Ul-donlok: valley in the mountains of Ibsen-Iktus. The upper
part of this valley is ruled by Ontario Nol, a wizard of the order
of Itch. Nearer the Swelaway Sea is the realm of King Igpatan, a
monarch famous for his extensive collection of moths, and for the
unpleasant nature of his frequent birthday celebrations.

                                                 * * *

        So Lord Onosh was defeated at the high pass of Volvo Marp;
and was led as a prisoner through the high and bitter valley of
Yox; and was taken over Zomara Pass; and thus came in chains to
the valley of Ul-donlok and the monastery of Qonsajara, home of
the wizard Ontario Nol.
        In chains?
        Yes, for Guest had found a renegade goldsmith amongst his
ranks, and had caused the man to make miniature chains of fine-
link gold out of some jewelry taken from the dead; and, wearing
these largely symbolic tokens of his defeat, the Witchlord Onosh
came to the monastery of Qonsajara.
        His son played tourist guide for the visit.
        "This," said Guest, with a gesture in the direction of the
vast decrepitude of the building's tiled facade, "was once
consecrated to dorking, but those dedicated to that sport found
the climate too cold for their nakedness."
        Then Guest Gulkan gave the Witchlord a potted history of the
many orgies of Qonsajara, showing off the place as if it was his
own creation. Indeed, young Guest was greatly proud of the
hugeness of this behemoth of a building, with its monumental
frontage half a thousand paces in length, the whole of it adorned
with obscenely ornate faded ceramic tiles dedicated to the
liquidity of the hulakola, the heat of the yinx, the mystery of
the omphalos, the snakings of limbs of passion and silk, the
lividity of tongues, the yearning of muscles and the fondling of
curves, the sensuality of all of which was amplified by the very
harshness of the bleak and shattered upland landscape in which the
building was set.
        Just as the Witchlord Onosh took no pleasure in Guest
Gulkan's building, so the Witchlord took no pleasure in being held
captive, and this Guest found most strange.
        After all, as far as the Weaponmaster was concerned, he was
being most magnanimously hospitable in victory. Apart from the
symbolic imposition of golden chains, young Guest had done his
father no harm, and thought himself a very great man to be letting
his father enjoy the unhindered possession of such superfluous
luxuries as two eyes and a nose. After all, what had Lord Onosh
ever done for young Guest? Nothing. He had never offered him
anything in the way of power, authority or prestige. It was the
purple-birthmarked Eljuk who had been groomed to inherit the
empire, whereas poor Guest had ever been told that he would
inherit precisely nothing.
        Yet surely he deserved to inherit!
        As far as Guest was concerned, he was a mighty warrior who
in the days of his earliest youth had repeatedly fought for his
father against bandits, who had once risked his own life to save
his brother Eljuk from the river, and who had brought great credit
to the imperial family by defeating the Rovac warrior Thodric Jarl
in fair combat in Enskandalon Square in Gendormargensis.
        All this Guest had done, yet his father had repaid him with
theft and exile. His father had denied him access to Yerzerdayla,
the prize he had won through combat with Thodric Jarl, and in
Guest Gulkan's eyes this denial constituted an act of positive
theft. This wrong had been compounded by the fact that his father
had meanly and unfairly exiled him from the imperial capital and
all its pleasures, sending him into exile in far-off Safrak where
he had been denied all of life's consolations excepting the
company of the irregular verbs.
        Guest Gulkan had almost died on the journey to that island,
for the boat which had taken him across the Swelaway Sea had been
rotten, and had almost sunk. And on arrival - why, on the cruel
and loveless island of Alozay, the exiled Guest had endured the
horrors of a plague of influenza. There, too, he had been
confronted by a demonic demon, the notorious Icaria Scaria Iva-
Italis, Demon By Appointment to the Great God Jocasta. Then he had
been forced to fight his way free from the island; and to escape
across the Swelaway Sea in another death-trap of a boat; and then
to risk a terrifying sky-hurtling journey across the mountains.
