by Hugh Cook
"Try it," said Nol.
"I have spoken," said Jarl, speaking with the finality of a rune-warrior standing in defiance to a dragon.
"It is but a trifle," said Nol, coaxing Jarl with the wheedling cajolery with which a nursemaid seeks to subvert the will of a bad-tempered baby. "A trifle if you can do it, but a world of significance if you cannot. Come, man! I've done as much myself! Zozimus! Sken-Pitilkin! Will you set examples?"
First Zozimus did, then Sken-Pitilkin, and both succeeded in walking heel to toe, first forwards then backwards. At last, succumbing to sweet persuasion, Thodric Jarl consented to essay this simplicity. He failed. His feet were simply not sufficiently coordinated, and those feet disobeyed him as if he were drunk.
"You see," said Nol. "You cannot walk a straight line. That, my friend, is a sure sign of the swelling of the brain. The swelling is consequent upon rapid ascent to great altitude, and you must descend to cure it, or reconcile yourself to your death."
"My stumbling feet are a sure sign that I'm drunk," said Jarl. "Or that I'm poisoned."
As Jarl had not recently been drinking to any great extent, he was inclined to suspect poison.
Thodric Jarl's suspicion was natural, for Jarl was of the
Rovac, and so since earliest childhood had nourished a fearful suspicion of wizards. Furthermore, when Jarl thought of death he most naturally thought of poison. For, though the Rovac have a great reputation as sword-slaughters, poison is ever one of their favorite instruments of murder. It is used in particular by the
Rovac womenfolk, who typically prefer the swift simplicities of poison to the intricate longeurs of divorce proceedings. But, though it is the women who have the true mastery of the art, the men will not flinch from such expedients when the spirit moves them.
"Hush down," said Zelafona, as Jarl began to launch himself into accusations of conspiracy and of general poisoning.
Then the wise witch Zelafona took Guest Gulkan and Thodric Jarl aside and advised them to place their trust in Ontario Nol.
"If he was going to kill us," said Zelafona, "he'd have poisoned the lot of us at dinner time."
"Haven't you got the message?" said Jarl. "I think that's exactly what he did. Either he's poisoned us, or else he's going to ambush us."
"If poison," said Zelafona, "then it's surely a slow poison, for as yet we're all alert. Since wizards have no love for witches, I'd be as likely a victim of any such poison as you are.
Let us then watch our own condition, and gather for a lethal decision should that communal condition deteriorate. As for ambush – why, let Guest walk with Nol to kill the wizard if we spring an ambush."
Thus it was agreed – though at first it was quite impossible for Guest to be spared from the labor of supporting the burden of the unconscious Rolf Thelemite.
But, after a long and steeply downhill walk, Rolf Thelemite came to, emerging groggily from the depths of his unconsciousness.
Shortly, Rolf found himself able to stumble downhill under his own steam. Thereafter, Guest kept close to the wizard Ontario Nol.
Naturally, the two fell into conversation, and Guest found himself telling Nol much about Gendormargensis, about the imperial family, and about his brothers Morsh Bataar and Eljuk Zala.
"My father has written to me not at all," said Guest, making no effort to conceal his resentment at his father's neglect, "but Bao Gahai has pestered me with letters as often as once every three months. She says that Morsh has taken to swimming, though I think it perilous strange for a man to play fish."
"A leg as badly broken as his will be slow in the cure," said Ontario Nol. "So swimming may help."
"But he's walking!" said Guest. "He's riding! The bone is fixed!"
"The bone may be fixed," said Nol, "but the muscle may be badly wasted."
"But," protested Guest, "we're talking ancient history! It's spring. Go back through winter, autumn, summer. Go back a year! A year ago I had a letter from Bao Gahai, she said him walking.
Walking, yes, and riding. A year, man!"
"So his cure may be close to completeness," conceded Nol.
"But even so, you should not sneer at his swimming, for swimming is a very healthful exercise."
"I thought you of the Yarglat!" said Guest in astonishment.
"Yet you think a man should be fish!"
