Then Heth started to laugh and laugh. He collapsed to the ground, writhing. He laughed so much he cried. He laughed till the sobbing pain in his chest became unbearable. Then, slowly, he sobered himself, and asked: 'Pray, my lord, what could my fool of a brother do that you could not?' And Sarazin answered: 'Nothing!'
He was furious. He had been suckered by a low-bred common criminal. Drake was a pirate after all! He did deserve to be tortured to death! He had behaved like the worst of criminals, too. Had humiliated Sarazin at the Gates. Had beaten him up. Terrorised him. Lied to him. -I'll kill him! So swore Sarazin.
Drake was a liar, cheat, pirate, oppressor, torturer and tyrant, a criminal whoremaster, scum from the streets, the lowest of the low, a murderous delinquent, an over- grown dwarf debauched by a debased appetite for power at any price.
And he had humiliated Sean Sarazin, and, worse, under- mined his confidence in his own abilities.
– Gods. If a fool like that can master the Gates of Chenameg, then I can master X-zox.
'My lord,' said Heth, as Sarazin stormed from the room, 'where are you going?'
'To parley!' said Sarazin, for the way to save his people and his pride had already become clear to him. To parley with the enemy, now!'
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Sean Sarazin was still burning red-hot with anger when he went forth to parley with the enemy with Glambrax at his side. There was nothing original in the offer he made to the enemy, and he should have thought of it before. Would have, had he not been so depressed, so overwhelmed by thoughts of doom.
Sarazin displayed not the slightest fear as he walked among the enemy's ranks, which was only natural, for he felt none. He was totally consumed by his anger.
Sarazin's offer to the enemy was but a variation of the one which had been made to him by foreign marauders when he had led an army to defend the lands of the Harvest Plains round the headwaters of the Shouda Flow.
This time, however, there was somewhat more at stake.
'This offer I make to you' said Sean Sarazin when he was face to face with the enemy commander, a tall man built like a battleaxe. 'I will meet you in single combat to decide the possession of this castle. If you win, my people will surrender the castle to you, and you of course will claim my life.'
'And if you win?' said the enemy commander. 'Are you so extravagant as to expect us to surrender to you?'
'No,' said Sarazin. 'Merely to bring this campaign to an end, to march away to the Willow Vale then sail to Stokos and leave us in peace for another year.'
A year, that was all he needed. A year to fortify X-zox properly, to train men, to make alliances, to put spies ashore on Stokos. 'Let me think on it,' said the commander.
But Sarazin had already guessed his answer. For he had seen the fear in the commander's eyes.
Sean Sarazin knew himself for a bungling fool and a second-rate soldier at best. But to the enemy com- mander he was something else altogether. He was the lordly Watashi, a mighty warlord of the Harvest Plains, whose penchant for battle was proved by the scars on his face.
The enemy was not to know that those scars were but scratches which had been diligently enlarged by salt. The enemy was not to know that rumours of Sarazin's military success were at best misleading – since he had never won victory without Thodric Jarl at his elbow.
The enemy commander would not meet the great lord Watashi in single combat. Sarazin was sure of that.
But, nevertheless, he was in high spirits as he made his way back to the Lesser Tower. For, while Sean Sarazin was not one of the world's military geniuses, he had been around soldiers for most of his life, and had been taught to use his eyes. He knew what to look for and how to interpret what he saw.
His foemen had endured summer rain, summer storms, threefold defeat, and onslaughts of nightmare and illusion courtesy of Epelthin Elkin. They were cold, hungry and dispirited. Sarazin had seen no evidence of tents. Also, if he was any judge, the enemy was right out of rations. Logistics, that was the thing!
Sarazin had been general enough to deny all com- fort to the enemy, burning villages rather than let the enemy have them. The invaders had exhausted their rations. They were cold, wet, hungry, defeated and frightened. In contrast, those in the tower were warm, dry and fed.
He said as much to his commanders when he got back to the Lesser Tower and assembled them in conference.
'If we can hold out for but a few days more,' said Sarazin, with enthusiasm, 'they're done for. Finished.'
'Good stuff to tell the troops,' said one of his com- manders, 'but don't expect us to believe it. We're finished.'
That's treason!' said Heth the loyal, Heth the thick- witted.
But he was shouted down, and Sarazin finally brought the conference to an end lest it end in mutiny. Yes, Sean Sarazin had been around soldiers long enough to know when mutiny threatened. He brooded for the rest of the day.
He had been ready to abandon all hope because he thought the enemy sure to conquer. Then he had tried the single-combat ploy, but had failed. But had discovered, in the process, that the enemy were on the point of breaking. If he attacked, the enemy would break and run. He was sure of it.
But he was equally sure that his own men would not attack if he ordered them to. Rather, they would mutiny. -But Douay would have managed it, damn it!
Sarazin was sure of it. Douay was a piece of low-bred trash, but he was a wily survivor. He would have found a way to motivate his men to attack. -Kill someone? No good. That would mean mutiny. -Call for volunteers? He would not get any. Except Heth.
Night came on. A stormy night of windhowl and thunderclap, of lightning startling. Sean Sarazin peered through an arrow slit and saw lightning writhing around the dragon of the Greater Tower of X-n'dix. Almost persuaded himself he saw that dragon move.
Outside were the enemy. Cold, by now. Chilled to the bone. Any fires extinguished for certain by the driving rain. No tents, no food, and doubtless little sleep under the conditions. Fear eating at their bones. Fear of the magic of nightmare which had thrice been used against them. Fear of the warlord Watashi. Many would be sick, all homesick.
And their commander was afraid. That doomed them for certain.
– One attack. That's all it takes. Something to rouse the troops out to battle. Fear or temptation, need or desperation, pain or… or… -Magic?
Sarazin went looking for Glambrax, and, at midnight, found him. Glambrax was happily toasting half a dozen centipedes over a fire. A midnight snack.
'Glambrax,' said Sarazin, 'have you by chance the remains of my magic candle?' 'Of course,' said Glambrax, and produced it.
Moments later, Sean Sarazin was rousing the Lesser Tower with a battle-lung voice.
'Gather gather gather!' he shouted. 'Gather to me, for I have great news, great news.'
Slowly, grumbling and cursing, men began to wake. A few stalwart souls like Heth set themselves to kicking those who pretended to be asleep. It took a long time to get them all together, for sleeping men were scattered in rooms and corridors throughout the Lesser Tower, and even on stairwells.
As they gathered, bringing their weapons with them from habit, Sarazin had a little wine issued. They would be glad of the warmth of the liquor once they were out in the rain. And, fondling the stub of magic candle which was left to him, he knew they would soon be glad to be escaping to the rain.
