the south, the coastline bent away to the east. The ship would turn to follow the coast, and, shortly, would land him on the shores of the Willow Vale. From there he could march overland to X-n'dix. -Ogres and such permitting, of course. So thought Sean Sarazin.
But, as the morning wore on, the ship did not turn east. Instead, it continued south. What lay due south? Why, only Stokos. That was all.
Then… Sarazin went and confronted Lord Regan.
'As I told you before,' said Lord Regan, sadly, 'in the war between Hok and Stokos, the wizards who are my masters favour Stokos. And I have sworn an oath of fealty to my masters. Now – must I put you in irons below decks? Or will you swear to behave yourself?'
'Tell me first,' said Sarazin, 'are we truly bound for Stokos? And what fate awaits me there?'
We are indeed bound for Stokos,' said Lord Regan, 'and are more than half way there. Your parents are in Hok, so Stokos can make good use of you as a hostage. Also – Stokos needs the secret of the Passage Gates if it is to conquer Hok entire.'
'This is bitter news,' said Sarazin, 'and much I could say which I will not. Well then… I will swear to make no move against you. We will behave as people of breeding should. Till the end.'
'Sean,' said Lord Regan, 'that's spoken as a man. And I will most certainly take you at your word.'
There, then, the matter should have ended. The making of oaths is the most sacred undertaking of manhood, for if men were not true to their word then trust would become impossible. And, if trust became impossible, then only the most barbaric expedients of murder and genocide could secure peace between men and between nations.
Thus Sean Sarazin, having given his word, should have gone into captivity. However, unfortunately Sarazin had long lived in Selzirk, a vicious city given to degenerate ways. And there he had frequented with lawyers, whose crime against humanity is the systematic perversion of language.
Moreover… it was not just lawyers who had taught Sarazin bad habits. For even the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl had once shown him how to worm his way out of an oath. Thus, though Sarazin had once sworn to go questing for the tectonic lever, he had never made the slightest attempt to do so. So…
Sean Sarazin had sworn to make no move against Lord Regan, therefore he would not. However, reason- ing like a lawyer, he argued that his dwarf was an entity separate from himself, therefore instructing his dwarf to attack Lord Regan would not constitute oathbreaking.
And even if it did – frankly, after all he had been through, Sean Sarazin was not prepared to be thwarted at the last moment. In Hok there was life, liberty and friendship. In Stokos, only stifling imprisonment, and torture perhaps, and quite possibly death. So Sean Sarazin instructed Glambrax – and gave him the green candle.
The green candle. Oh most precious of enchanted objects! The last of his remaining gifts from the druid he had encountered so long ago in the forests of Chenameg. The ring of invisibility had failed him, the dragon- bottle had proved a bitter disappointment, and the magic mudstone had long since been used, but the candle remained.
What would it do? Summon a dragon, a genie, a ghost, a wraith? Call up ghouls and demons? Satisfy wishes? Or do something miraculous but utterly useless? Sarazin could only hope.
Glambrax acted that evening. When Lord Regan was dining in his cabin with wife, dwarf and Farfalla's son, Glambrax took it upon himself to open the lanterns one by one and trim the candles within. When he came to the last lantern, he took out the green candle. And lit it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
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.
