by Hugh Cook
He was panting.
There was a rumbling roar from a throat that sounded big as the mouth of a small river. Blackwood lay on the raft, waiting to hear that roar closing with him. But he heard nothing more, nothing but the ripple of water and the small talk of rafts and loose logs discussing their chance encounters in the river flow.
Much later, when Blackwood asked what they had been attacked by, Garash would not say. Miphon said only: 'If there had not been enough of us to more than satisfy its gluttony, we would never have got past it.'
* * *
More men died.
Their bodies, weighted with armour to sink them, were thrown overboard. One body woke as it was being searched for valuables; Alish realised that some of his men were now so far gone it might be hard to tell the living from the dead. He checked every corpse himself after that. The last check he did was to bare the chest, make a slit with his knife, then put a finger on the heart to see if there was any movement. He never found any, but at least that way he was sure they were not throwing living men overboard.
A simple burial: a splash, and that was it. No chants, no rites, no songs of remembrance. They could not even see the faces of those who sank away into the darkness.
Finally Alish could no longer bring himself to make the rounds of the remaining rafts. He knew why they were here. They were here because, face to face with Heenmor, Alish had failed to close with the wizard and kill him. Of course, as soon as Alish had stepped forward for the kill, the copper-strike snake would have bitten him - but Heenmor would have died.
Now he was going to die anyway, and, because his courage had faltered at the critical moment, ail the men in his command were going to die as well. Uselessly.
For no purpose. And Heenmor, given time to experiment with the death-stone, would doubtless one day obtain sufficient control of it to destroy the world - and of course Rovac was part of the world the wizard would destroy.
Accepting his death, accepting his failure, Alish sat silently, his mind empty, or slept, dreaming of shadows and glottal rock-swallowing boglands. Hearst talked to him, shook him, abused him, pleaded with him, threatened him, hit him, sang to him, threw water in his face: all to no avail. Alish had given up. He was certain to die before very many more days had passed.
It was about this time that Blackwood started coughing. The rafts drifted on, occasionally bumping and grating against loose logs from those rafts which had been smashed to pieces. Blackwood coughed . . . and coughed . . . and slept .. . and woke coughing. There was phlegm in his throat. When he coughed with his hand to his mouth, his hand came away greasy. He did not know what was wrong with him, but he felt sick.
Now that Alish would no longer make his rounds, Blackwood and Gorn helped Hearst. Blackwood went from raft to raft, coughing. At least he could give men something to swear at. More men died, and the bodies were rolled overboard. Each time Blackwood pushed a body into the water, he remembered the words of Saba Yavendar:
The will may require, but the night has the flesh: To darkness, to darkness.
Darkness, yes, darkness, and the darkness went on for so long that in the end Blackwood began to dream he had been born in it. He thought it would go on forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It was Blackwood who saw the light first, but he took the distant glimmer for no more than another of the hallucinations that had begun to make his waking moments nightmarish. Then Hearst, who still trusted himself to tell reality when he saw it, named that far-off rumour of day.
'Light,' was all he said.
Light.
Soon they could all see it. It was faint: pallid as the belly of a dead fish. But it was daylight.
As they drew closer, things began to take on shape, then colour. Looking around, they found it hard to recognise their comrades because of their ragged beards and prison pallor.
Then the river shot the rafts down a foaming white-water chute, swept them out into the sun, and left them drifting on the surface of a huge lake hemmed in by high cliffs. The water shimmered with heat-haze. Some cried out in pain, for the sun hurt like the blinding light after the darkness of the womb.
'There's a bird scratching my eyes,' wailed one man, waking from nightmare to nightmare.
Gorn cursed him, and he was silent.
The rafts drifted, idle, silent. The survivors lay face down under the hammer of the sun, sheltering their faces from the blinding light. Then Hearst rolled over; but he kept his hands over his eyes. Red bloodlight filtered through his fingers. Light. . .
- So we have come through. Yes. And some have said that Morgan Hearst would never lie down till death laid him out, but I'm happy enough to lie here now. Now,
yes, and forever if I could . . .
The sun beat down on his corpse-flesh.
After a while, he opened a narrow slit between his fingers. Slowly he scanned the drifting rafts. He was amazed at the height of the heavens, at the intense blue of the sky, at the ferocity of the sun. His lips cracked apart in a smile.
- Yes, we have come through. And then:
- But look at us! A meal for vultures. Or, at best, a band of half-dead runaway slaves.
Fungus sprouted from the logs in mounds and lugs, white, orange and purple. It sprawled across leather in threads of white or bile-green splashes. Hearst counted the rafts: only eight left. On one was nothing but a corpse; on others sat men in various stages of collapse. The survivors were as pale as the inner bark of trees, the white flesh of grubs, the kernels of almonds. Some had inflamed scarlet rashes, boils, and stinking ulcers.
Blackwood had cold, grey, slimy smoke drifting in coils about him. He coughed, and more smoke vomited out of his mouth. Hearst went to help him. Blackwood waved smoke away from his face.
'I wouldn't come any closer if I was you,' said Blackwood.
