by Hugh Cook
His shout echoed through the hall, startling some of the nodding guards.
'The song,' said Comedo impatiently.
'The song, yes,' said Hearst. 'I learnt it in Estar, so I will sing it in Estral - and let none say the Rovac are
slow to learn. It is the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood.'
Prince Comedo clapped like a child: and indeed it was in childhood that Saba Yavendar's song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood had become his favourite.
'On Rovac we prefer to sing with a foot on a corpse still cooling,' boasted Hearst. He looked Phyphor full in the face, then Garash, then Miphon. 'Is there any here who dares challenge Rovac?'
'None,' said Alish, as nobody else cared to open their mouths with Hearst in a mood like this. So Hearst hammered his fist on the table, once twice thrice, and began the song, which was in the Alacamp manner, half-chanted, half-sung:
By moon we come riding like tide on the flood, The stars for our guide and a prince of the Blood To lead us and speed us while night slips away To give us the blood-sky, the promise of day.
Valarkin knew that once these fighting men got their enthusiasm worked up, they could go on chanting and singing all night, for there was no shortage of battle songs and war epics.
- But it is all absurd, their mindless bull-roaring stupidity. Sweat curses sinew, bone butchers brawn, chopping away till a single hero stands gloating over pools of blood and piles of lopped-off testicles. What's the sense of it? They think they're powerful, but they're not: they're just mindless meat that labours with a sword instead of a spade. Power lies with those who command, not those who spend their lives strengthening their sword-arms.
Valarkin scarcely listened while Hearst went on and on, giving them the pedigree of the prince the song dealt with, the names of the most notable warriors who rode to the battle, and the reasons for the fight: a drunken
argument, a broken vow, an insult, a theft, a rape and a kidnapping.
Ride with the whip,
With the spur let us ride,
With the horn to the lip
As steel draws pride.
And the scream! And the Scream!
It is one throat and all:
Blood trims the sword as the dawn trims the sky:
Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along:
It is ours! It is ours!
Raise the Banner, the Song!
And hail him, hail now, prince of the blood, Our leader, our hero, our child of the sun, Prince of Dominion, his glory begun.
The horn of the victor echoes the sun,
Victory gained, his Triumph begun.
Rides he with sunlight and rides he with flame,
For his is the kingdom, the power it is his,
Handmaidens his to give and bestow,
Gold is his bounty -
Hearst broke off in mid-song. He could not go on, not with Alish watching him like that. Hearst swayed, unsteady on his feet. He picked up a goblet of wine, paused, swayed again. Then drained it and flung it away. It rattled over the stones of the floor and came to rest. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, then all his control over his grief broke, and the words blurted out:
'Alish, Alish, what went wrong? Once we were friends!'
* * *
It was long after midnight. All those at the High Table who were still conscious were drunk, even the wizards, but they seemed determined to continue until they dropped. The kitchen servants had drunk themselves legless, so it had fallen to Gorn and Valarkin to prepare further refreshments for the High Table.
Gorn had found a clutch of eggs laid in clay compartments by a wasp; breaking away the mud, he extracted half-paralysed spiders and spread them on a slice of bread and butter. They lay fat, black, helpless; motionless but for an occasional stirring in one or two limbs.
Lemmy Blawert lay with his head on the kitchen table, snoring loudly. His rat, dead drunk, lay in his lap. Valarkin had already explored the secrets of Lemmy Blawert's robes, discovering the sources of the magician's magic: a pack of cards made up of nothing but fools.
Valarkin poured drinks, and to each he added a touch of cauchaumaur. The dose was light, and should prove just enough to tip drunken men into a long, deep sleep.
"What are you doing over there?" said Gorn.
'Just putting something in the drinks,' said Valarkin.
'What is it?'
'Nutmeg.'
'Don't put any in mine,' said Gorn. 'I don't like it.' 'As you wish,' said Valarkin.
