The Wizards and the Warriors

by Hugh Cook

  There was no chance of that now: but there might still be a chance for revenge.

  Climbing the unfamiliar, ever-rising cliffs and hills, their pace slowed. They moved cautiously along the pine forest trails, with scouts out ahead and a rear

  guard behind. At dusk, Elkor Alish sent out clearing patrols to circle their camp site and ensure no enemy was creeping up on them in the twilight; he always chose to camp on high ground, with good defensive prospects, and posted sentries to watch out the night.

  He was acutely aware that, while they might be questing for Heenmor's head, a Collosnon revenge force might be questing for them.

  After days of hill climbing, they reached the high, isolated uplands of the Rausch Valley. No humans lived here, for the sandy soil would support no crops, and was worthless for grazing. Isolated from the moderating influence of the sea, the valley was blanketed by snow all through the winter: when the spring melts came, the entire valley flooded as snow melted on the mountains of the Coastal Massif.

  They marched to the Fleuve River which drained the valley, and followed it downstream, in a southerly direction, to a point where the valley narrowed as the hills closed in. From here, the prospect to the east showed them high mountains, some still tipped with snow. From a Melski encampment, they learnt that the Melski had indeed taken Heenmor downriver to Ep Pass, where there was a pass across the Spine Mountains.

  It now seemed certain that Heenmor was making for Stronghold Handfast. And. of course, the expedition must follow - but there was a problem.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  On the raft belonging to the Melski headman, Blackwood turned to Hearst:

  'It's no use. He refuses.'

  'Try again,' said Hearst.

  'Mister, they'll talk us out till the river runs dry, but they'll never changesay.'

  Tell them,' said Hearst, 'they can't hope to stop us travelling downriver, no matter what they've promised to Heenmor. Tell them it might come to bloodshed if they try to stop us.'

  Blackwood addressed the Melski headman, whose language came easily to his lips. In his exile years in Looming Forest, the Melski had been his friends and companions. Looming Forest: Estar: Mystrel. Was Mystrel still alive?

  'Old father,' said Blackwood. 'You of the current-cunning, of the long-song memories, know that not everyone honours the virtue of their spawning.'

  'Lor-galor,' grunted the Melski headman in assent.

  'Now these of the dryhard standing by your home-banks take no part of the Cycle; on them lies no restraint against murder. They can be like stormwater, destroying with as little reason. I offer no threat, but the others lack the honour of peacemakers.'

  'You do well to warn us,' said the Melski headman. 'You are one who has honour. May your days lie downstream.'

  Then the headman sat back.

  'Honoured father -' began Blackwood.

  it is no use,' said the Melski headman. 'You have the courtesy of our tongue upon your lips, but we cannot

  unspeak our speaking. The river cannot flow back to the hills, or words unsay themselves. We cannot offer you way by right down the river. If necessary, we will break the Cycle to preserve our truth.'

  'What does he say?' asked Hearst.

  'He says no,' said Blackwood. 'They won't let us follow Heenmor, even if it means a fight.'

  'What's Heenmor paid them?'

  'He paid them with their lives, mister. I'm sure you've made that kind of bargain now and then yourself.'

  'Try again,' said Hearst, hurt by Blackwood's bitter tone.

  'Old father,' said Blackwood. 'He wishes that I fish again.'

  'We have given our answer,' said the Melski headman. 'Our word binds us. Is that entirely beyond their understanding?'

  'They are not entirely without reason,' said Blackwood, 'but they are fated on this journey, for they also have spoken words of binding.'

  'To whom have they spoken these words?'

  'To each other.'

  'Then they can unspeak their words between themselves. We cannot, for our pact is with our blood and the blood of another. We sought only to save our lives -that charred pine on the further shore is the mark of the power he showed us. In this time of danger, you could choose the way of example.'

  'I have tried that way. It almost cost me my life.'

  'And now the one who sits beside you forces you to talk. Well then, let us talk. Tell me how the families fare in the flow of the Hollern River, for there are years and leagues between us.'

  i will speak first of Hor-hor-hurulg-murg,' said Blackwood, 'for he was closest always; he bears himself with honour.'

  Alish watched Hearst and Blackwood leave the headman's raft and walk back along the jetty to the riverside.

  'Well,' said Alish when the two drew near. 'How did it go?' 'No joy,' said Hearst.

  'They'll try to stop us,' said Blackwood. 'Even if it means fighting us.'

  'Then let's get it over with,' said Alish. 'We'll go through them like a knife through butter. Weil clean them out, take their rafts and be off downstream by sunset.'

  'No!' said Blackwood, it would be murder!'

  'They're only gooks,' said Alish.

  'Mister, I value them as my own.'

  'That's nothing to me,' said Alish. 'Come on, Morgan, let's get everyone into position. I want to start -'

  'Hold a moment,' said Hearst.

  'What's this hold a moment?' said Alish. 'We're sworn to this quest. We have to go downriver. If we have to kill to cut the way clear, we do. The mountains to east are impassable unless we travel by way of Ep Pass - and that lies downstream.'

  'There's more than one way to scalp a scat,' said Hearst. 'We can backtrack a little, slip through the forest and join the river further downstream.'

