Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

Elkor Alish pioneered the climb from the lakeside, risking his life on slopes of rotten rock while the others caught fish, roasted crickets, and pounded roots to a pulp to try and make them edible. Tackling precipices which made others blanch, Alish slowly regained his confidence; perched on a high ledge amid a region of drifting steam and boiling waterfalls, he felt a sense of superiority as he looked down on those below.

They had survived. The underground journey could now be seen as a test, a necessary preliminary to greatness. A warrior should welcome such tests, for they eliminated those who were weak in body or in spirit. When he finally closed his hand round the death-stone, he would know he had earned it, and that his sufferings justified his claim to the power.

By killing Heenmor at Ep Pass – and dying in the act – he would have spared his men their underground journey. However, the wizards would have taken the death-stone south, thwarting the destiny of Rovac. Surveying the world from heights which diminished the men below to ants, Alish knew that history required and justified the sufferings of their underground journey.

Elkor Alish knew of gods darker than most men's imaginings, and feared them, but what he really worshipped was the historical process which selected and trained men like himself; he saw himself in terms of the history of his people, the purpose of his existence being to administer the justice of the dead and destroy Rovac's ancient, evil enemies.

So Elkor Alish found his confidence on those rock walls, and found also, on a more mundane level, the one way up to the rim of the cliffs: a steep slope of scoria, where there was only the occasional rock outcrop, and no steam or boiling water.

Hearst and Alish spliced together all the bits of rope and twine they could find, ending up with enough length to link the men together, though they were dubious about its weight-bearing capacity. When the climb began, there were regular pauses as the stronger climbers took the rope higher, securing it to the next solid rock.

The climb, beginning at dawn, proved hard going. None dared throw their full weight on the rope lest it part under the strain, though the wizards seemed prepared to trust it more than the soldiers.

Soon the only sounds were stones grating under boots, the intermittent shuffle-rush of sliding scree, the panting of sweating men burdened by heavy packs, and the occasional clink of steel against rock. There was no sound of insect. No breath of wind. Labouring upwards, they saw nothing but the scree in front of their faces, the stones that slid, shifted and frustrated their strength.

As they climbed upward, any who cared to look down when they stopped to rest – and those few needed to squint against the dazzling glare – saw the rafts were growing small beneath them. But they were only a fraction of the way up the slope.

Like the others, Blackwood sweated, panted and cut his hands scrabbling for handholds in the loose scoria, but derived one consolation from his hard labour in that the exertion in the sun made the smoke parasite suffer, so it irritated him less.

Miphon, climbing just behind Blackwood, twice saved him from sliding away down the slope. Miphon was hardly panting; it irritated Blackwood to know that the wizard was finding the climb almost easy.

Hearst called a halt.

Strung out on the slope, the men rested. 'There's a strain on the rope,' said Hearst. 'Don't throw your weight on the rope. It can't hold you all.' His voice died away.

A stone rattled down the slope, starting other stones moving far below. Then silence again.

Blackwood wiped a hand across his forehead, which was slick with sweat. His throat was dry. He turned to Miphon. 'You look like you could climb all week,' said Blackwood. it's your dust,' said Miphon, grinning, i get strong eating it.'

'You'll have more than that to eat if this climb goes on. It's killing me.'

'You're not going to die,' said Miphon. 'Not for a thousand years.' if you say so,' said Blackwood.

But he could tell that Miphon was just trying to keep his spirits up. Miphon grinned again, face good-humoured beneath his feathered hat. if it's any consolation, others are suffering more than you. Can't you hear Garash, grunting like a pig?'

Blackwood smiled; it was his first smile in a long time.

Someone was drinking from a leather bottle with a noisy gurgling of water. Blackwood, narrowing his eyes, looked up the slope to see who it was. It was Footling.

Hearst sang out the order for the climb to begin again.

Blackwood felt as if he had hardly rested at all, but even that short pause had been enough to make his muscles stiffen. He was dismayed. After all the years of hardship his body had endured without fail, would his strength abandon him here, in the wilderness? He dreaded the prospect of being left behind if he could not keep up with the others.

Suddenly the bottle hanging from Blackwood's belt began to shake and rattle.

'No!' shouted Blackwood. Everyone stopped climbing. 'No!' he cried.

But a stream of vapours shot out and coagulated into the form of Prince Comedo. He screamed as the sunlight seared his eyes. He slipped on the scoria and fell. Blackwood made no effort to save him: it would have endangered the whole party. But Comedo grabbed Miphon's boot as he slid past. The wrench shook the rope.

It parted, breaking just above Blackwood's hands.

He grabbed for the end of it, but found himself off balance and sliding. So was Miphon. Soon the thirty people below the breaking point were sliding. Some managed to brake themselves with their boots before they had picked up too much momentum. Others grabbed outcroppings of rock. But the rest were swept away down the slippery sliding slope.

Hearst, safe above the rope-break, screamed at his men, ordering them to roll onto their backs. Blackwood already had, to let the stones grind and rip at his leather pack instead of his belly, while he tried to brake with his feet. Comedo, still clinging to Miphon's boot and still screaming, lacked the self-possession to do anything to slow his fall. Miphon booted him in the face. Comedo let go and slid to the bottom of the slope.

Blackwood and Miphon came bumping down after him with half a dozen others. The rest were still clinging to the rope far above them, or were scattered through all the points in between. Comedo was screaming like a bayoneted baby, his face torn, his clothes ripped, his body gouged and scraped.

'See what you've done?' snarled Blackwood, picking himself up.

Comedo cringed like a dog that knows it is about to get kicked, and blubbered through a mask of blood: 'It was so hot, so hot, so stuffy. It was so sway and jolty, voices so cruel. I was sick, sick, oh I was so sick and suffering, and nobody comforts, I scream and nobody comes, nobody, oh I suffer, poor me suffering, poor me.'

Miphon, ever the healer, stepped forward to see what he could do. Comedo smelt of neglect, defeat and musty self-abuse. His hair was dirty and unkempt; he was half-shaven; his skin had erupted into boils. His wounds and welts, half-disguised by dust and blood, looked terrible, but Miphon suspected most of them were superficial.

'Kiirhim, Miphon,' said Blackwood. 'Kill – '

A spasm of coughing racked his body. He doubled over, then was forced to his knees. He clutched at his belly. Cold smoke dribbled out through his twisted lips. i don't like this place,' moaned Comedo. 'I don't like it.'

'Kill him,' said Blackwood, raising his head high enough to look at Comedo. 'He's good for nothing else now.'

But Miphon was examining the prince with skilled hands, satisfying himself that the damage was all superficial. Blackwood forced himself to his feet. His last fit of coughing had felt as if it was tearing his innards out; he held his gut with all his strength to reinforce it against the pain.