Hugh Cook - The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

As Rolf Thelemite and Guest Gulkan went swaying down in a winch basket for what might well be the last time – though Guest was grimly determined to return some day to Alozay, and have an accounting with the demon Iva-Italis! – they discussed the extreme hostility which had already marked the forced fellowship of Thodric Jarl and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. And they staked hot gold on when the Rovac warrior would have the killing of the wizard.

Not if, but most definitely when.

Swelaway Sea: Tameran's inland sea which lies a little over 200 leagues south of the city of Gendormargensis and is home to the Safrak Islands. The Swelaway Sea is drained by the Pig River which flows north-west to the Yolantarath.

Since Thodric Jarl would brook no delay – war was afoot, and he did not wish to miss out on his share of battle-blood glory – the travelers joined their boat at the Palace Docks that very evening. The sky was dubious, threatening bad weather, but Jarl was hot to be gone regardless.

They descended to the docks, then there was a delay, for word came that the Governor of the Safrak Bank wanted to say goodbye to Guest Gulkan and Sken-Pitilkin. When the Governor materialized, Guest was the first to notice him.

On Guest's first introduction to Banker Sod – an event which had taken place on a day now more than a year in the past – the Weaponmaster had been taken aback by Sod's racial configuration.

For Sod was an iceman, and had an iceman's pale skin. That skin was thickly furred with white bodyhair, which contrasted vividly with the golden hair of his head. His eyes and teeth were of a yellow to match the hair of his scalp, but his fingernails were black.

Over time, Guest had got used to Sod. He had also grown used to the sight of Damsel, Sod's tender daughter, whom he had seen at times in the mainrock Pinnacle and the city of Molothair. From wondering at Damsel's strangeness, Guest had gone on to wonder at what she might be like to have as a girlfriend.

Since Sod was now so much a part of the background of his life, Guest scarcely registered his approach. But when Jarl saw the man – why, Thodric Jarl looked as if he had suddenly been dropped in boiling water.

"Gentle god!" said Jarl, voicing in his startlement the mightiest of all his oaths. "It's Sod!"

"Jarl," said Sod, acknowledging recognition with displeasure.

"But you – but – man, it was – Chi'ash-lan it was – "Sken-Pitilkin looked from Jarl to Sod, from Sod to Jarl.

There was something decidedly odd here. Obviously Jarl had seen Sod in earlier years in Chi'ash-lan, and obviously Banker Sod was not pleased at all to be so unexpectedly identified here on the island of Alozay. Sken-Pitilkin, fearing that this unexpected and inexplicable act of recognition somehow contained the seeds of a most unfortunate breech of diplomatic protocol, tried to hush Jarl.

But it was too late.

Sod had already decided that he was most displeased at being recognized, and that in particular he was displeased at having been recognized by Jarl.

"I want that man," said Sod, indicating Thodric Jarl.

Sundry Guardians moved to arrest Thodric Jarl.

In hindsight, it may be said of a certainty that Banker Sod had over-reacted. In hindsight, it may be said of a certainty that Sod would soon have realized as much, that diplomacy would have had its way, that Jarl would have been released, and the whole thing smoothed over and forgotten by the next day.

But Thodric Jarl was in his rune-warrior mode, so drew his sword as if to hold the world at bay. He was outnumbered by twenty to one – after all, he was a single man alone, and Sken-Pitilkin certainly had no intention of fighting on his behalf – yet he challenged the Guardians with the stoneblooded resolution which befits a man born more for myth than life.

"Jarl!" said Sken-Pitilkin sharply. "No fighting!"

But it was too late, for the nearest Guardian had already drawn his weapon in a matching gesture. Their razors clashed, and scratched each other with a sound like the claws of a sliding cat screaming across the tiles of a wet rooftop.

"That's enough!" roared Sken-Pitilkin.

The two swordsmen broke apart, both as yet unblooded. They eyed each other, breathing hard.

"My good lord Banker," said Zozimus, addressing Banker Sod in the urbanest of all imaginable tones, and doubtless intending to build some swift diplomacy upon the foundations of goodwill so diligently established by long months of slug chefery.

With the mercy of Sod's grateful belly thrown into the equation, there was a near-certain hope of peaceful resolution.

But one of the younger Guardians had already drawn a knife, and even as Zozimus spoke that Guardian threw that knife.

The knife went whizzing through the air, slicing – not at Jarl! – but at Sken-Pitilkin!

With the roar of a Word, Sken-Pitilkin raised his country crook. Caught in a vortex of levitational energies, the knife snapped upwards, shattering into fragments in the buffeting upsweep of the compulsion which commanded it.

"Ahyak Rovac!" screamed Rolf Thelemite, drawing his sword with a shearing swipe which plucked the scarf from Zelafona's hair.

And a moment later, the gloom of the Palace Docks was alive with the dragon-slash of sword-silver combat. In the thrashwork embroilments of battle, Sken-Pitilkin came face to face with a Guardian. The hackwork hero chopped at the wizard with his tooth of iron, but iron met country crook, and it was the iron which shattered. The country crook twisted in Sken-Pitilkin's hands, subtle as a licorice strap in the hands of an energetic child. It thwacked the Guardian.

The man fell stumbling backwards, fell to the grip of Pelagius Zozimus -

And -Sken-Pitilkin winced, the sound of a bone-breaking crack etched once and forever in his memory.

Zozimus held out a hand.

Zozimus spoke a Word.

The fresh-created corpse of the Guardian uprose, and stood on tottering legs before its master, the necromancer Zozimus. Then Zozimus drew his sword, and passed the weapon to the corpse. Which grasped it.

Zozimus raised his hands.

He spoke a Word.

The corpse turned, and raised the sword for war. It raised the sword against its former comrades.

Now Zozimus had spent most of his time on Alozay in the kitchen. As lord of the larder, Zozimus had dedicated himself to cooking up slugs and such, and had been grossly over-rewarded for his enterprises in this direction – for Safrak's Bankers had proved ready to part with good gold to satisfy their bellies, though they never unclenched so much as silver to appease the appetites of their minds.

However, though Zozimus customarily worked as a chef, and hence was able to find a ready welcome in whatever city, palace, pit, dungeon, ship, school or brewery in which he happened to find himself, the truth of the matter was that Zozimus was a necromancer.

A necromancer, yes!

Zozimus was a wizard of Xluzu, able to arcanely command the dead. Upon the Palace Docks, Zozimus commanded the corpse of the first of those who fell in battle, and sent that corpse against its erstwhile companions. The sight of one of their own fighting against them when dead was enough to rout the Guardians, who mostly dived from the docks and began swimming to the low-lying city of Molothair.

"So," said Jarl, panting harshly, "we have the docks in our possession."

From the way he said it, Sken-Pitilkin momentarily thought the Rovac warrior had no intention of stopping there, but meant to scale the winch-ropes and take the mainrock at the storm.

"Possession?" said Zozimus. "I've not seen a deed to prove it!"

As Zozimus so spoke, the shambling corpse which had been at his command came striding down the docks. Zozimus spoke a Word.