Lest unwary readers reckon this story the product of a diseased mind, they should know it is the product of two. My longtime friend Kevin R. Sandes must bear his full share of responsibility for its contents; so must the Anheuser-Busch Corporation. I don't normally compose surrounded by potables. This once, it seemed to work.
An excerpt, O Prince, from an ancient chronicle:
A brisk westerly breeze drove the galley Wasteful into the port of Zamorazamaria. At the Wasteful's helm stood Condom, the Trojan, one massive fist clamped round the wheel. The other clutched a skin of wine. Six feet and a span in height, he would have been taller yet had the fickle gods favored him with a forehead. Only a leather kilt hid his bronze skin and bulging thews from the sun. His hide was crisscrossed with scars, all too many of them self-inflicted.
A sudden roll spoiled his aim, spilling wine over his face and down his lantern jaw. Muttering an oath, he groped for a rag—and the ship's ram crunched into the side of a beamy merchantman tied up at a Zamorazamarian quay.
Condom took in the situation with one fuddled glance. "Back oars!" he bellowed. The ram pulled free, and the merchantman, a six-foot hole torn in her flank, promptly began to sink. Her crew scrambled like fleas on a drowning dog, cursing and screaming and diving over the side.
"What's going on here?" shrilled Captain Mince, emerging from his cabin. "How is a person to sleep with this crashing about? Why, I was thrown clear out of my hammock, and I ripped my new culottes." He fingered the pink silk regretfully. The cries of the foundering ship's sailors drew his gaze. "Condom, how clumsy of you!" he exclaimed, slapping the barbarian's muscly buttocks.
"Captain, I told you I'd break your arm if you did that again."
"You know I despise rough trade. Let's see if we can't give these dears some help, shall we?"
While Mince bickered with the dripping, furious merchants, his crew, Condom among them, roared into the dives and brothels of the decaying harbor district. The Trojan got hopelessly lost in the twisting back streets of Zamorazamaria. He put his faith in his innate barbarian instincts. Stepping up to the first man he saw, he wrapped an overmuscled arm round the fellow's neck and growled, "Tell me where the nearest grogshop is before I tear your head off!"
The man's mouth moved soundlessly. His hands scrabbled at Condom's flexors. The mighty warrior loosed his grip a trifle. Gasping, the man wheezed, "The Lusty Widow is two doors down. Its name is spelled out right in front."
Condom could not read six different languages. "Thanks, bud!" he said, giving his benefactor a slap on the back that sent him reeling into the curbside offal. Condom swaggered down the street until, with the keen-honed senses of the barbarian, his nose caught the sweet scent of beer.
Shaking his square-cut mane of black hair from his dull blue eyes, he strode into the tavern and threw himself into a chair. It collapsed. He picked himself up, only to face the irate proprietress bearing down on him with a bludgeon. She had time for one quick curse before Condom, whose sense of chivalry was rude indeed, decked her with a right. He snarled, "I want beer and I want quiet. After three bloody months cruising with Captain Mince, I need beer!"
She crawled away to fetch it. Condom settled back in a new, stronger chair for some serious drinking. Little did he suspect (which was true most of the time) that he was being watched from afar. Know, O Prince, that in long-ago Zamorazamaria lived the infamous necromancer, wizard, and unholy priest Sloth-Amok. He dwelt in his dark Tower of the Bat like a spider in its web, controlling the lives and destinies of the port city's inhabitants.
Sloth-Amok was a tall, dingy man, with scaly shoulders and aloof, toadlike features. From warty skull to webbed feet, his skin was a deep, venomous green. His bulbous eyes peered into a scrying-cauldron of cold split pea soup. "Heh-heh." He chuckled, flicking a fly from his eyebrow with his long pink tongue. He turned to his familiar, whose name was Gulp, saying, " 'Tis a pity one so stupid as Condom, the Trojan, must die, but die he shall, for I have read in the guano of a thousand starlings that he is the only man alive who might thwart my schemes."
His familiar leered evilly and slobbered, "Can I help, master? Does master want poor ugly Gulp to help?"
"Indeed you may, good Gulp. And I know how." The wizard strode to a table across the chamber; it was there that he conducted his most fiendish experiments. The wooden surface was strewn with eye of newt, toe of frog, wing of bat, ring of bat, rope of bat, mobile of bat, and other exotica. The sorcerer produced a bowl filled with puffy-looking purple stuff. "This is it, Gulp!"
" 'It,' master?"
