The Wordsmiths and the Warguild (6 page)

       
As he ate, he began to
feel better.

       
As Togura savoured his
chestnuts, he watched two raff-taff street dogs fighting. Then a man came
hurrying down the road; after him came a hunting harridan dressed in harn, who
screamed abuse at him.

       
Togura thought to himself:

       
- Now what was all that
about?

       
He was accosted by a
rough, burly swordsman of middle years, who spoke to him in a strangely
accented Galish.

       
"Which way to the
king's palace, boy?"

       
"Who is it who
wants to know?" said Togura.

       
"Barak the
Battleman, hired killer and trained assassin," said the swordsman.

       
That was a lie. The
stranger was, in fact, Guest Gulkan, sometimes known as the Emperor in Exile.
He was the son of Onosh Gulkan, the Witchlord; he had been wandering the world
for years now, travelling to places as far distant as Dalar ken Halvar and
Chi'ash-lan. He lied about his name because there was a price on his head in
many parts and places.

       
"The palace lies
that way," said Togura, pointing firmly, and hoping that he was right; at
the moment, he was more than a little disorientated.

       
"Thank you,
lad," said the stranger, and strode away with an easy, rolling gait.

       
Togura watched him go,
struck, momentarily, with horror. The king was angry with him! The king had
hired an assassin! He was going to be hunted and tortured and killed!

       
Then Togura realised he
was being ridiculous. There was no way the king could have got hold of an
assassin so soon, even supposing that he had been made that angry; the
stranger's appearance in this place was probably just idle coincidence.

       
Togura's analysis was
correct.

       
Realising that the
stranger was no danger to him, Togura was taken by the wild notion of following
him and questioning him. Perhaps the swordmaster-assassin could use a road
companion to carry his burdens and light his fires, to cook his food and to
haggle for provisions in the marketplace. There was no harm in trying.

       
Enthusiastic about this
idea, Togura set off in pursuit of the swift-striding man-killer, but lost him
in a tangle of narrow streets crowded, suddenly and without warning, by a flock
of sheep which were being driven through the town. He contemplated pursuing his
quarry to the palace, but the thought of going anywhere near Slerma made him
decide against it.

       
So it was that Togura
Poulaan came within an ace of becoming the road companion of Guest Gulkan. The
fact that he failed probably saved his life, for the Emperor in Exile was on a
dangerous quest which would in time decide the fate of powers, kingdoms and
empires; there was horror behind him and peril ahead, and the life expectancy
of anyone travelling with him would probably have been short.

       
The last of the sheep went
by. Togura idly squished a knobbly dropping with his foot, chewed on another
chestnut, and wondered what to do now.

       
As he was wondering, a
small procession went by. It consisted of about twenty people dressed in
mourning who were carrying amidst them a bier on which there reclined a man who
was both very old and very sick. Togura, as a native of the district, knew
enough to guess that the old man was going to be fed to the odex. He had never
yet seen this process; as his meal had nourished his curiosity along with his
other organs, he fell in behind the procession.

       
By and by, they came to
the stronghold of the Wordsmiths. The original building, made of stone, had
collapsed five years previously; the Wordsmiths had rebuilt in wood. The main
gate in the stockade was open, but a grey-robed wordmaster halted the
procession before they could enter. After a low-voiced argument, the leader of
the procession signed his people to one side, and they sat down to wait.

       
Was it too early in the
day? Or was the odex not hungry yet? Or was there an argument about how much
the people should pay to dispose of their sick old man? Togura did not know,
and was not rude enough to ask. While waiting to see what would happen, he
loitered beside an abandoned mine shaft, kicking occasional stones into the
darkness, which fell straight and sheer to a pool of water far below.

       
From inside the
stronghold of the Wordsmiths there came sounds of confusion. Then there was
some banging and crashing and shouting, then three wordmasters sprinted through
the open gate, running for their lives.

       
"Curiouser and
curiouser," said Togura.

       
Then there issued forth
a monster, which came striding out of the gate on five or six of its seven or
eight legs. It was not terribly imposing, as monsters go; it was scarcely twice
the girth of a bull, and barely twice the height of a man; its grappling claws
were hardly the size of a pair of shears.

       
Nevertheless, people
screamed and ran.

       
Togura, amused, wondered
why people were making so much fuss about the manifestation of an ilps. As it
bent over the sick old man, he sauntered forward. The creature lifted its head
and regarded him. Its skull was bald bone like that of a vulture. Its eyes were
as green as gangrene, and its breath was fetid. Its skin was covered with warts
and fents. The warts were a mixture of pink and grey; a few seemed to be
purulent, while stark yellow pus oozed from the fents.

       
"Who are you?"
said Togura, his voice loud and strong.

       
The creature blinked.

       
"Where do you come
from?" he insisted.

       
It took no notice.

       
"I demand your
nature!"

       
Losing interest in
Togura, the creature bent down over the old man once more. And something
terrible happened. As Togura screamed and screamed, the creature raised its
head, slushed a mouthful of flesh and spat out a bone. Blood ran down its chin.

       
"Who?"
screamed Togura. "When? What?"

