Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

Grateful, despite himself, for such good wishes, even though they came from the low-bred mother of his bastard brother Benthorn.

'Get this inside you,' said Jarl, offering Sarazin a tot of rum to follow the tea. 'I thought you told me never to drink and fight.' 'A smahan of rum will do you no harm. Drink I'

Sarazan drank. It was good. Heat in his belly. Warmth in his veins. He longed to linger to enjoy that heat. To rest. To sleep a little more – till noon perhaps. But Jarl was setting the pace and, all too soon, Sarazin was fastening his swordbelt. 'My shield?' 'I'll carry it,' said Jarl.

Then they were on their way to the battlements where Sarazin would confront Tarkal at dawn. The morning was cold, yet the last icechip stars were melting. Pink clouds swathed the eastern horizon. Sarazin shivered. 'Are we late?' he said, seeing Tarkal and his courtiers clustered on the battlements ahead. 'Let's not be late. They'd think me a coward.'

"No need to hurry,' said Jarl. They won't run away. Step loose. Step even.'

Jarl persuaded Sarazin to unstring his battle-tense muscles, making him take it slowly.

Think now,' said Jarl. Think of a stone in water. Deepen your breathing. Deep and slow. Think of a stone steady amidst water. You are that stone. Deep and slow. Breathe in. And out. Deep and slow.. .'

The lull of Jarl's voice and the steady rhythm of walk- ing calmed Sarazin. Then he looked up, and saw the opposition close ahead, a gaudy cabal of silks and smirks, ready, waiting. The morning light was stronger. Conjuring with colours. His footsteps faltered.

'Take the shield, then,' said Jarl, loudly, to give the impression that Sarazin had halted to ask for that object. Sarazin took the weight. 'Onward,' urged Jarl, low-voiced.

Sarazin closed the distance. Amantha, her hands buried deep in a wolverine muff, studied him with disdain. Her maids exchanged glances and giggles. A courtier indulged himself with a pinch of snuff. Yawned. As Tarkal stepped forward.

'So,' said Tarkal, beginning a devastatingly witty speech which he had carefully prepared the night before. 'Our young peasant friend has condescended to join us at last. I see he-'

Without warning, Jarl slapped Sarazin on the back and shouted: 'Draw!'

Sarazin drew. Sword lept from sheath. He shouted as he had been taught: 'Ah-hai!'

The battle-cry came from his gut, focusing energy on action. He quivered with warlike aggression. Which made Amantha laugh. Her laughter tinkled like fractured glass. It shivers,' she said. 'See? It is frightened.'

'That,' said Tarkal, no sword in his hands but no fear in his voice, 'reflects its breeding.' 'Draw, dog!' shouted Sarazin, enraged.

'No need for amateur theatricals,' said Tarkal, his voice as cool as bone beneath water. 'Shall we wait until the sun has warmed the world before we fight?' 'We wait for nothing,' said Jarl. We fight. Now!'

Sarazin, quick-breathing, was gladdened by Jarl's voice. He remembered to slow his breathing. The iron grip of the shield was warming beneath his fingers. He was ready. 'No games now,' said Jarl. 'Fight to kill.'

But Tarkal, with studied insolence, delayed while he cracked his knuckles one by one, donned leather gauntlets, accepted sword and shield from retainers, then paused to test the weight and balance of his equipment.

Then, finally – when Sarazin was tense enough to scream – Tarkal settled himself for combat. A sardonic smile on his face. And Sarazin found himself- Paralysed. Incapable of action.

Strange gnat-sized squiggles of darkness scrawled across his field of vision. His legs were shaking. And Tarkal, smiling, smiling, was leisuring towards him, sword on guard and- 'Strike!' screamed Jarl.

The word snapped Sarazin into action. His blade leapt for Tarkal's throat, as if of its own volition. Sword clashed with sword. Then the two broke apart. Panting.

Jarl shouted: 'Lunge!'

