The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

'You took your time!' said Garash. 'Why so slow?'

  'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'The Melski think before they speak. Try it some time – you'll find it slows the speech remarkably.'

  'What did they say?' asked Phyphor, as Garash sought for a suitable retort.

  'They don't know. That's all. But they'll ask.'

  'Ask what?' said Garash. 'The sky? The trees? The river? Or your precious talking stones?'

  'They'll ask their kin,' said Blackwood. 'Then answer us.'

  'Till then,' said Hearst, 'we can organise patrols to search north, south, east and west. North in case he's in the forest far from the river and the Melski. South in case he's doubled back on you. That's what I'd do -hide where you'd searched already. West, the river meets the sea. He may have taken a boat from Iglis. East, in case he's fled to Trest. I'll talk to the prince about putting out the patrols.'

  'This doesn't mean we're making a common cause with you,' said Alish. 'Just that we all want Heenmor dead.'

  Alish disliked Hearst's enthusiasm for working with 118 the wizards, but Alish did want Heenmor's head – and the death-stone. One thing was for certain: wherever Heenmor went, he would have been noted. Twice the height of any other man, he had no hope of hiding himself in a crowd. That made their task easier.

  Unknown to Alish, their task was shortly to be complicated by war. Enemy troops were already within the borders, and were closing swiftly on Lorford.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Collosnon Empire: realm of the Yarglat horsetribes and their subject peoples.

  Capital: Gendormargensis, ruling city of Tameran.

  Ruler: the Lord Emperor Khmar. a warrior ferae naturae.

  Religion: no state religion, though the horse cult of Noth is powerful amongst the Yarglat.

  Language: Eparget (the ruling Yarglat dialect); Ordhar (the command language of the armies); sundry minor tongues.

  History: like most imperial histories, a tale of blood and ashes; the dominant theme is conquest.

  By nightfall, the day which had begun so brightly had turned to heavy pounding rain that fell without relief. Through this rain, the first refugees began to arrive from the countryside, bearing confused tales of attack by night, pursuit, swords and slaughter, armies on the march. At dawn, people began to evacuate Lorford, seeking safety in Castle Vaunting; the central court soon filled with the clamour of homeless citizens, their animals and their bewildered children.

  Shortly before noon, Collosnon cavalry attacked Lorford, claiming many victims: people who had delayed leaving, being sceptical of the reports of invasion. Prince Comedo ordered the drawbridge pulled up. Some half-hearted smoke ascended from parts of Lorford; the town had been too badly dragon damaged for the enemy to have much success in burning it.

  While the cavalry were still completing their kill, infantry marched in from the east, from Trest, so now everyone knew Trest had been conquered by Khmar, the Red Emperor, ruler of the greater part of Tameran. Red he was called, because that was the colour the rivers ran in the lands his armies marched through.

  Alish watched from the battlements, feeling a strange sense of exultation at the sight of enemy soldiers swarming over the land. He estimated five thousand stood against them, as opposed to a few hundred able-bodied men within the castle.

  'Beautiful,' he murmured, as he watched.

  The old excitement possessed him. What better sight than the coherent power of thousands of men unified by a single will? He remembered his days of greatness. Elkor Alish, Our Lord Despair, had been a famous commander in the Cold West. But those days were behind him. His conscience – rare flower among Rovac warriors, that conscience – could not sanction any more killing of the innocent.

  But even so, watching the men out there, he yearned for an excuse to campaign. To satisfy his conscience, it must be a pure campaign against an enemy of unmitigated evil. Alish knew of a war which would fulfil those needs: a war against the wizards, the ancient enemy which had once committed a monstrous crime which only wizards and Rovac warriors knew of.

  Given possession and control of Heenmor's death-stone, Alish could become a world conqueror. Armies would follow him. They would march south in glory to sack the wizard strongholds, fighting a war where every action would bejustified by their cause. Alish knew this to be his duty: for he was a member of the Code of Night, Rovac's elite secret instrument of vengeance.

  Castle Vaunting could not be saved; it would have to be abandoned to the enemy. The Heenmor hunt came first.

  When Prince Comedo found Alish on the battlements, and asked what they should do next, Alish answered promptly: 'I suggest we hear their terms,' said Alish.

