ADVANCED SEARCH  

Support WWEnd

WWEnd Blog

WWEnd BookTrackr™

Synopsis

This massive novel of 57 chapters and about 250,000 words is the story of a barbarian named Guest Gulkan. He, the self-styled Weaponmaster, is the son of an emperor known as the Witchlord. The story concerns, amongst other things, the struggle for the control of the empire, and the sweep of the action encompasses battles, wars, the invention of air travel and the first-ever airwreck. (Actually, to use the parlance of the wizard Sken-Pitilkin, they didn't get air-wrecked. Rather, they crashed.)

Before Guest is done, he had learnt an enormous amount about geography by fighting battles on various bits and pieces of it, by adventuring through it and by being airwrecked on it. He survives a duel in Enskandalon Square, sword against sword in fair combat against the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl, and survives, also, an encounter with the Great Mink.

Survival is not painless, as the following excerpt suggests:

"For Guest Gulkan, arms and legs both shredded by the mauling strength of the Great Mink, there was no blessed darkness."

Will Guest Gulkan survive being savaged by the Great Mink? And how will he fare against the quokka when he eventually encounters it in the Stench Caves of Logthok Norgos? The key issue in politics, as one of the wise has said, is "who whom". That is, who has the power to do what to whom? When Guess Gulkan comes face-to-face with the quokka, who will be hung and who will do the hanging? And who, ultimately, will rule the empire?

In this sprawling saga, a tale of combat, torture, power struggles and (on occasion) encounters with the irregular verbs (and more, much, much more) the tale of Guest Gulkan unfolds in a self-contained novel which is complete in itself. No prior knowledge of Guest Gulkan or his world is required. Eat well, pack lightly, make sure your boots have plenty of road-wear left in them, then begin, if you dare, this, the ultimate saga adventure.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Name: Onosh Gulkan
Birthplace: Hum.
Occupation: emperor.
Status: absolute ruler of the Collosnon Empire.
Description: hairy male of Yarglat race, age 43, slanting forehead gouged by thumb-fat depressions running from hairline to eyebrows, hair and eyes both black, height 14 qua, cheekbones high, ears immense, multiple scars on left leg and torso.
Hobby: hunting.
Quote: "The hunt is the ultimate answer to acedia."

* * *

The Witchlord's sons were three in number, and Sken-Pitilkin was lecturing all three when the Witchlord himself intruded on their lesson. Sken-Pitilkin resented the intrusion - and resented it all the more when he noticed the Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite and the dwarf Glambrax lurking behind the Witchlord. Sken-Pitilkin was ever at pains to keep that pair of troublemakers out of his classroom, for such adulthood in combination with boyhood made a vicious combination.

"Eljuk, my son!" said Lord Onosh. "You've been drinking!"

An ugly jest, this.

For Eljuk had not been drinking at all. Rather, the boy's life was blighted by a cruel birthmark. It stained his lips with purple, and further purple dribbled from the corners of his lips, splattering down his chin in two separate winespills which thickened to a merging at the neck.

Here, at the outset, we see the flaw which doomed Lord Onosh to destruction. The Witchlord Onosh had been at odds with the world for so long that he had quite lost the art of showing the world kindness and affection. Though Eljuk Zala was the Witchlord's valued favorite, even Eljuk suffered a dozen slights a day from his father's tongue.

Actually, it was Eljuk's younger brother Guest who had been drinking, and who was subdued as a consequence of his hangover. At this time, Guest was 14, Eljuk 16, and Morsh Bataar (the eldest) a full 18 years of age. But though Guest was the baby, it was Guest who played the man to the very hilt, and often suffered as a consequence.

Before knowing young Guest, the wizard Sken-Pitilkin had never approved of hangovers; but close acquaintance with the boy had led him to concede that a hangover has many advantages. For it slows speech, subdues energy, abolishes wit, and makes the afflicted individual less likely to respond to the irregular verbs with acts of verbal dissidence or outright violence.

The wizard Sken-Pitilkin had been taking advantage of Guest's hangover to cram some of the more irregular verbs into the boy's head, and had been thus involved when Lord Onosh had interrupted the lesson, remarking (as has been stated above):-

"Eljuk, my son! You've been drinking!"

"Yes, father," said Eljuk. "But Guest is bearing my hangover for me."

