Lord Onosh: a Yarglat barbarian whose bat-wing ears indicate
his close genetic relationship to Guest Gulkan. "It's a wise man
who knows his own father," or so say the wise, but, even in the
folly of his youth, Guest has but to glance at the Witchlord's
ears to know the truth of his fathering.
        
                                                 * * *

        Lord Onosh was fatigued beyond his age. In the dying lantern
light, sweat slid redshining down the furrows in his slanted
forehead. He gave an overwhelming impression of weariness. He had
been defeated once too often, and his resources of courage were
almost exhausted.
        With the Witchlord were the wizards Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin and
Pelagius Zozimus. They too were similarly wearied, for they had
exerted themselves to the full while trying to fight a way through
to the Palace Docks.
        They had failed.
        Wizards and warriors alike, they had been defeated. The
Guardians were too many. So the Witchlord Onosh, in company with
his wizards and his other retainers, had been forced to retreat
upwards into the less-populated areas of the mainrock Pinnacle.
        On winning his way upward to the Hall of Time, Lord Onosh
summed it with the briefest of glimpses. He saw the dwarf
Glambrax scuttling away toward the green lightblock at the far end
of the hall, saw one or two people scuffling near that lightblock,
and saw other than that pretty much what he had expected. As far
as he was concerned, the Hall of Time was just one more hole in
the night. A hole where he planned to rest, at least for a few
moments.
        Thinking thus, Lord Onosh slumped against the nearest wall,
and closed his eyes. Such was his weariness that he sagged
immediately into sleep - but he had slept for scarcely moments
when he was shaken awake.
        "What is it?" said Lord Onosh, opening his eyes to see that
it was Bao Gahai who was rousing him.
        "It is Rolf Thelemite," said Bao Gahai. "He has news."
        Lord Onosh hauled himself to his feet and confronted Rolf
Thelemite, who had previously been with those who had been
fighting a rearguard action downstairs.
        "What is it?" said Lord Onosh.
        "I have news," said Rolf.
        "News?" said Lord Onosh. "Then spit it out!"
        "Thodric Jarl says we have secured the stairs," said Rolf.
"At least for the moment."
        "Then I could have slept for that moment!" said Lord Onosh,
rightfully aggrieved at having been awakened to hear such
absolutely superfluous information.
        Then the Witchlord declared that he would sleep, and must not
be disturbed. Having delivered himself of this pronouncement, he
slumped again, and was asleep in moments.
        But he was again awakened.
        "What is it this time?" said Lord Onosh.
        He felt as if he had only been asleep for moments - and quite
rightly, for his sleep had been too short even for the quick-
boiling of an egg in a pressure cooker.
        "It is Glambrax," said Bao Gahai.
        "Then spit him and cook him!" said Lord Onosh, who was ready
to murder for the privilege of sleep. "Get Zozimus to cook him,
and in a pressure cooker if possible."
        "My lord," said Bao Gahai, "he says Sod has Guest as a
prisoner."
        Then Lord Onosh remembered what he had seen on first entering
the Hall of Time. Glambrax sprinting for the green lightblock. Two
people scuffling near that lightblock. The people scuffling must
have been Guest and Sod.
        "Glambrax!" said Lord Onosh.
        "Here!" said the dwarf, who had been sheltering behind Bao
Gahai.
        "What are we up against?" said Lord Onosh.
        "Sod," said Glambrax promptly. "Sod. And a demon."
        "A demon?" said Lord Onosh, sceptically.
        While the Witchlord Onosh had heard much of ghosts, gods and
demons, he had never yet met one in the flesh, nor did he expect
to.
   "It is true," said Glambrax. "That green thing at the end of
the hall, it's a demon."
        "Then I will contend against it with my wizards," said Lord
Onosh. "Zozimus! Zozimus, blast you! Where are you?"
        Zozimus was discovered in the shadows, soundly asleep. Once
he had been stirred awake by the application of Sken-Pitilkin's
country crook, Lord Onosh commanded him to go downstairs and fetch
a dozen or so corpses. The necromancer departed, returning shortly
with eleven shambling corpses.
        Then the Witchlord Onosh marched on the demon, taking with
him his wizards, half a dozen living warriors and the eleven
corpses animated by Zozimus. The dwarf Glambrax tagged along
behind them.
        "Far enough," said Sken-Pitilkin, when they were still a
dozen paces short of the demon. "This thing bites."
        "It bites?" said Lord Onosh, in bafflement. "Bites? Pitilkin,
it is a rock!"
