The Wizards and the Warriors

by Hugh Cook

  Now silence, silence, for my song Is more than worth the hearing: A hero's deeds, a hero's tale The subject of its praising.

  And the minstrel began his version of the legend of how the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst killed the dragon Zenphos in the lair on the mountain of Maf. Hearst remembered hearing that legend in Skua, the squalid port on the coast of Trest that bore the same name as Ohio's fine ship. Ohio! Dead now, killed by a fall from a horse, killed by Morgan Hearst, killed by Farfalla's treachery, by a lie about an army from the Rice Empire.

  Hearst got to his feet. Looked around. Mouths opened, closed. Blood within mouths. Shadows within eyes. Bright-bone teeth glistening with laughter.

  Hearst remembered the vision he had seen at Skua: an ocean of fire a thousand years wide. He remembered another vision: Gorn's head, blood on Gorn's lips, death in the sockets of his eyes. At Skua, he had run amok, sword slicing at any and every, his voice raging to madness.

  "What are you standing for?' said Farfalla. 'Sit down.' Hearst turned, stared at her. Death was on her hands. And there must be a death to pay for a death. He drew his sword.

  He remembered what happened at Larbreth. The woman Ethlite! He had taken her head: his sword slicing away the voice which had dared to speak to Elkor Alish as if to a slave. Now, here was another woman: and this one had much more to answer for.

  'What do you want?' said Farfalla. She was afraid.

  'What do you think I want?' said Hearst.

  He looked out over the Hall of Wine. Everyone was watching him. Reckless, he roared:

  'What do you think I want?'

  And the answer came back:

  'Watashi! Wa - wa - watashi!'

  Watashi. Blood. Fear. Death.

  They thought he meant to kill Farfalla. And more: they wanted it. They were ready for it. In Morgan Hearst, they saw the promise of power, glory, wealth, an empire that would control all of Argan. They knew it would demand killing: they were ready for the slaughter to begin. Now.

  Hearst raked his sword over the table, scattering dishes, plates, bowls, cups, bottles. He threw back his head and screamed. The crowd responded with another roar:

  'Wa - wa - Watashi! Wa - wa - Watashi!'

  They were as drunk as he was. And as mad. Whatever he commanded, they would do. His word would be law. They were ready to worship him. Yet what was he? Who and what was Morgan Hearst? He was a man who had been the death of those who followed him most faithfully. Who had been fooled by a woman's lies. Who had sickened of slaughter, yet, when tempted, was ready to accept command of an empire which lusted for war and conquest.

  Morgan Hearst turned on his heel and stumbled from the room. Farfalla sat at the table, shock on her face, clearly realising how close she had come to losing her head. Blackwood and Miphon rose and followed Hearst at a discreet distance, knowing there was no telling what he might do when he was drunk like this.

  * * *

  Farfalla sat alone in the Hall of Wine, isolated 431

  amongst her people. A drunken cavalry officer stood on a table to propose a toast to Morgan Hearst; the toast was taken up with a roar of approval. Since power is based on consent, Hearst now had absolute power: these people would do whatever he said. Farfalla, kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, was ruler now in name only.

  This was what she had wanted: to place Morgan Hearst on the throne of the Harvest Plains. To free herself from the burdens of power. What she had not wanted, and had not anticipated, was the enthusiasm she saw in the hall, where people she had once thought rational now raised their voices in an uproar like ghouls baying for blood. She knew the name of this madness: war fever.

  She wondered what she had done.

  * * *

  Hearst found his way to the battlements of the original wizard castle round which Selzirk had been built. At first he lurched and staggered a little, but soon his gait steadied to the regular rhythm that would defeat league after league on a long march.

  Marching along, he remembered, with a terrible drink-sodden nostalgia, the wars of his youth. He sang, tunelessly, drunken snatches of songs he had learnt by campfires on foreign shores, mountains, tundras. Those early days had been the best: he had been just another soldier in the armies of Rovac, then, with no responsibility except to listen and obey.