At this the Witchlord laughed - not out of good humor but out of habit. For this joke had often been exchanged between father and son, though a thousand exchanges had failed to make Lord Onosh see that Eljuk found his part in the transaction to be painful.

"Regardless of who has been drinking," said Sken-Pitilkin acidly, "we have all been studying. We have been studying the irregular verbs."

The eminent Sken-Pitilkin was dropping a heavy hint, a hint which was meant to suggest to the Witchlord Onosh that he should absent himself from the room lest he further interfere with the lesson.

"Verbs!" said the Witchlord. "And what then is a verb? A hook for a rat or a knife for a cat? Enough of your verbs, my good fellow! Lessons are over for the day, so - boys, make ready! We're going hunting."

"Hunting?" said Morsh, absorbing that datum with his customary slowness.

"Precisely," said the Witchlord, with crisp directness.

"But, father," said Eljuk Zala, who was the only one who had license to question the emperor's decisions, "it is late in the season."

"Last chance weather, true," agreed Lord Onosh, "so we must take our chances while we have them. Remember, boys: the hunt is the ultimate answer to acedia."

That the emperor said often, it being one of his pet sayings. Having discharged himself of that expression, he about-faced and departed, so sure in his power that he saw no need to linger to chivvy his boys into action. Unfortunately, when the Witchlord departed, he did not take with him either the Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite or the dwarf Glambrax, and that pair of delinquents promptly infiltrated Sken-Pitilkin's classroom.

"So who is Acedia?" said Guest Gulkan, when his father was barely out of earshot. "That's what I can never work out."

"She's a whore," said Rolf Thelemite, the Rovac warrior who ever bodyguarded Guest Gulkan, more to protect the world from the boy's temper than to protect the boy from the world. "She's your father's secret whore, but she nags him stupid, so he runs for the hills at every opportunity."

"She's no whore," said Morsh Bataar, who was sitting in a corner with a heap of half-assembled fishing flies at his feet. "She's the pastry cook who has the man in fat. He hunts when the only choice otherwise is to diet."

"Acedia," said the wizard Sken-Pitilkin, "is not a woman's name. The word denotes a state of the psyche, and that state - Eljuk Zala, tell us what state the word denotes."

Now Eljuk Zala was by far the mildest, most scholarly and most intelligent of the Witchlord's three sons, and he was fully cognizant of the fact that the word acedia denoted that bleak and aimless inertia which had ever blighted the Witchlord's life since the death of his wife. But Eljuk Zala had already been too bright and too right far too often that day, and knew that if he came up with the right answer just one more time then his brother Guest would surely make him suffer for it, and probably sooner rather than later. So Eljuk answered:

"Anger. That's what it means. Acedia means anger."

"It means no such thing," said Sken-Pitilkin, with intense irritation.

Then he lectured the unfortunate Eljuk at length on the meaning of acedia and the derelictions of Eljuk's scholarship.

Sken-Pitilkin's irritation was by no means feigned, for he often felt it an intense strain to have three Yarglat boys under his tutorship. Indeed, the wizard of Drum found all his contacts with the Yarglat stressful, for the Yarglat were not, on the whole, an intellectual people, and there were precious few dictionaries in their kennels or encampments.

"Well," said Guest Gulkan, when Sken-Pitilkin was done with berating his brother, "if you're through with lecturing, we've got to get ready for hunting. You're coming with us, I suppose?"

"Me?" said Sken-Pitilkin. "Hunt? Not for all the tea in Chay! You wouldn't get me to a hunt unless I was tied to a horse and dragged."

"I'll see if I can find a spare horse, then," said Glambrax, Guest Gulkan's pet dwarf.

The dwarf was already dancing out of the room as he delivered himself of that smartcrack, hence escaped before Sken-Pitilkin could catch him a whack with the country crook ever kept ready for the disciplining of the mannikin and his master.

So it was that Glambrax again escaped punishment; and Lord Onosh and his sons readied themselves for the folly of the hunt, while the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin drew up a schedule of self-improvement which was calculated to see him attain mastery of the Geltic verbs jop, chilibisk and dileem, all of which had won a place for themselves in Strogloth's Compendium of Delights. While Sken-Pitilkin sometimes fell prey to acedia himself, he never sought to address his condition through the hunt, for his standard response to the dulling of the lifeforce was to have recourse to the irregular verbs, ever most marvelously refreshing in their inexhaustible variety.

