The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

  Not yet, at any rate.

  For if he killed the fodden, the guards might hurt Mystrel. And if he didn't? What then? What would they do to her at the end of a year? He knew the answer. His eyes were hot, hot and burning. The best they could hope for was to die. But, thinking of his unborn child, he knew he could not permit himself to hope for that.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nin: one of the weakest of the eight orders of wizards, having power over the minds of wild things.

  ***

  Miphon woke to sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows of the top room of Nin's four-storey tower. Wondering why he had slept so well, he remembered that the castle stones had no voices. For once he had slept without hearing stones, rocks and mountains grumbling and complaining. The process used to build the castle had killed all life in the rock thus employed, letting Miphon sleep without that mournful cry always in his head: 'Lemarl…'

  A broken windowpane allowed him a clear view across the glitter of the Hollern River and the trees of Looming Forest to the distant northern mountains of the Penvash Peninsular rising high and steep under the blue vault of the heavens.

  Momentarily, he remembered an ocean-going canoe of the Driftwood Islands which had been named The Blue Vault of the Heavens. But that was long ago and far away… and he could never go back. It was too late for that. Years too late.

  He slopped out, making use of a drop-shaft which overhung the flame trench. He ate some siege dust, through it almost choked him – they would have to arrange rations with the castle. He would see if he could sort something out with the cook or quartermaster before he saw Comedo.

  ***

  'Enter,' said Prince Comedo.

  Miphon went into the prince's room. The first thing he saw was a girl – small, thin, pale, hairless and almost breastless. There was blood on her thighs. She parted curtains, vanishing into an adjoining chamber.

  Miphon bowed, and tried a few courtesies on the prince, inwardly lamenting the deficiencies of the Galish Trading Tongue. Designed for haggling, it permitted few flatteries. Translated into Galish, words like 'Greetings, my lord' meant, literally, 'Hi, camel master', while 'I am at your service' suggested something like 'I'm willing to bargain'.

  Miphon need not have worried. Prince Comedo, having received much homage in Galish, believed that phrases such as 'Hi, camel master' were tokens of great respect. All his life, Galish had been, to him, a formal, courtly tongue; he was completely ignorant of the irreverent, vernacular life the Trading Tongue lived in the marketplaces of the Salt Road.

  Abruptly, Comedo demanded how one became a wizard. Miphon was taken aback, but, recovering swiftly, spoke in generalities about Venturing, Testing" and Proving.

  'Heenmor said as mucli,' said Comedo, apparently irritated. 'But he never told me precisely what makes a wizard.'

  'You wish to know, my lord?'

  'Yes!'

  'The heart of the matter is service,' said Miphon. 'One works as a humble apprentice for many years. One studies with humility. One serves another who is prepared to teach.'

  'Is that the only way?'

  'Yes. One must serve.'

  'For a long time?'

  'Yes, my lord.'

  'I would not serve. Others serve me. That's the way things are supposed to be. Heenmor served me. He's gone now, of course. I miss him. I was the only ruler in the known world to own a wizard. I owned him, but he made too many demands. He was… so tall. His shadow was too long.

  'I told Morgan Hearst to kill him. We were eating chestnuts at the time. But the wizard fled. He made a magic to kill my men. I can show you one who didn't die. He wants to die, but I keep him. He's unique. I'll show you… but not today. Not today. But believe me, I have him. The only one.'

  'Did Heenmor say where he was going? Do you know where he went?'

  'Don't drop questions so, like hail on my head. Remember, I own the dandelion. One puff, and you're dead. My servants – they told you about my foot?'

  'Yes, my lord,' said Miphon.

  And was soon at work.

  Comedo, walking barefoot to bed, had stepped on a needle, which had broken off in his foot. After some days, his heel was now red and inflamed, yellow pus swelling the skin round the puncture site. Miphon heated a needle in the flame of a candle to kill 'the life which feeds on the eye which cannot see it'. He broke open the skin, expressed globs of pus and wiped them away. Then began to dig.

  Comedo's hands knotted together, his mouth twisted, and sweat broke out on his brow, though Miphon doubted if he was hurting more than a fraction, if at all. Finally Miphon saw the black stump of the broken needle. He coaxed it to the surface and drew it out. It was black, corroded, rotten. Miphon exhibited his prize.

