Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

He got them moving.

It was hot; the water which fell on the stones as they splashed ashore dried swiftly. The sun had already begun to scald pallid flesh. Hearst had spindly trees cut down to make crude shelters for them to work under. He ordered the survivors – there were forty-six of them – to unpack and spread everything out to dry. The packs disgorged gear white with fungus, musky with rot, dripping with slime.

'Andranovory!' yelled Hearst, seeing a man standing idle.

'I haven't got a pack,' protested Andranovory. 'Mine's missing.'

'You haven't got a cock, either,' shouted Hearst, 'but that never stopped you sucking one. There's more packs than men, so get your finger out of your arse and do something useful with it.'

Andranovory, grumbling, secured a spare pack and dumped a load of mouldy clothes and rotten food to the stones. A small bundle broke apart, scattering the glitter of jewels and golden coins. His morale improved immediately.

'That's mine!' cried a man suddenly.

'Yes, sure,' said Andranovory. 'Like your third nipple and your fourth arse,' which was a traditional insult in the parts he hailed from. 'You want to fight me for them? Well then, come on.'

And he drew a blade.

'Belay that, you mother-riding animals!' shouted Hearst.

And proceeded to castigate them severely, using terms so obscene that even Gorn was seen to blush.

Hearst had just restored order when one man suddenly doubled over and began to cough up worms. They were blood-red: the colour of the gills of a fish. They wriggled on the hot stones. Hearst squashed one with the toe of his boot: blood squirted out. Miphon knelt down beside the victim, though he suspected there was nothing he could do.

Garash lit a fire to dry out a small cache of supplies he had carried with him. Finding his maps and manuscripts reduced to pulp, he swore in a language nobody else could understand. Stones around the fire trembled: one split apart, shattering into flying fragments. His rage was impressive, but it wasted energy.

With gear spread out to dry, men set to work on knives, swords and battle axes with sharpening stones. Many fires were lit; there was no need for all of them, but it was good to see fire again and smell smoke.

Hearst knew the smoke, rising into the clear blue sky, would betray them to any observers… but judged that the risk was worth it. He would let the men have their friendly fires. At Hearst's orders, some men dragged one of the rafts ashore, then split the logs, using axe heads as wedges. The sun would dry the wood soon enough, giving them plenty of fuel.

Hearst examined his own gear. The stitching of his boots was rotten and they were falling apart. He would have to see what he could do about it…

Gorn was boiling something up in his helmet. It proved to be handfuls of pale blue water snails, some almost the size of a thumb.

'There's plenty of them on the rocks near the shore,' said Gorn, 'In water less than knee-deep.'

'Good,' said Hearst. 'Good…'

One man was barbering. At his feet, the colours of straw, bark, soot and flame shone in the sunlight. A bumblebee, the workaday insect common to all the world, lumbered along the shore. Hearst savoured the intense pungent smell of an aromatic herb hidden somewhere among the thin, scrubby trees. He stretched, then smiled, then laughed aloud.

– Truly, we have come through.

On the lake, Valarkin was a dot in the distance.

Evening came early to the lakeside as the sun fell away behind the cliffs and cold shadows engulfed the shore. The waters of the lake became grey. Men ceased their labours and sat by their fires, occasionally feeding sticks to the flames.

Hearst had the rafts hauled up out of the water – they might need them yet, and there might be a few Melski who had survived the journey through the darkness -then he chose his guards for the dark hours.

'There will be stars tonight. Maybe even a moon -who knows? Those on guard will have enough light to see by – if they stay alert. If not, they may wake to find the Melski cutting their throats.'

Men grumbled, but Hearst knew it would do them good to re-establish the routines of campaigning.

Blackwood was suffering as the night set in. Soon his cough worsened until it was almost as bad as it had been towards the end of the long underground journey. Miphon led him to a fire. Blackwood bent over it and gulped in hot, dry air. The cold smoke that trailed from his mouth writhed, suffered and withdrew.

'Breathe in the heat,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in the heat. Take it down into your lungs. Deep down.'

The cold smoke appeared again between Blackwood's lips, and again cringed from the heat.

'Breathe deep,' said Miphon. 'Breathe deep.'

Hearst lay back on the stones he would be sleeping on, and, looking at the night sky which he knew so well, saw something had happened which he had not thought possible: while they had been underground, a new star had made its debut in the sky. He could just hear Miphon's voice, soft, warm, encouraging: 'Breathe in,' said Miphon. 'Breathe in.'

And that gentle voice reminded Hearst of the way Alish had talked to him that time in Valley Sharator, when Hearst lay pallid with pain, clammy-skinned with shock, his shoulder dislocated by a fall from a horse. Breathe in, said Alish, passing him the opium pipe. And Hearst had breathed in. Breathed in. Taken it in. Breathed in darkness, breathed in sleep. Then Alish had taken his arm, saying, this may hurt a little… And he had breathed in, first pain, then darkness.

Sleep…

At Miphon's urging, Blackwood breathed in the heat. 'Soon you'll be able to get to sleep,' said Miphon. 'If you can sleep through to morning, you'll feel better when the sun rises.'

'Tell me,' said Blackwood. 'What's the cure for this?'

'I've already told you,' said Miphon. 'There's no cure.'

'There must be something.' 'Well…' 'Tell me.'

'This is old lore, and old lore is never certain,' said Miphon. 'But the old lore says a draught of the blood of a dragon mixed with the blood of a man is certain healing for all ills.'

'Then there is a way.'

'If you can find your dragon and kill him,' said Miphon. 'Then, yes, there's a way. But there's a price for the cure.'

'What?'

'This is old lore from the dreamtime,' said Miphon. 'And the old lore says, who drinks this draught of mixed blood will never love a woman and will never hate a man, will never be able to kill – not even in self-defence – and will never call any place home.' is that all it takes – blood and blood?'

'So it's said. Now breathe in. Deeper. That's right. Deep and steady. Deep.'

And Blackwood breathed in the heat. Would he ever get a chance to try the cure? And would it work? Having seen so many things he would once have thought impossible, he could scarcely answer 'no' to either question. He had seen madness at work in broad daylight, armies destroyed, castles abandoned, a prince mocked, a wizard killed, and Rovac warriors running in fear. He had been told he had the chance to live for a thousand years.

It might happen: anything might happen.

Hearst woke in the night. He lay there, listening, hearing a creaking snore which he knew to be Gorn's. The snore grew louder and louder then stopped. Gorn had stopped breathing. It was something he did sometimes while sleeping. Hearst waited. There was a snort as Gorn woke, a shifting of stones as he rolled over, and Hearst knew he would be asleep again already. Hearst had been a long way with Gorn; they had shared the same shadow on many roads.

Looking at the night sky, Hearst saw the red star they called the Golem's Eye was low on the horizon formed by the cliffs on the other side of the lake. Where were the guards? He could hear no murmur of conversation, and there was rto fire burning. So they were probably asleep – or lying in the night with their throats cut.