Sken-Pitilkin was so glad to be rid of his Yarglat charges for a few days that he went to the city gates to see the hunt ride out, just to make certain that Guest Gulkan and his brothers actually did quit the city.

They did.

There rode Guest Gulkan with his bodyguard Rolf Thelemite at his side, both drinking hard and halfway drunk already. Thelemite and his charge had both lashed themselves to their high and stylish lean-back saddles, by this precaution indicating that they planned to be truly stupendously intoxicated before the day was out.

Behind that pair of brawlers rode Eljuk Zala Gulkan. As the anointed heir of the Witchlord Onosh, the winestained Eljuk was properly entitled to ride at the emperor's side. But young Guest was ever jealous of his brother's privileges, wishing the heirship were his own. So, fearing his brother's surly anger, Eljuk hung back out of sight.

Eljuk looked miserably uncomfortable, since his groaning bones were mightily encumbered with amour, weighed down beneath a regular rustyard of iron plates interlaced with chain mail; his head was crowned with a helmet big enough for the boiling of a dog; a sword made for the slaughter of dragons was hauling at his side; and he could scarcely find space to sit in his saddle on account of all the spare amour and weaponry he had attached to it.

A stranger might have thought Eljuk fearful of bandits, but actually it was his dearly beloved brother Guest who stalked his nightmares. Guest had the temperament of a born regicide, patricide, fratricide and all-round homicide. So Eljuk had armored himself, and had armed himself mightily - but the weight of such protection would doom him to heatstroke on a hot day, or to death by suction should he find himself in a swamp, or (should the imperial hunting party encounter a blacksmith with a purse at the ready for the purchase of unwanted iron) to accidental disposal by way of sale.

While Eljuk feared Guest Gulkan, he lived in mortal dread of Rolf Thelemite. Rolf was a Rovac warrior, and the Rovac were a people so bloody in their predilections that the most ferocious of Yarglat barbarians was a cat-stroking pacifist by comparison. If Rolf Thelemite's account was to be believed (and Eljuk never doubted a word of it) then Rolf had personally slaughtered down three emperors, seven kings, nine dragons, eleven wizards, a neversh, a troll, five orcs, and thirty dozen assorted warriors and assassins.

Sken-Pitilkin personally thought this a mighty great amount for Rolf to have accomplished, seeing that he was barely 18 years of age, and had spent a full two of those brief years of his in Gendormargensis. But Eljuk took Rolf's every word to heart. Eljuk believed Rolf Thelemite when that Rovac warrior claimed that the golden serpent which he wore as an earring was a trophy which Rolf had torn from the head of the mighty Baron Farouk of Hexagon when that warlord had led an army of a million men against the city of Chi'ash-lan. Rolf said, further, that the intermittent and involuntary trembling of his lower lip was a consequence of flame-damage inflicted by a dragon, and that his habit of blinking quickly (as if he had grit in his eyes) was due to the effort of fighting off a sleeping spell which had been inflicted upon him by a wizard of Ebber.

Often, Rolf Thelemite described the gruesome death which he himself had inflicted upon that spell-casting wizard, and in his every description of that death he never neglected to leave out small but telling details, such as the succulent taste of the wizard's kidneys, or the manner in which a pariah dog had made off with the wizard's kidneys before Rolf could taste them also.

For his part, Guest Gulkan sometimes hinted to his brother Eljuk that he was taking practical lessons in cannibalism from his mercenary acquaintance.

Eljuk had once pleaded with his father to exile both Rolf Thelemite and Guest Gulkan, fearing that the pair of them would conspire together to encompass his murder. But the Witchlord had merely laughed.

Of course the Witchlord Onosh was no fool. Lord Onosh was ever conscious of Guest Gulkan's bloody temper and of his monstrous ambition. Which was why (unbeknownst to the world at large), Lord Onosh had bound Rolf Thelemite to the protection of both emperor and imperial heir; and (in equal secrecy) had further charged Morsh Bataar with the duty of bodyguarding Eljuk Zala.

Had Morsh Bataar's secret mission become public knowledge, it would have occasioned incredulous laughter from all and sundry, for it was generally believed that Morsh Bataar had been blighted by a dralkosh while still in his mother's womb.

