Gouda Muck: second-best swordsmith on Stokos; first suffered religious revelation in Khmar 16; announced the next year that he was the avatar of the Flame, the High God of All Gods; doctrines of thrift, abstinence, chastity and prudery found favour with neighbours whose health and wealth had suffered from compulsory indulgence in the delights of the temple of the demon Hagon; religion of Goudanism thereafter rapidly went from strength to strength.
Midsummer's Day inaugurated a year which was, by Collosnon reckoning, Celadric 1. If the Lord Emperor Khmar, master of Tameran, had survived, then it would have been the start of Khmar 20. But the ferocious horse-lord was dead, killed in the forests of Penvash during the confusion of mutiny, betrayal, clan-fights and feuding which had accompanied his invasion of Argan.
Drake heard many wild rumours about the lands north of Runcorn. They had seemed normal enough when he had marched through them with Zanya, scarcely half a year previously, but since then – why, what with Khmar's invasion, and the unleashing of the fury of dragons, and mad battles between wizards and warriors, the whole of the north seemed to have gone berserk.For Runcorn, this was very bad news.
Galish convoys were no longer travelling the Salt Road through Runcorn, Chorst, Dybra, Estar, Lake Armansis, Larbster Bay and D'Waith. Instead, those convoys, the
lifeblood of commerce, were shipping out of Androlmarphos to sail direct to the Ravlish Lands.Hence, economic downturn in Runcorn.
Shops closed, apprenticeships cancelled, shipbuilders silent, more beggars on the street, violence at night, brawls, burglary, rape, highway robbery, horse-stealing, outbreaks of graffiti-writing.
Drake could not read the graffiti (or anything else for that matter) but he was told much of it said uncomplimentary things about him.He was in trouble.Or, to use his own words:'I'm in deep shit.'
The City Treasurer had recently fled, allegedly to Selzirk, and a quick audit had shown that most of the contents of the city coffers had disappeared with him. Worse, his brother, who had been looking after revenues for Drake's temple, had also vanished – leaving the temple bankrupt.
Temple income had dropped to nearly nothing. The best girls had left for the flesh-pots of Selzirk. Rumours about the diseased state of those who remained were, unfortunately, true. Gambling brought in next to nothing now that Runcorn's docks were idle. Even the liquor business was in trouble – something Drake would not have thought possible.
What was worse, the temple enforcers were squeezing Drake. They wanted a pay rise. He could not afford to pay – he was twenty days behind with their wages as it was. Yet he had to pay, for his easily won popularity was swiftly turning sour.
Worse, his lawyer was into him for an enormous amount in legal fees. Garimanthea, the first truly ruthless man Drake had ever met, frightened him badly (for Drake, innocent of the deeper evils of civilization, had never met a lawyer until he came to Runcorn.)
'On Stokos,' said Drake, 'we didn't have these problems.'
And, now, he could see why. Because Stokos had coal, iron ore, metalworkers, banking, fishing and a healthy import-export trade, hence there were always profits to be skimmed off for the temple of the demon Hagon.
Whereas Runcorn had the import-export business alone, which had been destroyed by the troubles to the north.
Somehow, Drake had to rejuvenate the economy of Runcorn.
These days he spent a lot of time alone in his office in City Hall, thinking. He was there on that Midsummer's Day, the first day of Celadric 1, when he became aware of a disturbance outside.
At first he gave it no thought, but the noise became steadily louder. It had about it something of the humming of bees, something of the baying of wolves, and touches of the noise of a timberyard, a marketplace, a slave-auction and a full-pitched battle. It was, he realized, the noise of an angry crowd.
Drake drummed his fingers on the big desk he was sitting behind. A riot, was it? Well, no doubt the enforcers would break a few heads and set things right. . .
He was thinking thus when one of his enforcers entered, sweating, bleeding from a scalp wound, gasping and staggering. He stood in front of Drake, swaying.'Well? What is it, man? Spit it out!' said Drake.
And the enforcer spat out a little blood then dropped dead in front of the desk. An ocular Investigation revealed the probable cause of this lapse in etiquette – the enforcer had a throwing knife embedded in his back.
'Hmmm,' said Drake, rubbing one hand over the stubble of ginger beard which had lately begun to lay claim to his chin.
He was thinking – not about the dead enforcer, but about the architecture of City Hall.
It was a fortified building where every window was an arrow-slit. There was a sally port, of course – but it was unreachable, for the tunnel which led to it was used as an extension of the archives, and was blocked by generations' worth of paper, parchment, papyrus and clay tiles. The only other way out was through the front door.
'Boldness be my friend,' said Drake to himself, and, with pulses quickening, buckled on his best sword, equipped himself with a belt-knife, a boot-knife and a back-knife, pulled on his gauntlets, and went out to face the crowd.
As he went, he wondered where Zanya was. He hoped she was safe.
With something like shock, he realized he had not seen his beloved for at least three days. Running cities and temples looks easy work from outside – but Drake, who had been working his arse off ever since he came to power in Runcorn, had found himself with precious little time in which to enjoy the delights of love.
Drake came out onto the balcony which overlooked both the main door to City Hall and the market square which it fronted onto.
The market square was a seething storm of tumultuous people. The enforcers, who had been fighting to keep them from the doors, had now retreated within, leaving half a dozen of their number dead on the steps.The doors had been closed.
And, even now, a ship's mast was being manhandled through the mob. Clearly it was going to be used as a battering ram.Drake looked on this impassively.He was recognized.People began to scream in hysteria.
Drake lifted his arms high, and held that theatrical stance until the noise died down.
