by Hugh Cook
He got them moving.
It was hot; the water which fell on the stones as they splashed ashore dried swiftly. The sun had already begun to scald pallid flesh. Hearst had spindly trees cut down to make crude shelters for them to work under. He ordered the survivors – there were forty-six of them – to unpack and spread everything out to dry. The packs disgorged gear white with fungus, musky with rot, dripping with slime.
'Andranovory!' yelled Hearst, seeing a man standing idle.
'I haven't got a pack,' protested Andranovory. 'Mine's missing.'
'You haven't got a cock, either,' shouted Hearst, 'but that never stopped you sucking one. There's more packs than men, so get your finger out of your arse and do something useful with it.'
Andranovory, grumbling, secured a spare pack and dumped a load of mouldy clothes and rotten food to the stones. A small bundle broke apart, scattering the glitter of jewels and golden coins. His morale improved immediately.
'That's mine!' cried a man suddenly.
'Yes, sure,' said Andranovory. 'Like your third nipple and your fourth arse,' which was a traditional insult in the parts he hailed from. 'You want to fight me for them? Well then, come on.'
And he drew a blade.
'Belay that, you mother-riding animals!' shouted Hearst.
And proceeded to castigate them severely, using terms so obscene that even Gorn was seen to blush.
Hearst had just restored order when one man suddenly doubled over and began to cough up worms. They were blood-red: the colour of the gills of a fish. They wriggled on the hot stones. Hearst squashed one with the toe of his boot: blood squirted out. Miphon knelt down beside the victim, though he suspected there was nothing he could do.
Garash lit a fire to dry out a small cache of supplies he had carried with him. Finding his maps and manuscripts reduced to pulp, he swore in a language nobody else could understand. Stones around the fire trembled: one split apart, shattering into flying fragments. His rage was impressive, but it wasted energy.
With gear spread out to dry, men set to work on knives, swords and battle axes with sharpening stones. Many fires were lit; there was no need for all of them, but it was good to see fire again and smell smoke.
Hearst knew the smoke, rising into the clear blue sky, would betray them to any observers… but judged that the risk was worth it. He would let the men have their friendly fires. At Hearst's orders, some men dragged one of the rafts ashore, then split the logs, using axe heads as wedges. The sun would dry the wood soon enough, giving them plenty of fuel.
Hearst examined his own gear. The stitching of his boots was rotten and they were falling apart. He would have to see what he could do about it…
Gorn was boiling something up in his helmet. It proved to be handfuls of pale blue water snails, some almost the size of a thumb.
'There's plenty of them on the rocks near the shore,' said Gorn, 'In water less than knee-deep.'
'Good,' said Hearst. 'Good…'
One man was barbering. At his feet, the colours of straw, bark, soot and flame shone in the sunlight. A bumblebee, the workaday insect common to all the world, lumbered along the shore. Hearst savoured the intense pungent smell of an aromatic herb hidden somewhere among the thin, scrubby trees. He stretched, then smiled, then laughed aloud.
– Truly, we have come through.
On the lake, Valarkin was a dot in the distance.
***
Evening came early to the lakeside as the sun fell away behind the cliffs and cold shadows engulfed the shore. The waters of the lake became grey. Men ceased their labours and sat by their fires, occasionally feeding sticks to the flames.
Hearst had the rafts hauled up out of the water – they might need them yet, and there might be a few Melski who had survived the journey through the darkness -then he chose his guards for the dark hours.
'There will be stars tonight. Maybe even a moon -who knows? Those on guard will have enough light to see by – if they stay alert. If not, they may wake to find the Melski cutting their throats.'
Men grumbled, but Hearst knew it would do them good to re-establish the routines of campaigning.
Blackwood was suffering as the night set in. Soon his cough worsened until it was almost as bad as it had been towards the end of the long underground journey. Miphon led him to a fire. Blackwood bent over it and gulped in hot, dry air. The cold smoke that trailed from his mouth writhed, suffered and withdrew.
'Breathe in the heat,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in the heat. Take it down into your lungs. Deep down.'
