Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

Mystrel was still sleeping; Blackwood decided it was best they parted that way. They had been through enough pain already. He left, catfoot, silent. Mystrel distrusted Prince Comedo, thinking he had some terrible fate in store for his some-time huntsman, but Blackwood doubted that Comedo would dare move against him now – not when the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst owed Blackwood his life, and would doubtless be ready to repay that debt if the occasion arose.

He could not guess what future lay ahead for Mystrel and himself – and for the child they were expecting -but he knew the future had to be better than the past.

Outside, Elkor Alish was attempting to dominate the vast expanse of the central courtyard with his voice. He was harrying his underlings, checking armour, weapons, harness, boots, packs. Despite this business, he could not avoid the thought: here he was, again, setting off to war.

War? Collosnon soldiers might die, but the true enemy was a wizard, Heenmor. It was not so much a war as a manhunt. But afterwards… yes, then there would be a proper war. The wizards had promised Prince Comedo that he would be given the mad-jewels once Heenmor had been killed and the death-stone recovered. Each mad-jewel was good for a year of use. With that magic to aid them, Comedo's armies would push south, killing as they went, until they reached the Far South and the Great Dyke itself.

Blood would be shed – some of it, perhaps, innocent. He would allow it for the sake of the ultimate cause: to take revenge for the ancient crimes of wizards. As a member of the Code of Night, Alish was sworn to that cause. And if he could lay hands on the death-stone as well…

Putting hesitation behind him, Elkor Alish faced the future with a resolute will, denying uncertainty with his voice and demeanour.

Durnwold rose early, to see how Alish got things done – but Valarkin slept in to ensure he was properly rested.

Chances for sleep might be scarce if they were attacked on the march.

Valarkin had, the night before, oiled every bit of metal worth oiling, greased every bit of leather, rearranged the items in his pack a dozen times till it sat comfortably on his back – even though he knew a horse would carry it to the High Castle – and before going to sleep had rehearsed every sword stroke Durnwold had taught him in the few days they had been allowed for preparation.

If intellect could conquer, then Valarkin was determined to triumph; if preparation meant success, then he would astonish a whole generation. Whatever happened, he was now Comedo's ring-bearer, guarding a ring giving access to the green bottle, which was now loaded down with provisions of luxury. Providing he survived this campaign, he would be in a position to gain power. That was what he wanted: what he needed.

Miphon woke slowly, reluctant to face the horror planned for their departure. Phyphor had warned him, on pain of death, not to interfere. This morning, his mind was a turmoil. Should he obey? Or try and warn the intended victims? Or try and kill Phyphor? The truth was, Phyphor had the authority of the whole Confederation of Wizards behind him. And Miphon could not kill Phyphor and Garash and Comedo and Alish – he would only get himself butchered.

Reluctantly, hating himself, Miphon decided to comply with Phyphor's instructions.

He checked his gear. In his pack were selected medical items, including knives, hooks, needles, thread, laudanum, honey, bandages and garlic. He felt a certain sense of futility. He could doubtless save a few lives here and there, but what was the good of that in the face of so much slaughter?

In another tower, Garash woke with a little grin on his face. He was looking forward to the fun planned for their departure. And for the chance, if their expedition succeeded, to try to grab the death-stone for himself.

One did not lightly plan to outwit and doublecross a dangerous wizard like Phyphor, but Garash was determined to do it. For power. And for revenge: he still remembered the day of horror after he had been caught by Heenmor's blast-trap, unable to see the light, and thinking himself perhaps blind forever.

Mystrel woke a little later. She thought she felt something – the child in her belly? It distracted her only momentarily. Blackwood was gone! She opened the door. The corridors were silent, empty. She ran, calling his name.

Alish, elsewhere, was handing out the small, red charms on golden chains. The men had not expected to see them again so soon: only a chosen few had been told they were leaving one of the mad-jewels to guard Castle Vaunting. Now some guessed: but all of them, even those with their favourite drabs and doxies living in the castle, put on the red charms without question.

None dared argue with Elkor Alish, the master swordsman, for after the battles against the Collosnon he was no longer known as 'the man who does not shed blood'.

Blackwood's turn came. Blackwood was last. •What's this for?' said Blackwood, holding the little red charm on its golden chain. 'We're not using a mad-jewel today, are we?'

'Put it on.' said Alish.

It was a quiet room, empty but for a man crippled by Heenmor's magic: the man whose hands were chunks of rock, whose left leg had been turned to rock below the knee, whose face was disfigured with stone. His one good eye watched as Phyphor entered, carrying a lead box which bore the null sign of the dead zero: the sign of the nether magic.

At that moment, Questor entered the room. He was the nominal captain of all the soldiers, and the prince had designated him to be left in charge of the castle 'as a mark of my special favour.'

'What are you doing?' said Questor.

Phyphor made no reply, but took out one of the mad-jewels. Misty yellow light swirled and pulsed within it. Questor tried to draw his sword. He lurched, staggered. His face began to slacken. Before sanity left him completely, he screamed, realising what was happening. Then he laughed, flapped his hands like wings, and went reeling away, colliding first with one wall then the other.

Phyphor looked at the man who had been partly turned to stone. There was no intelligence now in his eye: no suffering. And soon he would be dead.

Alish shouted orders. Men began to move out, all on horseback but for Blackwood, who had yet to mount. Seeing his wife among the witless victims of the mad-jewels who were now milling aimlessly in the courtyard, Blackwood ran to Comedo to request permission to stay.

'What?' said Comedo.

His horse clattered through the long passage between the central courtyard and the drawbridge. Blackwood ran alongside the horse, shouting, darting glances backwards.

'What?' said Comedo, laughing.

They came out into the sunlight. Blackwood shouted again. They were on the drawbridge now.

'What?' said Comedo.

Blackwood screamed at him.

Comedo, riding high on his high horse, laughed again. He reached down, snagged the fine chain round Blackwood's neck, and tore it away. He threw it sideways. It flashed in the sunlight then fell through dizzy depths into the fire dyke.

Blackwood swayed. The world floundered. Horses buffeted past. A vulture spread its wings in his throat and screamed. The sun clawed his back. He shouted at it. He stepped to the edge of the drawbridge. One foot stepped to the gulf.

A hand hooked into his hair and dragged him back. Blackwood twisted his head and saw Mormormorgan gar garn morgarnn, hearse, Hearst, is that your name, Hearst?

No. It was Alish, who had acted just in time to prevent the destruction of the precious green bottle Blackwood carried.

One moment of clarity: 'Mystrel!' screamed Blackwood.

Then he lost the power of speech.

The little army paused while the prince's bottle-carrier was tied onto the back of a horse: he would recover himself once they were out of range of the mad-jewel.