by Hugh Cook
(Lamentations: "Lemarl! Lemarl!')
Dreamt the dream of the stone, lay in the dreamtime which is neither Lemarl nor Amarl, lay in the dream-time which is the nothing time, chaos in which the mind can be creator. 'Lemarl,' said the stone. Not weeping, not wishing it could weep: whatever it remembered, it had forgotten both tears and laughter.
Miphon woke once to hear Garash in a corner, grunting, straining. Why can't he go outside? Because it's raining, that's why. Again he woke, finding water dripping from the cellar rocks onto his face. He shifted to a place dry but less comfortable. He renewed his stone dreams.
Garash, for his part, dreamt of food.
CHAPTER TWO
Name: Garash. Occupation: wizard.
Status: apprentice to Phyphor, though his training is completed.
Description: stout grey-robed individual with bulging eyes, small scruffy beard and smallpox-scarred face of indeterminate age.
Career: reputedly served the Silver Emperor of Dalar ken Halvar for two centuries before fleeing Parengar-enga after participating in an unsuccessful coup. Began but did not complete apprenticeships with both a wizard of the order of Varkarlor and a wizard of the order of Ebber before taking service with Phyphor.
* * *
'Wake up!'
Garash, kicked awake from a banquet, opened his eyes to darkness.
'By the seventh hell!' he growled, his eyes full of sand, his mouth full of stones, 'What is it?'
His dreamtime banquet had disintegrated, but he could still remember the tantalising smell of roast pork. Or was it long pig? One was as good as the other, in his experience.
'Up!' said Phyphor. 'Up!'
'Alright, alright,' said Garash. 'I'm on my feet. What now?' 'Come on, Miphon.'
'No need to use your boot like that,' said Miphon, searching for his feathered hat. 'I'm ready.'
'Hurry then. Up the stairs.' 'What is it?' said Garash. 'Tell us!' 'Outside! Now!'
Miphon groped for his boots, could not find them. Went barefoot. Floor wet, rain dripping through stones, pools in concavities, stairs wet. Garash stumbled, cursed, slipped, swore.
'Hurry up,' said Phyphor.
Up the curve of the stairs - faint phosphorescent gleam from Phyphor's cloak - up the stairs and Out into the courtyard. Garash lubbered along last, panting. Rain fell steadilv. Waves crashed against the shore.
'Look!'
On a hillside two leagues north, a stand of trees was blazing. Other conflagrations glowered in the distance.
'What are they?' said Garash. 'War beacons?'
The sky answered him with a bellow of rage and pain.
'Dragon,' said Phyphor.
'It sounds as if it's gone mad,' said Garash.
'Perhaps it has,' said Phyphor.
Now they understood his urgency. Their donkey, Smeralda, was out there somewhere in the darkness. If the dragon happened to chance upon her, it would know there were people here.
'How far's the donkey gone?' said Phyphor.
He did not know what he asked. It was one thing to listen for Smeralda's thoughts, and quite another to decide distance and direction. Miphon was equal to the task: but only just.
'South,' said Miphon. 'Two hundred paces, maybe less.'
'Get it!' said Phyphor. 'Hurry! Then we'll take shelter.'
'Why kick me up here for this?' grumbled Garash. Phyphor said nothing, but watched as Miphon splashed away into the night. 'Phyphor!' said Garash.
Phyphor looked up. Overhead, a red spark reeled 20
through the sky, like a bit of burning straw spinning in the wind.
'Hold!' shouted Phyphor. 'It's overhead! Back to the cellar!'
The three wizards stumbled down the stairs and stood together in the darkness, wet and panting.
'Call the donkey to you,' said Phyphor.
'I'll try,' said Miphon. 'But it takes time. It's hard work. I can't guarantee success.'
'Try.'
Miphon blocked out the sounds of falling rain, surf-echo, dripping and trickling water. His mind listened for Smeralda's mind. And heard, instead, the dragon's mind - a senseless chant of pain, rage, hate, fierce as the warrior who wrenches a spear from his side and turns it on the enemy.
Then all heard the rush of wings pitched to a scream as the dragon plunged down, down toward the fortress, down with such reckless rage that Miphon thought it would hit the earth. It wrenched out of its dive, blasting the fort with fire as it skimmed past fast as falling. The cellar entrance flamed orange-red.
'It saw nothing,' said Garash, shaken. 'It looked, but it saw nothing. There was nothing for it to see.'
'Hush,' said Phyphor.
'It can't hear us!'
'Hush! Let Miphon listen.'
Miphon listened. The dragon was ... gaining height ... gaining height ... disappointed ... circling ... circling ... rage spent, rage gathering ...
'It doesn't know we're here,' said Miphon.
'Of course not,' said Garash. 'There was nothing. Nothing for it to see.'
'What does the dragon do now?' said Phyphor.
'I think -1 hope it'll go and blast something else,' said Miphon.
Then heard: recognition! The dragon saw something! Then they all heard the scream as wings plummeted
down, one tortured protest from Smeralda, then the wings of the dragon seeking height again, seeking height with a batblack labouring which overpowered the sound of the surf, conjuring visions of a huge leather bellows wheezing out volumes of air.
