Hugh Cook - The Wicked and the Witless

'But now we know the secret of this combat too,' said Sarazin.

'There is no secret, unless you call weight of numbers a secret. A crossbow well-handled can bring down an elephant, so it is no surprise that stray monsters fall to our companies. But when the odds are reversed, when the Swarms come east in their thousands, then we must leave or die.' 'Why linger then?' said Sarazin.

'Why not?' said the stranger. The days are no longer in Brine, the sky no more blue in Ashmolea. I work as a hunter in Karendor's company. It won't last forever, but it's a good life while it lasts.'

'Then – you're one of these who hunt against the Swarms?'

'Indeed. Would you care to join us? We're always looking for good men.' 'I'll think about it,' said Sarazin.

'You do that. You'll find us in the stockade downriver from this – this mud. You can't miss it. The stockade's the size of a castle, a huge wall of earth, logs and stones, with the head of a green as a trophy over the gate.' 'A green?' said Sarazin.

'A green centipede,' said the stranger. 'Come, man – you have the look of a soldier. Why hesitate? Join us today. We'd find work for your dwarf as well. Smoking meat and such.'

'I am but newly arrived,' said Sarazin, 'and there are some people I would like to look for first. But if I find them not, you may see me at your door tomorrow.'

Then he parted company with the stranger and explored the refugee camp further. But saw not a single face he knew. He asked after friends, acquaintances – even enemies. Fox? Farfalla? Lod? Lord Regan? Jaluba? Thodric Jarl? Amantha? Benthorn? Plovey? Tarkal of Chenameg? The quest hero Morgan Hastsword Hearst? The wizard Miphon? Blackwood of Estar? Madam Sosostris?

He heard rumours of some of these, but the rumours were contradictory, so he despaired of learning the truth. Tired and hungry, he considered his options. He must find employment soon, or starve. In this camp, food could only be bought for gold or silver, and he had neither.

At last, late that afternoon, Sarazin decided to present himself to the lord of the Gates. What could he offer such a lord? Why, his sword and his service, of course. He was a trained soldier, an experienced army commander, a veteran of battle. Perhaps, too, he could give the man his bard. It would be a pity to part with such a treasure, but the gift might sweeten the audience should the lord of the Gates prove hostile.

So thinking, Sarazin dared the challenge of the guards of the Gates. "Who are you?' said the guards.

'Know that I am Sean Kelebes Sarazin, named in battle as Watashi. I demand an audience with the guardian of these Gates.'

'What about the halfling at your heels? Your servant, is it? Or your clown?'

'I,' said Glambrax, proudly, 'am Aldarch the Third, Mutilator of Yestron.'

'A clown, then,' said the guard. 'Enter, the pair of you! Our lord may be amused by clown and clown- master.' Who is your lord?' said Sarazin.

'He goes by several names,' answered one of the guards, "but hereabouts we call him sir.'

Once inside, Sarazin was not asked for his weapon, but was flanked by two armed and armoured guards, leading him to suspect that the warlord he had come to see was not in the habit of trust. Glambrax, however, trotting along behind them, was not flattered with a guard of his own.

Since much of Argan's skill was being funnelled through the Gates of Chenameg, the master of those Gates had no trouble recruiting talent. Many carpenters, stonemasons, architects and labourers had entered his service, and had raised all manner of buildings for his delight. One was a high-gabled throne room with a floor of cold grey flagstones.

On admission to the throne room, Sarazin found it doubled as an armoury: a wealth of weaponwork was hung on its walls. But Sarazin had no eyes for steel. All his attention was given to the blond runt who sat on silken cushions on a throne fashioned from black iron. -Oh no! The lord of the Gates was grinning. Welcome,' said he.

'My lord,' said Sarazin, 'I am at your service.' And gave his most courtly bow to the master of the Gates, who was none other than the pirate Drake Douay.

Name: Drake Douay.

Occupation: undisputed master of the Gates of Chenameg. Status: a hero of the Age of Darkness which has come upon Argan with the fall of Drangsturm. Description: compact body marked by scars from heroic battles with bloodthirsty Yarglat barbarians from Tameran, evil pirates devoid of pity, man-devouring sea serpents and fell monsters too numerous to detail.

It is to be regretted that some of the scars which mar the beauty of the noble Douay are the consequence of prolonged torture endured in Selzirk after his capture by minions of a certain ungentleman named Sean Kelebes Sarazin, also known as Watashi…

While Sarazin's head was still bowed, Douay snapped his fingers. In response to this command, his guards grabbed Sarazin and relieved him of sword, sheath and swordbelt. 'Search,' said Douay.

This single word provoked a strip search. Sarazin protested at this humiliation. A guard hit him. Hard. In the solar plexus. Sarazin went down on his knees. The pain was paralysing. He could not breathe.

'Not so rough, man,' said Douay, jumping down from his throne. 'I've my own pleasures to take with this bitch.'

Sarazin, kneeling naked on cold stone, found his breath, raised his head and said: You call me a bitch?'

'Aye, and a thief,' said Douay, striding forward. Sarazin's few possessions had been piled in a heap. Douay scattered them with a kick, then fished out the bard from the wreckage. "What's this?' he said.

The bard,' said Sarazin. 'The Lost Bard of Untunchi- lamon.'

TVIy bard!' said Douay. Won by me in Ling, aye, from Guardian Machines who screamed for my death as they fought me. Right proper it served me, aye, saved a whole ship from mutiny once, for such is the power of the thing. Then this bitch Watashi stole it from me. A thief, aye, that's what he is. His dwarf's a thief into the bargain!'

With that, Douay scooped up one of Sarazin's boots and hurled it at Glambrax, who, thinking himself unobserved, had been detaching a dagger from a weapon rack on the northern wall. The boot missed, and Glambrax fled.

Taking the dagger with him. Douay did not bother order- ing a pursuit.

'I – I apologise for the bad behaviour of my dwarf,' said Sarazin.

'The bitch thinks to apologise,' said Douay. He grabbed a hank of Sarazin's hair and yanked. Hard. 'Apologise! That's what he thinks to do. But for what? For a worthless dagger, that's all. Not for the larger things. Blood, bashings, beatings, threats, kidnap, arrest without trial, torture, unlawful detention, aye, I could go on, but life's too short for the catalogue.'

Such was Douay's anger that Sarazin knew his only hope of survival was to kill his foe. 'May I stand?' said he.

'Our four-legged bitch wishes to perform for us,' said Douay. 'To show us the lesser breeds can dare themselves upright on two feet only. Very well then. Stand!' So saying, Douay released Sarazin's hair.

And Sarazin rose, knowing he would only get one chance. It would have to be a killing blow. A straight blow to the throat. Douay struck.

Down went Sarazin, struck while still thinking, still rising. Down he went, hands flailing at the ground to break his fall. And a boot smashed into his ribs. And: -And I'm going to die!

But he did not die. He was still alive when he was bundled into a bloodstained torture chamber and strapped down to a torture bench.

The torture chamber was warm. The shutters were closed against the day, keeping out the winds. Heavy iron cooked slowly in braziers. Hot. Red hot. 'Comfortable?' said Douay.

'What do you want?' answered Sarazin, speaking with difficulty, half-convinced his swollen jaw was broken. 'The truth,' said Douay.