  'Here it is. See.'

  'No,' said Comedo, shielding his face. 'I don't want to see. I don't, I won't. You're finished, you can go.'

  'Not yet,' said Miphon calmly. 'A hot poultice comes next, to draw out the corruption.'

  He prepared and placed the poultice. Comedo complained of the heat of it, but Miphon soothed him as one might sooth a child, and Comedo allowed himself to be soothed.

  'They tell me,' said Comedo, while the poultice did its work, 'that you'll hunt off shortly after Heenmor. He always feared pursuit… I don't know why.'

  'We can't follow him unless we know where he is.'

  'You came from the south.'

  'Yes,' said Miphon. 'He won't have gone south.'

  'He could have gone north… the Melski would know. But the Melski are animals, they'd never tell us. Perhaps he went east to my cousin Jcferies… that's a long way, though.'

  'How far?'

  'From here to the High Castle in Trest… about a hundred leagues.' 'Ten marches.'

  'Yes,' said Comedo. 'You take the Eastway. For the first fifteen leagues, that's a road. Then you reach Sepik. After that, there's a path. It goes through the swamps.'

  'My lord,' said Miphon, 'Before we set out. we'd like to see the place where Heenmor used magic to kill the men chasing him. If that's no trouble…'

  'It's in deep forest. You'd never find it. There's nobody here who'd dare guide you there.'

  'Surely a prince so wealthy as yourself, a prince able to maintain such a magnificent retinue – I am impressed to find even Rovac warriors in your service – must surely have, somewhere, within the wide bounds -'

  'Enough,' said Prince Comedo, holding up a hand for silence. 'I will think on it. Thinking will do me no harm. Perhaps I will think of someone for you. In the meantime: you may go.'

  'Yes, my lord.'

  Exiting from Comedo's chambers, Miphon heard a distant, echoing voice shouting: 'Andranovory! Let him go!' He still hadn't arranged about rations.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Name: Elkor Alish.

  Birthplace: the islands of Rovac.

  Occupation: captain of Prince Comedo's bodyguard.

  Status: a famed army leader of the Cold West, known variously as Red Terror, Bloodsword, He Who Walks, Our Lord Despair; a leading member of the Code of Night, the secret organisation dedicated to the death of all wizards.

  Description: a wiry man of 37 noted for haughty demeanour, elegant dress and a taste for golden jewellery; hair long and black; beard square-cut and black.

  ***

  On a fine spring morning, a small party left Castle Vaunting for the place in Looming Forest where Heenmor had killed with magic. With the wizards Phyphor, Garash and Miphon went two Rovac warriors, Elkor Alish and Morgan Hearst. Prince Comedo, in a fit of generosity, had insisted on providing these bodyguards. The wizards had been unabJe to think of any diplomatic way to refuse this favour; Garash had suggested several undiplomatic ways, which Phyphor had vetoed.

  The party was guided by a native of Estar introduced by Comedo as 'a man from the woods, a thief, a criminal, one of the creatures of darkness'. The wizards had paid little attention to Comedo's claims: by now, they had his measure.

  Descending Melross Hill, t
hey went through Lorford.

  Galish merchants were in town; the locals would tell them nothing of Collosnon raiders, only that a hero named Morgan Hearst had scaled the cliffs of Maf and killed the dragon Zenphos. The Galish convoy would have only good news to take along the Salt Road.

  The little expedition crossed the Hollern River and headed into Looming Forest. At first, the forest was airy and open, as it was thinned regularly by people from the town cutting firewood.

  'Why so troubled, Rovac warrior?' asked Garash, noting Hearst's expression. 'Are you afraid?'

  'No,' said Hearst, and that was all he said.

  This was where his horse had fallen lame. Killing the dragon had silenced talk of that episode, but the memory still troubled him. When his horse went lame, he should have commandeered a mount from one of his men. A commander had a duty to be to the fore in a crisis.

  'You do look worried,' said Garash, pushing his luck a little.

  'Maybe he's trying to decide where to bury you,' said Alish, annoyed that Hearst took that meekly. 'There's plenty of choices.'

  'What about you?' said Garash, turning on Blackwood, the easier target.

