Name: Onosh Gulkan
           Birthplace: Hum.
           Occupation: emperor.
           Status: absolute ruler of the Collosnon Empire.
           Description: hairy male of Yarglat race, age 43, slanting
forehead gouged by thumb-fat depressions running from hairline to
eyebrows, hair and eyes both black, height 14 qua, cheekbones
high, ears immense, multiple scars on left leg and torso.
           Hobby: hunting.
           Quote: "The hunt is the ultimate answer to acedia."

                                                                            * * *

           The Witchlord's sons were three in number, and Sken-Pitilkin
was lecturing all three when the Witchlord himself intruded on
their lesson. Sken-Pitilkin resented the intrusion - and resented
it all the more when he noticed the Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite
and the dwarf Glambrax lurking behind the Witchlord. Sken-Pitilkin
was ever at pains to keep that pair of troublemakers out of his
classroom, for such adulthood in combination with boyhood made a
vicious combination.
           "Eljuk, my son!" said Lord Onosh. "You've been drinking!"
           An ugly jest, this.
           For Eljuk had not been drinking at all. Rather, the boy's
life was blighted by a cruel birthmark. It stained his lips with
purple, and further purple dribbled from the corners of his lips,
splattering down his chin in two separate winespills which
thickened to a merging at the neck.
           Here, at the outset, we see the flaw which doomed Lord Onosh
to destruction. The Witchlord Onosh had been at odds with the
world for so long that he had quite lost the art of showing the
world kindness and affection. Though Eljuk Zala was the
Witchlord's valued favorite, even Eljuk suffered a dozen slights
a day from his father's tongue.
           Actually, it was Eljuk's younger brother Guest who had been
drinking, and who was subdued as a consequence of his hangover. At
this time, Guest was 14, Eljuk 16, and Morsh Bataar (the eldest) a
full 18 years of age. But though Guest was the baby, it was Guest
who played the man to the very hilt, and often suffered as a
consequence.
           Before knowing young Guest, the wizard Sken-Pitilkin had
never approved of hangovers; but close acquaintance with the boy
had led him to concede that a hangover has many advantages. For it
slows speech, subdues energy, abolishes wit, and makes the
afflicted individual less likely to respond to the irregular verbs
with acts of verbal dissidence or outright violence.
           The wizard Sken-Pitilkin had been taking advantage of Guest's
hangover to cram some of the more irregular verbs into the boy's
head, and had been thus involved when Lord Onosh had interrupted
the lesson, remarking (as has been stated above):-
           "Eljuk, my son! You've been drinking!"
           "Yes, father," said Eljuk. "But Guest is bearing my hangover
for me."
           At this the Witchlord laughed - not out of good humor but
out of habit. For this joke had often been exchanged between
father and son, though a thousand exchanges had failed to make
Lord Onosh see that Eljuk found his part in the transaction to be
painful.
           "Regardless of who has been drinking," said Sken-Pitilkin
acidly, "we have all been studying. We have been studying the
irregular verbs."
           The eminent Sken-Pitilkin was dropping a heavy hint, a hint
which was meant to suggest to the Witchlord Onosh that he should
absent himself from the room lest he further interfere with the
lesson.
           "Verbs!" said the Witchlord. "And what then is a verb? A hook
for a rat or a knife for a cat? Enough of your verbs, my good
fellow! Lessons are over for the day, so - boys, make ready! We're
going hunting."
           "Hunting?" said Morsh, absorbing that datum with his
customary slowness.
           "Precisely," said the Witchlord, with crisp directness.
           "But, father," said Eljuk Zala, who was the only one who had
license to question the emperor's decisions, "it is late in the
season."
           "Last chance weather, true," agreed Lord Onosh, "so we must
take our chances while we have them. Remember, boys: the hunt is
the ultimate answer to acedia."
           That the emperor said often, it being one of his pet sayings.