  'Agreed,' said Comedo, promptly; he was terrified of the thought of fighting.

  Til go,' said Alish, a skilled negotiator.

  'No,' said Comedo. 'You're captain of my bodyguard. You stay. We'll send… Andranovory.'

  Alish almost groaned, but restrained himself. Fortunately, Andranovory was drunk, as usual; as he was completely legless, he had to be excluded from the diplomatic corps. Unfortunately, Comedo then insisted on sending Hearst.

  'Don't,' said Alish to Hearst, 'give them any bullshit and bluster. Take what we're offered. Remember, half a cup's better than nothing. And while you're about it, see if they've got my resting woman – you know the one. She seems to be lost.'

  Til play the perfect diplomat,' said Hearst. 'Trust me. And, while I'm down there, I'll be sure to ask after your doxy.'

  By now it was late afternoon. The drawbridge was lowered, and Morgan Hearst went downhill to the enemy. He returned toward nightfall with the enemy's terms, and the news that the enemy were now enjoying the company of Volaine Persaga Haveros, who had joined Comedo's forces in the autumn, and was now revealed to be not a Collosnon fugitive but a Collosnon spy. This man Haveros had been able to tell the enemy commander everything he needed to know about Castle Vaunting. The enemy's terms were blunt and simple: 'Our lord the Emperor Khmar requires the surrender of the ruling castle of Estar, together with all horse and weapons. Those in the castle must leave, taking with them only their clothes and their children. The ruby eye of the dragon Zenphos is to be delivered to the army of rightful inheritance. The prince of the castle is to be delivered up for execution. Any and all diviners, necromancers, sorcerers, witches, palmists, makers of spells and potions or other workers of magic are to be killed, and their heads presented to the commander of the battlefield. Long live the emperor!'

  Prince Comedo, realising the enemy wanted him dead, screamed, and fled, wailing.

  'What of my woman?' asked Alish.

  'As far as anyone knows, she's dead,' said Hearst, easily.

  And Alish thought:

  – One more person lost to the wreckage of war. And vowed that, in his wars, there would be no such innocent victims.

  A single candle kept night's besieging darkness at bay. Gathered at a table for a council of war were Phyphor, Garash, Miphon, Morgan Hearst, Elkor Alish and a tear-stained Prince Comedo.

  'Today we find we have a common cause,' said Phyphor. T will name it. Survival.'

  'The enemy wish to drink wizard-blood,' said Alish, 'but I haven't heard them asking for my head.'

  'Your oath of honour binds you to your prince,' said Phyphor.

  'That's right,' said Comedo, eagerly. 'Quite right.'

  'True,' said Alish. 'But it's early days to talk of dying sword in hand. An enemy army of that size can't live off the land. They can't have more than a month's provisions at most. Their bellies will soon be making certain arguments. They'll soon decide they have to let my prince go free – and I'll go with him.'

  He paused. And they heard shouts of alarm, cries, a clash of steel. Despite the speech he had just made, it was Alish who came to the obvious conclusion: 'By the hell!' he said, rising. 'The enemy are in the castle! Quick!'

  'Impossible,' said Garash faintly.

  But Alish was already gone, plunging recklessly down darkened stairways with Hearst
close behind him. The wizards got to their feet. Compared to the Rovac warriors they were like sleepwalkers, like drugged men, unable to make that instant transition from talk to action.

  Alish crashed down the stairs four at a time, eight at a time. Below, echoes hammered from the walls. The clash of steel woke iron voices from the castle rock. Vivid memories woke: the sheen of steel sweeping through the sun, blood on ice, a face demolished, falling.

  Torches lit the fifth level of the gatehouse keep, where a portal opened onto the battlements. The enemy were storming the portal from the battlements. The fight was going against the defenders.

  'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed Alish.

  Weak words they made in translation, for they meant only 'here are the Rovac', but that battlecry was feared throughout half the world. Then Alish drew his sword. Ethlite graced his hand. Hearst joined him, his battle-sword Hast in hand, and they fought together, side by side.

  ***

  It was night.

  Prince Comedo had struggled to the top of the gatehouse keep, as far from the battle as possible. Wind and rain harassed him. He stamped his feet; he wore socks of the warmest wool and boots of the softest leather, but still his feet were cold.