        "It is a rock in its nature as a crocodile is a log," said
Sken-Pitilkin.
        The fame of the crocodile and its treachery had reached even
as far as the lands of the Collosnon Empire. Therefore Lord Onosh
knew full well that the crocodile was a vile animal which could
configure itself as a log, changing instantly to a marauding man-
eater when some unsuspecting unfortunate stepped on it.
        "Have you seen this particular crocodile in action?" said
Lord Onosh, indicating the green-burning monolith.
        "I have seen men fed to the thing," said Sken-Pitilkin. "It
tore them apart in moments."
        This was untrue, but Sken-Pitilkin felt that some
amplification of the demon's dangers was necessary to discourage
Lord Onosh from hazarding his person in a foolhardy assault on the
green-glowing monolith.
        In front of the demon, a great deal of scuffled blood was
smeared on the skull-pattern tiles of the Hall of Time. Behind the
demon was a stairway - a stairway which led upward.
        "Sod!" said Lord Onosh.
        There was a pause. Then Sod came downstairs. The Banker came
into view with Guest Gulkan as his hostage. Guest's hands had been
bound behind his back, and Sod had a knife at Guest's throat. It
was then that Lord Onosh realized he could have used an archer.
Should he send for Morsh Bataar, who was downstairs fighting
alongside Thodric Jarl?
        "Surrender," said Sod. "Surrender, and I'll give you a quick
death."
        "And if I don't surrender?" said Lord Onosh.
        "Why," said Sod, "then I'll cut your son to pieces, here and
now."
        The meager terms which Sod offered, coupled with his
uncompromising directness, told Lord Onosh that he had best not
delay. Morsh might have been helpful, but it was too late to fetch
him.
    "Sken-Pitilkin," said Zozimus. "Get me my son."
        The wizard Sken-Pitilkin heard the command, and quailed, for
he was fearfully weary, and his strength was close to spent. But
he exerted himself wizardfully. He raised his country crook and he
shouted a Word.
        Caught by Sken-Pitilkin's power, Banker Sod and Guest Gulkan
were simultaneously levitated and dragged toward the Witchlord and
his men. Lord Onosh cried in triumph. But he cried too soon! For
the demon lashed out with liquid green tentacles, secured the
levitated pair, and dragged hard and home to its own green-shining
flank.
        "Shan scaba mach!" said Lord Onosh.
        His mighty oath was consequent upon extreme provocation. For
the demon's own mass now sheltered Sod and Guest from arrow-shot.
        "Perhaps Sken-Pitilkin could shake the demon a bit," said
Zozimus brightly.
        Sken-Pitilkin gave Zozimus a dirty look.
        "An excellent suggestion!" said Lord Onosh. "Do it!"
        "I will try, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin.
        But he had already guessed that the demon was so massive as
to be quite unshakable. While the wizards of Skatzabratzumon can
levitate a thing, they can also test the weight of a thing by
tweaking it with a little leverage, and this is what Sken-Pitilkin
did to the demon.
        In response to Sken-Pitilkin's tweaking, the green-burning
demon flashed purple, and gave a grumbling roar of discontent.
Encouraged by this, Sken-Pitilkin tweaked it again. But this time
there was no response. And the weight of the thing! Having tweaked
it, Sken-Pitilkin estimated its weight as that of ten elephants.
        "I tried to lift it, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, panting
heavily as he feigned the aftermath of great effort. "But it would
not budge."
        "So we saw," said Lord Onosh, who had been greatly impressed
by that flash of purple, which he took as proof of great wizardly
exertions. "Zozimus! Do your stuff!"
        At which Pelagius Zozimus sent his eleven corpses into
action. They thrashed forward in a puppet-jerk frenzy. And were
ripped to pieces by the slice-striking lighting of the demon's
green-slash tentacles.
        "Pitilkin!" gasped Zozimus. "Loft!"
        In response, Sken-Pitilkin lofted one corpse, sending it up
and over. It almost made it. But one of its feet drooped as it
soared over the demon, and the thing snared the foot, then hurled
the corpse to splattering destruction against the stairs.
        Zozimus turned pale.
        As the living human body is a well-knit and sturdy piece of
construction work, so too is a fresh-killed corpse. As a
necromancer, Pelagius Zozimus knew the hardiness of such a corpse,
and was appalled at the demonic strength which could wreck such a
thing beyond recognition.
        "Give up!" yelled Sod.
        "Give up?" said Lord Onosh. "How long do you think you can
shelter there?"
