Hugh Cook: The wizards and the warriors

– Hast, my sword, my strength, my half-brother, my brother in blood.

'Why linger, friend?' said Comedo. 'Remember, up is hard, but down is easy – all you have to do is jump.'

And he laughed. For Comedo, life was full of occasions for merriment. His executioner provided him with many of them.

– He laughs. He laughs at you, Morgan Hearst, leader of men. Yes. But with good reason.

Durnwold came to Hearst.

'I'll wait for you,' said Durnwold.

'You may have to wait a long time.'

'I'll wait. Trust me.'

'I do,' said Hearst.

Then glanced at Alish, who sat silently on his horse. The sun shone on his long black hair, his embroidered cloak, his golden jewellery. Hearst knew Alish could have shinned up this mountain, making the climb seem effortless. Only a face of sheer ice or sheer glass could have defeated him. But then, Alish was not afraid of heights.

'We're waiting,' said Comedo, who was getting bored.

'I know, my prince,' said Hearst.

And turned to face the mountain.

The wide world turns. The entire continent of Argan now lies in sunlight; the edge of dawn moves slowly westward across the Central Ocean toward Rovac and the Cold West. While Hearst labours up the rockwalls of Maf, an isolated mountain spike in the north-west of Argan, the cities of the continent are waking in the morning light.

In the free port of Runcorn, the Common Gates are opened; in Androlmarphos. dominating the delta of the Velvet River, the harbour chains are removed; in Selzirk, the kingmaker Farfalla – named for the moth -rises to her daily rituals.

Further to the south, in Veda, stronghold of the sages, the Masters are at study; the troops of the Secular Arm man Veda's battlements and drill on the training grounds. Further South again, Landguard patrols prowl the Far South. By Drangsturm, the turrets and towers of the spectacular upthrust of the Castle of Controlling Power mass against the light; beyond the Great Dyke, in the Deep South, small bands of Southsearchers in the land of Swarms settle down to wait out the dangers of the day.

Hearst climbs, his danger increasing from moment to moment, but the life of the world will continue whether ¦ he gains the heights or falls. Win or lose, succeed or fail, the world will go on without him, and well he knows how little he matters to the world as he struggles up the cliff face.

It is the loneliest hour of his life.

There was a crack up there. It would give him a handhold, if he could reach it.

– Can you reach it, little man? No. It's out of reach.

– Look down. Come on. I dare you. Look down. Yes, yes, that's right. Down.

He looked down, to see a flash of white sliding through the air far below his feet. A gull. On the rocks below the gull, a few small specks dotted the rocks: men. His comrades.

– So they're waiting. Some of them, at least. But what does it matter? You'll never see them again unless you reach that handhold.

He was exhausted. It was too far to climb back down.

– You'll never reach that handhold. Never.

The sweat from his last exertions had dried on his body. The wind which had harried him earlier in the day had gone to torment some other place, but the air was still cold. He was cold.

– Colder still when dead, no doubt.

He could not reach that stronghold, that handhold, that griphold which would secure him against that five-scream fall. It was impossible. This was the end.

– Any regrets? Many. But at least nobody else will die because of this foolishness. None other was fool enough to join this climb. Not even Durnwold.

He was facing his end. And he was facing it alone.

– Bereft of strength, and far away my friends.

His legs were trembling. If he let go it would all be finished. It would be so easy to let go. He would slip back into the air that was softer than feathers. He would fall.

So easy.

His head hurt where a falling rock had clipped it earlier in the climb. The short-cropped hair there was stiff with blood. He had dried blood on his fingers, torn by grappling with the cliff.

He was so tired.

So cold.

If he let go, no more pain. No more fear. It would all be over. But they would make rude songs about him.

They would liken him to spattered bird dung.

– Look up.

– Look up, arse-wipe. Up!

– How far?

– Only thirty paces.

Only thirteen paces to the dragon's lair. There were ten leagues to a march – twenty thousand paces – and often he had made two marches between sunrise and sunset. Would thirty paces defeat him now? If he had been a man-sized fly he could have walked those thirty paces on a single breath of air.

– Look up.

– The only chance is up. Will the left hand hold you? The left hand held him. He stretched. The handhold was out of reach. But only just. Should he jump? It wasn't far. But when a man is on a cliff-face where even to flex his knees may be precarious, when he has climbed so far, with so much pain, with so much fear…

– But there's no other choice.

– So jump!

Hearst boosted himself up, to find his fear had previously cramped him to a crouch even when he thought he was at full stretch. He gained the handhold. One hand on. Two!

Easy.

His feet slipped, scrabbled, then found their resting place. Then slipped again. Then half his handhold crumbled away to nothing. His left hand clawed at the air. He was hanging by one hand only. His fingers began to slide.

Then his flailing hand found a crevice.

– Hold me, woman-rock. It held.

His feet found purchase. Two hands on. Two feet on. And he could see his next handhold. He reached for it, gained it. Up. To the next. The next. He climbed, animated by a burst of fury, raging at himself for letting fear trick him into thinking he needed to jump for that crucial handhold – appalled at how close he had come to throwing his life away.

Climbing with a furious effort which threatened to burst his heart, he reached a crack running vertically to the gaping cleft which was the entrance to the dragon's lair. The chimney widened; he wedged his body inside it, and rested. His rage died away, replaced by shuddering exhaustion.

– Cling to the rock. Cling to the rock. Like darkness, like mother. Like warmth and hot milk after cold rain; like mother. Is that part of the warrior's way? Longing for milk and for mother? Is it? What are you, Hearst?

– I'm here. And it's not far now. Not far.

– But what about climbing down again? What about that? Look down.

– No. Don't look down. Not now. Climb.

He climbed. Past a trace of green moss. Past a tract of crumbling rock. Up now, up. And what was that stink? Dragon, surely.

– And what if he roars out now, in his fury, Zenphos with his wings unfurling and gouts of flame hurling from his mouth? Then that will be the end, man-leader, that will be the end.

– But at least the climb is finished.

He gained level rock, and collapsed in the mouth of the cave. Some men called him fearless, and certainly he would dare all and any, sword against sword. Many challengers had died with his cold eyes watching them. In battle he seemed tireless; his voice never faltered, even when the battle went against his forces. So he was called fearless: but he had his fears, and heights was one of them. The first stretch of the cliff had almost brought him to collapse, and by now he had been climbing for more than half a day.

For some time, he lay in the mouth of the dragon's lair without the power of sight or thought. When he recovered, the sun was still riding in the sky; his first thought was to look down.

– That would be a mistake.

– But if you don't look down, you will always remember that you were afraid to look down.