Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

Yes, that was the only way.

Valarkin, softfoot and trembling, stole through the shadows toward his victim. How to kill him? What weapon to use? In sleep, Hearst twisted; his face contorted; he bared his teeth then hissed: 'The lopsloss! The lopsloss! It's coming!'

Valarkin looked around wildly. But of course there was only the hall: only shadows and sleeping bodies. He knelt beside Hearst.

'Stormguard,' muttered Hearst.

Valarkin's fingers tightened round the hilt of Hast. He began to ease the weapon from its scabbard. Suddenly Hearst sat bolt upright. His eyes, blood-red, intense with fury, glared at Valarkin. He gripped Valarkin by both arms, fingers nailing themselves into the biceps.

'The Stormguard!' shouted Hearst. 'The Stormguard! They've broken! They've broken! They're running!'

Then his grip relaxed and he sank back to the floor, his eyes closing slowly. Valarkin backed away slowly on his knees, trembling, trembling. His biceps still hurt.

'Alish,' said Hearst. Then, louder: 'Alish!'

His shouting would rouse the whole castle. Kill him now? Easy to say, but what if one of Comedo's men, roused by his shouting, burst into the hall while Valarkin was driving a blade home into Hearst's body? Valarkin remembered an old battle-cry out of songs and legends: victory to the brave. From his own thoughts came the dry rejoinder: and life to the cautious.

He crept back to his place at the High Table and downed his pinch of cauchaumaur. The last thing he heard before nightmare claimed him was Hearst's anguished cry: 'Alish! Not now, not now!'

Silently, without a cheer or a shout, without a smile or a laugh, the expedition rode out across the drawbridge of the High Castle. Alish surveyed the wreckage of the Collosnon army: corpses bloated and rotting in the sun. A week had been wasted in the High Castle while he and Hearst interrogated each and every man about the mad-jewel: discovering nothing.

As the expedition went past, flies rose from dead soldiers. Doubtless the dead had thought they had an easy duty: to starve out the High Castle by siege while the invasion swept west into Estar and then, perhaps, south to Dybra, starting on the road for the rich lands of the Harvest Plains. They had not known they would meet their doom when magic made their strength and courage useless.

Alish remembered the working routines of that methodical butchery. He took no joy in the sight of rotting corpses, or in his memories of slaughter. At least the blood and bones would feed this poor soil, which could always grow enough potatoes to supply the castle with vodka, but never enough to flesh out the thin faces of the common people.

At least the challenge ahead was clean and honourable: to hunt down a wizard of power and evil and kill him. And after that, if Alish could command the death-stone and lead armies south in conquest, any collateral casualties would be pardoned by his purpose: to right the ancient wrong and exterminate all wizards.

Alish saw Prince Comedo riding toward him. They had debated whether to bring Jeferies with them; instead, they had left him to wander witless in his castle with his followers and retainers. Jeferies would never believe that the mad-jewel was lost somewhere in his castle: he would think it a plot to deprive him of his kingdom. Better that they have a dead ally rather than a live enemy.

'My lord,' said Alish, greeting Prince Comedo. 'Elkor Alish. I have been thinking.' indeed,' said Alish.

'Yes,' said Prince Comedo, i have determined against our continued advance into danger. It's pointless, as we can't defeat Heenmor without the mad-jewel.'

Valarkin had been working on Comedo's fears, and had done his job well.

'What do you advise, my lord?' said Alish.

T do not advise,' said Prince Comedo. 'I command. I require our return to Castle Vaunting.'

'My lord,' said Alish. 'Heenmor has gained a season on us already. We've not time to go back for the other mad-jewel. Besides, going back, we might run into the Collosnon – we might find ourselves heavily outnumbered.'

'This quest has ceased to amuse me,' said Prince Comedo. 'Do you understand?'

'I will discuss it with the wizards,' said Alish.

He knew it heartened the troops to know they were being led by a prince of the Favoured Blood. In time, he might have to cut Comedo's throat, but for now he would stall to get the maximum benefit from Comedo's presence.

T will retire to my palace of convenience,' said the prince, meaning his green bottle. 'You will arrange what is necessary. When I emerge again, I expect to find us closing with Castle Vaunting.'

'Yes, my lord,' said Alish.

Prince Comedo rode away: Alish guessed that they would not see him again for days if not weeks. By then, it would be too late for anything Comedo might do to matter.

The expedition continued east toward the Kikashi Hills, beyond which lay the Fleuve River and the Spine Mountains. Reaching the hill country, they came upon the ramshackle camp of a family of charcoal burners. Questioned, these people said yes, Heenmor had passed this way. A number of people lived in the hills – deer hunters, truffle hunters, a few lepers, and, more recently, a few Collosnon deserters – and news travelled. Rumour claimed that some Melski had helped Heenmor. 'the blue and ginger giant', to travel down the Fleuve River.

The expedition was on the right trail.

The hills – 'Mountains if they're molehills,' muttered Garash darkly – were rugged and densely wooded. Finding sheer cliffs ahead, and the few hill trails impassable by horse, Alish organised a horse slaughter. Easy come, easy go. They chopped up their mounts, crammed the horse-stomachs with bits of meat and plenty of water, then boiled up the meat in the stomachs and gorged themselves.

Then went on.

The soil was light and sandy, and the pine tree had dominance. Blackwood did not like this unfamiliar kind of forest, but the others were happy enough. They slept each night with the wind lulling through the branches of the pines; they made big fires out of resinous pine cones, throwing on handfuls of pine needles which would flare up like a sudden blaze of wizard magic. In the steep-climbing hills, the land was clean, with far fewer biting insects than the lowlands they had already travelled through.

Durnwold took every opportunity to train with his brother Valarkin. On long summer evenings they sparred together, bearing shields, wielding heavy sticks rather than swords. They used sticks for safety, to prevent damage to their weapons, and so no clash of metal would ring out through the evening to alert any unpredictable strangers living within earshot.

Each evening, as Valarkin picked up his stick and put his arm through the leather thong inside the shield's curve, then grasped the iron bar bridging the space made by the shield boss, he felt more confident. His attempt to steal the green bottle and escape with Blackwood had failed, as had his effort to make the expedition turn back by throwing away the mad-jewel. Since he could not escape this quest, he would do his best to cope with its rigours. But that was not to say he liked it.

Often Valarkin thought of the man his brother Durnwold admired so much – the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst – and wondered if he would get a chance for revenge.

Since Hearst was Durnwold's friend, Valarkin had to keep his bitter knowledge to himself. He was certain that his temple's god had killed the dragon Zenphos. He was a priest, and knew the god's power: the dragon's last flight had been its death throes. A handsome sacrifice had persuaded the god to kill the dragon: he could still remember the screams of the tender boys they had dedicated during seven days of ceremony.

Valarkin knew Hearst must have found the dragon dead in its lair on the mountain of Maf. If Hearst had admitted it, Valarkin could have persuaded Prince Comedo to rebuild the temple. He could not have reconstructed the secrets that had been lost, but… everyone would have believed. Attributing fine weather to the goodwill of the god, he would have made the sun in the sky his miracle, proclaiming storm and foul weather to be the god's wrath. One proven miracle – the dragon's death – and they would have believed for a lifetime.