Hugh Cook: The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

"Enough," said Sken-Pitilkin. "Guest. Thodric. Release your hold. Now."Guest Gulkan let go of Morsh Bataar's shoulder harness and Thodric Jarl released the foot harness.

"Sweet blood," said Jarl, studying Morsh Bataar's face for signs of pain. "It works."

"It works," confirmed Morsh Bataar. "Thank you."

Then he essayed a smile, or tried to. It was more of a grimace than a confirmation of pleasure, but it was a very miracle considering the torments he had been through. Indeed, Morsh Bataar's mere survival was little short of sheer miracle. But then, the Yarglat are tougher than other peoples, or so they say – though pain is the same for us all, as the very Witchlord himself had acknowledged.

"Well," said Sken-Pitilkin, rising from his seat. "Now we can fetch our emperor to survey the scene of our triumph."

The seat the wizard had risen from was of course the hapless Eljuk Zala, the anointed heir to the Collosnon Empire. Eljuk rose from the mud unsteadily, a swollen leech hanging pendulously from his nose. As he tried to exit from the tent, the Witchlord Onosh entered, and the two collided.

"Ho, boy!" said Lord Onosh. "You need to blow your nose!

Well, Zozimus! How is my son! How are you, Morsh? You're looking better. Much better. Grief, what a contraption! What have we here,

Zozimus? A siege engine, is it? Is young Morsh to be catapulted to Gendormargensis, or must we drag him?"

"As I said to my lord earlier," said Zozimus, "to move Morsh to the city would be to kill him."

"Ah," said the Witchlord briskly, "but that was before he was lashed to this brilliant machine. I can see the sense of it. Surely now it's only sanity to shift him."

"My lord," said Zozimus, "when the wounded are dragged from the battlefield, then every bump is agony – and by my computation there are half a billion bumps between here and the city."

"So it will hurt a little," said Lord Onosh. "Still, Morsh is a strong man, is he not?"

"Hostaja," said Zozimus, appealing to his cousin. "We can't move the boy, can we?"

Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin considered the question.

"I have not the full skill of an accomplished bonesetter, nor the full depth of a bonesetter's proper experience," said Sken-Pitilkin, "so I cannot answer definitively. But I know for a fact that where the bone has broken there must surely be blood. Blood clots to lumps, so to move the boy may be to break free such lumps. Once free in the flesh they can travel, and jam in the heart, with death as a consequence."

"Then what do you suggest?" said Lord Onosh.

"I suggest that Morsh is safest here," said Sken-Pitilkin. "I vote for no certain decision on chances, but suggest that he stands four chances in five of a quick death should he be shifted to the city. I would not wish to move him much before midwinter, not with the bone so savagely broken."

"Then," said Guest Gulkan bravely, "if Morsh must stay, then I will stay with him, and guard his solitude till then."

It immediately occurred to Lord Onosh that Guest Gulkan might well be volunteering to stay with his brother because he was afraid to return to Gendormargensis. As soon as Guest got back to Gendormargensis, he would have to meet Thodric Jarl in combat, and that combat would in all probability be the end of him.

"Guest," said Lord Onosh, "on the day of our battle against the bandits you saved the life of Eljuk Zala."

"So I did," said Guest, who was no great exponent of the art of modesty. "I dragged him from the river at the risk of my very life."

"That was well done," said Lord Onosh. "As a compliment to your bravery, I offer you any boon within reason."

"Does this mean – "

"It does not mean that you may lay claim to the woman Yerzerdayla. But else you may ask."

The Witchlord fully expected Guest Gulkan to be excused from his coming battle against Thodric Jarl. Now that the tempers of all concerned had had time to cool, Lord Onosh had no wish to see Guest spitted on Jarl's sword, particularly not since Guest was the best hope for the continuation of the family line and the preservation of the empire.

"My lord," said Guest. "I have long wished to be known as the Weaponmaster."

"Since you were a child," agreed Lord Onosh.

"But you have ever denied me such a title," said Guest.

"I have denied it for a very good reason," said Lord Onosh.

"The very good reason being that you are the master of no weapon."

"Yet," said Guest, "it is the title I claim. That is the boon I wish from you."

Lord Onosh was quite taken aback by this. Nevertheless, he granted Guest Gulkan what he wanted. And all the way to Gendormargensis, Lord Onosh wondered exactly how his son hoped to survive the encounter with Thodric Jarl to which he had doomed himself.

While the much-wondering Witchlord made his way back to Gendormargensis, the young Weaponmaster trained with his sword on the banks of the Yolantarath. Ever and again Guest Gulkan slashed and sliced, imagining how the mighty razor of his courage would cut down Thodric Jarl to size.

When he was weary with training, Guest made his way back to his tent. Already the campsite stank, and already some dog had managed to die in the middle of it. Rain fell continually, pocking the boot-craters in the slimy gray mud. Guest Gulkan's neighbor's tent lay mortally wounded in the mud.

He looked around.

He saw a bit of river escaping in the general direction of the distant ocean. Mucky gray cloud – much of it. He didn't see the wind, but it saw him. Changed direction smartly. Bucketed his face with cold rain.

"Great," said Guest, glowing with confidence and selfsatisfaction. "Just beautiful."

What was beautiful above all else was the flatness of the land, the flatness which gave mobility to the horse-troops of the Yarglat, the flatness which had made them the conquerors of the Collosnon Empire.

"This," said Guest, striking a theatrical pose, "is the empire. And I, the Weaponmaster, will make myself lord of it."

No thunder boomed to complement his words, but such was the intensity of Guest's imagination that he fooled himself into believing that he heard such thunder; and he told himself it was a very good omen, and proof of the favor of the gods.

Name: Thodric Jarl.

Birthplace: Rovac.

Occupation: mercenary.

Status: imperial bodyguard.

Description: blunt and decidedly unplayful Rovac warrior, gray of eye and gray of beard, though he is as yet far from the years of his full maturity – for he is but 24 years of age.

Hobby: cultivating the intimate acquaintance of young women of surpassing beauty (and here note that Jarl is no gluttonous greedpig but, rather, a connoisseur who will kill for the best while ignoring anything which does not meet his rigorous standards of perfection).

Quote: "I would that each was a wizard, for then our victory would be all the sweeter." (Said in the Cold West before he led a thousand men to battle against an enemy which outnumbered his own forces by four to one. Despite the promise of victory implicit in his boast, on that occasion he was defeated, and nine in ten of his men were slaughtered or enslaved.)

Shall we say something about Thodric Jarl? Shall we speak of the color of his eye and the tint of his beard? Shall we tell of his history and his hobbies, or quote him in his rhetoric?

No.

Suffice it simply to say that Jarl was of the Rovac, that the Rovac are as primitive a bunch of blood-letting savages as you are likely to cross swords with, and that Jarl was true to his kind.

Hence Guest Gulkan feared him.

Or should have feared him!

Time flies like an arrow, as the proverb has it, and before midwinter Guest Gulkan returned to Gendormargensis and announced his intention to meet Thodric Jarl in single combat.