'Father,' said Guest, without preamble, and without asking permission to speak.
Lord Onosh tossed the remains of the machet to the dwarf Glambrax, who had already given him a vibrant account of the epic battle between the man Jarl and the boy Guest. Glambrax bit gleefully at his fresh-caught trophy then started to juggle with it. As the dwarf performed, Lord Onosh turned his attention to Guest Gulkan.
'So,' said the Witchlord, 'the larger of my two fools has decided to put in an appearance. What tricks will it play for us today?'
'My lord,' said Guest, doing his best to ignore this sally,
'I have a need for justice.'
'You,' said Lord Onosh, looking him up and down, 'have a need for a bath.'
'A bath?' said Guest in astonishment.
'You know the word, do you not?' said Lord Onosh. 'It denotes a thorough lavage of the body, a task best accomplished by immersing the said body in a tub of warm water. In your case, the use of wire brushes and sandpaper might also be advisable.'
'My lord jests,' said Guest, who had had his last bath only three years previously, and was not due for another until high summer two years hence.
'You have obviously not seen yourself in a mirror,' said Lord Onosh. 'Glambrax! In the absence of a mirror, describe the boy to himself!'
'My lord,' said Glambrax, accepting this assignment. 'The boy looks like an over-large mud beetle crawling drunk from a full-to-overflowing spittoon.'
'You dislike my appearance!' said Guest. 'Why, then know Thodric Jarl to be the cause of it!'
'That much I have heard,' said Lord Onosh imperturbably.
'When you see that good gentleman, be sure to thank him for the lessons he has taught you.'
'The lessons?' said Guest in astonishment.
'You have learnt, I hope, not to fight with a pit at your back. That is the first lesson, and doubtless meditation will reveal others of equal importance. But enough of the lessons! Pray tell – what started your quarrel in the first place?'
Guest, having a delicate matter to broach, should now have asked for privacy – as he knew, for the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin had taught him as much. But, instead, the foolish youth got right to the meat of the matter.
'There is a woman,' said Guest.
'At your age,' said Lord Onosh, 'there is always a woman.
Such is the nature of youth. Such is the nature of the greedy child.'
'You call me a child?' said Guest.
'Yes, a child come to beg at the boots of his father,' said Lord Onosh.
'Can we discuss this in private?' said Guest, belatedly remembering Sken-Pitilkin's advice.
'Since you so rudely interrupted me in public, no,' said Lord Onosh.
'Why not?' said Guest.
'As a punishment for your insolence!' said Lord Onosh. 'If you come here to ask for a woman then ask for her, and the answer is no, you can't have her, particularly not if she belongs to Thodric Jarl.'
'Who said she belongs to Jarl?' said Guest.
'If she occasioned your quarrel, who else could she possibly belong to? Sken-Pitilkin, perhaps?'
'The woman is but a slave,' said Guest sullenly. 'A slave, a thing of no possible importance.'
'It is but a thing which belongs to Thodric Jarl,' said Lord Onosh.
'He claimed it,' protested Guest, 'but all booty from bandits is yours. Thus runs the law.'
Thus ran the law indeed, but by quoting it the young Weaponmaster merely proved his poor grasp of the politics of an imperial court much beset by assassins. Like Rolf Thelemite, Thodric Jarl was a Rovac warrior, and hence his sword was of inestimable value.
To Guest, his father's few Rovac warriors had no value beyond their novelty, and hence were disposable. But to Lord Onosh, these uitlanders were valued bodyguards who, unlike the Yarglat, could be trusted not to embroil themselves in the local clan-struggles.
So while Guest thought Jarl could be cheated with impunity, his father thought otherwise; for Lord Onosh relied upon Jarl for the security of his sleep.
'Mine to give, mine to bestow,' agreed Lord Onosh. 'So I bestow the thing on Thodric Jarl.'
'If I could,' said Guest, rage overmastering sanity, 'I would fight you and kill you.'
'You would, would you?' said Lord Onosh coldly.
Guest realized his error.
But there was no unsaying such words.
'I would,' said Guest, struggling to match his courage to the impetuosity of his tongue.
'Then I will meet you by proxy in Gendormargensis,' said Lord Onosh. 'I will be represented in the challenge by Thodric Jarl, who will hack down your pride and leave it bloody on the stones.'
Guest Gulkan absorbed the implications of this, and backed off, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Then he turned on his heel and fled.
'Where are my camp marshals?' said Lord Onosh, rising to his feet, his face as thunder.
The marshals were produced, and the emperor gave them his orders.
'Ready the camp for the move,' said he. 'We ride before dusk and we ride by dark once night has come upon us.'
'But, my lord,' ventured one of the marshals, 'there is tonight no moon.'
'So we ride by dark,' said Lord Onosh. 'We ride by dark, as I said we would. If I must say it again then I will kill someone!'
And, since no-one doubted that the emperor would be as good as his word, ride they did – and soon!
Chapter Two
Name: Eljuk Zala Gulkan.
Birthplace: Gendormargensis.
Occupation: student.
Status: heir to the Collosnon Empire.
Description: timorous Yarglat male, undersized at a height of 9 qua. He is so birthmarked that he appears to have let a mouthful of purple wine dribble from the corners of his mouth then flow to a merging at his throat. But his most remarkable aspect is surely his ears, which are small – a singular oddity considering his father's gargantuan head-flaps and the size of the equally ostentatious protruberances flaunted by his brothers Morsh and Guest.
Hobby: the memorization and word-perfect recital of the more elegant kinds of lyric poetry.
Quote: 'I don't really want to be emperor, but I suppose it's no worse than what most people have to put up with.'
Thus in his anger the emperor rode forth in pursuit of those bandits who had escaped his earlier attack. Riding with all the ferocity of Obela Ukma, the warrior of legend who had sought to outpace his own mortality, Lord Onosh and his party performed prodigies of roughground speedleaguing in the days that followed.
The first ice of the oncoming winter smashed beneath the hooves of their horses as they chased bandits from highground to low. The stars of the night sharpened to needles, intolerably cold in their burning.
Cold, frost, ice and steaming breath – these things reminded Lord Onosh of his childhood. He punctured a vein to draw blood from his horse, and sucked down that blood, and the heavy taste brought to mind the ordeals of his youth. He looked up at the stars, the stars so cold and remote in the scorn of their burning.
Stars of cold green – as cold and green as jade under water. Chips of blue opal. Lambent red and sullen- sulphur purple.
Those stars – Lord Onosh knelt to a pool of dark water by night, knelt to the stars, knelt to the bright gold and the needlework of liquid silver, to the bloodline-brightness of scarlet and the dull vulcanism of cooling lava. The
