by Hugh Cook
And, thanks to his terrible experiences in Penvash, Drake knew all about travelling light. It's nice to dream about but murder to do.
'Move!' said Drake to Drake.
And got going.
At the gates of Androlmarphos, Drake was accosted by a woman who made him an offer of lust. But, to his own amazement, he refused the offer, and trudged out into the rains sweeping the open plains.
Heading north.
57
Chenameg: small mountain-ringed kingdom east of the Harvest Plains. The Velvet River flows east through the deep and narrow Manaray Gorge, enters the kingdom at a point known as the Gates of Chenameg, and exits the kingdom through the Mountain Gap (which is all of fifty leagues across).
Mud. Rain.
Leagues of loneliness underfoot.
Drake dreamed that a disaster befell the sky, and every star cried out in torture. He dreamed that he was born to starvation, born to die of leprosy and kwashiorkor.
He woke.
Monsters moved on the horizons.
The Swarms were on the march.
Fell beasts of nightmare. Grim and eale. Clawing their way north. Ravening as they went. Destroying nations.
'These are the last days,' murmured Drake.
And watched the Swarms until dayfail, when the monsters settled to sleep.
Drake marched by night, sheltered in a ditch at dawn, and slept.
He dreamed that gold turned to lead, silver to fish scales, bread to stone. In his dreams, nations lay dying. A woman with skin dark with bruising lay close to death, her breathing laboured. Time conjured the labefaction of
the sun. Ice whispered over the world, drowning the music of the last kithara.
He woke.
It was evening.
Something monstrous was moving near his ditch. He could feel its weight shaking the ground. He lay very, very still. Scarcely trusting himself to breathe.
The thing lumbered on toward the north.
Night fell. And, with it, rain.
Drake walked.
And saw the towers of Selzirk, dimly, through the veiling rain. 'Zanya,' he said.
She would be there, surely, Selzirk would hold out even against the Swarms. It was a city great in power. Selzirk was protected by the battle-walls, Ol Ilkeen and Ol Unamon. How could such strength be broken?
Drake wanted to push on to Selzirk that night. But, in the end, fatigue conquered desire; he halted at a good distance, camping in a sparse grove of trees. He rested, ate, slept, and dreamed.
He dreamed of icy-pearled mountains marching, of dragons with ianthine eyes, of leper dancing with beggar, of a million children burning on a perfumed pyre, of a seven-fingered gytrash of alabaster white which fingered the dead red flesh of the woman he loved (if love was what he thought it).
He woke.
Night.
Silence after rain. Cold moon rising.
A tiny dark shadow trying to scuffle its way into his food stock.
'Gently, friend mouse,' said Drake.
Scaring it away. But not far. Maybe it was too cold or sick or hungry to run far. Drake threw it some ironbread, which the damp of the ground would soon enough soften for consumption. Then ate himself. Then marched.
He was on the north bank.
As he neared the walls of Selzirk, he saw something monstrous coming down the Velvet River. So he went to ground, and watched. But it was only an abandoned gabbart floating downstream, listing heavily to larboard.
Even after the gabbart had gone by, Drake still lay there. Reluctant to move. He realized he was frightened. But of what? It was night: the Swarms would not resume their march until dawn. And he was Close to the safety of Selzirk, was he not? Surely the city would open it's gates at night. Yes. Sending scavenging parties into the countryside. They would welcome him, would they not? A strong swordsman. A new hero for their ranks.
'March,' said Drake to Drake.
And shouldered bamboo, and marched. Every step meant pain, for, despite padding, the bamboo had long since rubbed his shoulders raw.
Ahead, a bridge arched across the river in one sweet span, beyond the possibilities of any engineering known to the earthbound humanity which Drake knew.
T dream this,' he said.
But, when he closed the distance, he was able to soothe his fingers over its chill, which was smooth as fine-glazed porcelain. The moon shone bright on the bridge, which had no walls or guardrails.
'The Swarms built this,' said Drake to Drake.
