Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

'Sorcerers can be expert liars. What proof do you offer?'

'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, his old man's voice pale from bloodloss. 'You will have the power to enter the tower of Arl. And you will understand the High Speech, the reading of it, the writing of it, the speaking of it.'

That meant: that meant Alish would be able to read what was written on the death-stone. i will take your oath.'

'Let me hear it then.' i, Elkor Alish, son of Teramont the Defender, warrior of Rovac, blood of the clan of the eagle, swear by my heart's blood and by the powers of the fire-flood hell that when the days of the wizard Heenmor are ended, Garash will die as soon as my sword can find him.'

'And you, Morgan Hearst?' i, Morgan Gestrel Hearst, son of Avor the Hawk, song-singer, sword-master, warrior of Rovac, swear by my sword Hast and the hand that holds it that I will see Garash dead as soon as Heenmor falls.'

'Good. And you, Blackwood?'

There was no answer.

'Blackwood?'

'I'm no wizard,' said Blackwood. 'I'm no warrior. Why choose me?'

'Because you have the best motive for murder,' said Phyphor. 'Because it was Garash who told Prince Comedo to leave a mad-jewel in Castle Vaunting. It was Garash who caused your wife's death. There… so now you know. So now you must kill him.'

'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'I'd be simple to think the truth's that simple. In any case, I don't want any part in any killing – or your thousand years of life, either.'

Phyphor sighed.

'As you wish,' said Phyphor. 'But will you… will you do this one thing for me… hold my hand before I die?'

'Mister,' said Blackwood, i can't refuse a dying man. Here's my hand.'

'Good,' said the dying wizard. 'Good. It's good to have a touch of life in my right hand. Miphon…'

And Miphon, needing no instructions more explicit than that, silently urged the others into a circle. Phyphor, Alish, Hearst and – 'What's this?' said Blackwood, as Hearst grabbed his free hand. 'Let go!'

Realising he had been tricked just as a child might have been tricked, Blackwood tried to break away. But it was too late, because – Their bodies were locked rigid by crushing weight and pressure. He heard the sullen double-drum of a labouring heart, cried out as light seared his eyes, and then – Darkness, and then – Sunlight, and a young boy running along a wild open beach, laughing, his arms outstretched, rain and sunlight falling together as he raced the wind, and then – A canyon ablaze with flame. He named it: Drangsturm. And then: a castle which probed for the sky, huge wings against the sun, a Word and a blast of power – A small room smelling of burnt flesh and acrid smoke, voices raised in fear and anger, the harsh commands – A ruined fortress on the border, wind, the evening light failing, surf breaking on the shore, and, as Saba Yavendar said, where wind may walk but men no longer – Again darkness, the crushing pressure, a heart at first loud and then lisping, soft, slow, soft…

'Blackwood,' hissed Phyphor, dying. 'You will find your wife's corpse, and then…'

His voice faltered into silence. The last strength left his hands. It was over.

'He's dead,' said Miphon.

At that moment, there was a shout of triumph from the leading raft. They could see daylight ahead. Everyone cheered as they swept toward the light, but elation turned to despair when they got closer and saw the daylight was from a gap high up in the rock roof. It gave them one brief glimpse of blue sky capping a sheer rockfall shaft, then darkness claimed them again.

Soon daylight was only a memory. Now any of a thousand dooms might write them out of history. The rock roof might draw right down to the water, drowning them. An underground waterfall might shatter rafts and bodies. They might sail out onto a vast underground lake, where the river's current would become lost, allowing them to drift and starve with nothing to guide them to the outlet.

As they drifted onward, hunger came, and was fed; returned, and was fed again.

Downstream they floated.

The flow of the river slowed, grew sluggish, offering them less hope of early escape from the darkness. The hollow roar of running water diminished to a muttering churgling; men, no longer compelled to shout, spoke with muted voices, and as the days went by they spoke less and less.

They caught fish. They scragged wet flesh from fine-comb bones with knives that were going rusty in the darkness. The rafts knocked together in the darkness, and, as men lay dreaming, that sound translated itself into the restless trunfling of nameless monsters. Men developed sores from lying damp on damp rafts; Gorn complained that his gums were bleeding, but he could have been imagining it.

Downstream they floated.

Blackwood listened to the steady chutter-gutter of water, to the thonk-clonk of rafts knocking against each other. He felt as if they were being mumbled down a long dark throat. He imagined them being digested in the darkness, becoming first blind then toothless then hairless, sores eating through to the bones, until after weeks of hunger and damp there were only twisted bones and gristle on these waterlogged rafts going downstream through the darkness.

Gorn came to Blackwood one day.

'Have you got a tinder box?' he said.

'I have,' said Blackwood. 'And it's dry. But every- thing is damp. There's nothing dry to burn.'

'No,' said Gorn, 'I've been carrying things we could burn. They've been next to my skin for a long time now. Bits of bamboo, small strips of wood. They're dry now.'

'That was a good idea.' i thought so too,' said Gorn. 'Light the fire for me. We'll build it right here, on the raft. The logs are too thick and sodden to catch fire.'

'Then what are you scared of?'

'What?'

'Sorry,' said Blackwood, who had spoken without thinking, i must have been imagining things.'

'No,' said Gorn. 'You're right. I'm afraid. I'm afraid… I may have gone blind in the dark.'

Til light the fire,' said Blackwood.

The first sparks from the tinder box delighted Gorn, for he could see them. But it was hard work lighting the fire. Blackwood persisted till the moment brighter than magic when the spark caught, twisted into flame, flared, hissed, crackled, then burst into a conflagration that set light and shadow leaping in the gloom. Gorn whooped. Men stirred, woke and staggered to their feet. And what a crew they were: sunken eyes, unkempt hair, faces marked by bad dreams and despair. But now, seeing the fire, they cheered.

'Hah!' shouted Gorn. 'Light! Light!'

Then something screamed.

High overhead in the darkness it screamed. It screamed with malevolence in the bowels of the earth. It screamed with pain, with rage, with hatred.

'Out!' yelled Hearst. 'Put the fire out!'

Gorn dashed his arms into the water. With his wet arms he swept the fire over the side of the raft. Men filled their helmets with water and flung it on the burning remnants. There was the hiss of fire relapsing into char. Then everyone waited and listened to the darkness.

There was the sound of wings beating overhead. One 231 set of wings. Two sets of wings. A dozen sets of wings. They were huge. They circled. The rafts bumped and nuzzled each other. Men sat rigid as if skewered. Fingers tightened on weapons. The wings circled, circled, and then ceased to be heard.

After they had no longer heard the wings for a long time, someone ventured to speak…

In the darkness the men began to die. They did not cease breathing straight away, but they slept more than they stayed awake. They ceased to talk. Few of them bothered to fish. Those who did fish caught flesh which tasted strange; exploring fingers found these fish had no eyes. Some were reluctant to eat them, and ate only siege dust and the occasional handful of mouldy food from their packs.