about yourself?' said Lod.
'Why, no, not me,' said Glambrax, 'for I never tortured him as Sarazin did.' At that, Tarkal finally spoke: You tortured Douay? 'In Selzirk,' said Sarazin.
For he could not deny responsibility, even though the actual inflicting of pain had been done by other hands. You were lucky indeed to escape,' said Tarkal.
'Oh, lucky enough,' said Sarazin, in no mood to tell the truth, since it would have been a laborious process to unstitch all of Glambrax's lies – and, besides, the truth was shameful, involving as it did the theft of Douay's bards. 'Still,' continued Sarazin, 'you've been lucky yourself.'
What?' said Tarkal. To be ruling here? As Slavemaster? There was no luck in that, friend Sarazin. I was in the right place at the right time.'
'Of course,' said Sarazin. 'Ruling in Shin and all.' It would have been easy for Tarkal to remove himself and his people from Shin to the wastelands long before refugees were on the move in great numbers. 'But why then didn't you set yourself up at the Gates?'
'Oh, I did,' said Tarkal. 'When word reached Shin that the Swarms were invading, I saw my opportunity. I saw what must inevitably happen. There are few routes of escape, and the Gates are one of the best. So I set myself up as lord of the Gates.' 'Then – what? Douay came?'
'No. A brute called Groth pushed me out of the Gates. Douay – or Lord Dreldragon, or whatever you want to call him – came later. I've never met him. Yet.' 'You're thinking of meeting him?' said Sarazin.
'I'm curious,' said Tarkal. 'Curious to see what he might do with Sean Sarazin.'
He said it quietly. Watching Sean Sarazin. Who saw Glambrax wink at him. The dwarf had anticipated this!
'You joke, of course,' said Sarazin, casually. 'For you have honour, surely. Douay is a monster, a brute addicted to slaughter and torture. He hates me as he'd hate a sister- killer. Tarkal, I know there's true nobility in your nature, thus… your jest frightens me not, for I know it for what it is.'
Tarkal chewed on some fish, spat out a stray scale, then said:
'Indeed I jest. Tomorrow, Sean, I'll let you go east. I'm running a convoy east to the lords of the Araconch Waters. You'll be my guest of honour on the trek.'
'Tell me then,' said Sarazin urbanely, 'what manner of lords be these? In the history I learnt, the shores of the Waters were empty of human life.'
'Indeed,' said Tarkal. 'Well, Lod can tell you the ins and outs of recent history.'
And Lod obliged, telling of the sanguinary events which had accompanied the mass influx of refugees, of the lordlings who had made themselves suzerain over one wretched piece of rock or another, of war, murder, killing, torture, organised rape, slavery, cannibalism, oppression, treachery and assorted bloodbaths – history in miniature, in fact.
Late that night, Lod came in secret to Sarazin and told him another tale. According to Lod, Tarkal hated Sarazin intensely because, in Lod's words:
'Your marriage to his dear sister Amantha was but a form of rape.'
By Lod's account, in the morning Sarazin would be seized, gagged, tied, taken down through ever-descending caves to one which opened by the shores of the Velvet River, deep in the sunless depths of the Manaray Gorge.
'There,' said Lod, 'you will be loaded on to a raft and taken downriver to Douay. Do you understand?'
'I understand,' said Sarazin, gently, 'that you were ever a joker, Lod, my friend. But tonight I think the joke in the worst of taste. Surely it is an evil thing for you to thus impugn your brother's honour. Why, I remember when once you swore he sought to murder you!'
'So he did,' said Lod darkly, 'but I've purchased my life through the worst kind of abasement.' 'You've roused my interest,' said Sarazin. 'Pray tell!'
'Now you joke!' said Lod. 'Your life is at stake! You must run, run, run tonight or you're doomed, dead, done for!'
Lod became so insistent that, at last, Sarazin realised that Lod was not here on his own account but on Tarkal's. So he allowed Lod to chivvy him into his clothes, and then to lead him to freedom – and, when Tarkal triumphantly ambushed them, Sarazin consented to scream in feigned terror and despair.
Though he found the whole performance hard work, for he was not one of the world's natural thespians.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The next morning, Sarazin was hogtied and loaded on to the raft that was to take him downstream to the Gates of Chenameg. Tarkal and Lod were both coming along for the journey, as were half a dozen fighting men.
'Why does my dwarf run free?' said Sarazin, for Glam- brax was capering on the raft.
'He has sworn himself to my service,' said Tarkal. 'At least until we reach the Gates.'
'Glambrax!' said Sarazin. 'How could you? You vile, treacherous, gamos-sucking turd!'
In response, Glambrax simply hauled out his shlong and pissed all over the unfortunate Sean Sarazin. Who screamed in wrath which – this time – was not feigned at all.
Then, mercifully, Sarazin was gagged, which meant he need do no more acting. Tarkal's fighting men untied the raft and pushed it out into the flow of the Velvet River and away they went, bucketing down the swift-flowing river which sprinted between the sullen walls of the Manaray Gorge.
In truth, Sarazin was worried about his reception at the Gates of Chenameg. Drake Douay would doubtless have a lot to say about the theft of his precious bards. However, Sarazin hoped the truth would serve. Glambrax could take the blame – and a whipping, too, if Douay decided that was what he deserved.
Unless the anger of madness was upon the noble Douay, nothing worse should befall Sarazin and Glambrax at the gates.
But then man and dwarf would be back where they had started from, unless Sarazin could turn this situation to his advantage. Unless he judged Douay wrongly, the man, however noble, had a bloody sense of humour. Perhaps Sarazin could tempt him into arranging some gladiatorial games. -Me versus Tarkal. That's the thing!
Sean Sarazin knew he had sinned by his crimes against the Favoured Blood as represented by the noble Douay. But it would surely be no crime for him to fight and kill Tarkal, even though he was of low birth – for Tarkal was a murderer. Sarazin knew it.
Nothing else could explain King Lyra's mysterious death in a bog in Chenameg on the occasion of that long- ago hunt in winter, shortly after Sarazin had seen the famous phoenix renew itself in a temple in Shin.
– He murdered his father to win the throne. There- fore his death is due. I would be but an instrument of justice.
And, with a little help from Douay, after Sarazin had despatched Tarkal he could surely seize the Slavemaster's cave complex, and set himself up as a warlord in his own right. It was all so logical, so natural, so inevitable that it was irresistible. -Killing Tarkal. That will be the hard bit.
Sarazin's confidence in his bladework had been shaken since his clash with Douay in which Douay had defeated and disarmed him. But then, Douay was a greater warlord than the notorious Groth, and Groth himself had earlier displaced Tarkal as master of the Gates, which suggested Tarkal was no great warmaster. -Besides, I've fought him before. -And I won.
Yes. And Sarazin remembered his own post mortem on his first duel with Tarkal. He could have killed the prince of Chenameg if his heart had really been in the fight – rather than in staying alive. -This time, I will kill him! So thought Sarazin.
Then thought no more, for the raft hit rapids which made thought impossible, such was the terror of their progress. Terror at least for Sean Sarazin – for, tied and gagged as he was, he had not the slightest hope of survival if he was washed overboard.
Lod and Tarkal, for their part, whooped in exultation as the raft plunged through treacherous turbulence and hissing chutes where water exploded into spray. The raft rocked, kicked, bucked, whirled round and lurched in a sickening fashion.