The cold smoke appeared again between Blackwood's lips, and again cringed from the heat.
'Breathe deep,' said Miphon. 'Breathe deep.'
Hearst lay back on the stones he would be sleeping on, and, looking at the night sky which he knew so well, saw something had happened which he had not thought possible: while they had been underground, a new star had made its debut in the sky. He could just hear Miphon's voice, soft, warm, encouraging: 'Breathe in,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in.'
And that gentle voice reminded Hearst of the way Alish had talked to him that time in Valley Sharator, when Hearst lay pallid with pain, clammy-skinned with shock, his shoulder dislocated by a fall from a horse. Breathe in, said Alish, passing him the opium pipe. And Hearst had breathed in. Breathed in. Taken it in. Breathed in darkness, breathed in sleep. Then Alish had taken his arm, saying, this may hurt a little… And he had breathed in, first pain, then darkness.
Sleep…
At Miphon's urging, Blackwood breathed in the heat. 'Soon you'll be able to get to sleep,' said Miphon. 'If you can sleep through to morning, you'll feel better when the sun rises.'
'Tell me,' said Blackwood. 'What's the cure for this?'
'I've already told you,' said Miphon. 'There's no cure.'
'There must be something.' 'Well…' 'Tell me.'
'This is old lore, and old lore is never certain,' said Miphon. 'But the old lore says a draught of the blood of a dragon mixed with the blood of a man is certain healing for all ills.'
'Then there is a way.'
'If you can find your dragon and kill him,' said Miphon. 'Then, yes, there's a way. But there's a price for the cure.'
'What?'
'This is old lore from the dreamtime,' said Miphon. 'And the old lore says, who drinks this draught of mixed blood will never love a woman and will never hate a man, will never be able to kill – not even in self-defence – and will never call any place home.' is that all it takes – blood and blood?'
'So it's said. Now breathe in. Deeper. That's right. Deep and steady. Deep.'
And Blackwood breathed in the heat. Would he ever get a chance to try the cure? And would it work? Having seen so many things he would once have thought impossible, he could scarcely answer 'no' to either question. He had seen madness at work in broad daylight, armies destroyed, castles abandoned, a prince mocked, a wizard killed, and Rovac warriors running in fear. He had been told he had the chance to live for a thousand years.
It might happen: anything might happen.
***
Hearst woke in the night. He lay there, listening, hearing a creaking snore which he knew to be Gorn's. The snore grew louder and louder then stopped. Gorn had stopped breathing. It was something he did sometimes while sleeping. Hearst waited. There was a snort as Gorn woke, a shifting of stones as he rolled over, and Hearst knew he would be asleep again already. Hearst had been a long way with Gorn; they had shared the same shadow on many roads.
Looking at the night sky, Hearst saw the red star they called the Golem's Eye was low on the horizon formed by the cliffs on the other side of the lake. Where were the guards? He could hear no murmur of conversation, and there was rto fire burning. So they were probably asleep – or lying in the night with their throats cut.
Blackwood coughed in his sleep and shifted restlessly. Garash, in his dreams, murmured something: 'Again,' said Garash, 'Again…'
The words were in the High Speech. So Phyphor ha
d spoken the truth. Hearst could understand the High Speech of wizards, and perhaps he would also live a thousand years.
Then he heard something else. The splash of water. Once, twice… thrice. Getting to his knees, Hearst peered towards the water. He could dimly make out a man standing there. The shadowy figure jerked, and there was a splash… a splash… and a third splash further out. Someone was skipping stones.
Again.
A stone kicked white splashes from the water once, twice, three times… then a fourth, far out and distant, so that one could not be sure whether it was the stone hitting the water one last time or a fish jumping.
The man did not throw another stone, but stood staring out across the dark water for so long that Hearst had time enough to think of other things, like the hollow hunger in his stomach. Eventually the figure returned to the camp, moving cautiously to keep down noise, though he was not skilful enough to move soundlessly.