"Yes, it! You bear in your gnarled paws the downfall of Condom, the Trojan."
"It seems no more than a common plum duff, your malignity."
"You are wrong, good Gulp, for there is nothing common about it. You gaze upon a masterpiece of inventive sorcery: the world's first exploding plum duff!"
Gulp blinked, swallowed nervously. "An exploding plum duff? Will it work, master?"
"Do you doubt me, worm in the pomegranate of life? Of course it will work. Never has it failed me."
"But, master, you said this was the first—"
"Never mind what I said, dolt of a familiar. We must now prepare your steed." Sloth-Amok's lithe, webbed fingers moved in the intricate passes of a spell he alone knew. Gulp cowered, terrified by the abyssal forces the great sorcerer so easily overcame. There was a puff of smoke, a reek of tuna, and a thirty-foot flying fish lay flopping on the stone floor of Sloth-Amok's chamber.
Gulp gulped. "Master, are you sure—"
"Quick, fool," Sloth-Amok cried, pressing the deadly pudding into his familiar's sweaty palm. "Look not a gift fish in the mouth. Ere it perish, mount and fly to the Lusty Widow!"
Condom was still swilling swinishly when Gulp, wearing a fearful expression and loud pantaloons, slunk into the tavern. Outside in the street his mount was gasping its last. Condom looked up muzzily. "Hey," he said. "You look familiar."
"I am."
"Have a beer."
Gulp set his murderous yummy under Condom's chair while the Trojan drank, then drained his own tankard and fled. A cry of dismay floated into the grogshop when he found his charger covered by a wriggling carpet of starving dockside cats. He scuttled down the street and back toward Sloth-Amok's lair.
He had not been gone long when Condom discovered the plum duff. "Blow my nose!" he exclaimed. "This must be a gift from the gods!" Not pausing to think twice (or even once), he downed the entire bowlful. He sat back with a contented sigh and raised his jack to his lips, but, before he could swallow, Sloth-Amok's hideous plan went into effect. The plum duff exploded.
Now, during his tour aboard the Wasteful, Condom had acquired a cast-iron stomach (in fact, he had won it at dice). Thus the Trojan, instead of spattering off the walls of the Lusty Widow, but felt his innards give a tremendous jerk.
Trembling, he leaped to his feet. He opened his mouth to gasp for air, but found himself belching instead. The deep bass roar echoed through the city. Birds fell from the sky, stunned by the concussion. And Condom, internal tremor satisfied, thumped his chest, sat down, and drank more beer.
Sloth-Amok had seen everything in his vat of soup. He shrieked with rage and danced about his chamber, ripping warts from his forehead and hurling them to the floor. The scrying-cauldron erupted, splattering split peas over his second-best robe. "What's this," he cackled, peering into the seething mass. "By the earwax of Hiram, god of small puddles, Condom shall not escape me!"
The Trojan was still feeling the aftereffects of his cataclysmic belch when a mysterious figure sat down beside him, its form and features hidden by a dark robe and hood. With the inborn suspicion of the barbarian, Condom growled, "Hey, you got another one of them plum duffs like the last fellow brung? It was good!"
A soft, serious voice answered him: "Of plum duffs I know nothing, good sir. I seek a mighty warrior, yclept Condom, the Trojan. Know you such a man?"
His low brow furrowed, as if in thought. "I heard the name somewheres. . . . Wait a minute! That's me!"
"Truly? Then you must come with me, and quickly, for my mistress is in desperate peril!"
"Where's that? I don't know my way past the docks too good."
The stranger swept back the hood of the robe. She proved to be a beautiful maiden, her fine features twisted in an exasperated pout. She rose, saying, "Come with me, great hero. My mistress, the princess Zamaria, has great need for aid only a champion like yourself can provide."
"Zamaria, huh?" Lustful thoughts ran through Condom's head like pigs through a wallow: if this was a serving-wench, the princess had to be even more luscious. "Sure thing, honey. Take me to her." He fumbled at his purse (a gift from Captain Mince), but the maiden impatiently drew a gold bracelet from her arm and tossed it on the table.
In his sanctum Sloth-Amok laughed to himself. He hurried to a book of lore, riffling its pages to the cantrip he had in mind. Once sure it was within his capacity, he slammed the book shut and began the spell.
Quickly mixing philosopher's stone (kidney, he thought, would be better than gall), tongue of toad, parsley, sage, rosemary, and a pinch of potent garfunkel root, he simmered them at medium heat for two minutes, tossed in a maraschino cherry, and cried out words of power. His magic done, he sank back on a bed of nails, exulting, "At last! Now the Trojan twit is done forever!"