Having discharged himself of that expression, he about-faced and
departed, so sure in his power that he saw no need to linger to
chivvy his boys into action. Unfortunately, when the Witchlord
departed, he did not take with him either the Rovac warrior Rolf
Thelemite or the dwarf Glambrax, and that pair of delinquents
promptly infiltrated Sken-Pitilkin's classroom.
           "So who is Acedia?" said Guest Gulkan, when his father was
barely out of earshot. "That's what I can never work out."
           "She's a wanton," said Rolf Thelemite, the Rovac warrior who
ever bodyguarded Guest Gulkan, more to protect the world from the
boy's temper than to protect the boy from the world. "She's your
father's secret wanton, but she nags him stupid, so he runs for the
hills at every opportunity."
           "She's no wanton," said Morsh Bataar, who was sitting in a
corner with a heap of half-assembled fishing flies at his feet.
"She's the pastry cook who has the man in fat. He hunts when the
only choice otherwise is to diet."
           "Acedia," said the wizard Sken-Pitilkin, "is not a woman's
name. The word denotes a state of the psyche, and that state -
Eljuk Zala, tell us what state the word denotes."
           Now Eljuk Zala was by far the mildest, most scholarly and
most intelligent of the Witchlord's three sons, and he was fully
cognizant of the fact that the word acedia denoted that bleak and
aimless inertia which had ever blighted the Witchlord's life since
the death of his wife. But Eljuk Zala had already been too bright
and too right far too often that day, and knew that if he came up
with the right answer just one more time then his brother Guest
would surely make him suffer for it, and probably sooner rather
than later. So Eljuk answered:
           "Anger. That's what it means. Acedia means anger."
           "It means no such thing," said Sken-Pitilkin, with intense
irritation.
           Then he lectured the unfortunate Eljuk at length on the
meaning of acedia and the derelictions of Eljuk's scholarship.
           Sken-Pitilkin's irritation was by no means feigned, for he
often felt it an intense strain to have three Yarglat boys under
his tutorship. Indeed, the wizard of Drum found all his contacts
with the Yarglat stressful, for the Yarglat were not, on the
whole, an intellectual people, and there were precious few
dictionaries in their kennels or encampments.
           "Well," said Guest Gulkan, when Sken-Pitilkin was done with
berating his brother, "if you're through with lecturing, we've got
to get ready for hunting. You're coming with us, I suppose?"
           "Me?" said Sken-Pitilkin. "Hunt? Not for all the tea in Chay!
You wouldn't get me to a hunt unless I was tied to a horse and
dragged."
           "I'll see if I can find a spare horse, then," said Glambrax,
Guest Gulkan's pet dwarf.
           The dwarf was already dancing out of the room as he delivered
himself of that smartcrack, hence escaped before Sken-Pitilkin
could catch him a whack with the country crook ever kept ready for
the disciplining of the mannikin and his master.
           So it was that Glambrax again escaped punishment; and Lord
Onosh and his sons readied themselves for the folly of the hunt,
while the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin drew up a schedule of self-
improvement which was calculated to see him attain mastery of the
Geltic verbs jop, chilibisk and dileem, all of which had won a
place for themselves in Strogloth's Compendium of Delights. While
Sken-Pitilkin sometimes fell prey to acedia himself, he never
sought to address his condition through the hunt, for his standard
response to the dulling of the lifeforce was to have recourse to
the irregular verbs, ever most marvelously refreshing in their
inexhaustible variety.
           Sken-Pitilkin was so glad to be rid of his Yarglat charges
for a few days that he went to the city gates to see the hunt ride
out, just to make certain that Guest Gulkan and his brothers
actually did quit the city.
           They did.
           There rode Guest Gulkan with his bodyguard Rolf Thelemite at
his side, both drinking hard and halfway drunk already. Thelemite
and his charge had both lashed themselves to their high and
stylish lean-back saddles, by this precaution indicating that they
planned to be truly stupendously intoxicated before the day was
out.