The moon shone on the river.
An endless river of tears.
'Onward,' said Drake.
And went onward, and was soon walking in the shadow of Ol Ilkeen, the outer wall of the ruling city of the Harvest Plains. Looking up, he saw by moonlight strange, hunched shapes on the top of the battlements. What were they? Some kind of weapon? He wondered if he should cry out.
But he did not.
A fugitive's caution kept him silent. He thought:
What if Plovey rules in Selzirk? That would be terrible! Yes.
He should go carefully.
He should try to find out who ruled the city before he announced himself.
The moon had gone behind shadow by the time Drake gained the stoneway of the Salt Road. He stood before the north gate, a shadow amidst shadows.
Something vast lay between him and the gate.
What was it?
A pyramid of some kind. A great heap of . . . what? Stone? Perhaps it was a new defence, built beyond Ol Ilkeen in order to strengthen the defences of the gate.
A shift of cloud unveiled a fragment of the moon.
Something glinted in the pyramid which stood between Drake and the gate.
Something moved.
Then the moon slipped clear of the cloud, and all was revealed. Drake was standing on the Salt Road scarcely a dozen paces from a huge pyramid made of sleeping monsters, all jigsawed together for safety against the night.
'Saaa!' hissed Drake.
Then hissed no more.
For the pyramid was shifting, changing, extending claws, tentacles, flaps, fins. Moonlight blazed upon open eyes. Huge eyes. Crystalline. Utterly alien.
Drake stood as if turned to ice.
He was a statue.
On the battlements, a huddled shape uncoiled, flexed, extended itself, opened wings. It was a Neversh!
The battlements were lined with Neversh!
The moon slid behind shadows.
And Drake went to his knees, unburdened himself of his bamboo pole, sank to his belly then crawled for the roadside ditch. He moved as quietly as blood running across the deck of a ship. He gained the ditch. And began to shudder.
Much later, moonlight found him still lying there. Tentatively, he peered over the lip of the ditch. He could not see the gate for the mound of monsters. He had to know!
Drake crawled along the ditch. Twigs, leaves and thorns cracked and snapped beneath his weight. He advanced regardless.
Then risked another look. He was beyond the monster mound by now. But he still could not see. Where the gate should be, there was darkness. In a moment of madness, Drake got to his feet. Step by step, he advanced. Until he stood within the gateway. Within the shadows. He went on.
And found himself in the streets of Selzirk.
By the polished silver light of the moon, he saw the shattered shadows of half-demolished buildings. Saw another mound of monsters heaped up a hundred paces away. Why did they heap themselves like that? For security? For bodywarmth? Did they have warm bodies?
Drake turned.
He moved as if in a dream.
He knew what he had to do.
He had to regain his bamboo pole and the makeshift valises which it supported. Everything he needed to survive was there: warmth, food, tinder-box. There would be no food between here and Chenameg, not in a land ravaged by refugees and by the Swarms.
As if in a trance, he walked past the mound of monsters.
A claw extended.
T
ouched him on the shoulder.
He stood quite still.
Waiting.
For what?
To die.
The claw dug into his flesh.
The moon . . . shifted behind cloud . . . then emerged again . . . then . . . was swallowed by a whale-bellied thunderhead of cloud . . .
. . . and the claw . . .
The claw relaxed, shifted.
Drake dropped to his knees.
The claw fell free.
Scraped on the stones of the Salt Road.
Drake, on his belly, flowed away, soundless, silent.
Regained his bamboo pole, shouldered the weight, and stepped to the edge of the Salt Road. And started counting paces. Once he had counted off a hundred paces, he stopped. Now was the time to scream, to cry, to weep, to vomit.
He did none of those things.
Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed for a while, very slowly, very quietly. Concentrating on his breath. Breath is life. So said the weapons muqaddam.
T am alive,' said Drake.
He was alive, even though Selzirk had fallen. He was alive, even though the world had ended. And what now? Well, he had decided that already - the only chance was to push on east. To Chenameg.