       
But the creature
remained undamaged by his questions. Belatedly, he realised it was not an ilps
at all. It was a genuine monster. As it forked, scrabbled and glutted, spraying
the area with blood and offal, he turned and ran.

       
The creature roared and
followed.

       
Blindly, Togura fled.
The ground opened up in front of him. In a moment of sickening horror, he
realised he had fallen into a mine shaft. He gasped for air as he fell. Then he
went barrelling into the water, which went riveting up his nose. Stunned to
find himself still alive, Togura struggled for the surface and looked around.
In all directions were rock walls, dimly lit by wavering, splintered
reflections of half-light from the water.

       
To his relief, he saw
there was a ladder fastened to the side of the shaft. He swum across to it,
took hold, and hauled himself out of the water. He had climbed to three times
his own height when the wood, many years rotten, gave way, and sent him
plummeting back into the sump.

       
"Help!" cried
Togura, floundering.

       
He looked up and saw,
far overhead, someone looking down at him.

       
"Help!" he
cried. "Help! For the love of Mothra, help me!"

       
Someone began to climb
down. Too late, he realised it was not someone but something. The monster was
coming to get him. Suddenly, it slipped, scrabbled then fell. He cowered
against the side of the shaft. The monster shattered the water beside him. As
it heaved up out of the depths, he took his only chance, and leapt onto its
back.

       
Shoving his hands into
two of the larger fents which disgraced the creature's hide, Togura hung on for
dear life. The creature snapped and thrashed and shook and bucked. He thought
it was urgently trying to get at him, but in fact it was urgently trying to
save itself from drowning.

    
   
Finally, the monster got
claw-hold on the flanks of the shaft and began to climb, slowly and painfully.
Once it slipped, and almost went crashing back to disaster. But it struggled
on, gaining, at last, the daylight. Togura, still back-riding, looked round and
saw a small crowd watching from a distance.

       
A man advanced, bearing
a meat cleaver.

       
As the man drew near,
the monster attacked with a lurch and a slither. Its intended victim dropped
his cleaver and fled. Exhausted, the monster collapsed. Togura, in danger of
sliding off, shifted his weight. A mistake! Remembering his presence, the
monster rolled over suddenly, almost crushing him. He fell off, leapt away from
the grappling claw, ducked under the monster's scooping jaw and fell, almost on
top of the meat cleaver.

       
Snatching the weapon by
the handle, Togura slashed the next claw which tried for him. He lopped it off.
The monster screamed and tried to scoop him with its jaw. He weaved and evaded,
then hacked. His blade chopped into the monster's neck. In a frenzy, he
slashed, stabbed, gouged and underthrust, fighting in a beserker fury. He never
noticed when the monster died. Then, finally, one wild swipe took its head off
entirely, and he realised it must be dead. Or, if not dead, then pretty sick.

       
Panting, sweating,
swaying, Togura halted. He became aware of distant cheering, and realised it
was for him. He felt dizzy and very distant.

       
A wordmaster advanced
and clapped him on the shoulder.

       
"That was very well
done, young man."

       
"Thank you,"
said Togura, good manners providing him with something to say.

       
"Come with
me," said the wordmaster.

       
"I must clean my
blade," said Togura, remembering that to be something that heroes were said
to say after battle.

       
He tried wiping the
bloodstained blade against the monster's flank, but succeeded only in getting
it stained with yellow pus. He tried again, and failed. He was shaking. He was
rapidly becoming tearful.

       
Realising the meat
cleaver was causing his young charge some distress, the wordmaster wisely
removed it from Togura's grasp and threw it to one side. Then he led Togura
into the Wordsmiths' stronghold. As they walked along together, Togura
tottering and leaning on the older man for support, the crowd cheered once
more.

       
"Who was that who
just went in?" asked Baron Poulaan, arriving on the scene.

       
"A young man. He
killed the monster."

       
"What kind of young
man?" asked the baron, on the off chance. "Do you know his
name?"

       
"Oh yes sir,"
said a milkmaid, who was more knowledgeable than her years might have
suggested. "He's Barak the Battleman."

       
"And who might that
be?"

       
"A visitor,
sire," said a woodcutter from Down Slopes. "Assassin and
swordfighter, they say. Escaped gladiator from the murk pits of Chi'ash-lan, if
you ask me."

       
And he pulled down one
eyelid in a very suggestive gesture.

       
"Oh," said the
baron, losing interest.

       
He turned away and set
off for the Suets. He would challenge them and find out where they had hidden
his son. If the Suets failed to yield up Togura, then there might be feuding
about this.

Chapter 6

       
Within the Wordsmiths'
organisation the ranks, from lowest to highest, were:

               
1. servitor;

               
2. scribe;

               
3. translator;

               
4. wordmaster;

               
5. governor.

       
Brother Troop was a
wordmaster. As befitted his rank, he wore a multicoloured harlequin robe and
felt slippers. He was a short, bouncing, jovial man with a ready smile which
showed him to be both pleased with himself and pleased with the world. He wore
much of his worldly wealth beneath his skin, but Togura, after his recent
encounter with Slerma, could not bring himself to describe the Brother as fat.