by Hugh Cook
'My troubles were only starting. My screwrot crew deserted to take service with the prince. This end of winter - the winter cost me pretty, never doubt it - the prince seized my cargo's cream. Six boys - six! The best - young slave boys, trained to service. The temple wanted them for sacrifice. To persuade a god to kill a dragon. We all know what killed what in the end. The prince donated them. Easy for him to give, wasn't it?
'There were women, too - but those went to the prince. He's a fine one for taking. And he's not the only one! The Melski have torn the nails from my ship, working underwater. It's grounded on the riverbed. So here I sit till the Galish come so I can sell what's left -then I'll barefoot back to Runcorn and beyond.'
As an introduction to the habits and practises of Johan Meryl Comedo, this was hardly promising; other stories the wizards heard did nothing to advance him in their favour.
Come morning, they walked up Melross Hill to the black battlements of the castle dominating the heights above Lorford. Although it was spring, the cold wind sang a joyless, bitter song as it cut through chinks and gaps in the walls of the hillside hovels of the servants who worked in the castle but were refused shelter there.
Comedo and his fighting men - and their women -occupied only the castle's gatehouse keep; nobody dwelt in the eight towers of the eight orders of wizards, still sealed against men as they had been through all the centuries since wizards had deserted them. Darkest and tallest was the tower of the Dark Order, the order of Ebber, the order of Shadows, the commanders of dreams and delusions.
Comedo refused to share his keep with his servants, and would not let them build inside the flat area enclosed by the long battlements as he did not want vernacular elements spoiling the classical flow of his castle's interior. Hence the hovels on the hill. Fleabite children stared from shack-shanty doors as the wizards laboured uphill, buffeted by the wind.
'The dragon missed what most needed burning,' said Garash.
The hovels had been built right to the edge of the flame trench which moated the castle. Unlike the fire dyke on Estar's southern border, this trench had never filled with rubble, despite lack of maintenance; it dropped so deep that one could count a falling stone from one to ten before it hit bottom. Where water and wastes were discharged, sprawling green moss followed the moist trail downwards, but far before the bottom of the trench it was too hot for moss to grow.
Writhing red and orange flames simmered at the bottom of the fire dyke. It had been built to last even should the Swarms besiege the castle for five thousand years on end; the passing centuries had not quenched those flames, and, if the right Words were said, they
would blaze upward to fill the entire trench for fifty days or more.
Though the flame trench was at its most passive, it was still hot enough for the shack-dwellers to be able to cook meals in metal pots descending on chains a fraction of the way into the depths. A woman emptied a tub of washing water to the gulf; falling, the water boiled to steam.
T suppose the schtot find living so close to the heat makes infanticide easy,' said Garash; 'schtot' was a pejorative from the Galish Trading Tongue, which he was trying hard to master.
'I suppose so,' said Phyphor, not really listening - he was thinking about the love-labours wizards had lavished on these fortifications built for their personal protection, and what shoddy work they had done on the barriers made during the Long War to stop the northward spread of the Swarms.
'Let's go and test this prince's temper then,' said Garash.
'We'll do no testing unless we have to,' said Phyphor. 'And I'll do the talking. Remember that.'
As they crossed the drawbridge, the wind tried to strip them naked. Ahead rose the seventy levels of the gatehouse keep, pierced by narrow windows and garnished with an eclectic array of corpses in various states of decomposition.
'What charming taste!' said Garash, eyeing the dangling bodies.
'What did you expect?' said Phyphor. 'Sophistication?'
'I expect nothing,' said Garash. 'But I mark the prince is a butcher. Perhaps it might amuse him to add a couple of wizards to his corpse collection.'
'Only two?' said Miphon.
'Make it two wizards and a pox doctor,' said Garash. 'If you want to draw distinctions,' said Miphon, 'Make it one of Nin, one of Arl, and one fat slobbery greedbox.'
'I eat to my best because I've got a mind to nourish,' said Garash with dignity. 'Unlike some.'