A pit suddenly yawned beneath Condom. Princess Zamaria's maidservant sprang back with a shriek of horror, but the stalwart Trojan, unfazed at this terrifying apparition, stooped and picked it up. "Geez, this musta come from a sleepy peach," he said, chucking it into the gutter.
Baring his unbrushed teeth in an agony of frustrated fury, Sloth-Amok threw a year's supply of freeze-dried dragon blood, two sorcerous tomes, and a slightly used dwarf into his furnace. Little millipedes scurried from his leggings.
The serving-maid and Condom entered the royal palace through a secret doorway opening in the middle of a crumbling, ivy-covered wall. She led the Trojan through what seemed like miles of dank halls. His feet hurt; had he had any idea how to get out of the palace, he would have given the whole adventure up as a bad job. At last they came to a broad oaken door. The maid shut it in his face, ordering him to wait. Sulkily, he composed himself to obey.
She reappeared a few moments later. "You may come with me," she said.
The barbarian was more than willing to comply, for she had doffed her concealing mantle for a long blue gown that barely covered her breasts and clung provocatively to her rounded haunches. But when he tried to clasp her to his furry bosom, she evaded him with an ease bespeaking long practice and an oiled skin.
She led him to a jewel-encrusted door and bade him enter. "These are the private chambers of her majesty, Princess Zamaria. A court function prevents her from being present. Still, within are all the implements you will require to succor Zamorazamaria in her hour of need." Condom's own implement was making his kilt rise; he tugged it back into place and entered the Princess Zamaria's boudoir.
Flickering lamps illuminated a chamber of unbelievable magnificence. The walls were covered with tapestries depicting men, women, and a variety of animals writhing in fantastic variations on the act of love. A huge round bed, piled high with pillows, silks, and furs, stood in the center of the room. The Trojan leaped onto it. "By Crumb, this is the life!" He leered at Zamaria's maid. "Now, my little oyster, what can I do to—uh, for—you?"
"O Condom, you must be the shield and protector of my mistress!" she cried. "Only you can save Zamorazamaria from utter ruin. The foul necromancer Sloth-Amok"—("Bigot!" sneered the wizard, who was watching all in his magical kettle)—"has the princess's fiancé, Elagabalus, in captivity, and is demanding her hand from her father, King Philiboustros. His limitless supplies of gold, created by the black arts, have corrupted everyone who might otherwise have braved a rescue. . . ." What fools these mortals be! Sloth-Amok thought. Making gold was easy; bullion cubes dropped into boiling water sufficed for all his needs. "Condom, you must save Elagabalus from Sloth-Amok's evil clutches. Any reward the kingdom can offer will be yours!"
"What do I hafta do?" he panted, lecherous visions still dancing in his head.
She did not seem to notice his burning gaze. "Were Elagabalus but free of the Tower of the Bat, he and Zamaria could wed and save the kingdom from the sorcerer's wicked domination. The omens have shown you to be the only man with a prayer of rescuing him, if you but will."
"I will! I will!"
"Truly, it is a task only a fool or a hero would undertake with so little hesitation," she said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. "The Tower of the Bat is easy to enter, but hard to leave.
"We have, indeed, only the dying babbles of men who have pressed beyond the outworks, but it is known that in the topmost pinnacle of the Tower of the Bat squats the invincible Boring Beast, which must be slain ere Elagabalus is saved. Will you aid Zamorazamaria in her hour of need, O Condom? It must be now, for if Elagabalus is not freed, King Philiboustros will give my mistress's hand to Sloth-Amok tomorrow."
The princess's hand did not much interest Condom, but if she was anything like her maidservant, he had a good healthy yen for her adjacent giblets. Still, there was that damned danger. He paused a while for thought; his reasoning advanced with the sluglike pace that marks the barbarian. "I'll do it!" he said at last.
The serving-maid's lips parted in the first smile he had won from her. She bent down and, wincing, kissed him passionately. "Gracious Condom!" she said, skipping back before he could pin her to the bed. "There is not a moment to lose if the kingdom is to be saved. Listen closely, for I have here a charm to aid you. . . ."
An hour later Condom was crouched before the frowning gate of Sloth-Amok's fortress. He was frowning himself, trying to remember what the charm was for.
