The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

  As Garash obeyed, Alish sidestepped, then ducked round behind the wizards. Phyphor laughed.

  'Well, Garash,' said Phyphor, turning. 'You certainly -'

  'Don't move!' shouted Alish.

  Phyphor froze.

  'Now remember I'm behind you,' said Alish. 'Man, wizard or sage, you can die whatever you are. The fat one says he's a wizard, so I'll call you all wizards. Any movement – any mumbling – any chanting – and my sword will have your heads.'

  'You can't keep us here forever,' said Garash.

  'Yes, fat one: a problem. My blade can trim that problem down to size, if necessary. What did you say your name was?'

  'Garash.'

  'Garash who? Garash what? What is your family? Your clan?'

  'Garash is all the name I have.'

  'Well then. Your name, young one?'

  'My name is Miphon. I bear you no ill.'

  'Steel would say it bears no ill, but it kills all the same. You, old one, who are you?'

  'Elkor Alish, my style is Phyphor, a wizard of Arl. I seek audience with Prince Comedo to ask for help in hunting down the wizard Heenmor. We wish to punish him… to kill him.'

  Alish laughed.

  'Find Heenmor? Kill him? We'd help if we could, I'm sure. He ate here at his pleasure all through the winter. And killed here, too. When he left, twenty followed. He lost them in forest too dense for horses. But they tracked him, closed with him on foot – and died. Where he's gone to. nobody knows.'

  'Elkor Alish…'

  'Yes, old one?'

  'Phyhor is my style, as I have told you.' 'Then speak, Phyphor.'

  'Elkor Alish, we come to kill Heenmor. You would enjoy to see him dead. Where is our quarrel?'

  Alish paused. By striking now, he could kill three wizards. He was fast enough. It would be a step to fulfilling his obligations to the Code of Night and the destiny of Rovac: a glorious start to a spring that would see Hearst lead Comedo's army on a conquest of Dybra which Alish saw as the start of a long campaign that might eventually take their armies to the wizard strongholds in the Far South.

  He could strike now: or wait.

  If he let the wizards live, perhaps they would find Heenmor and secure the death-stone. Then Alish could kill them at leisure, taking the death-stone for himself.

  'Swear not to harm me or any other in the castle,' said Alish, 'And there will be no quarrel between us.'

  'Why must we swear?' said Garash.

  'Because Ethlite is hungry,' said Alish.

  'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, 'I swear by the Rule of Law to honour the lives of this castle, providing none hinder my pursuit of the wizard Heenmor. By the Rule of Law I swear it.'

  'And you, wizard Garash?'

  First Garash then Miphon swore the same oath. Alish sheathed his sword.

  'So you've sworn the oath,' said Alish, walking back to join his two comrades. 'For what it's worth.'

  'You question the value of a wizard's oath?' said Garash angrily. 'No wizard ever breaks an oath.'

  Alish laughed at him.

  'How dare you laugh!'

  'Peace, Garash,' said Phyphor. 'This is not the time or the place.'

  'All right,' said Garash. Then, abruptly: 'Who are those people?' He pointed at the other guards, who had sat silent throughout the confrontation. One, a short pink man with a smirking mouth, looked remarkably like a pig dressed in chain mail. A battle axe hung from his belt, a knife at his side and a helmet within easy reach.

  'The short one is Corn,' said Alish. 'The tall one, the swordsman, is someone else again.'

  'Tell that, that Gorn,' said Garash, 'Tell him to take us to Prince Comedo. Now!'

  Alish, allowing himself an enigmatic smile, rearranged his embroidered cloak so the hilt of his sword showed. He had sworn no oath that would protect the wizards.

  'Are you threatening me?' said Garash.

  'Garash!' said Phyphor. 'Favour us with your silence. Elkor Alish, if you would be so good, kindly take us to Prince Comedo.'

  'Unfortunately,' said Alish, 'That worthy is out hunting.'

  'What?' said Phyphor. 'With armed invaders on the loose?'

  'Most are fled or dead,' said Alish. 'They're no match for the fighters here. There was never a proper invasion -just a few men sent from Tameran to burn the temple and scout out the land.'

  'If the prince isn't here,' said Garash, 'Why are you guarding his chambers?'

  'Within is a fortune worth murdering your mother for. Morgan Hearst slew the dragon on Maf. He's a hero. He gouged a giant ruby from its eye socket, as proof. That's what we're guarding.'