  He remembered, in particular, the Cold West. Yes! He remembered a battlefield by sunlight, rank upon rank of gleaming armour and glittering weapons. A sudden surge of pride and ego, rising to adrenalin heights. Battle-drums booming, a battle-chant roaring:

  Who are we? We are the Rovac!

  What do we do? We kill! We kill! We kill! We kill!

  Kill! Yes. That was the chant. Those were the days. Battles in the shadow of the Far Wall. The struggle for control of the pass commanding the Valley of Insects. The sack of the Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers. Grand simplicities.

  And what now? Questions and confusions. And what was the source of those questions, those confusions? Hearst knew. In the beginning was a lie. After he had crawled down from the mountain of Maf, he had allowed people to believe he had killed the dragon; he had boasted himself to a hero, and all the problems had started.

  Alish had known him to be a liar: and their friendship had begun to fail. So what was he to do?

  There was only one way out. The trouble had begun with a lie. The trouble had begun when he had pretended to be a hero. Well then, the simple answer was to become a hero. A real hero. Then there would be no lie.

  But-

  Muddled with drink, he remembered, in a blurred, half-hearted way, having doubts about the very ethos of heroism itself. Well, no doubt those doubts were part of the package that went with being a coward. He tried to kick himself for his cowardice, and, as a consequence, fell over.

  'Doubt is for women,' muttered Hearst, hauling himself to his feet. 'A hero knows!'

  The battlements stretched clear and empty ahead to a tower. The tower of the order of Ebber.

  Hearst drew his sword.

  He was drunk, but he drew with the grace of a dancer. The blade leapt clean and clear from the scabbard, slicing into the sunlight.

  That was fast.

  Farfalla had taught him that: had taught him how to be better and faster with his left hand than he had ever been with his right. For Hearst, that was a great gift. A gift of friendship. Yet she had lied, had betrayed him, had caused Ohio's death. What should he do with her?

  - A hero will know the answer to that. Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Hastsword, my brother, my brother in blood, destiny waits for us. Strength, Hearst, hero, song-singer, sword-master, leader of men.

  Leader of men. Yes. He remembered leading men to their deaths. In Looming Forest, when Heenmor - no, he would not think about it. He would concentrate on the task at hand. The man who pretended to be a hero must become a hero for real.

  He had killed a dragon in the wild country deep in the heart of Argan. Wasn't that enough? No: he had been faced with a choice between the dragon or a duel with Elkor Alish. Either might have killed him. Many men go into battle for fear that if they run, their commanders will slay them; we do not call them heroes because one fear overbalances another.

  The tower of the order of Ebber was closer now. This was what they were all afraid of. Farfalla was afraid of it. The people of the Harvest Plains were afraid of it. From memories he had inherited from the wizard Phyphor, Hearst knew that even the wizards of the order of Arl feared the order of Ebber.

  - But we, Hastsword, my hero, we have no fear. Are you with me, my brother? Are you with me? Who are we? We are the Rovac! The heroes! Strength, man of Rovac, strength.

  Hearst glanced round for one last look at the sunlight. He saw Blackwood and Miphon on the battlements. They started to run forward, shouting. At the distance, he could not hear what it was they were trying to tell him. But he was pleased to see them there.

  They would witness his deed.

  - And now. Now! Do it!

  Hearst reached out and touched the
substance of the tower of Ebber. It parted before his hand. With the flame of the black-faceted jewel burning at his throat, he walked into the tower of Ebber. The way closed behind him, and he stood in darkness, sword in hand.

  Slowly, pale lights like wan and wasted captive stars came to life and illuminated the interior of the tower. Strange devices loomed out of the gloom: towering configurations of burnished metal in which the features of man, bird and insect were blended as if in a nightmare. They were, for the moment, silent. Quiescent. Waiting.

  Hearst, bewildered, gaped at them.

