'I wasn't thinking,' said Sarazin. 'Now – how are we going to try to bluff them?'
You work it out,' said Jarl, who thought the question too elementary to deserve his attention. 'But think fast – there's a herald coming across the river now, possibly to parley.'
There was indeed a herald from the enemy camp walking across the river, a green bough in his hands as a sign of peace.
'How does he do that?' said Sarazin, fascinated by the sight of the herald's feet twinkling across the surface of the water. 'Ask him when he gets here,' said Jarl.
Then the pair of them withdrew to Sarazin's tent and waited until the herald was shown in. Whereupon Sarazin asked the man the secret of his water-walking.
'I am descended from the High Elves of Izlarkloza,' said the herald proudly. 'Hence my ability.'
Whether he was telling the truth or not is, of course, another story. Sarazin was inclined to believe him, for he liked the herald on first acquaintance – not least because the man addressed him in the Geltic of the Rice Empire, language of his childhood, language of his youth.
'Now to business,' said Jarl, also glad to be speaking that same Geltic.
Yes,' said Sarazin, beginning the work of bluff. 'First, you'd better know that this isn't my whole army. This is just the advance guard. In fact-'
The rest of what Sarazin said is predictable enough. The herald listened, took it all in, then said:
Your message will reach my commander's ears in undiluted form.' (Or, to quote the herald more exactly: with no tea in its coffee.) 'But,' continued the herald, 'whether he chooses to believe it or not is nothing to do with me. My own duty is to deliver a message to you from my commander.' 'What is that?' said Sarazin.
'My commander is prepared to send forth a champion to meet a champion of yours in single combat in the middle of the river. Both will fight with bare blades, no shields and no armour. Combat will be to the death.' 'How much do you stake on this fight?' said Sarazin.
Much,' said the herald. 'If your champion wins, we will withdraw back to the Marabin Erg from whence we came. If our champion wins, your army will march away and let us cross the river unhindered.' 'What then?' said Sarazin.
'Then you are at liberty to attack us. All we want is to get across the river without a fight. Is it a deal? A duel to decide whether our side retreats or crosses the river unhindered. What say?'
Yes!' said Sarazin. Then, feeling heroic: 'I myself will champion the Harvest Plains.'
Yes! This was the ideal way for a war to be decided. By single combat between champions. More importantly, Sarazin could thereby win personal renown from this campaign. A military enterprise which had till now seemed the most unpromising of routine operations suddenly offered him a chance of deathless fame and glory.
'Bare blades,' said the herald, reminding him. 'Oh, and did I mention helmets? No helmets.'
'Fine,' said Sarazin. We will meet unhelmeted in mid- stream with bare blades and no armour.' 'Be ready soon,' said the herald. And departed.
'Did I make the right decisions?' said Sarazin, turning to Jarl.
'That's for you to say, not me,' said Jarl. You're the boss.'
Then Jarl got to work. Already there was a buzz of noise outside the tent. For the herald had given Sarazin's soldiers news of the agreement in turn for a few twists of tobacco, and now those same soldiers were laying bets on the outcome of the forthcoming fight.
Sarazin had been wearing his best silks when he met the herald, but Jarl ordered him into his sweaty old leathers. Then, working swiftly, Jarl prepared Sarazin for combat by wrapping so many turns of cloth round his middle that it seemed he had a veritable paunch.
When Sarazin saw Glambrax grinning at him – a wicked, knowing grin was his – he felt forced to protest. 'The agreement was no armour,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is stuff made out of steel and such,' said Jarl.
'But cloth in such quantity can often turn a blade,' said Sarazin. 'Armour is defined-'
'You're here to win a war,' said Jarl. You're a soldier, not a lexicographer.' 'As a soldier,' said Sarazin stiffly, 'I have my honour.'
Yes,' said Jarl, 'and your men have lives of their own which they'd rather not lose for that honour.' 'If I die that's my business,' said Sarazin.
'If you die,' said Jarl, 'many of your men will die trying to stop the enemy crossing the river.'