Burdened by his bamboo pole, Drake marched. And did not stop for rest until he was exhausted. By that time, it was dawn.He laid himself down in a ditch, and he slept.
And dreamed.
And why, in his dreams, did the moon run red with blood? Why did he hear his father screaming as he fell from a coalcliff in Stokos, to die on the white-fanged rocks of the sea? Why did he dream himself dead, with Plovey his god in the after world? Why did he wake weeping?
'Courage,' whispered Drake to Drake.
And, that day, he lengthened his footsteps.
And, in time, saw mountains amidst the clouds to north and to south. And passed through the Mountain Gap, thus leaving the Harvest Plains for Chenameg.
Rough ground. Huge forests dark with ancient trees.
Tall bamboo, talking in the ever-weeping wind. Mud. Quarry pits. Abandoned mines. The hutches of poverty. A burnt-out town. A single giant centipede, which he evaded.
He came upon a scene of slaughter. A Galish kafila had been attacked. Dead men and dead camels lay together, maggots swarming within their flesh without favour. Everything worth having had been looted; all that remained was bales of hemp and ixtle, urns of coffee and hyson, blocks of nephrite jade and ingots of steel.
No food.
That evening, Drake came upon three men who sat by the river, cooking an animal of sorts on a gad. Rough men they were, with the smell of blood about them.
'What's that you're cooking?' asked Drake.
'Aardvark,' came the answer.
'It looks good,' said Drake.
And, when they saw he accepted their lie, they let him sit and share. Which he did, even though he knew the animal was human.
'What's your name, young gaberlunzie?' they asked.
'Oleg,' said Drake, thinking his uncle's name would serve as well as any other for the moment.
And he let them feed him strong drink, pretending to fuzzle himself on the liquor. When they saw the cup tremble in his hands, tremble enough to make wavelets jabble from side to side, they drew knives and attacked.
But of course their victim was still stone cold sober.
And, shortly, two corpses lay at Drake's feet. The third man was in the river. Drake resented his departure, for the villain had carried away Drake's sword as he fell backwards (very dead) into the waterflow.
'A knife will serve for the moment,' said Drake.
And made camp, for he had good meat to smoke for proper preservation before he pushed on east.
And then, through rain and mud and mist and cloud, he persevered upriver, coming in due course to the Gates of Chenameg.
Here the Velvet River entered Chenameg, boiling out through a narrow gorge. A path clung to the southernmost flank of that precipitous gorge. The path offered the only road inland; elsewhere, gaunt cliffs confronted the traveller.
But none could follow the path for free.
A gang of the rough and the reckless had set themselves up as masters of the Gates of Chenameg. They had built a huge gabionade to deny public access to the path. This gabionade had no gates; the only way to enter was by rope ladders, which were lowered at need then pulled up again.
To get through, and travel further inland, it was necessary to pay with food, gold, jade, jewels or women.
But, as yet, the need of the travelling public was not desperate. For, as yet, few monsters of the Swarms had been sighted in Chenameg. So a huge refugee camp had grown up in front of the Gates of Chenameg. And here, in a squalor of mud and filth and rain and refuse, thousands of the half-starved eked out their rations, traded, bartered, cheated, gambled, pimped, whored, stole, fought, and patronized a rabble of astrologers and fortune tellers.
Drake went straight to the Gates, and offered himself for hire.
'What are you?' they asked.
'A master swordsman,' he said.
'But you have no sword!' they said.
And threw things at him. First clods, then rocks. So he retreated, and scoured amongst the camp, seeking steel for sale. Much there was, and cheap, but most was worthless. He saw any number of worthless duelling swords, their thin blades welded to the hilts. But what he wanted was good steel, blade and tang forged as a single unit.
In the end, he found what he was seeking.
And bought it, with five fists of meat.
Then took it away, and drew it to a rare ray of winter sunlight, and gloated. Steel it was, and slender, light enough to thrust with, yet with weight enough to hack wood at will, or cleave head from shoulders. Within the blade, the play of light and shadow hinted at a thousand interlaced perfections.
