Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

The maps claimed the South Road started between the two heads. Well, the mound was there, the heads were there… but the road was but a senile track strangled by waspthorn and brambles.

None lived thereabouts for it was cursed, and any settlers would find their every child stillborn. It was an uncanny place to camp alone. Often Sarazin lay awake in the darkness while uncouth things crashed through the forest. Bears? Monsters? Ghouls? Who knows?

Worse things stalked his dreams, and more than once he woke from nightmares with a scream, his hand snatching for the hilt of the doughty blade Onslaught. At the end of his twelfth day of futile waiting he had his most terrible nightmare yet, in which he saw Thodric Jarl die a death too terrible to relate. He woke shaking, terror-stricken.

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.'