The wizards and the warriors tcoaaod-1

by Hugh Cook

  'Does anyone understand anyone?' said Blackwood.

  In Blackwood's judgment, Farfalla truly did want Hearst as a leader for her people, and feared he might take offence if told he first had to be consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood – after all, he was a hero and a conqueror in his own right. i think,' said Hearst, 'you know a little more than you're telling me.'

  'Do you really want to know all I've learnt since coming to Selzirk?' said Blackwood innocently. 'For a start, I've read an old book of poetry -'

  'Spare us,' said Hearst. 'Tell me, when they bring me this wine – do I have to drink it all? Does it say yes or no in those old books and parchments you've become addicted to?' i don't know,' said Blackwood. 'I'll try and find out, quickly. But if it's poison you're worried about -' it is.'

  '- then I'll see if Miphon knows of anything which could protect you.'

  'Do that,' said Hearst. 'And I'll be grateful.'

  'Then,' said Blackwood, 'perhaps you'd give me an advance on your gratitude and reward me by letting me know the real reason why you're so badly upset.' i'm not upset!' roared Hearst.

  And, such was the violence in his voice that Blackwood precipitated himself from the room, thinking it unwise to stay longer.

  In truth, the reason for Hearst's strange mood probably had something to do with a letter he had received from a secret embassy from Runcorn. The letter, a bitter epistle from Elkor Alish, accused Hearst of being a coward, a traitor, and other terrible things.

  Hearst had burnt the letter, but its words were branded indelibly on his mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Sunlight through stained glass splayed colours across Hearst's hands: orange, green, red. A goblet in front of him still held wine; blood-red wine. He had taken only a sip; Blackwood had told him a sip was enough.

  It was done: he was now, for the purposes of the Harvest Plains, one of those of the Favoured Blood. Farfalla's intentions must now be clear to everyone.

  The guests laughed, smiled, joked, pleased that the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst had consented to sample that blood-red wine, that his destiny was settled. Yet the mood in the hall was far from light-hearted. There was something over-eager in the laughter, a hint of savage anticipation in the smiles, a touch of greed in the eyes.

  Hearst knew that these people, having tasted victory, had acquired an appetite for more of the same. Perhaps that was why Farfalla now chose to yield leadership to him: because the people, desiring a war-leader, would find one if they were not given one.

  Hearst watched.

  He was stone-cold sober; apart from that one sip of wine, he had drunk nothing. He toyed with some cold chicken, but had little appetite for it; he had already indulged heavily in an oily, greasy concoction of milk, cream, liver, olive oil, eggs and charcoal which Miphon had prepared for him; this would line Hearst's stomach for the duration of the feast, delaying the absorption of any poisons, and afterwards he could vomit his stomach clean in private.

  Hearst bit off some chicken, chewed it and swallowed it down. He felt distinctly queasy, thanks to the oily burden in his stomach, but he suspected if he complained to Miphon he would get no sympathy from the wizard. Hearst took another sip of wine. Just a small sip. Then dared a little more chicken. A harpist was getting to his feet. He called for silence: 'Peace, I beg you, peace. Silence! Not to honour my song, but to honour the one my song praises. Peace, now!'

  Farfalla herself stood: 'Silence! You know who we honour. Silence should be our duty, our pleasure.'

  There was silence in the hall then, although eating did not stop, and many refilled their glasses. The minstrel struck a chord on his harp, and began. He sang in the Galish Trading Tongue, as a courtesy to Morgan Hearst; most in the Hall of Wine knew that language:

  The moon it was riding, but still we had light, The stars for our guide and our fortune foretold, For strength we were gathering in the depths of the night For attack at the daybreak – all strength to the bold!

  With the first verse sung, Hearst knew the song was hardly original. It was a pastiche of the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood, which was declaimed in different languages in every kingdom of Argan. Hearst himself had roused out the words of that song, long ago in the High Castle in the land of Trest.

