The Wizards and the Warriors

by Hugh Cook

  In another tower, Garash woke with a little grin on his face. He was looking forward to the fun planned for their departure. And for the chance, if their expedition

  succeeded, to try to grab the death-stone for himself.

  One did not lightly plan to outwit and doublecross a dangerous wizard like Phyphor, but Garash was determined to do it. For power. And for revenge: he still remembered the day of horror after he had been caught by Heenmor's blast-trap, unable to see the light, and thinking himself perhaps blind forever.

  Mystrel woke a little later. She thought she felt something - the child in her belly? It distracted her only momentarily. Blackwood was gone! She opened the door. The corridors were silent, empty. She ran, calling his name.

  Alish, elsewhere, was handing out the small, red charms on golden chains. The men had not expected to see them again so soon: only a chosen few had been told they were leaving one of the mad-jewels to guard Castle Vaunting. Now some guessed: but all of them, even those with their favourite drabs and doxies living in the castle, put on the red charms without question.

  None dared argue with Elkor Alish, the master swordsman, for after the battles against the Collosnon he was no longer known as 'the man who does not shed blood'.

  Blackwood's turn came. Blackwood was last.

  •What's this for?' said Blackwood, holding the little red charm on its golden chain. 'We're not using a mad-jewel today, are we?'

  'Put it on.' said Alish.

  * * *

  It was a quiet room, empty but for a man crippled by Heenmor's magic: the man whose hands were chunks of rock, whose left leg had been turned to rock below the knee, whose face was disfigured with stone. His one good eye watched as Phyphor entered, carrying a lead box which bore the null sign of the dead zero: the sign of the nether magic.

  At that moment, Questor entered the room. He was the nominal captain of all the soldiers, and the prince had designated him to be left in charge of the castle 'as a mark of my special favour.'

  'What are you doing?' said Questor.

  Phyphor made no reply, but took out one of the mad-jewels. Misty yellow light swirled and pulsed within it. Questor tried to draw his sword. He lurched, staggered. His face began to slacken. Before sanity left him completely, he screamed, realising what was happening. Then he laughed, flapped his hands like wings, and went reeling away, colliding first with one wall then the other.

  Phyphor looked at the man who had been partly turned to stone. There was no intelligence now in his eye: no suffering. And soon he would be dead.

  * * *

  Alish shouted orders. Men began to move out, all on horseback but for Blackwood, who had yet to mount. Seeing his wife among the witless victims of the mad-jewels who were now milling aimlessly in the courtyard, Blackwood ran to Comedo to request permission to stay.

  'What?' said Comedo.

  His horse clattered through the long passage between the central courtyard and the drawbridge. Blackwood ran alongside the horse, shouting, darting glances backwards.

  'What?' said Comedo, laughing.

  They came out into the sunlight. Blackwood shouted again. They were on the drawbridge now.

  'What?' said Comedo.

  Blackwood screamed at him.

  Comedo, riding high on his high horse, laughed again. He reached down, snagged the fine chain round Blackwood's neck, and tore it away. He threw it

  sideways. It flashed in the sunlight then fell through dizzy depths into the fire dyke.

  Blackwood swayed. The world floundered. Horses buffeted past. A vulture spread its wings in his throat and screamed. The sun clawed his back. He shouted at it. He stepped to the edge of the drawbridge. One foot stepped to the gulf.

  A hand hooked into his hair and dragged him back. Blackwood twisted his head and saw Mormormorgan gar garn morgarnn, hearse, Hearst, is that your name, Hearst?

  No. It was Alish, who had acted just in time to prevent the destruction of the precious green bottle Blackwood carried.

  One moment of clarity:

  'Mystrel!' screamed Blackwood.

  Then he lost the power of speech.

  The little army paused while the prince's bottle-carrier was tied onto the back of a horse: he would recover himself once they were out of range of the mad-jewel.

  * * *

  Alone in the castle, Murmer, thumb and fist, bent fox-fur creature, stalked, killed:

  - Ha! Have you, have at you, fork-meat. Shlust shroost! Dreams now, milk-warm, dreams. Saaa!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Valarkin woke in the night, and not because of the cold - he was already used to that. He was lying on tough swamp grass, but, after a long day in the saddle, he could have slept on a bed of nails.

  He was awake because something was feeding on him.

  Not lice, gnats, fleas, mosquitoes or leeches, but something bigger. It was hurting him; it almost covered his chest. Reaching out, Valarkin discovered something cold, pale and greasy. He tore it away from his flesh and hurled it into the darkness.

  His body stung where the creature had been feeding. It glimmered in the starlight, sliding back for another try. Valarkin. hissing, pulled out his knife.

  The creature flowed onto his leg. He slashed at it. His knife cut through its thin flesh, slicing into his own leg. The creature shot away with rapid, jerky movements. Valarkin tore a strip from his blanket, bandaged his wound, then sat on his pack, knife in hand, waiting in case the creature came back. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  The night was cloudless; the stars were hard, cold, intolerably distant. The lone star called Golem's Eye glowered with red malevolence. To the east lay the frozen starstorm of the galaxy called Maelstrom. And what awaited them in the east? Unlike some others, Valarkin doubted that Heenmor would be lingering in Trest waiting for his executioners.