  Blackwood, their guide, looked at him.

  'The forest is my home,' said Blackwood. 'In any case, I have no choice. My wife is held hostage against my return. I must guide you to pay for my crime.'

  'What crime is that?' said Miphon, curiosity aroused.

  'Stealing one of the prince's kills,' said Blackwood. 'He abandons them, but he is jealous of them.'

  'How can he find out who takes abandoned meat?'

  'He spreads his wings at night and flies around watching.'

  'Oh,' said Miphon, not at all sure what to make of that.

  The forest grew dense, the trees huge and gnarled. 100 Once they paused, conceding the right of way to a wark, one of the big, lumbering bears of the Penvash Peninsular, seldom seen so far south. At noon they halted for a bite to eat, then pushed on.

  'How much further?' said Phyphor.

  'Not far,' said Blackwood. 'We'll be there soon.'

  'Have you actually been there yourself?'

  'No. But the Melski told me the way.'

  'The Melski?' said Garash. 'Those animals are dangerous.'

  'I've made them my friends,' said Blackwood. 'Then more fool you.' Blackwood made no answer.

  Pebbles began to crunch underfoot: a few at first, then many. They were fragile and light, like pumice; they were the size of tears.

  That was rain,' said Blackwood. 'Falling through the sky, it turned to stone. Water on the ground became black glass.'

  'Who said so?' said Garash. 'The Melski?'

  'Yes,' said Blackwood. 'They called it the black rain.'

  'If it rained stones, the leaves would've been shredded.'

  'The stones are very light,' said Blackwood. 'Besides, the leaves weren't out when Heenmor worked his magic'

  Further on, they passed a huge rock which had splintered several trees.

  'It looks as if a giant threw it here,' said Phyphor. 'Are there giants in Estar?'

  'Mister, there's no such thing as giants,' said Blackwood. The rock walked here.'

  'You're wrong about giants,' said Garash. 'And about rocks. Rocks don't walk.'

  'This one did. So did the others. After Heenmor did his magic. Some died after they walked into the river -the Melski saw them.'

  'Rocks don't die,' said Garash. 'They're not alive to start with.'

  'They walked,' insisted Blackwood, firm in his faith in the Melski. 'They talked.'

  T see,' said Garash. 'Did they go into town to ask for a mug of beer and a bed for the night?'

  'No, mister,' said Blackwood. 'They didn't have the money to buy such.'

  'No money?' said Garash.

  'It's true.' said Alish, taking up the story. 'They had no money, for Heenmor picked their pockets. These rocks, you see, they're not well up on the ways of wizards and the world.'

  'Pockets?' said Garash, outraged. That can't be true. Rocks don't have pockets!'

  'I've read of such things,' said Miphon quietly. "They're dealt with in the Terminal Texts. All walking rocks have three pockets at least. Surely you remember that from your own readings?'

  That was a barbed thrust. The Terminal Texts were a set of notoriously difficult manuscripts owned by the Confederation of Wizards, and Garash was not one of the world's greatest scholars.

  'What kind of pockets?' said Garash slowly.

  'Green ones,' said Miphon promptly. 'Each big enough to hold two and a half sticks of tobacco.'

  'Miphon!' said Phyphor, annoyed to see Miphon joining this demented Garash-baiting. 'That's enough about rocks and pockets for today and forever!'

  'You mean it's not true?' said Garash. And then, with rising anger: 'It's not true?'

  'Of course it's true,' said Alish. 'Any drunk will tell you.'

  At that moment, they came upon a leafless tree with grey twigs. Garash snapped one off. It was stone. His protruberant eyes stared at it. He started as Alish drew a knife – but the warrior only wanted to pry at some bark. Turned to stone, it flaked off to show wood beneath.

  'It's only on the surface,' said Phyphor.

  'Still,' said Miphon, 'It killed the tree. Look – the very ground is stone.' He kicked a hole in it. Stone snapped beneath his heel. 'Again, the surface only. But what's that, there?'

  'A puddle,' said Blackwood.

  Miphon knelt down and dug it out of the ground. Whatever it had been, the 'puddle' was now a thin plate of obsidian. Miphon passed it to Phyphor, who turned it over in his hands then gave it to Garash. Hearst had no wish to handle it, but Elkor Alish reached for it; after a moment's hesitation, Garash yielded it.

