by Hugh Cook
For some time Sarazin lay there, almost comatose. Then he heard someone call his name.
'Ho, Sarazin I' said Lod.
Was it Lod? It certainly sounded like Lod. So Sarazin opened his eyes, and looked up, and saw . . . Tarkal.
'Do you recognise me?' said Tarkal, his face inscrutable.
'You are Tarkal of Chenameg,' said Sarazin wearily. 'You are of the Favoured Blood.'
'And you are Sean Sarazin, our honoured guest,' said a familiar voice, and, yes, it was indeed Lod, as large as life and as merry. And before Sarazin knew it he was being stripped of his clothes and bundled into a hot tub. After a bath came a massage, then sleep, blessed sleep in clean linen, as unexpected as his experience in Drake Douay's guest room, and every bit as welcome.
Tarkal of Chenameg, the Slavemaster himself, gave Sarazin two days to rest and recover before he invited him to dine with him. Glambrax attended the meal, as did Lod. Amantha was nowhere to be seen, and Sarazin did not like to ask where she was.
Throughout the meal, Lod and Glambrax made most of the running, chaffing each other, joking and jesting, punning and storytelling, while Sarazin and Tarkal sat in silence, preoccupied by their own thoughts. At that dinner, Tarkal wore one of the bards which had been taken from Sarazin, while Lod wore the other.
Sarazin wondered if he would ever get them back.
During the meal, Glambrax told outrageous stories about the terrible Drake Douay, who, by his account, had tried to torture Sean Sarazin to death. He gave a spirited and improbable account of their escape from Douay.
'. . . and just as well we escaped,' said Glambrax. 'For he'd sworn to cut up young Sean as ratbait.'
'What about yourself?' said Lod.
'Why, no, not me,' said Glambrax, 'for I never tortured him as Sarazin did.'
At that, Tarkal finally spoke:
You tortured Douay?
'In Selzirk,' said Sarazin.
For he could not deny responsibility, even though the actual inflicting of pain had been done by other hands.
You were lucky indeed to escape,' said Tarkal.
'Oh, lucky enough,' said Sarazin, in no mood to tell the truth, since it would have been a laborious process to unstitch all of Glambrax's lies — and, besides, the truth was shameful, involving as it did the theft of Douay's bards. 'Still,' continued Sarazin, 'you've been lucky yourself.'
What?' said Tarkal. To be ruling here? As Slavemaster? There was no luck in that, friend Sarazin. I was in the right place at the right time.'
'Of course,' said Sarazin. 'Ruling in Shin and all.' It would have been easy for Tarkal to remove himself and his people from Shin to the wastelands long before refugees were on the move in great numbers. 'But why then didn't you set yourself up at the Gates?'
'Oh, I did,' said Tarkal. 'When word reached Shin that the Swarms were invading, I saw my opportunity. I saw what must inevitably happen. There are few routes of escape, and the Gates are one of the best. So I set myself up as lord of the Gates.'
'Then — what? Douay came?'
'No. A brute called Groth pushed me out of the Gates. Douay — or Lord Dreldragon, or whatever you want to call him — came later. I've never met him. Yet.'
'You're thinking of meeting him?' said Sarazin.
'I'm curious,' said Tarkal. 'Curious to see what he might do with Sean Sarazin.'
He said it quietly. Watching Sean Sarazin. Who saw Glambrax wink at him. The dwarf had anticipated this!
'You joke, of course,' said Sarazin, casually. 'For you have honour, surely. Douay is a monster, a brute addicted to slaughter and torture. He hates me as he'd hate a sister- killer. Tarkal, I know there's true nobility in your nature, thus . . . your jest frightens me not, for I know it for what it is.'
Tarkal chewed on some fish, spat out a stray scale, then said:
'Indeed I jest. Tomorrow, Sean, I'll let you go east. I'm running a convoy east to the lords of the Araconch Waters. You'll be my guest of honour on the trek.'
'Tell me then,' said Sarazin urbanely, 'what manner of lords be these? In the history I learnt, the shores of the Waters were empty of human life.'
