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 nearinvisible 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.