           Behind that pair of brawlers rode Eljuk Zala Gulkan. As the
anointed heir of the Witchlord Onosh, the winestained Eljuk was
properly entitled to ride at the emperor's side. But young Guest
was ever jealous of his brother's privileges, wishing the heirship
were his own. So, fearing his brother's surly anger, Eljuk hung
back out of sight.
           Eljuk looked miserably uncomfortable, since his groaning
bones were mightily encumbered with amour, weighed down beneath a
regular rustyard of iron plates interlaced with chain mail; his
head was crowned with a helmet big enough for the boiling of a
dog; a sword made for the slaughter of dragons was hauling at his
side; and he could scarcely find space to sit in his saddle on
account of all the spare amour and weaponry he had attached to
it.
           A stranger might have thought Eljuk fearful of bandits, but
actually it was his dearly beloved brother Guest who stalked his
nightmares. Guest had the temperament of a born regicide,
patricide, fratricide and all-round homicide. So Eljuk had
armored himself, and had armed himself mightily - but the weight
of such protection would doom him to heatstroke on a hot day, or
to death by suction should he find himself in a swamp, or (should
the imperial hunting party encounter a blacksmith with a purse at
the ready for the purchase of unwanted iron) to accidental
disposal by way of sale.
           While Eljuk feared Guest Gulkan, he lived in mortal dread of
Rolf Thelemite. Rolf was a Rovac warrior, and the Rovac were a
people so bloody in their predilections that the most ferocious of
Yarglat barbarians was a cat-stroking pacifist by comparison. If
Rolf Thelemite's account was to be believed (and Eljuk never
doubted a word of it) then Rolf had personally slaughtered down
three emperors, seven kings, nine dragons, eleven wizards, a
neversh, a troll, five orcs, and thirty dozen assorted warriors
and assassins.
           Sken-Pitilkin personally thought this a mighty great amount
for Rolf to have accomplished, seeing that he was barely 18 years
of age, and had spent a full two of those brief years of his in
Gendormargensis. But Eljuk took Rolf's every word to heart. Eljuk
believed Rolf Thelemite when that Rovac warrior claimed that the
golden serpent which he wore as an earring was a trophy which Rolf
had torn from the head of the mighty Baron Farouk of Hexagon when
that warlord had led an army of a million men against the city of
Chi'ash-lan. Rolf said, further, that the intermittent and
involuntary trembling of his lower lip was a consequence of flame-
damage inflicted by a dragon, and that his habit of blinking
quickly (as if he had grit in his eyes) was due to the effort of
fighting off a sleeping spell which had been inflicted upon him by
a wizard of Ebber.
           Often, Rolf Thelemite described the gruesome death which he
himself had inflicted upon that spell-casting wizard, and in his
every description of that death he never neglected to leave out
small but telling details, such as the succulent taste of the
wizard's liver, or the manner in which a pariah dog had made off
with the wizard's kidneys before Rolf could taste them also.
           For his part, Guest Gulkan sometimes hinted to his brother
Eljuk that he was taking practical lessons in cannibalism from his
mercenary acquaintance.
           Eljuk had once pleaded with his father to exile both Rolf
Thelemite and Guest Gulkan, fearing that the pair of them would
conspire together to encompass his murder. But the Witchlord had
merely laughed.
           Of course the Witchlord Onosh was no fool. Lord Onosh was
ever conscious of Guest Gulkan's bloody temper and of his
monstrous ambition. Which was why (unbeknownst to the world at
large), Lord Onosh had bound Rolf Thelemite to the protection of
both emperor and imperial heir; and (in equal secrecy) had further
charged Morsh Bataar with the duty of bodyguarding Eljuk Zala.
           Had Morsh Bataar's secret mission become public knowledge, it
would have occasioned incredulous laughter from all and sundry,
for it was generally believed that Morsh Bataar had been blighted
by a dralkosh while still in his mother's womb.