It was said in Gendormargensis that Morsh Bataar was painfully slow of intellect, and this was the case. But while he was thick of voice and slow of mind, success seldom eluded him when he went to work on a problem. True, he was judicious in his choice of problems, for he was possessed of an uncommon degree of self-knowledge, and knew his limitations well.

Nevertheless -

Amongst those who are possessed of genius, there sometimes arises the conceit that genius is all. But for the practical purposes of life, there are other qualities of equal importance, and prime amongst them are patience, persistence, reliability and a sense of proportion, all of which Morsh Bataar possessed in good measure. These traits had helped make Morsh a master of the bow, which weapon he carried with him always, and practiced with on a daily basis.

In his intellect, Morsh Bataar might reasonably be likened to the snail. This most practical of beasts cannot dare to the heights of the eagle or challenge the hare in the sprint; but, given time, it will make its way over any obstacle, not excepting broken glass and razor blades.

Morsh was also uncommonly stable of temperament. He lived free of the black humors which afflicted Lord Onosh; free of the night terrors and daylight nervousness which unsettled Eljuk Zala; and free also of the drastic flux of anger and impulse which made his brother Guest such a trial to his elders.

In the capacity of bodyguard, Morsh Bataar rode behind the over-armored Eljuk Zala. Apart from his bow and a telescopic bamboo fishing rod, Morsh carried no weapons of note, believing Eljuk to be in possession of more than enough steel for the pair of them. Nor did Morsh bother himself with any nonsense of amour, for he thought the weather to be more of a threat to life than any rabble of bandits who might be encountered in the mountains.

Morsh Bataar was officially assigned to Eljuk Zala as a servant, and in truth he looked every bit the nondescript menial, since his burly body was hidden beneath layers of second-hand furs and his face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat the color of filth, a hat pierced by a full three dozen fancy fishing flies. He was mounted humbly on a shag pony, with a burdened baggage animal of like breed trailing behind him, and a spare mount bringing up the rear.

Behind this beggarly figure there rode a great and glorious warrior, the glitter of the sun sheening and shining on his amour and a falcon leashed and hooded on his gauntleted left wrist. This was Pelagius Zozimus, the emperor's master chef, who spied Sken Pitilkin standing by the gate.

"Ho! Cousin!" cried Zozimus, leaning down from the height of his horse. "You're not hunting with us?"

"Get down from that horse, you old fool," said Sken-Pitilkin. "You're a thousand years too old for such nonsense."

But Zozimus merely laughed at this accusation. The wizardly master chef was dressed for the hunt in glittering fish-scale amour which had been in his possession for the better part of a millennium; he was helmeted with silver and gold; he wore at his side a blade of Stokos steel which was sheathed in a scabbard bright with jade and opals; and he looked in his glory like one of the elven lords of legend come to life.

"You'll break a leg!" cried Sken-Pitilkin.

But Zozimus laughed again, and rode on, and after him came a considerable cavalcade, for the emperor was not going to the hunting grounds alone. A great host they were, and they racketed out of the city like a rabble of commoners hustling along to a lynching. They cursed, laughed, joked and gossiped in as many as a dozen different tongues, most commonly Ordhar - the simplified command language with which the Yarglat dominated their subject peoples - and the native Eparget of the Yarglat's northern homelands.

Thus the Witchlord Onosh rode forth from the city of Gendormargensis to go hunting in the hills. And, as has been indicated above, his entourage consisted of rather more people than the few individuals who have so far been mentioned by name. An emperor does not groom his own horse or dig his own dungpit. Nor does he clean his own boots - or, for that matter, his own fingernails. So when Lord Onosh went hunting, he customarily took with him half a thousand assorted shamans, slaves, servants, warriors, counselors, cooks, concubines, magicians, astrologers, winemasters, poets, painters, bootmakers and button-painters.

Nevertheless, the imperial hunting party was nothing like one of those shambling circuses which traipse around behind the effete lords of the debauched and dissolute south. Even in his days of triumph, Lord Onosh never forgot that he was of the Yarglat, a people who conquered by horsepower, who ruled by horsepower, and who must trust to their horsepower to survive if the fates ever turned against them.