And then, in the mountains themselves, he had almost died on
account of the effects of a sudden ascent to great altitude.
        And it was all his father's fault!
        To Guest, then, it was entirely right, logical and just that
he should have thrown in his lot with the tax revolutionaries led
by Sham Cham, for Guest had grievances to avenge, grievances which
were well worth killing for. The theft of the flesh of the woman
Yerzerdayla, for example! Not to mention such matters as the
inheritance of the empire.
        Consequently, Guest prided himself on the magnanimous
greatness of heart which he showed by not killing his father, or
torturing him either, or spitting in his face, or cutting off his
hair, or grinding his nose into the mud, or doing any of those
other things which the ingenious Rolf Thelemite suggested with
such unrestrained enthusiasm.
        So when Guest looked on his father, he thought:
        "Here is the foolish old man who cheated me of my woman, who
exiled me unfairly, who waged war against me rather than share his
manure with Locontareth, and who is living proof of my own
greatness of heart, for I have almost forgiven him, in proof of
which I have greeted him with the full abundance of this mountain
palace of mine, and have extended to him the use of all things
which are good in this my mountain kingdom."
        Thus Guest thought, for as far as he was concerned he had
conquered the valley of Ul-donlok by the simple expedient of
marching his small army into it; and, as the wizard Ontario Nol
wisely offered Guest everything in the valley which was there for
the taking, the valley was indeed a kingdom, at least for the
practical purposes of the moment.
        Thus Guest.
        But the Witchlord Onosh inhabited a different world entirely
- a situation which has plenty of precedent, for parents and
children are often so remote from each other as to be, in effect,
members of different tribes, or different races, or different
species altogether. Hence there is often more love, trust and
mutual understanding between a man and his dog than a man and his
son.
        As far as Lord Onosh was concerned, Guest Gulkan was a wild
and witless boy who had disgraced himself and had brought the
imperial family into disrepute by quarreling with a low-born
foreign mercenary over the possession of a woman. After attempting
the unjust seizure of the woman, the boy had then risked his life
against the mercenary, and had almost got himself killed.
        Lord Onosh knew full well that Thodric Jarl would have killed
Guest in Enskandalon Square had Lord Onosh not intervened by
persuading the wizard Sken-Pitilkin to use his magic to trick Jarl
out of his balance. After saving his son, the Witchlord had
thereafter demonstrated his concerned love for the boy by sending
him to safety in the Safrak Islands, which were renowned as a zone
of peace and tranquility.
        Furthermore, Lord Onosh had deprived himself of the benefits
of the cooking of Pelagius Zozimus, the greatest chef in the
Collosnon Empire, for the Witchlord Onosh had sent the wizard-chef
Zozimus to Safrak to provide extra security for his son. Meantime,
Lord Onosh had tried hard to put down the tax revolt based on
Locontareth, to secure the empire which was surely destined to be
Guest's inheritance.
        So when Lord Onosh looked at Guest, he thought:
        "Here is the wicked, witless, mindless, stubborn, stupid,
ungrateful, scheming, treacherous boy whom I have tried for so
long to preserve, protect and educate so that he might one day be
fit to govern the empire which I have ever expected to fall
inevitably to his possession. To protect him in battle, I have
risked losing the loyalty of my greatest bodyguard; and I have
deprived myself of the services of my greatest chef in order to
help preserve and protect his worthless life, and for all this he
has proved entirely ungrateful."
        Thus the son was confused and the father bitter; and, in the
extremity of his bitterness, Lord Onosh began to reconfigure the
past, without realizing that he was doing so.
        Lord Onosh had always seen that his own death would be
followed by murder. Eljuk Zala Gulkan lacked the strength to hold
an empire as his own. Therefore, on the Witchlord's death, Guest
Gulkan must necessarily murder Eljuk, slaughtering down his
brother then mastering the Collosnon Empire to his own will. This
Lord Onosh had always seen.