After ascending the feared Thirteen Steps (these were made from the skulls and bones of virgins over the age of seventy-three, a story in itself), Condom at last confronted the Tower of the Bat. Having searched in vain for a knocker (he kept thinking of Zamaria's wench), he smote the door with his huge fist.
Only silence answered.
He drew his mighty axe and began to chop away at the iron-bound wood. Suddenly, a small panel above the door flew open. One of Gulp's beady little eyes peered through. "What are you doing, you idiot? Can't you read the sign?"
Condom squinted up at Gulp. "I don't see no sign."
"Under your feet, cretin."
Condom looked down. "'Welcome'?" he guessed.
"No, lackwit. It says, 'Go away!' is what it says. So go away!" Gulp slammed the panel shut, leaving the barbarian with a perplexed scowl on his face. He muttered something impolite and resumed his assault on the door.
Gulp reappeared. "No one home!" he snapped, and vanished.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Condom grumbled peevishly. He started down the dolorous stairway, but paused and turned back. "I don't care if you're there or not. Here I come!"
Chips flew as the axe smashed into the rock-hard timbers. "What do you think you're doing, you overthewed oaf?" Gulp cried. "Who in the seventeen distinct and different hells do you think you are?"
"I'm, uh, Condom, the Trojan, and if you don't get out of my way, I'll chop pieces off you, too." With a last brutal stroke, the barbarian reduced the entranceway to the Tower of the Bat to a pile of fagots. Gulp fled, screeching in dismay.
The Trojan climbed the Tower's gloomy stair to its end, only to find himself in a place any man in full possession of his faculties would have paid his soul as ransom to avoid: the chamber of the Boring Beast.
Know, O peerless Prince, that though the Beast is long vanished from this world, his progeny live on: the dealer who at great length extols the virtues of a worthless slave, the mage full of praise for his latest worthless nostrum, or your minister of finance. But the Boring Beast, O Prince, surpassed these in its capacity for ennui to the same degree as Your Radiance surpasses his humble servant, myself. For the dread Beast was wont to drone on and on over this and that, saying nothing whatever at such inordinate length as to freeze the ardor of the doughtiest warriors—and these brave men and bold, and not to be despised in battle, and men who always fought at the fore and never gave way . . . I crave pardon, O Prince, for even the thought of the Boring Beast conjures up its image. Suffice to say, any fool caught in its spell could no more escape than bird from mesmerizing snake. And into its dominion the Trojan now thrust himself.
At first he had no notion of aught amiss; the chamber he entered seemed deserted, save for a pile of gray furs in one corner. Condom paid the drab heap scant heed. Nor did he dwell on the row of still bodies before it, once-mighty men now no more than mummified skin stretched drum-tight over dry bones. The spell of the Beast had held them enthralled until they perished.
And now its colorless voice threatened the Trojan with the same desiccation. The Beast was talking, it seemed, of the state of its bowels, but so dull were its words that little meaning came to him, only a monotonous drone that made his mouth sag open in a huge yawn. In his chamber, Sloth-Amok peered, chuckling, into the scrying-kettle as he watched the Boring Beast ensorcel the barbarian.
Condom's eyelids began to droop; so, unbeknownst to him, did those of Sloth-Amok. The great sorcerer had never before witnessed the Beast toying with a victim, and found himself quite unable to resist the field of tedium it projected. With a soft snore, he fell face-first into the split peas.
As fate would have it, Condom put up a stronger resistance to Elagabalus's dreary guardian. He had forgotten the charm he had been given, small white tablets created specifically against this menace by the renegade mage Amphet-Amun. But his own resources were not so meager as might be thought. For one thing, he had often hunted wild bores through the forests of his native land. For another, he had the true barbarian distrust of speeches; as he himself had trouble stringing more than three words together, he naturally found listening to anyone else's long-winded talk unpleasant. Stifling a yawn, he moved toward the Boring Beast, languidly raising his axe. "Will you for Crumb's sake shut up?" he growled.
The Beast did not yet understand that its soporific techniques were failing. "Now I have always found that a brew of salt water and radishes makes a good cathartic," it informed him confidentially.
"Enough!" Condom roared. His gleaming blade bit deep into the Boring Beast's flabby gray flesh. Its cry of agony, this once, produced no ennui; not since the day it had bored its eggshell open had it been so rudely beset. Again and again Condom smote the insipid monster. At last his axe pierced its bladder of boredom. Pent-up anesthetic gases hissed free. The Beast fell with a final low, inane wail; within moments Condom swooned beside it.