All who went with the emperor could ride hard and long when the day demanded it; and so, despite its complement of concubines and bootmakers, the hunting party rode east from Gendormargensis like the advance guard of a wind-riding army. Swiftly the hunt campaigned deep into the mountain wilds, disregarding the lateness of the year and the inclemency of the weather.

When Lord Onosh had won the rule of the Collosnon Empire (something he had done by adroitly masterminding a potent combination of witchcraft, conspiracy and murder) he had made Gendormargensis his capital, as had all the rulers of the empire before him. The city commanded the strategic gap between the Sarapine Ranges and the Balardade Massif, and hence was ideally placed to control all intercourse between the eastern hill country and the widespreading western flatlands dominated by the Yolantarath River.

Since no wild animal of any consequence had been seen anywhere near Gendormargensis for a generation or more, when Lord Onosh went hunting he necessarily rode into the mountains in pursuit of bandits.

The lord of the Collosnon Empire had sported after bandits so often that very few were left; indeed, such two-legged prey were so scarce that one wit had lightly proposed that they be declared a protected species. But Lord Onosh persisted in hunting to the highground to capture and to kill, seeking the last of the lawless in their mountain retreats.

On this occasion, the emperor hunted for a full ten days without success, until at last his party surprised a bandit encampment. There bandits they fought and bandits they killed, though some of the lawless escaped from this first attack.

The first attack was led by Thodric Jarl, the gray-bearded uitlander who was renowned as the mightiest of the Witchlord's warriors. In that autumn, the autumn of the year Alliance 4305, Thodric Jarl was only 24 years of age, yet he was as gray as gnarled death and as cold in his killing as icelock rapture or midwinter famine.

Cleaving the air with bloodstroke upon bloodstroke, Jarl made his bitter steel sing. He hacked the bandit leader down, then claimed for himself the choicest treasure found in the bandit camp - a thing of female gender which named itself Yerzerdayla. The female thing was brought in chains to the imperial battle base, where it was seen by the young Guest Gulkan, the self-styled Weaponmaster, he who at the age of 14 laid claim to a man's estate, though he was still possessed of much of a child's impetuous unreliability. Guest Gulkan stood in his muddy boots, smelling like a slaughterhouse, and gaped at Yerzerdayla. For this captive slave - dressed in silks and chained by jade clasped with silverbright - looked more like an imperial aristocrat than one of common flesh.

"I am in love," said Guest, who was of a certainty in lust.

Such was the first meeting of Guest Gulkan and the elegant Yerzerdayla, she of the blonde body and the perfumed hair.

Then:-

"Who is the woman?" asked Guest.

"She is a thing claimed already by Thodric Jarl," answered Yerzerdayla's keepers.

"Claim he may," said Guest. "But I will have!"

In fact, it would have been politic for Guest Gulkan to lose interest in any flesh owned by any killer as grim and humorless as Thodric Jarl. But Guest, in those days of his ego, felt free to conduct himself like the imperial heir he was not. So he sought out Thodric Jarl, meaning to demand the surrender of the woman Yerzerdayla.

Young Guest found Jarl supervising the forced labors of the surviving male prisoners, who were digging the pits in which they would shortly be buried alive. It was cold, but Jarl was warm in a weather jacket bought from the emperor's league riders - uitlander mercenaries every bit as barbarous as himself. The prisoners were also warm, for under Jarl's surveillance they were digging themselves into a mass of sweat and blisters.

"Ho, Jarl!" said Guest.

"Ho!" said Jarl.

"I'd like a word with you," said Guest.

"Then speak," said Jarl.

So far, so good; for at least they had exchanged several civil words without swapping threats of violence. Given that both were extremely dangerous men - Guest being at that age a danger mostly to himself, whereas Jarl was a menace to other people - that was something to be thankful for.

Now Guest had long been tutored in diplomacy by Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin. The excellent Sken-Pitilkin had introduced Guest to all those notions central to successful negotiation; but Guest was a poor student, and proved it by botching his confrontation with Thodric Jarl.

When Jarl refused to give him the woman, Guest did not offer him horses and hogsheads of wine in return; or let the matter drop for the moment; or take no for an answer. Instead, he began to rant, rage and bluster.

"I am Guest Gulkan, son of Onosh Gulkan and rightful heir to the lands of Tameran," said Guest. "How dare you deny me?"