Drake had studied democracy at close hand on the Greater Teeth. He had learnt a thing or two.
'You are ready to act!' said Drake, in a big voice – a voice which the years had trained against everything from the hammering of forges to storms at sea.
The crowd answered him with a roar of assent. They were ready to act, all right. They were ready to tear him from limb to limb.
Was he responsible for the woes of Runcorn? Was he responsible for dragons in Estar, the Collosnon invasion of the north of Argan, or renegade wizards on the loose? No – but he was the government, therefore he was going to be held responsible whether he liked it or not.
'Yes,' said Drake. 'You are ready to act. And the field for action is huge. Rich! Glorious! I talk wealth. I talk money. I talk women. For the taking.''Horseshit!' screamed a voice.
'Aye, horses is part of it,' said Drake. 'Ten horses for every man here, yea, and for the beggar who follows him.' He had their attention now.
'Runcorn has lived by trade,' said Drake. 'But trade is gone. Therefore, we live by – this!'
And, drawing his weapon with a theatrical flourish, he shouted:'The sword!'
Holding the glittering weapon to the midsummer sun, he looked around. They were silent, now. They wanted to hear. He knew no distant promises would serve. They wanted gratification of some sort – soon.
'Close,' said Drake. 'Very close, lies wealth. The wealth of land. The wealth of horses. The wealth of many slaves. Generations have ignored it. But we are stronger. We are bolder. We shall take it.'
'Wealth where?' bawled a fellow in the crowd. 'In Selzirk?'
'Man,' yelled Drake. 'There's wealth for a pretty arse like yours in Selzirk, to be sure.'The crowd laughed – and Drake knew he had them.
'Real wealth, we're talking,' said Drake. 'Ours for the taking. The horselands, we're talking about. Rich land there, and horses, and slaves. Aye.'
And now everyone realized what he was talking about. The Lezconcarnau Plains. Bounded by mountains, they lay inland from Runcorn. True, there were many people there – primitive disorganized villages which cropped the land, or raised cattle, or bred horses, or hunted – and feuded with each other constantly.
True, there was wealth there to be had for the taking, if ever a warlord commanded Runcorn.
'Selzirk buys slaves,' said Drake. 'And all the world buys horses. Let us be rich together! Let us be rich! Wealthy! Glorious! We can march tomorrow! We can march today!'
And he waved his sword, conjuring up a tumultuous cheering.
'Who will be war-leaders?' shouted Drake. 'Who wants a war-leader's share of the booty? Prove yourselves forward!'
There was, immediately, a struggling excitement below, as the boldest, most dangerous members of the mob forced themselves forward. Drake had, in effect, just bribed them to throw in their lot with him.
'Steady there!' shouted Drake. 'Make way for the heroes! Don't hold a good man back! Let's see our new leaders!'
And already he was thinking, very very fast, of his next steps. The war leaders would take the city's bravest on a march of conquest into the Lezconcarnau Plains. While they were gone, Drake would consolidate-
He broke off thinking, for he saw Zanya forcing herself forward with the would-be warlords. She was shouting something incoherent. Some strangers were with her, men whom he took to be wizards, for they were dressed in long grey robes and carried with them iron-shod wooden staves.With shock, he realized what she was shouting: 'Demon-son! Demon-son!'
The men in grey robes, all thirty of them, took up the cry, making it into a chant: ' Demon-son! Demon-son!'Drake vainly waved his sword, trying to quell the noise. 'I am Arabin lol Arabin,' he shouted.
The stave-men in grey robes were clearing a space on the steps of City Hall. Then a man dressed in robes of purple advanced to the stairs.'Drake!' he shouted.And the noise of his voice was awesome.
'Dogs' grief and beetle-dung!' muttered Drake. 'Gouda Muck!'Then, loudly:
'Old man, we are planning war! For wealth! For conquest! For glory! Let my war-leaders through! The moment demands!'
'Demands?' shouted Muck. 'Who demands? What demands? I tell you who demands! I tell you what demands! A monster demands! The true son of the demon Hagon! A creature spawned from evil! A hell-fiend! He murdered your City Fathers! He drinks poison, yet lives! He butchers babies and eats their livers raw! Rapes your daughters b'y night as they sleep behind bolted iron! Spreads madness, kills cattle, drinks blood, fouls water, flies by night on the winds of the bat and ravages the clouds to thunder!'
At which there was a considerable outbreak of noise.
Then one of the would-be war leaders got up on the shoulders of his comrades and cried:
'It's our city, boys! Runcorn! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn! The boy's bad luck whatever he is! Run him out of town, that's what I say! Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!'The slogan proved popular.
Thus it was that Drake was chased out of Runcorn before evening, hair shaved off, body smeared with ashes and molasses, and he ran panting and weeping with his hands tied behind his back until the rabble grew tired of chasing him with sticks and stones and foul language into the bargain.And as for Gouda Muck?
Why, he would have chased Drake himself, and beaten him to death on the spot, if he could have – for to rid the world of the Demon-son was part of his sacred mission.
But the slogan 'Let Runcorn lead Runcorn!' generated such a wave of riotous prejudice that Muck, even with his thirty stave-men to help him, was lucky to be able to fight his way to the docks and escape from Runcorn on a small fishing boat.And Zanya?She went with Muck.
And in the days that followed, there was much fighting in Runcorn as the would-be warlords sorted out their order of precedence. And after that there were a few halfhearted expeditions into the Lezconcarnau Plains. But the tribesmen proved tougher than expected, and the Empire Which Could Have Been never was.