"I am true to my heritage," said the Yarglat-born wizard of Itch. "I have not denied it. I have merely broadened it. But, anyway – enough of your brothers. Tell me of Locontareth. There was mention made of a tax revolt."
So the subject of Morsh Bataar's broken leg and his slow recovery from the same was dropped, and Guest launched himself on the tale of the tax revolt in Locontareth, or what he knew of it – the revolt said to be led by an insurrectionist by the name of Sham Cham.
As Guest was deep in conversation, the path passed beneath great rocks, and in the shadow of those rocks the path suddenly crumbled beneath Guest's feet. Guest slipped – with a cry.
And Nol grabbed him.
Ontario Nol grabbed Guest Gulkan, fingers gripping the boy's arm like a set of pliars.
"Careful," said Nol, hauling Guest back from the brink of destruction. "Steady yourself. There now. Are you all right?"
"Yes," said Guest.
Who was shaken by the strength of the old man, by the walnutcrunching power of those fingers. He was reminded of dim legends concerning mighty masters of combat who were said to live in the mountains. (Which mountains? The legends were never specific, but mountains like these looked near enough to the stuff of legends as far as Guest was concerned). Those combat masters were said to be able to perform prodigious feats. To kill without touching. To kill with a shout. To crush stones. To tear the heart from the flesh without benefit of steel.
"Have you lived in the mountains long?" said Guest.
"Oh, long indeed," said Ontario Nol. "I know this path well.
It gets easier from here on."
And so it did, and it had become wide, flat and stable by the time dawn brought them a sharp-edged breeze to brisk away the stillness of the night, and brought them too to a village, a place of drystone buildings roofed with slate, a place where people came out and greeted them.
"Do you rule the entire valley?" said Guest, as the people gathered around them.
"No," said Nol. "I thought I told you of that earlier. King Igpatan rules the lower reaches of the valley."
"I have never heard of this king," said Guest, uncertain in his weariness as to whether Nol had in fact earlier explicated the nature of the king. "How great are his realms?"
"They are of no great extent," said Nol. "For King Igpatan rules over no greater distance than one could comfortably walk between sunrise and sunset. But – come now! This is no time for geopolitical discussion. This is time for breakfast!"Guest was surprised to learn that he had been engaged in geopolitical discussion, because he had merely thought himself to be asking a couple of very obvious questions. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to be led big stone table set outdoors in the morning sun. Placed around that table were three-legged stools in numbers sufficient for the seating of Nol's company, and waiting on that table were finger-bowls of warm water fragrant with bruised mint, and plates heaped with eggs, with hot chicken-meat, with potatoes, with soy beans, with dried fish and with roasted frogs.
"Magnificent!" said Jarl. Then, turning to Nol: "But perhaps the feast could be improved by the butchery of one of your villagers."
During the descent, Thodric Jarl's headache had diminished away to nothing. His broken ribs still gave him pain, but his morale had perked up amazingly, to the point where he had almost become a welcome traveling companion – and let the mention of this fact be taken as a clear proof of the objective clarity of this history, which makes no idle propaganda against the Rovac, but simply records the facts as they happened.
"An excellent suggestion, friend Rovac!" said Nol, taking Jarl's jest in the spirit in which it was meant. "But things grow slow
in the mountains, so each of these villagers has taken a thousand years to grow meat sufficient for a cannibal feast. That being so, we cannot waste them casually, but must content ourselves with chickens."
"That contentment will be more than sufficient," said the elf-armored Pelagius Zozimus, surveying the feast with a professional eye, and asking himself fresh questions as to timing.
How had such a formidable meal been prepared at such short notice? One thing is for certain: a village of such manifest poverty never killed chickens except for the most especial occasions. It has been Written that wizards of Itch can build bells which can be rung thereafter from a distance of several leagues. So perhaps Nol had covertly used such a bell to signal the approach of himself and his guests; though, as Sken-Pitilkin and Zozimus were both exhausted, neither asked him about this, and neither thought to ask of it thereafter. Instead, they sat themselves down and set themselves to eat.
Over breakfast, Ontario Nol discussed in detail and depth the problems which Lord Onosh had experienced in collecting taxes from Locontareth, and suggested that the Witchlord Onosh was experiencing such difficulties because the people of that city and region derived no benefit from the taxes.