        But now, rather than attributing Eljuk's inevitable fate to
Eljuk's deficiencies, Lord Onosh convinced himself that the
certainty of Eljuk's destruction was a consequence of the demonic
evil of the boy Guest.
        So when Eljuk unexpectedly announced that he was going to
stay in the mountains with the wizard Ontario Nol, Lord Onosh was
convinced that Guest had terrorized poor Eljuk, and had threatened
him with murder or worse.
        "What has he said to you?" said Lord Onosh.
        "He has said," said Eljuk, "that he will make me his
apprentice."
        "No," said Lord Onosh irritably. "Not the wizard. It's Guest,
Guest I'm talking about. What has Guest said to you? About
staying, I mean?"
        "Why," said Eljuk, "he said that Nol wanted me, asked for me.
And he says, ah, it's a good idea, that's what he says."
        "You mean he threatened you?"
        "Threatened?" said Eljuk, looking puzzled. "Why should he
threaten me?"
        "Because he wants the empire."
        "Well," said Eljuk, "if I'm going to be a wizard, then he can
have it."
        "But you can't be a wizard!" said Lord Onosh. "You're of the
Yarglat, and no man of the Yarglat was ever a wizard! It's foreign
stuff, stuff for the people of Toxteth and places like that."
        Eljuk Zala, resisting the temptation to remind his father
that Toxteth was not a place but a language, reminded him instead
that Ontario Nol was of the Yarglat.
        "So he says, so he says," said Lord Onosh. "But I'm sure he
was never the heir to an empire."
        "What's that got to do with it?" said Eljuk.
        At this, Lord Onosh looked fit to overheat and explode, in
the manner of one of those notorious pressure cookers with which
Pelagius Zozimus once experimented.
        "You can't just throw away an empire," said Lord Onosh in
great distress. "You can't just throw it away, just like that!"
        But Eljuk could, and did, and had. For Ontario Nol, the great
wizard of Itch who had lived for so long as abbot of Qonsajara and
as ruler of the uplands of Ul-donlok, had tempted young Eljuk with
prospects of knowledge, and insight, and arcane power, and life
prolonged for millennia. This temptation had proved potent, for the
scholarly Eljuk had no desire to be the lord of the sweat of ten
thousand horses or the grease of an equal number of virginal
vaginas, or to possess any of those other most useless and uncouth
material goods which typically appeal to your average Yarglat
barbarian.
        So Eljuk abandoned an empire, choosing wizardry instead.
        And Eljuk could not be dissuaded from his choice.
        Lord Onosh had little time in which to attempt dissuasion,
for Guest was conscious of the passage of time, and knew that he
was growing short of this commodity. The Battle of Babaroth had
been fought in the heat of high summer, and it had been hot summer
still when Guest had defeated his father at Volvo Marp by making
an ally out of an avalanche; but the season was rapidly advancing,
and soon it would be autumn.
        Guest Gulkan remembered the winter journey which had seen him
journey from Gendormargensis to an unwelcome exile on the island
of Alozay. For a few people, well-equipped and well-clad, that
winter passage had proved feasible. But Guest fancied that a
thousand spears would be hard-put to scavenge a bare living for
themselves on such a passage through snow and ice.
        The rations which Guest had earlier looted from his father's
baggage train and portaged into the mountains were running short;
by no stretch of imagination could the mountains themselves feed
his army; and so he was determined to be back in Gendormargensis
before winter set in.
        Being so determined, Guest Gulkan said a fond farewell to his
brother Eljuk, and ordered his army to prepare for a march to the
lowlands, the lowlands where the sun was exercising its strength
in one last bravado display of luxurious heat.
        Lord Onosh begged for leave to stay in Qonsajara, swearing
that he would live out his life peacefully in the mountains of
Ibsen-Iktus. But Guest was not fool enough to believe his father,
so took the man with him, that man being still symbolically
imprisoned with golden chains. Jarl likewise went as a prisoner.
