'While we held the ascendancy,' said Glambrax cheerfully,
'Thodric Jarl would do nothing to disturb the peace between Witchlord and Weaponmaster. But now we are defeated, so there is no reason why he shouldn't disturb the peace as much as he wants.'
So it was that the young Guest Gulkan and the dwarf Glambrax deduced that their good friend Rolf Thelemite stood in danger of immediate murder.
'What can we do about it?' said Guest.
'Well, we could place bets,' said Glambrax.
'An excellent idea!' said Guest. 'I wager that Rolf lasts a week!'
'What then is a week?' said Glambrax.
'It is an uncouth measurement of days,' said Guest. 'A measurement devised by wizards, and arcanely used in their most secret histories.'
'How many days?' said Glambrax.
'Why,' said Guest, finding himself at a loss, 'fewer than twenty, I think.'
'You think!' said Glambrax. 'For a wager, we have to know! I wager that Rolf lasts three days, not more.'
'Then my money will see him alive for six,' said Guest.
'What money?' said Glambrax. 'Name a sum. And show me you have that sum in your pockets!'
Thus did the valorous Guest Gulkan and the sturdy dwarf Glambrax address the threat which faced the unfortunate Rolf Thelemite; and Rolf was never far from their thoughts in the days that followed.
As the Weaponmaster and the dwarf wagered on Rolf Thelemite's fate, the army from the air-wrecked roof made its way south, accompanied by an uncouth assemblage of baggage animals which were heavily burdened by the imperial treasure chests.
Of course, at the outset, that force numbered scarcely a half a thousand men; but whereas retreating armies are normally diminished by deaths, stragglings and desertions, this one grew – albeit not by much.
Everyone in Locontareth's defending army had known at least this much of the Witchlord's plan: that he intended to retreat south toward Favanosin. And Khmar, launched as he was upon a furious and unparalleled course of slaughter, gave every surviving defender the strongest of all possible incentives to join that retreat. For Khmar was making an example of Locontareth, brutally punishing resistance to deter other cities (Stranagor in particular) from resisting him likewise.
Fearing the knives of the example-maker, those who escaped from Locontareth on foot or on hoof soon quested south, and some of these – inspired by an entirely reasonable terror of Khmar – managed to catch up with those who had escaped from the beleaguered city on a flying roof. So it was that, as they moved south, Witchlord and Weaponmaster enlarged their small army, until the balance between recruitment and desertions saw its numbers level out at just short of 600 men.
In the anxiety of the retreat, Lord Onosh found his son Guest uncommonly buoyant, and was hard put to place the reason. For had they not been defeated? Had they not been driven from the city?
Had they not just lost a great empire? Did they not stand in fear of losing their lives? So was the boy drunk, or was he mad? Or had Sken-Pitilkin or some other been maliciously feeding him strong drugs unfit for human consumption?
On brief enquiry, the Witchlord soon discovered that the young Guest Gulkan was in high spirits because he had made himself the lord of a great gambling pool, and in concert with the dwarf Glambrax was fleecing lesser gamblers, winning wine, and money, and the favors of the army's few ragged camp followers, and extra rations into the bargain.
And the gambling did not concern the running of horses or the jumping of frogs – no, it concerned the date of Rolf Thelemite's murder!
Lord Onosh promptly summoned his wizards, the sagacious Sken-Pitilkin and the slug-chef Pelagius Zozimus. He explained what was happening.
'Why, my lord, it is all true,' said Zozimus. 'I myself am betting that Jarl will murder Rolf when we get to Favanosin.'
'I think that optimistic,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'I don't think
Rolf will be murdered at all, at least not this year. I've bet that he won't be murdered till Midsummer's Day at the earliest.'
'I will not have anyone murdered in my army!' said Lord Onosh, outraged. 'You will halt this business of murder right away!'
'But, my lord,' said Sken-Pitilkin. 'Both Rolf and Jarl are
Rovac warriors, and all such warriors are the natural enemies of wizards. Why should we then care if they kill each other off?'
'And besides,' said Zozimus, 'if we interfere in their mutual murders, it will give them excuse to band together and murder us.'
'Which would be a great loss,' added Sken-Pitilkin, 'for, if rumor is true, my cousin Zozimus has just designed a new and delicious recipe for slugs, a recipe most pleasing to your palate.'
'It is true,' said Lord Onosh heavily.
Then the Witchlord dismissed his wizards and called for the witches Zelafona and Bao Gahai. After short discussion with the Witchlord, that pair of females took Thodric Jarl aside and had a long discussion with him. After which Thodric Jarl was seen to be looking uncommonly queasy for the next three or four days; Rolf Thelemite's spirits rose; and Guest Gulkan's ebullience ebbed as his gambling syndicate broke up, rumor having established that the fine sport of Rolf Thelemite's murder had been effectively terminated by a killjoy Witchlord.
Thus did the valorous Guest Gulkan and the sturdy dwarf Glambrax save their friend Rolf Thelemite from a certain death at the hands of the murderous Thodric Jarl; for it is certain that, had Guest and Glambrax not been so keenly apprehensive of their friend's impending murder as to encourage an entire army into gambling on the event, then Lord Onosh would not have been so swiftly and so decisively moved into terminating that threat.
With Guest and Glambrax thus entered into the ranks of friend-saving heroes, the lords of Locontareth escaped from the marauding Khmar and retreated with their army down the road to Favanosin, at first in disarray, but later in warlike formation, with vanguard ahead and rearguard behind, with scouts on the flanks and sentries posted nightly to vigil out the dark. They feared pursuit; and, as they distanced themselves from Locontareth, they also began to fear the violence of the south.
The south was hostile to the Collosnon Empire, and there was no safe refuge there for a former ruler of Gendormargensis.
However, since the Witchlord Onosh had wisely extracted his treasure from Locontareth, his fugitive army had good gold to buy its necessities – or most of them, for the locals either did not have spare clothes to sell, or had them but refused to sell them.
So the army rapidly grew ragged; for the speed with which the barbarity of thorns and the lubricity of mud can reduce a splendid army to a horde of ragged beggars is nothing short of amazing.
Though the army could not replace its increasingly tattered clothing, it was able to feed itself through purchase, hence had no need to pillage – and so was able to march far south without being forced to bring the natives to battle. But Lord Onosh soon realized that the southrons were arming in his wake; that a force of indeterminate strength was dogging his rearguard; and that the country ahead was being roused and wakened.
In the face of this uncomfortable knowledge, Lord Onosh held a council of war.
They were then in a forest which was heavy with the smoke of an army's campfires. They had halted early, because ahead of them was a small river. To continue, they must cross it: and people had been seen moving furtively on the other side. Thodric Jarl deemed it a good place for an ambush, for the far bank was steep. Hence they had halted for their council of war.
As they would go no further that day whatever the council's decision, Pelagius Zozimus had set himself to turn out a meal, and was presiding over a simmering cauldron from which there rose the most delicious smell imaginable. Near that cauldron, as if drawn there by the potency of its aromas, was a ragged assembly seated on fallen logs.
There was the Witchlord Onosh, dressed like a beggar in his refugee rags. The dralkosh Bao Gahai. The old but elegant witch Zelafona. The dwarf Glambrax, a belt of fifty scalps around his waist, whittling a flute from a