  By starlight, nothing betrayed their marshland campsite except a single fire, and a horse which snorted nearby, making Valarkin start - he was a little bit afraid

  of horses. He walked to the fire, treading cautiously lest he trample on some sleeping warrior. Blackwood was tending the fire; nearby, the wizards Phyphor, Garash and Miphon lay asleep.

  As Valarkin settled himself by the fire, Blackwood put on some more wood. For a while they sat silent; the fire whispered and hissed, occasionally settling with a slight crack as charred timbers broke under their own weight. Elkor Alish had arranged for some horses to carry loads of firewood - otherwise they would have been short of fuel at this camp amid the swamps.

  'You're hurt,' said Blackwood at length.

  'There was a white thing - I slashed it.'

  'Oh,' said Blackwood. 'A quiver.'

  'Is that what it's called?'

  'Yes. If you cut yourself again, come to me. I could bandage that better than you have.'

  Valarkin took that in silence.

  Blackwood poked the fire. Though everyone was asleep but for himself and Valarkin, the camp was safe enough; only a one-horse path led to this island of dry ground deep in the swamp, so enemies could scarcely surround them from all sides then attack.

  Sitting there, Valarkin remembered the warmth of his father's hearth. He had never thought he would regret leaving the farm, but he did. He was not made for this life of hot sun, cold nights, mud, insects, rebellious horses and the company of coarse, brutish, dangerous men.

  Caught in the throes of nightmare, the wizard Garash twisted in his sleep then groaned. Fire-stars glowed in the branches of a swamp-tree above him, flickered, then died away. Garash turned, settling deeper into sleep.

  'What can be the matter with him?' said Valarkin. 'Pox doctors have their problems too, mister.' 'What are the wizards really like? You've been with them a lot, haven't you? Especially Miphon. Do they

  talk of ... of power? Do they say where their power comes from?'

  Blackwood remembered Miphon and Mystrel talking together about honey and garlic.

  'If you're so interested, why don't you ask them?"


  Valarkin did not reply, but sat thinking about the green bottle strung on Blackwood's belt. After two days in the field, Prince Comedo had had enough of the fresh air; using one of the two rings that commanded the bottle, he had retreated to the quarters prepared for him inside. Valarkin, who held the second ring, was to fetch the prince from the bottle when they reached the High Castle in Trest.

  'Do you know the countryside well?' asked Valarkin.

  '1 know my way,' said Blackwood.

  'If men were hunting you, could you escape?'

  'Yes, if I ran toward danger as well as away from it. North: they'd never find me there. Not in the mountains of the Penvash Peninsular ... that's fearsome country.'

  'The bottle you hold is very valuable,' said Valarkin. 'I hold the second ring which commands it.' He waited.

  Blackwood poked at the fire again. Coals gleamed dragon-hot. All around were sleeping men whose lives were in his trust. In the green bottle at his belt, Prince Comedo lay sleeping: that was another trust.

  'Mister, my fate takes me east,' said Blackwood.

  That was the peasant in him speaking. His forefathers had bowed to feudal masters for so many generations that rebellion was now unthinkable. Valarkin knew this; he remembered how his own father, who scorned the castle and its people, found in that scorn only pride in his own way of life, where to own two milch cows was the height of ambition.

  However, in the temple, Valarkin had learnt that men can control gods - even though, if the truth be known, the temple's god had only been a creature of the

  third hierarchy, which is to say, a common demon. Since men could control gods, they could certainly master the leaders foisted on them by tradition.

  'There's wealth in the bottle.' said Valarkin. 'Including a whole room full of books. If we could learn to read them, they'd surely teach us magic'

  'Or get us killed,' said Blackwood, dourly.

  'Don't be afraid! Think . . . think of your wife.'

  'There's no way for me to rescue her,' said Blackwood, who had been carried helplessly witless for a whole day till they got out of range of the mad-jewel.

  'Look,' said Valarkin, holding out a thin chain. A charm gleamed on the end of it.

  'Is that yours?'

  'I've got another one. The prince gave me this one for safe keeping. Put it on.'

  Blackwood took the charm, weighed it in his hand, then slowly put it on. Just then, one of the sleepers woke, and made his way to the edge of the swamp; returning to his bed, he disturbed half a dozen others, who cursed him sleepily. Valarkin waited for everyone to settle down before he spoke again:

  'If we start now, we can outpace them to Castle Vaunting, rescue your wife and run for Penvash. They'll never catch us.'

  'And the prince?'

  'Settle his fate as you will. Are you with me?'

  Blackwood hesitated. The common wisdom of Estar taught that each had his weird, and had to endure the doom he was fated to. He knew of only one tale in which a man of peasant stock had tried to take control of his own destiny. That was the tale of Loosehead Robert, who had gathered together a rag-tag army to make war against his prince. After a series of disasters, he had been driven into the hills.

