The Wicked and the Witless coaaod-5 Read online

  Was the dream an omen? Or what? It certainly helped him come to a decision. Jarl might have died, or met with an accident, or might have refused to leave Selzirk to search for Sarazin. Anything could have happened. Meanwhile, Sarazin's rations were getting lower. And his noble steed was not proving much of a conversationalist. 'We ride,' said Sarazin. 'We ride for Shin. Today.'

  Thus decided, he mounted his horse (well, technically a pony – but, as a poet, he was surely entitled to a little poetic licence) and, with his vorpal blade at his side, set forth. The gloomy overcast weather worsened the dooming darkness of the moss-choked forest through which roughed his road, often forking and rejoining as it outflanked fallen trees, bog holes and mud spills. Towards noon, Sarazin passed a gross grey skull, so huge that half a dozen trees sprouted from holes in its dome. It gave him such a shock that he thereafter suspected the forest of evil intent, and scanned each thicket for ambush by werewolf or worse.

  Fairly late in the afternoon, he finally realised he had been so intent on the trees that he had lost sight of the woods. Failing to keep track of his progress through the forest, he had become disorientated. Geographically embarrassed, in fact.

  – But surely I could find my way back if I wanted to. Couldn't I? Or else follow my own tracks back…

  To reassure himself, Sarazin tried retracing his steps. But the path forked and branched wildly, and nothing he saw looked familiar. He searched the mud for his own tracks – and found those of people, horses, wild catde, pig, deer. Some fresh, others not. He was baffled by the confusion of signs.

  'East, then,' said he, trying to persuade himself he felt bold and brave. 'East, to King Lyra's palace. To Shin.'

  Shin was to the east, was it not? All the maps said so. If only he had some sun, so he could check his direction. The sky was swamped with clouds as dirty as dag-end wool. Mud and wet weather. Soon, doubtless, it would rain.

  On rode Sarazin, his spirits steadily declining. Then he was startled by coarse shouts ahead. Festivities? Or a fight? Should he turn back? No! Was he not a hero? Whatever he was, best to seize this chance of intelligence.

  So thinking, he spurred his horse, and shortly cantered into a muddy clearing where half a dozen cackling yokels were sitting around gnawing hunks of bread and quaffing strong ale. Tied to a tree was an old, old grey-bearded man with brushwood piled around his feet.

  What do you here?' demanded Sarazin, lapsing into Geltic. 'Gorp?' said a yokel.

  'What,' said Sarazin, switching to the Galish Trading Tongue and speaking very slowly, 'are you doing here?'

  When that got no intelligent response, he tried the question in Churl, and ohe toothless rascal answered with a cackle: 'Why, we be burning this druid.' 'Druid?' said Sarazin.

  The old fellow,' said a broad-shouldered black-bearded thug, indicating the ancient who was tied to the tree. 'I forbid it!' said Sarazin, without thinking. Who be you to forbid anything?' demanded the brute. 'A prince! A son of the dynast of Selzirk!'

  We've no truck with princes here,' said an unshaven gangster.

  'I will cut free that oldster,' said Sarazin, dismounting. 'Stand aside if you know what's good for you.'

  Whereupon one of the hooligans unsheathed a rusty cutlass. Sarazin drew steel with a scream, a battlecry from his dreams: Wa – wa – watashi!'

  They clashed. Sword met cutlass, once, twice – then Sarazin booted his man in the crotch. The thug doubled over. Sarazin pumped knee to face, then turned to menace a man advancing with a hatchet. 'Stand back, you naughty artist!' quoth Sarazin.

  The gangster threw the hatchet – which missed – then fled. As did the others. Admittedly, the man who had been kicked in the balls fled rather slowly, but vanished soon enough for all that. We'll kill you, Watashi!' screamed one. But his voice was distant. Retreating still.

  Sarazin, feeling rather pleased with himself, checked the bold blade Onslaught for damage then cut down the old man, who collapsed into his arms as if life had already left him. In time, helped by a little ale, the ancient revived. His first question made Sarazin start: 'What means this name, Watashi?'

  His name! Watashi! He had earnt the name, just as prophecy said he would!

  'It means death,' said Sarazin, voice shaking with excitement. 'It means fear. It means blood.' How did you come by it?' said the old man.

  Through combat,' said Sarazin, which was true enough, since it was the fight just gone which had first seen him called by that sobriquet. Then, thinking it was his turn to ask the questions, he said: Who are you?'

