Hugh Cook - The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

"What good news?" said Guest.

"I spy light," said his father. "White light. Over there."

With that, Lord Onosh pointed in a direction which might have been north, south, east or west – there was no telling precisely which, for both Witchlord and Weaponmaster had got hopelessly turned around in their underground adventuring.

"It is white light, yes," said Guest. "A good change from this liquid vomit of green which pours down upon us. Very well, then. I am ready for the journey."

"So let's be going," said his father – spuriously, but the Witchlord found himself reluctant to let his son claim the initiative.

With that, the pair set off toward the white light, which grew to a steady promise, a promise which was fulfilled when they gained the safety of a tunnel smooth-walled, level, flat and warm.

In that tunnel, there was music – quiet music, not like the roiling measures of the musicians of Sung, but subtle easings reminiscent of the drift of the sea, and backed by a leisured pulse which spoke of the womb at midnight.

The light which lit this tunnel was that of mother-of-pearl: a gleaming gloss with something of the restfulness of gray about it. Into this restfulness there ventured the two Yarglat barbarians. Both had lost their swords in the battle with the murkbeast, though they still had knives, throwing stars, eye- gouging handscrews, darning needles and packets of pepper. And Guest still had – it was safe in a buckle-down sheath – the bead- tipped blade which he had stolen from the Mutilator.

Thus armed, the pair proceeded down the corridor, looking like two mud-besplattered lunatics who had escaped from an asylum by way of a swamp. They had the wary look of men for whom the world has become a place of hallucinatory shock, of untrustworthy delusion, of tripwire and deadfall.

Yet…

The swooming music continued its sundering lunder-munder melodiby, drowsing all with restfulness; and the tunnel was pleasantly warm, with the nondescript gray tiles assuming a similar warmth beneath Guest Gulkan's naked feet; and the way was clear, and…

"Stop," said Lord Onosh. Guest stopped immediately.

"There's a… a rat or something," said Lord Onosh.

"Where?" said Guest, looking down the corridor, which curved subtly as it disappeared into the distance.

"There's a door," said Lord Onosh. "Do you see it?"

Even as the Witchlord spoke, an animal ventured from a door some thirty paces away.

"It is a rat," said Guest.

"A tame rat, perhaps," said Lord Onosh.

"We'll see," said Guest.

And with that, the two advanced upon the small creature, which made no move to run away. It was certainly built along the general lines of a rat, but as they approached it sat up on its hindpaws, and seemed quite comfortable in that posture. Guest studied the beast with caution, knowing that a wild animal that is over-friendly may well have rabies.

He remembered an episode from way back in his past, when, in the early years of his youth, he had ventured down from the Ibsen-Iktus Mountains in the company of the witch Zelafona, her dwarfson Glambrax and others. Glambrax had been bitten by a dog believed to be rabid, which had occasioned a great lecture from Sken-Pitilkin on the subject of rabies.

"This thing may be diseased," said Guest. "As the fox from the forest which licks your hand may be dooming you to death by rabies, so too may this thing."

"Perhaps," said Lord Onosh. "But it looks a pleasant enough creature."

This was so odd, coming from the Witchlord, that Guest Gulkan half-wondered whether the soothing background music had addled his father's head. But… well, it had to be admitted that the thing in front of them was certainly layered with cuteness, so much so that Guest was hardly sure whether it was any kind of rat at all.

"It's soft," said Guest, who was by now almost within grabbing distance of the thing. "And a little bit plump."

"A rat well-fed," said his father.

"I'm not a rat," said the beast, sounding very offended.

The quokka spoke in Eparget, the very Yarglat tongue in which Witchlord and Weaponmaster had been conversing. To hear the creature speak shocked both barbarians to silence.

Lord Onosh sucked in breath through his teeth.

And Guest -Guest found himself sweating. He reminded himself that there are no such things as talking animals. Guest remembered Sken-Pitilkin telling him as much. There are no talking animals, just as there are no orcs, elves or leprechauns. They are things of fantasy, things which have no place in our world of mud and blood and toil and disease, of sickness and failure, of human frailty and invincible death.

Yet!

"You," said the Witchlord, heavily, "you are a rat."

"I am not!" protested the beast.

"What are you, then?" said Guest, feeling himself dragged into this conversation rather against his better judgment.

"I'm a quokka."

"A quokka?" said Guest. "What in the name of Behenial is a quokka?"

"What, for that matter, is Behenial?" said his father.

"Behenial," said Guest, "is one of the gods my good friend Rolf Thelemite used to swear by. Now, by the name of Behenial – what are you, quokka-thing?"

"I'm a philosopher," said the quokka.

"I asked not of your profession but of your species," said Guest. "Of your species, your kind. What manner of thing is a quokka?"

"It is a marsupial," said the quokka.

"And," said Guest Gulkan, unable to keep himself from asking the next and most obvious question, "what then is a marsupial?"

"A kind of rat, obviously," said his father. "Shall you kill it or shall I?"

"I will," said Guest.

"No!" squealed the quokka.

And fled.

Now it might be thought that Witchlord and Weaponmaster had better things to do than hunt after a small furry animal – even an animal which spoke. But both were in a mood for a meal, and both remembered the most excellent taste of the roast rat which had been served to them before their entry into the nethermost depths of the Stench Caves. Accordingly, they set themselves to pursue the quokka-rat, which fled down a sidetunnel which led into a -

Witchlord and Weaponmaster halted at the end of the sidetunnel, and gaped at the vast chamber into which it led.

It was a huge chamber, lit by trumpeting radiance, and dominated by a gigantic multi-tiered banqueting table, the most enormous banqueting table which ever was. It was gorgeous with the orange of oranges, the red gloss of apples, a cascade of cucumbers awash in a river of rain-flushed lettuce leaves. Wine winked in a constellation of crystal vases. Milk and honey ran in rivers. And there were cakes, cakes loaded with cherries, bulging with almonds, adorned with marzipan. And there were cones of sugar, absolute cones of it, fantastically expensive, the height of luxury.

"Grief of a dog!" said Lord Onosh in astonishment.

Then made as if to enter.

But to Guest, this place had an ugly familiarity. It was familiarity by analogy. The Stench Caves were an underworld, a veritable Downstairs, and in this underground was something possessed of an uncommon linguistic fluency, and associated with this was an intoxicating allurement which was analogous to -

"No!" said Guest, grabbing his father He grabbed so roughly that the Witchlord at first feared his son to be intent on murder, and tried to break free.

"Let go!" said Lord Onosh.

"No, no," said Guest desperately. "You can't go in, it's murder."

"If it will make you happy," said Lord Onosh, with an ill grace, "then I'll stand here all day and slaver. But come tomorrow, I'll go in and eat!"

"Tomorrow?" said the quokka. "Why wait for tomorrow? What's the matter? Come in! Come in! There are good things to eat!"

"Then, little thing, " said Guest, watching the animal closely, "pray be so kind enough as to fetch me a small portion of one of those good things."