He sat down by the black ruins of a fire and raked the ashes with a stick till red embers pulsed and glowed. Hearst watched him blow on the ashes, and heard him whisper soft, loving words, as one might whisper to a favourite horse. Then the man threw a handful of dry leaves onto the embers. Flames kicked up, showing Hearst it was Comedo who sat there, fascinated, watching the fire.
Comedo fed the fire with scraps of bark, twig and leaf until it had consumed everything that had been set aside for kindling in the morning. Blackwood coughed. Comedo walked over to inspect his suffering, and Hearst thought how easily Comedo could have killed Blackwood as he lay helpless there… how easily Comedo could have killed any of them.
Suddenly Comedo was gone. Air slapped into the blank space left by his retreat into the bottle. Hearst stood up, feeling his joints creak, and walked without a sound to the edge of the lake. It was as black as a mouth which might with a soundless suction pull him in deeper and darker than drowning; it was as black as the underground river and the dreams which floated down that river. But there were stars reflected in that obsidian blackness. Star, white star, guiding star…
– The kick of the sea, yes. The stars above, waves breaking white on a dark shore, yes, and all aboard knowing which shore it was. Rovac, and journey's end. Yes. Remember that. You will see it again some day: the waves breaking on the shores of Rovac. Ah, but when?
He was sick, yes, homesick.
– Preach me no lovesongs for distant lands. We have at least this: a windless night beside fresh water. Night, and the promise of dawn. That should be enough for any warrior-man of Rovac. Hast, half-brother, blood brother, there will be another morning for us, and that is enough. Some of the stars went out.
Hearst looked up. Something in the sky blotted out stars, extinguished whole constellations as if a giant had flung a black cape across the night sky. The shadow moved as he watched. Something was flying up there! It was huge. He remembered Maf: the dark cave, the huge beast, the folded wings… now the wings were in the sky above him. The dragon wheeled low. Hearst was certain they had been seen: but the wings passed above the cliffs and were gone.
Hearst – his hand on the hilt of Hast – waited for the wings to return. They did not. He was glad he had been the only one to see it: he did not want the camp to panic. He turned away from the lake and with a shock saw Comedo standing watching him. He had not heard Comedo re-emerge from the bottle. Hearst stepped towards him. Comedo turned the ring on his finger and vanished again.
Gone.
What a prize that bottle would be, if only they could get into it. There would be food in there. And wine -body of the grape, body of the sun. Hearst had seen Valarkin supervising the loading of the bottle. He had seen wine taken in by the barrel, wine and food and featherdown quilts. What else had gone into that bottle? Did Comedo have a woman in there? Body soft as bread, body warmer than the sun.
– Kill him then. Set a trap. Kill him when he slips out to enjoy the stars again. If he ventures the sun, it will be easier still.
Hearst found the guards asleep, as he had suspected. He found the one he had appointed guard commander, and laid sharp steel across the man's throat. The man opened his eyes and stared up with a rigid, unblinking stare. Hearst held the sword there for ten or twenty heartbeats – ten of his, twenty of his victim's – then he withdrew the blade.
'You stand watch till morning.'
***
Morgan Hearst slept long and late, and woke to the sound of voices and occasional laughter. It pleased his heart to see his men working on their gear, gathering water snails, or collecting algae to boil and eat. Some were fishing, using pumice for floats for their lines; the light grey volcanic rock, full of air bubbles, floated lighter and higher than cork.
Elkor Alish was still asleep, lazy as a turtle basking in the sun. Let him sleep then. Hearst would organise things. Morgan Hearst would cope with the world of rock, sun, water, rust and steel. But he despised Alish for letting control and self-control escape him – and wondered what had gone wrong.
Hearst found Miphon turning two birds on a spit over a bright fire.
'You can cook better over a bed of hot coals,' said Hearst, squatting down by the fire.
'Yes,' said Miphon, 'but I'm hungry.'
There was grease on the flesh; Hearst could have eaten a barrel of grease. Give him an ox and he would have eaten it entire, meat, marrow and bones together.
'Did you sleep well?' said Miphon.
'Well enough.'
T woke in the night,' said Miphon. 'And?' i saw you. I saw what you saw.' 'What do you suggest we do?' Miphon shrugged.