           It was said in Gendormargensis that Morsh Bataar was
painfully slow of intellect, and this was the case. But while he
was thick of voice and slow of mind, success seldom eluded him
when he went to work on a problem. True, he was judicious in his
choice of problems, for he was possessed of an uncommon degree of
self-knowledge, and knew his limitations well.
           Nevertheless -
           Amongst those who are possessed of genius, there sometimes
arises the conceit that genius is all. But for the practical
purposes of life, there are other qualities of equal importance,
and prime amongst them are patience, persistence, reliability and
a sense of proportion, all of which Morsh Bataar possessed in good
measure. These traits had helped make Morsh a master of the bow,
which weapon he carried with him always, and practiced with on a
daily basis.
           In his intellect, Morsh Bataar might reasonably be likened to
the snail. This most practical of beasts cannot dare to the
heights of the eagle or challenge the hare in the sprint; but,
given time, it will make its way over any obstacle, not excepting
broken glass and razor blades.
           Morsh was also uncommonly stable of temperament. He lived
free of the black humors which afflicted Lord Onosh; free of the
night terrors and daylight nervousness which unsettled Eljuk Zala;
and free also of the drastic flux of anger and impulse which made
his brother Guest such a trial to his elders.
           In the capacity of bodyguard, Morsh Bataar rode behind the
over-armored Eljuk Zala. Apart from his bow and a telescopic
bamboo fishing rod, Morsh carried no weapons of note, believing
Eljuk to be in possession of more than enough steel for the pair
of them. Nor did Morsh bother himself with any nonsense of amour,
for he thought the weather to be more of a threat to life than any
rabble of bandits who might be encountered in the mountains.
           Morsh Bataar was officially assigned to Eljuk Zala as a
servant, and in truth he looked every bit the nondescript menial,
since his burly body was hidden beneath layers of second-hand furs
and his face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat the color of
filth, a hat pierced by a full three dozen fancy fishing flies. He
was mounted humbly on a shag pony, with a burdened baggage animal
of like breed trailing behind him, and a spare mount bringing up
the rear.
           Behind this beggarly figure there rode a great and glorious
warrior, the glitter of the sun sheening and shining on his amour
and a falcon leashed and hooded on his gauntleted left wrist. This
was Pelagius Zozimus, the emperor's master chef, who spied Sken-
Pitilkin standing by the gate.
           "Ho! Cousin!" cried Zozimus, leaning down from the height of
his horse. "You're not hunting with us?"
           "Get down from that horse, you old fool," said Sken-Pitilkin.
"You're a thousand years too old for such nonsense."
           But Zozimus merely laughed at this accusation. The wizardly
master chef was dressed for the hunt in glittering fish-scale
amour which had been in his possession for the better part of a
millennium; he was helmeted with silver and gold; he wore at his
side a blade of Stokos steel which was sheathed in a scabbard
bright with jade and opals; and he looked in his glory like one of
the elven lords of legend come to life.
           "You'll break a leg!" cried Sken-Pitilkin.
           But Zozimus laughed again, and rode on, and after him came a
considerable cavalcade, for the emperor was not going to the
hunting grounds alone. A great host they were, and they racketed
out of the city like a rabble of commoners hustling along to a
lynching. They cursed, laughed, joked and gossiped in as many as
a dozen different tongues, most commonly Ordhar - the simplified
command language with which the Yarglat dominated their subject
peoples - and the native Eparget of the Yarglat's northern
homelands.
           Thus the Witchlord Onosh rode forth from the city of
Gendormargensis to go hunting in the hills. And, as has been
indicated above, his entourage consisted of rather more people
than the few individuals who have so far been mentioned by name.
An emperor does not groom his own horse or wash his own
linen. Nor does he clean his own boots - or, for that matter,
his own fingernails. So when Lord Onosh went hunting, he
customarily took with him half a thousand assorted shamans,
slaves, servants, warriors, counselors, cooks, concubines,
magicians, astrologers, winemasters, poets, painters, bootmakers
and button-painters.
