by Hugh Cook
Durnwold drew his sword. Hearst already had Hast in his hand, and Alish was holding his Melski blade. 'Quiet now,' said Alish.
They separated. Durnwold went right, Alish went left, and Hearst went straight ahead. Hearst had the hardest job: he was making his way through a close-growth of runtling trees.
He went tenderfoot and slow. The highriding sun pooled his shadow at his feet. Everything was very bright. He saw the yellow-green veins patterning every leaf. His heart beat soft-quick thud. Stepping forward, he used the side of his boot to ease away any twigs before letting his weight settle as smoothly as unguent oil easing onto a baby's backside. Finally he could see the little cooking fire that was sending up the smoke.
There was Heenmor, twice the height of any ordinary man, hair ginger, beard blue. And there, asleep on a rock at his feet, was the snake. Hearst could see a shack, a latrine, a stack of firewood. Heenmor had been there quite some time: waiting for any pursuers? Heenmor was sitting with his back to a small cliff. Hearst could see Durnwold was working his way to the top of that cliff. He could not see where Alish had got to.
Hearst started to ease forward. Suddenly, Heenmor looked up from his fire. He stared straight at the trees where Hearst was hiding. Hearst froze. He saw the snake had woken: its head was weaving this way and that, seeming to point at the trees. Heenmor got to his feet.
At the top of the cliff, Durnwold put down his sword and picked up a rock. Hearst could see him clearly. The boy was thinking! Slowly, Heenmor lifted his staff of power, and pointed it at the trees where Hearst was hiding. Durnwold stepped to the edge of the cliff, raising the rock high to cast it down.
And the lip of the cliff gave way.
Heenmor snapped his head around at the noise, saw Durnwold falling, and threw himself to one side. Durnwold crashed to the ground. The copper-strike snake lunged at him. One beat of the heart, two, three, five – and the poison had done its work.
Heenmor wheeled, raised his staff, and shouted a Word. Hearst threw himself flat. A blast of heat roared through the trees. He smelt the stench of burning leather as it singed the heels of his boots. The trees around him crackled into flame.
As Heenmor shouted, again, again, blasting the ground to right and to left, Hearst lept to his feet. Flames were roaring up around him from the burning trees. He forced his way back the way he had come, chopping away burning boughs which tried to hold him.
At last, Hearst reached bare rock, and collapsed to the ground, coughing, gasping. His eyes were streaming with smoke-tears. His knuckles, cheeks and neck stung from minor burns; his leathers were scarred by fire in a dozen places. Alish? Where was Alish? Hearst almost called out: but that would warn Heenmor.
Slowly Hearst began to advance on Heenmor's position, skirting round the burning thicket, crouching low to make himself hard to see.
Meanwhile, Elkor Alish, who had sheltered behind a rock when Heenmor scoured the surrounds with flame, now stepped out to challenge the wizard. As Alish strode forward, Heenmor raised his staff and shouted a Word.
Nothing happened.
Heenmor's power was exhausted.
The copper-strike snake slithered forward, dominating the space between Heenmor and Elkor Alish. It moved this way and that, swaying, bead-black eyes unblinking. Now was Alish's chance to kill Heenmor. If he stepped forward, the snake would bite him. Then he would die. But, before dying, he would still have time to shorten Heenmor by a head.
Heenmor took something from his khaki robes.
'With this, I can conquer the world,' said Heenmor.
Then he smiled, raising the death-stone above his head. He spoke a Word.
Elkor Alish turned and ran, crashing through the burning vegetation, bounding from stone to stone, gasping air and acrid smoke.
'Alish!'
That was Hearst.
'Run!' screamed Alish. 'The death-stone!'
They ran, and it was downhill all the way as they lept from stone to stone, taking desperate chances in their efforts to get away.
From behind came a harsh, aggressive grinding sound. Underfoot the rocks trembled, shifted. The two men slipped, fell, picked themselves up and ran on. Bursting into the camp site, they found men already on their feet, startled, alarmed.
'To the rafts!' shouted Hearst. 'Rafts, or you're dead! The death-stone!'