When he woke, his head ached abominably, both from the aftereffects of the gases which had sustained the Beast and from the onset of a devastating hangover. He rose, groaning; even the dim light of the Beast's chamber seemed far too bright. And from the door behind the monster's corpse came insistent pounding and a voice whose words were muffled by the thick wood of the portal.
Condom wished the noise would go away, but whoever was making it kept right on. He also raised his voice, so the Trojan finally understood what he was saying: "Who has come to rescue Elagabalus?"
With a will, the barbarian took his axe to the door. He tried to ignore the racket he was making. As soon as he had hacked through the stout timbers, a pale hand snaked through the hole to turn the outer knob, which, the Trojan discovered, had not been locked. The door swung open and Elagabalus stepped out.
He was a tall, slim young man, dressed in fine silks now soiled from having been worn for days on end. Also of silk was the cloth over his eyes, for he was blind. "Good sir," he said, extending his hand in Condom's general direction, "I congratulate you, though I know you not. Any warrior stout enough to vanquish the Boring Beast must be a hero indeed. Know, sir hero, that you have saved Elagabalus, prince of Hypodermia and the intended husband of Zamorazamaria's fairest princess." He paused, waiting for his rescuer to introduce himself.
Condom's care for such social graces, however, was minimal. "Come on!" he shouted, grabbing the blind prince's arm with such sudden force that Elagabalus all but fell. Elagabalus perforce followed the Trojan as he began stumbling down the stairs toward freedom.
In another part of the Tower of the Bat, Gulp sidled into Sloth-Amok's private quarters, to find the dreaded wizard snoring into his split peas. "Wake up, your maleficence!" he exclaimed.
"Wuzzat?" Sloth-Amok's head rose from the scrying-cauldron. He flicked his face nearly clean with a few quick strokes of his batrachian tongue. As full consciousness returned, he peered into the vat of soup, confidently expecting to find Condom as inert as he himself had been a moment before.
Instead he saw the barbarian and Elagabalus dashing down the Thirteen Steps. "To the palace!" Elagabalus cried, the taste of liberty lighting his aristocratic features.
Sloth-Amok cursed Condom so vilely that Gulp's toenails curled. Froggy eyes bulging, the wizard plowed through his library for a spell hideous enough to wreak proper vengeance on the Trojan.
The sentries at the palace gate stared at the mismatched pair blundering toward them. "Mithrandir!" their captain swore, not sure whose fantasy he was in. He hefted his spear threateningly.
Elagabalus's quick ear, though, recognized the officer's voice. "Do you not know me, Faex?" he said. "It is I, Elagabalus, saved for Zamaria from the foul clutches of Sloth-Amok."
Faex looked the blind prince over. "Well, damn me if you're not," he said. "This is great news." He turned to one of his troopers. "Clunes, move your buns; fetch the princess here at once. Tell her past all hope her fiancé is rescued!"
Sloth-Amok found the volume he was seeking, the great Treasury of s'tegoR. He riffled through its baleful pages, at last coming to the section he needed. Raising the book above his head, he cried out, "1014.7!" in a voice like thunder.
A horde of demons, fiends, devils, satans, devas [Zoroastrian], shedus [Biblical], gyres [Scot.], bad or evil spirits, unclean spirits, hellions [colloq.]; cacodemons, incubi, succubi; jinnis or jinnees, genies, genii, jinniyehs [fem.]; evil genii; afreets, barghests (even Sloth-Amok was unclear about what barghests were, O Prince, but he had summoned them, and they came), flibbertigibbets, trolls; ogres, ogresses; ghouls, lamiai, and Harpies vomited from the bowels of the Tower of the Bat. The Tower groaned, suffering from a bad case of mixed metaphor; the horde, yeeping, gibbering, roaring, and making whatever noise barghests make, stormed through the streets of Zamorazamaria after Condom. The townsfolk who saw them disappeared, for the most part permanently.
Horns blared inside the palace, trumpeting a royal fanfare. Peering into the entrance hall, Condom saw the princess's serving-maid hurrying toward him, amazed delight on her face. His heart, among other things, leaped. He opened his arms and lumbered forward. "Hey, sweets, look, I done it, see? I done it!"
She sidestepped with a dancer's adroitness, went gracefully to one knee before Elagabalus. "Welcome, your highness, in the name of my mistress, Princess Zamaria." She glanced behind her. "She comes to greet you even as I speak."
