Hugh Cook: The wizards and the warriors

'Heenmor, eh?' said the innkeeper. 'It's not a name we know much of in these parts…'

'Oh,' said Miphon, and that was all he said.

Miphon took off his boots and massaged his feet slowly, working some warmth into them.

'Midwinter we heard a tell of Heenmor,' said the innkeeper. 'Not that I believe a word of the tell.'

'What you don't believe we won't trouble you for,' said Miphon. 'Pass the wine, please.'

Midwinter tales were not worth the money: it was the beginning of spring, and winter tales would not tell them if Heenmor was still in Castle Vaunting.

Name: Morgan Gestrel Hearst.

Birthplace: the islands of Rovac.

Occupation: bodyguard to Prince Comedo of Estar.

Status: a hero of the wars of the Cold West, veteran soldier of Rovac, Chevalier of the Iron Order of the city of Chi'ash-lan, blood-sworn defender of Johan Meryl Comedo of Estar.

Description: lean clean-shaven man of average height, age 35, hair grey, eyes grey.

Career: going off to the wars at age 14, served variously in lands north and south of Rovac, then spent 10 years in the Cold West under the command of Elkor Alish. Subsequently followed Alish to Estar.

The day was dying. In Hearst's room in Castle Vaunting, the fire had not been lit; it was cold.

'What do you want?' said Hearst, as Alish entered.

'I'm here to see how you are,' said Alish.

'Oh? And what concern is that of yours?'

'Don't be like that,' said Alish. He picked up the goblet Hearst had been drinking from. 'What's this?'

'A drink.'

Alish sniffed it, tasted it.

'Ganshmed!' he said, naming the vodka by its Rovac name, which translates literally as deathwater. 'So?'

'This is no night for boozing.' 'It's not night yet.'

'Morgan… it's a hard enough climb for any man 38 under any conditions. Drunk, you won't have a chance.' 'It's my life.'

'Listen, Morgan! You were a fool to dare this challenge. That can't be denied. But with that said -why condemn yourself to death before you start. Get to bed. Rest. Sleep. You'll need all your strength tomorrow – and we start early." 'Give me my drink,' said Hearst.

'Morgan, aren't you listening?'

'It's my life.'

'Your life, yes – but the honour of Rovac lives or dies through you.'

'Alish, I'll be dead by noon tomorrow. A piss on the honour of Rovac! Now give me my drink. Come on, give it! By the hell! By the hell, Alish, did you have to hit me so hard?'

'Get up,' said Alish. 'Get up. See? You're halfway legless already. How much have you drunk?'

'Enough,' said Hearst. 'But I can walk straight, talk straight and stick it up straight. Now give me my drink.'

'No. I'd sooner kill you here than see you fall tomorrow because you're drunk.' 'Kill me?' roared Hearst.

And lugged his sword Hast from the scabbard. That sword was a miracle of metalwork, but the hands that held it were in no condition to wield it.

'Draw!' growled Hearst. 'Draw, you god-rot hero!'

But Alish kept his blade, Ethlite, sheathed. Slowly, deliberately, he poured Hearst's vodka onto the floor. Hearst lunged for him. Alish sidestepped neatly, then helped him on his way with a shove that sent him crashing into the wall.

Hearst collapsed to the floor, groaning. Alish's resolve hardened: if necessary, he would kill Hearst in the morning rather than let him make a fool of himself in front of Prince Comedo and his minions. Once they had been friends: but Hearst had long since lost the right to Alish's friendship.

Alish opened the door, slipped outside and beckoned to the man who stood waiting in the corridor.

'Durnwold,' said Alish, 'You were right to call me: he's in a bad way. But I can't do anything for him. You try. If he stops drinking and gets to sleep, he'll have a chance tomorrow. Otherwise… '

'I understand,' said Durnwold, nodding. 'I'll do what I can.'

Alish left; Durnwold entered Hearst's room.

Morgan Hearst sat on the bed, hands supporting his head. He looked up, then looked away.

Durnwold picked up the sword Hast and turned it over in his hands. It was a true battle-sword, forged generations ago by the smiths of Stokos. It was made of firelight steel, which, consisting of interwoven layers of high carbon and low carbon steel, is light, strong and flexible, and will never fail in battle.

'It's a fine blade,' said Durnwold.

'A fine blade, yes,' said Hearst, his voice dull.

The steel had been etched with vinegar to bring out the grain; patterns as various as the shapings of the sea snaked along the blade as Durnwold displayed it to the last of the daylight.

'I held that blade at Enelorf,' said Hearst.

'You told me.'

'I've no fear in battle, you know.' 'I know it.'

'We've been through many battles together, blood-sword Hast and Morgan Hearst.'

'Yes,' said Durnwold. 'It's a fine blade indeed. A warrior's weapon. A weapon too good to leave for a prince'.

'Yes,' said Hearst, his face now lost in shadow. 'Far too good for a prince.'

'We ride to war soon,' said Durnwold. 'You've trained me. I was born a peasant, but, given free choice, I'd rather be your battle-companion. Tell me, am I good enough?'

Hearst did not answer for a while. Then he spoke, out of the darkness: 'You have the makings of a warrior. All you need now is the battles to harden you. And I could wish no better companion than you to ride with me. But I've heard so much of your talk of the sheep, the farm, the peat, your brother Valarkin, your sisters spinning wool -1 thought yours was a peasant's heart forever.'

T can't help my past,' said Durnwold, 'But I have the will to help my future. My future lies with yours.'

'Give me my sword then,' said Hearst, reaching from darkness to darkness. 'Strength and steel, hey? Yes. I'll do it. The climb and the kill. I'll do them both.'

Pox: vernacular name used for a number of diseases characterised by eruptive sores, but in particular for syphilis.

Pox doctor: one who heals or purports to heal venereal diseases such as syphilis, gonorrhoea etc. etc.

In Castle Vaunting, night brought sleep to the warrior Morgan Hearst, who was due to face his doom on the morrow.

In the hamlet of Delve, night brought sleep also to the wizards Phyphor and Garash, who ensconced themselves in a loft. But Miphon stayed awake, for he was needed for doctor work.

Even here in Delve, the people had heard the legends of the Alliance of wizards and heroes four thousand years and more before, the Alliance which had fought so long and hard against the Swarms. However, whatever legend, song or rumour might say, most folk credited wizards with no magic. Their standing was low, for they were best known as pox doctors. Most people had no chance to unlearn their ignorance, for wizards came seldom to Estar, and, though Delve knew of Heenmor, it was only by hearsay.

The last wizard to visit Delve had been a young apprentice discarded by his tutor because of his poor scholarship and his inability to build and control power through the Meditations. He had been scraping a living as a healer, though his studies of the healing arts were far from complete.

Such incompetent failures were the wizards most frequently seen by men, and, encountering such a novice, a young man blinking behind wire-rimmed spectacles, shuffling his feet, stuttering, travelling burdened with herbs, leeches, divining rods, poultices, eye of newt and ear of bat, it was hard to credit the seventh oldest profession with any importance.

Phyphor, however, was powerful, dangerous, and, of course, very old; the ages of wizards, though measured in fewer years than the ages of rock, outshadow the mayfly lives of common men. Garash was younger, but still very dangerous.