'Aye, mayhap,' said Douay softly. 'But black humours come upon me when I rage at dark and light alike then kill, aye, my blade terrible to behold for it glows with a light like blood. Then no steel can prevail against mine. Aye, stone itself gives way before my blade.' 'How so?' said Sarazin, amazed.
'It is a dark matter of witchcraft,' said Douay. 'This curse has lain upon the ruling house of the Scattered Empire for generations, that their sons will be beset at times with evil. Best you leave, Watashi, before the fit comes on me yet again.' 'You… you kill many?' said Sarazin.
'When the fit is upon me my servants feed my blade with victims,' said Douay. 'Aye, throw me cats and such. But, Watashi, despite my mercy there is a part of me which hates you still. I'll not deny it. When next the madness comes, I fear that cats will not suffice. My blade will hunt you, aye. And cut closer than shaving, I promise you that.' 'Perhaps a wizard…?'
'Man,' said Douay, you think I've not sought help from every quarter? Wizards are frauds, I've told you before. This is witchcraft, the real source of evil. This I must endure. Such is my burden.'
So spoke the noble Douay, his voice unwavering, a tragic courage written in his face. And Sarazin, humbled by such courage, such suffering, such grandeur in defeat, went down on his knees before this scion of the House of Hexagon, who permitted Sarazin to kiss his hand.
Then Sarazin was given back his own sword, sheath and swordbelt, x and was given new boots as well. With his equipment complete, he shouldered his pack and set off, with Glambrax as ever just a footstep behind him.
Thus, in early summer in the year Alliance 4328, Sean Sarazin and his untrusty dwarf Glambrax departed from the Gates of Chenameg and trekked east. They hoped to travel beside the Velvet River to the Araconch Waters, the enormous freshwater lake in the desolate heartland of Argan North. From there, they hoped to trek north through the dragonlands to a tributary of the Amodeo River, then follow that river downstream to the far, far distant seaport of Brine.
That seaport was in the north-east of Argan, and from there they could get passage across the seas to foreign shores free from the threat of the Swarms. And to a new life as… as what?
That question would, doubtless, resolve itself in due course. For the moment, what mattered was to make the journey. Burdened by their packs, Sarazin and Glambrax laboured up the ever-climbing path clinging to the southern side of the Manaray Gorge. Finally they reached the rough- cut uplands.
On they trekked, forever keeping the Gorge on their left. This was a land of bones, of shadows, of rock and wind, with shambling mountains dominating the horizon. A lonely land, despite the many marks which showed that other refugees had been this way.
Finally, late in the afternoon, when they came upon a rill of water threading its way between jumbling boulders, Sarazin decided it was time to make camp. They had not eaten all day, nor had they drunk. So first they slaked their thirst, then they broke open their packs and rummaged within. Most of the weight proved to be pemmican – rich stuff made not just with meat but with nuts and dried cherries also.
As well as food, they had a change of clothes apiece and several changes of socks and four empty leather water- bottles. They also each had a single oblong strip of canvas with lightweight ropes sewn to each corner. These would provide a little marginal shelter against the worst of the weather. 'No gold,' said Sarazin gloomily.
When they finally got to Brine, they would be stony broke. He would probably have to sell his sword to buy them a passage out of the place.
'Ah,' said Glambrax, with an evil little laugh, 'but we're not entirely without treasure.' 'What do you mean?' said Sarazin.
Then Glambrax showed his master the trophies he had carried away with him from the Gates of Chenameg. During the formalities of the farewell, Glambrax had succeeded in picking the pockets of the noble Douay – and had stolen not just one bard but both of them.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
'How could you?' said Sarazin furiously.
As the dwarf scrabbled to escape from his master's anger, Sarazin grabbed him by the hair. You're not going anywhere!' said Sarazin.
'So kill me then,' said Glambrax truculently. 'Where's your gratitude?' 'Gratitude?' said Sarazin. 'For what should I be grateful?' 'The bards! I thought you wanted them.'
Sarazin was ready to weep. Or to pound Glambrax to a pulp. How could he live with the shame? The noble Douay had forgiven him, after all the terrible things that had been done to him after his arrest by Sarazin's minions – and had been repaid by this outrageous act of theft.
Sean Sarazin could not even keep his dwarf in order. Yet he had once had such pretensions of grandeur that he had imagined himself as ruler of the Harvest Plains! Sarazin shook his dwarf.
Then pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the stones.
'I should kill you,' said Sarazin. 'But it wouldn't do any good.'
Glambrax made no answer, and in fact stayed stolidly silent for the rest of the afternoon.
Evening came, then night. Sarazin, depressed and exhausted, laid himself down to sleep. Though he was sleeping on stones, he was so fatigued that he slept solidly until he was woken at dawn by jubilant birdsong.
He rose and stripped himself. Took a piss. Looking at his cock as he did so. A peasant's cock. Ugly piece of animal anatomy. He had once flattered himself by thinking it intrinsically imperial. Had so deluded himself that he had thought himself worthy of a princess. Well…
He had no delusions left now. He was what he was: a homeless beggar bereft of all prospects.
Carefully, he washed himself with water from the rill. It was cold, and, shivering, he was glad to warm himself by the fire Glambrax had started. The two said nothing to each other as the sun rose, stretching early morning shadows across the landscape.
Sarazin was stiff and sore from yesterday's long hard march – and from the damage done to him by Drake Douay. But, after he had treated some of his aches and pains with a little liniment which some thoughtful person had included in his pack, he felt somewhat better, though his eyes were sore and he had a dull headache.
As he breakfasted on pemmican, he considered his options. They could always turn back, march all the way to the Gates and return the stolen bards to Douay. But what if Douay yielded to one of the black angers he had spoken of, and killed both Sarazin and Glambrax on the spot? 'We'd better go on,' said Sarazin.
Glambrax made no answer. Sulking? Or meditating? No, he was just otherwise engaged: busy grubbing dank clumps of noxious matter from the depths of his nose.
'Up!' said Sarazin. 'Up on your feet and get moving.'
By noon, both man and dwarf were footsore and thirsty. They had filled their waterbottles at their campsite before setting out but durst not drink unless they really had to – for there was no telling when they would next find water. Flies were pestering about Sarazin's face. Irritated, he slapped at them. Hard. Then, after hurting one of his ears, slapped with more care.
He started looking for somewhere cool, somewhere they could shelter to rest. After resting they could push on when it was cooler.
So thought Sarazin. But it was not until late in the afternoon that he spied a suitable place – a deep and dark- shadowed cave. Invigorated by such a welcome sight, he strode towards it gratefully.
'Have a care,' said Glambrax, who by now had decided that he once more knew how to speak. 'There might be dragon or basilisk within. Or ogre – or worse!' 'Worse?' said Sarazin. 'What's worse?' 'A lawyer, perchance,' said Glambrax, and cackled.
But Sarazin went on regardless, imagining cool depths of batstone darkness and chilled water falling drip by drop. He found the cave noisy with flies – and from it breathed a stench which made him retch. But before he could flee, he saw all. The wounds, the heads, the limbs, the corpses deliquescing. He stumbled away from the cavemouth and collapsed insensible in the sun. He was roused by a boot in the ribs.