  The minstrel told of reinforcements joining Hearst's army under cover of darkness, of Alish's army attacking as day was breaking, of the cavalry of the Harvest Plains shattering that attack, and of Alish's own cavalry meeting destruction when charging the burial mound. And then – distorting history slightly – the minstrel told of the rout of Alish's army:

  And the scream! And the Scream! It is one throat and all, Blood greeting sword as the sun greets the sky. Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along: It is ours! It is ours! Raise the Banner, the Song!

  There was more: much more. At the end, everyone in the Hall of Wine cheered. Cheered? They screamed: screamed in a blood-heat frenzy. And every voice that was raised was calling for war.

  Hearst remembered, vividly, the aftermath of the battle that was rousing such enthusiasm amongst the banquet guests. He recalled the wounded, the crush injuries, the amputations, shocked faces, a brave smile from a mask of blood and bone, the last words of a dying man. He felt a sudden surge of nausea, and stumbled from the hall, leaving by an exit reserved for the most important people.

  Outside, he vomited into a capacious vase, bringing up every bit of the noxious mixture which had burdened his stomach. Then he returned.

  'Are you sick?" said Farfalla, seeing his pallor.

  'I'm fighting fit,' said Hearst, draining his goblet. The wine made him feel better. 'Give me more wine.'

  'Of course,' said Farfalla. 'There's going to be another song now.'

  Hearst drank deeply. Wine warm as the sun: a healing heat in his belly. A minstrel stood and began to tell of the struggle for control of Androlmarphos. Hearst remembered. Wild rocks in the streets. A man trapped against a wall then mashed. Swords in the sun. A scream hoisted on the point of a spear.

  He recharged his cup. He drank.

  The minstrel told of the sea battle. And Hearst remembered. Timbers heaved up in the surge of the sea's swell. The grey whales lofted up from the waters: huge humps death-heavy. They drove forward. Rend ing timbers: a mast falling: a man jumping to the drowning sea.

  As he drank, wine favoured him with its intimate warmth. Song followed wine; wine followed song. Then a new minstrel rose, and called for silence:

  Now silence, silence, for my song Is more than worth the hearing: A hero's deeds, a hero's tale The subject of its praising.

  And the minstrel began his version of the legend of how the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst killed the dragon Zenphos in the lair on the mountain of Maf. Hearst remembered hearing that legend in Skua, the squalid port on the coast of Trest that bore the same name as Ohio's fine ship. Ohio! Dead now, killed by a fall from a horse, killed by Morgan Hearst, killed by Farfalla's treachery, by a lie about an army from the Rice Empire.

  Hearst got to his feet. Looked around. Mouths opened, closed. Blood within mouths. Shadows within eyes. Bright-bone teeth glistening with laughter.

  Hearst remembered the vision he had seen at Skua: an ocean of fire a thousand years wide. He remembered another vision: Gorn's head, blood on Gorn's lips, death in the sockets of his eyes. At Skua, he had run amok, sword slicing at any and every, his voice raging to madness.

  "What are you standing for?' said Farfalla. 'Sit down.' Hearst turned, stared at her. Death was on her hands. And there must be a death to pay for a death. He drew his sword.

  He remembered what happened at Larbreth. The woman Ethlite! He had taken her head: his sword slicing away the voice which had dared to speak to Elkor Alish as if to a slave. Now, here was another woman: and this one had much more to answer for.

  'What do you want?' said Farfalla. She was afraid.

  'What do you think I want?' said Hearst.

  He looked out over the Hall of Wine. Everyo
ne was watching him. Reckless, he roared: 'What do you think I want?'

  And the answer came back: 'Watashi! Wa – wa – watashi!'

  Watashi. Blood. Fear. Death.

  They thought he meant to kill Farfalla. And more: they wanted it. They were ready for it. In Morgan Hearst, they saw the promise of power, glory, wealth, an empire that would control all of Argan. They knew it would demand killing: they were ready for the slaughter to begin. Now.

  Hearst raked his sword over the table, scattering dishes, plates, bowls, cups, bottles. He threw back his head and screamed. The crowd responded with another roar: 'Wa – wa – Watashi! Wa – wa – Watashi!'