'Now,' said Drake, 'to seek some honest employment.'
So he went back to the gabionade which guarded the Gates of Chenameg. But another weaponmaster was there before him. And Drake saw the man go up a rope ladder all happy-eager, then his corpse come down without his weapon.
'So much for that,' said Drake to Drake.
And found work as protection man for a tented brothel, taking his payment in meals for each of his appetites. Meanwhile, he put out word as wide as he could. He was interested in a woman. Red in hair, red in skin - not by dye but by nature.
Now, in the face of the Swarms, there were but three reasonable routes of escape.
One was to outrun their onslaught north by fleeing along the Salt Road. Many had taken that route, some with success - and others without.
A second was to try for the west, daring the open waters of the Central Ocean. But that needed ships, and many who could flee that way had left it too late.
The last option was to head east. Inland. Which many had done. And, as the Swarms encroached further east, many who had broken their journey (to sojourn at hunting lodges or elsewhere) were driven to the gates of Chenameg.
And, towards the end of winter, Drake got news of a woman in red. He responded without undue excitement - there had been seven false alarms already - and followed the newsbearer to a rainshelter near the river.
Inside the rainshelter sat Plovey of the Regency, warming himself at a small fire.
Outside, two hulking men were working to erect another rainshelter. Sitting in the mud, hands tied behind their backs, were three women, roped neck to neck.
One was Zanya.
Who saw Drake, but did not shout or cry or even smile, for she guessed that her silence would serve him best.
And Drake sauntered up nice and easy to the two hulking men putting up the rainshelter.
'Good morning,' said Drake, polite as anything.
'It's afternoon,' said one of the men, without turning.
'Why, so it is,' said Drake.
And knifed him.
'Gurumph!' cried the knifed man, in a choked voice. And fell.
The other leape
d back and drew a dirk.
And Drake stamped down hard in the underfoot muck, blinking his eyes at just the right moment. But the other fellow got mud in his eyes, and was dead before he could clear them. Dead with his own dirk buried to the hilt in his heart.
'What's going on here?' asked Plovey of the Regency, stepping out of his rainshelter.
'Murder,' answered Drake grimly, drawing his sword.
Plovey looked at him in silence. Then, slowly, drew his own blade.
'You dare much, darling boy,' said Plovey. 'For I am acknowledged as a master of the blade.' 'Aye, maybe,' said Drake. 'But I am my father's son.' 'And what means that?' 'Put steel to steel and find out,' said Drake. And strode forward.
There was no braggadocio about him: only business. He was utterly calm. He felt remote from what was happening. It was like something in a dream.
The thin winter sun shone down as the two men clashed. Blade chimed against blade. And Drake beat down Plovey's blade, and struck. And the pitiless perfection of his sword drove home, going deep, deep, deep through skin and flesh and bone and vein.
Thus was the need of steel slaked with gore, and, when Drake withdrew the blade, the blood-eddy shimmered in the glittering sun.
And Plovey fell.
Flopping to the mud like a dead fish.
And the spray of mud and blood and water which scattered from his corpse broke Drake's dream-trance, and suddenly he was hot, hot, hot and burning.
He cut Zanya loose.
They said nothing, but kissed.
Then held each other.
Then wept.
Then clouds consumed the sun, and the heavens wept with them.
58
Royalty: a notion devised in an attempt to consolidate tyranny through genetic inheritance, to deny the rightful aspirations of the common people, to cripple the Class Struggle and thereby institutionalize feudalism.
In Argan, the real power has, in most places, been for generations in the hands of the guilds and immortal government bureaucracies. Even so, lip service has still been paid to the notion of the superiority of the Favoured Blood -and those of the Blood have clung fiercely to any surviving privileges remaining to them.
Superstition, assiduously cultivated by state propaganda in the form of fairy tales, has long convinced the common people of Argan that those of the Favoured Blood are in fact their actual rulers - and that only such are fit to rule.
