The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

  – So. It's done. Now for the death.

  He had known the wager for madness even as he made it, but he had been too proud to retract it. They would have laughed at him. He was strong, and brave, but a laugh could wound him to the marrow.

  – They would have laughed at you, and made rude jokes about you, and talked for generations about the wager Morgan Hearst made in his cups, and had to retract in shame.

  – But they'll joke away regardless, after you fall. They'll call you a zany fool, a drunken clown.

  – They'll be right.

  Already, he could imagine, in precise detail, the disaster which lay ahead of him. He knew that he was doomed. He was sober for the climb, but he was sure it would make no difference.

  In the half-light before sunrise, they saw the bones of men, cattle, a small whale, a juvenile sea serpent. The horses, picking their way over the stony ground to the southern face of Maf, grew uneasy; finally Durnwold's baulked, and he had to dismount and lead it by foot.

  All too soon, they were there.

  'Rise, sun!' cried Comedo.

  The sun obeyed.

  'Your sword,' said Comedo to Hearst, as the sun 47 splayed their long shadows across the ground. Hearst yielded the blade.

  'But remember,' said Hearst, 'I regain it if I succeed.' 'If?' said Comedo. 'You venture an If? You disappoint me.'

  Hearst grimaced, but said nothing as the prince brandished the battle-sword Hast, a weapon as famous as the warrior Morgan Hearst. Avor the Hawk had dared many battles with that blade, never finding any man to match him. A woman had killed him in the end – his seventh wife had poisoned him when he discarded her for an eighth. After that, the sword had come to Hearst, who had carried it year after year in the Cold West, till it was as much a part of him as his arm.

  – Hast, my sword, my strength, my half-brother, my brother in blood.

  'Why linger, friend?' said Comedo. 'Remember, up is hard, but down is easy – all you have to do is jump.'

  And he laughed. For Comedo, life was full of occasions for merriment. His executioner provided him with many of them.

  – He laughs. He laughs at you, Morgan Hearst, leader of men. Yes. But with good reason.

  Durnwold came to Hearst.

  'I'll wait for you,' said Durnwold.

  'You may have to wait a long time.'

  'I'll wait. Trust me.'

  'I do,' said Hearst.

  Then glanced at Alish, who sat silently on his horse. The sun shone on his long black hair, his embroidered cloak, his golden jewellery. Hearst knew Alish could have shinned up this mountain, making the climb seem effortless. Only a face of sheer ice or sheer glass could have defeated him. But then, Alish was not afraid of heights.

  'We're waiting,' said Comedo, who was getting bored.

  'I know, my prince,' said Hearst.

  And turned to face the mountain.

  ***

  The wide world turns. The entire continent of Argan now lies in sunlight; the edge of dawn moves slowly westward across the Central Ocean toward Rovac and the Cold West. While Hearst labours up the rockwalls of Maf, an isolated mountain spike in the north-west of Argan, the cities of the continent are waking in the morning light.

  In the free port of Runcorn, the Common Gates are opened; in Androlmarphos. dominating the delta of the Velvet River, the harbour chains are removed; in Selzirk, the kingmaker Farfalla – named for the moth -rises to her daily rituals.

  Further to the south, in Veda, stronghold of the sages, the Masters are at study; the troops of the Secular Arm man Veda's battlements and drill on the training grounds. Further South again, Landguard patrols prowl the Far South. By Drangsturm, the turrets and towers of the spectacular upthrust of the Castle of Controlling Power mass against the light; beyond the Great Dyke, in the Deep South, small bands of Southsearchers in the land of Swarms settle down to wait out the dangers of the day.

  Hearst climbs, his danger increasing from moment to moment, but the life of the world will continue whether ¦ he gains the heights or falls. Win or lose, succeed or fail, the world will go on without him, and well he knows how little he matters to the world as he struggles up the cliff face.

  It is the loneliest hour of his life.

  ***

  There was a crack up there. It would give him a handhold, if he could reach it.

  – Can you reach it, little man? No. It's out of reach.