  The wan starlight grew no stronger. No threat came from the silent metal. Slowly, he dared a footfall forward. Then another. Gaining confidence, he walked forward, stirring up a little dust. He sneezed, vigorously, three times. Nothing and nobody challenged in response.

  Ahead, he saw a stairway.

  Hearst climbed the stairs. Sword poised to strike, he sidled into the chamber above. It was bare but for a series of stone tubs in which water, lit from below, glittered with an uncanny light. Looking into one, Hearst saw the water seemed to descend for leagues, clear as an ice-bright winter sky. Far below, out of reach, globes spun in that clear water, some white, some orange, some red; one globe - how beautiful! - was all browns and blues, capped top and bottom with irregular markings of winter white.

  Hearst watched. Waited. Listened. Nothing moved. No challenge came. He went up the next set of stairs -then the next.

  By the time Hearst reached the uppermost storey of the tower of the order of Ebber, he had only scorn for those who were afraid of it. It contained a great many strange things, to be sure - but there was nothing to be

  afraid of. Nothing that was malignant: nothing that was even alive. He was glad of that.

  He had sobered up enough by now to see what a terrible risk he had taken. It was one thing to risk his own life: any man was free to do that. It was quite another thing to risk the entire city of Selzirk by daring to stir up whatever evil might have been lurking in the tower. As the effects of the wine wore off, Hearst saw, too, that no feat of heroism, however bold and outrageous, was going to resolve his problems, his questions. Still, in a way, he was disappointed that he had found no challenge worthy of his courage.

  The uppermost storey of the tower of Ebber was almost empty. The only thing in it was a wooden staff, which looked much like the staff of power that the wizard Phyphor used to carry. Hearst sheathed his sword, deciding to take the staff as a souvenir. Blackwood, with all the reading he had done since they arrived in Selzirk, might even know how to get some use out of the staff.

  Hearst took hold of the staff: and was overcome. He had no defences whatsoever against what he had encountered. He lacked even the time in which to register his protest, it was done so quickly.

  And afterwards, once it was done, Hearst found that he could observe everything: but could alter nothing.

  The wizard Ebonair - he called himself by the name of the island on which he had been born, many thousands of years before - held his staff in the only hand available to him. He looked down at the hook which had been substituted for the right hand. Clumsy. How did that happen? He scanned the available memories, saw how the copper-strike snake injected its venom into the hand, how the sword rose and fell,

  sweeping the hand away. Truly the action of a ruthless man!

  Then, scanning other memories, Ebonair changed his mind. Not ruthless at all. Weak. Confused. Sentimental. Ebonair had not tasted such agonising since the time he invaded the mind of an adolescent student priest of the Temple of the Ultimate Ethic. Weak, yes: yet successful. Such opportunities! Reclaiming the Harvest Plains would take only a word.

  The wizard Ebonair had known it would take a hero to seize the key to the tower of Ebber from the pyramid tomb, and then to invade the tower itself, but he had been successful beyond his wildest dreams. Instead of using the hero's body and reputation to fight to reclaim his kingdom, he had only to step outside the tower and all would be on their knees before him.

  Another memory.

  Interesting.

  Underground darkness. The noise of the river, rushing, rushing. A voice. Pain in the voice: weakness. Fear. 'You will have the power to enter the tower of Arl. And you will understand the High Speech, the reading of it, the writing of it, the speaking of it.' Darkness and the beat of a heart. Darkness, and then -

  Interesting indeed. Ebonair had never known that a wizard of Arl could, as he died, transfer his memories to the living. A pretty trick. A pretty trick indeed. But it is one thing to pass on a few disorganised memories: quite another to preserve one's identity within an artefact while spending centuries engaged in the Meditations, building the power needed to take possession of another body.

  Such long centuries! Dust. Madness. The taste of ambition sustaining the will when eroding silence seems beyond endurance. And now the time has come.

  He yawned.

  Grinned like a skull.

  Then laughed.

  He was young, free, alive, with all the world supine beneath his trampling feet! Time to go . . .

