Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

And the king slapped Sarazin on the back, and laughed heartily.

What did he mean with his talk about arse? Was he making some sort of invitation? If so, how could Sarazin decline it? To cover his confusion, Sarazin sipped at the green-burning liquor in the horn, which fired his blood with summer warmth and made his head swim.

He handed the horn back to the king, who drained it. Then, swaying slightly in the saddle, began to sing a song of some considerable obscenity. Other hunters took up the tune. As it was, obviously, a tradition – and a royal tradition at that – Sarazin, after some hesitation, began to sing himself.

King Lyra's drinking horn was refilled, then emptied again. Not once, but twice. And not by the king alone – he had generous help from Sarazin. Who began to feel positively buoyant. There was strength in his chest, fire in his loins, a splendour in the weather. He looked around for Amantha, thinking to demand a kiss. But there were no women evident, for this was a strictly masculine assembly.

He began to get impatient. Surely their quarry would be leagues away by now! What if they lost her? What if she got away? That would put everyone in a bad humour, doubtless. Which Sarazin could not afford, since he wanted the king in the best of moods that evening.

Sarazin – even when under the influence of firewater – was not so foolish as to think he could ask the king for his daughter's hand in marriage on such short acquain- tance. However, he thought he might, with some effect, be able to ask the king to show mercy to Lod. By rescuing Lod he would win another ally in his campaign for the throne of Chenameg. Doubtless Lod would be suitably grateful if Sarazin could pull it off – for otherwise he would surely be adjudged a wastrel and be put to death on that account.

'Sean Kelebes!' cried King Lyra, already some ways distant. 'Are you woolgathering? Come on, man – we're off!'

Sarazin sat up with a start. It was true! Horsemen were already thundering out of the mudfield. Sarazin spurred his steed and joined them, his eyes slit-gritted against the mud spraying in all directions from the hooves of the horses.

While Sarazin was one of the last of the riders to leave, he made up for it as they plunged through the bare- boughed forests of winter. Trees flashed past as he rode pell-mell, daring life and limb for glory. He was excited, exulted, exhilarated.

Swiftly he gained on the trackers, who rode with abandon, for they were drunk on firewater. Drunk as well was King Lyra, who rode whooping on the heels of the trackers, his son Tarkal close behind him. Sarazin, ardent in the pursuit of honour, strove to draw level with them.

In among the forest were tumbled piles of stone, the remnants of a settlement long since overthrown and over- grown. Here were thorny hedges, their winter-proof blue- black leaves rising in ramparts. And one lay directly across their path. In the base of the hedge was a scuffling hole through which, it seemed, the quarry had fled – for the trackers put their horses to the hedge.

King Lyra followed, as did Tarkal. So Sarazin, nothing daunted – a little firewater goes a long way – spurred his mount. Urged it to flight. And crashed to the ground when his horse fell heavily on the far side.

Bruised, dazed and dizzy, Sarazin struggled up from the ground. Tripped over something. What? A tracker, lying like a rag doll, neck broken. He heard swearing on the far side of the hedge where riders not reckless enough for the jump were deliberating a detour.

Sarazin's horse? The brute was getting to its feet. Sarazin stumbled towards it, to the tune of the click-clacking of a dozen free-swinging wooden plates which had been loosened by the shock of his fall to earth. He mounted up.

'Gah!' he said, urging his steed with a word expressive of disgust.

The horse allowed itself to be persuaded to walk, but would go no faster. Which way now?

In the winter mud, Sarazin had no trouble whatsoever in following the tracks of three horses – the steeds of the leading tracker, of King Lyra and of Tarkal. And – where they had not been overlaid by footprints – the impressions of someone's feet. -She must be close.

Indeed. The woman could hardly be running still. She must have slowed to a walk. The horse would outpace her. But King Lyra and Tarkal would have her first. Or would they?

Through the trees, Sarazin saw a glitter of water. Saw the surviving tracker floundering neck-deep in bog-mud, his arm wrapped around the neck of his struggling horse. Amidst mud and sedge, King Lyra himself. The king and his tracker, both intoxicated by firewater, had ridden straight into a swamp. But the king was only in it up to his waist, and Tarkal was nearby. Had dismounted. Had a long branch in his hands. -What now?

Help with the rescue? No need. The king was in no danger. The tracker? Perhaps. But since the drunken loon had led his royal master into danger – why, he deserved death.

With all due care and caution – the effects of the firewater were wearing off – Sarazin skirted round the swamp, taking a wide swing through the forest. Picked up the stumbling trail of the woman's footprints. And rode on, his unsprung armour clock-clacking, the forest creaking around him in a gathering wind, the topmost branches of the skeletal trees clawing at the sky.

Ahead, Sarazin saw the naked woman, who had fallen exhausted to the muck beneath an oak tree. She was panting, her flanks heaving. Her wild eyes upstaring as his horse at leisure rode up alongside her.

Sarazin dismounted. He drew his sword in case she resisted him, but she quailed away, hiding her face in her hands. So he planted the brave blade Onslaught in the turf and, with masterful leisure, divested himself of his trousers and boots.

He felt a sensation of, above all else, power. But all was not perfect, for he was irked by his itchy-scratchy hunting coat with its click-clacking armour. So he shrugged it off and draped it over the saddle of his horse. He was so hot with lust, with the excitement of the chase, with the aftermath of indulgence in firewater, that he felt warm even once naked.

Looking down on the woman, Sarazin laughed for sheer delight at his own triumph. He touched himself. He was ready.

He was about to fall upon his prize and claim her with his swollen pride when he heard a branch break. Turning, he saw a black horse bearing a black-clad man who carried a blood-sharp spear. Saw the man's steady gaze. His orange-red beard. He looked remarkably like.. . like Fox. He was Fox! 'Fox!' said Sarazin.

Fox made no reply, but gestured to the woman. With some handhold help from a nearby tree, she scrambled up behind him, then put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his black leathers.

You can't take that woman!' said Sarazin, outraged. 'She's the king's meat. She's…'

His voice trailed away. He felt – what? Ashamed? Impossible! He'd done nothing wrong. Yet there was something in Fox's expression which he found hard to bear. He felt diminished. Dirtied. Soiled. And stupid, standing there bare-arse naked with winter's elements chilling his flesh.

A single acorn fell – ithlopl – to the mud. It was, perhaps, the very last acorn left over from the autumn. There was no sound louder. Then Fox urged his horse forward. The bare steel of his spearblade was pointed straight at Sarazin's chest. Sarazin stepped back, stumbled, fell, recovered himself, ran. He ducked between trees too close-grown for a horse to follow. Then turned at bay.

Fox leaned down from the saddle to pluck Sarazin's sword from the mud. He spiked Sarazin's trousers on the point of his spear. Took Sarazin's coat and passed it to the woman. Then grabbed the halter of Sarazin's horse and rode off at a leisurely pace.

Hey!' said Sarazin. You can't – I mean – hey – stop! Whoa!' Fox rode on, without looking back.