He had already dosed Gorn's drink. He was not afraid that Gorn would remember anything, thinking him rather half-witted: in truth, Gorn was just a bit slow, and, at the moment, rather drunk.
'Ready?' said Gorn.
'Ready,' said Valarkin.
They carried trays out to the High Table. By now all the guards had left the hall. Morgan Hearst, the man Valarkin feared and hated most of all. was asleep with his head on the table. They set refreshments down in front of the revellers, who began to eat and drink.
Prince Comedo was the last person at the table to see what was on his bread and butter: he did not notice until he had eaten half of it. His face lost colour. He staggered to a corner and disgorged everything in his stomach in a roar of vomit. The laughter from those at the table went on as if it would continue forever.
'A toast." said the wizard Garash. steadying himself against his mirth. 'A toast to the vigorous appetites of those of the Favoured Blood.'
'I'll drink to that,' said Jeferies, tears of laughter in his eyes.
Everyone drank to it, except Prince Comedo. He turned the ring on his finger that would take him back to the silence and safety of the green bottle, but nothing happened: the bottle was too far away for the ring to work. He stalked off to find Blackwood and the green bottle: he could not bear to stay and face the laughter. Gorn picked up Comedo's goblet as if he would drain it.
'You've got an appetite like a pig,' said Valarkin.
'Me?' said Gorn, pausing.
'Yes, you,' said Valarkin.
It was dangerous to say it, but Valarkin thought a second goblet of poisoned wine might well kill Gorn -and he wanted no dead bodies to proclaim that people had been poisoned. He just wanted everyone to go to sleep.
Gorn set the goblet down with great care. He rose from the table as if to teach Valarkin a thing or two. But found he did not feel well. He sat down again, blinking.
T don't feel well,' he said.
As Valarkin had predicted, shortly the small dose of poison put all into a deep sleep. He smiled at their comatose bodies. So much for all those proud men who flaunted their egos as if they were lords of time and space: they were fools, and he had gained the upper hand effortlessly.
Valarkin crept to Phyphor's side and slipped his hand under the wizard's cloak. He withdrew the lead
box which bore the null sign of the dead zero on its lid. The box was heavy in his hands. 'You!'
Valarkin wheeled. Hearst was staring at him with bloodshot eyes.
'You! A drink! A drink for a fighting man!'
'My lord,' said Valarkin, putting down the lead box and hastening to obey. He gave Hearst the goblet which had been intended for Prince Comedo.
'My name is Hearst and Hast is called my sword,' said Hearst, his drunken tongue half-crippling the Estral he was speaking. 'My name is Hearst and Avor sire was mine, and yes my sword is Hast, and there was a dragon, a dragon once, and I held the breach at Enelorf.'
He drained the last of the wine. Then swayed, slipped sideways and collapsed bonelessly on the floor.
Valarkin recovered the heavy lead box again. The hellmouthjaws leered at him. Hearst had seen him with the box! What now? Kill him? Every moment spent standing there was dangerous: someone might come into the hall and discover him. First things first: dispose of the mad-jewel.
If Valarkin could have snaffled all the red charms worn by the wizards and the fighting men, the castle would have been
his to control. He could have set himself up as a prince, a monarch, a warlord. But try as he might, Valarkin had not been able to think of any safe way to secure all the red charms: sooner or later he must run up against a man who was still fighting fit. He was not prepared to run such risks. What he was doing was dangerous enough.
Outside, he scuttled through the shadows under the cold starlight. The Golem's Eye, burning sullen red, reminded him of Hearst's bloodshot eyes; he shivered.
He came to the castle well, which plunged down into darkness. Opening the lead box, he took out the mad-jewel. Then dropped it into the well. Nobody would
ever find it there. Morning would find Prince Jeferies and all his retainers witless, helpless, their castle uninhabitable until the mad-jewel exhausted its strength.