The dragon was triumphant because now ... now it knew!
'It knows there are people here,' said Miphon flatly. 'A donkey means people. It'll quarter the area till it finds us, if it takes all night. If we stay here it'll sniff us out. then fry us alive.'
'Flame can't reach us here,' said Garash.
'Flame can't but heat can,' said Phyphor. 'Outside!'
They hastened up the stairs to rejoin the rain. They scanned the dark sky. High above, a fire-spark circled slowly. Underfoot, the courtyard stones were still faintly warm from dragon fire. The monster circled, once and again, and then:
'It sees us,' said Miphon.
'You kill it,' said Phyphor to Garash.
'I'll try,' said Garash.
Miphon and Phyphor retreated to the top of the steps. Garash stood alone, licking his lips anxiously. His bulging eyes watched the spark. Red spark. So high, so high. And now ... and now it dipped. Garash raised his right hand. He must wait.
Down came the dragon.
Garash waited, trembling.
He could hear the wings.
The spark was a fire, a bonfire, a furnace. Close, closer, too close! Garash screamed a Word.
White fire flared from his hand. The dragon, way off to one side of the blast of power, slewed sideways and went gliding away into the darkness.
'What were you trying to do?' said Phyphor. 'Fry eggs?'
'It wasn't where I thought it was.'
'Get into the cellar, you. I'll kill it myself.'
Garash stumbled away, having wasted the accumulated strength of four hundred and seventy-nine days of the Meditation of Power on turning raindrops into steam.
"Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor, blinded by the flare of light. 'I can't see anything.'
'The dragon's thinking,' said Miphon. 'Making a plan.'
'I thought it wasn't in any state to make plans.' 'Near-death can sober up anything, even a raging dragon. It's cautious now. It's thinking.' 'What?' 'I can't tell.'
As Phyphor's night-sight recovered, he scanned the sky, blinking against the rain. 'Is the dragon moving?' 'No. It's on top of the cliffs.' 'Doing what?' 'Searching and finding.' 'Finding what?'
'I can't tell. Phyphor, it's in the air again. Up there!'
'Where? Where?'
'Above us.'
'But I can't see it!'
No red spark betrayed the dragon, which was not forced to show fire as it flew if it chose not to.
'If I try to blast it, can you gu
ide my hand?'
'I can't pinpoint the dragon,' said Miphon. 'That's too hard.'
'Then I'll wait till it dives,' said Phyphor. 'I've stood against the Neversh. I can stand against a dragon.' They heard something falling. A rock shattered beside them. 'The cellar!' yelled Phyphor.
They ran. The dragon plunged down, dropping rocks as it swooped. They heard its wings cutting the air. A rock shattered at the head of the stairs, but they were al
ready in the cellar, bleeding from a dozen rock splinters. The fort shook as the dragon crashed to earth. It bellowed. It blasted out fire. Flame filled the stairwell. Rainwater boiled to scalding steam. A flush of heat hit the cellar.
'Blast it!' screamed Garash.
'It's not in line of sight, fool,' said Phyphor.
Another blast of fire. The stink of dragon. The scrabble of talons. More fire. More steam. They were being cooked alive.
Phyphor stepped forward to try for a clear shot at the dragon. A blast of fire sent him reeling back, beating at his burning cloak. He had been singed by just the last fraction of that blast: any closer, and he would have been killed. Miphon pushed past, but Phyphor grabbed him.
'Where do you think you're going?' 'To stay is to die,' said Miphon. 'If it gets me, it may think there's nobody else.' 'Wait,' said Phyphor.
He raised his staff and hammered it down.
He spoke a Word.
The earth trembled and shook.
Phyphor spoke a Word and a Word and a Word. There was a roar louder than any dragon, or any clan of dragons. Garash screamed, throwing himself to the ground. Miphon listened.
- pain, pain, pain -
'The dragon's hurt,' said Miphon. 'It's going.' They heard it bellow. (Distant. Fading.)
Miphon ran upstairs. Phyphor followed close behind, panting as they burst out into the night air. The walls of the fort lay in ruins. Blocks of stone had been flung through the air as the flame trench, exploding, cleansed itself of the debris of four thousand years in a single convulsive spasm. Now the flame trench was alive, flames raging for half a league between mountain and
sea. Heat beat against their faces. The clouds above smouldered with bloodlight reflections.
'Are you hurt?' said Miphon.
'My hands are burnt a little.' said Phyphor.
'Over here," said Miphon. leading him from the fort to find water where he could cool his singed hands.
'Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor.
'Far away now,' said Miphon. 'Far away. It won't be back. It's hurt. The rocks thrown by the blast hurt it.'
'Will it die?'
'I don't know. But it won't be back. It won't be back.*
The ground trembled underfoot; they smelt torn earth, the stink of dragon, the dust of splintered rock; heat and light from the fire dyke beat against their faces. They heard the roar of flames, the hiss of rain boiling as it struck fire, waves from the sea exploding into steam.
Garash joined them.
'The dragon?' said Garash.
'It's gone,' said Miphon.
'How long will the flames burn for?' said Garash. who knew the answer - fifty days at least, and maybe longer - but half-hoped that someone would tell him different.
