Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

Yes. Sarazin remembered the gigantic boot in which he had once sheltered for a night during earlier travels through Chenameg. The owner of such a thing would be able to smash trees with ease. What else had such strength?

– Dragons. Perhaps. But there was no roar, no flame. -So it was a giant. Must have been! Nothing else makes sense. So thinking, Sarazin began to shudder.

He waited for a long time, listening. He could no longer hear any sounds of flight, struggle or agony. Only the wind, the rain, the night-talk of the forest. He was very cold by now. -What to do?

In the end, he could no longer bear simply to lie there, waiting helplessly. He got to his feet. Then, shadow-silent, he eased away through the forest. Then halted. Which way should he go? Cautiously, he gave an owl-voiced code-call. Then thought: -Do owls hunt in the rain?

No matter: the rain was dying down. Sarazin waited until he thought it had stopped – the constant rain-drip from the trees above made the precise moment difficult to judge – then gave the owl-voiced call again. Listened. -Answer me, answer me! No reply.

Sarazin called again. An owl-voiced reply came. Distant. The others must have moved off quickly. Sarazin called again. Listened. -Speak to me! He was answered.

Stealthily, he headed towards the signal. After going for some considerable distance, he stopped. He was about to call again when one of his comrades called to him. From somewhere very close at hand. -Where are you? Where?

He listened intently. Finally, the call came again. From a tree directly above. Sarazin looked up. Up through the dark scaffolding of branches lit here and there by stars. And saw a small, dark shape. Which called to him, giving an owl-voiced cry. Then spread its wings and flapped to the next tree. -Pox! Pox and bitches! Dog-dung soup! What now?

He was lost by night in unfamiliar territory to which he had no map. He had food – though not much – but no tent, no tinder box. For once, he did not even have an ill-mannered dwarf bumbling around at knee-height, for Glambrax had been left behind at the hunting lodge. He was utterly alone. His comrades were out there, somewhere, in the darkness. But then so too was a large, bad-tempered giant with a homicidal disposition. -How long till dawn? -Half a night? Less, by my judgment.

Sarazin analysed his situation by applying the Rule of Objectivity: if someone else was in your predicament, what advice would you give them? He drew a blank. Then he remembered Thodric Jarl lecturing on the Laws of Panic: 'When all else fails, try doing nothing.'

It had sounded stupid at the time, but now, recalled in a time of dire need, it sounded uncommonly sensible. Sarazin settled himself down at the foot of the nearest tree.

He hoped to sleep – but unfortunately, it was far too cold for that. He was shivering again, and would shiver till dawn unless he died of it.

Dawn. The sun rose into a blue sky from which all traces of cloud and rain had vanished. Sean Kelebes Sarazin set out for higher ground, taking care to leave clear tracks of scuffed footmarks, bent twigs and torn leaves which could be followed by his comrades – and by himself, if he had cause to retrace his steps. He hoped giants could not stoop low enough to read a trail.

After a while, he came upon a tree which looked good for climbing, and shinned up it. Long before he reached the top, the branches grew too thin to support his weight. Still, he thought he glimpsed a mountain. He climbed down again. -Keep on uphill, that's the thing.

Indeed. He'd sight the rendezvous mountain sooner or later. Or come across a trail-sign to point him to his comrades. To tell his own people where he was going, he broke up some rotten branches and laid out an arrow on the ground, pointing in his direction of travel. With luck, a hostile giant would never notice such an insignificant mark. -Now let's be moving. So thinking, Sarazin set off again.

He had gone scarcely a hundred paces when, as he was about to step into an open glade, he halted. He thought he had seen something move. -Yes. Just ahead. In the grass.

The grass lay green and innocent in the autumn sunlight. But something was moving in the grass. What? Sarazin stared at the grass fearfully. -A snake, that's all.

Sarazin smiled, relaxed, advanced. The slim green snake reared up in front of him, swayed this way and that, then sank back to the ground. He took another step forward.

The snake went into reverse, weaving itself through the grass almost soundlessly. Its every movement perfectly fluid. Effortless.

For as long as he could remember, Sarazin had always admired snakes for their beauty, their poise, their sophisti- cation, their perfect mastery of style. Now that he had met the snake the forest no longer seemed so alien, so lonely. -A good omen.

The glade opened on to another one where the grass was higher, more plentiful. Sarazin stretched, yawned, grinned at the sunlight, waded into the tall grass, put a foot into something soft, into- -mud?

But was already committed, his weight following his foot, something crunching under his weight, grass parting beneath his hands as he saw, to see was to know, to know was- -to die? Then someone screamed. -Me?

No, it was not Sarazin screaming, even though he stood with one foot firmly planted in the carcass of a ruptured man-corpse, even though that corpse was a comrade's, eyes death-staring at the sky. -Blood? -Tracks?

Neither. No blood. No tracks. Nothing to show how the man had got here. And his legs were missing. So he hadn't walked here. And the arms were gone. Something had been hungry! Or angry. Very angry. And had dropped the corpse from the sky. Or had thrown it. -Which? -Dropped? Thrown? -By giant? By dragon? -And who screamed just then?

Sarazin looked up. Overhead were a few slim branches which could have supported nothing heavier than a nest- raiding hedgehog. Another scream ruptured the forest.

Sarazin was shocked to realise he was totally exposed to view. He dropped to his gut. Dropped straight down to the wet green grass. Then, emulating the snake, he writhed through the grass to the trees. He crawled into the nearest bit of rough and tangled undergrowth. Then peered around, seeing very little since the same shrubbery which sheltered him cut down his vision in all directions. Then he saw a man running.

A man fleeing, all weapons gone, an empty quiver bouncing on his back. Running, running, running, then- Down went the man.

He had tripped, had caught his foot on a root and had gone down hard. But he was up again on the instant, up and off. Ten paces, twenty. The forest ahead of him was thick and dark. He plunged in without hesitation. And the forest- Thrashed. Tore itself in tumult. Screamed. Raged in demolition. -The trees! It's the trees! Eating people! Sarazin shrank to the earth in terror. Amidst the shatter-thrashing forest there was the graunch of rending wood. Then a tree was falling, falling, crashing towards him, no chance to run- Branches in all directions Sarazin flung his arms around his face to save his eyes, wrapped his fingers into fists, ground arms and fists to the ground, and gasped And was lashed by whip-quick branches flailing against his scalp, his leathers, back, arse and ankles. He lay still. Listening to his body. He felt nothing. He was paralysed! His back was broken! No, not so – he could still feel his toes in his boots. His left foot was sore where the nail of his great toe, ingrowing, had started to become inflamed and infected. His knees hurt, too.

A good sign. An excellent sign. Pain! Ah, most beautiful sensation! But where was the rest of the pain? The lacerating agony of smashed flesh and cracked bones? Absent. For a good reason, too. Only the thinnest, uppermost branches of the tree had fallen as far as his body.