When Glambrax lit the green candle, the result was almost instantaneous. Smoke exploded from the candle in nauseous gouts, a stench worse than skunk and corpse mingled. And Lord Regan cried aloud in wrath and grabbed for the dwarf, but was met with a knife. Glambrax stabbed once, twice- Jaluba screamed- And again and again- And screamed And Lord Regan was falling, toppling, going down, the dwarf hacking, blood spurting and spraying Jaluba no longer screaming but retching, and Sarazin writhing on the floor, choked by nausea, the smoke having just about done for him, the stench unendurable- And the door flew open stormed into Smoke boiling, a breath was enough, the men were flailing, gagging, chucking up, wrecked or retreating And Glambrax drove steel home once more, once more, but that was thrice more than was necessary, for Lord Regan was dead for real.
The candle still alight, smoke leaping from the wick in a series of coughing explosions. Glambrax had it still in his left hand.
Glambrax stuck the bloody knife in his belt, grabbed Sarazin by the scruff of the neck and hauled him from the cabin. Shortly they were out on deck, the candle still coughing, smoke still exploding, Glambrax himself very green at the gills.
But still upright, for the dwarf was possessed of a toughness not given to men. After all, he was his mother's son – and his mother had been the truly formidable witch Zelafona.
'Put it out!' gasped Sarazin, clawing for the candle. 'Out, or I die!'
Glambrax thumped him, hard. And, as he fell to the deck, put in the boot. Some of the ship's soldiers and sailors were fleeing for the rigging, some trying to hide themselves below, and others launching the ship's boats. All this by the last glimmering light of sunset.
A few tried to attack the source of the smoke – but fell back reeling. 'Gods!' groaned Sarazin.
Then vomited helplessly, stomach knotting up in helpless agony. He upchucked again as Glambrax grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to the side of the ship. 'When I say jump,' said Glambrax, 'then jump.'
Sarazin was incapable of making a reply. Peering down at the night-darkening sea, he made out a boat below, its crew about to cast off. Further spasms seized him.
By the time he had recovered, Glambrax had scrambled down into the boat with the candle still coughing in his hand. The crew had fled, diving to the sea, careless of shark-risk or drowning. The boat was his. Could he but make it. 'Jump!' shouted Glambrax.
Sarazin mustered his strength and jumped. He hit the sea by the side of the boat with a tremendous splash. And, by the time he surfaced, Glambrax had extinguished the candle and was ready to haul him aboard.
There was little left of the candle – just a small stub scarcely the length of a thumbnail. It had got them out of one predicament, but they could not count on it for much in the future.
Sarazin was nearly incapacitated by the after-effects of the candle. If escape had relied upon his strength, then escape would have been impossible. But Glambrax rowed them free of the Green Swan, rowed out into the deepening night, then raised their boat's minuscule sail.
They could have been captured, had the crew been fit to work the ship. But most of the Green Swan's crew were in a state almost as bad as Sarazin's. A few could have manned a small boat and pursued the escaping prisoner and his dwarf – but they lacked anything to inspire them to such a feat.
Thus Sarazin and Glambrax made good their escape, and, in due course, landed on the shores of the Willow Vale.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
By the time Sean Sarazin and his dwarf reached the shores of the Willow Vale, the Green Swan had already sailed to Stokos. While Sean Sarazin was telling his news in Hok, other news was being told in Stokos – with predictable consequences.
But, for the moment, all that mattered to Sean Sarazin was his homecoming. Homecoming? Yes, after the bitter- ness of exile, a landing on Hok counted as that. Hok was, after all, a part of the Harvest Plains – and, more to the point, was inhabited by friends as well as strangers.
It was strangers that Sarazin met first. He and Glambrax were arrested by a mounted patrol and taken two leagues inland to a small fort. The commander of that fort was Thodric Jarl. The Rovac warrior was dressed as ever in iron-studded battle-leathers, and looked strong, fit and hearty.
'Sean!' cried the bulky-bearded Thodric Jarl, and embraced him. 'Is my mother here?' said Sarazin. 'My father?'
'Both Farfalla and Fox are in X-zox,' said Jarl. 'Most of our people dwell safe in X-zox, for we're often raided by marauders from Stokos, though they've yet to summon up the courage to invade in force. We use the Willow Vale for farming only, and as pastureland for sheep and cattle.' 'Are Fox and Farfalla well?' said Sean Sarazin. 'Both fit, both healthy, both well,' Jarl assured him.
'Do they rule, then?' said Sarazin. 'Are they the lords of Hok?'
'Nay,' said Jarl. 'Hok is ruled by Heth, who holds the land in trust for a greater ruler.' 'Heth?' said Sarazin. 'Did you say Heth, or Hearst?'
'I know nothing of the fate of Morgan Hearst,' said Jarl. 'After Hearst left the Harvest Plains he disappeared to sight. No, it's Heth I'm talking of. Heth. You remember. Don't you?' But Sarazin didn't.
'Never mind,' said Jarl, with a laugh. 'No doubt once you reach X-zox Heth will explain everything to you himself.'
'I live for that day,' said Sean Sarazin, in a tone suggest- ing quite the opposite. "Meanwhile, what about Peguero? Have you news of him? And Jarnel? And Celadon? Has anything been heard of him?'
While Sarazin had never been close to his brothers – indeed, they were still very much strangers to him – he was eager to learn of their fate.
'All three of your full brothers were here once,' said Jarl, 'as indeed was your half-brother Benthorn. But, like others, they have chosen to flee to the west, to the Scattered Islands and lands beyond.' 'Why should they flee?' said Sarazin.
'Because our war with Stokos threatens our destruction. But as I say, it's but a matter of raiding for the moment. The mountains protect our people in X-zox. Besides, Epelthin Elkin is still masquerading as a wizard, a bluff which helps us keep Stokos at bay. Intimidation, that's the thing.'
Then Sean Sarazin had to tell his sorry news. Lord Regan was dead – and Sean Sarazin the much-betrayed had wasted not a single tear lamenting his deathl – but Jaluba still lived.
'The wench knows the Words,' said Sarazin. 'If she tells all in Stokos, then the enemy can open the Passage Gates and the Lesser Tower itself.'
Jarl saw the danger, and was soon riding for X-zox in company with Sean Sarazin and dwarf, meaning to personally oversee the defences of the mountain-protected enclave and the underground passage which led to it.
Inland went the riders until they had almost reached the Eagle Pass. Then they turned west and marched up an arm of the Willow Vale. Since Sarazin was here last, a road had been laboured through the wilderness, allowing them to travel swiftly to the cliffs in which the Eastern Passage Gate was set.
Sarazin remembered it as being black, but it proved to be a dark blue stained with streaks of opaline iri- descence. Squarebuilt it was, and five times manheight. Warm and dry it was, vibrating faintly beneath his fingertips. 'Open it,' said Jarl.
Then Sarazin said the Word, hoping he had got it wrong. But he remembered correctly, for the Word had been something he had diligently committed to memory during his earlier travails in Hok. And the Passage Gate opened. By vanishing.
Within was the flickering blood-red passageway lit by dragon-head lamps. Sarazin remembered that all right. He remembered what he would see at the far end of the passage, too, when he exited into X-zox. He would see a rock-tumbled goat-footed pastureland reaching away for ten leagues or so to the sea. In fact…
When Sean Sarazin opened the Western Passage Gate and stepped into X-zox, what he saw was a valley ter- raced for intensive cultivation, a valley where he could see at a glance at least a half dozen villages.