The Wicked and the Witless Read online

  'So you got here,' said a loud-voiced man. Sarazin knew that voice.

  'Jarl!' cried Sarazin. 'What are you doing here?'

  'Fighting a war' said Thodric Jarl. 'What else would a Rovac warrior be doing?'

  Thodric Jarl was indeed at war. But he was running very little danger, for he was acting as a military adviser, not as a combatant. And he was getting very well paid

  his pay being banked in Voice with the Monastic Treasury of Inner Adeer. It would be ready for his return

  and, with luck, it would be enough to finance his retirement.

  Jarl had little to say to Sarazin — after all, they had not been parted for very long. But Lod and Sarazin had a great deal to say to each other. Finally, when they had just about talked themselves out, Sarazin said:

  "Well, Lord Regan said there was a surprise waiting for me in Chenameg, but I thought it would be something more worth the journey than Thodric Jarl. You don't by chance know the whereabouts of a pretty young wench named Jaluba, do you?'

  'No,' said Lod, with a sly grin. 'But I know the surprise Lord Regan was talking of. Thodric Jarl wasn't it. Come this way.'

  And Sarazin allowed himself to be led to the back of the hunting lodge. There a man was practising kata with a heavy-bladed sword. He was naked to the waist, and had his back to them.

  'Fox!' said Lod.

  And the swordsman turned. Sarazin saw his scar — a thick welt slashed across his belly. Saw his face, his astonishment, then — his delight. It was Fox, yes, it really was, his father, not dead at all but here, here, alive and fighting fit, and—

  Glad to see him!

  The next moment, Fox had cast aside his sword and was running towards Sarazin. A moment later, they were embracing. Laughing, weeping, slapping each other on the back. Alive, alive — and exultant.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  When Fox told his story, there were no startling revela- tions. Sarazin had last seen his father falling from a roof in Shin, wounded by Sarazin's blade.

  As Sarazin now knew, Fox had of course been alive when he hit the ground. He had been the leader of the raggle-taggle mob which had tried to take control of Shin, and his people had taken their wounded com- mander with them when they finally retreated into the wilderness.

  Eventually, Fox had linked up with Lod after Lod returned to Chenameg. Fox was now commander of the National Liberation Front currently engaged in the People's Struggle to overthrow the monarchy and establish the Democratic People's Republic of Chenameg. When they finally conquered Chenameg, Fox and Lod would rule jointly.

  'Two kings for one nation?' said Sarazin.

  'No,' said Fox. 'Two presidents.'

  Then he tried to explain the difference between a presi- dent and a king. But, as far as Sarazin could see (and in this case he saw very well indeed), there was no difference worth mentioning.

  'Well,' said Sarazin, 'and how is the war going?'

  'Slowly,' said his father. 'But we're winning. We lose very few men because our people are very highly trained. You'll be an expert yourself once we've finished with you.'

  'I'm a trained soldier already,' said Sarazin, proudly. 'Not quite,' said his father.

  And, in the days that followed, Sarazin learnt what his father meant by that. Sean Sarazin thought of himself as a battle-hardened veteran, for he had fought near the headwaters of the Shouda Flow, in the marshlands of Tyte, in the mountains of Hok and on the plains before Androl- marphos. But he was but a beginner at the kind of warfare his father was involved in.

  For a start, he was largely ignorant of archery. But, since the bow was the basis of forest warfare, he had to do his best to master it. He learnt, also, silent killing with knives, garottes and hands alone; the making of booby traps such as spiked pits and deadfalls; tracking and travelling without leaving tracks; signal codes based on birdcalls; and the art of living off the land.

  'Remember,' said one of his instructors, 'you need meat to fight. The best source of meat is a dead enemy. Don't forget!'

  Sarazin remembered a certain feast Thodric Jarl had organised after a battle by the banks of the Shouda Flow. And he shuddered.

  "Never mind,' said his father, when Sarazin spoke to him about it. 'Cannibalism isn't compulsory in our ranks. But it's always an option. Never forget that.'

  Sarazin was shocked. But this scarcely diminished his pleasure at regaining his father. He had been alone for so long! Only now did he realise how intensely lonely he had been in Selzirk with nobody he could truly trust, nobody he could truly talk to.

  But his father — his father welcomed him, trusted him, valued him, was open and frank with him. And Sarazin was delighted. He strove to be worthy of his father, and threw himself heart and soul into his military studies.

  In Chenameg, Sarazin changed some of the habits of a lifetime. For example, he had always worn his sword by his side. But Fox's men spent much of their time down on their guts, sneaking or spying or waiting in ambush. So much so that they called themselves 'snake fighters'. Sarazin learnt that, in the war of the snake, a sword is better slung over the back in company with bow and quiver.

  Without complaint, Sarazin endured all the rigours of his training. Salt-meat monotony. Lice. Forced marches. Downpour skies. Pain. Monotony. Fatigue.

  —For it all has a purpose.

  —It prepares me.

  —The blade is being tempered.