  – Look down. Come on. I dare you. Look down. Yes, yes, that's right. Down.

  He looked down, to see a flash of white sliding through the air far below his feet. A gull. On the rocks below the gull, a few small specks dotted the rocks: men. His comrades.

  – So they're waiting. Some of them, at least. But what does it matter? You'll never see them again unless you reach that handhold.

  He was exhausted. It was too far to climb back down.

  – You'll never reach that handhold. Never.

  The sweat from his last exertions had dried on his body. The wind which had harried him earlier in the day had gone to torment some other place, but the air was still cold. He was cold.

  – Colder still when dead, no doubt.

  He could not reach that stronghold, that handhold, that griphold which would secure him against that five-scream fall. It was impossible. This was the end.

  – Any regrets? Many. But at least nobody else will die because of this foolishness. None other was fool enough to join this climb. Not even Durnwold.

  He was facing his end. And he was facing it alone.

  – Bereft of strength, and far away my friends.

  His legs were trembling. If he let go it would all be finished. It would be so easy to let go. He would slip back into the air that was softer than feathers. He would fall.

  So easy.

  His head hurt where a falling rock had clipped it earlier in the climb. The short-cropped hair there was stiff with blood. He had dried blood on his fingers, torn by grappling with the cliff.

  He was so tired.

  So cold.

  If he let go, no more pain. No more fear. It would all be over. But they would make rude songs about him.

  They would liken him to spattered bird dung.

  – Look up.

  – Look up, arse-wipe. Up!

  – How far?

  – Only thirty paces.

  Only thirteen paces to the dragon's lair. There were ten leagues to a march – twenty thousand paces – and often he had made two marches between sunrise and sunset. Would thirty paces defeat him now? If he had been a man-sized fly he could have walked those thirty paces on a single breath of air.

  – Look up.

  – The only chance is up. Will the left hand hold you? The left hand held him. He stretched. The handhold was out of reach. But only just. Should he jump? It wasn't far. But when a man is on a cliff-face where even to flex his knees may be precarious, when he has climbed so far, with so much pain, with so much fear…

  – But there's no other choice.

  – So jump!

  Hearst boosted himself up, to find his fear had previously cramped him to a crouch even when he thought he was at full stretch. He gained the handhold. One hand on. Two!

  Easy.

  His feet slipped, scrabbled, then found their resting place. Then slipped again. Then half his handhold crumbled away to nothing. His left hand clawed at the air. He was hanging by one hand only. His fingers began to slide.

  Then his flailing hand found a crevice.

  – Hold me, woman-rock. It held.

  His feet found purchase. Two hands on. Two feet on. And he could see his next handhold. He reached for it, gained it. Up. To the next. The next. He climbed, animated by a burst of fury, raging at himself for letting fear trick him into thinking he needed to jump for that crucial handhold – appalled at how close he had come to throwing his life away.

  Climbing with a furious effort which threatened to burst his heart, he reached a crack running vertically to the gaping cleft which was th
e entrance to the dragon's lair. The chimney widened; he wedged his body inside it, and rested. His rage died away, replaced by shuddering exhaustion.

  – Cling to the rock. Cling to the rock. Like darkness, like mother. Like warmth and hot milk after cold rain; like mother. Is that part of the warrior's way? Longing for milk and for mother? Is it? What are you, Hearst?

  – I'm here. And it's not far now. Not far.

  – But what about climbing down again? What about that? Look down.

  – No. Don't look down. Not now. Climb.

  He climbed. Past a trace of green moss. Past a tract of crumbling rock. Up now, up. And what was that stink? Dragon, surely.

  – And what if he roars out now, in his fury, Zenphos with his wings unfurling and gouts of flame hurling from his mouth? Then that will be the end, man-leader, that will be the end.

  – But at least the climb is finished.

  He gained level rock, and collapsed in the mouth of the cave. Some men called him fearless, and certainly he would dare all and any, sword against sword. Many challengers had died with his cold eyes watching them. In battle he seemed tireless; his voice never faltered, even when the battle went against his forces. So he was called fearless: but he had his fears, and heights was one of them. The first stretch of the cliff had almost brought him to collapse, and by now he had been climbing for more than half a day.