  'Blackwood?' said Alish. Then, as Blackwood hesitated: 'He knows the answer to that. His love-hearted Melski will follow us if we leave to make sure we head back home.'

  'Perhaps,' said Blackwood, 'but they might miss a small group that slipped away while the rest of us stayed here.'

  'No!' said Alish. i'm not travelling with a fist of five when I can travel with an army. We might meet more Melski downstream, so we need our numbers.'

  'Alish,' said Hearst. 'Let me go and scout out the land with Blackwood and one or two others. Then we can talk possibilities.'

  'As you wish,' said Alish. 'Who will you take?'

  'Blackwood, Durnwold, Miphon. Weil be back by dayfail.'

  'Good speed,' said Alish.

  * * *

  Watching Hearst's scouting party slip away into the forest, Alish thought Hearst's life-debt to Blackwood was clouding his judgment. And Alish was disturbed that Hearst had taken Miphon to help him. Miphon, sensing things unseen by ordinary men, might well be useful in the forest - but a Rovac warrior should never become dependent on a wizard.

  Alish had already made his decision. He had to do his duty, no matter how painful. His duty was to the Code of Night and the destiny of Rovac; his duty was to secure the death-stone for the highest purpose, to avenge the ancient wrongs and set history to rights -and no gabble of waterway gooks could be allowed to stand in the way.

  Quietly, moving from man to man to advise each individually, Alish began to give his orders.

  * * *

  Elkor Alish, son of Teramont the Defender, warrior of Rovac, blood of the clan of the eagle, a man born into a free people and sworn to the cause of the Code of Night, stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword Ethlite, looking at the river, the rafts, and the eastern mountains tipped with snow that shone white-bright as the sun, great world-candle, lit and warmed the entire continent of Argan.

  So it was killing time again. Voice would be raised

  against voice and blade against blade, making more corpses to rot down to maggot-filth. Well, there was no helping it. They were faced by the bare necessity. Delay would give Heenmor a better chance to escape or perfect defences against the pursuit he evidently expected.

  - Mine is
the highest duty, the cause which forbids doubt. Mine is the cause which overrides even an oath sworn by steel and blood. I am of the Code of Night.

  Alish looked round. Were the wizards ready? Phyphor gave him a nod: Phyphor and Garash were ready to help out if they must, though they would prefer to conserve their strength to fight Heenmor. Since the loss of the mad-jewel, the wizards had spent as much time as possible deep in the Meditations, building up their powers.

  Outwardly, everything seemed normal. Some men were making a pretence of cooking; others sat on the river bank watching the rafts. Alish began to walk down to the jetty. Four warriors joined him: he hoped this fist of five could reach the headman's raft without alarming the Melski. The men talked softly and joked together, but Alish walked in silence, and the wind walked with him.

  A few Melski children were playing about the camp making happy whistling and grunting noises. They would die. So? They were not human. They were only gooks. The children chased each other, and the wind snatched at their cries and flung them away.

  , Alish walked on, and he remembered walking to other battles, ah, so many battles, and once he had sworn it would never happen again. Yes, when he had seen Hearst holding her head he had sworn that enough was enough: he had seen too much killing. But then there had been war at Castle Vaunting, fighting in the swamps, butchery at the High Castle: and now it would happen again. And who could deny that his hands remembered the skill of slaughter?

  A few men gave Alish sly glances as he and his shadows walked down to the jetty. Every man had

  weapons within grasp or snatch. They were greedy, excited, over-eager. If all went well, the Melski headman would be first to die. They would charge the rafts before the Melski - now leaderless - had time to arm and organise. If all went well, the surviving Melski would stand and fight: they were noted for stubborn courage in battle.

  But what if cowardice or good tactical sense took the Melski into the water? That was their element, where they could breathe through their gills and their green skins, and swim with their webbed hands and feet far better than any human. Things might get difficult, especially when night came and the rafts floated down the dark river with the enemy grouping silently in the water...

  A couple of men were cleaning their helmets, needing to keep their hands busy while they waited. Those were the nervous ones. There were always nervous ones. What if the charge faltered or failed? What if the men turned and ran in panic? Could that happen? With this rabble, of course it could happen.

  There was someone coming up behind. Alish stopped and turned. It was Gorn.

  'What are you doing here?' said Alish, startled. 'You're supposed to be in charge of our rear party.'

  'You don't need me there,' said Gorn.

  It was true. Truth was, Alish did not want to see Gorn in action again: Gorn at war, battle axe amok, eyes manic, lips parted as if in the pleasure of lust. If there was a pause, a lull in the battle, Gorn would wipe his hands over his head, leaving blood in his hair. Worst of all, after the fighting, Gorn would go round finishing off the wounded. He never made a clean kill: he always used five strokes of the axe for the ending. Left foot, right foot, left hand, right hand - then the throat. And all this time he would sing a wordless moaning dirge, eyes by this time blank slaughter.

  T sent you where I wanted you,' said Alish. 'Go!'

  i want to be in at the kill,' said Gorn.

  It was no time for argument. Everyone was waiting for them, and Gorn could be stubborn when he chose.