"I dare deny you," said Thodric Jarl, "for you are no heir to anything but the dung which the dogs have crapped on your mother's grave."

"I'll have your blood for that!" said Guest in fury.

"To have you must take," said Jarl.

"Then take I will!" said Guest, lugging out his sword.

But the sword was only half-lugged when Jarl gave young Guest a push which sent him staggering backwards. Guest found empty air beneath his boot - and fell. The boy Guest fell backwards into a pit which four bandits were excavating. These four exhausted wretches thought Guest had jumped down amongst them with murder his intent. Despairing of life, they nevertheless put up as much of a fight as they could, and Guest was put to the necessity of killing them before he could scramble out of the pit.

As Guest was scrambling, Jarl kicked him under the chin, sending him tumbling backwards onto the cushion of the corpses he had so recently created.

"Nicely timed," said the dwarf Glambrax, who was following this conflict with the interest of a born spectator.

"I've had practice," said Jarl.

"That wasn't fair," said Guest, looking up from the blood and muck at the bottom of the pit.

"Neither is this," said Jarl, picking up a huge rock which required both hands to lift it.

"You wouldn't dare," said Guest, doing his best to sneer at the rock.

Jarl dared.

He hurled the rock down on the hapless Weaponmaster.

Guest screamed. He couldn't help himself! He threw up both hands in a hopeless attempt to protect himself.

The rock smashed into his hands.

And burst into fragments, for in the proof of the impact it proved to be no rock at all, but, rather, a cohesive mass of earth.

As Guest was spitting out bits of earth - he had been screaming as the stuff smashed into his arms, and in consequence had been gifted with a mouthful of the stuff - Thodric Jarl completed his victory by pissing on the unfortunate Weaponmaster.

Thus Guest met Jarl in combat, and was defeated, which was only to be expected. For Jarl was as handy with fist and boot as he was with edged weapons; whereas Guest, though he had long studied the art of the boast under the guidance of Rolf Thelemite, was no match for the professional brutality of Thodric Jarl.

In the disappointment of his defeat, Guest lacked the sense to abandon his woman-quest. Instead, once he had rescued himself from the pit, Guest Gulkan went to his father to demand revenge upon Jarl, and to demand likewise the possession of Yerzerdayla's loins.

The young Weaponmaster discovered Lord Onosh seated outdoors by a roaring bonfire, snugged against the weather in the warm folds of a snow-coat. The emperor was feeding upon a fine wheat loaf which smelt as if it had just been freshly baked, as indeed it had, for the imperial master chef Pelagius Zozimus had been giving a bravura display of field cookery.

"Father," said Guest, without preamble, and without asking permission to speak.

Lord Onosh tossed the remains of the machet to the dwarf Glambrax, who had already given him a vibrant account of the epic battle between the man Jarl and the boy Guest. Glambrax pretended to rape his fresh-caught trophy. As the dwarf performed, Lord Onosh turned his attention to Guest Gulkan.

"So," said the Witchlord, "the larger of my two fools has decided to put in an appearance. What tricks will it play for us today?"

"My lord," said Guest, doing his best to ignore this sally, "I have a need for justice."

"You," said Lord Onosh, looking him up and down, "have a need for a bath."

"A bath?" said Guest in astonishment.

"You know the word, do you not?" said Lord Onosh. "It denotes a thorough lavage of the body, a task best accomplished by immersing the said body in a tub of warm water. In your case, the use of wire brushes and sandpaper might also be advisable."

"My lord jests," said Guest, who had had his last bath only three years previously, and was not due for another until high summer two years hence.

"You have obviously not seen yourself in a mirror," said Lord Onosh. "Glambrax! In the absence of a mirror, describe the boy to himself!"

"My lord," said Glambrax, accepting this assignment. "The boy looks like an over-large turd excreted by a menstruating dog, a turd which has been rolled to excess in a slime of dead cockroaches at the bottom of a giant's spittoon."

"You dislike my appearance!" said Guest. "Why, then know Thodric Jarl to be the cause of it!"

"That much I have heard," said Lord Onosh imperturbably. "When you see that good gentleman, be sure to thank him for the lessons he has taught you."

"The lessons?" said Guest in astonishment.