The guardsmen bowed low, eyes on the polished marble floor. Condom, untroubled by effete civilized notions like politeness, gaped at the mountain of flesh wallowing toward him. Zamaria waddled, she wobbled, she wheezed; her vast rolls of fat shook like the gelatin that dances round a cold ham. And like a five-pound sausage stuffed into a three-pound skin, her huge bulk was shoehorned into a cloth-of-gold gown that clung mercilessly to every curve.
"My darling!" she cried to her fiancé, her voice harsh as a raven's caw.
Condom spoke with the rude frankness that marks the barbarian. "By Crumb, buddy, it's a good thing you're blind," he told Elagabalus. "If you could see, you'd run miles, and I ain't kidding."
All heads snapped his way, then, as if drawn by some irresistible fascination, swung toward the Princess Zamaria. Her finger stabbed at the Trojan. "Kill him!" she screeched. "Kill him, kill him, kill him!"
"Shit!" said Condom, and Faex leaped at him with a vicious spearthrust. But the Trojan, with no thoughts to slow his reflexes, sprang to one side and brought down both hands, club-fashion, on the back of the captain's neck. Faex smashed to the ground, pike flying from nerveless fingers. And Condom, still acting on instinct, seized Zamaria's maidservant, slung her over his shoulder, and dashed down the street, a hundred guardsmen pouring after him.
If they had carried bows, he would have been pincushioned, but they had swords and pikes, and had to close with him to finish him off. Breath sobbing in his throat and the serving-wench in his ear, he reeled round a corner, the guards just a few strides behind. Then the Trojan, with a grunt of fright, whirled and dashed back the way he had come, straight toward the startled palace guards. But they had no chance to hack him down, for hard on his heels was the slavering spawn of Sloth-Amok's conjuration.
Both sides forgot Condom, their common quarry, as they smashed together. "Demons, fiends, devils, satans!" a soldier shrieked. He would have gone through the whole catalog, but a deva killed him. Another guardsman, quicker-witted, exorcised a whole squadron of jinnees with a bottle of vermouth. Three flibbertigibbets danced maniacally up one side of a trooper and down the other. They were not much use as far as fighting went, but spread chaos far and wide.
A cursing guardsman slashed at the monster in front of him. "What is that thing?" panted one of his squadmates, who had just unstrung a Harpy.
"A barghest," the soldier said—someone, at least, knew one when he saw one.
"Well, buy it a drink, then!" the other shouted. A lamia tore out his throat a moment later, and there was nobody to say he did not deserve it.
Caught in the center of the maelstrom, Condom kicked and pounded his way toward the edge. In the struggle for survival, none of the combatants paid him any special heed. He had almost won free when an ogre loomed before him. Zamaria's serving-maid swooned as it extended a misshapen, gore-dripping paw toward the Trojan. It roared, "Say, you look like a cousin of mine. You from Darfurdadarbeda?"
"Nah, my folks ain't from that far out in the Styx," Condom said.
"Oh. Sorry, bud. You still look like her, though." With a berserk bellow of rage, the ogre returned to the fray.
Condom sprang onto a stallion that was tied nearby to help the plot along, dug his heels into its side, and galloped for the city gates. A few angry shouts rose behind him, but guardsmen and creatures were still locked in fatal embrace (save, perhaps, for those troopers clutching succubi). The sounds of fighting faded in the distance.
The gate guards did not hinder the Trojan's flight. Burly barbarians with gorgeous, half-clad wenches draped over their saddlebows were two a copper in those days, if the tales that come down from them are to be believed.
The maidservant was awake and squirming when Condom reined the blowing stallion to a halt. The city was far away. The road ran through a glade of quiet, almost unearthly beauty. Tall, slim pines stood silhouetted against the flaming sky of sunset; thrush and warbler sang day's last sleepy songs. And to one side stretched a broad expanse of soft emerald grass.
With a slow smile, Condom dismounted from the great horse. The maid's waist was supple under his fingers as he helped her descend. He laid a hand on her arm, gently guiding her toward the inviting meadow. Her warm flesh was smooth as silk.
She kicked him in the crotch.
He was still writhing on the ground when she clambered aboard the stallion, wheeled it about, and trotted back toward Zamorazamaria. After a while he could sit up. He tried to laugh gustily and think thoughts full of primitive nobility, thoughts on meeting misfortune with stoic equanimity and on the instability of fortune, but his groin hurt and he was none too good at thinking anyhow. He crawled off into the woods and was sick instead.