  There, in a cave, while thinking wild thoughts of triumph and revenge, Loosehead Robert had watched a spider build its web. Into the web had flown a fly. And

  how it had struggled! Five times it had almost broken free, but the spider had got it in the end. And Loosehead Robert, looking from the devouring spider to the mouth of the cave, had seen his prince's soldiers standing there, grinning at him. All mothers in Estar told their children the lessons Loosehead Robert learnt, first from the spider and then from his prince's shunting irons.

  - But perhaps the story was not told quite right.

  He had a charm to protect himself against the mad-jewel. And a companion to share his dangers. He would dare it. He would try.

  'I'm with you,' said Blackwood.

  Valarkin wanted to leave then and there, but Blackwood took the time to cut swatches of swamp grass and tie them round the hooves of four horses. With a change of horses and a head start, they should be able to outdistance their pursuers easily. Then he made sure that they packed all their gear and tied the packs to the horses. Only then did he agree to set out.

  Leaving the dryland island on which they had been camping, they found the passage of Prince Comedo's little army had churned the one-horse track through the swamps into a quagmire. Blackwood's expertise with horses did not extend far beyond an intimate personal knowledge of what it means to be saddle-sore, but his common sense told him they would have to lead the animals till the track improved. So they went on foot, Blackwood leading, the horses roped behind them.

  It was slow going, and hideously noisy in the thick mud. After only fifty paces, Valarkin swore softly.

  'What is it?' said Blackwood.

  'These horses. They won't move.'

  Blackwood slurched back through the mud. He was starting to sweat. He had no skill with recalcitrant horses. The first horse whickered at him when he grabbed its bridle. He swore at it, softly, urgently. Then

  listened, trying to hear any noises from the campsite that would suggest anyone had woken.

  What he heard was someone moving.

  But not in the campsite: in the other direction!

  Someone was sneaking along the path toward the camp, guided in by the light of the campfire. And they were close.

  Blackwood sliced through the ropes connecting the horses.

  'Turn them around,' he whispered. 'Back to the camp.' 'But - '

  Blackwood slapped a hand over Valarkin's mouth, and whispered in his ear: 'Someone out there.'

  Valarkin started to turn the horses around. This was very noisy. Almost immediately they were challenged from the night in a foreign language. It was the enemy! Blackwood slapped the nearest horse on the rump and shouted:

  'Rouse! Rouse!'

  Men and horses plunged through the mud toward the campsite, but the enemy gained on them. Twenty paces from the dryland island, one of Valarkin's horses lost its footing and went down on its knees in the mud, blocking the path. By then, the enemy were almost upon them. Blackwood grabbed Valarkin and dragged him into the swamps. They crashed into the water, and the enemy -

  Hesitated, moaned, screamed, thrashed around in the dark, sang or babbled with laughter. Blackwood realised what had happened. Someone had brought the mad-jewel out of its lead box.

  'Let's go,' said Blackwood.

  But at that moment Alish's voice rang out:

  'Close the box!'

  And suddenly the noise of madness ceased abruptly, and, after a brief pause, was replaced by sharp, angry

  enemy voices. At the campsite - so near, and yet so very far away - there was a lot of uninhibited swearing as various individuals crawled out of the swamp. Half of them had gone to sleep with their protective charms tucked away in their boots or their packs, so the use of the mad-jewel had been almost as disastrous for the defenders as for the enemy.

  'I'm cold,' said Valarkin.

  'Shut up!' hissed Blackwood.

  But it was too late. One of the enemy gave an urgent command, and attackers waded into the swamp. Blackwood eased back, deeper and deeper into the cold, dark water. Valarkin started to move in the opposite direction. Toward the enemy. He had to be mad. Blackwood concentrated on moving quietly. Something underwater slithered against his legs: an eel.

  An enemy soldier cried out in triumph, seeing Valarkin by starlight. Blackwood shrank back behind a clump of rushes. The next moment, he heard a slap as if someone had clapped their hands, a splash of water, then a cry of astonishment from the enemy. Blackwood realised what had happened. Valarkin had used the ring he wore to vanish himself into the green bottle at Blackwood's waist.

  Now the enemy were not really sure if anyone was out there. Abandoning the chase, they started to push toward the campsite. They must have known they were grossly outnum
bered, but they advanced regardless. To try what?

  Blackwood heard Elkor Alish arguing with the wizards, ordering them to use fire against the enemy, and receiving an unqualified refusal. Suddenly there was a shout as the first of the Collosnon gained the dryland island. And the fight was on.

  Men hacked each other in the darkness.

  With his noisy progress masked by the uproar of a confused and savage battle, Blackwood forced his way

  through the swamp, gaining the dryland island before the fighting ended.

  At dawn, Elkor Alish counted casualties. The enemy had lost fifteen men. Five of his own were dead; two others, who would have to be carried to the High Castle, could be expected to die from their wounds. One was missing, but his protective red charm was found in the top of his pack: if the Collosnon had managed to kidnap him for interrogation, it was unfortunate but not disastrous, as without a protective charm the enemy could not steal the mad-jewel which had been left behind in Castle Vaunting.