'Indeed,' said Tarkal. 'Well, Lod can tell you the ins and outs of recent history.'
And Lod obliged, telling of the sanguinary events which had accompanied the mass influx of refugees, of the lordlings who had made themselves suzerain over one wretched piece of rock or another, of war, murder, killing, torture, organised rape, slavery, cannibalism, oppression, treachery and assorted bloodbaths — history in miniature, in fact.
Late that night, Lod came in secret to Sarazin and told him another tale. According to Lod, Tarkal hated Sarazin intensely because, in Lod's words:
'Your marriage to his dear sister Amantha was but a form of rape.'
By Lod's account, in the morning Sarazin would be seized, gagged, tied, taken down through ever-descending caves to one which opened by the shores of the Velvet River, deep in the sunless depths of the Manaray Gorge.
'There,' said Lod, 'you will be loaded on to a raft and taken downriver to Douay. Do you understand?'
'I understand,' said Sarazin, gently, 'that you were ever a joker, Lod, my friend. But tonight I think the joke in the worst of taste. Surely it is an evil thing for you to thus impugn your brother's honour. Why, I remember when once you swore he sought to murder you!'
'So he did,' said Lod darkly, "but I've purchased my life through the worst kind of abasement.'
'You've roused my interest,' said Sarazin. 'Pray tell!'
'Now you joke!' said Lod. 'Your life is at stake! You must run, run, run tonight or you're doomed, dead, done for!'
Lod became so insistent that, at last, Sarazin realised that Lod was not here on his own account but on Tarkal's. So he allowed Lod to chivvy him into his clothes, and then to lead him to freedom — and, when Tarkal triumphantly ambushed them, Sarazin consented to scream in feigned terror and despair.
Though he found the whole performance hard work, for he was not one of the world's natural thespians.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next morning, Sarazin was hogtied and loaded on to the raft that was to take him downstream to the Gates of Chenameg. Tarkal and Lod were both coming along for the journey, as were half a dozen fighting men.
'Why does my dwarf run free?' said Sarazin, for Glam- brax was capering on the raft.
'He has sworn himself to my service,' said Tarkal. 'At least until we reach the Gates.'
'Glambrax!' said Sarazin. 'How could you? You vile, treacherous, gamos-sucking turd!'
In response, Glambrax simply hauled out his shlong and pissed all over the unfortunate Sean Sarazin. Who screamed in wrath which — this time — was not feigned at all.
Then, mercifully, Sarazin was gagged, which meant he need do no more acting. Tarkal's fighting men untied the raft and pushed it out into the flow of the Velvet River and away they went, bucketing down the swift-flowing river which sprinted between the sullen walls of the Manaray Gorge.
In truth, Sarazin was worried about his reception at the Gates of Chenameg. Drake Douay would doubtless have a lot to say about the theft of his precious bards. However, Sarazin hoped the truth would serve. Glambrax could take the blame — and a whipping, too, if Douay decided that was what he deserved.
Unless the anger of madness was upon the noble Douay, nothing worse should befall Sarazin and Glambrax at the gates.
But then man and dwarf would be back where they had started from, unless Sarazin could turn this situation to his advantage. Unless he judged Douay wrongly, the man, however noble, had a bloody sense of humour. Perhaps Sarazin could tempt him into arranging some gladiatorial games.
—Me versus Tarkal. That's the thing!
Sean Sarazin knew he had sinned by his crimes against the Favoured Blood as represented by the noble Douay. But it would surely be no crime for him to fight and kill Tarkal, even though he was of low birth — for Tarkal was a murderer.
Sarazin knew it.
&nbs
p; Nothing else could explain King Lyra's mysterious death in a bog in Chenameg on the occasion of that long-ago hunt in winter, shortly after Sarazin had seen the famous phoenix renew itself in a temple in Shin.
—He murdered his father to win the throne. There- fore his death is due. I would be but an instrument of justice.
And, with a little help from Douay, after Sarazin had despatched Tarkal he could surely seize the Slavemaster's cave complex, and set himself up as a warlord in his own right. It was all so logical, so natural, so inevitable that it was irresistible.
—Killing Tarkal. That will be the hard bit.