  Sarazin was sure that his father would lead them to victory, that they would conquer Chenameg, would kill Tarkal, would capture Shin and set themselves up as rulers. It might take ten years — but victory would be theirs. And, though Sarazin would not rule in Shin, he would at least have a real role in the world. He would no longer be idling his life away for no purpose as he had in Selzirk.

  —The future is radiant.

  Thus thought Sean Sarazin.

  And was happy. Training with friends, eating with friends, swapping war stories of hair-raising ferocity, and speculating on what might be happening out in the big wide world. Their sources of information were zero, for they were entirely isolated from all the world's routine com- merce. Fresh news would reach them next at the start of winter, when they would receive fresh supplies from the Rice Empire.

  'News can wait,' said Sarazin. 'But can the war?'

  His father laughed at his puppy-eager enthusiasm.

  'We have a big campaign planned for the spring,' said Fox. 'Till then, we train, we plan, and we wait.'

  That autumn, Sean Sarazin went on his first big tactical exercise in the training area. This was in the mountains a few leagues south of the hunting lodge.

  Those engaged in this exercise tramped into the area with heavy packs and practised setting up a camouflaged encampment with as little noise as possible — ideally none.

  Then they left their heavy packs at this encampment and went on manoeuvres.

  They split into parties which practised ambushing each other, tracking each other, attacking and raiding each other. And so forth. They got very tired, very muddy — and, naturally, had the time of their lives. This was the fun part of war. Good comrades, plenty of excitement and total safety.

  Then came the night manoeuvres. They were to split into seven separate parties, tramp all night through the forested highlands, and regroup in the morning at the base of a notable mountain to the south.

  And it was on these manoeuvres that Sarazin received his first intimation that the world as he knew it was coming to an end.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Night, and rain as dark as the night. Men travelling softfoot, true to the discipline of silence. Keeping close, very close, near enough to touch, near enough to smell. In the dark, it would be the easiest thing in the world to get lost.

  Actually they were lost, for it was impossible to tell one's location on a night so dark. But while they kept going uphill they were getting closer and closer to their goal. At dawn they would send someone up a tree to establish the precise direction to the mountain where they would
rendezvous with their fellows.

  So, while it was dark, and cold, and wet, and raining, they were far from disheartened. They were dressed for the weather. And, as their packs were back at their encampment, they were travelling light, carrying only their weapons (swords, knives, bows and quivers of arrows), a single waterbottle each, and a day's rations. Easy workl

  And, since they had been on the march for half the night already, they had long since worked themselves into the rhythm of travel. One and all, they felt they could walk forever. A novice had the lead, Sarazin was in the middle, and Fox (who had joined these exercises so he could judge his son and gauge his suitability for a command responsi- bility) was taking up the rear.

  There were ten of them. Ten fit, healthy men who were — though a civilian might not think it possible — content with their lot. Though, if any of the ten had suddenly been granted three magical wishes, he would doubtless have used one as a matter of urgency to kill off his lice.

  Then the nightmare started.

  One moment they were moving along nice and easy through the night rain. The next moment, there was a scream. Then a shatter-crack as a tree was torn apart.

  Then—

  Bubbling cries of agony from the leading man. Screams of panic from the others. A shout from Fox: 'Scatter!'

  A superfluous shout, since they were running already. All of them — save the leading man, who was dying.

  Sarazin fled as fast as the others.

  Then was snatched by a monster.

  'Yeh-garnl' he screamed, kicking and struggling.

  The brute smashed him around the ears. He grabbed its — arm? Limb? Tentacle? No: its branch. He had run into a tree. He stooped beneath the branches, went to ground, then lay very still, listening, staring fearfully into the dark.

  He tried to hush his own harsh breathing. His chest was tight. He could hear pattering rain. Sounds of violent retreat, already diminishing. Some of his comrades were still running.

  What had happened?

  Something had attacked the leading man. But what? A boar? Wolves? An enemy marauder? A vampire? A were- wolf? A gigantic wildcat?

  —Whatever attacked him smashed a tree.

  —J heard it! The tree was torn apart!

  —Nor a wolf, then. Not a werewolf, even. Or a vam- pire. Or a cat. Or a man. A bear? Could a bear smash a tree? Don't think so. Not a bear-type thing to do, anyway.

  —So what was out there?

  —Giant? Possibly. The boot!

  Yes. Sarazin remembered the gigantic boot in which he had once sheltered for a night during earlier travels through Chenameg. The owner of such a thing would be able to smash trees with ease. What else had such strength?

  —Dragons. Perhaps. But there was no roar, no flame. —So it was a giant. Must have been! Nothing else makes sense.

  So thinking, Sarazin began to shudder.

  He waited for a long time, listening. He could no longer hear any sounds of flight, struggle or agony. Only the wind, the rain, the night-talk of the forest. He was very cold by now.

  —What to do?

  In the end, he could no longer bear simply to lie there, waiting helplessly. He got to his feet. Then, shadow-silent, he eased away through the forest. Then halted. Which way should he go? Cautiously, he gave an owl-voiced code-call. Then thought:

  —Do owls hunt in the rain?