  For some time, he lay in the mouth of the dragon's lair without the power of sight or thought. When he recovered, the sun was still riding in the sky; his first thought was to look down.

  – That would be a mistake.

  – But if you don't look down, you will always remember that you were afraid to look down.

  He looked down.

  Beneath his feet the sky dropped away to the barren land: rolling country stretching south for thirty leagues to where the Barley Hills smudged the horizon. Sun flashed on water; Estar, with its peat soils and heavy winter rains, was a country of tarns, pools, brooks, streams and swamps. He could see the Salt Road running on a north-south line to the west of Maf; he could see the Central Ocean leagues beyond, and the charred remains of burnt trees, looking no larger from this height than little black beard bristles.

  If he had slipped, his body would have crunched to a bloody skinful of offal when it hit the rocks. Spasms shook his body as memories assailed him. Hejcnew he could never climb down. He closed his eyes.

  – Open your eyes. The time is now.

  It was time to die. The sayings had it that a man facing a dragon was as an infant confronted by the strength of an armed and armoured adult, like a leaf in the face of a forest fire. Hearst did not doubt it. He unshipped the spear from his back. A short spear, not man-high but child-high. No weapon for a warrior: but what else could he have carried up that face of terror? His sword, of course: but Comedo had his sword.

  His stomach was empty, his mouth dry; he had carried nothing to eat or drink. At least he would not be spattered like bird-dung on the rocks. At least men would know that he had met his end as a warrior. There would be no jokes: only speculation, bad dreams and dread.

  He advanced, breathing heavily though the air stank. What was that sound, like the sea yet unlike? What was that sound, like the sighing in a shell, yet louder? That must be breathing.

  His eyes adjusted to the gloom. He saw it.

  'Ah,' he said. 'Ah…' – So that's a dragon. That's a dragon. By the purple flames and the singing knives of the fourth hell, the songs don't do the fire-spawn justice. I thought the fear of heights to be my worst, but if I had any water in me I'd be losing it now. I'd say it was big as a longship, except it's bigger. I'd say its talons were like scythes, except they're longer.

  – But it is asleep, it is asleep, and you have a chance, Morgan Hearst, son of Avor the Hawk, warrior of Rovac, song-singer, sword-master, leader of men. You have a chance.

  He slipped through the gloom. The dragon bulked in mountains above him. Darkness rendered all its colours in grey. Discarded scales the size of dinner plates slithered underfoot as his feet disturbed them. The sound of breathing crowded his ears.

  He approached the head. It was hot, it was hot. The vast lips were slightly parted, as if in a snarl, revealing fractions of the razor teeth. Through chinks between the teeth he could see the glow of inner fires, red as a bed of hot coals. One casual belch from that mouth would send him reeling back in a blaze of burning hair and flaming clothing, crisped like bacon.

  He looked up. Above and out of reach, gathering light from the shadows, glowed another red light: the huge ruby that filled the empty eye socket. He looked for the other eye. The right eye. There. Only small, weak scales covered the flexible eyelid.

  Now.

  He took the spear. He sighted. He cast. The spear smashed into the eye. There was a pause. There was the regular sound of breathing. Then the spear was driven back out. It fell on the ground. A torrent of black pus vomited from the hole. Hearst dodged to one side.

  The flow eased to a trickle, then to a dribble, then to nothing. Then from the sunken black sac of that decayed eye came a white worm thick as a man's arm. It quested blindly in the air, then retreated to the death it was feeding on, the body days dead, the stinking corpse which lay there with its mouth full of dying fire. And still there was the sound of breathing.

  ***

  The wide world turns. For the continent of Argan, it is late afternoon: in fact, the eastern edge of the continent already lies in darkness. Soon that darkness will cover the entire continent; while Hearst rests in the dragon's lair high in the mountain of Maf, a fang of rock in Estar, the cities of the Argan prepare for sleep.