Sarazin's confidence in his bladework had been shaken since his clash with Douay in which Douay had defeated and disarmed him. But then, Douay was a greater warlord than the notorious Groth, and Groth himself had earlier displaced Tarkal as master of the Gates, which suggested Tarkal was no great warmaster.
—Besides, I've fought him before.
—And I won.
Yes. And Sarazin remembered his own post mortem on his first duel with Tarkal. He could have killed the prince of Chenameg if his heart had really been in the fight — rather than in staying alive.
—This time, I will kill him! So thought Sarazin.
Then thought no more, for the raft hit rapids which made thought impossible, such was the terror of their progress. Terror at least for Sean Sarazin — for, tied and gagged as he was, he had not the slightest hope of survival if he was washed overboard.
Lod and Tarkal, for their part, whooped in exultation as the raft plunged through treacherous turbulence and hissing chutes where water exploded into spray. The raft rocked, kicked, bucked, whirled round and lurched in a sickening fashion.
Wave after wave of cold water swept over the pas- sengers. Sarazin — cold, cold! — shivered and shivered. Wondering if he would die of exposure before they ever reached the Gates. Then the raft nosed into the water and Sean Sarazin was lifted up and carried away entirely. He tried to scream. Gagged, he could not. Then an agonising pain tore at his scalp.
'Got you!' cried Tarkal, hauling Sarazin back on to the raft. Then, leaning close to Sarazin, the Slavemaster said: 'You don't get away that easily. Oh no. For you're very special to me, oh yes, as special to me as Douay.'
Then Tarkal kissed Sarazin on the forehead, gently, gently. Drawing blood was a pleasure reserved for the future.
'Gates ahead!' cried Lod.
Sarazin thought:
—Already?
But of course. For the horseracing river trifled with distances which meant dawn-to-dusk labour for a man slogging along with a heavily laden pack.
He closed his eyes as the raft ploughed down one last water-slope. The raft rocked and bucked as they churned through the final rapids. Then Tarkal screamed in triumph, and Sarazin knew they were out of the Gates.
Or almost.
He opened his eyes. Saw rock-snap spray, a water-splintered sun, and something out of nightmare swooping towards them. Something human screamed as wing-claws snatched it. Tarkal, screaming and swearing, drew his sword. The weapon went spinning as something whipped him away into the water.
Lod drew his own blade — then thought better of it, and dived into the water.
'Kill the prisoner,' said one of Tarkal's surviving men.
A subordinate drew steel, loomed above Sarazin. Who gazed upwards, eyes bulging in terror. And saw the sky shudder to shadow, saw his assailant's body ripped to the sky.
—Neversh.
The thought was a scream.
And screams audible split the sky as another man was torn away. A scythe-sweeping tail slashed across the raft, mowing down the survivors. Sarazin closed his eyes.
Then opened them. For:
—This is the last of life.
He did not choose to die in self-made darkness.
So he gazed open-eyed at the scene. The Neversh in the sky, two of them. No, three. Four! Five! A full five of the monsters, nightmarish creatures of the Swarms, enormous brutes flailing through the air in front of the Gates of Chenameg, attacking the slow and the foolish with feeding spikes, grapple-hooks and clawed feet, sweeping and slashing with whiplash tails which could kill a horse or break a man in half.
From the battlements of Douay's fortress at the Gates of Chenameg, crossbowers unleashed their bolts, shooting at the low-flying monsters. One floundered, sank low, then struggled for height and flew out of Sarazin's field of vision.
He bit ferociously at the gag in his mouth. He needed his voice, his voice! To scream for help. All it needed was one person to dare the river and tow his raft to safety. But it was not to be, for the gag held. And if the defenders of the Gates looked at the raft, doubtless they saw but a scattering of corpses aboard — nothing worth swimming for when the Neversh were in the skies. —Tarkal lived.
So thought Sarazin, bitterly. He was almost certain the Slavemaster had been knocked overboard by the same blow from the tail of a Neversh which had sent his sword spinning away.
—Lod too. So who's dead?
