The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

  'You kill it,' said Phyphor to Garash.

  'I'll try,' said Garash.

  Miphon and Phyphor retreated to the top of the steps. Garash stood alone, licking his lips anxiously. His bulging eyes watched the spark. Red spark. So high, so high. And now… and now it dipped. Garash raised his right hand. He must wait.

  Down came the dragon.

  Garash waited, trembling.

  He could hear the wings.

  The spark was a fire, a bonfire, a furnace. Close, closer, too close! Garash screamed a Word.

  White fire flared from his hand. The dragon, way off to one side of the blast of power, slewed sideways and went gliding away into the darkness.

  'What were you trying to do?' said Phyphor. 'Fry eggs?'

  'It wasn't where I thought it was.'

  'Get into the cellar, you. I'll kill it myself.'

  Garash stumbled away, having wasted the accumulated strength of four hundred and seventy-nine days of the Meditation of Power on turning raindrops into steam.

  "Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor, blinded by the flare of light. 'I can't see anything.'

  'The dragon's thinking,' said Miphon. 'Making a plan.'

  'I thought it wasn't in any state to make plans.' 'Near-death can sober up anything, even a raging dragon. It's cautious now. It's thinking.' 'What?' 'I can't tell.'

  As Phyphor's night-sight recovered, he scanned the sky, blinking against the rain. 'Is the dragon moving?' 'No. It's on top of the cliffs.' 'Doing what?' 'Searching and finding.' 'Finding what?'

  'I can't tell. Phyphor, it's in the air again. Up there!'

  'Where? Where?'

  'Above us.'

  'But I can't see it!'

  No red spark betrayed the dragon, which was not forced to show fire as it flew if it chose not to.

  'If I try to blast it, can you guide my hand?'

  'I can't pinpoint the dragon,' said Miphon. 'That's too hard.'

  'Then I'll wait till it dives,' said Phyphor. 'I've stood against the Neversh. I can stand against a dragon.' They heard something falling. A rock shattered beside them. 'The cellar!' yelled Phyphor.

  They ran. The dragon plunged down, dropping rocks as it swooped. They heard its wings cutting the air. A rock shattered at the head of the stairs, but they were al ready in the cellar, bleeding from a dozen rock splinters. The fort shook as the dragon crashed to earth. It bellowed. It blasted out fire. Flame filled the stairwell. Rainwater boiled to scalding steam. A flush of heat hit the cellar.

  'Blast it!' screamed Garash.

  'It's not in line of sight, fool,' said Phyphor.

  Another blast of fire. The stink of dragon. The scrabble of talons. More fire. More steam. They were being cooked alive.

  Phyphor stepped forward to try for a clear shot at the dragon. A blast of fire sent him reeling back, beating at his burning cloak. He had been singed by just the last fraction of that blast: any closer, and he would have been killed. Miphon pushed past, but Phyphor grabbed him.

  'Where do you think you're going?' 'To stay is to die,' said Miphon. 'If it gets me, it may think there's nobody else.' 'Wait,' said Phyphor.

  He raised his staff and hammered it down.

  He spoke a Word.

  The earth trembled and shook.

  Phyphor spoke a Word and a Word and a Word. There was a roar louder than any dragon, or any clan of dragons. Garash screamed, throwing himself to the ground. Miphon listened. – pain, pain, pain – 'The dragon's hurt,' said Miphon. 'It's going.' They heard it bellow. (Distant. Fading.) Miphon ran upstairs. Phyphor followed close behind, panting as they burst out into the night air. The walls of the fort lay in ruins. Blocks of stone had been flung through the air as the flame trench, exploding, cleansed itself of the debris of four thousand years in a single convulsive spasm. Now the flame trench was alive, flames raging for half a league between mountain and sea. Heat beat against their faces. The clouds above smouldered with bloodlight reflections.

  'Are you hurt?' said Miphon.

  'My hands are burnt a little.' said Phyphor.

  'Over here," said Miphon. leading him from the fort to find water where he could cool his singed hands.

  'Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor.

  'Far away now,' said Miphon. 'Far away. It won't be back. It's hurt. The rocks thrown by the blast hurt it.'

  'Will it die?'

