightily to control his temper. By then, the reversion of authority from son to father was more or less complete. By imperceptible degrees, Guest Gulkan had lost all authority, since he had proved lacking in the necessary skill, drive, diplomacy and decisiveness required to rule a crisis. While the Witchlord Onosh had busied himself with the organization of an army, his son the Weaponmaster had been embroiled in the ever-increasing complexities of institutionalized gambling, thus permanently discrediting himself in the eyes of hard-bitten veterans such as Thodric Jarl.