The Wicked and the Witless Read online

  But Fox was gone, and Sarazin was left with no horse, no sword, no trousers — and, worse, an unaccountable sense of shame which he could not for the life of him explain.

  'Boots,' he said.

  Yes, he still had his boots. He ran back to the clearing, rammed his feet into the boots, then raced after Fox. He pelted through the forest. Ducked beneath eye-claw branches. Sprinted up a bank and saw his father ahead, riding his woman-burdened horse through the trees.

  'Fox!' bawled Sarazin.

  Getting no response.

  A bog lay between them. Fox had skirted it on his horse, but Sarazin plunged straight in. Desperate to catch up with his father. But the bog was deep, glutinous, clutching. He lost his boots to its suck and swallow. Found himself waist- deep, chest deep. Braved on, desperately. Stepped in a hole, went under. Clutched, grasped, rose gasping. 'Gluur!'

  Thus screamed Sarazin, incoherent as an animal.

  He was in desperate trouble. He was clinging to a rotten branch in the middle of a bottomless slough which was already slubbering at his lower lip.

  'Fox!' he screamed. 'Come back! Come back! Help me! Help! I'm drowning!'

  Then he clutched, clung, and listened. No reply.

  The wind gusted in the swampside trees, then faded to silence. A single time-burnt leaf dwindled down to the swamp. Landing lightly, lightly, on its surface of curdled mud. Sarazin felt his lower lip quivering uncontrollably. He bit it. Hard. Tasted mud. Then tasted the salt of his hot, trickling tears.

  Then realised he was getting cold.

  Very cold.

  He would have to get out of this bog, and soon, or he would be dead. He thrust around with his feet, questing for footing. Finding slurry-soft gulfs in all directions.

  —But the branch?

  He was holding the end of a branch. A rotten branch, lying just beneath the surface of the mud. Why didn't it sink? Because it was, presumably, attached to something.

  —It goes somewhere.

  Sarazin hauled on the branch. It held. So he dragged himself along through the swamp. Nearer the centre of the slough, the mud softened to grease, ooze, slime. Cold almost beyond endurance. And the branch was curving away into the depths. Too deep to reach with his hands. If he wanted to keep his head above mud, he must stand on it.

  Sarazin stood on the branch, which he presumed to be attached to a dead tree somewhere far beneath the surface. The branch broke. He screamed. 'Ga—!'

  Then screamed no more, for he had sundered under.

  Flailing desperately, Sarazin struggled in the slime. And found himself on the surface, in what was, he realised, more like muddy water than watery mud.

  He was swimming!

  But now he faced a pretty dilemma. If he stayed in the muddy-water centre of the swamp he could keep himself afloat by swimming, but would shortly die from exposure. On the other hand, if he swam for the shore he would drown amidst clutching mud where swimming was impossible.

  'Help!' wailed Sarazin.

  But no help came.

  So he floundered towards the nearest bank, hoping. The water gave way to a vile custard of mud and slime. He struggled through this as best he could, but found himself sinking. In a frenzy, he thrashed and struggled. And grabbed hold of something.

  A snake!

  'Aaaahl' screamed Sarazin.

  But kept hold of the snake regardless, because it was keeping him afloat. A strong brute, then. But. . . passive. Dead?

  Then he realised he was not clutching a snake at all, but a tree root. He was too far gone to smile, but, slowly, began to drag himself along the tree root towards the shore.

  Exhausted, stinking, shuddering, filthy, Sean Kelebes Sarazin trudged barefoot through the forest, arms wrapped round his body in a vain attempt to preserve some of his warmth against the mounting wind. He was utterly lost.

  Then, at last, he saw some dark-shadowed huts which, on the basis of some softly-smoking earth-heaped mounds nearby, he identified as the habitation of some charcoal burners.

  He staggered to the nearest doorway and fainted.

  * * *

  When Sarazin came to, Thodric Jarl was leaning over him, about to drape his nudity with a horseblanket.

  'Awake?' said Jarl.

  Sarazin simply stared at him.

  He was lying in a dark, filthy hole of a hut, the lair of a charcoal burner. From outside, he heard Amantha's voice raised in outrage:

  'Don't you dare!'