  'Come on then,' said Alish, 'but do nothing until I strike the first blow.'

  The first raft rocked beneath their feet. Three rafts away sat the Melski headman and the rest of the Melski elders.

  Alish was tempted to look back; he was afraid the men on the shore might betray the plan by grouping for the charge. The Melski were not experienced warriors, but their natural suspicion of strangers would make them wary.

  But it was too late to look back now.

  The wind sang in his ears. The trees across the river spired up into the wind. Green, dark green, rising to blustery blue. There will be screams on the wind and blood in the screams. Soon. It is happening. It cannot be stopped.

  A few Melski were swimming, turning lazy circles in the water. Others were dozing on the rafts in the sun; some were inside the cabins. Alish could hear Gorn panting. The sound repulsed him.

  The sun: too hot. Wind brisked about him. Glare from the water. He narrowed his eyes. He could smell Gorn. Sweating. Alish blinked. He was breathing too quickly. He tried to control his breathing.

  What was wrong? It was hardly his first battle. He was Elkor Alish, warrior of Rovac, veteran of the Cold West. Now he was starting to sound like Hearst when the drink was doing his talking. But it was true. He was a professional, a veteran of countless battles of blood and slaughter.

  Was it going into combat without helmet and shield that made him so uneasy? To avoid arousing the suspicions of the Melski, they wore no armour but a little chain mail. Without armour, was a man more vulnerable to his memories?

  They were almost there.

  They stepped onto the headman's raft. The headman, a big muscular Melski, stared at them intently. There was a pause. Alish felt his heart pounding. His mouth, dry, tasted of metal.

  The Melski headman slowly stood up, the better to protest at the intrustion of so many strangers onto his raft. His chest inflated, then sank as he delivered a belch of discontent. He was preparing himself for oratory. There was plenty of time to observe his heavy muscles, his sunken eyes, his prodigious neck.

  'You've upset him,' said Gorn, grinning. 'Come on, you'd better say something. Let your sword do the speaking.'

  Alish said nothing. He knew they were all waiting for him.

  'Hor-hurop!' said the Melski headman. Gorn looked at Alish.

  'Hor-drup! Muur-muur. Muur hulp! Mulsk!' Alish stood there, trembling. And Gorn attacked.

  'Yar!' screamed Gorn, hacking his axe to the headman's chest.

  The headman staggered, belched blood. Gorn hacked for the neck. Alish lugged out his sword Ethlite. Around him, blades were lunging and slicing. And suddenly it was all over: they stood panting on the raft with corpses at their feet.

  'Alish,' said Gorn. 'You were too slow to eat with us.'

  And he laughed, and wiped his hands through his hair. With whoops and yells, the men on the shore were charging onto the carpet of rafts. There was a clamour of pain, of Melski bellows, clashing metal, whirring arrows. Shield and sword, the charge swept forward. Sleepers and sunbathers were cut down. Bewildered Melski stumbling from their cabins were killed in the doorways. A few dived for the water, but most stood their ground and fought.

  Some charged Alish and his fist of warriors, isolated on the headman's raft.

  'Alish!' shouted Gorn. 'Back to back!'

  They stood back to back and braced themselves. The Melski came in a rush, green muscles swinging clubs, swinging sunglitter swords. They shouted as they came:

  'Huur!'

  'Gaar!'

  'Horg-hulg!'

  Alish took out the boldest: stabbed for the gut, drew free, then swung for the neck, shouting as he swung. The wind whipped away his shout. The boldest went down, then the onslaught was upon them.

  Alish struck at a face. It slipped away. Ethlite swung free, slewed to slice at a leg. A falling Melski crashed against his hip. Alish went down on one knee. A Melski loomed over him. A club swept down.

  Alish parried, rose to his feet. Again the club swung. His sword sliced air to meet it. His blade slid along the wood and carried away the hands that held it. Alish stepped back for room to move, then hacked at the head. He spun, and his sword met flesh. A spurt of blood. He turned again, meeting a face with the edge of his blade.

  Again he wheeled, to find a Melski driving at him with a sword. Alish parried. Their blades locked hilt to hilt. Face to face they struggled, close enough to kiss. Alish slammed his forehead into his enemy's face. The Mels
ki reeled backwards. Alish chopped sword to ribs. Again. Again. Hack through, hack through.

  His blade pulled free from the bloody shatter of ribs and arced up for the throat. Something struck him on the back of the head. He fell.

  Alish saw water snatch his sword. Then he embraced the cold shock of water. Chain mail jerked him down. Briefly, he glimpsed his blade, a thin thread of blood wisping away as it twirled down into the depths.

  In slow motion, he struggled with the chain mail, as

  one may struggle with a monster in dreams. Pressure hurt his ears. His struggles snapped the thin gold round his neck, which fell away, bearing the red charm down into the depths. Then the jerkin came free. Alish rose, feet kicking slow and clumsy in his waterlogged boots.

  Looking up, he saw a raft just above him. Contact! Volumes of green slime broke free and filtered away as he clawed along the underside of the raft. He surfaced, gasped air. A Melski glanced down in surprise, then stamped on his face.