Hugh Cook: The wizards and the warriors

'It saw nothing,' said Garash, shaken. 'It looked, but it saw nothing. There was nothing for it to see.'

'Hush,' said Phyphor.

'It can't hear us!'

'Hush! Let Miphon listen.'

Miphon listened. The dragon was… gaining height… gaining height… disappointed… circling… circling… rage spent, rage gathering…

'It doesn't know we're here,' said Miphon.

'Of course not,' said Garash. 'There was nothing. Nothing for it to see.'

'What does the dragon do now?' said Phyphor.

'I think -1 hope it'll go and blast something else,' said Miphon.

Then heard: recognition! The dragon saw something! Then they all heard the scream as wings plummeted down, one tortured protest from Smeralda, then the wings of the dragon seeking height again, seeking height with a batblack labouring which overpowered the sound of the surf, conjuring visions of a huge leather bellows wheezing out volumes of air.

The dragon was triumphant because now… now it knew! 'It knows there are people here,' said Miphon flatly. 'A donkey means people. It'll quarter the area till it finds us, if it takes all night. If we stay here it'll sniff us out. then fry us alive.'

'Flame can't reach us here,' said Garash.

'Flame can't but heat can,' said Phyphor. 'Outside!'

They hastened up the stairs to rejoin the rain. They scanned the dark sky. High above, a fire-spark circled slowly. Underfoot, the courtyard stones were still faintly warm from dragon fire. The monster circled, once and again, and then: 'It sees us,' said Miphon.

'You kill it,' said Phyphor to Garash.

'I'll try,' said Garash.

Miphon and Phyphor retreated to the top of the steps. Garash stood alone, licking his lips anxiously. His bulging eyes watched the spark. Red spark. So high, so high. And now… and now it dipped. Garash raised his right hand. He must wait.

Down came the dragon.

Garash waited, trembling.

He could hear the wings.

The spark was a fire, a bonfire, a furnace. Close, closer, too close! Garash screamed a Word.

White fire flared from his hand. The dragon, way off to one side of the blast of power, slewed sideways and went gliding away into the darkness.

'What were you trying to do?' said Phyphor. 'Fry eggs?'

'It wasn't where I thought it was.'

'Get into the cellar, you. I'll kill it myself.'

Garash stumbled away, having wasted the accumulated strength of four hundred and seventy-nine days of the Meditation of Power on turning raindrops into steam.

"Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor, blinded by the flare of light. 'I can't see anything.'

'The dragon's thinking,' said Miphon. 'Making a plan.'

'I thought it wasn't in any state to make plans.' 'Near-death can sober up anything, even a raging dragon. It's cautious now. It's thinking.' 'What?' 'I can't tell.'

As Phyphor's night-sight recovered, he scanned the sky, blinking against the rain. 'Is the dragon moving?' 'No. It's on top of the cliffs.' 'Doing what?' 'Searching and finding.' 'Finding what?'

'I can't tell. Phyphor, it's in the air again. Up there!'

'Where? Where?'

'Above us.'

'But I can't see it!'

No red spark betrayed the dragon, which was not forced to show fire as it flew if it chose not to.

'If I try to blast it, can you guide my hand?'

'I can't pinpoint the dragon,' said Miphon. 'That's too hard.'

'Then I'll wait till it dives,' said Phyphor. 'I've stood against the Neversh. I can stand against a dragon.' They heard something falling. A rock shattered beside them. 'The cellar!' yelled Phyphor.

They ran. The dragon plunged down, dropping rocks as it swooped. They heard its wings cutting the air. A rock shattered at the head of the stairs, but they were al ready in the cellar, bleeding from a dozen rock splinters. The fort shook as the dragon crashed to earth. It bellowed. It blasted out fire. Flame filled the stairwell. Rainwater boiled to scalding steam. A flush of heat hit the cellar.

'Blast it!' screamed Garash.

'It's not in line of sight, fool,' said Phyphor.

Another blast of fire. The stink of dragon. The scrabble of talons. More fire. More steam. They were being cooked alive.

Phyphor stepped forward to try for a clear shot at the dragon. A blast of fire sent him reeling back, beating at his burning cloak. He had been singed by just the last fraction of that blast: any closer, and he would have been killed. Miphon pushed past, but Phyphor grabbed him.

'Where do you think you're going?' 'To stay is to die,' said Miphon. 'If it gets me, it may think there's nobody else.' 'Wait,' said Phyphor.

He raised his staff and hammered it down.

He spoke a Word.

The earth trembled and shook.

Phyphor spoke a Word and a Word and a Word. There was a roar louder than any dragon, or any clan of dragons. Garash screamed, throwing himself to the ground. Miphon listened. – pain, pain, pain – 'The dragon's hurt,' said Miphon. 'It's going.' They heard it bellow. (Distant. Fading.) Miphon ran upstairs. Phyphor followed close behind, panting as they burst out into the night air. The walls of the fort lay in ruins. Blocks of stone had been flung through the air as the flame trench, exploding, cleansed itself of the debris of four thousand years in a single convulsive spasm. Now the flame trench was alive, flames raging for half a league between mountain and sea. Heat beat against their faces. The clouds above smouldered with bloodlight reflections.

'Are you hurt?' said Miphon.

'My hands are burnt a little.' said Phyphor.

'Over here," said Miphon. leading him from the fort to find water where he could cool his singed hands.

'Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor.

'Far away now,' said Miphon. 'Far away. It won't be back. It's hurt. The rocks thrown by the blast hurt it.'

'Will it die?'

'I don't know. But it won't be back. It won't be back.* The ground trembled underfoot; they smelt torn earth, the stink of dragon, the dust of splintered rock; heat and light from the fire dyke beat against their faces. They heard the roar of flames, the hiss of rain boiling as it struck fire, waves from the sea exploding into steam.

Garash joined them.

'The dragon?' said Garash.

'It's gone,' said Miphon.

'How long will the flames burn for?' said Garash. who knew the answer – fifty days at least, and maybe longer – but half-hoped that someone would tell him different.

'Too long,' said Phyphor. 'We'll have to find a way over the mountains.'

Where the flame-trench ran out into the sea for a hundred paces, the waters seethed and boiled. Lacking a boat strong enough to venture out into those turbulent waters – lacking, indeed, any boat at all – the wizards could not outflank the flame trench on the seaward side.

'Mountains!' said Garash. spitting out the word with disgust.

'We could swim,' ventured Miphon. 'You could, perhaps." said Garash. 'I've never learnt to play fish.'

Garash, having wasted all his accumulated power in trying to kill the dragon, felt weak and exhausted. He felt, obscurely, that Phyphor had somehow tricked him. After all, Phyphor had finally driven off the dragon simply by calling out the Words which had made the fire dyke erupt. Garash could have done as much, if he had thought of it. He was comforted by knowing he still had power stored in the shrivelled twist of wood hung round his neck, power he had stored there during dull days in the Castle of Controlling Power.

'I couldn't venture the swim either,' said Phyphor. "So it'll have to be the mountains.'

Name: Heenmor. Occupation: wizard.

Status: Master wizard of the order of Arl. A renegade wanted dead – most definitely dead – by the Confederation of Wizards.

Description: a massive, troll-shouldered giant, twice the height of any ordinary mortal. Black eyes, blue beard and ginger hair. Robes of khaki, boots of white leather.