Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

– Mine is the highest duty, the cause which forbids doubt. Mine is the cause which overrides even an oath sworn by steel and blood. I am of the Code of Night.

Alish looked round. Were the wizards ready? Phyphor gave him a nod: Phyphor and Garash were ready to help out if they must, though they would prefer to conserve their strength to fight Heenmor. Since the loss of the mad-jewel, the wizards had spent as much time as possible deep in the Meditations, building up their powers.

Outwardly, everything seemed normal. Some men were making a pretence of cooking; others sat on the river bank watching the rafts. Alish began to walk down to the jetty. Four warriors joined him: he hoped this fist of five could reach the headman's raft without alarming the Melski. The men talked softly and joked together, but Alish walked in silence, and the wind walked with him.

A few Melski children were playing about the camp making happy whistling and grunting noises. They would die. So? They were not human. They were only gooks. The children chased each other, and the wind snatched at their cries and flung them away. , Alish walked on, and he remembered walking to other battles, ah, so many battles, and once he had sworn it would never happen again. Yes, when he had seen Hearst holding her head he had sworn that enough was enough: he had seen too much killing. But then there had been war at Castle Vaunting, fighting in the swamps, butchery at the High Castle: and now it would happen again. And who could deny that his hands remembered the skill of slaughter?

A few men gave Alish sly glances as he and his shadows walked down to the jetty. Every man had weapons within grasp or snatch. They were greedy, excited, over-eager. If all went well, the Melski headman would be first to die. They would charge the rafts before the Melski – now leaderless – had time to arm and organise. If all went well, the surviving Melski would stand and fight: they were noted for stubborn courage in battle.

But what if cowardice or good tactical sense took the Melski into the water? That was their element, where they could breathe through their gills and their green skins, and swim with their webbed hands and feet far better than any human. Things might get difficult, especially when night came and the rafts floated down the dark river with the enemy grouping silently in the water…

A couple of men were cleaning their helmets, needing to keep their hands busy while they waited. Those were the nervous ones. There were always nervous ones. What if the charge faltered or failed? What if the men turned and ran in panic? Could that happen? With this rabble, of course it could happen.

There was someone coming up behind. Alish stopped and turned. It was Gorn.

'What are you doing here?' said Alish, startled. 'You're supposed to be in charge of our rear party.'

'You don't need me there,' said Gorn.

It was true. Truth was, Alish did not want to see Gorn in action again: Gorn at war, battle axe amok, eyes manic, lips parted as if in the pleasure of lust. If there was a pause, a lull in the battle, Gorn would wipe his hands over his head, leaving blood in his hair. Worst of all, after the fighting, Gorn would go round finishing off the wounded. He never made a clean kill: he always used five strokes of the axe for the ending. Left foot, right foot, left hand, right hand – then the throat. And all this time he would sing a wordless moaning dirge, eyes by this time blank slaughter.

T sent you where I wanted you,' said Alish. 'Go!' i want to be in at the kill,' said Gorn.

It was no time for argument. Everyone was waiting for them, and Gorn could be stubborn when he chose.

'Come on then,' said Alish, 'but do nothing until I strike the first blow.'

The first raft rocked beneath their feet. Three rafts away sat the Melski headman and the rest of the Melski elders.

Alish was tempted to look back; he was afraid the men on the shore might betray the plan by grouping for the charge. The Melski were not experienced warriors, but their natural suspicion of strangers would make them wary.

But it was too late to look back now.

The wind sang in his ears. The trees across the river spired up into the wind. Green, dark green, rising to blustery blue. There will be screams on the wind and blood in the screams. Soon. It is happening. It cannot be stopped.

A few Melski were swimming, turning lazy circles in the water. Others were dozing on the rafts in the sun; some were inside the cabins. Alish could hear Gorn panting. The sound repulsed him.

The sun: too hot. Wind brisked about him. Glare from the water. He narrowed his eyes. He could smell Gorn. Sweating. Alish blinked. He was breathing too quickly. He tried to control his breathing.

What was wrong? It was hardly his first battle. He was Elkor Alish, warrior of Rovac, veteran of the Cold West. Now he was starting to sound like Hearst when the drink was doing his talking. But it was true. He was a professional, a veteran of countless battles of blood and slaughter.

Was it going into combat without helmet and shield that made him so uneasy? To avoid arousing the suspicions of the Melski, they wore no armour but a little chain mail. Without armour, was a man more vulnerable to his memories?

They were almost there.

They stepped onto the headman's raft. The headman, a big muscular Melski, stared at them intently. There was a pause. Alish felt his heart pounding. His mouth, dry, tasted of metal.

The Melski headman slowly stood up, the better to protest at the intrustion of so many strangers onto his raft. His chest inflated, then sank as he delivered a belch of discontent. He was preparing himself for oratory. There was plenty of time to observe his heavy muscles, his sunken eyes, his prodigious neck.

'You've upset him,' said Gorn, grinning. 'Come on, you'd better say something. Let your sword do the speaking.'

Alish said nothing. He knew they were all waiting for him.

'Hor-hurop!' said the Melski headman. Gorn looked at Alish.

'Hor-drup! Muur-muur. Muur hulp! Mulsk!' Alish stood there, trembling. And Gorn attacked.

'Yar!' screamed Gorn, hacking his axe to the headman's chest.

The headman staggered, belched blood. Gorn hacked for the neck. Alish lugged out his sword Ethlite. Around him, blades were lunging and slicing. And suddenly it was all over: they stood panting on the raft with corpses at their feet.

'Alish,' said Gorn. 'You were too slow to eat with us.'

And he laughed, and wiped his hands through his hair. With whoops and yells, the men on the shore were charging onto the carpet of rafts. There was a clamour of pain, of Melski bellows, clashing metal, whirring arrows. Shield and sword, the charge swept forward. Sleepers and sunbathers were cut down. Bewildered Melski stumbling from their cabins were killed in the doorways. A few dived for the water, but most stood their ground and fought.

Some charged Alish and his fist of warriors, isolated on the headman's raft.

'Alish!' shouted Gorn. 'Back to back!'

They stood back to back and braced themselves. The Melski came in a rush, green muscles swinging clubs, swinging sunglitter swords. They shouted as they came: 'Huur!'

'Gaar!'

'Horg-hulg!'

Alish took out the boldest: stabbed for the gut, drew free, then swung for the neck, shouting as he swung. The wind whipped away his shout. The boldest went down, then the onslaught was upon them.

Alish struck at a face. It slipped away. Ethlite swung free, slewed to slice at a leg. A falling Melski crashed against his hip. Alish went down on one knee. A Melski loomed over him. A club swept down.

Alish parried, rose to his feet. Again the club swung. His sword sliced air to meet it. His blade slid along the wood and carried away the hands that held it. Alish stepped back for room to move, then hacked at the head. He spun, and his sword met flesh. A spurt of blood. He turned again, meeting a face with the edge of his blade.