The expedition, deprived of the magic by which it had planned to overcome Heenmor, would have no choice but to turn back. They would return to Castle Vaunting, where Valarkin would live comfortably as Prince Comedo's ring-bearer. There would be no more of this hideous life of mud, leeches, hills, swamps, constipation, diarrhoea, danger, fatigue and merciless laughter.
Valarkin threw the empty box into the well and crept back to the Great Hall. Now he would swallow a pinch of cauchaumaur, and sleep away the night with the others. But what about Hearst? Hearst had seen him with the box that held the mad-jewel! True, thanks to the cauchaumaur, he would wake from poisoned sleep with his memories blurred, confused and entangled with nightmares. But what if he remembered the crucial scene with clarity?
- Kill him!
Yes, that was the only way.
Valarkin, softfoot and trembling, stole through the shadows toward his victim. How to kill him? What weapon to use? In sleep, Hearst twisted; his face contorted; he bared his teeth then hissed:
'The lopsloss! The lopsloss! It's coming!'
Valarkin looked around wildly. But of course there was only the hall: only shadows and sleeping bodies. He knelt beside Hearst.
'Stormguard,' muttered Hearst.
Valarkin's fingers tightened round the hilt of Hast. He began to ease the weapon from its scabbard. Suddenly Hearst sat bolt upright. His eyes, blood-red, intense with fury, glared at Valarkin. He gripped Valarkin by both arms, fingers nailing themselves into the biceps.
'The Stormguard!' shouted Hearst. 'The Stormguard! They've broken! They've broken! They're running!'
Then his grip relaxed and he sank back to the floor, his eyes closing slowly. Valarkin backed away slowly on his knees, trembling, trembling. His biceps still hurt.
'Alish,' said Hearst. Then, louder: 'Alish!'
His shouting would rouse the whole castle. Kill him now? Easy to say, but what if one of Comedo's men, roused by his shouting, burst into the hall while Valarkin was driving a blade home into Hearst's body? Valarkin remembered an old battle-cry out of songs and legends: victory to the brave. From his own thoughts came the dry rejoinder: and life to the cautious.
He crept back to his place at the High Table and downed his pinch of cauchaumaur. The last thing he heard before nightmare claimed him was Hearst's anguished cry:
'Alish! Not now, not now!'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Silently, without a cheer or a shout, without a smile or a laugh, the expedition rode out across the drawbridge of the High Castle. Alish surveyed the wreckage of the Collosnon army: corpses bloated and rotting in the sun. A week had been wasted in the High Castle while he and Hearst interrogated each and every man about the mad-jewel: discovering nothing.
As the expedition went past, flies rose from dead soldiers. Doubtless the dead had thought they had an easy duty: to starve out the High Castle by siege while the invasion swept west into Estar and then, perhaps, south to Dybra, starting on the road for the rich lands of the Harvest Plains. They had not known they would meet their doom when magic made their strength and courage useless.
Alish remembered the working routines of that methodical butchery. He took no joy in the sight of rotting corpses, or in his memories of slaughter. At least the blood and bones would feed this poor soil, which could always grow enough potatoes to supply the castle with vodka, but never enough to flesh out the thin faces of the common people.
At least the challenge ahead was clean and honourable: to hunt down a wizard of power and evil and kill him. And after that, if Alish could command the death-stone and lead armies south in conquest, any collateral casualties would be pardoned by his purpose: to right the ancient wrong and exterminate all wizards.
Alish saw Prince Comedo riding toward him. They had debated whether to bring Jeferies with them; instead, they had left him to wander witless in his castle
with his followers and retainers. Jeferies would never believe that the mad-jewel was lost somewhere in his castle: he would think it a plot to deprive him of his kingdom. Better that they have a dead ally rather than a live enemy.
'My lord,' said Alish, greeting Prince Comedo. 'Elkor Alish. I have been thinking.' indeed,' said Alish.
'Yes,' said Prince Comedo, i have determined against our continued advance into danger. It's pointless, as we can't defeat Heenmor without the mad-jewel.'
Valarkin had been working on Comedo's fears, and had done his job well.