  We ourselves are Upical, druid of the Ifrael Forest, which is this wilderness in which you stand. Since you have saved our life we must reward you. Three parts has our reward, three parts of magic'

  That said, Upical delved into a little sleeve-pocket and, with great ceremony, produced what looked like a lump of mud. Sarazin took it gingerly. What is this?' he asked.

  'She's a magic mudstone,' said the druid Upical. 'If you be ever in dire need, place her in water. Then the legions of the Dreaded Ones will come to your aid.'

  'The Dreaded Ones?' said Sarazin, pocketing the magic mudstone. Who are they?'

  Oh, don't worry about that. You'll find out soon enough if you ever have need to use her. Now this-' What's that?'

  We be telling you, aren't we?' said Upical, twirling a silver chain between his fingers. On the silver chain was a silver ring. 'This is a ring of invisibility. Wear her close around your neck till great need takes her. Then put her on. But not for idle curiosity, mind! For sometimes she has her tempers.' Tempers?' said Sarazin.

  'Oh, you'll find out the hard way, if you idle her at curiosity,' said Upical, with a disconcerting giggle, hanging the chain around Sarazin's neck.

  Sarazin examined the ring and found it was in fact a close-wound spiral of metal which could, with a little manipulation, be unthreaded from the chain. He longed to test it, but, at the same time, was rather fearful of doing so. In the end, he tucked the ring-bearing chain under his clothing so the silver lay cold against his skin. 'Ah!' said Upical. 'What do you think this is?'

  So saying, he produced a small leaf-green bottle which, if Sarazin was any judge, was made of jade. It looked like the kind of bottle in which one would keep snuff. That,' said Sarazin, 'is a small bottle.' 'Ah! So far, so good. What be within her?' 'I've no idea,' said Sarazin. 'Guess. Guess! Or you don't get her.'

  Xiquor,' guessed Sarazin. 'No? Water? Ghosts? I know, I know! Blood of a virgin. Wrong? How about perfume? Is it perfume? Or a philtre? That would be handy – I'm meeting a woman in Shin.'

  'Philtres!' said Upical, with utter contempt. 'Oh no, she don't hold something so stupid. She holds dragons.' 'Dragons?' said Sarazin.

  'She holds nine,' said the druid. "Nine dragons. Their dux be the greatest of all the world's dragons. Untunchilamon he be called. Remember his name.'

  Untunchilamon,' said Sarazin, taking the bottle, which proved surprisingly heavy.

  The leaf-green jade of the bottle was, he saw, carved in the shapes of dragons. He counted them. There were nine.

  That one there,' said the druid, fingering the largest, 'she be Untunchilamon.'

  You called it a he, now you call it a she,' said Sarazin who had picked up a touch of pedantry from Epelthin Elkin. A very small touch, admittedly – but nevetheless regrettable. Which is it?'

  'Oh, his sex is a spike, for certain,' said Upical, "but sometimes he has his moods so sometimes he's she as like as be, at least to me. Weigh the care of this bottle careful. Dragons such as these live but briefly, so she's not to be used till the time of greatest need. But when used they'll obey you. So there is your reward. Magic times thrice. This last thing I give you.'

  Wait a moment,' said Sarazin. You say dragons live briefly. How briefly is brief?'

  'Oh, you'd die if you held your breath while you watched,' said the druid. 'But you couldn't cook a steak while they did their work. Not properly, any like. But dragons, young sir – ah, they don't need much time to be the
alteration of history, do they now?'

  So saying, Upical produced a little green candle. Like the magic bottle, it was heavy. 'This is my last gift,' he said.

  Tell me about this,' said Sarazin, smoothing his fingers over the candle. What does it do? What's it good for?'

  That we know not,' said Upical. 'But the wizard we garrotted to get her, ah, she valued her right enough. So she be worth something, we warrant.'

  Sarazin wished he had Epelthin Elkin on hand to advise him about the correct use and care of all this magic he had suddenly obtained. He stashed the stump of candle away.

  Your horse,' said Upical. 'Can she carry two? Can you give us escort to our cave?' 'I can do no less,' said Sarazin.

  At the druid's cave there would, surely, be something to eat and drink. Then he could ask for directions out of this bewildering wilderness.

  The pony laboured through the forest under the double weight, bringing them at length to Upical's cave. Inside, the stench was so bad that the air was nearly unbreathable. Part of the problem was the corpses of a dozen children which hung by their heels from a clothesline which ran the length of the cave. 'How came they here?' said Sarazin, shocked. The druid laughed.