           Nevertheless, the imperial hunting party was nothing like one
of those shambling circuses which traipse around behind the effete
lords of the debauched and dissolute south. Even in his days of
triumph, Lord Onosh never forgot that he was of the Yarglat, a
people who conquered by horsepower, who ruled by horsepower, and
who must trust to their horsepower to survive if the fates ever
turned against them.
           All who went with the emperor could ride hard and long when
the day demanded it; and so, despite its complement of concubines
and bootmakers, the hunting party rode east from Gendormargensis
like the advance guard of a wind-riding army. Swiftly the hunt
campaigned deep into the mountain wilds, disregarding the lateness
of the year and the inclemency of the weather.
           When Lord Onosh had won the rule of the Collosnon Empire
(something he had done by adroitly masterminding a potent
combination of witchcraft, conspiracy and murder) he had made
Gendormargensis his capital, as had all the rulers of the empire
before him. The city commanded the strategic gap between the
Sarapine Ranges and the Balardade Massif, and hence was ideally
placed to control all intercourse between the eastern hill country
and the widespreading western flatlands dominated by the
Yolantarath River.
           Since no wild animal of any consequence had been seen
anywhere near Gendormargensis for a generation or more, when Lord
Onosh went hunting he necessarily rode into the mountains in
pursuit of bandits.
           The lord of the Collosnon Empire had sported after bandits so
often that very few were left; indeed, such two-legged prey were
so scarce that one wit had lightly proposed that they be declared
a protected species. But Lord Onosh persisted in hunting to the
highground to capture and to kill, seeking the last of the lawless
in their mountain retreats.
           On this occasion, the emperor hunted for a full ten days
without success, until at last his party surprised a bandit
encampment. There bandits they fought and bandits they killed,
though some of the lawless escaped from this first attack.
           The first attack was led by Thodric Jarl, the gray-bearded
uitlander who was renowned as the mightiest of the Witchlord's
warriors. In that autumn, the autumn of the year Alliance 4305,
Thodric Jarl was only 24 years of age, yet he was as gray as
gnarled death and as cold in his killing as icelock rapture or
midwinter famine.
           Cleaving the air with bloodstroke upon bloodstroke, Jarl made
his bitter steel sing. He hacked the bandit leader down, then
claimed for himself the choicest treasure found in the bandit camp
- a thing of female gender which named itself Yerzerdayla.
The female thing was brought in chains to the imperial battle
base, where it was seen by the young Guest Gulkan, the self-styled
Weaponmaster, he who at the age of 14 laid claim to a man's
estate, though he was still possessed of much of a child's
impetuous unreliability. Guest Gulkan stood in his muddy boots,
smelling like a slaughterhouse, and gaped at Yerzerdayla. For this
captive slave - dressed in silks and chained by jade clasped with
silverbright - looked more like an imperial aristocrat than one of
common flesh.
           "I am in love," said Guest, who was of a certainty in lust.
           Such was the first meeting of Guest Gulkan and the elegant
Yerzerdayla, she of the blonde body and the perfumed hair.
           Then:-
           "Who is the woman?" asked Guest.
           "She is a thing claimed already by Thodric Jarl," answered
Yerzerdayla's keepers.
           "Claim he may," said Guest. "But I will have!"
           In fact, it would have been politic for Guest Gulkan to lose
interest in any flesh owned by any killer as grim and humorless
as Thodric Jarl. But Guest, in those days of his ego, felt free to
conduct himself like the imperial heir he was not. So he sought
out Thodric Jarl, meaning to demand the surrender of the woman
Yerzerdayla.
           Young Guest found Jarl supervising the forced labors of the
surviving male prisoners, who were digging pits for a purpose which had not been explained to them. It was cold, but Jarl was warm in a
weather jacket bought from the emperor's league riders - uitlander
mercenaries every bit as barbarous as himself. The prisoners were
also warm, for under Jarl's surveillance they were digging
themselves into a mass of sweat and blisters.