'He's right,' said Miphon. 'Stay away for the moment. The smoke is parasitic, but the light will weaken it. Soon it'll trouble him less, and be too weak to batten onto anything else.'
'How can I get rid of it?' said Blackwood.
'You can't,' said Miphon.
Hearst shook Alish by the shoulder.
'Time to move,' he said.
'Time ran out long ago,' muttered Alish.
Hearst again tried to rouse him to action, then gave up.
'Oars into water,' sang out Hearst, getting to his feet. His voice drifted away over the dazzling surface of
the lake. Slowly men began to grub away the sodden ropes holding down the sweep-oars. Every knife was rusty and blunt; one could have wept to see those fine blades so cankered and dishonoured. With oars in the water, the men began to work the rafts toward the shore. Seven moved; the eighth, with only a corpse on board, stayed where it was. Slowly they drew away from it.
'You're lighter,' said Hearst to Gorn.
'My travelling companion has suffered,' said Gorn, looking ruefully at the remnants of his paunch. 'The wizard Garash also looks lighter than he was.'
The rafts crawled along under the sun like crippled insects. Hearst tried to strike up a rowing chant, but none would take up the song, so he let his voice trail away. On the eighth raft, the one they had left behind, the body stood up. Hearst realised it was Valarkin, who now cut free an oar and set the raft in motion.
'We mustn't lose him,' said Miphon. 'He's got the ring to the bottle. We should try and get into that bottle soon.'
'Yes,' said Gorn. 'There's food in there.' 'We'll take him when he gets to the shore,' said Garash.
'He's going the wrong way,' said Gorn. Hearst shouted.
'Valarkin! Where are you going? Valarkin!'
'Maybe he's heading for the other side of the lake,' said Gorn. 'Shall I swim after him?'
'What's the use?' said Hearst. 'He could always throw the ring in the water if you caught him. Besides, there might still be Melski in the water.'
'There's a bow tied to my pack,' said Blackwood. 'Over there. The quiver is inside the pack. You might try that.'
it's rotted through,' said Hearst. 'Garash?'
i have enough power to kill him,' said Garash. i have more than enough power to kill him, but the fire would also destroy the ring.'
They had no way of catching Valarkin.
Under the sun the fungus grew brittle, curled up, became black, writhed and began to stink. Slowly, too slowly to leave more than the slightest ripple of wake, the rafts worked their way toward the shore. Those not on the oars lay for the most part as if dead, sheltering from the sun under weatherworn cloaks.
Gorn drew a helmet-full of water and peered at his reflection.
'How's your beauty?' said Hearst.
'Better than I'd expected. I'd have thought my hair would have gone grey after all we've been through.'
Garash peered at the shore with his protuberant eyes. In places the rocks were black, in places red; some were stained yellow with the sulphur-spill of hot-water springs. Steam rose in plumes from fumaroles.
it won't be easy getting up those cliffs,' said Garash.
'Weil make it,' said Hearst. 'How do you feel now, Alish?'
i feel like the yolk spilt from an eggshell.'
'Rest then. You'll feel better later.'
The first raft crunched against the stones of the shore. Those on the oars let them drop and sat down or lay down.
'Ashore!' yelled Hearst. 'On your feet and get ashore. Move now, move! My sword's in my hand, and it won't be the flat of it I'll be using.'
He got them moving.
It was hot; the water which fell on the stones as they splashed ashore dried swiftly. The sun had already begun to scald pallid flesh. Hearst had spindly trees cut down to make crude shelters for them to work under. He ordered the survivors - there were forty-six of them - to unpack and spread everything out to dry. The
packs disgorged gear white with fungus, musky with rot, dripping with slime.
'Andranovory!' yelled Hearst, seeing a man standing idle.
'I haven't got a pack,' protested Andranovory. 'Mine's missing.'
'You haven't got a cock, either,' shouted Hearst, 'but that never stopped you sucking one. There's more packs than men, so get your finger out of your arse and do something useful with it.'
Andranovory, grumbling, secured a spare pack and dumped a load of mouldy clothes and rotten food to the stones. A small bundle broke apart, scattering the glitter of jewels and golden coins. His morale improved immediately.
'That's mine!' cried a man suddenly.
'Yes, sure,' said Andranovory. 'Like your third nipple and your fourth arse,' which was a traditional insult in the parts he hailed from. 'You want to fight me for them? Well then, come on.'
And he drew a blade.
'Belay that, you mother-riding animals!' shouted Hearst.
And proceeded to castigate them severely, using terms so obscene that even Gorn was seen to blush.
Hearst had just restored order when one man suddenly doubled over and began to cough up worms. They were blood-red: the colour of the gills of a fish. They wriggled on the hot stones. Hearst squashed one with the toe of his boot: blood squirted out. Miphon knelt down beside the victim, though he suspected there was nothing he could do.
Garash lit a fire to dry out a small cache of supplies he had carried with him. Finding his maps and manuscripts reduced to pulp, he swore in a language nobody else could understand. Stones around the fire trembled: one split apart, shattering into flying fragments. His rage was impressive, but it wasted energy.
