Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

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.

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?