Hugh Cook - The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

Throughout his childhood, the Weaponmaster had lived with the certainty that if he was brawny enough and quick enough on his feet, then he could hack into bloody pieces anyone and everyone who was intemperate enough to oppose his will. But there would be no such hacking here in Untunchilamon's underworld. Consequently, Guest wished most heartily that he was back in Tameran, back on the flatlands of the Collosnon Empire, sending out his scouts and manoeuvering his cavalry; and, in this time of peril, Guest felt not so much fear as, rather, a sickening sense of homesickness.

Beset by such homesickness, the Yarglat barbarian at last acknowledged that the had been in error when he had wilfully embroiled himself in the affairs of wizards, demons and gods. But it was too late to turn back!

Then, realizing he was trapped, irrevocably entangled in matters far beyond his competence, Guest Gulkan grew angry, so angry that he challenged the looming monster in front of him, challenged it as if it were a paltry slave, and he a victorious conqueror with his boot on its neck.

"Who are you?" said Guest, with a lifetime of practiced self-assertion pouring itself into the challenge.

"I am the therapist Schoptomov," said the monster, answering Guest Gulkan in his native Eparget. "Who are you? Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Guest Gulkan cleared his throat, as if in preparation for explanation. Sken-Pitilkin covertly stepped on his foot. The Weaponmaster took the hint, and was silent.

"We're, ah, tourists," said Sken-Pitilkin.

"Tourists?" said the therapist doubtfully.

"Yes," said Sken-Pitilkin. "We've come to see the, ah, the dragons, Untunchilamon is very famous for its dragons, is that not the case?"

"Where are you from?" said the therapist, disregarding the question of dragons.

"From Chi'ash-lan," said Sken-Pitilkin, hoping at least to puzzle the monstrosity.

"Ah," said the therapist. "Chi'ash-lan. I have heard of that place. They feed, I am told, on the eyes of the dog."

"You are uncommonly well-informed," said Sken-Pitilkin, astoundingly astonished to find the therapist so well-versed in the ways of such a far and distant land.

By contrast, Guest Gulkan in his ignorance thought the therapist to be in error; for Guest in his confusion thought that it was only in the Safrak Islands that the eyes of a dog are a favored delicacy. But, while Safrak does use the dog the fullest, the same gastronomical quirk is found also in Chi'ash-lan.

"You find me informed, do you?" said the therapist smugly.

"Well, I make it my business to be informed. And I don't believe for a moment that you're here as tourists. Why did you come here?

The truth!"

"The truth," said Sken-Pitilkin, prevaricating, and wishing that Zozimus would say something to help him out.

"Yes, yes, the truth," said Schoptomov. "Truth, the highest virtue!"

"We had business with one Wazir Sin," said Sken-Pitilkin, since nobody else had courage or wit sufficient to help bluff the monster.

"Ah, Sin, Sin," said the therapist. "A delightful man by all accounts. A man very much after my own tastes. He was doing so very well, too. It is most unfortunate."

"You mean he's dead?" said Guest Gulkan.

"Several years dead," said the therapist.

"Then who rules Untunchilamon?" said Guest.

"I do," said the therapist.

"You braggarting liar!" said Guest, still in his mode of wrath. "You are not a ruler! You are just a species of vermin, a species of rat!"

This speech caused Sken-Pitilkin great pain, for had not the venerable wizard Skatzabratzumon labored for years in an effort to teach Guest Gulkan the arts of diplomacy? All useless, useless, wasted effort – for once a Yarglat barbarian, always a Yarglat barbarian!

"The therapist," said Sken-Pitilkin, seeking to remedy the damage which had surely been done, "is of such sophistication that the rule of Untunchilamon is surely not beyond its capabilities."

"You are right," said the therapist, not bothering to disguise its amused delight, for it had been a long time since anyone had flattered it. "I also have the capacity to kill you."

"Who are you?" said Guest. "And what?"

"I have told you my name already," said the therapist Schoptomov. "If you have forgotten it, then it is fear which is doing the forgetting. As for my function, why, I have told you that, too. I am a therapist."

"A therapist?" said Guest.

"I administer therapy," said Schoptomov. "Algetic therapy."

"What mean you by that?" said Guest Gulkan, puzzled.

"It's a torturer," said Zozimus. "That's what it means."

"You sound as if you despise the Art," said Schoptomov.

"Well, my friend, you will despise it less hereafter."

At this threat, Guest Gulkan suddenly bethought himself of the heaviness of the amulet which hung as a pendant from the necklace he wore always at his throat. Paraban Senk, the disembodied entity which had ruled Cap Foz Para Lash in the city of Dalar ken Halvar, had not wanted him to depart with that amulet. Later, the demon Icaria Scaria Iva-Italis had immediately recognized that amulet for what it was.

But what was it? Guest felt the amulet start to beat in time with his very heart, and, inspired by that beating, knew – he had the gift of Knowing, did he not? – that this amulet was a device which would be proof against the power of the monster which now confronted them.

So Guest seized his amulet, and drew it forth from its concealment, lifting the necklace clear of his head and brandishing its pendant on high as he cried:

"Behold, the mazadath!"

In response…

In response, the therapist laughed. Which angered Guest intensely, for he was profoundly tired of things laughing at him.

"Why, a mazadath!" said the therapist. "A pretty trinket, but one useless for the concerns of the moment."

In demonstration of this, the therapist swatted Guest with a lazy tentacle, knocking the mazadath from his grasp and sending it skittling across the floor. At which Zozimus said to Sken-Pitilkin:

"Can you?"Sken-Pitilkin knew what this question meant. It meant: can you lift this therapist? Ordinarily, Sken-Pitilkin would have answered: no. For the therapist was huge. Its weight was surely greater than that of the demons of Safrak, Chi'ash-lan and Obooloo put together. By trying to lift it, Sken-Pitilkin might kill himself.

But Sken-Pitilkin said, without hesitation:

"I will need a moment's distraction, cousin."

"Then you shall have it," said Zozimus.

Then Pelagius Zozimus animated those corpses which lay about the therapist. In creaking swarms they attacked, flesh falling away as they stormed around the therapist, trying to attack the brute's tentacles and chelae.

What good could this do?

None whatsoever!

For the therapist was too much of a brute to be harmed by the belaboring of a few dozen rotting corpses.

Nevertheless, the therapist was momentarily taken by surprise at this attack. In alarm, it flailed at the corpses with its tentacles. The tentacle which had gripped Pelagius Zozimus came free, whipping itself into the battle against the corpses.

"Now!" said Zozimus.

Then Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin exerted all his power, and wrenched the therapist – tore it loose from its foundations, heaved it into the air then dumped it down.

Hard.

The therapist screamed. Pipes ruptured. Flailing steam gouted into the air. Bursts of lightning crackled. Guest Gulkan seized Sken-Pitilkin – who had quite fainted away on account of the monstrous nature of his exertions – then led the retreat at the sprint.

Pelagius Zozimus grabbed the country crook which had fallen from Sken-Pitilkin's grasp, and sprinted alongside Guest Gulkan. Thayer Levant lagged a footstep in the rear – and was soon lagging even further, for he paused momentarily to scoop up Guest's fallen mazadath.