Eljuk stayed. The text-master Eldegen Terzanagel wanted to
stay, but Ontario Nol refused him house room. Nevertheless, Nol
extended a hospitable mercy to a couple of poor fellows who were
dying of tuberculosis, and to a witless fool who had broken his
leg in five different places by attempting that suicidal activity
known as mountain climbing. But the rest of the army marched.
        Thus it came to pass that Eljuk Zala Gulkan, eldest son of
the Witchlord Onosh Gulkan, stayed behind in the monastery of
Qonsajara. And the bold Guest Gulkan said farewell to the wizard
Ontario Nol and began his return journey to the Collosnon Empire,
taking his father with him as a prisoner.
        Guest marched his men down the valley in force, hoping to
provoke a minor war with King Igpatan. But that minor village lord
wisely kept his fighting men away from Guest Gulkan's line of
march, and let Guest loot as many chickens as he chose as he
marched down to the shores of the Swelaway Sea.
        Guest then marched along those shores to the village of Ink,
where he began to bethink himself of the boat-salesman Umbilskimp,
who had once sold him a rotten boat. Guest had sworn to hang the
fellow, and remained true to the resolution of his oath.
        "But," said Guest to Sken-Pitilkin, "I do not want to give my
biographer excuse to slander me. I wish to rule in justice, and to
be seen to do as much."
        "Then perhaps," said Sken-Pitilkin, "you may have to forego
the pleasures of a hanging."
        This was not the advice which Guest had expected to receive.
He had expected Sken-Pitilkin to show him some means whereby he
could hang the unfortunate Umbilskimp out of hand while still
maintaining his good standing in the eyes of his biographer.
        Thrown back on his own resources of cunning, the Weaponmaster
Guest soon schemed up a plot which was adequate to his purpose. He
called for his slow-witted brother, Morsh Bataar.
        "Morsh," said Guest. "I want you to ride ahead to the village
of Ink. Say nothing of my army. Say that you speak for a party of
merchants from the Ibsen-Iktus mountains. Say that you wish to buy
boats, boats for a trip to Alozay. Three boats, four, whatever the
money will stretch to."
        Then Guest gave his brother gold, and sent him ahead with
three stout fellows who would act as both bodyguards and
witnesses.
        By the time Guest Gulkan marched his army into Ink, his
brother Morsh had successfully purchased five boats with the money
which Guest had given him.
        "Who sold you these boats?" said Guest.
        "I bought them from Umbilskimp, Pedrick and Mung," said
Morsh. "The three are confederated in a boat-selling partnership."
        "Very well," said Guest. "Identify them! Then have them
arrested!"
        "Arrested?" said Morsh in astonishment. "But they sold me the
boats, just as you wanted. I though you wanted to go to Alozay."
        "No!" said Guest. "Alozay is the least and last of the places
I want to go to!"
        That was not entirely the truth, for Guest still thought
often of Icaria Scaria Iva-Italis, the demon who guarded the
stairway at the eastern end of Alozay's Hall of Time. Guest was
still minded to go to Alozay. To pact with the demon Iva-Italis.
To rescue the Great God Jocasta from imprisonment in Obooloo's
Temple of Blood. And to have himself made a wizard as a reward for
the rescue. All this he would do - one day. But clearly he should
first look to the security of the Collosnon Empire, for then the
rest could be easily accomplished.
        "So," said Morsh, soberly. "You lied to me. You didn't need
boats at all."
        "Lied to you!" said Guest, in outrage. "I made you an
instrument of justice, that's what I did! Arrest those men, and
I'll prove it to you!"
        So Umbilskimp, Pedrick and Mung were arrested, and Guest set
himself about organizing a proper trial which would prove his
merits to his biographer.
        The captive Lord Onosh was made judge of the case, which was
prosecuted by the slug-chef Pelagius Zozimus, who went about his
business with an uncommonly gleeful display of zeal. The text-
master Eldegen Terzanagel was made defense counsel. Guest Gulkan,
Rolf Thelemite, Thodric Jarl and Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin
testified for the prosecution. Morsh Bataar also gave evidence,
and the boats he had so recently bought were hauled from the water
to be examined by the court.
