'How could you?' said Sarazin furiously.
As the dwarf scrabbled to escape from his master's anger, Sarazin grabbed him by the hair. You're not going anywhere!' said Sarazin.
'So kill me then,' said Glambrax truculently. 'Where's your gratitude?' 'Gratitude?' said Sarazin. 'For what should I be grateful?' 'The bards! I thought you wanted them.'
Sarazin was ready to weep. Or to pound Glambrax to a pulp. How could he live with the shame? The noble Douay had forgiven him, after all the terrible things that had been done to him after his arrest by Sarazin's minions – and had been repaid by this outrageous act of theft.
Sean Sarazin could not even keep his dwarf in order. Yet he had once had such pretensions of grandeur that he had imagined himself as ruler of the Harvest Plains! Sarazin shook his dwarf.
Then pushed him away, sending him sprawling to the stones.
'I should kill you,' said Sarazin. 'But it wouldn't do any good.'
Glambrax made no answer, and in fact stayed stolidly silent for the rest of the afternoon.
Evening came, then night. Sarazin, depressed and exhausted, laid himself down to sleep. Though he was sleeping on stones, he was so fatigued that he slept solidly until he was woken at dawn by jubilant birdsong.
He rose and stripped himself. Took a piss. Looking at his cock as he did so. A peasant's cock. Ugly piece of animal anatomy. He had once flattered himself by thinking it intrinsically imperial. Had so deluded himself that he had thought himself worthy of a princess. Well…
He had no delusions left now. He was what he was: a homeless beggar bereft of all prospects.
Carefully, he washed himself with water from the rill. It was cold, and, shivering, he was glad to warm himself by the fire Glambrax had started. The two said nothing to each other as the sun rose, stretching early morning shadows across the landscape.
Sarazin was stiff and sore from yesterday's long hard march – and from the damage done to him by Drake Douay. But, after he had treated some of his aches and pains with a little liniment which some thoughtful person had included in his pack, he felt somewhat better, though his eyes were sore and he had a dull headache.
As he breakfasted on pemmican, he considered his options. They could always turn back, march all the way to the Gates and return the stolen bards to Douay. But what if Douay yielded to one of the black angers he had spoken of, and killed both Sarazin and Glambrax on the spot? 'We'd better go on,' said Sarazin.
Glambrax made no answer. Sulking? Or meditating? No, he was just otherwise engaged: busy grubbing dank clumps of noxious matter from the depths of his nose.
'Up!' said Sarazin. 'Up on your feet and get moving.'
By noon, both man and dwarf were footsore and thirsty. They had filled their waterbottles at their campsite before setting out but durst not drink unless they really had to – for there was no telling when they would next find water. Flies were pestering about Sarazin's face. Irritated, he slapped at them. Hard. Then, after hurting one of his ears, slapped with more care.
He started looking for somewhere cool, somewhere they could shelter to rest. After resting they could push on when it was cooler.
So thought Sarazin. But it was not until late in the afternoon that he spied a suitable place – a deep and dark- shadowed cave. Invigorated by such a welcome sight, he strode towards it gratefully.
'Have a care,' said Glambrax, who by now had decided that he once more knew how to speak. 'There might be dragon or basilisk within. Or ogre – or worse!' 'Worse?' said Sarazin. 'What's worse?' 'A lawyer, perchance,' said Glambrax, and cackled.
But Sarazin went on regardless, imagining cool depths of batstone darkness and chilled water falling drip by drop. He found the cave noisy with flies – and from it breathed a stench which made him retch. But before he could flee, he saw all. The wounds, the heads, the limbs, the corpses deliquescing. He stumbled away from the cavemouth and collapsed insensible in the sun. He was roused by a boot in the ribs.
Opened his eyes. Saw shadows, boots. Heard voices. Muttering. A harsh laugh. '… meat for the Slavemaster…'
He stumbled from the ground, reaching for his weapon. And was hit from behind, bashed, knocked senseless. He measured his length on the ground and lay still.