  'Oh, through trade,' he said. Through trade. We need but a few a year, yet buy in quantity for such gives bargains. We keep the live ones in the back here. Would you like to amuse yourself with one or two for the evening?'

  Where are they?' said Sarazin, trying to conceal his horror.

  The druid led him deeper and deeper into the cave to a crack-lit chamber where lay half a dozen children, gagged, and tied hand and foot. They were alive. Kicking. Straining at their bonds. Making muffled sounds of horror and protest.

  Sarazin waited to see no more. He drew his sword and stabbed Upical in the guts. 'Guh-' said Upical.

  Sarazin, shaking, withdrew his sword. The druid writhed in agony. Said: 'I was… but… joking…' 'Joking!' roared Sarazin.

  And, in fury, hacked off the druid's head. Then, blade filthy with gore, he advanced on the children.

  'Don't be afraid, little ones,' he said. 'I'll do you no harm.'

  But the children did not seem to understand, for, when he cut free their gags, they writhed, spat, and screamed in unearthly voices. Sarazin sliced away their bonds.

  'Go to your homes,' he said. Then, as they seemed slow in understanding, he said again: 'Go!'

  He whacked a child on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. Whereupon all the children turned into rats and scuttled away into the forest, leaving their rags on the ground behind them. Sarazin, startled, could but stand and gape.

  Cold water dripped on his neck. The cave was not made of stone at all, but of black ice – which was melting. The druid's body was already decomposing. Maggots swarmed in the flesh, which blackened, stenched, then fell away, leaving only bones. Which creaked, and arose. Clothed in a writhing red mist. 'Gaark,' said the bones.

  At which Sarazin fled the cave, vaulted into the saddle, spurred his horse and galloped away pell-mell until his mount was sweating and lathered. Thereafter he kept the beast on the trot until the day's last birdsong failed in the gathering dark.

  In the gloaming, he came upon a gigantic leather boot lying on its side. Sword in hand, he tested the musty shadows within. Finding nothing.

  This,' said Sarazin, settling himself for the night, 'will have to do.'

  He earnestly hoped the owner of the gigantic boot would not reclaim it before dawn.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ifrael Forest: an almost uninhabited area of Chenameg rumoured to be the haunt of wolves, witches, werewolves, vampires and worse. Sean Kelebes Sarazin, aka Watashi, has blundered into the deepest, darkest, most dangerous part of this shadow-doomed wasteland.

  In the cold dawn Sarazin breakfasted upon broken biscuits and leather-tough jerked meat while the sullen rain fell with a noise like fifty million rats scuttling through the undergrowth. Then he pushed on, hoping he was going in the right direction, but fearing he was hopelessly lost.

  At mid-morning, he was riding at walking pace in a (possibly) easterly direction when he heard a woman screaming. He spurred his horse, and shortly came upon a frightening scene. In a muddy clearing were two people tied to posts. One a fair damsel; the other, a dwarf.

  Both were being menaced by a gore-clawed monster which had the head of a rat (swollen to gigantic size), the body of a bull and the tail of a lizard. This apparition so disconcerted Sarazin's mount that it reared, throwing its rider. Sarazin, flung to the earth, scrabbled for his sword as the monster loomed over him. Finding his steel, he slashed at the brute, missed, drew back his blade and saw the horrifying creature turn to mist then vanish. What's this? said Sarazin, in bewilderment. 'Fewer questions and more action,' growled the dwarf. Then began making grotesque faces at Sarazin.

  Yes, cut us loose, for pity's sake,' said the damsel fair, in excellent Galish.

  Sarazin advanced, awkwardly. He felt ashamed of the state he was in. He had not bathed for days. His clothes were befouled with mud and with worse.

  Feeling gauche and uncomfortable, he cut free the lady. Her hair was fine-spun gold, her eyes chatoyant. Her silks – this was strange! – bore no spot of water. There was mud underfoot, but it had stopped raining. "Now that,' she said, pointing at the dwarf. 'Loose that.' 'Yes, loose me, loose me!' said the dwarf frantically.

  'I'll not set free that evil mannikin,' said Sarazin, who did not like the look of the dwarf at all.

  'Hell swear to obey you,' said the damsel he had rescued. 'I'll do no such thing,' said the dwarf, promptly.

  Her eyes flared. Momentarily, their captivating iri- descence was gone – replaced by a baleful red. 'Naj aji jin inz n'zoor,' she said, her voice axe-hard. The dwarf flinched. Like a spider cringing from flame.