'Enough,' said Phyphor, for they had reached the archway at the end of the drawbridge.
Coming in out of the wind, the wizards smelt the stench of rotten meat, decayed vegetables and sewerage, a first token of the squalor of Comedo's court. Looking through the archway - which, though it could be sealed by portcullises, ran the length of the ground floor of the gatehouse keep - they saw some men rebuilding charred wooden buildings in the central court, where the dragon had fired stables, kennels and a banqueting hall.
'Well well,' said one of two guards, stirring himself to stand erect. 'What's this now, walking in on its hind legs?'
'Let me pass,' said Garash.
'Not so hasty,' said the guard. 'Not so hasty.'
'My companion may be hasty,' said Phyphor, 'But he has reason. We do have business which should not be delayed. Let us pass.'
The guard rubbed his nose.
'Let you pass? Indeed I'll let you pass, pass left or right or pass back the way you came, or pass water if you wish, but if you try to pass me by you'll pass beyond the sight of men, right quickly, unless you've got the password or some other passable credentials.'
'I am a wizard,' said Phyphor, letting his iron-shod staff thud against the flagstones.
'A wizard, hey?' said the guard. 'Well, by the Skull of the Deep South, a wizard. I'm sorry to tell you, though, we've got no pox for curing. We've had poxy weather and poxy food, a poxy dull winter and the spring not much better, but the actual smelly little article we don't have in quantity.'
Phyphor thumped his staff again on the flagstones.
'Man,' said Garash, pushing forward, 'Man, do you know - '
Phyphor put out an arm to hold Garash back.
'Well, by my grandmother's sweet brown eye,' said the guard, 'We do have a windy temper here, don't we Bartlom?'
'Yes,' said Bartlom. 'We'll see some magic if we're lucky. I've heard of pox doctor magic. The pox doctors, you see, turn sheep into lovers and pigs into whores."
'We did have a real wizard once,' said the first guard. 'His name was Heen or Hein or Hay, or some such, if you please. Twice my height, yes. his face as white as ice, his eyes as black as night. He had a snake which killed with a single bite. You're not wizards. You may be pox doctors, but we've no requirement for quacks today. So you can't come in, unless you care to turn me into a frog or a fish.'
'Why change you?' said Garash. 'Nature decided you should be born a pig, so who are we to interfere?'
'That's not nice, Mr Pox,' said the guard, frowning. 'He's not nice at all, is he, Bartlom? Would his tongue improve with cooking, perhaps?'
Phyphor lost patience. His staff swung through the air: once. No exercise of magic could have inflicted a worse injury. Bartlom started to lug out his sword. Phyphor felled him with a blow to the head. He went down and stayed down.
'You did that nicely,' said Garash. 'Like swatting flies.'
'Was there no other way?' said Miphon.
'Why worry about scum like that?' said Garash. 'Their lives are worthless anyway. Time only teaches them to waste time.'
'Come!' said Phyphor, venturing in under the first portcullis.
Somewhere, someone was shouting, his voice echoing in the distance:
'Andranovory! Get your drunken arse up here!'
They were now well and truly in Prince Comedo's domain.
CHAPTER TEN
Rovac (noun): a group of 27 islands in the Central Ocean; inhabitant(s) of those islands; their nation; their language; (adjective): of or concerning the said islands, inhabitants,
nation or language.
The Rovac nonsense: dismissive term used by wizards to describe the long-standing historical dispute between the nation of Rovac and the Confederation of Wizards.
Rovac staunch (noun) (obsolete): ritual drink formerly employed by the warriors of Rovac during initiation rituals, consisting of equal parts of blood, cream, alcohol and water.
* * *
Taking directions from a serving boy whom they woke from a drunken sleep in a slovenly guard room, the wizards climbed to the seventh level of the gatehouse keep, occasionally disturbing rats; these first seven levels alone could have housed a thousand people, so probably the upper levels were deserted.
On the seventh level, a door opened to a hall where three men sat guarding Comedo's chambers: two at chess, one watching. Ignored by the guards, the wizards looked around the room, which doubled as an armoury.
