by Hugh Cook
'Yes.'
'And don't open the boxes! If you do, you're dead. Oh, another thing. If there's a bottle there, that'll be worth bringing out, too.'
'A bottle?'
'You'll recognise it if you see it,' said Phyphor. 'Well, are you going? After dragon killing, this should be a picnic!'
Hearst's bootlaces felt too tight. Should he alter them? If he did, he would find his sword was not riding comfortably at his side. And with that adjusted, his boots would feel too loose.
'Yes,' said Hearst, nodding. 'Time to go.'
'Luck,' said Alish, and turned on his heel and strode away: he had to command the defence of the battlements.
'You'll do it,' said Blackwood, offering encouragement.
'Unless you don't,' said Garash.
'If don't, then dead,' said the executioner. 'The feeding isn't always quick.'
Below, the lopsloss sucked back, then rammed the wall with a blow which set the stones beneath them shaking.
'Sometimes,' said the executioner. 'Sometimes, though, it is quite quick. Quite'
'Lower another lantern,' said Phyphor. 'It's got no sight to speak of, so you might as well have the light.'
'No sight,' said Hearst. 'Has it a mind?'
He had heard the Miphon had some power over the minds of animals.
'None that I can hear,' said Miphon, knowing the question was for him. 'Well then,' said Hearst. 'Well... I'll do it.' 'We'll see,' said Phyphor.
Boots braced against wall, Hearst laboured down on a rope, descending toward the doom below. The lopsloss creaked and squelched; Hearst imagined that he heard little wavelets lapping against the walls below, but dismissed the thought. Breathing the increasing meat-rot stench, he almost gagged, but controlled himself. Off to his left, the lantern, hanging above the lopsloss, illuminated only a fraction of its glistening, alien flesh.
He was down far enough.
When he cried out, those above would throw meat to the lopsloss. When it moved away to take the meat, Hearst would have to let himself down to the bottom and sprint for the left-hand corner. He would be running through darkness.
'I'm ready!' he shouted.
He was answered, first, by ghostly echoes of his own voice. Then by an unintelligible shout from above. Then the meat - a dead sheep - splashed down into the darkness. It sounded very much as if it had hit water. The lopsloss quivered, shook, then began to move for the meat. Hearst let himself down to the bottom.
There really was water!
The dungeon floor was knee-deep in water. It would slow him down. Hearst hesitated. Imagining how Phyphor would greet his retreat:
'So ... our mighty dragon-killer returns.'
Hearst was off: running. Water clogged his steps as he panted forward. The ground sagged away underfoot: water surged to his waist. And he could hear the lopsloss. It was coming after him. He lost his footing en
tirely. He was afloat! The monster was hot behind. He would never make it. He struck out through the water. And there was a scream—
Something heavy crashed into the water.
The lopsloss paused, stopped. Hearst trod water, then eased his feet down, seeking the bottom. His boots touched stone. He stood there, trembling, shivering.
There was a squelch of bulk and suction. The lopsloss was moving. But which way? Hearst counted to one, to three, he was still alive, six to eight, alive, and nine, and ten, take breath—
He knew which way the lopsloss was moving.
Slowly, very carefully, he took a step forward. Then another. He eased himself through the water, gaining higher ground. Then his hand found the left-hand wail. He was on course.
Then he heard the lopsloss returning.
'No!' screamed Hearst.
Hobbled by flooded boots, he stumbled through knee-deep water. The lopsloss was gaining on him, driving a wave in front of it. The wave rocked past. It broke against rock. Rock! He ran slap-bang into it. Where now? Left? Right? He chose: right. He dodged: right. Rock opened for him. He ran, slipped, fell, clawed himself forward. The lopsloss slammed against the wall behind him, sucking and groping.
But he was inside. Safe.
Safe and sobbing.
He had done it.
* * *
Climbing stairs leading upward into the darkness, Hearst tripped over something. He poked at it with his sword, kicked it, then, when it didn't slither or squeal, felt it. A tree root? A tree root! Further up the winding stairway, the root thickened. Soon there were two, then three. Old and dead, some crumbling to dust beneath
his boots, releasing the faintest scent of sandalwood. When he reached the tower of Seth, the larger roots were as thick as his thigh.
In the tower, dead branches choked the daylight. Someone, abandoning the tower, had left a tree behind. Struggling to break through to the outer air, it had choked the tower with its branches; stairs led upwards, but the branches blocked them. Hearst drew Hast and laid about him. Dead, ancient wood shattered to dust and splinters before his blade.
Outside, a battle was in progress. He could hear it. He worked faster, coughing as the dust got to his lungs. He was sweating now. His skin and leathers, soaking wet from his swim, were covered in fine grey dust.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
That was a Collosnon battle-lung shouting: Forward! Forward! Hearst grunted and swung his sword again, driving himself.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
Sweeping away one last branch, Hearst gained the uppermost chamber. Through windows with panes of diamond, he saw a battle below: a confused pattern of knots of men locked in combat on the battlements between the tower of Seth and the portal giving access to the gatehouse keep.
At a glance Hearst saw the enemy were winning.
