Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

What kind of monster was it? How come it vanished at a sword-slash?'

'I know not,' said Zelafona, 'for not all is given to me to know. Let us retire to my home.'

'I trust it is not far,' said Sarazin, 'for, as you see, my horse has fled.'

Upon which Zelafona put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. High, pure and clear sang the note, and forth from the forest came Sarazin's horse in company with a milk-white mare richly caparisoned with gold and velvet. 'Come, Sarazin,' said Zelafona. 'Mount. Ride!' 'How did… how did you know my name?' 'I have my arts,' said the damsel.

'Not art sufficient to protect against your enemies, though. Who was it who bound you to that post? Who conjured that monster?'

Wiy mind is clouded,' said Zelafona. You ask many questions to which I have no answers.'

With that, Sarazin had to be content. He mounted his horse. Glambrax scrambled up behind him, and they were off, with Zelafona leading. We are here,' she said, shortly.

The gloomy forest gave way to verdant lawns sweeping up to a house. A house? A four-storey mansion set amidst noble trees and groves of ornamental bamboo. A buttermilk sun shone down from a blue sky as soft as a baby's bum. The sun illuminated carp pools and soft-playing fountains of waters coloured variously green, blue and yellow. But Sarazin's eyes were all for the house, which offered them a frontage in which a hundred windows glittered.

What… what are those windows made of?' said Sarazin. 'Of glass?' 'But of course,' said Zelafona, with a smile.

Sarazin had seen much built in stone, but had never in his life seen such a wealth of glass. He was impressed. What happened to the rain?' said Sarazin.

Was there rain?' asked Zelafona, her voice dreamy, a slim smile dancing delicate on her lips. Yes. A downpour which seemed forever.'

'Elven folk live sideways from the rest of the world,' said Zelafona. You are… of the elven folk?' 'I told you so at first acquaintance,' said she.

Was that true? Possibly, for the elven folk were known to be most wondrous fair. Or, alternatively, the woman might be a princess of human breed, the daughter of some kingdom far greater than Chenameg, living exiled here in splendour. Either way, she was something special, that was for certain. You look distant,' said Zelafona, 'Are you all right?'

The monster,' said Sarazin, 'it gave me a shock. Forgive me. My nerves-'

'I understand,' she said. You have my name, then. Zelafona. Our time together will be but brief, but you will have Glambrax with you for a lifetime. Thus you will remember me.'

'I don't want to sound ungrateful,' said Sarazin, "but I'd have to think very carefully before taking Glambrax into my service.'

'But he's sworn his loyalty to you already!' said Zelafona. You heard him yourself.'

Yes,' said Sarazin, Tjut I – I'm not sure I want a dwarf as a servant.'

'But you will take him,' said she. 'As a courtesy. To me. You will swear as much.'

Such was her charm that Sarazin could not deny her this trifle. After all, he did not want to upset his princess. Whether she was a human or an elven daughter, she must surely be the one the prophecy spoke of, the one he would win. She was beautiful, voluptuous – she rivalled even Jamba's charms. Therefore he gave his oath on the matter.

Inside the mansion, grey-masked servants showed Sarazin to his room. He tried to prevail on them to stay, for he had questions to ask. But they smiled and left. Vanished, almost. Grey cloaks swirling away. Soundlessly. Were they ghosts? Perhaps.

Still – the bath was real enough. It had limitless hot water pouring from a faucet of a kind Sarazin had once seen illustrated in a very ancient text preserved in a library in Voice. Sarazin soaked in the hot water, luxuriating in the warmth. Cleansed himself with sponges and strange perfumed soaps. Dressed himself in clean linen which had been laid out in his chambers. Then, overcome by weariness, he sank to his bed and slept.

He woke at dusk, and was delighted to find it was dinner-time. He ate with Zelafona at a table lit by a thousand candles gleaming in chandeliers. They had lamb, venison, beef, and three different kinds of fish. Then, for dessert, bananas topped with zabaglione. 'This is wondrous rare,' said Sarazin.

'What? The custard? My chef makes it from sugar, marsala and egg yolks.'

'No, I meant the bananas. I've seen them but twice before in my life.'

The bananas eaten in Selzirk came from Hexagon, one of the Scattered Islands far out in the Central Ocean. 'Think nothing of it,' said Zelafona.

Sarazin obeyed. He thought of her instead as he ate fruit salad, swilled red wine and slowly became tipsy.

He was not at all surprised when, after their meal, she led him to her private chambers, and there allowed him to seduce her. When he took her glimmering flesh he experienced a strange, unearthly ecstasy which he had never before experienced with a woman. She rode him until he was lathered. Yet still his lust did not diminish. Feverishly, he matched his man to her woman. Until, at last, dawn glimmered through the windows, and at last he slept. Much later, Sarazin woke. 'Zelafona?' he murmured.

Opening his eyes. To a horror-shock insult to soul and sensibility. He was lying beside a dead woman on a frowsty truckle-bed in a filthy cottage, a place of whispering dust and creaking spiders, of rustling shadows and grey- masked rats. 'Zelafona?' he cried.

Nobody answered his call. The haggard flesh of the crone beside him looked like old leather cracked by a thousand seasons of relentless weather. Her slack jaw gaped down revealing a jumble of decayed teeth. A swollen purple tongue furred with green and yellow. She stank of cat's piss.

Sarazin stumbled naked from the bed. He grabbed his mud-wet trousers, shuddering. Boots, where were his boots? In the corner, in a heap with the rest of his clothes, plus sword belt and sword. He dressed in haste, as if summoned to a battle. Then checked his pockets – and found his magic missing.

All his gifts from the druid Upical were gone. The silver ring of invisibility on its silver chain. The magic mudstone. The small bottle in which lurked the dragon Untunchilamon and eight other beasts almost as mighty. The green candle which was worth killing for. All stolenl

Floorboards creaked as he strode to the door. Which fell off its hinges as he yanked it open. He strode out into the mud, the drizzling rain, the dismal grey, looking around as if hunting for a murderer.

The cottage, which had a thatched roof, stood beside a ramshackle barn in a wasteland of waterlogged mud in which lay a dead dog and the corpse of a bullock. A paling of sorts ran round that field of mud, and on the fenceposts were some lumpy things which Sarazin realised were the heads of assorted men and animals.

Beyond the fence was the dark, brooding forest. Over- head, a louring sky. Sarazin trudged through the drizzle to the barn, where he found his pony, looking thoroughly miserable. Something stirred in a heap of decaying straw, then sat up. It was the dwarf, Glambrax, grinning like an open wound.

'How did you like your night of passion?' said Glambrax in a sly, insinuating voice.

Where is Zelafona?' said Sarazin, with murder in his voice. 'She's in bed, where you left her.' 'There's nothing in bed but a… a.. .'

That's her,' said Glambrax, grinning still. 'She knew she was going, so she wanted to go out in style.'

You mean… you… but… gods, this can't be true! She – she was a princess. She said so. An elven princess. That's what she said she was. She said she was a princess of the elven folk.'

'And you believed her!' said Glambrax scornfully. 'Aren't you a little old for fairy tales? She was no elf. There's no such thing as elves.' Then what was she?'