On the walls were weapons: swords double-edged and single, stabbing and slashing, sparring and dueling; cutlasses, broadswords, claymores; dirks, stilettos, skinning knives, throwing knives and foreign dueling daggers with one edge deeply serrated to catch and break a rapier blade. There were quivers, arrows,
quarrels, stave bows, crossbows, composite bows. And also: spears, javelins, halberds, pikes, battleaxes, knuckledusters, cut throat razors, maces, billhooks, throwing stars, morning stars and dissecting kits. And armour: chain mail, scale mail, breast plates, greaves, gauntlets, helmets round or horned or spiked. And shields: from bucklers to full-length body shields.
The collection indicated how rich Castle Vaunting had become from centuries of taxing the Salt Road in money and in kind.
T have you,' said one of the chessplayers.
Or, to be precise, he spoke a word known to all chess players: damorg. The same word in all languages, it must have spread with the game.
The other player conceded defeat, and the three guards turned their attention to the three wizards.
'Name yourself,' said one of the guards, a haughty man with an elegant cloak. His square-cut beard was black, as was the oiled hair he held in place with combs of whalebone.
'Where's Comedo?' said Garash, before Phyphor could speak.
'Where he chooses to be,' said the guard. 'And you'll be out on your arse unless you can give a good account of yourself. I'm Elkor Alish, captain of the personal bodyguard of the prince of Estar, so I'll ask the questions here. Those who will not answer to me must answer to my sword, Ethlite. Be sure that Ethlite has a sharper tongue than I do.'
'Don't threaten us,' said Garash.
'Who are you then?'
'My style is Garash. A wizard of the order of Arl. Power is at my readiness to diminish you from the face of the sun with a single blast of fire.'
Alish threw his chair at Garash. As Garash ducked, Alish drew his sword. Garash snatched at the chain round his neck. The sword was faster.
'Drop your hands,' said Alish, holding steel to
Garash's throat. 'Drop your hands, or you'll feel the sharp edge of some poetry in motion.'
As Garash obeyed, Alish sidestepped, then ducked round behind the wizards. Phyphor laughed.
'Well, Garash,' said Phyphor, turning. 'You certainly -'
'Don't move!' shouted Alish.
Phyphor froze.
'Now remember I'm behind you,' said Alish. 'Man, wizard or sage, you can die whatever you are. The fat one says he's a wizard, so I'll call you all wizards. Any movement - any mumbling - any chanting - and my sword will have your heads.'
'You can't keep us here forever,' said Garash.
'Yes, fat one: a problem. My blade can trim that problem down to size, if necessary. What did you say your name was?'
'Garash.'
'Garash who? Garash what? What is your family? Your clan?'
'Garash is all the name I have.'
'Well then. Your name, young one?'
'My name is Miphon. I bear you no ill.'
'Steel would say it bears no ill, but it kills all the same. You, old one, who are you?'
'Elkor Alish, my style is Phyphor, a wizard of Arl. I seek audience with Prince Comedo to ask for help in hunting down the wizard Heenmor. We wish to punish him . .. to kill him.'
Alish laughed.
'Find Heenmor? Kill him? We'd help if we could, I'm sure. He ate here at his pleasure all through the winter. And killed here, too. When he left, twenty followed. He lost them in forest too dense for horses. But they tracked him, closed with him on foot - and died. Where he's gone to. nobody knows.'
'Elkor Alish ...'
'Yes, old one?'
'Phyhor is my style, as I have told you.' 'Then speak, Phyphor.'
'Elkor Alish, we come to kill Heenmor. You would enjoy to see him dead. Where is our quarrel?'
Alish paused. By striking now, he could kill three wizards. He was fast enough. It would be a step to fulfilling his obligations to the Code of Night and the destiny of Rovac: a glorious start to a spring that would see Hearst lead Comedo's army on a conquest of Dybra which Alish saw as the start of a long campaign that might eventually take their armies to the wizard strongholds in the Far South.