What are you talking about?' said Sarazin. 'I agreed to the herald's terms! If I die, my army withdraws then the enemy 'Shut up! Here, put on this cloak, it'll hide the cloth. Here. Rope for a belt. Tie the cloak in close, you don't want it catching on anything. Got your sword? Good. Take this.' 'What? Mud!?'
'Mud, yes, mud!' said Jarl fiercely. 'Mud in his eyes, that's the first thing. Mud and blood, that's what wars are made of.'
Then he led Sarazin down to the river's edge where hundreds of loud-talking soldiers were already waiting. They cheered hoarsely when he unsheathed his sword. On the opposite bank was a similar boisterous congre- gation. Sarazin had no time for second thoughts, for Jarl was already hustling him into the water. Glambrax followed.
'Back, mannikinl' said Jarl, swiping at him with the back of his hand. Jarl missed.
And Glambrax, chuckling, dodged past the Rovac warrior and hastened after Sarazin, who was swiftly sinking as he waded forward. Ankle deep. Then knee deep. He would be up to his waist if this went on! His one consolation was that his foeman was having similar problems.
'Let go of me!' said Sarazin, as Glambrax clutched at him from behind. 'I can't,' answered the dwarf. 'I'm in love with you.' 'Tough,' said Sarazin. 'You're the wrong sex.'
'Ah!' said Glambrax. 'So that's the secret! I was won- dering what won your horse your favours when all my efforts-'
Sarazin tried to cuff him, and almost lost his sword while doing so. 'Attend to your front!' yelled Jarl from the riverbank.
Sarazin's enemy, waist-deep in mud and water, was labouring steadily towards him. The man's elegant silks were torn away by an underwater snag, revealing the blood-red lacquered armour which he wore.
'Blood!' said Sarazin. 'He's in armour! Glambrax, will you let go of me!?' 'If I let go I drown.' 'Drown, then!' 'I would if I could, master, but it's against my religion.' 'Gah!' said Sarazin, gripping his sword more tightly.
Onward came his f oeman, brawning through the water with lumbering strength invincible. By now, Sarazin's men had seen that the enemy challenger had cheated by wearing armour. They began to jeer, to beat spears against shields. Sarazin scarcely heard the noise, for his concentration was devoted to his foe. Then He put down a foot but felt nothing. Betrayed by a pot- hole, he struggled for balance. Teetered one-footed on the edge of the pothole. Then felt the edge crumble. He snatched a breath – then the river swallowed him.
Spluttering, Sarazin surfaced. Glambrax was riding on his shoulders, legs locked around his neck. His sword? Gone! And his enemy was close, closing, white teeth grinning. 'Shit!' screamed Sarazin.
He ducked beneath the surface. The sword! The sword! It had to be there! In confusions of water, weed and mud he thrust, probed, raked, grappled – and laid his right hand open as he found his weapon's blade.
With the sword secured, Sarazin struggled to the surface. Stale air exploded from his lungs. He gasped, gasped again, spat, squidged water from his eyes. Gripped his sword's hilt double-handed. Blood streaming between his fingers. Coughed harshly.
You die,' said his challenger, ponderously, raising his weapon to strike.
Then floundered backwards, clutching his throat. Sarazin seized the opportunity, and stabbed. His dying enemy flung wide his arms: and Sarazin saw a miniature crossbow bolt buried in the man's throat. You!' said Sarazin.
'Good shooting, eh?' said Glambrax, with a grin in his voice.
The men on the northern bank were hooting with triumph. Were mounting their horses. Sarazin turned and – too late! – saw what they were doing. With a scream of triumph, Sarazin's cavalry squadrons charged. Straight down the bank to the swampmud river.
'No!' he screamed, waving his arms frantically. No! No! No!' But it was useless.
Soon, half a thousand horse were floundering in the river, some already starting to drown. With wild halloos, the Rice Empire's heroes attacked their helpless enemy, despite the best efforts of their officers to restrain those heroes.