        In this manner, Umbilskimp, Pedrick and Mung were given a
proper trial before an independent judge. It was quick - it was
all over in a single morning - but it was fair. It was proved
that Umbilskimp had once sold a murderously rotten boat to Guest
Gulkan and his comrades; that Mung had likewise deceitfully sold a
hulk to Thodric Jarl.
        As for the boats so recently sold to Morsh Bataar by the
tripartite partnership, why, the belly of each proved as soft as a
slug.
        "So," said the slug-chef Zozimus, prosecuting his case to the
hilt, "here we see nothing more nor less than organized murder
undertaken for commercial gain. These men have years of boat-
selling expertise behind them, therefore cannot plead ignorance.
They have made a career out of selling rotten hulks fit for
nothing more than sinking. I demand the death penalty!"
        In response, the text-master Eldegen Terzanagel tried the
usual tricks. He called attention to the impoverished environment
in which his clients lived; mentioned the sundry derelictions of
their upbringing; and finally drew attention to the matter of
local mores.
        "The selling of rotten boats to unsuspecting strangers is a
part and parcel of traditional local culture," said Terzanagel.
"An ethnologist would say that we cannot judge the backward
savages of a place like Ink by the standards of a highly-evolved
civilization like our own. An ethnologist would say that
Umbilskimp, Pedrick and Mung acted rightly in terms of their own
cultural traditions, and we do them a great wrong if we condemn
them in accordance with the traditions of our own culture,
traditions which are quite alien to theirs. So say the
ethnologists."
        "Then I say we should hang the ethnologists along with the
villagers!" said Zozimus. "You, sir - are you an ethnologist?"
        Eldegen Terzanagel hastily denied it, insisting that he was
but a poor text-master, and was only defending the murderous
wretches of Ink at Guest Gulkan's sword-point insistence.
        "There!" said Zozimus, turning to the judge of the case. "You
see? Even the counsel for the defense has no confidence in his
clients! He called them murderous wretches! Well, murderous they
are, for use, but they can hardly be wretched, not after glutting
themselves on generations of ill-gotten gold. I call for the death
penalty!"
        "You have called for that once already," said Lord Onosh.
"But as judge of this case, I am happy for you to call for it
twice, and I am happy to grant it."
        So Umbilskimp, Pedrick and Mung were sentenced to death. The
Witchlord Onosh had very little choice in the matter of the
sentence. The crime was grave, the evidence compelling and the
guilt proven. Lord Onosh would have looked a capricious fool or a
corrupt fraud had he pardoned the boat sellers.
        With the boat-sellers having been sentenced to death, Guest
Gulkan congratulated Zozimus on his able prosecution, and
called for volunteers.
        "I need a hangman," said Guest. "Preferably someone who has
done the job before, but enthusiasm will serve in the absence of
experience."
        Whereupon Thodric Jarl stepped forward, declaring he had both
the enthusiasm and the experience. Guest appointed him as
executioner, and the Rovac warrior set to work with a will.
Mung was the first man to be hung. His neck broke, and he was
dead in moments. Pedrick suffered a similar fate. But when Jarl
tried to hang Umbilskimp, the rope broke.
        Umbilskimp fell heavily, then got to his feet uncertainly.
Guest watched, feeling more than a little uncertain himself, as
Thodric Jarl advanced upon the old man.
        Thodric Jarl took Umbilskimp by the throat - just as Guest,
on an earlier occasion, had taken Rolf Thelemite by the throat on
a battlefield near Babaroth. But whereas Guest had meant to
menace, Thodric Jarl had murder as his intent. Guest took a half-
step forward, for he had half-decided that he had had enough.
        "If you are a woman in your sentiments," said the Witchlord
Onosh, detecting his son's intentions, and finding himself unable
to resist the temptation to exercise himself in a sneer, "then
it's best you step aside and let men have the governance of the
empire."