He could strike now: or wait.
If he let the wizards live, perhaps they would find Heenmor and secure the death-stone. Then Alish could kill them at leisure, taking the death-stone for himself.
'Swear not to harm me or any other in the castle,' said Alish, 'And there will be no quarrel between us.'
'Why must we swear?' said Garash.
'Because Ethlite is hungry,' said Alish.
'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, 'I swear by the Rule of Law to honour the lives of this castle, providing none hinder my pursuit of the wizard Heenmor. By the Rule of Law I swear it.'
'And you, wizard Garash?'
First Garash then Miphon swore the same oath. Alish sheathed his sword.
'So you've sworn the oath,' said Alish, walking back to join his two comrades. 'For what it's worth.'
'You question the value of a wizard's oath?' said Garash angrily. 'No wizard ever breaks an oath.'
Alish laughed at him.
'How dare you laugh!'
'Peace, Garash,' said Phyphor. 'This is not the time or the place.'
'All right,' said Garash. Then, abruptly: 'Who are those people?' He pointed at the other guards, who had sat silent
throughout the confrontation. One, a short pink man with a smirking mouth, looked remarkably like a pig dressed in chain mail. A battle axe hung from his belt, a knife at his side and a helmet within easy reach.
'The short one is Corn,' said Alish. 'The tall one, the swordsman, is someone else again.'
'Tell that, that Gorn,' said Garash, 'Tell him to take us to Prince Comedo. Now!'
Alish, allowing himself an enigmatic smile, rearranged his embroidered cloak so the hilt of his sword showed. He had sworn no oath that would protect the wizards.
'Are you threatening me?' said Garash.
'Garash!' said Phyphor. 'Favour us with your silence. Elkor Alish, if you would be so good, kindly take us to Prince Comedo.'
'Unfortunately,' said Alish, 'That worthy is out hunting.'
'What?' said Phyphor. 'With armed invaders on the loose?'
'Most are fled or dead,' said Alish. 'They're no match for the fighters here. There was never a proper invasion -just a few men sent from Tameran to burn the temple and scout out the land.'
'If the prince isn't here,' said Garash, 'Why are you guarding his chambers?'
'Within is a fortune worth murdering your mother for. Morgan Hearst slew the dragon on Maf. He's a hero. He gouged a giant ruby from its eye socket, as proof. That's what we're guarding.'
'Is that Hearst?' said Miphon, indicating the tall swordsman.
The swordsman laughed. He looked like a fighting man's fighting man. Big grappling hands; a barrel chest; a face scarred and beer-battered, marked by a network of broken red veins. The left ear was missing. He was older than Alish or Gorn; when he spoke, his voice was deep, and slightly hoars
e:
'No,' he said, accenting the Trading Tongue strangely. 'I'm not Morgan Hearst. I have the pride and pleasure of being Volaine Persaga Haveros, lately Lord Commander of the Imperial City of Gendormargensis, but now out of favour with our lord Khmar, who has placed a price on my head.'
'A Collosnon soldier!' said Phyphor, with surprise.
Volaine Persaga Haveros bowed, slightly.
Gendormargensis, as all the world knew, was the ruling city of Khmar's empire - a city by the Yolantar-ath River commanding the strategic gap between the Sarapine Ranges and the Balardade Massif, deep in the heartland of Tameran, far north of Estar.
'Are all three of you Collosnon soldiers?' said Phyphor.
'No,' said Haveros. 'Just me. Alish and Gorn have never set foot in Tameran. They're from the west. Rovac warriors.'
Phyphor's face registered shock. But it was Garash who spoke first:
'What? Those two? Rovac warriors? A runt with the face of a pig and a fop in a pretty cloak?'
Alish put his hand to the hilt of his sword, then restrained himself. His pleasure would come later. He made a promise to himself: sooner or later, he would see the green of this wizard's spleen.
'What did you expect?' he said. 'We're only men, whatever the legends say. But when you meet Morgan Hearst, then you'll meet a hero.'
