short, as if hammered to a halt by thunder.
'What,' said Lord Onosh, 'is that?'
'It is a donkey, my lord,' said Sken-Pitilkin.
'I know that!' said the Witchlord wrathfully. 'But why in the name of blood are we wasting time trying to get the beast aboard?'
'Because, my lord,' said Sken-Pitilkin, observing with some alarm the pendulum-like motion which had begun to affect his free- swinging donkey, 'I have an earnest desire to test the effects of flight upon the physiology of the beasts of burden.'
'Grief of gods!' said Lord Onosh. 'What on earth for?'
'My lord wishes to employ this airship in war, does he not?' said Sken-Pitilkin, looking anxiously upward at his much-burdened donkey.
'He does,' said Lord Onosh, referring to himself in the third person, which is one of those grammatical idiosyncrasies commonly allowed to the great.
'Then,' said Sken-Pitilkin, stepping backward from the possible impact zone into which the donkey might fall should the winch-rope break, 'my lord should share my interest in discovering whether a horse can survive transport by air, since the survivability of horses under such circumstances is vital for determining the degree to which the airship can be fully employed in war.'
'But,' objected Lord Onosh, moving backwards in step with Sken-Pitilkin, 'that is not a horse but a donkey, and, being as overloaded as it is, it can be expected to expire of unnatural causes in any case, leaving aside all questions of airflight.'
At which point the rope which had been struggling to sustain the donkey's weight happened to break, and the beast was precipitated downwards, miring a certain slug-chef's armor with a great besplattering of fire-thawed mud. So the donkey died, thus becoming a martyr to experimental science.
And Sken-Pitilkin lamented its loss greatly, though the pressure of events meant that the grieving process did not have time to run its full course, for the wizard of Skatzabratzumon was tying himself into his especially designed flightmaster's seat long before he had had time to absorb the full implications of the loss of his donkey.
Others acted in likeminded haste, and so -
'My lord!' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'We are ready to fly!'
'Ready!' roared Lord Onosh, still checking the chaining of his treasure chests, the padding of them, the bracing of the great logs which sustained them, and the torsion of the twisted ropes provided as back-up for their restraining chains. 'We'll be ready when I'm ready, and not before!'
But at last the Witchlord was satisfied, and tied himself into his seat.
And so -
When the great Khmar battle-bulked to the door of Locontareth's ruling hall with a battle-axe in his hand, Witchlord and Weaponmaster were atop the roof with a complement of half a thousand assorted wizards, witches, dwarves, bodyguards, scouts, soldiers, sub-chefs, carpenters, barley-factors and bootmakers.
One and all, they had tied themselves into the flight-seats with bits of rope and length of old chain, thus preparing themselves for adventure or death.
Meanwhile, down below -
Khmar threw down the door to the ruling hall of Locontareth and led the charge inside -
And the roof tore free with a scream of tortured wood. The roof tore free, and went spinning sideways, sliding over the city like a gigantic bat from the nether hell of Filch Molchops.
Upwards it flew, spinning like a woodchip caught by a tornado. In flight it screamed, and most of its passengers screamed too. One chair broke free, and the carpenter who was strapped to that chair went flying away, snatched to his doom.
He was gone before he could scream.
Then the airship began wheeling downward as fast as it had earlier gone upward. Down it came. It slammed into snow, the early winter snow of Tameran. As the airship slammed, the greatest of the Witchlord's treasure chests burst asunder, and a full five men were instantly killed by the lethal catapulting of ingots of gold and lumps of tarnished silver.
So the airship slammed It slammed, and it bounced.
Like a stone skipping across water, so the roof bucked across the snows. Entire trees cracked like toothpicks beneath the down- slam of that roof. With a howl of incontinent breakage, the roof smoked through the night like an avalanche. A cottage unfortunately placed in the path of the experimental terror-weapon was smashed to smithereens, and all its occupants were reduced in an instant to so much cannibal jelly.
Then at last, with one glissading slide, the roof creamed smoothly across the snows, shuddered once, then halted. There was no sound but for the night wind, and the upbuck ruckus of vomiting as dozens of inexperienced air adventurers methodically chucked up everything they had eaten within living memory.
'Where are we?' said Lord Onosh, shakily cutting himself free from his seat.
'South,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'South of Locontareth. I hope.'
In fact, Sken-Pitilkin had grown a trifle disorientated while trying to navigate his hurling wooden batwing through the wilds of the night. But the wizard of Skatzabratzumon was nevertheless firmly of the opinion that they were indeed south of Locontareth, and probably south by a good few leagues. And in this he was ultimately proved right, and let this be noted as an additional proof of his sagacity, his scholarship, and his capacity for keeping a cool head under conditions of great stress.
'So we are south,' said Lord Onosh. 'Very well. Then let us be going, because I want to be far further south before the dawn.'
Whereupon the rest of the air adventurers cut themselves free from their chairs. Then they would have fled, only Lord Onosh was still tender of the security of his treasure chests, thinking to put his trust in bulk bullion now that he had so few men to his name. So scouting parties went out into the night to loot from the peasantry whatever horses, ponies, donkeys, mules, cows, bulls, pigs, dogs, wheelbarrows and carts could conceivably be used for the transport of treasure chests; and at last, as dawn broke bleary eyed over a clownish convoy of raucous disorder, the Witchlord and his people began their retreat to the south.
They were hoping, of course, to gain the road to the distant port of Favanosin, and thus to make a swift escape toward the sanctuary of foreign lands, and the safety of the southern shores of the continent of Tameran.
Chapter Nineteen
Favanosin: a town which geographers believe to lie some 640 leagues from Locontareth along a southbound trade route which passes through territory long regarded by the Witchlord's regime as being hostile.
Immediately after the dramatic wreckfall of Sken-Pitilkin's flying roof, all was confusion, and the rest of the night was not much better. But, as day dawned, the Witchlord's forces began to fall into some kind of order.
'Grief of a dog!' said Rolf Thelemite. 'My ear is torn!'
And indeed the Rovac warrior's left ear had been damaged, and his golden snake-serpent earring had been torn away altogether.
As Rolf Thelemite was lamenting the loss, the gray-bearded Thodric Jarl came up to him and addressed him in the Rovac tongue.
Rolf turned pale, and thereafter ceased his moaning.
'What did he say?' said Guest, a little later.
'I cannot tell you,' said Rolf Thelemite despairingly.
But Guest was able to deduce Rolf Thelemite's plight for himself. The unfortunate Rolf had sworn to kill Guest if Guest made war on his father – but had been untrue to his oath.
Doubtless Thodric Jarl had told Rolf that he had more than a torn ear to worry about – and Rolf, an oath- breaker accursed of Rovac, had feared his imminent demise. Guest shared his perceptions with the dwarf Glambrax, who agreed that Rolf was doubtlessly doomed.