  'I don't know. But it won't be back. It won't be back.* The ground trembled underfoot; they smelt torn earth, the stink of dragon, the dust of splintered rock; heat and light from the fire dyke beat against their faces. They heard the roar of flames, the hiss of rain boiling as it struck fire, waves from the sea exploding into steam.

  Garash joined them.

  'The dragon?' said Garash.

  'It's gone,' said Miphon.

  'How long will the flames burn for?' said Garash. who knew the answer – fifty days at least, and maybe longer – but half-hoped that someone would tell him different.

  'Too long,' said Phyphor. 'We'll have to find a way over the mountains.'

  Where the flame-trench ran out into the sea for a hundred paces, the waters seethed and boiled. Lacking a boat strong enough to venture out into those turbulent waters – lacking, indeed, any boat at all – the wizards could not outflank the flame trench on the seaward side.

  'Mountains!' said Garash. spitting out the word with disgust.

  'We could swim,' ventured Miphon. 'You could, perhaps." said Garash. 'I've never learnt to play fish.'

  Garash, having wasted all his accumulated power in trying to kill the dragon, felt weak and exhausted. He felt, obscurely, that Phyphor had somehow tricked him. After all, Phyphor had finally driven off the dragon simply by calling out the Words which had made the fire dyke erupt. Garash could have done as much, if he had thought of it. He was comforted by knowing he still had power stored in the shrivelled twist of wood hung round his neck, power he had stored there during dull days in the Castle of Controlling Power.

  'I couldn't venture the swim either,' said Phyphor. "So it'll have to be the mountains.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Name: Heenmor. Occupation: wizard.

  Status: Master wizard of the order of Arl. A renegade wanted dead – most definitely dead – by the Confederation of Wizards.

  Description: a massive, troll-shouldered giant, twice the height of any ordinary mortal. Black eyes, blue beard and ginger hair. Robes of khaki, boots of white leather.

  Career: most notable exploit was his organisation of an expedition to loot an artefact of power from the Dry Pit in the Forbidden Zone. His companions either died in the Dry Pit or were murdered by Heenmor afterwards; notes found in their archives alerted the Confederation of Wizards to Heenmor's misdeeds.

  ***

  'With this, I can conquer the world,' said Heenmor.

  He was talking about the stone egg which sat on one corner of the table: a sullen grey weight lit by dull light from the twelve firestones which studded the walls of this chamber high in the Tower of the order of Arl. The everlast ochre light cast no shadows.

  'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor, in a voice which mocked his opponent.

  Elkor Alish, warrior of Rovac, said nothing, but studied the wizards and the warriors arrayed on the chess board. In chess, as in real life, a wizard had a hundred times the power of a warrior – but wizards could still be killed.

  'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor again. 'Believe me: the death-stone has power enough to conquer the world.'

  Alish raised his eyes.

  'What exactly does it do?'

  ***

  'I'd love to know what Heenmor's taken from the Dry Pit,' said Garash, stumbling along a punishing mountain trail. 'I'd love to know what it does.'

  'We'll find out soon enough,' said Phyphor.

  T only hope it's something worth risking our lives for.'

  'We're not in this for personal gain!' said Phyphor sharply.

  'No, no, of course not,' said Garash hastily. Then
went sprawling as a stone slipped beneath his feet.

  'Test each stone before you trust it,' said Miphon. Garash swore, and ignored him. 'I'd still like to know,' said Garash, 'Just what it is and what it does.'

  ***

  'So you'd like to know?' said Heenmor. 'Yes,' said Elkor Alish.

  'Ah,' said Heenmor, 'That's… that's a secret.' And Heenmor smiled.

  When Alish had been initiated into the Code of Night, they had told him this: remember that the wizard, scorning us, is apt to forget how fast your sword can end his life. Alish had never forgotten – which was why, face to face with the ancient enemy, he matched Heenmor time and again at chess, enduring the wizard's contempt.

  But what was the death-stone? What did it do? Why was it so important? Why did Heenmor boast about it? 'Why do you invite me here so often?' said Alish.

  'Perhaps I just like a game of chess,' said Heenmor.

  'There's more to it than that.'

  'You're right. There is. The truth is, I want to recruit a bodyguard. You, perhaps. I want the best. They say you're the best. But is it so? They call you the man who does not shed blood. That's a strange name for a Rovac warrior, isn't it?'