  'Is that Hearst?' said Miphon, indicating the tall swordsman.

  The swordsman laughed. He looked like a fighting man's fighting man. Big grappling hands; a barrel chest; a face scarred and beer-battered, marked by a network of broken red veins. The left ear was missing. He was older than Alish or Gorn; when he spoke, his voice was deep, and slightly hoarse: 'No,' he said, accenting the Trading Tongue strangely. 'I'm not Morgan Hearst. I have the pride and pleasure of being Volaine Persaga Haveros, lately Lord Commander of the Imperial City of Gendormargensis, but now out of favour with our lord Khmar, who has placed a price on my head.'

  'A Collosnon soldier!' said Phyphor, with surprise.

  Volaine Persaga Haveros bowed, slightly.

  Gendormargensis, as all the world knew, was the ruling city of Khmar's empire – a city by the Yolantar-ath River commanding the strategic gap between the Sarapine Ranges and the Balardade Massif, deep in the heartland of Tameran, far north of Estar.

  'Are all three of you Collosnon soldiers?' said Phyphor.

  'No,' said Haveros. 'Just me. Alish and Gorn have never set foot in Tameran. They're from the west. Rovac warriors.'

  Phyphor's face registered shock. But it was Garash who spoke first: 'What? Those two? Rovac warriors? A runt with the face of a pig and a fop in a pretty cloak?'

  Alish put his hand to the hilt of his sword, then restrained himself. His pleasure would come later. He made a promise to himself: sooner or later, he would see the green of this wizard's spleen.

  'What did you expect?' he said. 'We're only men, whatever the legends say. But when you meet Morgan Hearst, then you'll meet a hero.'

  'It's not Hearst we're after,' said Phyphor. 'It's the prince.'

  'All in good time,' said Alish, carelessly. 'His hunt should end by evening. Come, we'll find you quarters.'

  'We'll sleep in our towers,' said Phyphor. 'We'll be quite comfortable there.'

  'Of course,' said Alish. 'Do you know the way?'

  'I've been here before,' said Phyphor.

  He was glad to get away. So there were Rovac in Estar! Never before had he met the ancient enemy face to face. Despite his laughter at the time, he was rather shaken by the speed with which Alish had attacked and mastered Garash. And he was appalled to think that a Rovac warrior now had the protection of his oath.

  Well, despite what Garash had said, oaths could be broken…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Arl: one of the most powerful of the eight orders of wizards, having power over light and over fire.

  ***

  From the fifth level of the gatehouse keep the wizards exited onto the battlements, which were twenty paces wide, with the flame trench moat on one side and a four-storey drop to the flagstones of the central courtyard on the other. Overhead the gatehouse keep towered skywards for another sixty-six levels, terminating at the seventieth floor.

  'You should have killed him when he attacked me,' said Garash, speaking of Alish. 'He might have killed me.'

  'And I might have been grateful,' said Phyphor. 'You need me! You can't kill Heenmor on your own!' 'I could use help – but you were no help at all when the dragon attacked us.' 'Neither was that wizard of Nin,' said Garash. 'Please allow me – ' began Miphon. 'Quiet!' shouted Phyphor.

  For once, they obeyed – the word came out as a howl of anguish, shocking them to silence.

  Phyphor stood the
re, trembling. With an unaccustomed sense of hopelessness, he remembered so many similar situations from the past, when wizards, ranting, raging, burning white-hot with unreasonable fury, had embroiled themselves in their own little melodramas, while about them empires fell and the world rode down the wide road to ruin. Without a word, he led them on.

  Five hundred paces took them from the gatehouse keep to the tower of the order of Seth, pierced with a gateway which anyone could use – though only a wizard of Seth could enter the tower. Next came the tower of Arl, where they stopped; beyond lay the tower of Nin.

  'Miphon,' said Phyphor. 'Come inside with us.'

  'Are you mad?' said Garash. 'We can't have a wizard from another order in our tower.'

  Phyphor turned a cold eye on his apprentice.

  'For the last time,' said Phyphor, 'remember your place.'

  'I won't stand for it! The order of Arl has never – ' 'Garash! Enough!'

  'You may be the master here and now,' said Garash, heatedly, 'but what will our order say if they hear you've let the order of Nin into our tower – the order of bird-callers and fish-ticklers? There's no precedent for such a thing.'