'What do you advise, my lord?' said Alish.
T do not advise,' said Prince Comedo. 'I command. I require our return to Castle Vaunting.'
'My lord,' said Alish. 'Heenmor has gained a season on us already. We've not time to go back for the other mad-jewel. Besides, going back, we might run into the Collosnon - we might find ourselves heavily outnumbered.'
'This quest has ceased to amuse me,' said Prince Comedo. 'Do you understand?'
'I will discuss it with the wizards,' said Alish.
He knew it heartened the troops to know they were being led by a prince of the Favoured Blood. In time, he might have to cut Comedo's throat, but for now he would stall to get the maximum benefit from Comedo's presence.
T will retire to my palace of convenience,' said the prince, meaning his green bottle. 'You will arrange what is necessary. When I emerge again, I expect to find us closing with Castle Vaunting.'
'Yes, my lord,' said Alish.
Prince Comedo rode away: Alish guessed that they would not see him again for days if not weeks. By then, it would be too late for anything Comedo might do to matter.
The expedition continued east toward the Kikashi Hills, beyond which lay the Fleuve River and the Spine Mountains. Reaching the hill country, they came upon the ramshackle camp of a family of charcoal burners. Questioned, these people said yes, Heenmor had passed this way. A number of people lived in the hills - deer hunters, truffle hunters, a few lepers, and, more recently, a few Collosnon deserters - and news travelled. Rumour claimed that some Melski had helped Heenmor. 'the blue and ginger giant', to travel down the Fleuve River.
The expedition was on the right trail.
The hills - 'Mountains if they're molehills,' muttered Garash darkly - were rugged and densely wooded. Finding sheer cliffs ahead, and the few hill trails impassable by horse, Alish organised a horse slaughter. Easy come, easy go. They chopped up their mounts, crammed the horse-stomachs with bits of meat and plenty of water, then boiled up the meat in the stomachs and gorged themselves.
Then went on.
The soil was light and sandy, and the pine tree had dominance. Blackwood did not like this unfamiliar kind of forest, but the others were happy enough. They slept each night with the wind lulling through the branches of the pines; they made big fires out of resinous pine cones, throwing on handfuls of pine needles which would flare up like a sudden blaze of wizard magic. In the steep-climbing hills, the land was clean, with far fewer biting insects than the lowlands they had already travelled through.
Durnwold took every opportunity to train with his brother Valarkin. On long summer evenings they sparred together, bearing shields, wielding heavy sticks rather than swords. They used sticks for safety, to prevent damage to their weapons, and so no clash o
f metal would ring out through the evening to alert any unpredictable strangers living within earshot.
Each evening, as Valarkin picked up his stick and put his arm through the leather thong inside the shield's curve, then grasped the iron bar bridging the space made by the shield boss, he felt more confident. His attempt to steal the green bottle and escape with Blackwood had failed, as had his effort to make the expedition turn back by throwing away the mad-jewel. Since he could not escape this quest, he would do his best to cope with its rigours. But that was not to say he liked it.
Often Valarkin thought of the man his brother Durnwold admired so much - the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst - and wondered if he would get a chance for revenge.
Since Hearst was Durnwold's friend, Valarkin had to keep his bitter knowledge to himself. He was certain that his temple's god had killed the dragon Zenphos. He was a priest, and knew the god's power: the dragon's last flight had been its death throes. A handsome sacrifice had persuaded the god to kill the dragon: he could still remember the screams of the tender boys they had dedicated during seven days of ceremony.
Valarkin knew Hearst must have found the dragon dead in its lair on the mountain of Maf. If Hearst had admitted it, Valarkin could have persuaded Prince Comedo to rebuild the temple. He could not have reconstructed the secrets that had been lost, but .. . everyone would have believed. Attributing fine weather to the goodwill of the god, he would have made the sun in the sky his miracle, proclaiming storm and foul weather to be the god's wrath. One proven miracle - the dragon's death - and they would have believed for a lifetime.
