Hugh Cook: The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

Thus the Witchlord Onosh rode forth from the city of Gendormargensis to go hunting in the hills. And, as has been indicated above, his entourage consisted of rather more people than the few individuals who have so far been mentioned by name.

An emperor does not groom his own horse or wash his own linen. Nor does he clean his own boots – or, for that matter, his own fingernails. So when Lord Onosh went hunting, he customarily took with him half a thousand assorted shamans, slaves, servants, warriors, counselors, cooks, concubines, magicians, astrologers, winemasters, poets, painters, bootmakers and button-painters.

Nevertheless, the imperial hunting party was nothing like one of those shambling circuses which traipse around behind the effete lords of the debauched and dissolute south. Even in his days of triumph, Lord Onosh never forgot that he was of the Yarglat, a people who conquered by horsepower, who ruled by horsepower, and who must trust to their horsepower to survive if the fates ever turned against them.

All who went with the emperor could ride hard and long when the day demanded it; and so, despite its complement of concubines and bootmakers, the hunting party rode east from Gendormargensis like the advance guard of a wind-riding army. Swiftly the hunt campaigned deep into the mountain wilds, disregarding the lateness of the year and the inclemency of the weather.

When Lord Onosh had won the rule of the Collosnon Empire (something he had done by adroitly masterminding a potent combination of witchcraft, conspiracy and murder) he had made Gendormargensis his capital, as had all the rulers of the empire before him. The city commanded the strategic gap between the Sarapine Ranges and the Balardade Massif, and hence was ideally placed to control all intercourse between the eastern hill country and the widespreading western flatlands dominated by the Yolantarath River.

Since no wild animal of any consequence had been seen anywhere near Gendormargensis for a generation or more, when Lord Onosh went hunting he necessarily rode into the mountains in pursuit of bandits.

The lord of the Collosnon Empire had sported after bandits so often that very few were left; indeed, such two-legged prey were so scarce that one wit had lightly proposed that they be declared a protected species. But Lord Onosh persisted in hunting to the highground to capture and to kill, seeking the last of the lawless in their mountain retreats.

On this occasion, the emperor hunted for a full ten days without success, until at last his party surprised a bandit encampment. There bandits they fought and bandits they killed, though some of the lawless escaped from this first attack.

The first attack was led by Thodric Jarl, the gray-bearded uitlander who was renowned as the mightiest of the Witchlord's warriors. In that autumn, the autumn of the year Alliance 4305, Thodric Jarl was only 24 years of age, yet he was as gray as gnarled death and as cold in his killing as icelock rapture or midwinter famine.

Cleaving the air with bloodstroke upon bloodstroke, Jarl made his bitter steel sing. He hacked the bandit leader down, then claimed for himself the choicest treasure found in the bandit camp – a thing of female gender which named itself Yerzerdayla.

The female thing was brought in chains to the imperial battle base, where it was seen by the young Guest Gulkan, the self-styled Weaponmaster, he who at the age of 14 laid claim to a man's estate, though he was still possessed of much of a child's impetuous unreliability. Guest Gulkan stood in his muddy boots, smelling like a slaughterhouse, and gaped at Yerzerdayla. For this captive slave – dressed in silks and chained by jade clasped with silverbright – looked more like an imperial aristocrat than one of common flesh.

"I am in love," said Guest, who was of a certainty in lust.

Such was the first meeting of Guest Gulkan and the elegant Yerzerdayla, she of the blonde body and the perfumed hair.

Then: "Who is the woman?" asked Guest.

"She is a thing claimed already by Thodric Jarl," answered Yerzerdayla's keepers.

"Claim he may," said Guest. "But I will have!"

In fact, it would have been politic for Guest Gulkan to lose interest in any flesh owned by any killer as grim and humorless as Thodric Jarl. But Guest, in those days of his ego, felt free to conduct himself like the imperial heir he was not. So he sought out Thodric Jarl, meaning to demand the surrender of the woman Yerzerdayla.

Young Guest found Jarl supervising the forced labors of the surviving male prisoners, who were digging pits for a purpose which had not been explained to them. It was cold, but Jarl was warm in a weather jacket bought from the emperor's league riders – uitlander mercenaries every bit as barbarous as himself. The prisoners were also warm, for under Jarl's surveillance they were digging themselves into a mass of sweat and blisters.

"Ho, Jarl!" said Guest.

"Ho!" said Jarl.

"I'd like a word with you," said Guest.

"Then speak," said Jarl.

So far, so good; for at least they had exchanged several civil words without swapping threats of violence. Given that both were extremely dangerous men – Guest being at that age a danger mostly to himself, whereas Jarl was a menace to other people – that was something to be thankful for.

Now Guest had long been tutored in diplomacy by Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. The excellent Sken-Pitilkin had introduced Guest to all those notions central to successful negotiation; but Guest was a poor student, and proved it by botching his confrontation with Thodric Jarl.

When Jarl refused to give him the woman, Guest did not offer him horses and hogsheads of wine in return; or let the matter drop for the moment; or take no for an answer. Instead, he began to rant, rage and bluster.

"I am Guest Gulkan, son of Onosh Gulkan and rightful heir to the lands of Tameran," said Guest. "How dare you deny me?"

"I dare deny you," said Thodric Jarl, "for you are no heir to anything but the lice in your father's bootboy's hair."

"I'll have your blood for that!" said Guest in fury.

"To have you must take," said Jarl.

"Then take I will!" said Guest, lugging out his sword.

But the sword was only half-lugged when Jarl gave young Guest a push which sent him staggering backwards. Guest found empty air beneath his boot – and fell. The boy Guest fell backwards into a pit which four bandits were excavating. These four exhausted wretches thought Guest had jumped down amongst them with murder his intent. Despairing of life, they nevertheless put up as much of a fight as they could, and Guest was put to the necessity of killing them before he could scramble out of the pit.

As Guest was scrambling, Jarl kicked him under the chin, sending him tumbling backwards onto the cushion of the corpses he had so recently created.

"Nicely timed," said the dwarf Glambrax, who was following this conflict with the interest of a born spectator.

"I've had practice," said Jarl.

"That wasn't fair," said Guest, looking up from the blood and muck at the bottom of the pit.

"Neither is this," said Jarl, picking up a huge rock which required both hands to lift it.

"You wouldn't dare," said Guest, doing his best to sneer at the rock.

Jarl dared.

He hurled the rock down on the hapless Weaponmaster.

Guest screamed. He couldn't help himself! He threw up both hands in a hopeless attempt to protect himself.

The rock smashed into his hands.

And burst into fragments, for in the proof of the impact it proved to be no rock at all, but, rather, a cohesive mass of earth.

As Guest was spitting out bits of earth – he had been screaming as the stuff smashed into his arms, and in consequence had been gifted with a mouthful of the stuff – Thodric Jarl completed his victory by spitting on the unfortunate Weaponmaster.