Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

'Mister,' said Blackwood. 'Don't try that comrade-talk with me. I know what happened. Murder. Women and children. Killing fishermen, stealing their boats.'

'They're only gooks,' said Alish.

'Mister,' said Blackwood. 'You don't believe that.'

Alish had seen alcoholic Melski in Lorford: gross green stumbling wrecks blinded by the alcohol which, for them, was an addictive drug bringing death in two or three years. Many scorned the Melski because of the inability of their body chemistry to handle basic poisons. But Alish, no brawling boneheaded blademas-ter, was too widely-travelled to find such provincial sentiments satisfactory.

Unlike some other people – for instance, the Korugatu philosophers of Chi'ash-lan – the Rovac had no formal theory of war crimes. Nevertheless, the concept was not unknown to them. One did not murder an embassy come to parley during a truce, systematic genocide was considered a bit excessive, and the habit of serving prisoners with bits of grilled meat cut from their own bodies was generally frowned upon.

Moreover, Alish, having learnt a certain unforgettable lesson from personal experience, knew the human cost of what he did – and knew that, as far as ethics were concerned, the term 'human' could reasonably be extended to cover the Melski. He did not find his latest battle-memories easy to live with. it happened,' said Alish. it's done.'

He spoke as if the words were a formula for ending recriminations: and amongst the Rovac, they were. it was a cruel business,' insisted Blackwood. it was necessary.'

'Oh yes, everyone has to die, so I suppose death's necessary.'

'Listen, Heenmor is evil: evil without redemption. Ours is a just cause. We don't want to shed innocent blood, but we had to. We're trying to save the world!'

'The world will be much the same when Heenmor is dead,' said Blackwood. 'Only then you'll have to find another excuse to kill people.'

'You don't understand, Heenmor – '

'Oh, I understand, mister. You've thought yourself a reason to kill lots and lots of people and be proud of it. Well then, kill away. Be happy in your work.'

'I don't enjoy killing.'

'Oh, you don't? And I suppose your sword doesn't either? And does that make the dead less dead?'

'What would you do in my place?'

T could never be in your place, mister. I could never swim through that much blood to get there. But swimming makes some happy, it seems. Your fighting men look happy enough.'

'Of course,' said Alish. 'We've won a victory.'

'It wasn't much of a victory.'

'You're right,' said Alish. Speaking, he felt that he should be glad that Blackwood seemed to have abandoned the subject of his personal sins. But he wasn't glad. It was painful to talk about it, yet worse to keep silent. And who else could he talk to? Not Hearst! 'Yes,' he said. 'You're right. It wasn't much of a victory. There was no fighting to it.'

'Just butchery.'

'Yes. But that's the sort of victory men love. They're getting the best part of their reward now. Inside that cabin.'

Since the evening of the day before, men had been taking turns to go into the cabin he indicated. 'What are they doing in there?' 'What do you think?'

'Is it always like this after a victory?' said Blackwood, looking away.

Alish studied the banks, which were steadily becoming cliffs as the rafts glided down the river.

'Men imagine victory often enough during our campaigns of mud and rain,' said Alish, slowly. 'And when victory comes, they make it everything they had imagined.'

'But not all soldiers can be like this.'

'No,' said Alish. 'Some are worse. The Rovac are worse. In the Cold West, it was policy. Our very name became another word for terror. In the Cold West, there was nowhere for our victims to run to, not during the snows. I remember 'Yes, well,' said Blackwood, who presently had no appetite for any gut-slaughter stories, 'Perhaps you could forget, too.'

'Oh no, no… I could hardly forget. I remember the time… yes, the time when we conquered the city of Morlock on the river Tenebris. We conquered it for the Emperor Yan. Yan, Yanyl – there were marching songs made about that, I can tell you.'

They were talking in Estral, and Blackwood had no hope of understanding the relevant pun in Rovac, equivalent to Ars – Arse. But Alish did not think of that. His eyes were unfocused; the sights he saw now lay far away in time and distance.

'The city fell to us on the same day that the spring thaw broke up the river of ice. That was a night… that was a night they talk about still. They were soft in that city… they screamed even before they were touched…'

He said no more, but he remembered. Yes. The room had been hot if you were near the blazing fire that glowed on the heaving flesh, or frigid if you were by the slit windows that looked out over the river. The ice had grated as floe clashed with floe all night in the swirling water. Toward morning one of the women had made a sound like the grating of old iron against old iron. She had made that sound deep in her throat and soon after that she had died.

And he remembered… yes, the room in the small village under the shadow of the Far Wall that stretched across the tundra… a smoky cave in the Valley of Insects… the inner sanctum of the desecrated Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers…

'Sorrow is sweet,' said Blackwood, knowing that some people can positively enjoy the sentimental satisfactions of remorse.

'Not all sorrow, woodsman. Let me tell you a tale… a true tale of the wars in the Cold West. It is the tale of… well, listen and you will hear.

T had been ten years fighting in the Cold West when there fell to my forces the task of capturing a small city state. It was by the coast. It was important to us: the only harbour for five hundred leagues that did not freeze in winter. Hot springs – a hot river in fact -emptied into the harbour and let ships use it all year round. We laid siege to the city.

'It was a bitter siege. The city was weak, but the people worshipped a god that was strong, and gave them aid. Led by a woman warrior-priest, they fought us, and their defence held, thanks to the powers of their god. The name of the city was Larbreth. Have you heard of that city? No? Well, I suppose you hear little of the Cold West here in Argan.

'One day, the people of the city made a sally against us. They shattered our ranks. I fought their leader, hand to hand, sword against sword. Well, I am not one for boasting, but I was the best man with a sword in all the armies of Rovac. She disarmed me. She took me prisoner. Ethlite was her name.

'She was two hundred years old. Her god kept her body young, but she was wise with the wisdom of generations. They did not hate us, do you know that? They knew who we were and what we were, but they did not hate us. She… she chose me. Was she in love? I think she was too wise for unthinking passion. But she chose me.

'I say they understood us, but they did not really understand. When she knew I was in love with her, she trusted me. She did not understand that the will is stronger than love. Poison was the way I chose. While her body was still warm, I opened the city gates. That was a victory to remember. Oh yes, I remember He remembered that day, and he remembered the night of that day, when the drums of Rovac had worked to a frenzy, and every man had lubricated himself with blood…

'So we had a victory. I took her sword, and named it after her. Ethlite, I called it. That was the best sword I ever held, but I never used it in the Cold West. I went back to Rovac. I wanted…'

But he could not speak of that. He could not speak of the Code of Night. That had been his choice: to renounce the mercenary campaigns which had given him fame and glory, and to dedicate himself to the tasks of righting Rovac's ancient wrongs.