  'I've heard you out,' said Phyphor. 'Now you hear me. There's no precedent for our mission. Never before has a wizard ventured to the Dry Pit. Who knows what Heenmor found there? Who knows what he left in the tower? Maybe twenty different kinds of death. The more of us and the more skills we have between us, the better. And while I'm about it, don't despise bird-calling and fish-tickling – that talent has fed us often enough on this mission.'

  Garash nodded as if he agreed – then grabbed for the chain round his neck.

  Phyphor's staff thwacked against his fingers. Then he jabbed Garash in the ribs. Garash squealed. The staff chopped into his kidneys. Garash fell to the ground. The staff swept back for another blow.

  'No,' said Miphon, restraining Phyphor. 'You'll kill him.'

  'Perhaps I should,' said Phyphor, breathing heavily. 'My best efforts to teach him – and he turns out like this. Kill him, yes. It's not a bad idea.'

  But he did not strike.

  Garash, curled up in pain, moaned.

  'On your feet," said Phyphor. 'Come on! Up! Now! Up up up! Stop snivelling! Get up! On your feet, yes, that's better. Now look me in the eyes. In the eyes!'

  Garash could not or would not meet his gaze.

  'What was your plan?' said Phyphor. 'Kill me, then go home? Listen. There's no excuse for going back. Our mission is too important for that. We'll follow Heenmor if we have to track him all the way to Chi'ash-lan. If we've lost his trail, we'll search until we pick it up again, even if that means quartering the Ravlish Lands and searching Tameran entire.

  'If I offend against protocol, you can prosecute me in front of the order when we return. But if you return to the Castle of Controlling Power without completing this mission, the order will kill you on arrival.'

  'I'll be pissing blood for a week,' moaned Garash. 'I'll be pissing blood for a week.'

  'Pox doctor, heal thyself,' said Phyphor, without sympathy. 'Now let's go in. You first. Now!'

  He shoved Garash toward the wall. Garash stumbled, tried to turn, and fell backwards. The wall parted like mist around him.

  'Come,' said Phyphor, 'Take my hand.'

  Taking Phyphor's hand – to get into the tower of Arl he needed physical contact with a wizard of Arl -Miphon walked through the wall as if through fog, and was inside.

  Garash was on the floor.

  'I'm blind!' screamed Garash. 'Blind!'

  The air stank of burnt hair. The back of Garash's head had been singed and the back of his cloak had been scorched.

  'You were lucky you fell backwards,' said Phyphor. 'Heenmor must have set a blast trap here. If you'd walked in facing forward, you might have lost your eyes.'

  'Don't you hear me? I'm blind.' 'It's only flash-blindness,' said Phyphor. 'You'll get back your sight in a day or two.' 'Help me up,' said Garash. Phyphor laughed at him.

  By the ochre everlast light of the firestones of the tower of Arl, Phyphor's mouth showed heavy brown sheep-teeth in a mirthless grin. Standing there, tall figure in robes and skullcap, scars on his chin and lines of age seaming his face, he looked like a deathmessenger.

  'Upstairs,' said Phyphor. 'You first, Garash. If there's any surprises, they're yours.'

  At first Garash demurred – but soon yielded to Phyphor's blunt methods of persuasion.

  The tower of Arl rose from the battlements in fifty levels. The first thirty, windowless, held nothing but clasp-sealed jars of water and urns of siege dust. The next twenty were bare but for some stone furniture. As they climbed, Miphon and Phyphor followed Garash at a distance. The stairs were shallow, as wizards might have to climb them through thousands of years of frail old age. The stairway walls were covered with strange markings: glyphs and star-symbols which Miphon had never seen before. He did not like to ask what they were, but Phyphor volunteered the information.

  'All that you see is written in the Inner Language of the order of Arl,' said Phyphor. 'It's used for saying that which must not be overheard. You're probably the first wizard of Nin even to hear of its existence. Does Nin have anything like it?'

  'No,' said Miphon.

  He was not telling the truth. His order did have a special method for secret conversations. Theirs was the only order able to speak to and hear animal minds, so they would use the slow, clear mind of a tortoise. They would sit it down on a table, with a few lettuce leaves so it would not wander, then one wizard would put a thought into its mind for the others to pick up. The thought would fade swiftly, allowing questions, answers or elaboration. Miphon kept this secret, guessing wizards of any other order would find this ceremony ludicrous.