Where was the magic? The two boxes? There - above him, caught in branches which had lofted them to the ceiling. He hacked at the branches. They exploded into dust. The boxes fell. Lunging forward, he caught one. The other hit the ground. The lid came off. Dozens of red charms spilt out into the swirling dust, each charm trailing a thin gold necklace. Hearst stared at them aghast, remembering Phyphor's warning. But nothing happened.
Outside, the enemy shouted in triumph. Comedo's forces were falling back in disarray. Hearst looked at the heavy box he was holding. On the lid were
hellmouth jaws and the null sign of the dead zero, the sign of the nether magic. He had been warned of the dangers within. But—
'I held the breach at Enelorf,' he said, his voice a whisper.
He bit his lip, and lifted the lid.
Inside, two yellow jewels reclined on verdant velvet. Each was the size of a fist. Was this the great magic? These two baubles? And what was that light that sang and curdled inside them?
The floor canted abruptly, and Hearst found himself sliding toward the jaws of a waiting dragon. Screaming, he fell. Flame scalded him. Its jaws closed, biting him in half. He wailed in despair and—
Found himself lying on the dusty floor.
It was very quiet.
The floor was level.
There was no dragon.
His body was intact.
And the box? It lay on the floor beside him. The lid, fortunately, had fallen shut. Slowly, Hearst regained his feet. He sneezed, then wiped the dust from a window. Outside, the fighting had stopped. Some men stood as if stunned; others were picking themselves up from the ground.
'Gen-ha!' shouted the Collosnon battle-lung.
The Collosnon troops started forward again. Hearst knelt by the box. Delicately, using just one finger, he lifted the lid. And heard a dragon roar behind him, screamed as its flame engulfed him—
And dropped the lid shut on the box.
No pain, no flame, no dragon.
Outside, the enemy were wavering. Then came a shout:
'Ahyak Rovac!'
Yes, it was the voice of Elkor Alish: challenge echoing from tower to tower as it had when the tide of battle turned in their favour at Vaglazeen. And the voice of
Our Lo
rd Despair completed the panic amongst the enemy, and they ran.
And Hearst whispered to himself, again:
'I held the breach at Enelorf.'
* * *
'Did it disturb you much?' said Hearst. 'What? When you opened the box?' 'What else?' 'No,' said Phyphor.
But, in truth, each time Hearst had opened the lead box, Phyphor had seen before his very eyes the double spikes of the Neversh, and had fallen screaming to the ground.
'I'm so glad you weren't upset,' said Hearst.
From the way he said it, Phyphor knew the warrior had been told exactly what had happened. Phyphor had screamed. And Garash had roared until his veins stood out.
'Now,' said Phyphor. 'What have you got there? Ah, I see. You managed to find the bottle as well.'
'Yes. But I can't find out what it does.'
'Of course you can't. If you could, you wouldn't hand it over.'
Phyphor caressed the small, green-glazed bottle, which was decorated with two metal bands. He said a Word. The bands loosened, tinkled to the floor, then shrank to finger-sized rings.
'What are those for?' asked Hearst.
'Never you mind,' said Phyphor.
He shook the lead boxes. One rattled: it held the dozens of small red charms on thin chains. Opening it, he ran his fingers through them with an expression close to lust. This was well worth killing for.
'What are the charms for?' said Hearst.
'Can't you guess?'
'I'm a warrior, not a . . .'
Pox doctor was the term he had in mind. 'Not a wizard,' said Phyphor, finishing his sentence for him.
'Well then,' said Hearst. 'The pair of yellow jewels in the other box, the ones that made everyone go strange when I lifted the lid - what do they do?'
'Can't you guess? They make men insane.'
'Insane?'
'They steal men's wits,' said Phyphor. 'The red charms on the golden chains give protection against the mad-jewels. Now we can kill off the enemy and save our lives, so let's be glad that Blackwood saved yours.'
'Blackwood?'
'Your woodsman friend. We heard you running through water. We knew you'd never reach safety on your own. So when the lopsloss went after you . . . Blackwood gave the executioner a push.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
Name: Mystrel (wife to Blackwood).
Birthplace: Little Gidding (a hamlet later claimed for ashes by the dragon Zenphos).
Occupation: home executive.
Description: a face which, to Blackwood, is more familiar than his own (since he has no mirror); a voice which he hears in his dreams. Flesh in her flesh lives a life which is not yet entirely its own.
The next morning, the charms were shared out. As there weren't enough to go round, Miphon brewed a sleeping potion to be drunk by all the charmless before the mad-jewels were used against the enemy. Belatedly, Blackwood, who had drunk his share, realised his wife Mystrel had avoided taking the sleeping potion. He took her to Miphon, who still had some left in a cauldron simmering over a low fire. From the cauldron, purple flames rose wraith by wraith.
'I won't drink that,' said Mystrel.
'It only brings sleep,' said Miphon.'It's harmless.'
'For you, maybe. For me, perhaps. But I am with child.'
'This won't harm the unborn,' said Miphon. 'What we do to our bodies doesn't touch them.'
'Really? And when did you last bear a child?'