The grinding noise was getting louder. The sky above was turning grey. Men dashed for the rafts, many screaming in hysteria. Once afloat, some tried to go downstream, where the Melski were now diving into the water. Others shouted that they must try to oar upstream against the current. Blackwood, riverwise in the Melski way, and also cool enough to see the obvious – that they could never row upstream fast enough -roared out the first orders of his life: 'Downstream! Downstream! All speed away!'
Men took up the shout: 'Downstream! Downstream!'
The rocks of Ep Pass were beginning to move. One broke free from the earth and charged for the rafts, roaring huge unintelligible words. Five men were crushed in its path, pulped like newborn chickens hit with a hammer.
Phyphor, running for dear life, collided with Garash, who shoved him toward the charging rock. It struck him a glancing blow then crashed into the rafts still left on the beach. Splintered logs flew through the air. Then the rock fell into the river and was silenced by the water.
Phyphor's left leg had been snapped: the big bone in the thigh showed white through the flesh. Miphon dragged him onto a raft. He screamed all the while, for with his injury the slightest movement is agony.
'Durnwold!' yelled Valarkin. 'Durnwold, where's Durnwold?'
He grabbed hold of Hearst.
'Where is he, where is he, where's my brother?'
Hearst knocked Valarkin senseless with a single short jab to the chin, threw him onto one of the rafts, jumped on himself and pushed off. The current caught his raft, spun it round, then bore it away downstream. There were twenty rafts now on the water.
Behind, men struggled to get the remaining rafts into the water. One became river-borne, and then: the light went dim, and in that dim grey light Hearst saw the men freeze in their positions. Then the raft sank: turned to stone.
The wave of grey death swept forward, but the current of the river ran faster, and carried the survivors away from the lethal magic of the death-stone. Behind them, a skin of stone formed on the river's surface then broke under its own weight and sank; the river ran on.
Downstream they went, the rafts scattered far apart until Blackwood, on one of the leading rafts, ordered sweep-oars to be used to slow the drift and allow the others to catch up. Hearst and Alish found each other, and considered the situation.
'We'll have to stop as soon as we can,' said Alish, 'Then try to land and climb the cliffs.' it'll be a murderous climb,' said Hearst. 'You might be able to make it, but nobody else could.'
'We have the green bottle,' said Alish. 'Get Valarkin.'
'What do you have in mind?'
'Valarkin can use the ring he commands to take people into the bottle. When everyone's in, Valarkin can join them and I'll make the climb with the bottle at my belt.'
'What if you fall?'
'What choice do you have?' iil get Valarkin.'
Hearst went and found Valarkin, who had now regained consciousness. He watched sullenly as Hearst approached.
'Durnwold?'
'Dead.' it's your fault.'
'We can talk about fault later. Right now, we need you.'
'Why should I help you?'
'Because your life is in the balance along with the lives of everyone else. Do you know where this river ends? The Fleuve River buries itself underground, and nobody knows if it ever comes up again. If you want to stay alive, hear me out.'
Valarkin heard what Hearst had to say, then he snarled, spat, and reached for the ring on his finger. Hearst was too slow to stop him turning the ring. Valarkin was gone; sucked into the green bottle Blackwood was carrying, gone to join Prince Comedo.
Hearst shoul
d have killed him straight away, yes, but Durnwold had been Hearst's friend, and Valarkin was Durnwold's brother. Another time… by the singing knives, he hoped they lived to see another time.
Everyone by now realised there was no going back. The rafts buffeted down the river between high cliffs. Facing up to the prospect of an underground journey into the unknown, Hearst and Alish lept from raft to raft, and ordered the men to tie down packs and sweep-oars. Patches of turbulence which sent waves sweeping across the rafts gave point to those orders.
Just after they shot some white-water rapids, a shout went up from the leading raft. Looking ahead, they saw they were being swept toward the mouth of a huge cave.
Hearst, still hoping for a way out, scanned the approaching rock face – but cliffs which had previously been sheer had now developed a pronounced overhang. There was no escape.
The rafts shot into the cave, into the darkness, and they were lost from the sight of the sun.
CHAPTER THIRTY
There was a scream in the dark.
'What was that?' said Hearst.