  'Glambrax will swear himself to your service,' she said. Tor my part, I will bind him to what he swears. Glambrax! Your oath!'

  Reluctantly, the dwarf spoke, saying many things in a strange, hissing language Sarazin had never heard before. Then the woman spoke also in a similar tongue. Reverting to Galish she declared: 'He is yours. For life. His name is Glambrax.' 'Might I know your name, fair lady?' said Sarazin.

  'I am Zelafona, a princess of the elven folk. Immortal is my health, yet insult sufficient can rend apart the spirit from the flesh.'

  That – that monster,' said Sarazin. Was that sent by someone to – what? Kill you? With claws? Or with terror?

  What kind of monster was it? How come it vanished at a sword-slash?'

  'I know not,' said Zelafona, 'for not all is given to me to know. Let us retire to my home.'

  'I trust it is not far,' said Sarazin, 'for, as you see, my horse has fled.'

  Upon which Zelafona put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. High, pure and clear sang the note, and forth from the forest came Sarazin's horse in company with a milk-white mare richly caparisoned with gold and velvet. 'Come, Sarazin,' said Zelafona. 'Mount. Ride!' 'How did… how did you know my name?' 'I have my arts,' said the damsel.

  'Not art sufficient to protect against your enemies, though. Who was it who bound you to that post? Who conjured that monster?'

  Wiy mind is clouded,' said Zelafona. You ask many questions to which I have no answers.'

  With that, Sarazin had to be content. He mounted his horse. Glambrax scrambled up behind him, and they were off, with Zelafona leading. We are here,' she said, shortly.

  The gloomy forest gave way to verdant lawns sweeping up to a house. A house? A four-storey mansion set amidst noble trees and groves of ornamental bamboo. A buttermilk sun shone down from a blue sky as soft as a baby's bum. The sun illuminated carp pools and soft-playing fountains of waters coloured variously green, blue and yellow. But Sarazin's eyes were all for the house, which offered them a frontage in which a hundred windows glittered.

  What… what are those windows made of?' said Sarazin. 'Of glass?' 'But of course,' said Zelafona, with a smile.

  Sarazin had se
en much built in stone, but had never in his life seen such a wealth of glass. He was impressed. What happened to the rain?' said Sarazin.

  Was there rain?' asked Zelafona, her voice dreamy, a slim smile dancing delicate on her lips. Yes. A downpour which seemed forever.'

  'Elven folk live sideways from the rest of the world,' said Zelafona. You are… of the elven folk?' 'I told you so at first acquaintance,' said she.

  Was that true? Possibly, for the elven folk were known to be most wondrous fair. Or, alternatively, the woman might be a princess of human breed, the daughter of some kingdom far greater than Chenameg, living exiled here in splendour. Either way, she was something special, that was for certain. You look distant,' said Zelafona, 'Are you all right?'

  The monster,' said Sarazin, 'it gave me a shock. Forgive me. My nerves-'

  'I understand,' she said. You have my name, then. Zelafona. Our time together will be but brief, but you will have Glambrax with you for a lifetime. Thus you will remember me.'

  'I don't want to sound ungrateful,' said Sarazin, "but I'd have to think very carefully before taking Glambrax into my service.'

  'But he's sworn his loyalty to you already!' said Zelafona. You heard him yourself.'

  Yes,' said Sarazin, Tjut I – I'm not sure I want a dwarf as a servant.'

  'But you will take him,' said she. 'As a courtesy. To me. You will swear as much.'

  Such was her charm that Sarazin could not deny her this trifle. After all, he did not want to upset his princess. Whether she was a human or an elven daughter, she must surely be the one the prophecy spoke of, the one he would win. She was beautiful, voluptuous – she rivalled even Jamba's charms. Therefore he gave his oath on the matter.

  Inside the mansion, grey-masked servants showed Sarazin to his room. He tried to prevail on them to stay, for he had questions to ask. But they smiled and left. Vanished, almost. Grey cloaks swirling away. Soundlessly. Were they ghosts? Perhaps.

  Still – the bath was real enough. It had limitless hot water pouring from a faucet of a kind Sarazin had once seen illustrated in a very ancient text preserved in a library in Voice. Sarazin soaked in the hot water, luxuriating in the warmth. Cleansed himself with sponges and strange perfumed soaps. Dressed himself in clean linen which had been laid out in his chambers. Then, overcome by weariness, he sank to his bed and slept.