  Then a laugh which, he knew very well, belonged to Glambrax.

  'Come,' said Jarl. 'Can you stand?'

  Sarazin did not think so, but on making the attempt found that he could. Jarl led him outside, where there were a full forty or fifty people mounted on horseback. Some were armed soldiers — mostly men Jarl had brought with him from Selzirk. Then there were stable boys, servants, and a scattering of high-born ladies, Amantha among them.

  There was Glambrax, too, mounted on a mule.

  Three of the horses had dead men lying across the saddles. Sarazin walked over to one of them, looked at his face.

  'One of ours,' he said, recognising the corpse as a member of the Watch.

  We did not care to leave our dead in Shin,' said Jarl.

  A spare horse was brought up for Sarazin. Jarl sliced a headhole in Sarazin's blanket so he could wear it like a poncho, the slack hauled in to his waist with a bit of rope. Then they set off.

  Sarazin did not know what had happened, or where they were going, but he was too tired to ask.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tarkal: eldest son of King Lyra, and hence heir to the Chenameg Kingdom. Deadly enemy of Sean Kelebes Sarazin, who defeated him in single combat in Selzirk. Brother of Amantha (with whom Sarazin is in love) and of Sarazin's friend Lod.

  In due course they came to a derelict building which had once been the slave pen of a mine long since worked out and abandoned. There they took shelter and Sarazin began to learn of the disaster which had befallen Shin. 'King Lyra is dead,' said Jarl.

  'How so?' said Sarazin, staring into the plattering rain.

  'He fell from his horse,' said Glambrax, who paid close attention to whatever gossip was going. 'He was trapped beneath the brute. Thus a ditch drowned him.'

  'Ditch?' said Sarazin.

  'Some say ditch, some say swamp,' said Glambrax. 'But that he drowned there's no doubt. I saw the body myself. They brought it back to Shin.'

  So Tarkal killed his father. There could be no doubt about that.

  'What happened then?' said Sarazin.

  Bit by bit, the story came out. Everyone had a different version of exactly what happened, but the outline was clear enough. On arriving in the capital with his father's corpse, Tarkal had declared himself king.

  Without further ado, Tarkal had ordered that Lod be brought from his jail cell for instant execution. Men had

  gone away as if meaning to do just that — but had instead mutinied and placed themselves under Lod's command. Why did that happen?

  'Nobody knows,' said Jarl, "but methinks them long in conspiracy with Lod. Either that, or they had a fear longstanding of Tarkal. In any event, there is now civil war in Shin, so I have come away from the place, meaning to leave the two brothers to fight it out for themselves.'

  Tarkal will win,' said Amantha, with confidence. When we return to Shin tomorrow we'll find my brother lord of the Great House with Lod's headless corpse kneeling in obeisance at his feet.'

  There was something obscene about her obvious enthusiasm for the idea.

  We'll not return to Shin tomorrow,' said Jarl. Well send scouts instead, and we'll not move from here until it's safe to.'

  Does a coward speak?' said Amantha.

  Jarl laughed away the insult.

  'A survivor speaks,' said he. 'A survivor with a warm regard for his own hide. If any hero wishes to ride back to Shin to get himself killed in this brawl between brothers then let him do so. But I'll not see myself dead for a cause so trivial.'

  Sarazi
n did not think the cause trivial at all, for Sean Sarazin's future and that of the throne of Chenameg both depended on the outcome of this 'brawl'. However, a brief audit of his own condition convinced him he was in no condition to go anywhere, far less to go to war, so he could but go along with Jarl's plan.

  The next morning, Jarl's scouts found Shin depopulated, abandoned by the populace and by both parties to Chenameg's civil war. Accordingly, Jarl led his people back to the capital. They entered the city towards noon.

  There were signs of fighting — a few dog-worried corpses and a couple of burnt-out buildings — but few signs of looting. The stables were empty, but little appeared to be missing elsewhere.

  When they left,' said Jarl, 'they left in a hurry.'

  'Yes,' said Sarazin, wishing he had been the one to say it, even though Jarl's comment was so obvious it was hardly worth making.