"You must give them something back," said Nol, "just as a farmer gives back something to his fields when he plows manure into the soil."
"I don't think they'd thank us for dumping them in manure," said Guest, meaning the revolutionaries of Locontareth.
"No, no," said Nol. "You misunderstand me."
Then Nol explained the matter all over again, in depth and in detail, though Sken-Pitilkin could have told him that the effort was futile.
"Well," said Guest, when he thought he understood as much of this theory as he was ever going to understand, "that's very nice of you, I mean, the ideas and all, and, ah, hospitality. Maybe my father can thank you for helping us."
"I need no thanks from your father," said Nol. "You yourself can help me."
"How?" said Guest.
"By sending me your brother."
"Morsh?" said Guest, remembering their conversation about Morsh Bataar's recently acquired habit of swimming. "You want Morsh? What on earth for? To teach you the art of the fish, is it?"
"It's not Morsh Bataar that I want," said Nol. "I want the other one. Eljuk Zala."
"But what would you want him for?" said Guest, who lacked the wit to guess.
"Eljuk will know," said Nol. "If he matches your description of him, he'll know immediately. Bring him to me!"
"Well, I would," said Guest, not particularly caring whether Ontario Nol wanted his brother for purposes of buggery or as sacrificial banquet-meat. "But it's a bit difficult. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, you can have him. But my father wouldn't like the idea at all. Eljuk's the imperial heir, that's his business, he's supposed to inherit."
"Put it to your father," said Nol. "Speak to Eljuk, then to your father, then tell me what the pair of them decide."
And, once Guest Gulkan had agreed to do that, Ontario Nol began to discuss the route which would allow Guest and his fellow air adventurers to exchange the unfamiliar dangers of the valley of Ul-donlok for the comforting certainties of the Collosnon Empire and its large-looming civil war.
Chapter Twelve
Yolantarath River: river which runs south-south-east from Gendormargensis to Locontareth by way of Babaroth. After passing Locontareth the river tends toward the north-east, and eventually the leisure of its flatland wending brings it to the seaport of Stranagor and the chilly waters of the Hauma Sea.
Ontario Nol cautioned the air-wrecked adventurers not to venture through the realms of King Igpatan, since that monarch was of a very uncertain temper, and often celebrated his birthday by torturing to death a randomly-chosen stranger. As King Igpatan honored each of his fifty previous incarnations with a separate birthday, his kingdom was not an attractive tourist destination.
The dwarf Glambrax suggested that they fly out. Rolf Thelemite professed himself game for such an adventure – though his lower lip trembled and his gold-snake earring shook as he said it – but all the others denounced the proposition.
"I'd sooner swim through pigshit," said Thodric Jarl, "or drink my way through a world of menstruation."
"And I," said Guest, "I'd sooner be dorked by an iceman or kissed by a dwarf."
So spoke the Weaponmaster, then had to fight off a vigorous attack from a kiss-inclined Glambrax.
The key to any further air adventures was of course Sken-Pitilkin: and he declared himself strenuously opposed to the construction of any more airships. He was still having nightmares about the journey which had seen them slammed from Ema-Urk to the heights of Ibsen-Iktus, and was in no hurry to risk his life again in such folly.
Accordingly, when a vote was taken – Sken-Pitilkin being so opposed to the construction of an airship that he gladly joined in this piratical Rovac-favored form of decision-making by brute force of numbers, since he was sure it would give him the answer he wanted – all were in favor of exiting from Ul-donlok by venturing over the mountains. The decision was unanimous, Thodric Jarl having used a few words of threat to talk Rolf Thelemite out of his airbent-folly.
Unanimous? Well, almost. To be precise, there was one abstention, for Glambrax abstained on account of the fact that Guest was sitting on him when the vote was taken.
So it was that weight of numbers carried the day, and it cannot be denied that at least on this occasion the decision thus arrived at represented the full force of wisdom.