  They were as drunk as he was. And as mad. Whatever he commanded, they would do. His word would be law. They were ready to worship him. Yet what was he? Who and what was Morgan Hearst? He was a man who had been the death of those who followed him most faithfully. Who had been fooled by a woman's lies. Who had sickened of slaughter, yet, when tempted, was ready to accept command of an empire which lusted for war and conquest.

  Morgan Hearst turned on his heel and stumbled from the room. Farfalla sat at the table, shock on her face, clearly realising how close she had come to losing her head. Blackwood and Miphon rose and followed Hearst at a discreet distance, knowing there was no telling what he might do when he was drunk like this.

  ***

  Farfalla sat alone in the Hall of Wine, isolated 431 amongst her people. A drunken cavalry officer stood on a table to propose a toast to Morgan Hearst; the toast was taken up with a roar of approval. Since power is based on consent, Hearst now had absolute power: these people would do whatever he said. Farfalla, kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, was ruler now in name only.

  This was what she had wanted: to place Morgan Hearst on the throne of the Harvest Plains. To free herself from the burdens of power. What she had not wanted, and had not anticipated, was the enthusiasm she saw in the hall, where people she had once thought rational now raised their voices in an uproar like ghouls baying for blood. She knew the name of this madness: war fever.

  She wondered what she had done.

  ***

  Hearst found his way to the battlements of the original wizard castle round which Selzirk had been built. At first he lurched and staggered a little, but soon his gait steadied to the regular rhythm that would defeat league after league on a long march.

  Marching along, he remembered, with a terrible drink-sodden nostalgia, the wars of his youth. He sang, tunelessly, drunken snatches of songs he had learnt by campfires on foreign shores, mountains, tundras. Those early days had been the best: he had been just another soldier in the armies of Rovac, then, with no responsibility except to listen and obey.

  He remembered, in particular, the Cold West. Yes! He remembered a battlefield by sunlight, rank upon rank of gleaming armour and glittering weapons. A sudden surge of pride and ego, rising to adrenalin heights. Battle-drums booming, a battle-chant roaring:

  Who are we? We are the Rovac!

  What do we do? We kill! We kill! We kill! We kill!

  Kill! Yes. That was the chant. Those were the days. Battles in the shadow of the Far Wall. The struggle for control of the pass commanding the Valley of Insects. The sack of the Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers. Grand simplicities.

  And what now? Questions and confusions. And what was the source of those questions, those confusions? Hearst knew. In the beginning was a lie. After he had crawled down from the mountain of Maf, he had allowed people to believe he had killed the dragon; he had boasted himself to a hero, and all the problems had started.

  Alish had known him to be a liar: and their friendship had begun to fail. So what was he to do?

  There was only one way out. The trouble had begun with a lie. The trouble had begun when he had pretended to be a hero. Well then, the simple answer was to become a hero. A real hero. Then there would be no lie.

  But- Muddled with drink, he remembered, in a blurred, half-hearted way, having doubts about the very ethos of heroism itself. Well, no doubt those doubts were part of the package that went with being a coward. He tried to kick himself for his cowardice, and, as a consequence, fell over.

  'Doubt is for women,' muttered Hearst, hauling himself to his feet. 'A hero knows!'

  The battlements stretched clear and empty ahead to a tower. The tower of the order of Ebber.

  Hearst drew his sword.

  He was drunk, but he drew with the grace of a dancer. The blade leapt clean and clear from the scabbard, slicing into the sunlight.

  That was fast.

  Farfalla had taught him that: had taught him how to be better and faster with his left hand than he had ever been with his right. For Hearst, that was a great gift. A gift of friendship. Yet she had lied, had betrayed him, had caused Ohio's death. What should he do with her?

  – A hero will know the answer to that. Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Hastsword, my brother, my brother in blood, destiny waits for us. Strength, Hearst, hero, song-singer, sword-master, leader of men.

  Leader of men. Yes. He remembered leading men to their deaths. In Looming Forest, when Heenmor – no, he would not think about it. He would concentrate on the task at hand. The man who pretended to be a hero must become a hero for real.