  'My name is Elkor Alish.'

  'The man who does not shed blood.'

  Yes, that was what they called him now. But in the Cold West, men had known him by other names: Red Terror, Bloodsword, He Who Walks, Our Lord Despair. In the Cold West, he had been a great mercenary leader, until the day when, sickened of the slaughter, he had chosen to commit himself to the vows of the Code of Night: to destroy the ancient enemy and take the continent of Argan for the people of Rovac.

  'I can kill if I have to,' said Alish.

  'I've seen no proof of it,' said Heenmor.

  Alish focused on the chess pieces: castles, merchants, sages, wizards, warriors, hell-banes, battering rams -and the Neversh, each with six wings, each with two feeding spikes reminiscent of the tusks of the mammoths of the Cold West. He remembered hunting mammoths with Gorn, Falmer and Morgan Hearst. Falmer was dead now: may the deep hell be gentle on his soul.

  'Why are you telling me about the death-stone?' said Alish.

  'To tempt you to my service,' said Heenmor. 'Believe me: the stone egg gives me power enough to conquer the world. Serve me, and you'll be richly rewarded.'

  'With such power, what do you need me for?'

  'To protect me from my enemies. Certain wizards are on my track. Jealousy makes them murderous. They wish to kill me for the death-stone.'

  'If it makes you so powerful, what do you need me for?'

  'When my enemies come, I'll have to flee,' said Heenmor. T need time yet to perfect my mastery of the death-stone. Till then, I need a bodyguard. It takes more than one pair of eyes to watch out the night.'

  T have a job already.'

  'What? Guarding Prince Comedo? Guarding that little smear of excrement that vaunts itself as a prince of the favoured blood? Is that the height of your ambition?'

  'How can you, a wizard, dare recruit a Rovac warrior?'

  T dare anything,' said Heenmor smoothly. T know your oath will bind you. if you enter my service.'

  Heenmor's lethal copper-strike snake was coiled on one side of the table, watching. The death-stone sat on the other side. Alish knew himself fast enough to kill the wizard or the snake. But not both. Reaching to the chess board, he moved one of the Neversh to confront one of Heenmor's wizards. Heenmor moved the threatened piece out of range.

  'Perhaps Morgan Hearst will accept my offer,' said Heenmor. 'He's a warrior's warrior. I've watched him matching swords with that peasant, Durnwold. Training troops for the spring – and the war Comedo's promised him. He's a killer, isn't he? You can see it in his eyes. Maybe he's my man.'

  'Ask him and see,' said Alish.

  Would Hearst yield to temptation? Surely not. A Rovac warrior could never pledge himself to a wizard. Alish studied the chess board, trying to work out how to kill Heenmor's two remaining wizards.

  'Alish,' said Heenmor, 'All I need is a little time. Then I'll have perfect control of the death-stone. That means power. Enough power to rule the world – or destroy it. Join me. Serve me. What's the choice? To stay here? In Estar? Here is almost like being nowhere.

  Winter's ending. My enemies are coming – I'm sure of it. Make your choices, Alish!'

  Alish smoothed his hands over his long black hair, thinking carefully. If he struck at Heenmor, the snake would kill him, but what if he grabbed for the stone egg sitting so near to hand?

  Heenmor gestured at the stone egg.

  'The man who rules this rules everything,* said Heenmor. 'Even if he can't rule himself.'

  Alish hesitated – then snatched up the death-stone.

  Heenmor laughed.

  'So,' he said, 'You do have ambition.'

  The stone egg felt cool and heavy.

  'See the script on the side of the death-stone?' said Heenmor. 'Any wizard can read it. Raise the death-stone above your head. Say the Words. Do it!'

  Alish looked at the characters cut into the stone egg: cursive scrolls, loops and hooks, shapes that imitated worm-casts or the convolutions of the intestines. They meant nothing to him.

  Heenmor laughed again.

  Suddenly the death-stone kicked, as if it was a living heart.

  'Use it now,' said Heenmor. 'Use it – or if you hold it any longer it will kill you.'

  Alish threw down the stone, scattering the chess pieces. The snake raised its head and stared at him.

