Hugh Cook: The wizards and the warriors

'Here's our path,' said Hearst, looking over the edge of the cliff.

A narrow trail wound downwards into the depths.

'Shall we start now?' said Blackwood.

'Eat, first,' said Hearst, pointing to the bodies. i,' said Miphon, a little stiffly, 'am not a cannibal.'

'You,' said Hearst, 'are not really hungry yet. No – relax, friend. I'm not suggesting we break out their marrow for a feast. Not yet, at any rate. Weil try their packs, first.'

'Oh,' said Miphon.

Miphon had thought of the dead bodies in terms of human tragedy; Hearst, still very much a Rovac warrior in spite of all the revelations he had experienced, thought of them in terms of loot (and, if necessary, flesh for the pot).

Without the slightest qualm, Hearst rummaged the dead, rock-mangled lizard-chewed bodies, tearing away the wreckage of clothing, uncovering, with pride, a few bits of hardtack, a twist of tobacco and some dates.

Miphon and Blackwood searched the packs. Some had been smashed by the walking rock, but others were entirely uninjured. Clearly none of the dead had been wearing their packs when attacked, which suggested they had been camping – sleeping by night, perhaps -and not on the march.

Turning out one pack, Miphon found a load of maps and manuscripts. Then a tinder box, in much better repair than his own. Then a fire-iron, of the kind wizards of Arl sometimes used for lighting fires. Then a flimsy cotton shirt, which might be good for bandages. Then – 'Skalakala!' screamed Miphon.

It was a cry right out of his childhood. It had served his ancestors both as a warcry and as a shout of surpassing delight. He raised his hand, exhibiting his trophy.

The dead men had already been to the depths of the Dry Pit. They had already risked its dangers. And what Miphon held in his hand now was… a death-stone.

It kicked in his hand, like a living heart, and he let it fall. If he had held it any longer without using it, it would have killed him.

They marched from the Dry Pit without delay, carrying the death-stone with them. Their triumph was shortlived; they were acutely aware of the immense distances they had to cover.

By now, the Swarms would already have spread most of the distance up the western coast of Argan. Nobody would say for certain how fast the Swarms would move, but the travellers knew that the distance from Drangsturm to the Dry Pit was roughly equivalent to the distance from Drangsturm to the land of Estar.

If the Skull of the Deep South had sent the Swarms north as fast as they could go, then there was probably no hope whatsoever of the travellers cutting them off at the southern border of Estar. On the other hand, if the Swarms had stopped to kill out each human community they came across, there was still some hope.

A faint hope.

That day, they marched due west from the Dry Pit, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and its unknown and half-known dangers. They camped that evening beside a marginal trickle of water, which – like the dates and hardtack they shared between them – was sweet luxury.

That 'evening, they began to argue over which route to take. Having at least half-expected to die in the Dry Pit, they had never really talked it out before.

Estar lay north-west, but a direct journey, north-west as the eagle flies, would have meant crossing the Shackle Mountains, dragon country near the Araconch Waters, the Broken Lands, the Spine Mountains and the Ironband Mountains. Such an expedition was out of the question – they would have needed maps, guides, food, pack animals and cold-weather clothing for the mountain crossings.

And it would have been slow beyond endurance.

Their fastest route to Estar, if they walked, lay southwest down the barren and almost waterless coast of the Sponge Sea, then due west across the Marbin Erg to Veda – or, to be accurate, the ruins of Veda – then north along the Salt Road.

'That's if we walk,' said Hearst. 'But I favour the sea.'

'And maybe it favours you,' said Blackwood. 'But there's no way west from the Sponge Sea to the Central Ocean.'

'We wouldn't go that way,' said Hearst. 'Returning to our canoe, we'd go the other way. We'd sail out through Seagate, then travel along the coast all the way to Skua. The sea has its dangers – but I'd rather contend with storms off the Bitterwater Coast than with monsters from the Swarms on the Salt Road.'

In the end, Hearst won.

They would go by sea.

That night, Blackwood dreamt of Loosehead Robert, the mad revolutionary who, according to the children's stories of Estar, came to grief when he was caught in a cave in the hills. Blackwood's dream became a tangled nightmare in which hooks, claws and devouring spiders tore apart Robert's body.

In the dream, Robert bled. Not blood, but long words: stochastic, phenomenological, epistemological. In the dream, of course, the words had the full glory of their High Speech avatars: jonmarakaralarajodo, ena-konazavnetzyltrakolii, zeq-telejenzeq. Bleeding, Robert fled down the hill, with the hooks, claws and spiders rampaging after him on a glissando of blue milk.

At first it seemed he would escape. And then:

The hill itself began to move.

'No!' screamed Blackwood.

And woke himself with his scream.

He blinked at dawnlight, at the lava-dark barrens, at his two startled companions.

'Bad dreams?' said Hearst. i was chased by a hill,' said Blackwood.

'You're lucky it wasn't a mountain,' said Hearst, carelessly. i don't think mountains can move,' said Blackwood. 'Not even in dreams.'

'Oh, there's no reason why mountains shouldn't move,' said Miphon. if someone's careless enough to use a death-stone near a mountain – anything might happen.'

'Why didn't the mountains move at Ep Pass, then?' said Blackwood.

'They may well have done,' said Miphon. 'We didn't stay around very long to watch and see, did we? Heenmor would have been able to ward them off with the death-stone if they attacked him, of course.'

'And we could do the same?' said Blackwood.

'We wouldn't need to,' said Miphon. i could control the mind of a mountain just as I control the mind of a rock.'

'Then,' said Blackwood, 'why not – '

As he explained what he had in mind, the other two looked at him, at first with patronising amusement, and then, realising he was truly serious, with disbelief, and then, realising it might actually work, with joyous elation.

'We can do it!' shouted Hearst in a battlefield voice.

'Or get ourselves killed,' said Miphon, with a note of caution. 'Nothing could be that easy!'

'Let's see,' said Blackwood. 'Let's try.'

The nearest mountain was five leagues distant. They trekked to the mountain, then climbed its slopes, which rose three thousand paces into the sky. Miphon used the death-stone, while Hearst and Blackwood huddled in the tiny circle of safety surrounding him.

The mountain came to life.

The ground lurched under them, then rolled sideways. The sun staggered. Miphon struggled for control. The mind of the mountain was fierce, strong, turbulent. Breaking loose from stasis, the mountain went raging across the barren land. The horizon bucked and tilted.

At last, Miphon brought the monster under control. i have it!' he gasped. T have it!'

'Then don't lose it!' said Hearst, badly shaken.

T won't,' said Miphon. 'It's settling down now.'

'Yes, well, let's hope it doesn't start sneezing or something,' said Hearst.

'And don't let it roll over to scratch its back!' said Blackwood.

'And -'

'Trust me,' said Miphon.

And, having no option, they did.

The ride was far from comfortable. The mountain, even though it was under control, moved in stumbling staggering lurches which kept the sun and the far horizons swaying. Blackwood was soon physically sick, so sick that he swore he'd vomited up yesterday's breakfast; the other two felt indisputably nauseous.