        "I can be up the stairs in moments," yelled Sod.
        "Take one step from the shadow of that demon," said Lord
Onosh, "and I'll split your skull with my battle axe."
        As it happened, Lord Onosh did not have a battle axe in his
possession. In any case, he was not one of those people who could
throw an axe with any accuracy. But the point was made. Sod would
be a target for swift-hurled swords and knives if he stepped from
protection.
        This raised an obvious question - could the demon deflect
such missiles? Sken-Pitilkin thought it surely could, and thought
that Sod would shortly realize as much.
        "Zozimus!" said Lord Onosh.
        "My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin.
        "This demon-thing," said Lord Onosh. "It seems it favors
Sod. It discriminates, does it?"
        Sken-Pitilkin was annoyed that the Witchlord had given a mere
slug chef priority as a source of advice. So, before Zozimus could
answer, Sken-Pitilkin said:
        "It discriminates as does a dog. It knows its master."
        "A dog, is it?" said Lord Onosh. "It doesn't look much of a
dog to me."
        "A sparrow," said Glambrax. "It looks like a sparrow. Or a
cockroach, perhaps?"
        "It is a demon," said Sken-Pitilkin. "It is Icaria Scaria
Iva-Italis, demon of Safrak and Guardian Prime."
        "This is no Guardian, Pitilkin," said Lord Onosh, who knew
full well that the Guardians were the Toxteth-speaking mercenaries
who served the Safrak Bank.
        "Yet it is, my lord," said Sken-Pitilkin. "For this block of
stone has long had lordship of all the armed men in the service of
the Bank. Each and every Guardian has sworn a mighty oath of
fealty to this particular block of stone. Therefore, if we could
but win its allegiance, then we could likewise win the allegiance
of the Guardians as a whole."
        "Then I will try to persuade the thing to my service," said
Lord Onosh. "Does it speak Eparget?"
        "It speaks the Yarglat tongue as it speaks all others," said
Sken-Pitilkin. "You may address with confidence address it in
Eparget, if such is your will. But - not too close, my lord! It
bites!"
        "So you have told me," said Lord Onosh, risking a single step
which took him just a little closer to the green-burning stone
monolith. Then he cleared his throat, finding that throat
uncommonly dry, and said: "Guardian!"
        "Guardian Prime," said Sken-Pitilkin, sotto voce.
        "Guardian!" said Lord Onosh, ignoring Sken-Pitilkin. "I am
Onosh Gulkan, he who is known as the Witchlord. Tameran is my
domain, for the Collosnon Empire is the dominant power in Tameran,
and I that empire's rightful ruler."
        In response, the demon spat out a head. It splattered through
the blood which sprawled across the floor in front of the demon,
rolled across the skull-pattern tiles of the Hall of Time and came
to rest at the Witchlord's feet. Its eyes had been sucked out, and
the hair stripped from the scalp. Through the ragged flesh, bone
shone bloody-green in the cold-burning demon-light.
        Lord Onosh started involuntarily.
        For his part, Sken-Pitilkin started not, for he had expected
some kind of insult from the demon. As Lord Onosh began a fresh
and windy declaration of his powers and prerogatives, Sken-
Pitilkin drew aside the dwarf Glambrax.
        "Glambrax," said Sken-Pitilkin. "You have an axe."
        "Yes," said the dwarf. "But there is a great body of rock
between me and our enemy Sod."
        "So I have noticed," said Sken-Pitilkin. "However ... there
was anciently a great and noble sport known as dwarf-tossing."
        "So I have heard," said Glambrax gravely. "But if you are in
a mood to toss someone, then why not a full-born warrior?"
        "Because," said Sken-Pitilkin, "I am close to exhausted, and
there scarcely remains to me the power to move even one of compact
build."
        "Then perhaps one of larger build will consent to be
selectively amputated so that the tossing of him becomes a feat
within your capabilities," said Glambrax.
         These uncompromising words made it plaint that the dwarf was
in no mood to be tossed. So Sken-Pitilkin said:
        "If you will not exploit your natural advantages to attack
Sod where he stands, then we are doomed to be overcome by the
Guardians, and slaughtered to the last man. Your mother will die
likewise. If you will not exert your blade for my sake, or your
own sake, or that of Witchlord and Weaponmaster, then think at
least of your mother."
        At this, there was an outbreak of uproar from the stairway at
the far end of the Hall of Time. Both Glambrax and Sken-Pitilkin
turned, expecting to see a horde of bloodthirsty Guardians
storming into the Hall. But the noise died down without
consequence.
