by Wilf Jones
‘I’m Sammy Tozer, horse trader,’ he said, ‘You will always be welcome in any place I call my home.’
Cuahtemoc paused at his meat and as he looked the boy squarely in the eyes the rabbit dropped to the floor. Roar was astonished. That never happened – food was too serious a business. The eagle shifted on his perch and then, with exact symmetry, slowly extended his wings to their full span.
Sammy returned the gaze, stood erect and raised his arms, palms out, fingers splayed.
Roar felt shut out. There was pain in that, but it was fleeting. This was so unbelievable, so unexpected, so important: how could he be petty about it? Cuahtemoc was still his—
‘He loves you.’
Roar felt warmth bloom deep inside him.
‘Does he?’
‘He does; you know it.’
Cuahtemoc gave out a mighty cry then, a cry that put the wizard’s effort to shame, and for the first time in many years Roar could not understand the full meaning of it. Fields away that cry made hundreds of people start in wonder.
‘Messing about with that bird of yours again?’
Both Roar and Sammy turned, shocked to be wrenched from a moment so intense, and both completely offended. Colm Peveril didn’t care, he rarely noticed the effect of his words on others. He failed to notice the eagle’s steely gaze.
‘Time to be off, Roar: I’ve found them.’
Roar shook his head in annoyance.
‘You really are the limit sometimes. I suppose you mean Altiparedo?’
‘Well if you knew already, you should’ve said. Good news, eh? Now we know where they are, or where they’ll soon be anyway, we can go and sort them out.’
‘Sort them out?’
Roar looked at him in disbelief. The bare muscular arms emphasized by the sleeveless vest, the neck thick from hours of throwing weights around, the picture of self-confidence that was his broad face, none of this did anything to make Roar feel any better about him. Colm was all conspicuous power, a natural athlete and arrogant as they come.
‘Well there’s no point waiting around for Seama to turn up is there? They’re only a bunch of sorcerers.’
‘So that makes them an easy mark does it?’
In answer Colm smiled, lifted both hands, clenched them in fists and gestured at the white five bar gate at the field entrance. The whole thing exploded into flames, hot and final; burning spars flew through the air.
Roar pursed his lips.
‘Let’s hope you didn’t hurt anyone. Look Colm, I know you’re confident and powerful and eager and all of that. I was a bit like that myself once upon a time. But the simple fact is we are charged with a mission: to find this Black Company, find out how they operate and then get the news to Seama. We are instructed to do no more. It’s his job to sort them out. You need to remember that.’
Colm wasn’t happy.
‘Look Old-Father-Time, what you need is a bit of umph; a bit of energy. That’s why I’m here. You know that don’t you? But you go on like I need a nursemaid or a… a chaperone or something.’
‘The word you are looking for is mentor. Part of my job is to be just that. Gods above know you need one. You’re with me to learn the meaning of the word restraint. An alien notion, I understand. You need to learn that in some circumstances a bit of umph is the last thing you’ll need. A bit of umph could get us in trouble. So, let me say it one more time: we have our mission and we will stick to it – whatever heroisms you may have had in mind.’
Colm didn’t bother to hide the anger and dissent in his face. Roar often thought he behaved more like an adolescent than a young adult. He wondered momentarily whether that was a matter of upbringing rather than nature. He came down on the side of the latter.
‘Have I made myself clear?’
‘Clear enough.’ The normally smiling face became sulky. ‘But we’re still heading for this Altiparedo place?’
‘Yes we are.’
‘Right then,’ the sulk shifted as quickly as it had come, ‘That’s enough for now – but when we get there, well, we’ll see what this Black Company’s like. You might change your mind.’
‘Not likely. I promised Waldin and your father—’
‘So who’s the pikey, then?’
‘The what?’
‘The gyppo lad. You want to watch that bird of yours, Roar: they’ll take anything not nailed down.’
Cuahtemoc took to the air in a wing-beat and clipped Colm squarely round the back of his head with a clenched talon in the process.
It was a dangerous moment. Colm let out a cry that was more to do with embarrassment than pain, and raised his hand to strike. Roar’s sword rang as it left the scabbard…
But Colm backed off.
Cuahtemoc, unconcerned, had swivelled in flight and was miraculously back on his perch only moments after he had left it, attending to his recovered rabbit.
‘If it comes near me again, I’ll kill it.’
‘And I will kill you. But we’ll not let it come to that.’
Colm and Roar faced each other in tense silence for a good minute before Sammy ended it by saying:
‘Suppose I’d best be gettin’ back to m’pikey dad, then.’