  Jarl ordered everyone to lodge in the Great House, and, under his supervision, they attended to the fortification of the same. There was a great deal of sawing and hammer- ing as windows were reduced to arrowslits and arrowslits cut in blind walls which would otherwise have allowed attackers to approach unhindered. Under Jarl's supervision, Shin was looted in earnest, and all of value was stockpiled within the Great House.

  This work took seven days.

  Meantime, scouts scoured the surrounds. Sarazin led one scouting party, and often sighted furtive groups of ragged men. Peasants? Escaped slaves? Bandits? Whoever they were, they ran when approached, and Sarazin — obedient to the strict guidelines issued by Thodric Jarl — did not pursue lest he be led into an ambush.

  It was eerie and unsettling to live and work thus in ignorance of what had happened and what was yet to happen. Was Lod dead? Was Tarkal? Did the roving bands of peasants give allegiance to either? To both? Or to neither? Sarazin talked it over with Jarl who said:

  'All wars are fought blindfold. We know well enough that nobody will thank us if we leave Shin to be burnt by whatever beggar passes this way. That, for the moment, should be enough.'

  On the eighth day, a day of downpouring rain, a dawn patrol sighted upwards of three hundred ragged creatures on the outskirts of Shin. Peasants loyal to Tarkal? Or to Lod? Or an anarchist rabble of brigands or beggars?

  'If they are Lod's men or Tarkal's then we are safe,' said Jarl. 'If otherwise, then we may have a fight on our hands.'

  And the battle-wise Rovac warrior had all his people stay inside the Great House. He had the horses brought within also, to the greater detriment of the floors and the atmos- phere. Then he had the doors barricaded. Then he walked through the Great House repeating orders given previously.

  These people may be friends or enemies,' said Jarl. 'Whoever they are, let them reveal themselves to us, not vice versa. If they approach, nobody is to speak to them but me. Let them guess at our numbers. Let them think us a thousand. Let nobody enter a quarrel which may betray our true numbers.'

  As the ragged mob outnumbered the defenders of the Great House by six to one the concealment of the true state of affairs was, in Jarl's opinion, of the utmost importance.

  Sean Sarazin himself had command of the roof of the Great House. He had a dozen men with him, all armed with longbows. And he had his dwarf Glambrax, who had persuaded some handy fellow to make him a crossbow. A small instrument but lethal all the same, at least at close range.

  Since there was no point in risking the rain unless the Great House was actually attacked, Sarazin and his men sheltered under a tarpaulin, trying to warm themselves by the heat of a couple of charcoal-burning braziers. For a long time nothing happened. As Thodric Jarl was wont to say, wars are mostly a matter of waiting.

  The rain sundered from sodden skies, washing the earth- wealth of Chenameg into the Velvet River, where it would be carried downstream for league upon league, eventually to silt up the dams built downstream in the Harvest Plains, or, flooding past such barriers, to flow on past Selzirk and eventually stain the waters of the Central Ocean, far to the west.

  Glambrax looked at the skies, grimaced, then said:

  'Ah! Democracy!'

  'What mean you?' said Sarazin.

  Why, that the heavens piss on prince and peasant alike.'

  You've got a crude mouth,' said Sarazin coldly.

  Yes,' said Glambrax, with a grin, "but good teeth.'

  So saying, he popped a walnut into his mouth and cracked the shell. Sarazin winced. Glambrax tore bits of shell from the walnut kernel. He held it up.

  This is shaped like a brain,' said Glambrax.

  'So?' said Sarazin.

  'So we have to make the day pass somehow.'

  'It'll pass soon enough,' said Sarazin, 'once they attack.'

  If they attack,' said Glambrax. They may be friends, may they not? Gathered for a birthday party or such?'

  But the dwarf spoke in jest, and everyone knew it. These could not be Tarkal's men, or Lod's, for, if they were either, they would long since have approached to declare themselves. So things looked grim. But at least the skyr promised unbroken rain for the foreseeable future, which meant the enemy would have trouble torching the Great House — an important consideration since that house was of timber construction entire.

