Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

'That's for you to say, not me,' said Jarl. You're the boss.'

Then Jarl got to work. Already there was a buzz of noise outside the tent. For the herald had given Sarazin's soldiers news of the agreement in turn for a few twists of tobacco, and now those same soldiers were laying bets on the outcome of the forthcoming fight.

Sarazin had been wearing his best silks when he met the herald, but Jarl ordered him into his sweaty old leathers. Then, working swiftly, Jarl prepared Sarazin for combat by wrapping so many turns of cloth round his middle that it seemed he had a veritable paunch.

When Sarazin saw Glambrax grinning at him – a wicked, knowing grin was his – he felt forced to protest. 'The agreement was no armour,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is stuff made out of steel and such,' said Jarl.

'But cloth in such quantity can often turn a blade,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is defined-'

'You're here to win a war,' said Jarl. You're a soldier, not a lexicographer.' 'As a soldier,' said Sarazin stiffly, 'I have my honour.'

Yes,' said Jarl, 'and your men have lives of their own which they'd rather not lose for that honour.' 'If I die that's my business,' said Sarazin.

'If you die,' said Jarl, 'many of your men will die trying to stop the enemy crossing the river.'

What are you talking about?' said Sarazin. 'I agreed to the herald's terms! If I die, my army withdraws then the enemy 'Shut up! Here, put on this cloak, it'll hide the cloth. Here. Rope for a belt. Tie the cloak in close, you don't want it catching on anything. Got your sword? Good. Take this.' 'What? Mud!?'

'Mud, yes, mud!' said Jarl fiercely. 'Mud in his eyes, that's the first thing. Mud and blood, that's what wars are made of.'

Then he led Sarazin down to the river's edge where hundreds of loud-talking soldiers were already waiting. They cheered hoarsely when he unsheathed his sword. On the opposite bank was a similar boisterous congre- gation. Sarazin had no time for second thoughts, for Jarl was already hustling him into the water. Glambrax followed.

'Back, mannikinl' said Jarl, swiping at him with the back of his hand. Jarl missed.

And Glambrax, chuckling, dodged past the Rovac warrior and hastened after Sarazin, who was swiftly sinking as he waded forward. Ankle deep. Then knee deep. He would be up to his waist if this went on! His one consolation was that his foeman was having similar problems.

'Let go of me!' said Sarazin, as Glambrax clutched at him from behind. 'I can't,' answered the dwarf. 'I'm in love with you.' 'Tough,' said Sarazin. "You're the wrong sex.'

'Ah!' said Glambrax. 'So that's the secret! I was won- dering what won your horse your favours when all my efforts-'

Sarazin tried to cuff him, and almost lost his sword while doing so. 'Attend to your front!' yelled Jarl from the riverbank.

Sarazin's enemy, waist-deep in mud and water, was labouring steadily towards him. The man's elegant silks were torn away by an underwater snag, revealing the blood-red lacquered armour which he wore.

'Blood!' said Sarazin. 'He's in armour! Glambrax, will you let go of me!?' 'If I let go I drown.' 'Drown, then!' 'I would if I could, master, but it's against my religion.' 'Gah!' said Sarazin, gripping his sword more tightly.

Onward came his f oeman, brawning through the water with lumbering strength invincible. By now, Sarazin's men had seen that the enemy challenger had cheated by wearing armour. They began to jeer, to beat spears against shields. Sarazin scarcely heard the noise, for his concentration was devoted to his foe. Then He put down a foot but felt nothing. Betrayed by a pot- hole, he struggled for balance. Teetered one-footed on the edge of the pothole. Then felt the edge crumble. He snatched a breath – then the river swallowed him.

Spluttering, Sarazin surfaced. Glambrax was riding on his shoulders, legs locked around his neck. His sword? Gone! And his enemy was close, closing, white teeth grinning. 'Shit!' screamed Sarazin.

He ducked beneath the surface. The sword! The sword! It had to be there! In confusions of water, weed and mud he thrust, probed, raked, grappled – and laid his right hand open as he found his weapon's blade.

With the sword secured, Sarazin struggled to the surface. Stale air exploded from his lungs. He gasped, gasped again, spat, squidged water from his eyes. Gripped his sword's hilt double-handed. Blood streaming between his fingers. Coughed harshly.

You die,' said his challenger, ponderously, raising his weapon to strike.

Then floundered backwards, clutching his throat. Sarazin seized the opportunity, and stabbed. His dying enemy flung wide his arms: and Sarazin saw a miniature crossbow bolt buried in the man's throat. You!' said Sarazin.

'Good shooting, eh?' said Glambrax, with a grin in his voice.

The men on the northern bank were hooting with triumph. Were mounting their horses. Sarazin turned and – too late! – saw what they were doing. With a scream of triumph, Sarazin's cavalry squadrons charged. Straight down the bank to the swampmud river.

"No!' he screamed, waving his arms frantically. No! No! No!' But it was useless.

Soon, half a thousand horse were floundering in the river, some already starting to drown. With wild halloos, the Rice Empire's heroes attacked their helpless enemy, despite the best efforts of their officers to restrain those heroes.

Soon both armies were helplessly bogged in the mud. 'Shit!' said Sarazin, punching his head from sheer frustration. Where the hell was Jarl?

The answer came a bare ten heartbeats later when Thodric Jarl led Sarazin's skirmishers on the attack. 'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed the Rovac warrior.

Clad in nothing but a loin cloth, Jarl leapt down the bank and into the river, sword in one hand and a knife in the other. The skirmishers, most as lightly dressed as he, followed like so many rabid rats. Barefoot they came, screaming in excitement: 'Wa-wa-Watashi! Wa-wa-Watashil'

Some of the smarter of the boot-burdened enemy cavalrymen were already struggling out of their heavy mud-logged battle-gear. But the skirmishers were on them before all but the quickest could escape their burdens.

In whdt was more or less a waist-deep swamp, the half-naked skirmishers had the edge and then some. Knives, hatchets and sickles flashed bloody in the glitter- ing sun. Men bubbled blood, clutched hands of mud to gaping intestines. Mud-blind, blood-blind, a swordsman staggered, was struck by a rock, pierced by an arrow, was- But Sarazin could watch no longer.

Some considerable time later, the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl found Sean Kelebes Sarazin sitting dazed on a rock some five hundred paces distant from the river. Glambrax sat at his feet, barbecuing a frog over a frugal fire.

Silently, Glambrax tore free a frog's leg and offered it to Jarl, who accepted it with a nod and ate it slowly while he studied Sarazin. The young man's leathers were damp, his legs clagged with mud. He had not cleaned his sword.

'We dine at twilight,' said Jarl. 'Roast horsemeat. And, for those who like that kind of thing, long pig.' Then he turned and walked away.

But shortly sent one of the army's barbers to cleanse Sarazin's swordhand, anoint the wound with the crushed garlic which Jarl favoured as an antiseptic, then bind it with clean white cloth to protect it from the summer dust and the summer flies.

Tyte: province in north-west of Harvest Plains. Most prominent feature is some 2,500 square leagues of swamp- lands lying north and south of the River Iggle.

'It was horrible,' said Sarazin. 'Blood, filth, screams. And – and the horses. That was the worst of all, the horses. I saw the skirmishers – well – I saw-'

Lost for words, he threw up his hands in disgust. Here, in the Voat Library, amidst the dusty smell of ancient books and manuscripts, it was harder than ever to under- stand such barbarity.