Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

Farfalla embraced Sarazin, squeezing him, crushing him, holding him tight, tight, saying not a word. Indeed, any word she said could scarcely have been heard above the clamour within the throne room, the mob's uproar, the sounds of battle in the stairwell below, the hoarse voice of Thodric Jarl screaming orders.

Was this the end, then? Were they doomed to die here? Jarl's men, whatever their heroism, could only hold the stairwell for so long. As Sarazin was thus thinking, someone kicked him in the shins. Glambrax! Who had a canvas bag in his hands. Sarazin broke free from Farfalla and grabbed the bag.

Within were the magical gifts he had received from the druid Upical. His ring of invisibility on its silver chain. His magic mudstone. His dragon bottle. His green candle. Which should he use? The candle? No, because he had no fire with which to light it – and not the slightest idea what it would do when lit. The dragon bottle? No – unleashing dragons in the throne room might kill them all. His ring? No, for invisibility could scarcely save him now. The mudstone, then! When he used it, the legions of the Dreaded Ones would come to his aid.

Hastily, Sarazin slung the ring-bearing chain round his neck, then pocketed the dragon bottle and the candle. Water!' said Sarazin. 'I need water!'

We none of us need water,' said Farfalla grimly. We need a miracle.'

That's what I need the water for. This is a magic mudstone, see, if I dissolve it in water…' Sarazin explained.

Farfalla was dubious; the mudstone looked very much like a lump of mud to her. In any case, they had no water. No water, no wine, no vinegar, no nothing. 'Glambrax!' shouted Sarazin. 'Get me water! Now!' Your wish is my command, master,' said Glambrax.

The dwarf bowed low, then waddled to the nearest wounded guard and confiscated the man's helmet. Within was a velvet lining which he tore out. Below was a single ilavale, which he pocketed. Then he spat on the bare metal. Then started to pass the helmet round.

When Sarazin added his urging to Glambrax's begging Farfalla's people started sucking their fingers, chewing their cheeks, dreaming of blood-squirting steak, tongue-shuffling worry beads or whatever else they had to do to conjure up saliva. 'Quick! Quick!' shouted Sarazin.

For the brazen battle-brawl uproar from the stairwell suggested Thodric Jarl's men were losing. Belatedly, it occurred to Sarazin that perhaps urine would have served. Or blood. Both could have been got far quicker. But it was too late for that because: 'Almost done,' said Glambrax.

Then passed the helmet to Farfalla who looked with distaste on its much-bubbled frothy burden, swilled spittle round her mouth then spat.

'This had better be good, son of mine,' she said, and passed the helmet to Sarazin.

Who, with shaking hands, crumbled the magic mud- stone to the spittle-broth. The mud sank out of sight. And did nothing. 'Come on, come on!' said Sarazin. But nothing happened.

Till a serving maid screamed. Others took up the scream as fast-bleeding guards staggered into the throne room, retreating from the stairwell. They were losing.

The influx of guards, the screams, the panic – it was too much for Farfalla's people to take. They became, on the instant, a desperate jostling mob, brawling for air, for space, for an impossible liberty. The helmet was dashed from Sarazin's hands. He stumbled, almost fell, clutched, grabbed a handful of somebody's hair, then was squeezed.

As if in a vice.

It was the same nightmare all over again. He was going to be squashed! Crushed to death by a mindless mob. Killed by the brute weight of bodies. He could not breathe. Then, suddenly, he sighted space to his right. Space, daylight, fresh air, sun. In a thoughtless panic he brawled towards it, striving, shouldering, hauling, punching and kicking.

And, with shock, realised he had fought his way to an open arched window so huge it took up half of one wall. The crowd in the throne room convulsed. Sean Sarazin was forced right out of the window. 'Gaaa!' he screamed. Clutching. Grasping!

Screaming, he clung to someone's collar and someone else's ponytail, a death-drop beneath his feet.

'Sarazin!' yelled Glambrax in his wart-ugly voice. To me! To your left! Look left, look left!'

Sarazin risked a quick glance to his left. Glambrax was clinging to the stonework on the outside of the throne room. Easy enough to do, for the throne room's exterior walls were lavishly sculptured with dragons and such.

'Come on!' said Glambrax. 'What are you waiting for?'

But he had no need to shout, for Sarazin was already moving. Hand over hand he went, clutching to people who were in turn clutching others to save themselves from the death-drop. He gained the stonework, seized the head of a platypus, found a boot-hold on a sculptured skull, then bawled: 'Out on the roof, you morons!'

Screams answered him. Screams of a terror entirely different from anything he had heard yet. Anguished sounds of lacerated horror – as if knives were at throats already. A moment later, people were fighting to escape to the roof. Some made it. Others slipped, fell. Wailing, they plummeted down, down, down To smash, to break, to fracture, to wreck their lives on the awaiting stoneslab doom far below. Broken teeth, splintered jawbones, smashed eggshell skulls…

Some of those who made it to the exterior began to climb down immediately, descending hand over hand by way of stone-carved unicorns, gryphons, taniwhas, eels, onions, mermaids, seashells and the occasional basilisk and hippogriff and so forth.

But Sean Sarazin climbed instead to the very summit of the exterior of the kingmaker's throne room, determined to make his last stand there. Glambrax followed. 'Glambrax,' said Sarazin, 'get me a sword.' But Glambrax grinned, giggled, then shook his head.

"Very well,' said Sarazin, 'when my enemies come I must perforce defend myself with a dwarf. A dead dwarf, if a live one proves too unwieldy.'

Oh, that's a famous weapon, master, a famous weapon!' said Glambrax.

Then he chortled, making a hideous sound half like laughter and half like somebody swallowing blood.

Sarazin, nested in surprising comfort between the uprearing stone dragons which crowned the throne room, closed his eyes and tried to relax. He would need his strength for the battle to come. However.. . that battle proved a long time coming.

Finally, Sarazin realised that he was almost alone on the roof. Most of those who had joined the exodus from the throne room had climbed down, or else had gone back inside. He could still hear sounds of panic but they were faint, distant. Looking down – a long way downl – he saw concerned figures clustered around the corpses of the stone-smashed fallen.

'We'd best be going inside,' said Glambrax, starting the descent.

Sarazin watched him go then, puzzled, followed. On regaining the throne room he found it almost empty. A small boy child was sitting on Farfalla's throne, suck- ing his thumb. A couple of wounded soldiers sat slumped against a wall. And there were half a dozen servants and such. And Snakes, some dead, some wounded and writhing. Scor- pions, some mashed, others holding their ground in fury. Centipedes. Toads. Huge, filthy cockroaches. And what was that in the centre of the room? Dung? No! A heap of bubbling mud!

As Sarazin watched, out from the mud there plopped first a toad, then an adder, then an asp. They were the last of the legions of the Dreaded Ones which had indeed come to his aid, albeit tardily.

A little later, Sarazin discovered that tens of thousands of verminous creatures, most poisonous, still commanded the stairwell. And, in the end, he too had to descend to ground level by climbing down the exterior walls, with Glambrax giving him unwanted advice for every choice of handhold.