  'One day I'm going to kill you.' said Alish. 'One day I'm going to kill every wizard in the world.'

  Heenmor laughed, as one might laugh at a child.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Salt Road: main trading route serving the continent of Argan, the Ravlish Lands and the Cold West.

  Starting at the Castle of Controlling Power by Drangsturm, runs north through the cities of Narba, Veda, Selzirk and Runcorn, through the lands of Chorst, Dybra and Estar, then into the Penvash Peninsular.

  Turning west, reaches the Penvash Channel then proceeds through the Ravlish Lands to the city of Chi'ash-lan and the Cold West.

  Goods traded along the Salt Road include: salt, silk, slaves, animals, hides, gold, silver, lead, copper, bronze, keflo shell, linen, hemp, glass, crystal, wood, wool, quernstones, lodestones, leeches, sponges, olive oil, lemons, citrons, coconuts, rare birds, amber and ambergris.

  News, rumour, gossip and slander also, of course, travel the Salt Road.

  ***

  'Phyphor, it's too much for me,' said Garash. 'Can't we rest? Can't we stop?'

  Phyphor trudged on, in silence, his eyes downcast. His walk was little more than a survival stagger. The long days spent labouring over the mountains then navigating across open country to regain the Salt Road had worn him to his bones.

  'Slave driver,' muttered Garash.

  That was about the worst insult one wizard could offer another. When Phyphor did not respond, Miphon took his hand. It was cold, like a bit of dead wood. 'Phyphor…"

  The old wizard did not resist as Miphon drew him to the shelter of a clump of roadside trees.

  'What's his problem?' said Garash.

  'Too much wet, wind and road,' said Miphon.

  Acutely aware that there would be nobody to help them if Phyphor began to slip into a death-stupor, Miphon gathered wood, lit a fire, heated a little gruel then fed it to Phyphor, who mumbled it down without resistance. It was the last of their food. They had eaten scarcely enough to warm their skeletons over the last few days.

  Phyphor recovered quickly with the help of campfire warmth and gruel. Wizards had resources not given to ordinary men; though he had reached the edge of death, he was soon insisting that they press on. As they tramped north, Miphon engaged him in conversation from time to time to gauge his condition.

  Phyphor was still holding up well when late afternoon brought them to the hamlet of Delve – a collection of squatdwellings crouching in the wetrot shadows of trees t
hat choked a narrow gully. No dragon could have seen the hamlet from the air; it was almost invisible from the road.

  The wizards knew what they would find: doors that stooped as low as the aching curve of rheumatism, rooves of sodden thatch, dark interiors cluttered with animals, floors of septic mud and manure, and people with the similar squinting eyes and chinless faces that come from generations of drunken fathers ramming their daughters against the walls.

  First to greet them was a small black dog which raced through the mud so full of teeth and fury that Miphon at first thought it was rabid. It flung itself at them. Phyphor caught it with his staff, knocking it sideways into a tree. It lay in the rain as if stunned, then slowly crawled away, dragging its hindquarters.

  People began to appear in doorways: old women with faces like those of smoke-shrivelled shrunken heads, young men picking at their teeth in a meditative way, a young woman with the bulging belly of a pregnancy near term. None of them said anything. They stood in the doorways as if they had been there all their lives staring out into the rain.

  Finally a girl-child came splashing through the mud.

  'Galish?' she said.

  'No,' said Miphon, in the Trading Tongue. 'Not Galish, what?' said the girl. 'Wizards,' said Miphon.

  The girl laughed. She flicked mud at them with one of her small bare feet. Garash growled; Phyphor hushed him.

  'Where can we get a bed for the night?' said Miphon. 'Where?'

  'A bed? For the night? Where?' 'Where what?'

  'Where sleep,' said Miphon hopefully. 'Where sleep.' 'Sleep. Oh, sleep!'

  The girl rocked up and down on her toes in the mud, which had splashed up her legs to her knees. She stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and waited. Miphon brought out a small coin, a bronze bisque from the Rice Empire, with the crescent moon on one side and the disc of the sun on the other. He held it out. The girl snatched it, quick as a frog whipping a fly from the sky. She smuggled it through layers of rags till it lay in some secret hiding place next to her skin.