Hugh Cook - The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

Deserters? How come they were so organized for action, yet so disorganized in their management of the Door? If they were bent on exploring the Circle of the Old City of Penvash, then why hadn't they left a party to guard their star-globe? And who were the people whom Guest had fought on his own desert island? Guest was about to ask about this last point when he checked himself. For a dreadful possibility occurred to him. Two men had assailed him on his desert island, and he had killed both. But maybe those men had been in the service of the Ashdan with whom he was now in dialog! If so, then what would happen if this whole party went right round the Circle of the Door and discovered the corpses?

Realizing he might have some explaining to do, Guest wondered if he should make his escape. He clutched the yellow bottle under his rags. He could toss it to the snows. Then, as it slid down the mountainside, following the path of the avalanching centipede, he could turn the ring on his finger, which would cause him to get sucked into the bottle.

Should he do it? Guest flexed his fingers, which were rapidly losing all sensation. If he was going to act, he must act soon, else he would be quite incapable of turning the ring. The shock of transit from tropical heat to iceland mountainside was telling on him, and quickly. All warmth had been stripped from his body already, and he would be a casualty of the cold unless he did something, and quickly.

Meantime, his companions were arguing angrily, arguing in a babble of voices, discussing the possibility of killing and cooking one of their number. Grief of gods! What manner of people was he mixed up with?

No sooner had he asked himself this question than the Door abruptly reopened. One of the adventurers – apparently in danger of being immediately slaughtered and cooked – bolted for safety. Guest expected his companions to go yahooing after him, hot for slaughter. But they hesitated.

Why?

Everyone was going to freeze to death unless they moved quickly!

Then Guest took a better look at his new companions, and realized that all of them were dressed for cold weather. He caught sight of bits of grass sticking out from the lumpy jackets of one or two of that number, and realized that some of them had used vegetative padding to supplement the warmth of their clothing. A good trick, but not one Guest could emulate, not when he had nothing but snow available as padding. Guest flexed his fingers. Or tried to. His gloveless digits were so stiff he would be hard put to turn the ring.

Decisions, decisions!

He was right out of the habit of making quick decisions, but the weather was giving him a helping hand. The bottle or the Door!

Choose! Choose now! Or die! Guest chose, and led the way through the Door, through to -

"Mother of god!" said Guest, in disbelief.

He was on a battlefield. A battlefield, of all places!

Some of Guest's new companions shared his shock, so he did his best to steady them, speaking as a leader should.

The earth was dusty, and the sky was black with thunder. The air boomed with drums, wailed with screams, roared with fear. But battle had not yet been joined. As Guest's companions mobbed around him, he realized he was standing slap bang between two armies, and that war was about to be joined.

"There is war here," said Guest, wondering if his own selfpossession might allow him to displace the bald-headed Ashdan as the leader of this band, "hence there is opportunity."

So he said. But what he did not add was that the opportunity was mostly for death, for maiming, for capture and imprisonment, for suffering and thirst, for fear and for terror, for trauma and regrets.

A warrior rode from the army to the west. He was mounted on a heavyweight black horse, and from his accoutrements Guest summed him as a Yudonic Knight of Wen Endex. One of Guest's new companions said something to the rider. Guest failed to catch the words, but they must have been mightily provocative, for those few words precipitated a fight.

Moments later, the rider was dead, and his horse likewise.

One of the killers started drinking the blood of the horse, and another – not to be outdone – started drinking the blood of the man. Guest realized the monster with the oversized crowbar had gone through the Door, with one or two of his fellows. The others – those of them who were not greeding on blood – had fallen to arguing. Guest took the opportunity to grab Rolf Thelemite by the arm and drag him out of earshot of the others for a private word.

"Rolf," said Guest. "It's Rolf, isn't it?"

"Who else would it be?" said Rolf Thelemite.

"Then – good to see you, man!" said Guest, gripping his erstwhile companion by the shoulder. "Now, tell me, what's going on here?"

"Well," said Rolf Thelemite, "it's a long story."

A long story, and one which Guest was not to be favored with. For, as Rolf Thelemite geared himself up for the telling of his tale, a savagery of pale-skinned warriors came leaping out of the Door. They were barefooted, had leather breeches, had sheepskin jackets, and were armed with spiked clubs, with spears, and with swords.

In the melee which followed, Guest was separated from Rolf Thelemite. And, as the fighting ended, Guest realized that the two armies of the battlefield were starting to march toward each other, bent on starting a larger war.

"Rolf!" said Guest.

"Here!" said Rolf Thelemite, who was standing on the plinth of the Door. "I'll see you later!"

And, with that, the Rovac warrior vanished through the shining silver screen of the Door. Guest hesitated.

He had two choices, both unpalatable. He could pursue Rolf Thelemite and his mob through the Door. Or he could stand here and get himself embroiled in a battle.

Another horseman came riding from the west, bearing down on the Door. And Guest, realizing this horseman might be riding for revenge of his fallen colleague, fled precipitately through the Door. He found himself in a huge darkness. A cave? He caught sight of the moon, and realized it was night. Then someone or something moved in the night, and Guest, fearing attack, plunged back through the Door.

No sooner had Guest plunged – jumping through to searing sunlight – than the silver screen of the Door snapped out of existence. Guest glanced back to confirm what his ears had told him. The Door was closed! So here was sun, here was sand, he was back on his island, but the blood -

The sand stretched away.

Thirty paces away, a totem pole.

Sand hot in the sun.

Sand scattered with bodies.

Corpses of men and corpses of monster.

And the sand was fringed with a circular arena, the walls of which were of white marble. The arena's steeply-sloped tiers of seating – packed with people, all of them yelling and roaring – reminded Guest of Forum Three, the lecture theater in Cap Foz Para Lash. Then, with a shock of recognition, he realized where he was.

He was standing in the Grand Arena of Dalar ken Halvar (otherwise known as the Great Arena, and, to scholars, as the Kilsh Dilsh Dalsh Tantasand).

He saw the corpses of those death-lizards known as striders, their heads pulped. He saw dead men. And he saw crocodiles.

Crocodiles very much alive! By the look of them, they looked hungry! And they were coming in Guest Gulkan's direction! Guest looked around at the packed arena.

"It's me!" he roared. "Guest Gulkan! Friend of Plandruk

Qinplaqus!"

But the Weaponmaster's shout was drowned by the maelstrom of the crowd's rioting enthusiasm. Dalar ken Halvar recognized him not. He was in the arena, alone in the arena, alone with his sword, and the crocodiles were closing in on him. There were dozens of the monsters.

But could they climb the plinth? Guest glanced around, and saw that the sand had been ramped up at the back of the plinth. He guessed that the ramping had been done especially for the convenience of the crocodiles. The steel arch looked unclimbable. But just thirty paces distant was the totem pole. Guest gathered his wits and ran for the totem pole. But a man stepped from its base and challenged him with a sword. The man was barefooted, wore leather breeches, wore sheepskin jacket – and was, Guest realized, one of those who had so lately been engaged in a m?l?e on the battlefield Guest had fled. Moreover, now that he examined it closely, he realized the totem pole was jam packed with such savages.