A reply was shouted back, but it was confused by the hollow thunder of echoing water. After much shouting, Hearst learnt that a Melski had surfaced beside one of the rafts and had stabbed at random, skewering the foot of a soldier.
Alish had the rafts drawn close together and roped to each other for security, to make it more difficult for the Melski to kill them off in the dark, one raft at a time. He conferred with Hearst; apart from ordering the men to sleep in shifts, and to move around in groups of two or three, they could think of no further defensive measures they could take.
'I only wish,' said Hearst, 'that we could send men underwater to kill the Melski.'
'That would be a battle worth making a song about,' said Alish. 'But who would dare it apart from yourself?* Hearst made no answer, doubting that he would dare it himself.
Alish counted heads. There were two hundred and sixty-two survivors. They had, as far as he could determine in the dark, a hundred and seventy packs. This meant there was a shortage of blankets, but the system of sleeping in shifts would compensate for that. Alish had spare clothing divvied up so everyone had enough to keep warm in this cool underground air.
Now all they could do was wait.
They could hear the water racing against the rock walls, sometimes foaming against rock outcrops, but they could see nothing. There was no way to keep track of passing time. It was like being in the belly of a worm. 'Alish,' said Miphon. 'I'm here.' 'Where?' 'Here.'
'Good. Is Hearst around?' 'You're standing on him,' said Hearst. 'Sorry,' said Miphon, shifting his foot. 'What about Blackwood?' 'What do you want with me?' 'It's not me who wants you. It's Phyphor. He's dying.' 'Does he want someone to hold his hand?' said Alish. Silence. Then:
T think you should see him,' said Miphon. 'We'll see him,' said Hearst. 'This way, then.' 'Which way is that?' 'Link hands and I'll lead you.' They went from raft to raft, occasionally stepping on men in the dark, till Miphon brought them to a halt. 'They're here,' said Miphon. 'Let them identify themselves.' 'You know who we are,' said Alish. 'So you're here, Elkor Alish. And Morgan Hearst?' 'I'm here,' said Hearst. 'So am I,' said Blackwood.
'Then listen,' said Phyphor. 'Miphon's given me a potion. I have a short time – then pain again. But I'll be dead before the pain comes back.'
'What do you want from us?' said Alish.
'Your oath.'
'I've already sworn to go questing after Heenmor. Are you asking me to reaffirm my oath? Do you think I'm an oath-breaker? No man of Rovac ever breaks an oath – though not so much can be said for wizards.'
'Elkor Alish, I trust your oath, but now I want you to take on a further burden.'
'And what might that be?'
'To kill Garash!' hissed Phyphor. 'We can't,' said Alish. 'Weil need him to help us kill Heenmor.'
'I've thought of that,' said Phyphor, an edge of pain already in his voice. 'So you must swear that when Heenmor is dead, you will kill Garash.'
'Why should we do you that favour?'
'Listen,' said Phyphor, urgently, it's true what Miphon says. The death-stone does have the power to tamper with the very fabric of the world. If you survive to see the daylight, you must hunt Heenmor down before he has time to experiment and perfect control of that power.'
'We know that,' said Alish, irritated.
'Yes, but listen,' said Phyphor. 'By now, Garash believes Miphon's claims, too. He's had time to think through the truth of it. He'll find such temptation irresistible. So when Heenmor's dead, you must kill Garash. Otherwise he'll kill you for the death-stone.' i know why you want Garash dead,' said Alish. iil take no vows of murder to secure a wizard's revenge.'
'Elkor Alish… these injuries will kill me, but I have three thousand years left to me. Three thousand years left to dispose of as I choose. I've paid for them.'
'What do you mean?' i earned those years in the Shackle Mountains. A bargain with powers beyond your imagining. Believe me. Take the oath, and I will give you a thousand years of life. Think on it, Rovac warrior.'
'Sorcerers can be expert liars. What proof do you offer?'
'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, his old man's voice pale from bloodloss. 'You will have the power to enter the tower of Arl. And you will understand the High Speech, the reading of it, the writing of it, the speaking of it.'
That meant: that meant Alish would be able to read what was written on the death-stone. i will take your oath.'