  Alish was fascinated. Here was power indeed, a weapon that destroyed all living things without exception, leaving the land barren and uninhabited. Nothing else could do that – except fire, a chancy weapon easily affected by wind or rain. A man commanding such power would be hard put to conjure up ambition to match his ability.

  'Let's go on,' said Hearst.

  They went on through a forest of stone. Many of the trees had collapsed under their own weight, shattering to shards. Their feet went crunchy-scrunchy over the stones. This, Alish knew, was what Heenmor's death-stone had done; the garbled reports of survivors who had run fast enough to escape its action had not captured the terrible magnificence of the destruction.

  Further on, they discovered the body of a man. It had been turned to stone.

  'This is one of the ten who died,' said Blackwood.

  'Did the Melski see them die?' said Phyphor.

  'The Melski shadowed them,' said Blackwood. 'They keep a watch on intruders in the forest. But when the rain started to turn to stone, the Melski ran. They said there was a grinding sound in the sky; the sun grew dark. Those who ran survived: those who lingered died. They did not get much time to run.'

  'Where was Heenmor?' said Phyphor.

  'He was at the centre,' said Blackwood. 'Everything around turned to stone except in the place just around where he was standing. When the Melski first went to see, rocks chased them.'

  'But walking rocks aren't real!' howled Garash, provoked beyond endurance. 'We settled that! They're not real, understand? They're like – like sleeping pictures.'

  'He means dreams,' said Miphon.

  'Dreams? Mister, I dreamt of the sky last night. If dreams aren't real, what then?'

  Garash, not agile enough for this debate, made no answer. He took out his frustrations by kicking at the stonemade man. A fold of clothing splintered. He kicked again, snapping a thousand fine threads of what had once been hair. He trod on the face. The stone curve of an eye broke under his boot, revealing an eyesocket empty but for a bit of stone the size of a pea, as if the eyeball had shrivelled up to that little bit of rock.

  Blackwood looked up at the sky. 'It's getting late,' he said. 'Unless we turn back, we'll have to camp somewhere among the stones.' 'Rocks,' muttered Garash.
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  Could rocks really walk? He didn't like the idea at all.

  'I say we should press on,' said Alish, seeing that Garash was discomforted. 'The more we learn about this the better.'

  'We know enough,' said Garash.

  'We don't yet know the truth about walking rocks,' said Phyphor. 'Let's go on.'

  They did – with difficulty, as many branches had fallen from the trees, covering the ground with shattered stone.

  'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor.

  'Yes?'

  'This magic… some men died, some escaped. Did any escape with their lives but with… consequences?'

  'Maybe,' said Alish. 'Tell him,' said Hearst. 'He's a wizard,' said Alish.

  'Yes,' said Hearst, 'and we're living men, not the incarnation of the wrath of the dust of history.'

  'You speak too lightly of blood matters,' said Alish.

  'If you don't tell him, others will,' said Hearst. 'Plenty know. Two survivors didn't run as fast as the others. Bits and pieces of them turned to stone. One died quickly; the other still lives. Prince Comedo keeps him as a toy.'

  Both Hearst and Alish had seen that last living victim when Comedo put him on display. His skin was mostly grey; his hands had thickened to useless chunks of rock; one leg was paralyzed and the other had turned to stone below the knee. Stone lips kept his mouth forever open; his tongue licked round uneasily in the warm darkness within. One eye blinked; the other, together with most of the face, had turned to stone.

  'The survivor,' said Phyphor, 'Will he live or die?'

  'I don't know,' said Alish. 'I don't think he cares.'

  'I think he envies the dead,' said Hearst.

  'Look,' said Blackwood, 'There's water ahead.'

  The rain had filled a dip in the ground where Heenmor's magic had turned the earth to stone. The water was dark, still and silent. They came to a halt by the sinister dark waters. Grey stone. Dark water. The sky above was turning grey. And no bird sang.

  Blackwood coughed, loudly, and spat. The march had wearied him. These last few years, he had not felt as fit as he used to. Maybe it was the famine-hungry winters which had sapped his strength; it could hardly be old age.