  No matter: the rain was dying down. Sarazin waited until he thought it had stopped — the constant rain-drip from the trees above made the precise moment difficult to judge — then gave the owl-voiced call again.

  Listened.

  —Answer me, answer me!

  No reply.

  Sarazin called again. An owl-voiced reply came. Distant. The others must have moved off quickly. Sarazin called again. Listened.

  —Speak to me!

  He was answered.

  Stealthily, he headed towards the signal. After going for some considerable distance, he stopped. He was about to call again when one of his comrades called to him. From somewhere very close at hand.

  —Where are you? Where?

  He listened intently. Finally, the call came again. From a tree directly above. Sarazin looked up. Up through the dark scaffolding of branches lit here and there by stars. And saw a small, dark shape. Which called to him, giving an owl-voiced cry. Then spread its wings and flapped to the next tree.

  —Pox! Pox and bitches! Dog-dung soup!

  What now?

  He was lost by night in unfamiliar territory to which he had no map. He had food — though not much — but no tent, no tinder box. For once, he did not even have an ill-mannered dwarf bumbling around at knee-height, for Glambrax had been left behind at the hunting lodge. He was utterly alone. His comrades were out there, somewhere, in the darkness. But then so too was a large, bad-tempered giant with a homicidal disposition.

  —How long till dawn?

  —Half a night? Less, by my judgment.

  Sarazin analysed his situation by applying the Rule of Objectivity: if someone else was in your predicament, what advice would you give them? He drew a blank. Then he remembered Thodric Jarl lecturing on the Laws of Panic:

  'When all else fails, try doing nothing.'

  It had sounded stupid at the time, but now, recalled in a time of dire need, it sounded uncommonly sensible. Sarazin settled himself down at the foot of the nearest tree.

  He hoped to sleep — but unfortunately, it was far too cold for that. He was shivering again, and would shiver till dawn unless he died of it.

  Dawn. The sun rose into a blue sky from which all traces of cloud and rain had vanished. Sean Kelebes Sarazin set out for higher ground, taking care to leave clear tracks of scuffed footmarks, bent twigs and torn leaves which could be followed by his comrades — and by himself, if he had cause to retrace his steps. He hoped giants could not stoop low enough to read a trail.

  After a while, he came upon a tree which looked good for climbing, and shinned up it. Long before he reached the top, the branches grew too thin to support his weight. Still, he thought he glimpsed a mountain.

  He climbed down again.

  —Keep on uphill, that's the thing.

  Indeed. He'd sight the rendezvous mountain sooner or later. Or come across a trail-sign to point him to his comrades. To tell his own people where he was going, he broke up some rotten branches and laid out an arrow on the ground, pointing in his direction of travel. With luck, a hostile giant would never notice such an insignificant mark.

  —Now let's be moving.

  So thinking, Sarazin set off again.

  He had gone scarcely a hundred paces when, as he was about to step into an open glade, he halted.

  He thought he had seen something move.

  —Yes. Just ahead. In the grass.

  The grass lay green and innocent in the autumn sunlight. But something was moving in the grass. What? Sarazin stared at the grass fearfully.

  —A snake, that's all.

  Sarazin smiled, relaxed, advanced. The slim green snake reared up in front of him, swayed this way and that, then sank back to the ground. He took another step forward.

  The snake went into reverse, weaving itself through the grass almost soundlessly. Its every movement perfectly fluid. Effortless.

  For as long as he could remember, Sarazin had always admired snakes for their beauty, their poise, their sophisti- cation, their perfect mastery of style. Now that he had met the snake the forest no longer seemed so alien, so lonely.

  —A good omen.

  The glade opened on to another one where the grass was higher, more plentiful. Sarazin stretched, yawned, grinned at the sunlight, waded into the tall grass, put a foot into something soft, into—

  —mud?

  But was already committed, his weight following his foot, something crunching under his weight, grass parting beneath his hands as he saw, to see was to know, to know was—

  —to die?

  Then someone screamed. —Me?

  No, it w
as not Sarazin screaming, even though he stood with one foot firmly planted in the carcass of a ruptured man-corpse, even though that corpse was a comrade's, eyes death-staring at the sky.

  -Blood?

  —Tracks?

  Neither. No blood. No tracks. Nothing to show how the man had got here. And his legs were missing. So he hadn't walked here. And the arms were gone. Something had been hungry! Or angry. Very angry. And had dropped the corpse from the sky. Or had thrown it.

  -Which?

  —Dropped? Thrown?

  —By giant? By dragon?

  —And who screamed just then?

  Sarazin looked up. Overhead were a few slim branches which could have supported nothing heavier than a nest- raiding hedgehog.

  Another scream ruptured the forest.

  Sarazin was shocked to realise he was totally exposed to view. He dropped to his gut. Dropped straight down to the wet green grass. Then, emulating the snake, he writhed through the grass to the trees. He crawled into the nearest bit of rough and tangled undergrowth. Then peered around, seeing very little since the same shrubbery which sheltered him cut down his vision in all directions.

  Then he saw a man running.

  A man fleeing, all weapons gone, an empty quiver bouncing on his back. Running, running, running, then- Down went the man.