And Glambrax protested no more, for their colloquy had brought them in sight of the escort.
Shortly, Sarazin set out – without Glambrax! He had an escort of a dozen men to accompany him through the forest, and he had a string of four horses. Once they reached the border of Chenameg then Sarazin, with the forest's dangers behind him, would ride for Selzirk alone, with all possible speed.
Many dangers lay ahead. But surely nothing could defeat Sean Sarazin. Not now that he had recovered his magic.
His anger was already fading, and he was beginning to experience something close to joy. The power, the power! It was his! Again! And, this time, he would not lose it. His implements of power would never again leave him. He would keep them with him always.
Sarazin took his leave of Fox, Lod, Jarl and several soldiers he had come to know well during his sojourn in Chenameg, then swung up into the saddle, and, singing a snatch of a hunting song, rode forth into the future.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
One bloodshot dawn some long days later, Sean Sarazin sighted Selzirk's towers in the distance. Surely he would reach the city by noon. Then he would have news of all the world's affairs. He had spoken to nobody on his frantic journey, fearing recognition and arrest by some petty bureaucrat. -In the city I'll find men who will believe me. Or would he?
His tale was fantastic, like something out of legend. A tale of wizards and Doors, of fire-magic, of desperate danger in forested uplands, of combat with gigantic monsters. Sarazin had uncomfortable memories of his utter disbelief of similar stories told under torture by the pirate Drake Douay. -But they must believe me. Selzirk itself is in danger!
It was then that he remembered the prophecy. Long ago he had dismissed it. Yet – perhaps he had been a fool to do so. For, after all, the prophecy fitted his life in ways which could scarcely be explained by coincidence. -It might be true. It might be!
Was this then the time for the prophecy to be fulfilled?
With a sense of elation, he realised it quite possibly was. The fools in Selzirk who were likely to disbelieve him: those were doubtless the wicked and witless men he must overcome to save the city. -But what of Fox?
Sarazin was dismayed when he remembered the fate of Fox, which was to die. -To be killed. By me!
Sarazin knew, truly, he had no wish to murder his father.
– But it is written! It is fated through prophecy! So how can I help it? Yet Fox is far from Selzirk. So perhaps that's how I murdered him. By letting him dare the leagues to Voice. Perhaps he's dead already.
But Sarazin could not bear the thought of Fox dying. Fox: the one person in the world who had accepted him absolutely. Who had never tried to trick him, use him, manipulate him, exploit him. His father, his one and only.
– Perhaps Fox did die. When I hacked him open at Shin. It is said men sometimes die, leave their bodies, then return a little later to take up life once more. It is said. -It could be true.
Sarazin, weary unto death, struggled as best he could with the logic of prophecy, finally persuading himself that prophecy had indeed already been fulfilled as far as Fox was concerned, since he had for so long counted Fox as one of the dead.
– Alternatively… since Bizzie is such a wanton wench, perhaps Fox is not the father of my flesh at all. Perhaps some other fathered me. Maybe I've killed such a flesh-father already, in Tyte perhaps, or elsewhere. Or am to kill him, slaying him without ever knowing his identity. That was possible.
But, the more Sarazin thought about it, the less he liked the idea. He wanted a true father, a real father, not a half- father.
– Fox is my father. My one and only. And he will not die! He must not!
So thought Sarazin, and spurred the last of his four horses. When the nag collapsed under him and died a league short of the city, he started walking. But before he reached the city gates he was overtaken by a rider from the east. It was Glambrax, perched atop a pony stolen from the National Liberation Front.
'You,' said Sarazin wearily, without evidencing any surprise.
He knew he had been a fool to think he could rid himself of Glambrax so easily.
'Me,' said the dwarf cheerfully. With news! I've talked with villagers en route. I bet you never dared.'
'I'm not free to swap rumours at the beggar gates,' said Sarazin. 'Such is the penalty of fame. Well? Out with it! You're looking uncommonly happy today. So tell! What ails the world?'
'Oh, you'll love this,' said Glambrax, rubbing his hands together. 'Drangsturm has fallen! The Confederation of Wizards has broken apart in war. The Swarms march north. All civilization in Argan is doomed. What a beautiful day!'
'This is no day for jokes,' said Sarazin, too weary to countenance such levity. 'But it's true!' protested Glambrax.
Sarazin punched Glambrax's pony, hoping it would rear and throw the hand-rubbing dwarf. But the poor beast was far too weary. Such was its condition that Sarazin, lest he kill it with his weight, must perforce walk beside it while Glambrax rained the worst of rumour on his head.
Sarazin believed not a word of it. For thousands of years the Confederation of Wizards had guarded Drangsturm, the great flame trench which stretched the length of the isthmus between the Central Ocean and the Inner Waters, preventing the monsters of the Swarms from invading Argan North. Why should things so suddenly change?
But, to Sarazin's shock and horror, they were scarcely within the gates of Selzirk when they met people who confirmed the dwarf's claims.
There were still many people in Selzirk. Some sober, some drunk. Those who were sober were mostly too busy to talk, so Sarazin had to glean information from the drunks. What he learnt set his head spinning. Drangsturm had indeed been destroyed.
The Confederation of Wizards had indeed broken apart in war.
The monsters of the Swarms were indeed on the march, invading Argan North.
'My mother?' said Sarazin. 'Farfalla, the kingmaker? What of her?' 'Gone,' said a drunk. 'Dead?'
'Not dead. Fled. She ran for the Rice Empire when the Regency charged her with high treason. Flight proves the charge, does it not? Traitorous bitch!'
'A charge of high treason?' said Sarazin. 'On what excuse?'
'Do you not know?' said the drunk. 'She let Morgan Hearst flee the city with the death-stone. It should have been ours, ours, but she let him go!'
Sarazin did not break the man's jaw because he felt more shock than anger. So Morgan Hearst had not made himself ruler of the Harvest Plains. Hearst must have gone to the Confederation of Wizards, then. With the death- stone.
Then Sarazin recalled the terrible anger which Jarl had shown at mention of wizards. On Jarl's arrival in Selzirk he had spoken of a feud of long standing between wizards and Rovac. Later, Jarl had praised the Rovac warrior Elkor Alish for breaking an oath with wizards and seizing the death-stone.
And Morgan Hearst was a man very much like Jarl… Sarazin could see it now. Hearst must have taken the death-stone south to the Confederation of Wizards.
But not to hand it over to that Confederation. Oh no! Hearst must have gone to war with the wizards, pur- suing the ancient feud and dooming all Argan in the process…
What now?
What should he do?
'Come,' said Glambrax, tugging at Sarazin's sleeve. 'Let's go to your mother's palace.' 'Agreed,' said Sarazin.
At least they could find shelter there. Probably.
So they set off through the streets of Selzirk, and at last reached Farfalla's palace. It had changed. The bridges which had once straddled the encircling flame-moat had been broken down. And a drawbridge sealed the gate- house keep.