  Far, far below, in the darkness, the battle raged. The enemy had used big crossbows to shoot hundreds of grapples with ropes attached. The grapples had hooked onto the battlements, allowing the Collosnon to swarm across to attack the gatehouse keep.

  The ropes had gone up in flames when the wizards had joined the battle, with Phyphor calling out the Words which had turned the flame trench into a seething inferno, shooting flames toward the sky – but by that time over a thousand Collosnon soldiers had been on the battlements. The reverberating energies of the flame trench now made the castle itself shudder and shake.

  At first, Phyphor had blasted the battlements with white fire from his hand and his staff, but now Phyphor's power was exhausted, hundreds of Collosnon soldiers remained alive, and the battle raged on without benefit of magic.

  The wind, bitterly cold, drove clouds across the sky. They glowed red with reflections from the flame trench; the heavens themselves were on fire. The land, in all directions, was dark as the grave and the gut of the worm. And the wind, clawing Comedo, ravaging the clouds, was like the wind the poet talks of in the Epic of Sothor:

  The wind that teaches the children of death, The wind that teaches the hero of fear, The wind that sharpens the teeth of the mountains, The wind that carries the cry of the skeleton, The wind that is rasp under hammer, the claw – Comedo clutched the retaining wall as the wind threatened to tear him from his feet.

  – So they are here. In the castle. They will conquer. Yes. The gates will fall. Yes. Tapestries torn. Yes. Blood on the floor. Yes.

  – No!

  Fists grip, jaw tightens, pulse throbs. A scream wells in his throat and bursts out: no no no no no! The wind laughs it away; the wind sings of millstones, breaking rock and grinding bones. Comedo screams again. They must not! They must not conquer! By the red hells of leprosy and rupture, they must not! Wind, night and darkness mock him, and enjoy.

  Elkor Alish, the best swordsman of Rovac – and, according to some, Rovac's greatest war leader – raised a heavy hand to wipe his long black hair from his eyes. He was uncertain on his feet, exhausted after a night of battle, but he knew this was only the beginning. After a day and a night it would be much worse: he would be asleep on his feet, living a nightmare.

  There was blood on his sword.

  He mouthed the words: I have killed again.

  The words meant nothing.

  The dawn was as grey as steel. Rain hammered on wet stones. Water and blood. The dead. Dead men on the battlements. Dead Collosnon in the central courtyard, which they had gained by abseiling down from the battlements. Dead Collosnon by the courtyard entry to the gatehouse keep, now barred by a portcullis. Dead refugees, slaughtered by the Collosnon in the courtyard.

  The surviving soldiers of the enemy were on the battlements, keeping their distance from archers who could shoot from the heights of the gatehouse keep. How many were left? Two hundred? Three? Enough, for certain.

  Alish knew they would attack again.

  And he knew which way the battle would go.

  Dough-faced men watched the hammering rain. Men who had repelled repeated fanatic charges now faced the day with eyes as blank as drowning. They moved slowly, with effort, as if their limbs had been swollen with elephantitis. Miphon, helped by Blackwood, was tending to the wounded.

  'A good battle,' said Gorn cheerfully; his shoulder had been heavily bruised, a blow driving links of his chain mail into his flesh.

  'Yes,' said Alish. 'It was a good battle.'

  'They will make a song for us," said Gorn.

  'We can hope as much,' said Alish.

  And said no more. He was too tired for sorrow or guilt. He was too tired even to wonder that he was still alive.

  'Well,' said Phyphor. 'Do we have a common cause?'

  Alish turned: he had not heard the wizard approach.

  'Come,' said Phyphor. 'We have to talk. Miphon, are you finished? Then come. It's all right, Elkor Alish: talk commits you to nothing. So listen to us: you've got nothing to lose.'

  ***

  They sat together in council: Alish and Hearst, the three wizards and Prince Comedo. Phyphor outlined their situation: 'If we fight, we die. Yet we can't surrender. That leaves us, it seems, no choice at all. Yet this castle holds a power which could destroy the enemy without another blow being struck.'

  'What power?' demanded Alish. 'Why haven't you used it?'