'Let me hear it then.' i, Elkor Alish, son of Teramont the Defender, warrior of Rovac, blood of the clan of the eagle, swear by my heart's blood and by the powers of the fire-flood hell that when the days of the wizard Heenmor are ended, Garash will die as soon as my sword can find him.'
'And you, Morgan Hearst?' i, Morgan Gestrel Hearst, son of Avor the Hawk, song-singer, sword-master, warrior of Rovac, swear by my sword Hast and the hand that holds it that I will see Garash dead as soon as Heenmor falls.'
'Good. And you, Blackwood?'
There was no answer.
'Blackwood?'
'I'm no wizard,' said Blackwood. 'I'm no warrior. Why choose me?'
'Because you have the best motive for murder,' said Phyphor. 'Because it was Garash who told Prince Comedo to leave a mad-jewel in Castle Vaunting. It was Garash who caused your wife's death. There… so now you know. So now you must kill him.'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'I'd be simple to think the truth's that simple. In any case, I don't want any part in any killing – or your thousand years of life, either.'
Phyphor sighed.
'As you wish,' said Phyphor. 'But will you… will you do this one thing for me… hold my hand before I die?'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, i can't refuse a dying man. Here's my hand.'
'Good,' said the dying wizard. 'Good. It's good to have a touch of life in my right hand. Miphon…'
And Miphon, needing no instructions more explicit than that, silently urged the others into a circle. Phyphor, Alish, Hearst and – 'What's this?' said Blackwood, as Hearst grabbed his free hand. 'Let go!'
Realising he had been tricked just as a child might have been tricked, Blackwood tried to break away. But it was too late, because – Their bodies were locked rigid by crushing weight and pressure. He heard the sullen double-drum of a labouring heart, cried out as light seared his eyes, and then – Darkness, and then – Sunlight, and a young boy running along a wild open beach, laughing, his arms outstretched, rain and sunlight falling together as he raced the wind, and then – A canyon ablaze with flame. He named it: Drangsturm. And then: a castle which probed for the sky, huge wings against the sun, a Word and a blast of power – A small room smelling of burnt flesh and acrid smoke, voices raised in fear and anger, the harsh commands – A ruined fortress on the border, wind, the evening light failing, surf breaking on the shore, and, as Saba Yavendar said, where wind may walk but men no longer – Again darkness, the crushing pressure, a heart at first loud and then lisping
, soft, slow, soft…
'Blackwood,' hissed Phyphor, dying. 'You will find your wife's corpse, and then…'
His voice faltered into silence. The last strength left his hands. It was over.
'He's dead,' said Miphon.
At that moment, there was a shout of triumph from the leading raft. They could see daylight ahead. Everyone cheered as they swept toward the light, but elation turned to despair when they got closer and saw the daylight was from a gap high up in the rock roof. It gave them one brief glimpse of blue sky capping a sheer rockfall shaft, then darkness claimed them again.
Soon daylight was only a memory. Now any of a thousand dooms might write them out of history. The rock roof might draw right down to the water, drowning them. An underground waterfall might shatter rafts and bodies. They might sail out onto a vast underground lake, where the river's current would become lost, allowing them to drift and starve with nothing to guide them to the outlet.
As they drifted onward, hunger came, and was fed; returned, and was fed again.
***
Downstream they floated.
The flow of the river slowed, grew sluggish, offering them less hope of early escape from the darkness. The hollow roar of running water diminished to a muttering churgling; men, no longer compelled to shout, spoke with muted voices, and as the days went by they spoke less and less.
They caught fish. They scragged wet flesh from fine-comb bones with knives that were going rusty in the darkness. The rafts knocked together in the darkness, and, as men lay dreaming, that sound translated itself into the restless trunfling of nameless monsters. Men developed sores from lying damp on damp rafts; Gorn complained that his gums were bleeding, but he could have been imagining it.
Downstream they floated.
Blackwood listened to the steady chutter-gutter of water, to the thonk-clonk of rafts knocking against each other. He felt as if they were being mumbled down a long dark throat. He imagined them being digested in the darkness, becoming first blind then toothless then hairless, sores eating through to the bones, until after weeks of hunger and damp there were only twisted bones and gristle on these waterlogged rafts going downstream through the darkness.