Glambrax was dead. That was for certain. Sarazin could see the dwarf lying beneath a man's corpse, blood guttering from a bloody headwound. Three dead soldiers were aboard the raft. The head of one had been smashed to pulp by a whiplash from a monster's tail.
—Gods.
The Gates of Chenameg were already receding into the distance. Sarazin looked left, looked right, scanned the banks for signs of human life. He saw baskets of abandoned laundry, unattended fishing rods, and cooking fires burning without human supervision. Most people had fled — and those who had not were lying as if dead, hoping to escape the attentions of the Neversh.
A little further downriver, the raft drifted past a huge stockade of earth, logs and stones, a fortress raised by a company of men who hunted creatures of the Swarms for a living. As the raft went by, the shadow of a Neversh flickered overhead. And nobody within the stockade even thought of risking life and limb to retrieve that piece of river-refuse.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
A corpse-laden raft drifted down the Velvet River. Strong and steady ran the river. Not at the horsepanic pace of the Manaray Gorge, to be sure — but the river never paused, never rested. A man could outrun it or, indeed, outmarch it — but only briefly. Nobody could have matched the river's pace for a daylength journey.
Noon came, then night. Then dawn. Then noon again. From the Gates of Chenameg to the city of Shin was, by river, a matter of about a hundred leagues, and, shortly after noon, the raft drifted past the ruins of that city.
Briefly, it grounded on the shore. Then the current eased it away, and it floated downstream, towards the west. Sarazin by then was in agony, for, quite apart from the tortures of thirst, his hogtied body was wracked by cramps.
There was no escape, for he had been tied up by experts. What was more frustrating than anything was the thought of his magic candle, still safe in one of his pockets. His enemies had not recognised it as the magical treasure it was, once a much-valued possession of a wizard. But it was useless to him, for he could not get to it.
—And I had it all figured out.
Tarkal was a fool, and he had been tricked so easily, conned into taking them back to Drake Douay. By rights, Tarkal should now be dead, and Sarazin should be on his way to becoming Slavemaster. But, as it was, Tarkal was probably drinking up large and listening to Douay entertaining his guests on the skavamareen — while Sean Sarazin was doomed on this downriver journey.
Which, in all probability, would terminate in his death.
On floated the raft, into night.
Into nightmare.
It was fifty leagues from Shin to the border between Chenameg and the Harvest Plains. And, while dawn was pinking the sky, the raft slipped across that border. There was no more forest to left or to right, only the flatlands of the plains. The river grew wider, slower, more leisurely.
And Glambrax stirred.
Raised his bloodstained head, vomited violently — then collapsed agai
n.
—Come on, you gutless dwarf!
So screamed Sarazin. But this experiment in telepathy proved fruitless, for Glambrax had not stirred again by noon. Then the raft drifted through a breach in one of the dams which had once tamed the Velvet River for irrigation.
At some time in the past, heroes had breached that dam, thinking to save their land from the advance of the Swarms. But a smooth grey bridge — manufactured by those monsters — now spanned the gap. On that bridge stood a keflo, a low-slung monster. Silent. Unmoving. Statuesque.
Sarazin lay very still, staring at it.
And Glambrax groaned.
—Quiet! Quiet!
Perhaps telepathy worked on this occasion, for the dwarf relapsed into silence again. It was not until noon that Glambrax finally crawled towards Sarazin and, after a struggle, released his gag. Then began to feed him water.
Releasing the ropes was a slow business, which took the weakened dwarf till midnight. But it was done. So, when dawn came, both were free — but neither was good for anything. It was not until the next day that they managed to push the corpses overboard.
On floated the raft. Much of the time Sarazin lay sleeping, dreaming of winter snow on the heights of the Ashun mountains, of voices far distant in time and space. He would wake now and then to a bloodstained raft stinking of offal and vomit, to the steelbright sun glittering on the riverflow.
Overhead, the shadows of vultures.
The riverbanks were empty. No monsters. The monsters of the Swarms were, doubtless, on the fringes of the occu- pied territories, hunting out humans, killing, slaughtering, ravaging. Here, in the heartland of the new dominions of the Swarms, Sarazin was safe, for the moment.