The challenge was unexpected; Miphon was not used to having his authority questioned by work-faded peasant women.
'I've researched these things,' he said, carefully.
'Yes. You've read about them in your dusty books. And I've felt the flesh kick in my belly. There's a difference. I've lost children before -1 won't risk this one.'
Miphon was amazed at her vehemence.
'My mother taught me of the power that plants draw from the earth,' said Mystrel. 'She taught me sleeping and dreams, the end of pain and the death of fever. She taught.me how to tell when a woman is with child ~ and to be very, very careful.'
'If you're so wise.' said Miphon, 'Why did you lose your other children?'
'Winter was the wolf that took them,' said Mystrel. 'Each time, the snow - we were starving!'
Miphon was shocked by her bitterness. Suddenly he had a vision of what had happened. Pale flesh on dark earth. Flesh formed perfectly, but never breathing. Last words for the dead. A burial. A small mound of earth. Silence under forest boughs. A woman on her knees in the thick wet rot of fallen leaves: weeping. Now he knew her loss. And was ashamed at how he had accused her, purely for the sake of rhetorical victory. Now what was he to do?
'Here,' said Miphon. placing his charm round her neck.
If he hadn't been arrogant enough to try to force her to accept the benefits of his medicine, he would have thought of that simple solution immediately. He had always prided himself on the fact that he was humble enough to put himself at the service of the common people. Now, he realised that he had never cured himself of the main failing of wizards: to treat knowledge as an instrument of force and an extension of power.
Oh well, he had plenty of time to learn.
After all, he had not yet reached his first century.
He dipped a ladle in his wizard brew, and drank.
* * *
Blackwood and Mystrel retired to their quarters. Soon Blackwood was asleep. For a while, Mystrel sat by the bed, carding wool. The castle was strangely quiet; usually it echoed with boots, doors slamming, distant shouts, half-heard snatches of song, and, sometimes, hammering from the makeshift forge where Lorford's blacksmith had set up shop to work on weapons and armour.
Suddenly, a horn sounded, brash and brazen. A half-remembered phrase stirred in Mystrel's memory: 'the horn of the victor which echoes the sun.' Yes. She knew the horn was a signal for butchery. The men of the castle were going to slaughter their enemies on the battlements.
The fodden woke from sleep at Mystrel's feet. As it was not human, it could not be affected by the mad-jewels.
'Shlunt?' slurred the fodden.
'No hunt,' said Mystrel. 'Just men, at their games as usual.'
'Oh,' said the fodden, still half-asleep, and sank back into its dreams.
It was still suffering from injuries received when some of Comedo's men had used it for a game of kick the cat. Mystrel was tending it because that was her nature: to care for weak, broken things that could not help themselves.
Blackwood turned in his sleep. Muttered something.
'Peace,' said Mystrel.
And let her hand trail over his cheek, lightly, lightly. Then she bent over him, smiled, and sealed his sleep with a kiss. Both times that Hearst had first opened the box holding the two mad-jewels, she had, to her horror, seen his dead body before her. Knowing what his death would mean to her, she treasured his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As the siege dragged on, many of the enemy dispersed. Alish estimated that a thousand of the Collosnon soldiers had died after attacking Castle Vaunting, that a thousand more had marched off elsewhere, and that perhaps three thousand remained.
When the flames of the castle's moat finally died down, allowing the drawbridge to be lowered, the mad-jewels would be used again, and Comedo's soldiers would march out to slaughter the three thousand.
Comedo, it was rumoured, was still eating in luxury. The rest of the castle was rationed, but Phyphor favoured them by releasing urns of siege dust from the tower of Arl, so nobody actually went hungry. Plenty of rain fell, replenishing dungeon cisterns which took the drainage from the vast expanse of the central courtyard, so there was no chance that they would die of thirst.
Miphon, turning his attention to public health, arranged for the water to be filtered and boiled before it was drunk. He brewed up a vermifuge, and dosed everyone in the castle, with the exception of a few pregnant women. He laid out a special poisoned rat bait, with spectacular results. He persuaded Prince Comedo to get rid of most of his corp
se collection, and to have the few remaining items embalmed.
The castle's dogs and cats were slaughtered for food. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Miphon got rid of the castle's fleas by having every mat and rug burnt, and by having the stone floors swept regularly. His programme for eradicating lice was not so successful, as—
(a) few people were willing to shave their heads and 141
boil their clothes and bedding; and
(b) a substantial number of people believed that lack of lice meant that one was so sick that death was just round the corner.
He did much minor surgery. He also had a fair bit of major surgery to do, particularly amputating gangrenous limbs; as only half of his seriously ill patients died, his prestige rose enormously. Gangrene - a consequence of the enemy's failure to sterilise their weapons before using them on human flesh - was usually inevitably fatal, with most attempts at a cure by amputation simply leading to fresh infection.
Wary of the possible personal consequences of his local fame, Miphon diligently practiced the disciplines of humility. He discussed childbirth and healing with Mystrel, who proved exceptionally knowledgeable: despite his experience, Miphon found there was still much he had to learn.
