Hugh Cook - The Wordsmiths and the Warguild

It was many generations since Togura's ancestors had been sharp-bargaining Galish merchants, but, nevertheless, a trader's caution was still part of his heritage; he disliked unnecessary danger on principle, being entirely lacking in the kind of hang-devil recklessness which welcomes impossible odds.

But Day!

How could he forget about Day?

How could he write her off like this?

He tried to bring her face to mind, but failed. He could not remember what she looked like. He tried, in a dutiful way, to fabricate feelings of regret and remorse, but failed.

"Kiss me," said Zona.

And he could hardly decline.

As they danced, the music grew louder. An old-fashioned canterkade beat out a rhythm in direct opposition to a new-fangled clay. A sklunk back-thumped, a chanter whined, a snot-pipe shrilled, then massied plea whistles hooted and honked, joining the screaming high pinions in a caterwauling fanfarade.

"So what's it to be?" said Zona, as the last of the music jogged down to nothing. "Where will you sleep tonight and tomorrow? By some bone-rotting mountainside bog? Or elsewhere, far warmer?"

"Give me time to think," said Togura, with a laugh of joy and triumph which he was unable to suppress.

Already he knew his answer. It was no contest. The people of Sung – even the young men – were essentially too sane and sober to make good questing heroes. They seemed wild enough, with their feuding and fighting, but such localised sports are essentially civilised in that they never take you more than a couple of days from your own warm bed and a hot-bread kitchen.

Though the Wordsmiths did not know it yet, Togura had just cancelled his quest for the index.

"Let's find a seat," said Zona.

"Let's," said Togura, coughing.

"It's rather smoky," said Zona, waving a hand in front of her face.

"Rather," said Togura, looking round to see who was smoking the acrid pipe.

He blinked. His eyes were stinging. People were starting to shout. Somebody screamed. Suddenly Togura realised there were clouds of smoke curling and coiling overhead. People were panicking, rushing for the exits. Togura drew his sword, then looked at it in astonishment. Why had he done that? He sheathed it hastily, before Zona noticed. Zona?

"Zona!" shouted Togura.

His voice was lost in the uproar. She was gone. She had fled. Somewhere, a loud voice boomed, roaring:

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

Togura jumped on a table.

"Don't push!"he bawled. "People will get crushed!"

But he was ignored. He coughed; the air was harsh with smoke. Looking round, he saw a disturbance. He saw part of a wall breaking down, admitting bright sunlight and a wedge of – masked men!

"We're under attack!" shouted Togura.

But nobody heard him.

He jumped down from the table and waded toward the attackers. With Suets and their guests crushing each other to death in the jam-packed exits, he figured that the break in the wall offered him the best chance of escape from a building now definitely burning.

He drew his sword again, and this time did not feel stupid for doing so.

Togura, dizzy with smoke, fear and excitement, hung back as the masked men attacked. His drawn sword was strictly for self-defence. He was them close in on Roly Suet, who fought as best he could, crowning one with a food bucket and kicking another in the privates. They overwhelmed him and carried him off.

"Give me back my man!" said a vast, slurred, grubbling voice.

It was Slerma. She was not pleased.

A man slashed at her with his sword. She threw up a forearm to defend herself. By rights, sword versus arm should lead to instant amputation. But the blade scarcely managed to cut deep enough into her blubber to reach the bone. Next moment she had seized the miscreant by neck and by ankles, and was tearing him apart. As Togura blinked, gaped and boggled, the man ruptured and split, spilling -

Togura closed his eyes, feeling sick.

By now, others had realised what was going on. Suets and guests, arming themselves with tables, chairs, carving knives and roasting spits, gave battle. Those with no weapons flailed at the attackers with jackets, coats, cloaks and capes, seeking to entangle their swords or beat them down so they could close for a stranglehold. Roly's kidnappers were cut off from their escape route. Two sat on Roly, holding him down, while the others fought in the burning building.

Slerma, thinking the battle was going against her side, went to the rescue.

"No!" screamed Togura, seeing her bulking off the reinforced section of the floor.

But he was not heard or was not understood or was ignored. Slerma rumbled ahead, spitting and growling, ready to defend her true love with her life, ready to kill, crush, mutilate and mangle. Some of the masked intruders fled howling at her approach. Slerma advanced in triumph.

Then floorboards broke beneath her, precipitating her into the abandoned mine shaft below. The invaders raised a cheer, and began to prevail. Then a squad of musicians joined the affray, their instruments becoming weapons of war.

As battle raged,huge bubbling roars came from underground. Slerma was still alive, and most indignant about her predicament. Two suets, overwhelming an invader, tossed him into Slerma's pit. Shortly his pitiful screams maimed the air, then came a slubbering groan, and then – from him, at least – silence. The din of battle masked the sounds of feeding.

Togura, sword in hand, skirted round the outskirts of the brawl, making for the daylight. But a masked fighting man stepped forward to confront him.

"Who is it who dares to trifle with Barak the Battleman?" shouted Togura.

"Me!"

And the masked man tore away his disguise. It was Cromarty, claymore in hand.

"Crom!" cried Togura.

"None other," said Cromarty, grinning with open delight. "And what have we here? Why, why, it's little Tog-Tog. Gather round, boys. Now it's really party time."

But there were no boys to gather round.

"You're on your own this time," said Togura.

"That's all right," said Cromarty, evenly. "I'll manage."

And, turning ferocious without further ado, he attacked.

Their war-blades clashed. Togura sliced Cromarty's thigh. Cromarty nicked his nose. Blooded, they broke apart, coughing and panting, their eyes stung with tears as smoke whirled about them. They began to circle, posing fiercely and talking tough.

"Come closer," said Togura, "and I'll slice you from pox to piles."

"Not so hasty, salami minor, or you'll be eating your arsehold for breakfast."

"Talk's cheap, you son of a slut."

"A slut? Look who's talking. I raped your mother on the night she died."

"Shut your filth and swallow it."

"Believe me, Tog-Tog. She loved it. She asked for more and more and more. She licked my – "

"Liar!"

A burning beam crashed down between them. A smaller timber fell, striking Cromarty, knocking him to the ground with a glancing blow. As the building broke up, the fight was breaking up. People were running for their lives. Togura started to scream a threat at Cromarty, but broke out into a fit of coughing instead. His half-brother was lost in the swirling smoke. Togura sheathed his blade. A man came blundering his way, blinded by blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. It was Roly Suet.

"This way!" shouted Togura, grabbing him.

Roly tried to fight him.

"It's me, stupid! Barak the Battleman, rescuing you!"

Togura hustled him out into the street. Smoke reeled up into the sky. Roly, coughing, tried to wipe the blood from his eyes. The street was filled with skirmishing fighters, rearing horses, screaming children and indignant citizens of all descriptions.

"Togura!" yelled a black-masked fighter standing at bay some distance up the street. "Give us the boy!"