           "Ho, Jarl!" said Guest.
           "Ho!" said Jarl.
           "I'd like a word with you," said Guest.
           "Then speak," said Jarl.
           So far, so good; for at least they had exchanged several
civil words without swapping threats of violence. Given that both
were extremely dangerous men - Guest being at that age a danger
mostly to himself, whereas Jarl was a menace to other people -
that was something to be thankful for.
           Now Guest had long been tutored in diplomacy by Hostaja Sken-
Pitilkin. The excellent Sken-Pitilkin had introduced Guest to all
those notions central to successful negotiation; but Guest was a
poor student, and proved it by botching his confrontation with
Thodric Jarl.
           When Jarl refused to give him the woman, Guest did not offer
him horses and hogsheads of wine in return; or let the matter drop
for the moment; or take no for an answer. Instead, he began to
rant, rage and bluster.
           "I am Guest Gulkan, son of Onosh Gulkan and rightful heir to
the lands of Tameran," said Guest. "How dare you deny me?"
           "I dare deny you," said Thodric Jarl, "for you are no heir to
anything but the lice in your father's bootboy's hair."
           "I'll have your blood for that!" said Guest in fury.
           "To have you must take," said Jarl.
           "Then take I will!" said Guest, lugging out his sword.
           But the sword was only half-lugged when Jarl gave young Guest
a push which sent him staggering backwards. Guest found empty air
beneath his boot - and fell. The boy Guest fell backwards into a
pit which four bandits were excavating. These four exhausted
wretches thought Guest had jumped down amongst them with murder
his intent. Despairing of life, they nevertheless put up as much
of a fight as they could, and Guest was put to the necessity of
killing them before he could scramble out of the pit.
           As Guest was scrambling, Jarl kicked him under the chin,
sending him tumbling backwards onto the cushion of the corpses he
had so recently created.
           "Nicely timed," said the dwarf Glambrax, who was following
this conflict with the interest of a born spectator.
           "I've had practice," said Jarl.
           "That wasn't fair," said Guest, looking up from the blood and
muck at the bottom of the pit.
           "Neither is this," said Jarl, picking up a huge rock which
required both hands to lift it.
           "You wouldn't dare," said Guest, doing his best to sneer at
the rock.
           Jarl dared.
           He hurled the rock down on the hapless Weaponmaster.
           Guest screamed. He couldn't help himself! He threw up both
hands in a hopeless attempt to protect himself.
           The rock smashed into his hands.
           And burst into fragments, for in the proof of the impact it
proved to be no rock at all, but, rather, a cohesive mass of
earth.
           As Guest was spitting out bits of earth - he had been
screaming as the stuff smashed into his arms, and in consequence
had been gifted with a mouthful of the stuff - Thodric Jarl
completed his victory by spitting on the unfortunate Weaponmaster.
           Thus Guest met Jarl in combat, and was defeated, which was
only to be expected. For Jarl was as handy with fist and boot as
he was with edged weapons; whereas Guest, though he had long
studied the art of the boast under the guidance of Rolf Thelemite,
was no match for the professional brutality of Thodric Jarl.
           In the disappointment of his defeat, Guest lacked the sense
to abandon his woman-quest. Instead, once he had rescued himself
from the pit, Guest Gulkan went to his father to demand revenge
upon Jarl, and to demand likewise the possession of Yerzerdayla's
loins.
           The young Weaponmaster discovered Lord Onosh seated outdoors
by a roaring bonfire, snugged against the weather in the warm
folds of a snow-coat. The emperor was feeding upon a fine wheat
loaf which smelt as if it had just been freshly baked, as indeed
it had, for the imperial master chef Pelagius Zozimus had been
giving a bravura display of field cookery.
           "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!