With gear spread out to dry, men set to work on knives, swords and battle axes with sharpening stones. Many fires were lit; there was no need for all of them, but it was good to see fire again and smell smoke.
Hearst knew the smoke, rising into the clear blue sky, would betray them to any observers . . . but judged that the risk was worth it. He would let the men have their friendly fires. At Hearst's orders, some men dragged one of the rafts ashore, then split the logs, using axe heads as wedges. The sun would dry the wood soon enough, giving them plenty of fuel.
Hearst examined his own gear. The stitching of his boots was rotten and they were falling apart. He would have to see what he could do about it.. .
Gorn was boiling something up in his helmet. It proved to be handfuls of pale blue water snails, some almost the size of a thumb.
'There's plenty of them on the rocks near the shore,' said Gorn, 'In water less than knee-deep.'
'Good,' said Hearst. 'Good .. .'
One man was barbering. At his feet, the colours of straw, bark, soot and flame shone in the sunlight. A bumblebee, the workaday insect common to all the world, lumbered along the shore. Hearst savoured the intense pungent smell of an aromatic herb hidden somewhere among the thin, scrubby trees. He stretched, then smiled, then laughed aloud.
- Truly, we have come through.
On the lake, Valarkin was a dot in the distance.
* * *
Evening came early to the lakeside as the sun fell away behind the cliffs and cold shadows engulfed the shore. The waters of the lake became grey. Men ceased their labours and sat by their fires, occasionally feeding sticks to the flames.
Hearst had the rafts hauled up out of the water - they might need them yet, and there might be a few Melski
who had survived the journey through the darkness -then he chose his guards for the dark hours.
'There will be stars tonight. Maybe even a moon -who knows? Those on guard will have enough light to see by - if they stay alert. If not, they may wake to find the Melski cutting their throats.'
Men grumbled, but Hearst knew it would do them good to re-establish the routines of campaigning.
Blackwood was suffering as the night set in. Soon his cough worsened until it was almost as bad as it had been towards the end of the long underground journey. Miphon led him to a fire. Blackwood bent over it and gulped in hot, dry air. The cold smoke that trailed from his mouth writhed, suffered and withdrew.
'Breathe in the heat,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in the heat. Take it down into your lungs. Deep down.'
The cold smoke appeared again between Blackwood's lips, and again cringed from the heat.
'Breathe deep,' said Miphon. 'Breathe deep.'
Hearst lay back on the stones he would be sleeping on, and, looking at the night sky which he knew so well, saw something had happened which he had not thought possible: while they had been underground, a new star had made its debut in the sky. He could just hear Miphon's voice, soft, warm, encouraging:
'Breathe in,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in.'
And that gentle voice reminded Hearst of the way Alish had talked to him that time in Valley Sharator, when Hearst lay pallid with pain, clammy-skinned with shock, his shoulder dislocated by a fall from a horse. Breathe in, said Alish, passing him the opium pipe. And Hearst had breathed in. Breathed in. Taken it in. Breathed in darkness, breathed in sleep. Then Alish had taken his arm, saying, this may hurt a little . . . And he had breathed in, first pain, then darkness.
Sleep...
At Miphon's urging, Blackwood breathed in the heat. 'Soon you'll be able to get to sleep,' said Miphon. 'If
you can sleep through to morning, you'll feel better when the sun rises.'
'Tell me,' said Blackwood. 'What's the cure for this?'
'I've already told you,' said Miphon. 'There's no cure.'
'There must be something.' 'Well.. .' 'Tell me.'
'This is old lore, and old lore is never certain,' said Miphon. 'But the old lore says a draught of the blood of a dragon mixed with the blood of a man is certain healing for all ills.'
'Then there is a way.'
'If you can find your dragon and kill him,' said Miphon. 'Then, yes, there's a way. But there's a price for the cure.'
'What?'
'This is old lore from the dreamtime,' said Miphon. 'And the old lore says, who drinks this draught of mixed blood will never love
a woman and will never hate a man, will never be able to kill - not even in self-defence - and will never call any place home.'
is that all it takes - blood and blood?'
'So it's said. Now breathe in. Deeper. That's right. Deep and steady. Deep.'
And Blackwood breathed in the heat. Would he ever get a chance to try the cure? And would it work? Having seen so many things he would once have thought impossible, he could scarcely answer 'no' to either question. He had seen madness at work in broad daylight, armies destroyed, castles abandoned, a prince mocked, a wizard killed, and Rovac warriors running in fear. He had been told he had the chance to live for a thousand years.
It might happen: anything might happen.
* * *
Hearst woke in the night. He lay there, listening, hearing a creaking snore which he knew to be Gorn's. The snore grew louder and louder then stopped. Gorn had stopped breathing. It was something he did sometimes while sleeping. Hearst waited. There was a snort as Gorn woke, a shifting of stones as he rolled over, and Hearst knew he would be asleep again already. Hearst had been a long way with Gorn; they had shared the same shadow on many roads.