  'It's not yet mine to use.'

  'Where is it then?'

  'It's guarded by a desperate danger.'

  'Really?' said Alish. 'You'll find us warriors take our dangers lightly.'

  'Smile away,' said Phyphor, resisting the temptation to add the word 'fool'. Then, continuing: 'For your information, I fought through the Long War. I stood against the Neversh. I know what truly constitutes desperate danger.'

  'So tell us,' said Alish.

  'Only if you join with us in a common cause,' said Phyphor. 'You can start by telling us about Heenmor. I understand you were the only one who got to know him well.'

  'I'll tell you nothing.'

  'You will, you know. Then you'll take an oath to bind you to our quest to recover whatever magic Heenmor took from the Dry Pit – and to kill Heenmor while we're about it.'

  'I won't do it.'

  'Then the Collosnon will kill you.' 'And you!'

  'We all have our privileges,' said Phyphor dryly.

  'This is blackmail,' said Alish.

  'Precisely. What do you say, Morgan Hearst?'

  'Before I could join your cause,' said Hearst, 'My prince would have to free me from the words which bind my honour to his service. The same, of course, holds good for my dear friend Alish.'

  They all looked at Prince Comedo.

  'I want to live,' said Comedo simply.

  'Then I will make a common cause with these gathered here,' said Hearst. 'And you, Alish? Come now! Dead is dead. We've seen dead. Do you want to finish here, like a rat in the trap? And if so, why? Alish -there's no shame in this.'

  Alish bowed his head. His voice was low and toneless:

  T will tell what I know of Heenmor's magic. I will join Hearst in an oath to bind us to your service. I will make a common cause with those here gathered.'

  So he spoke.

  And so it was done.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Smoking torches inflamed the fatigued darkness. Tunnels stumbled downwards. Phyphor's jawbone lagged. Spelaean echoes dogged their heels and played cat-rat to the fore. Garash and Alish jostled each other, and almost came to blows.

  'This,' said the executioner, as the tunnels forked. 'This way.'

  'I remember,' murmured Blackwood.

  'Remember?' said the executioner. 'Remember? Yes, two can remember. Watch yourself, my child!'

  B
lackwood, silenced by this cryptic threat, said no more. Comedo grumbled about the toll on his legs; his night-time climb to his gatehouse keep had just about crippled him.

  'How much further?' said Comedo.

  'Prince,' said the executioner, 'prince, my prince, this is this. Left and right, room to stand.'

  They gathered at the edge of the pit. The executioner's clay face swung to the dark.

  'Hungry,' he said. 'Yes. No feeding this day or last.'

  'Lower a light,' said Phyphor.

  A lantern, lowered on a cord, at last illuminated a fraction of the slow-bulking monstrosity below. The vastness stirred, slowly; the ages had given it time enough to learn leisure.

  'Feed,' said the executioner. 'We could feed him.'

  He pointed at Blackwood.

  'Yes!' said Comedo.

  'No!' said Hearst.

  Comedo hesitated, then: 'I concede the woodsman's life to the hero.'

  Hearst did not thank him, but studied the gross, amorphous appetite below. It moved, with a noise like a boot dragged out of a sucking swamp.

  'Moves,' said the executioner. 'Moves fast, when it wants to.'

  'I'm sure it does,' said Hearst. Then, after the briefest of pauses: 'But I'll dare it.'

  'Will you?' said Phyphor.

  'I have already said as much.'

  'But saying is not yet doing, mighty slayer of dragons.'

  From the way Phyphor spoke, Hearst knew at once that the wizard was certain Hearst had not killed the dragon. Phyphor knew enough about dragons to know the feat Hearst boasted of was next to impossible. Let him sneer then: he could prove nothing.

  'I'll prove myself to my word,' said Hearst.

  'You will? Then remember: run to the far left-hand corner. You'll find stairs leading up into the tower of Seth. That's where the valuables are. Only a wizard of Seth can enter that tower, except by this one free way.'

  'Why are the valuables in there?'

  'Because there had been too much killing for their possession. All wanted them, so we finally had to agree that none should have them. Seth was set to guard them. No wizard truly trusts a wizard, but we counted those of Seth the ones we could trust the most.'