  He had killed a dragon in the wild country deep in the heart of Argan. Wasn't that enough? No: he had been faced with a choice between the dragon or a duel with Elkor Alish. Either might have killed him. Many men go into battle for fear that if they run, their commanders will slay them; we do not call them heroes because one fear overbalances another.

  The tower of the order of Ebber was closer now. This was what they were all afraid of. Farfalla was afraid of it. The people of the Harvest Plains were afraid of it. From memories he had inherited from the wizard Phyphor, Hearst knew that even the wizards of the order of Arl feared the order of Ebber.

  – But we, Hastsword, my hero, we have no fear. Are you with me, my brother? Are you with me? Who are we? We are the Rovac! The heroes! Strength, man of Rovac, strength.

  Hearst glanced round for one last look at the sunlight. He saw Blackwood and Miphon on the battlements. They started to run forward, shouting. At the distance, he could not hear what it was they were trying to tell him. But he was pleased to see them there.

  They would witness his deed.

  – And now. Now! Do it!

  Hearst reached out and touched the substance of the tower of Ebber. It parted before his hand. With the flame of the black-faceted jewel burning at his throat, he walked into the tower of Ebber. The way closed behind him, and he stood in darkness, sword in hand.

  Slowly, pale lights like wan and wasted captive stars came to life and illuminated the interior of the tower. Strange devices loomed out of the gloom: towering configurations of burnished metal in which the features of man, bird and insect were blended as if in a nightmare. They were, for the moment, silent. Quiescent. Waiting.

  Hearst, bewildered, gaped at them.

  The wan starlight grew no stronger. No threat came from the silent metal. Slowly, he dared a footfall forward. Then another. Gaining confidence, he walked forward, stirring up a little dust. He sneezed, vigorously, three times. Nothing and nobody challenged in response.

  Ahead, he saw a stairway.

  Hearst climbed the stairs. Sword poised to strike, he sidled into the chamber above. It was bare but for a series of stone tubs in which water, lit from below, glittered with an uncanny light. Looking into one, Hearst saw the water seemed to descend for leagues, clear as an ice-bright winter sky. Far below, out of reach, globes spun in that clear water, some white, some orange, some red; one globe – how beautiful! – was all browns and blues, capped top and bottom with irregular markings of winter white.

  Hearst watched. Waited. Listened. Nothing moved. No challenge came. He went up the next set of stairs -then the next.

  By the time Hearst reached the uppermost storey of the tower of the order of Ebber, he had only scorn for those who were afraid of
it. It contained a great many strange things, to be sure – but there was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing that was malignant: nothing that was even alive. He was glad of that.

  He had sobered up enough by now to see what a terrible risk he had taken. It was one thing to risk his own life: any man was free to do that. It was quite another thing to risk the entire city of Selzirk by daring to stir up whatever evil might have been lurking in the tower. As the effects of the wine wore off, Hearst saw, too, that no feat of heroism, however bold and outrageous, was going to resolve his problems, his questions. Still, in a way, he was disappointed that he had found no challenge worthy of his courage.

  The uppermost storey of the tower of Ebber was almost empty. The only thing in it was a wooden staff, which looked much like the staff of power that the wizard Phyphor used to carry. Hearst sheathed his sword, deciding to take the staff as a souvenir. Blackwood, with all the reading he had done since they arrived in Selzirk, might even know how to get some use out of the staff.

  Hearst took hold of the staff: and was overcome. He had no defences whatsoever against what he had encountered. He lacked even the time in which to register his protest, it was done so quickly.

  And afterwards, once it was done, Hearst found that he could observe everything: but could alter nothing.

  The wizard Ebonair – he called himself by the name of the island on which he had been born, many thousands of years before – held his staff in the only hand available to him. He looked down at the hook which had been substituted for the right hand. Clumsy. How did that happen? He scanned the available memories, saw how the copper-strike snake injected its venom into the hand, how the sword rose and fell, sweeping the hand away. Truly the action of a ruthless man!