Hearst picked up one of the feathers which had been scattered when the birds had been plucked; he twirled it between his fingers.
'How did you catch the birds?' said Hearst.
T called them to me.'
'Magic must make life easier.'
'There's nothing easy about the Meditations,' said Miphon. 'That's how we build power. And how we preserve the Balance.'
'What is the Balance?'
'The universe was created with a will to ordained order which attempts to destroy any anomaly, particularly one as gross as a wizard. The Balance is the field of force – a sphere built of willpower – which we create to preserve ourselves. The more power a wizard accumulates, the greater an anomaly he becomes, so the more work he must do to preserve the Balance.' i knew a man who used to talk like that,' said Hearst, 'but only when he was drunk.'
Miphon smiled. Little rankled with him: he was difficult to upset. Warriors lived by their skill with weapons, which they valued above all else; warriors found it hard to concede that they were no match for most wizards, and disparaging wizards was a natural way for warriors to protect their delicate egos.
'But what does it mean?' said Hearst. 'What does the Balance mean? In simple terms?'
'What's the secret of leadership?' said Miphon. 'In simple terms?' initiative,' said Hearst instantly.
'So that's the secret,' said Miphon. 'Give a man that word and he'll lead armies to conquest.'
'Not quite.'
No, it was not that easy. A leader needed combat skills to meet any blade-challenge from the ranks. He must know when to kick and curse, when to praise and flatter. He must become a diplomat to deal with priests and princes. On campaigns, he must make swift, sound decisions on the basis of scanty information. He must know when to advance, retreat or parley, and must be always seeking ways to keep his enemies unsettled and off balance. That was the beginning of it: but there was much more.
'Quite not quite,' said Miphon. 'A single word cannot 250 hold the secret. In a word, that simple word you want, the Balance is harmony. If a wizard cannot achieve it then the quest for power will kill him. What do you want now – a lecture on the applied metaphysics of self-determined intelligences, or a piece of this scrawny fowl?'
'Compared to me, the bird's positively fat,' said Hearst. 'I'd love a piece.'
As they ate, Hearst remembered – vaguely, as one may remember words spoken in dreams – why Stronghold
Handfast was so important. Its makers, long dead and forgotten, had mastered the art of creating architecture which would protect its inhabitants against the force in the universe which would attempt to destroy an anomaly. Once there, Heenmor, having no need to divert any of his energy to the preservation of the Balance, would be able to devote all his powers to the study of the death-stone.
Hearst tried to remember what Stronghold Handfast looked like. He was irritated to find that he could not picture it clearly. But he could remember what it was built of: millions of blocks, variously blue, green, red, and yellow, each block as shiny as glass, and each block no larger than a man's thumb.
He stopped eating.
'What's the matter?' said Miphon. 'You look very peculiar. Have you found worms in the meat?' i was…' 'What?'
'Nothing,' said Hearst. 'Nothing.'
Miphon chewed a bit of meat in a meditative way, the sharper pangs of his hunger now appeased; he swallowed, spat out a small piece of bone, then, suspecting the source of Hearst's discomfort, spoke: 'You'll find you've inherited at least some of Phyphor's memories along with things like a knowledge of the High Speech. You won't have access to those memories at first, because they'll be completely disor ganised to begin with. However 'What?' said Hearst, in alarm. 'He'll take over my mind?'
'He's dead,' said Miphon. 'The mind-masters are the wizards of Ebber, not the wizards of Arl.'
'But if I'm thinking thoughts that aren't mine -'
'Then what? Are you ever afraid your dreams will take you over? No? Then look on these memories as a new set of dreams – only it's usual to forget dreams, bit by bit. These dreams you'll recall. Slowly. Sometimes a word may help the recall – not a magic word, just one with special meaning. Consider this one: Araconch.'
Araconch.
Hearst thought about it, and smelt… dried ink. Remembered faded lines crawling across parchment. An inscription in a crabbed hand: Here Be Dragons. Irritation at hearing someone laugh, in, of all places, the Sourcing Room: the Map Room. Maps. Of course…