After the air adventurers had spent a full fourteen days resting and acclimatizing, first at the village and then at Qonsajara itself, Ontario Nol pronounced them fit to proceed. The venerable wizard of Itch chose to personally guide the travelers through the mountains. He saw to their provisioning, procured them three mules, and dosed Thodric Jarl with a potent medicine which suppressed the pain of his bone-breakages and thus enabled him to tackle the trek.
The medicine given to Jarl also had the effect of reducing him to a stuporous zombie-like condition in which he heard little, saw less, and lacked the intellectual agility to wonder at his own diminished mental competence. Thus did Ontario Nol insure himself against attempted murder.
Protected by such insurance, Nol led the air adventurers from the monastery of Qonsajara, and guided them to the high pass of Zomara at the western end of the valley of Ul-donlok.
"Gods!" said Glambrax, as they labored toward the heights of that high pass, "I'd want my own weight in gold before I'd chance this climb again!"
Such were the rigors of the journey that none of his companions picked up the conversational opening, and all the obvious sallies about the height, weight and worth of a dwarf's chancing and climbing went unsaid.
Truly, it was a brutal ascent.
It was cold upon the heights, and no living thing grew there saving the blue-green lichen. The touch of the wind was a razor and the sun a laceration to the eyes. Upon the heights, Guest Gulkan found his head reeling as if he were drunk; and several times the Weaponmaster stumbled and almost fell as he descended with his companions to the valley of Yox.
As for Thodric Jarl, why, he in his drugged condition was so helpless that he had to be roped between Rolf Thelemite and the dwarf Glambrax; and he was so dead to the world that he was quite oblivious to the donkey-jokes which the wizards made at his expense. For, regardless of the demands of the journey, the drug- disabled Thodric Jarl was too rich a target to neglect.
"A very pet lamb in his feebleness," observed Ontario Nol, with the greatest of satisfaction.
And Sken-Pitilkin said -
But let us not record here the delicious witticisms which were ventured by the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin, for the Rovac have cause for rage sufficient already, and there is no point in nourishing that breed of pirates fresh with excuse for murder.
So the aeronauts crossed the high pass and headed downward into the next valley. The descent was short, for the valley of Yox was higher still than Ul-donlok. Y
ox was a desolation of icelocked frigidity where snow still lay on the ground. Its heart was a long and narrow iceblock lake which looked as if it would not unfreeze until the sun grew old and swallowed the very planet in the swollen bloating of its heatstroke age.
At the valley's north-eastern end was the high pass known as Volvo Marp. Fortunately, Volvo Marp was marginally lower than Zomara Pass, and the travelers crossed it with comparative ease.
As the air adventurers were about to commence their descent – which would take them beneath the ominous threat of a prodigious overhang of unstable ice and rock – Ontario Nol bade them farewell. The venerable wizard of Itch took one mule to carry his own supplies on the return trip, but left the air adventurers with the other two animals; and left, also, the pain-medicine with Thodric Jarl.
Thus left to their own devices, the aeronauts descended. Guest Gulkan endured more than a few twinges of suspicion as he dared himself beneath the unavoidable overhang, for conceivably Nol could use some power of his to precipitate that overhang into an enormous avalanche, and Guest half-feared him capable of such betrayal.
However, adventurers descended safely, won their way clear of the last of the snow and the ice, then began the sweaty, unromantic labor of making their way through the steep-cut hills to the Yolantarath riverplain.
On that journey, the pain-killing medicine carried for the feeding of Thodric Jarl at last ran out; and the Rovac warrior recovered both wit and competence, which was by no means an improvement, for he regained his narrow paranoia along with his intellectual agility. Glambrax swore that Jarl, fearful of the pickpocketing abilities of wizards, was at pains to count his own testicles every time he went for a piss.
Paranoia notwithstanding, Jarl kept his temper in check; for the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin enjoyed the protection of the Witchlord Onosh, and Thodric Jarl was solemnly sworn to the Witchlord's service. Hence Zozimus and Sken-Pitilkin, unlike the almost-murdered Ontario Nol, enjoyed the protection of a privileged position, and were theoretically safe from the murder which dwelt impatiently within the Rovac warrior's blade.