  The wizard Ebonair descended to the lowest level of the tower of Ebber, in which were gathered many metal devices from the Days of Wrath. In his last incarnation, the secrets of those devices had escaped him. In this incarnation, he hoped to do better. Ebonair commanded the tower:

  'Open!'

  A doorway opened to a flood of afternoon sunlight, revealing the two who stood on the battlements.

  'Hearst,' said Blackwood. 'Are you all right?'

  'What happened?' said Miphon. 'Morgan, you look strange. Are you hurt?'

  As Blackwood and Miphon stepped forward, the wizard Ebonair let the Hearst-body sag toward the floor. Miphon ran forward and caught it, brushing against the staff of power; the wizard Ebonair took him with ... a little difficulty. That was not as easy as he had expected!

  'Miphon,' said Blackwood. 'Help me. Hearst's unconscious. Why are you standing there like that?'

  Ebonair scanned Miphon's memories. Pox. Pox doctor. Scabs. Boils. Poultices. Leaking wombs. Bad backs. Leeches, application of. Bruises. Solicitous words to a man . .. what? Dying? If dying, why bother with him? Hands greasy, slimy, blood, blood, tender hands easing a cord free from the neck, taking the weight, eliciting the first birthcry - and smiling! Spare us from biology.

  'Miphon,' said Blackwood, shaking him.

  'Take this,' said Ebonair, getting the Miphon-voice all wrong, but the note of command was right, the peasant took the staff of power even as the wizard let the Miphon-body sag toward the floor.

  'No!' screamed Blackwood, as it happened.

  But for Ebonair, it was easy. Easier than taking over

  the Miphon-body. Almost as easy as seizing the Hearst-body. Memories now. A quick scan - nothing, after all, to be gained from the mind of a peasant. Sky. Blue sky. Sky? Is that all?

  Sky, blue sky, the colour of my lover's eyes; Leaf, young leaf, her hands no softer.

  The transfiguring vision. A trick, surely. A trick of perception. An illusion. Like a drug-trance. Like a mystic's starvation delusion. Not true. Not real. No!

  And Ebonair screamed:

  'No!'

  Locked in the Blackwood-body, Ebonair collapsed.

  A poet may, on occasion, see the world transfigured by visionary perception yet still come to terms with the world. A man such as Blackwood may see the world that way constantly, day by day, and survive by isolating himself as much as possible from human society, evading the pains of the world by immersing himself in scholarship and study.

  But Ebonair, viewing himself through the lens of visionary revelation, saw how his entire life had been devoted to killing, distorting, maiming or repressing the flame of life which persists in every entity; worse still he saw the damage he had done to himself.

  A saint may live with such visions; an ordinary man, with some effort, may survive them. For Ebonair, they threatened madness. He had to escape. He thrust the staff of power out to
touch the supine Hearst-body. The next moment, Ebonair occupied that body: but in such a panic that the body was thrown into spasm.

  The head of the Hearst-body slammed against one of the inert metal machines from the Days of Wrath, and was knocked unconscious.

  * * *

  Miphon came to slowly. He was groggy, dizzy. His head hurt. He blinked at the sunlight streaming into the tower of Ebber. He half-expected to see spectators crowding the entrance: surely many people in Selzirk must be able to see the doorway to the tower of Ebber was open. But there was nobody. Of course. They were afraid of it. And clearly there were good reasons to support their superstitious dread of the place.

  Quickly Miphon checked both Blackwood and Hearst. Both were unconscious. So where was the wizard? Ebonair: yes, that was his name. Miphon had learnt a little from his enemy even as his enemy was learning from him: he knew to look for the staff of power. Which was on the floor of the tower. By Hearst. Which implied that Ebonair was trapped for the time being in the unconscious Hearst-body. Which meant there was a simple way of getting rid of Ebonair: kill Hearst, then burn the staff of power for good measure. But no, he could not do that! Or could he? Hearst would not have hesitated, in his place. It was the only way.