'Too long,' said Phyphor. 'We'll have to find a way over the mountains.'
Where the flame-trench ran out into the sea for a hundred paces, the waters seethed and boiled. Lacking a boat strong enough to venture out into those turbulent waters - lacking, indeed, any boat at all - the wizards could not outflank the flame trench on the seaward side.
'Mountains!' said Garash. spitting out the word with disgust.
'We could swim,' ventured Miphon. 'You could, perhaps." said Garash. 'I've never learnt to play fish.'
Garash, having wasted all his accumulated power in trying to kill the dragon, felt weak and exhausted. He
felt, obscurely, that Phyphor had somehow tricked him. After all, Phyphor had finally driven off the dragon simply by calling out the Words which had made the fire dyke erupt. Garash could have done as much, if he had thought of it. He was comforted by knowing he still had power stored in the shrivelled twist of wood hung round his neck, power he had stored there during dull days in the Castle of Controlling Power.
'I couldn't venture the swim either,' said Phyphor. "So it'll have to be the mountains.'
CHAPTER THREE
Name: Heenmor. Occupation: wizard.
Status: Master wizard of the order of Arl. A renegade wanted dead - most definitely dead - by the Confederation of Wizards.
Description: a massive, troll-shouldered giant, twice the height of any ordinary mortal. Black eyes, blue beard and ginger hair. Robes of khaki, boots of white leather.
Career: most notable exploit was his organisation of an expedition to loot an artefact of power from the Dry Pit in the Forbidden Zone. His companions either died in the Dry Pit or were murdered by Heenmor afterwards; notes found in their archives alerted the Confederation of Wizards to Heenmor's misdeeds.
* * *
'With this, I can conquer the world,' said Heenmor.
He was talking about the stone egg which sat on one corner of the table: a sullen grey weight lit by dull light from the twelve firestones which studded the walls of this chamber high in the Tower of the order of Arl. The everlast ochre light cast no shadows.
'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor, in a voice which mocked his opponent.
Elkor Alish, warrior of Rovac, said nothing, but studied the wizards and the warriors arrayed on the chess board. In chess, as in real life, a wizard had a hundred times the power of a warrior - but wizards could still be killed.
'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor again. 'Believe me: the death-stone has power enough to conquer the world.'
Alish raised his eyes.
'What exactly does it do?'
* * *
'I'd love to know what Heenmor's taken from the Dry Pit,' said Garash, stumbling along a punishing mountain trail. 'I'd love to know what it does.'
'We'll find out soon enough,' said Phyphor.
T only hope it's something worth risking our lives for.'
'We're not in this for personal gain!' said Phyphor sharply.
'No, no, of course not,' said Garash hastily. Then went sprawling as a stone slipped beneath his feet.
'Test each stone before you trust it,' said Miphon. Garash swore, and ignored him. 'I'd still like to know,' said Garash, 'Just what it is and what it does.'
* * *
'So you'd like to know?' said Heenmor. 'Yes,' said Elkor Alish.
'Ah,' said Heenmor, 'That's . . . that's a secret.' And Heenmor smiled.
When Alish had been initiated into the Code of Night, they had told him this: remember that the wizard, scorning us, is apt to forget how fast your sword can end his life. Alish had never forgotten - which was why, face to face with the ancient enemy, he matched Heenmor time and again at chess, enduring the wizard's contempt.
But what was the death-stone? What did it do? Why
was it so important? Why did Heenmor boast about it?
'Why do you invite me here so often?' said Alish.
'Perhaps I just like a game of chess,' said Heenmor.
'There's more to it than that.'
'You're right. There is. The truth is, I want to recruit a bodyguard. You, perhaps. I want the best. They say you're the best. But is it so? They call you the man who does not shed blood. That's a strange name for a Rovac warrior, isn't it?'
'My name is Elkor Alish.'
'The man who does not shed blood.'
Yes, that was what they called him now. But in the Cold West, men had known him by other names: Red Terror, Bloodsword, He Who Walks, Our Lord Despair. In the Cold West, he had been a great mercenary leader, until the day when, sickened of the slaughter, he had chosen to commit himself to the vows of the Code of Night: to destroy the ancient enemy and take the continent of Argan for the people of Rovac.
'I can kill if I have to,' said Alish.
'I've seen no proof of it,' said Heenmor.
Alish focused on the chess pieces: castles, merchants, sages, wizards, warriors, hell-banes, battering rams -and the Neversh, each with six wings, each with two feeding spikes reminiscent of the tusks of the mammoths of the Cold West. He remembered hunting mammoths with Gorn, Falmer and Morgan Hearst. Falmer was dead now: may the deep hell be gentle on his soul.
'Why are you telling me about the death-stone?' said Alish.
'To tempt you to my service,' said Heenmor. 'Believe me: the stone egg gives me power enough to conquer the world. Serve me, and you'll be richly rewarded.'
'With such power, what do you need me for?'
'To protect me from my enemies. Certain wizards are on my track. Jealousy makes them murderous. They wish to kill me for the death-stone.'
'If it makes you so powerful, what do you need me for?'