  Towards noon the rain eased to a drizzle. A little later, a woebegone peasant stumbled through the quagmire to the door of the Great House. He was not admitted. In fact, he could not be admitted, since that door had been so thoroughly barricaded it would have been a major opera- tion to open it. However, he was allowed to speak through a fresh-cut arrowslit.

  Sean Sarazin and the others on the roof of the Great House peered down at the fellow, wondering what he was saying. He was certainly taking his time about it. Glambrax cocked his crossbow.

  'Don't you dare!' said Sarazin. 'It may be a stinking peasant but it's an ambassador for all that.'

  Yes,' said Glambrax, 'it is an ambassador as you are a prince.'

  Tsh!' said Sarazin in disgust, and tried to cuff Glambrax.

  Who darted away then made a face which provoked Sarazin into giving pursuit. Glambrax scuttled away to the far side of the roof. Then stopped. Turned. Shouted:

  Ware! Attack!'

  Was it a joke? Half a dozen heartbeats later Sarazin knew it was not. While the peasant ambassador parlayed at the front of the Great House his fellows were assaulting the rear. Hundreds of them! They dragged with them siege ladders hastily made from the limitless materials available in the lumber yards of Shin.

  Ware! Ware!' screamed Sarazin. 'Attack! Attack! Attack!'

  As his men stumbled across the roof to join him a throaty roar of wrath arose from the oncoming mob. Which began to charge. Sarazin's bowmen began to shoot — then one slipped, fell, tumbled from the roof.

  Watch your footing!' shouted Sarazin.

  'He was shot!' cried another of the bowmen. Then cried again as an arrow took him in the gut.

  Moments later, the first siege ladder was hoisted. One of Sarazin's men — a fool or a hero, call him what you will — tried to displace it. He put his boot to the ladder, pushed it away, saw it fall. Then a flight of hate-slung arrows raped home and, gasping, clutching, flailing, he fell.

  The rest of Sarazin's men were already running.

  'Come back!' shouted Sarazin, flat on his belly on the roof from fear of enemy arrows.

  But they slipped away down the hatch which led from roof to attic. Sarazin screamed at them again. With no result. What should he do, what should he do? He must do something!

  'Should I kill you for mercy perhaps?' said Glambrax, a bolt at the ready in his cocked crossbow.

  'Don't point that thing at me,' shouted Sarazin.

  You've no escape, you know,' said Glambrax, with an evil grin. 'I can shoot you down like a dog. Unless by chance you can make yourself invisible.'

  Pox!' said Sarazin, remembering, and unslung the chain which he had till then been wearing round his neck.

  As Glambrax chortled Sarazin struggled to remove his magic silver ri
ng from its silver chain. But his hands in panic found it impossible to prise open the tight-wound coil of metal. Perhaps it was not silver at all but some- thing harder, stronger, fiercer. Another siege ladder slapped home.

  'Here,' said Glambrax, 'give it.'

  And the dwarf tore the chain-bound ring from Sarazin's grip and, swiftly, deftly, liberated ring from chain. Then dropped the ring so it fell in front of Sarazin's nose. Sarazin grabbed it. Put it on.

  And felt his entire body shaken by unmusical vibrations which put his teeth on edge. The ring was cold on his finger, bitter cold, like a band of ice. But his body was warm already and heating further by the moment. He drew the brave blade Onslaught. The ring denied him daylight. He walked in a world of shadows as he dared his dread towards the edge of the roof.

  Where things of thick darkness were already scrambling up from below. Nightmarish things, uncouth shapes of bloody hate, of jealous death, of guttural-grunting obscenity. The enemy. The Enemy! But a hero was there to meet him, swinging his sword already and screaming as he swung:

  'Wa — wa — Watashi!'

  Sweet sliced his blade, sweet, ripping a ragged wound through the nearest shambling thing, the wound gleaming red amidst the darkness as the stinking ouns of the thing outspilled from its walking corpse.

  And Sarazin screamed again, and hacked, and chopped, and kicked away one ladder then another, and heard gabbling voices roused to horror by the death invisible which attacked them, and knew then the battle-joy.