  On the road, travellers – Galish merchants, hunters, pilgrims, wandering musicians, questing heroes, vagrants, lepers and similar riff-raff – are making camp. The wizards Phyphor, Garash and Miphon are half-way between Delve and Maf.

  In Selzirk, pride of the Harvest Plains, the kingmaker Farfalla attends to the day's last rituals; in Veda, the Masters of the sages practice Silence. Still further south, Landguard patrols prepare for night and sleep; elsewhere, Southsearchers dream on for a little longer before waking for the night.

  The world knows nothing of the ordeal which has tested Morgan Hearst, yet he allows himself the thought that in time he will be known to the whole world that worked its way through these hours of daylight, not knowing they were different to any others.

  Hearst grunted, and toppled the ruby into the gulf of evening air. It fell, glimmered briefly, then dropped from sight. Men would know him as a hero now, to be spoken of in the same breath as the dragon Zenphos, the wizard Paklish and the sage Ammamman. The generations would rank him with the heroes of the Long War – or above them. That was some comfort, but not enough to reconcile him with death. Not nearly enough. He could not climb down, but he was not finished yet.

  He stretched. His joints ached. He had wintered by the fireside, safe from the cold. He hoped the day of exposure to the wind and chill would not make his joints stiffen. He would be lost if his bones locked up, as they had on occasion in the Cold West. He turned back into the cave, navigating by the sullen glow still smouldering between the jaws of the dead dragon.

  Behind the corpse were tunnels through which the air channelled, creating that sighing sea-shell sound of breathing. He would explore methodically, taking every left turn when the tunnel forked. One wrong step might drop him to the bottom of a hidden chasm, so he went shuffle by stoop into the worm-blind darkness, feeling his way.

  – Don't fight the dark, seduce it.

  The gut-twisted tunnels knotted themselves through the dark. They rose, fell, and corkscrewed sideways. He climbed at least as often as he descended; every down he found turned up. Dehydrated, exhausted, ravenous with hunger, he began to hallucinate, to hear voices, to see lights. He paused to rest, sucking on a small stone to ease his thirst. Then lectured himself onwards.

  – On your feet, son of Avor, on your feet.

  A derelict wind chanted thro
ugh his skull. In the wind, he heard the voices of ghosts. He clapped his hands to drive them away. Up ahead, he imagined he saw a star.

  – Go away, star. Another step, another star.

  Then a dozen. A hundred. A thousand. The tunnel widened until his arms could not span it. Hearst stepped out under the night sky.

  – So we're out.

  – We've made it.

  – Hast, my half-brother, my brother in blood, we are to be reunited.

  But where were the rocks? The trees? Where, for that matter, was the horizon?

  Belatedly, he realised that he was not, after all, at the foot of Maf: he was on the summit. He swayed with exhaustion. Stars lay in water in small pools on the mountain top; Hearst, his mouth as dry as ashes, knelt and drank deep. Then, from the edge of a cliffdrop, he surveyed the darkness, which was featureless except where, somewhere, a fire burnt.

  Hearst, taking bearings on the stars, judged the fire to lie in the direction of the temple, from which Prince Comedo had withdrawn the traditional protection of his guards after the temple priests, declaring they would kill the dragon, had instead aroused its fury and sent it raging up and down the Salt Road. Was the temple burning? What did he care?

  – Sleep, Morgan, sleep. Sleep, and see what the sun has to say. No more walking in the darkness until we have seen the face of the sun at least once more. That will be enough, to see the face of the sun. That will be enough.

  He retired to the tunnel, which would shelter him if it rained. Then, exhausted, he slept.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Name: Valarkin (brother of Durnwold). Birthplace: Little Hunger Farm, Estar. Occupation: priest of the temple of the Demon of Estar. Status: acolyte.

  Description: a young man with face and nose both narrow; mouth small and teeth sharp; hair and eyes both ratskin brown.

  The day after leaving Delve, the wizards passed the brooding cliffs of Maf, which lay east of the Salt Road. The people of Delve had told them of the dragon's lair.

  'Can you tell if the dragon's at home?' asked Phyphor.