        "Thodric Jarl holds the stairs for us," said Sken-Pitilkin.
"For the moment. But he cannot hold forever."
        "Then," said Glambrax, "let me arm myself with further
blades, and I will permit myself to be tossed."
        "Here is a knife," said Sken-Pitilkin, producing the small
blade which he habitually used for peeling apples and cleaning out
pipes.
        Then the sagacious wizard of Skatzabratzumon busied himself
with the job of persuading further blades from the possession of
the nearest warriors. So, by the time Lord Onosh had given up all
efforts to persuade the demon of Safrak to his cause, Glambrax was
ready to be tossed.
        "Are you ready?" said Sken-Pitilkin, picking Glambrax up by
the scruff of the neck.
        "What are you doing?" said Glambrax, in alarm.
        "I am weighing you," said Sken-Pitilkin, setting the dwarf
back on his feet.
        "Weighing me!" said Glambrax. "I thought you had wizardry for
that!"
        "So I do, so I do," said Sken-Pitilkin. "But my powers of
wizardry are almost exhausted. Besides, the muscular methods are
often the best. Are you ready?"
        "No!" said Glambrax, who had been unsettled by Sken-
Pitilkin's lifting of him.
        "Then hold tight!" said Sken-Pitilkin, who was deaf to the
word "no".
        With that, the wizard of Skatzabratzumon levitated the dwarf.
Up he went. The demon Icaria Scaria Iva-Italis roared at the
dwarf, and lashed out at him with tentacles of near-invisible
green liquidity.
        Glambrax yelled, betrayed by involuntary terror.
        But Sken-Pitilkin paid no heed to the dwarf's yelling. The
wizard jacked the dwarf upwards until his back was brushing the
living rock from which the Hall of Time was carved. Then the
wizard slid the dwarf along that living rock.
        "I'm scraping!" yelled Glambrax in alarm.
        Sken-Pitilkin, who thought it better for the dwarf to be
scraped than to be torn apart by the demon, slid the mannikin yet
further. Glambrax was right above the demon. Which spat at him,
sending globets of blood flying into his face.
        "Ha!" roared Lord Onosh. "It can't reach him! Good work,
Pitilkin!"
        Sken-Pitilkin made no reply to this applause, for he was
close to losing the dwarf.
        "Hold tight!" yelled Sken-Pitilkin.
        Then used his last energies in a single burst, hurling the
dwarf toward the stairs at the rear of the demon.
        Glambrax hurtled toward the stairs, landing heavily. For a
moment, Sken-Pitilkin thought the dwarf had been broken. Then
Glambrax stood up - groggily. Immediately, Sod charged the shaken
dwarf.
        "Swords!" roared Lord Onosh, making as if to hurl his own
weapon.
        The demon filled the air with a blurring lash-work of near-
invisible tentacles. The air hissed with the sound of its scything
tentacles.
        "No!" yelled Sken-Pitilkin, striking down the Witchlord's
weapon with his country crook. "No swords! Don't arm the demon!"
        "But," said Lord Onosh, "but you said, we said - "
        "We spoke of axing Sod," said Sken-Pitilkin, "but I at least
have had time to think since then."
        "But," said Lord Onosh, "but - "
        But it was too late to argue, for Sod was already locked in
combat with the dwarf Glambrax. Strength against strength they
matched each other. Then Sod went down! Hacked in the kneecap!
        "Aha!" yelled Glambrax, in triumph.
        The dwarf hacked at Sod's boot, sinking his axeblade deep
into the Banker's foot. As Sod thrashed and screamed, Glambrax
positioned himself for a head-lopping stroke.
        Then the demon acted.
        With all other weapons exhausted, and with the combatants
well out of reach of its thrashing tentacles, the demon used its
last resource.
        It hurled Guest Gulkan himself through the air, skittling the
axe-wielding dwarf, and slamming both Guest and Glambrax hard
against the stairs - slamming them home with such force that Sken-
Pitilkin thought them surely dead.
        Sod got to his feet.
        Slowly.
        Painfully.
        He recovered his sword.
        Guest and Glambrax made futile twitching efforts. Both were
stunned, or ruptured, or paralysed, or terminally broken.
        With great labor, Sod began to limp toward them, with murder
his intent.
        "My son!" said the Witchlord.
        Then Lord Onosh made as if to advance, and had to be
physically restrained by the more level-headed of his warriors.
And Sod took yet another step toward Guest and Glambrax, whose
doom looked near certain.