"You have learnt, I hope, not to fight with a pit at your back. That is the first lesson, and doubtless meditation will reveal others of equal importance. But enough of the lessons! Pray tell - what started your quarrel in the first place?"

Guest, having a delicate matter to broach, should now have asked for privacy - as he knew, for the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin had taught him as much. But, instead, the foolish youth got right to the meat of the matter.

"There is a woman," said Guest.

"At your age," said Lord Onosh, "there is always a woman. Such is the nature of youth."

"Always?" said Guest. "Not so! For I have had fewer than fifty women in my whole life."

In the very act of denying sexual experience, Guest Gulkan exaggerated it - for he was almost a virgin, having made the panting dog, the two-legged head and the beast with two backs with a bare two dozen women in his life. The exact number of Guest Gulkan's liaisons was precisely known to Lord Onosh, for the young Weaponmaster had never yet lived unobserved. Hence Lord Onosh knew full well that Guest exaggerated, and was not unconscious of the adolescent insecurity which occasioned the exaggeration.

"Fewer than fifty women!" said Lord Onosh. "So speaks the child!"

"You call me a child?" said Guest.

In truth, Guest Gulkan was scarcely half-hatched. For, as Bankers and others have long since established, true maturity only begins at the age of twenty-seven, if then. But Lord Onosh did not quote Guest's age against him. Instead:

"Anyone who still treats his affairs with women as an exercise in arithmetic can scarcely claim to have reached an age of maturity," said Lord Onosh.

"Can we discuss this in private?" said Guest, belatedly remembering Sken-Pitilkin's advice.

"Since you so rudely interrupted me in public, no," said Lord Onosh.

"Why not?" said Guest.

"As a punishment for your insolence!" said Lord Onosh. "If you come here to ask for a woman then ask for her, and the answer is no, you can't have her, particularly not if she belongs to Thodric Jarl."

"Who said she belongs to Jarl?" said Guest.

"If she occasioned your quarrel, who else could she possibly belong to? Sken-Pitilkin, perhaps?"

"The woman is but a slave," said Guest sullenly. "A slave, a thing of no possible importance."

"It is but a thing which belongs to Thodric Jarl," said Lord Onosh.

"He claimed it," protested Guest, "but all booty from bandits is yours. Thus runs the law."

Thus ran the law indeed, but by quoting it the young Weaponmaster merely proved his poor grasp of the politics of an imperial court much beset by assassins. Like Rolf Thelemite, Thodric Jarl was a Rovac warrior, and hence his sword was of inestimable value.

To Guest, his father's few Rovac warriors had no value beyond their novelty, and hence were disposable. But to Lord Onosh, these uitlanders were valued bodyguards who, unlike the Yarglat, could be trusted not to embroil themselves in the local clan-struggles. So while Guest thought Jarl could be cheated with impunity, his father thought otherwise; for Lord Onosh relied upon Jarl for the security of his sleep.

"Mine to give, mine to bestow," agreed Lord Onosh. "So I bestow the thing on Thodric Jarl."

"If I could," said Guest, rage overmastering sanity, "I would fight you and kill you."

"You would, would you?" said Lord Onosh coldly.

Guest realized his error.

But there was no unsaying such words.

"I would," said Guest, struggling to match his courage to the impetuosity of his tongue.

"Then I will meet you by proxy in Gendormargensis," said Lord Onosh. "I will be represented in the challenge by Thodric Jarl, who will hack down your pride and leave it bloody on the stones."

Guest Gulkan absorbed the implications of this, and backed off, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Then he turned on his heel and fled.

"Where are my camp marshals?" said Lord Onosh, rising to his feet, his face as thunder.

The marshals were produced, and the emperor gave them his orders.

"Ready the camp for the move," said he. "We ride before dusk and we ride by dark once night has come upon us."

"But, my lord," ventured one of the marshals, "there is tonight no moon."

"So we ride by dark," said Lord Onosh. "We ride by dark, as I said we would. If I must say it again then I will kill someone!"

And, since no-one doubted that the emperor would be as good as his word, ride they did - and soon!

Copyright © 1992 by Hugh Cook

Reviews

There are currently no reviews for this novel. Be the first to submit one! You must be logged in to submit a review in the BookTrackr section above.

Images

No alternate cover images currently exist for this novel.