        Whereupon Guest restrained himself, for, even though he had
defeated his father by avalanche, the Weaponmaster lacked courage
sufficient to endure his father's scorn. So Jarl - slowly,
deliberately, lovingly - crushed his man, then dropped him into a
crumpled heap. Whereupon everyone moved away, saving for Morsh
Bataar alone, who somberly covered the dead man with a cloak.
        After that, Guest was in no mood to linger, so hastened his
army in its march. The army followed the flow of the Pig, keeping
to its southern bank.
        Guest grew increasingly somber on the march, and Sken-
Pitilkin began to worry about his condition. For Guest had
defeated his father, and was in effect the emperor. As soon as he
had seized the city of Gendormargensis as his own, men would
recognize him as emperor. If he were ready in compromise and
generous with his pardons, then he might well be able to secure
the loyalty of the dissident city of Stranagor. And with that
done, the entire Collosnon Empire would be under his sway - if not
immediately, then soon.
        Seeking thus, Sken-Pitilkin sought out Guest when the army
camped near the bridge which had been the scene of a battle
between Witchlord and Weaponmaster during the summer.
        Sken-Pitilkin had seek a goodly distance, for the
Weaponmaster had walked far from his camp. He had walked through
the hot afternoon all the way to the confluence of the Yolantarath
and the Pig, which was where Sken-Pitilkin found him. Guest was
sitting on the riverbank, watching the waters, while Rolf
Thelemite and Morsh Bataar waited at a discrete distance.
        On approaching Guest, the wizard of Skatzabratzumon made no
attempt to challenge him, or jolly him out of his desponds.
Instead, Sken-Pitilkin sat himself down on the bank and waited. At
last Guest said, without anything in the way of preamble:
        "Was I right or wrong? Letting those men hang, I mean. Was
that right? Or was it wrong?"
        Sken-Pitilkin gave an ambivalent answer. Not out of
dishonesty, but because he himself had not quite made up his mind
about the matter.
        "Most men would say the thing was rightly done," said Sken-
Pitilkin.
        "But what say you?" said Guest.
        "I'm not necessarily any wiser than my neighbor," said Sken-
Pitilkin.
        "But you think I shouldn't have done it."
        "A hanging is an ugly thing," said Sken-Pitilkin. "An ordered
society would surely hold its boat sellers in check, thus
preserving them from the gallows. But Ink is no part of any
ordered society. Those men you hung, why - they murdered for
profit, as was said at their trial. A hanging is an ugly thing,
but piracy is worse, and those men were pirates in their
commercial deceits."
        "So I did right," said Guest.
        "Do you feel as if you did right?" said Sken-Pitilkin.
        "How can you first prove me right then go on to question my
rightness?" said Guest.
        "I can," said Sken-Pitilkin, "because you know yourself
wrong."
        "Wrong!" said Guest, raising his voice for the first time.
"But you have just proved me right!"
        Sken-Pitilkin sat silent to let the young man settle, then
said:
        "I watched you during the hanging."
        Guest absorbed that in silence, then said:
        "And?"
        "And," said Sken-Pitilkin, "you were moved to pardon
Umbilskimp. But you didn't. Why not?"
        Guest made no answer. He knew the reason why. But Sken-
Pitilkin felt the reason had to be made explicit. Had to
verbalized - lest it be forgotten.
        "You let Jarl kill the man," said Sken-Pitilkin. "You let
Jarl kill the man because you were afraid to show mercy. You were
afraid of your father's scorn."
        Guest made no reply. His face was expressionless. He looked
out across the river, then picked up a piece of mud and threw it
with a jerk. The mud plopped into the river, and, a moment later,
was answered by a splash as a fish jumped.
        "Since your earliest youth," said Sken-Pitilkin, "you have
been killing men in brawls with bandits. Killing men and taking
their scalps. Ethnology would pardon such habits, so who am I to
condemn? As you said yourself, it is but your cultural heritage.
But to kill men for banditry or piracy is one thing. To kill a man
because you fear your father's scorn is quite another. If you
cannot master the disciplines of mercy, then I think you unfit to
master the sword."
