Hugh Cook - The Witchlord and the Weaponmaster

By way of reply, the alcoholics in the audience laughed uproariously and hurled snowballs in Guest's direction. The snowballs fell short, for the arena was large and the alcoholics nearly incapably drunk on the dreadful rubbish they had been imbibing, which was a dire concoction fermented from the blubber of whales and the dung of dogs. Guest Gulkan scanned the rucked surface of the arena's snows for any further enemies who might have buried themselves in ambush, saw none, shivered, stamped his feet, and looked to the box reserved for Bailiff Vok, to which his attention was called by the pair of gilded dragons which flanked it. But Bailiff Vok's box was empty. At that time, the Malf of Chi'ash-lan had bankrupted themselves to buy the right to launch ten days of pogrom against the Zy. The Malf were making the most of it, and Bailiff Vok was doing likewise – patrolling his streets on foot to observe the burnings and lynchings, the tortures and rapes, the savagings and the lootings.

So Guest Gulkan stood desolate in the arena, wondering if he was to be allowed to shiver to death.

He was not.

For, with a scraping squeal of rust and reluctant timbers, a sally port opened, and out from that sally port there ventured a dozen athletes, each armed with a wooden staff. Black was their garb and black the masks which hid their faces. These were yet more of the dreaded Zenjingu warriors, the ultimate killers, the dreaded combat cult fanatics of Chi'ash-lan. It was known in Chi'ash-lan that the Zenjingu could kill with a touch, or a laugh, or a look. It was known in Chi'ash-lan that the Zenjingu could decapitate a man with an adroitly-thrown dinner plate, or eviscerate a stalwart warrior with a sharpened toothpick, or take a blacksmith by the foot and shake him till his spine dislocated and his liver fell out of his side.

But Guest knew none of this. So why then did his heart quail when he saw his enemies were a dozen in number? After all, he was a hero, was it not? And is it not written that any hero worthy of his salt can kill a dozen of his enemies single-handed? Here a mystery. But what is certain that Guest Gulkan did quail. But not for long. For shortly he was far too busy for any quailing. He was trying to defend himself – and he was failing.

The athletic Zenjingu ringed Guest Gulkan and began to whack him with their wooden staffs. He tried to grab one. And did! For a moment the Weaponmaster stood there tussling with a Zenjingu warrior, seeking to wrench the staff from his enemy's grip. Then another staff smashed his wrist. Guest Gulkan opened his mouth in soundless agony.

Obliterating pain.

A staff rammed him in the stomach and down he went. He retched, puking yellow bile to the snow. Hit around the head, he slumped, dazed and struggling. He rolled, kicked, got up on one knee, staggered half-upright. Then was felled by a blow to the kidneys. The alcoholics on the terraces screamed their approval.

The staffs rose and fell, smashing ribs and cracking other bones.

Then it seemed the Zenjingu were done, for nobody hit the Weaponmaster any more. Not that this improved his condition much.

To move hurt, to breathe hurt, to be hurt. He waited for someone to kill him properly. He waited to die.

But nobody came to give him the coup de grace.

Instead, there was some excited shouting in a language he did not understand. He was too wrecked to look around, and so did not see a cylindrical cage being dragged out into the middle of the arena. Once centrally positioned, the cage was anchored with cruel metal spikes which were driven deep into the frozen snow.

Then jailers came for Guest Gulkan, who was being pissed on by half a dozen Zenjingu warriors who were otherwise unemployed.

Once the fighting cult heroes had finished, Guest was dragged to his feet. He screamed in lacerated agony as bones rubbed against broken bones. He screamed again and again as he was bundled across the frozen snow then forced into the cage. Guest Gulkan was made to sit upon the iron bench which bisected the cage. The iron was so cold that, had his captors stripped him of his clothes, his skin would surely have frozen instantly to the metal. But the Zenjingu and the jailers had left the Weaponmaster with his garments. Humiliation was not what they had in mind.

Once seated, Guest was tied in place. His arms were tied so they stuck out of the cage at the elbow and his legs were tied so they stuck out of the cage at the knee. Then, after a little selfcongratulatory backslapping, the Zenjingu and the jailers withdrew, hooting with laughter as they went. Guest Gulkan sat.

In pain.

In gasping torments.

In wrenching agony too sharp to be delirium, there sat Guest Gulkan, shocked and shattered, too savaged by his torments to have any comprehension of what was going on. That "what" was nothing.

For nothing happened as Guest Gulkan sat, living from breath to breath, from pain to pain, a lifetime passing between each spasm of renewed excruciation.

How long he sat there, he did not know. Perhaps a lifetime, perhaps thrice longer.

Then he heard something.

It was soft but it was big. How big? He could not tell. Not precisely. But the thing was big enough to pad the air with silence, to change the world of sound with the muffling stupendousness of its presence. It was huge. It had to be. But what was it?

It was behind him.

A bigness, a prowling softness, a bulking appetite, a lode of deliberate purpose shifting and sensing, a hungering half-heard and half-felt. And then. It breathed upon him. Its breath was hot against his neck.

It leaned against the cage. But all its bulk was not sufficient to move that cage. Nevertheless, Guest felt the metal shudder with the strain.

Then.

Then.

It.

It licked his hand.

Its tongue was hot, and heavy, and then it bit.

Plandruk Qinplaqus: ruler of Dalar ken Halvar, aka Silver Emperor, aka Ulix of the Drum. A gnostic manic-depressive who has long ruled the Empire of Greater Parengarenga from the palace of Na Sashimoko. In appearance: a withered Ashdan of great antiquity, his frail form usually supported by a crooked walking stick, the handle of which is silver, and is in the shape of a pelican.

For Guest Gulkan, arms and legs both shredded by the mauling strength of the Great Mink, there was no blessed darkness, no sovereign relief, no surcease of pain. Instead, spearblade agony – as if repeated jolts of razorblade lightning were being shoved through his lacerated flesh. He screamed, jolting spasms racking his body. His world was an incoherence of razors.

"He is as good as gone," said Lord Onosh, looking down on the racked and ruined body of his son.

Then Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin took Lord Onosh by the sleeve, and drew him to one side.

"My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, "there is in Dalar ken Halvar a power which commands the cure of the flesh. Our good friend Ulix of the Drum will guarantee that cure if we can but get the boy Guest to Dalar ken Halvar promptly."

"How would we do that?" said Lord Onosh.

"Why," said Sken-Pitilkin, "do but open the Door, and it can be done in moments. Ulix of the Drum will lead the way, and I will follow, and Zozimus with me. With but half a dozen men to bear Guest along, we can shock our way through the Circle before they realize we are upon them."

"I would think rather to shock with an army," said Lord Onosh.

"Shock, my lord, is a tactical jewel more easily possessed by the few than by the many," said Sken-Pitilkin. "If we take an army, thinking to defeat our enemies in war, they will recover soon enough. But Dalar ken Halvar is friendly territory, if we can but get there."

Lord Onosh was so shaken by what had lately happened that he allowed Sken-Pitilkin to persuade him easily.