Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

In early summer in the year Alliance 4326, Sean Sarazin – now known to the army as Watashi – marched forth from Selzirk with six hundred troops under his command. He was bound for the province of Hok, there to do battle against the dreaded Tor, a man-demolishing ogre from Stokos, the swordsmiths' island.

This time, Sarazin had good, reliable troops, so doubted he would need any military police. Nevertheless, a three- way agreement between Regency, army and Watch saw Thodric Jarl join the expedition with twenty volunteers from the Watch, all sworn to maintain discipline.

Each day, Sarazin took the place of honour right at the front of the army, ahead of the dust and stench of his trampling troops. Epelthin Elkin rode there also, and they talked idly of this and that as they made their way south- west towards Hok's distant mountains. Glambrax, mounted on a donkey, and armed as usual with a crossbow, rode to the rear, diligently memorising the army's repertoire of scatological songs.

Day by day it grew hotter and hotter until one day Sarazin finally stripped to the waist and rode on half- naked, luxuriating in the sun's heat. His amulet, catching the glitter of the sun, excited Elkin's curiosity. 'What is that?' said the wizard.

'A great treasure,' said Sarazin, passing it over. 'I bought it from Benthorn. It's an heirloom from an ancient elven kingdom.'

'I doubt it,' said Elkin. 'For no elves have dwelt in Argan for the last ten thousand years or more. If, indeed, there were ever such things as elves at all.'

You mean… you mean I was conned?' said Sarazin. 'I was tricked? This is worthless?' Yes,' said Elkin. 'It's just a trinket.' And he pocketed it. Casually. 'Give me that!' said Sarazin, suddenly furious.

Elderly wizards – and grim, ascetic elderly wizards like Epelthin Elkin in particular – do not take a childish interest in worthless baubles. You want this?' said Elkin. 'Very well! Have it!'

And he tossed it to Sarazin, who snatched it from the sky, his hand a hawk-swift talon striking.

'All right,' said Sarazin, breathing heavily. Tell me. What does it do? Does it command minds? Rule armies? Conjure dragons? Break mountains? Raise storms? Summon the dead? Or what?' 'Nothing like that,' said Elkin dourly. 'Then what?' said Sarazin.

'If you'll trust an old man with your toy for another moment or two, I'll show you,' said Elkin.

Sarazin hesitated, then handed over his amulet. Elkin studied it with care, then nudged one of the silver stars, and a man's voice began to speak in a sonorous, long- winded language which Sarazin strongly suspected was the High Speech of wizards. 'This,' said Elkin, 'is the bard.' 'A bard?'

The bard. Scholarship knows of only one. This must be it: the lost bard of Untunchilamon.' Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin, startled.

Thus the druid Upical had named the leader of the dread of dragons which lurked within Sarazin's magic snuff bottle of leaf-green jade. 'You've heard the name, have you?' said Elkin. 'Yes,' said Sarazin.

He wondered whether the wizard would pry within his brain for the details. The thought of such intrusion made his flesh crawl. But Elkin simply said:

That's not so surprising, for Untunchilamon has fame in the east, though it is little known in this part of the world.'

'Pray, then,' said Sarazin, 'tell me of Untunchilamon, and of this bard for which I paid all of fifty skilders.'

As he stressed his ownership thus, Sarazin held out his hand for the bard. Reluctantly, Elkin gave it back to him.

'This is no instrument of power,' said Elkin, 'but I lust for it, since it is of limitless value to scholarship. The lost bard of Untunchilamon holds the voice of antiquity's greatest poet, Saba Yavendar.' 'Saying what? Secrets of magic? Of treasure? Of power?'

'Reciting his Warsong and, his Winesong in their entirety,' said Elkin.

Sarazin, who knew of these famous epic poems, under- stood why a scholar like Elkin would long to own the bard.

'It is known as the bard of Untunchilamon,' said Elkin, Tjecause Untunchilamon is where it was last seen. It was lost within living memory when a time of troubles came upon that island.' 'Where is this island, Untunchilamon?' said Sarazin.

'It lies mid-ocean between Argan and Yestron,' said Elkin. 'There the magic of the east meets the power of the west. The wizards of Argan are the stronger, but the sorcerers of Yestron command effects more subtle and various. The conjugation of these-' 'Do they breed dragons on this island?' 'What? I was talking about sorcery.'

Yes, but. Dragons. Do they breed them? On Untun- chilamon?'

'I have no idea what meats they raise on the island' said Elkin testily. 'Perhaps they eat dragons, perhaps chickens. Or perhaps they breed both. If you wish to know what blood adorns their table, then a long journey awaits you.'

Dragons are not bred for the table,' said Sarazin. 'I know that already.'

You speak in ignorance,' said Elkin. 'For the imperial dragon of Yestron is a dish most valued at banquet. The flesh, however, is rank and rancid unless the beast has been fed for the most part upon honey. Hence imperial dragons are usually raised in the vicinity of beehives, which is unfortunate because-'

'Do they have imperial dragons on Untunchilamon? Are they fierce?'

'What's wrong with you?' said Elkin. Your mind's all over the place. For the truth of Untunchilamon, I suggest you quest to the island yourself. I'd be interested myself in your report, since much of the rumour which has come to the attention of scholarship is, I suspect, untruthful.'

They were then interrupted by Thodric Jarl, who wanted to discuss arrangements for their camp that night. And Sarazin did not thereafter question Elkin about bards, dragons and Untunchilamon, for, much as he wanted information, he feared the wizard might become too curious.

Sarazin's ring of invisibility and his dragon-bottle were treasures beyond price. His magic candle also per- haps had its value. He feared that the wizard of Ebber, if he learnt of their existence, might be tempted to steal them. Admittedly, the valuables were safe from instant theft, since Sarazin had left them behind in Selzirk – just as he had for the campaign in Tyte. But he did not trust Elkin.

Perhaps – though he denied it – Elkin did indeed have the power to change minds permanently. He might be able to force Sarazin against his will: to send him back to Selzirk to retrieve the dragon bottle, the ring and the candle, and to bring these treasures to his lair in Hok.

Even the bard, which held nothing but poetry, had tempted the old wizard powerfully. So the greater treasures must stay a secret lest they prove to be Sarazin's death.

Hok: fair land of sky-soaring peaks adorned with beauty in dawn and twilight alike (a poet's opinion); a barren land of sheep farts and peasants impressed by the eloquence of the same (opinion of a cosmopolite); a bitching hole, a galgize sludgeon, a regular sunth (opinion of a long- suffering footsoldier who actually had to march through the place with a pack on his back).

Thus Sarazin marched south towards Hok. His mission wa amp; simple: to meet the ogre Tor in battle and kill him, capture him or drive him out of Hok.

Tor's territory was the Willow Vale, a substantial valley opening on to Hok's southern coast. To get there, Sarazin would have to march his army over the Eagle Pass, which was high, narrow and easily defended. His maps of the pass were poor and long out of date, but he decided against sending out scouts to reconnoitre the place, fearing this might alert the enemy to his approach.

Near the mountains, the land became flat and marshy. Pools of stagnant water rankled with insects. Fat, slow, bumbling flies the size of a fist droned through the long, hot, sweating afternoons. They settled upon necks, arms and faces, unwelcome as the hand of a child molester.