  'We've no great secrets like the other orders,' said Miphon. 'Everyone knows that.'

  'Everyone presumes that,' said Phyphor. 'But I'm not so sure. Hurry up, Garash! You're not crippled, only blind.'

  The murderous fifty level climb exhausted all of them. However, there were no more traps. In the uppermost level, they found a table, a couple of chairs and a chess set. On the floor was a stone relief map of the lands of Estar, Trest, Dybra and Chorst. The map showed the flame trench on the southern border of Estar throbbing with red light.

  'That's new since I was here last,' said Phyphor. 'It would have told Heenmor the southern fire trench was burning again. The day we reached the border, he must have known it.'

  'What are you talking about?' asked Garash, from his blindness.

  'Nothing that need concern you,' said Phyphor. Garash yelped.

  'That's a chair,' said Phyphor. 'There's a couch to your left.'

  Garash groped his way to the couch, then lay down. With a grinding-grating, the stone conformed, at least approximately, to the curves of his body. Phyphor frowned at the ugly noise: it suggested that time's decay was telling even on the tower of Arl. Garash, lying back, went limp, as if unconscious.

  'What if his sight doesn't come back?' murmured Miphon.

  'There's a drop-shaft on every level of this tower,' said Phyphor. 'They have their uses.' Miphon hoped he was only joking.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Name: Durnwold (brother of Valarkin). Birthplace: Little Hunger Farm, Estar. Occupation: soldier.

  Description: a strong, swarthy young man who looks rather stupid but actually has all his wits about him.

  Career: since leaving his father's house, has served Prince Comedo. Has trained with the sword under the tutelage of Morgan Hearst, warrior of Rovac.

  ***

  Footling – knocked from his horse by a branch – fell with a cry. His horse, dismounted, stopped. But the chase went on.

  Durnwold urged his horse: 'Ya! Ya!'

  Hearst rode silent and intent, bent low beneath the whipping branches. The trail swung into undergrowth too thick to ride through. Durnwold and Hearst swung down from their horses. Bent low beneath branch and bough, they ran with swords drawn.

  One
of their quarry turned at bay. Durnwold was at him first. Sword clashed with sword as Hearst slipped past to follow the trail. Durnwold, on his lonesome, fought the Collosnon soldier.

  The earth was damp. Their boots slipped and stumbled. Their mouths were open: breathing harsh. In the dim underbranch light they thrust and countered. Fear for fear they matched each other. The Collosnon soldier dared a cut which Durnwold only half-turned. The blade ripped his flank. It hurt! He parried another blow then hacked for the head.

  Metal bit metal. The Collosnon sword shattered. The soldier looked at it – shocked, astonished. Durnwold's blade bit to the bridge of his nose. Durnwold sliced, thrust, hacked, chopped, grunting, sweating, swearing, butchering his enemy to a bloody mess of gore and bone. Then dropped his sword and staggered to the support of a tree, where he rested, clutching his wounded side, panting, gasping.

  It was a while before he realised he was only lightly wounded, and not likely to die yet.

  Meanwhile Hearst, now far out of sight, ran on along an easy trail of broken twigs, footprints, torn branches, and, once, a vivid red wound where a boot had ripped the skin from an exposed tree root. He saw marks where his exhausted quarry had slipped and fallen. Bursting into a clearing, Hearst saw his quarry: sprawled full length with an arrow in his chest. Hearst saw the archer: a dark-haired weatherbeaten man of middle years, and behind him… what? It fled, leaving him with a vague impression of large eyes and fox fur.

  'Who are you?' demanded Hearst, speaking Estral.

  'Blackwood,' said the archer.

  'And what was that thing that ran away?'

  'A fodden.'

  'What's that? Paw and claw? Or thumb and fist?'

  'Thumb and fist,' said Blackwood. 'But it lives like paw and claw. It finds game for me.'

  Blackwood spoke the language of Estar well enough to assure Hearst that he was a native of the land. Hearst switched to the Trading Tongue, in which he was more fluent.

  'Do you claim the head?' said Hearst.

  'The head? Mister, I'm not that hungry.'

  'The prince will want to see it,' said Hearst, chopping down on the corpse with his sword.