Tarkal moved to parry a lunge which never came. The unaccustomed shield-weight tricked his feet. Momen- tarily, Tarkal stumbled. Sarazin seized his chance. He charged. Shield smashed against shield. All Sarazin's bodyweight was behind the charge. Tarkal staggered backwards, went down. 'No!' screamed Amantha.

But already Tarkal was getting to his feet. He scrabbled for shield and sword, found sword alone, brought the blade to the challenge – and saw Sarazin's shield flying through the air towards him. Thrown full force. No time to dodge. No time to duck. Steel must avail. Tarkal met shield with sword. 'Hal' screamed Jarl, expecting the sword to break. But sword deflected shield. Take him as I've taught you!' shouted Jarl.

Sarazin advanced upon Tarkal. Breathing harshly. Both hands on the hilt of his sword. As both combatants had lost their shields, it was bare blades now. To the death. 'Ska!' screamed Tarkal. Striking with all his force. 'Hal' screamed Sarazin. Striking full-force at Tarkal's oncoming blade.

The blades met. The full strength of two men was devoted to their meeting. And one blade broke. Steel went flying, somersaulting, sun-spangling. Tarkal dared a thrust – then realised his fist held nothing but a swordhilt. The Chenameg princeling gaped at the hilt of the sword. The blade had been torn clean away from the hilt. 'Kill!' yelled Jarl.

But before Sarazin could lunge, Tarkal was running. He fled slap-bang into the arms of his startled supporters. 'Now!' screamed Jarl. Sarazin lunged. And spiked Tarkal's left buttock. 'The spine!' roared Jarl. 'Stab him in the spine!'

But Tarkal dropped to his hands and knees and rabbited away between the legs of his courtiers. Two of those worthies drew swords and advanced on Sarazin, meaning to kill him.

'None of that,' said Jarl, interposing his death-blade between the would-be murderers and their intended victim. The courtiers, who were but overgrown boys, stepped back smartly, unwilling to fight such a hard-bitten veteran. 'All right,' said Jarl. 'Clean the rat's blood from your blade and we'll be going.'

So saying, he gave Sarazin a rag with which to clean his blade. Meanwhile, Amantha had gone to the aid of her wounded brother. 'Tarkal!' she cried.

'It is nothing,' he said, waving her away. 'My darling,' she said, dabbing at the blood with her handkerchief.

While his sister tended his wound, Tarkal said to Sarazin:

'You have ended my quest. You have ruined my hopes of glory. Does that give your warped peasant brain some grain of satisfaction?' 'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

And heard one of the retainers whisper to another, in shocked delight:. 'He doesn't know!'

'What have I done?' said Sarazin, bewildered and distressed. But they gave him no answer. 'Come,' said Jarl to Sarazin. 'Let's be going.'

Once they were decently removed from the courtiers, Sarazin asked: 'How did I do?' 'Better than I expected,' said Jarl. 'After all, you're alive.'

'But – but I did something wrong, didn't I? Because they were so upset – about the quest, I mean. What was that all about?'

Their own business,' said Jarl, 'which is no concern of ours. Tarkal was on the quest which is traditional for the oldest son of the king of Chenameg.' 'What quest is that?' said Sarazin.

To search for the tectonic lever and set the same in action.' 'Tectonic lever?'

'A war machine from the days of the Technic Renais- sance. Legend sets it in the terror-lands of the Deep South, far beyond Drangsturm. It is said to have the power to sink Argan.' 'To sink…?' 'To plunge the continent beneath the waves.'

'A weapon indeed!' said Sarazin. 'But how would Chenameg profit if Argan sank? Chenameg is itself but a part of Argan.'

'Ah!' said Jarl. 'But legend holds that Argan North would not entirely be swallowed by the sea. While waves would swamp the Harvest Plains entire, the rising seas would leave Chenameg with a border with the ocean.' 'I see! The Harvest Plains would drown, and Chenameg 'Chenameg would become a great seapower,' said Jarl, lording its power over the ruins of a sunken world.'