        Guest absorbed that, too, in silence.
        The silence tempted Sken-Pitilkin, and that wizard of
Skatzabratzumon was half-persuaded to launch himself into a
lecture on avalanches. After all, in the mountains of Ibsen-Iktus,
the young Guest Gulkan had casually obliterated his father's army
by avalanche - and had never thereafter shown so much as an
eyeblink of remorse for the deed.
        Sken-Pitilkin still felt sorely about that avalanche,
particularly as Guest Gulkan had used a swordpoint's threat to
compel a certain wizard of Skatzabratzumon to use his levitational
powers to trigger that downslide of rocks, ice and fractured snow.
So Sken-Pitilkin opened his mouth - then closed it again, firmly.
        After all, in Ibsen-Iktus, Guest had been at war, hence could
plead necessity. And, besides, it is contrary to human nature for
anyone to concern themselves with large-scale tragedies remote
from their own persons. To those who are of tender spirit, the
death of a small mouse or the agony of a bird in a cat's jaws
makes more impact than the death by starvation of some half a
million people in a nation a continent removed.
        Guest had been closely, intimately concerned with the death
of the boat-seller Umbilskimp. That death had been consequent upon
Guest's own moral cowardice. For he had seen fit to exercise the
prerogative of mercy, yet had restrained himself for mere fear of
his father's scorn.
        Had Guest a fragile child unschooled in the ways of power,
then Sken-Pitilkin might have seen fit to mitigate his suffering
with words of comfort and of absolution. But Guest was no such
child. He was a warlord's son with a soul as ugly as his bat-flap
ears. So Sken-Pitilkin, seeing that the young man was truly
suffering, was pleased to see as much. And, having done his duty
by making Guest's crime of crimes explicit, unavoidable and (with
luck) unforgettable, the wizard of Skatzabratzumon rose, dusted
down his fishermen's skirts, and departed without so much as a
word of farewell.
        Left to himself - for Rolf Thelemite and Morsh Bataar were
still keeping their distance, their fumbling attempts at comfort
having earlier been rudely rebuffed - Guest Gulkan sat alone by
the confluence of the Yolantarath and the Pig.
        The Pig, which had earlier flowed clear, was running muddy
now, for upstream was Guest Gulkan's army, and men, clothes and
horses were being washed in the river's waters. The Pig emptied
its muddiness in a whirlygig rush into the slow-mud slurge of the
ineffable Yolantarath, the name of which river reminded Guest, by
poetic association, of Yerzerdayla, the woman who - he supposed -
dwelt still in Gendormargensis.
        Now that Guest was emperor, more or less, he supposed he
could take the woman from Thodric Jarl. Yes, and hang Jarl unless
that Rovac warrior would give him the woman, and swear fealty to
him, and lick his boots in proof of such fealty.
        So thought Guest.
        But such imaginings proved strangely comfortless, for still
he could not shake free the memories of the hangings. The bodies
black against the sun. Old man Umbilskimp, wheezing heavily,
making odd fluttering gestures with his hands as Thodric Jarl
lumbered toward him.
        The sky was darkening, now, the broad sky above the wide
reach of the Yolantarath growing heavy with clouds. As Guest sat
by the river, he shivered, suddenly cold. For some reason, he
suddenly thought there was snow all around. Which was ridiculous.
Despite the lateness of the season, the first snowfall was yet
days distant. Still. Guest imagined snow.
        There was snow, and it was cold, and now Guest realize that
there was an animal padding through the cold of that snow. It was
a beast of snow, and was as white as the snow. He knew its weight
from its silence.
        Then it breathed upon him.
        Its breath was hot on his nape.
        In all his life, Guest had endured nothing more terrifying
than that hot breath breathing on him from out of the silence of
snow. He tried to stand, tried to run. But could not. For his arms
and legs were bloody shreds, and as the pain of his mutilations
hit him he started to scream, and was screaming still when Rolf
Thelemite and Morsh Bataar came running to his rescue.