Roar shook his head as he put up his sword.
‘Don’t take such a name to yourself. It’s a name given in disrespect, and in prejudice, and in ignorance.’
‘Na. Reckon I’ve heard it an ‘undred times before, Mister, and it ent never done me any harm yet.’
‘Nevertheless.’ Roar turned to his so-called apprentice again. ‘Tell you what, Colm Peveril: why don’t you take care of these horses for an hour or so; get them settled and watered while I go with the lad and buy him a pie or something – by way of apology. Cuahtemoc’ll stay with you if you need company. And if I’ve calmed down before I find a baker I might just buy you a pie too.
‘Come on then Sammy, you can talk to our friend later.’
Black Hills, Segyllin Part 3057.7.25
The paths were so bent as to be annoying. Tregar had slept well after his night vision and waking early had set out with purpose. Sirrah was happy enough after they found the stream that curved around the back of the yard and Tregar hoped to get his journey done the quicker for it. He took his directions from the sun and chose the most obvious route and for some time was pleased with his progress. Soon the farmhouse was miles behind and though the path wiggled this way and that it was not a worry to him.
It was not a worry until two hours later when he decided to rest his horse. He looked about and seeing a hummock of sorts just to one side he scampered to the top for a better view.
‘Damnation!’ he shouted aloud, causing Sirrah to start. The horse went back to picking at the acid grass when he realized that nothing was out of the ordinary: the master was merely giving vent to frustration in his typical manner. What had caused this sudden and continuing outburst he neither knew nor cared.
Just on the other side of the hill, hardly half a mile away, was a cluster of ancient farm buildings. A small stream curled around the back of the yard. It was the very same farm Tregar had started from. He cursed and raged for a good five minutes before common sense and some semblance of calm returned.
‘Well, Tregar laddie,’ he growled at himself as there was no-one else to say it for him, ‘Whit is the point, ye stupet twerp, in having a god share your tea if ye can’t listen to what he says? Use magic, he said! And not just when you’re angry. So you cool down a bit and have a think!’
And that is what he did. He sat down on top of the hill and allowed his thoughts to slip inside his mind and search for memories of the training he had taken so long ago.
The Collegium Magi on Errensea was the only school of magic that Tregar knew. He presumed it was the only such school
in the wide-world and that thought made him feel special. The magic taught was determinedly eclectic: while one day might be spent in the alchemical laboratories, on another the students would concentrate their efforts on the Texts of Power. There were Names to learn, languages to master; there were minds to read, there was matter to move; there were lessons in destruction, lessons in healing; the education was broad, the knowledge was deep. Tregar was always better at the physical certainties of magic, the sleights of hand, explosions, intercessions and the knowledge of True Nature; he was worse at using his own power inherent. They had told him from the outset that power such as Seama possessed could never be his. He could accept that. He was disappointed to learn that there could be no artificial increase of his initial strength through training. Either you had the power or you did not. They could help him to improve his ability to direct the power, of course, but it wasn’t the same and he remained unimpressed by the whole subject. It was only in healing that he did well, where his use of the power seemed to come naturally.
The Texts of Power explained the whys and wherefores but it was doubtful that even the greatest of scholars could understand it fully. Tregar couldn’t understand at all. Why should one person have power and another not? Why should the gods have greater power – was that why they were gods in the first place? Why should all creatures so differ in the type of ability they had that a boggart may have the power to become invisible and control the airs, and yet be susceptible to the right words spoken by a weakling who could do neither? As far as he could remember the maxim, Power is the consequence of the Struggle; the Struggle is the constant war between Good and Evil. But how could the Struggle come before the Power? It didn’t make any sort of sense to Tregar and he deliberately ignored as much of the theory as he could possibly get away with. After the words of Uovin he now wished he’d paid more attention. If the God was to be believed, and how could he dare disbelieve, the Struggle and the Power were central to what was happening. He had to admit that it all lent some credence to Seama’s ideas.
Tregar shook his head as if to shake up his thoughts. These musings were getting him nowhere. Literally. What he needed now were some specific techniques to get him out of this boggy labyrinth. He found, on reflection, that there were certain questions to be answered before he could progress. Firstly, and all inclusively, why was he lost? It was not such an easy question. Was it because the road was in reality complex and maze-like? He knew of a solution for that. When faced with a maze use a maze-boy, a quicksilver.
They are not rare. His teacher had taken the class out walking one summer’s day and had them compete to see who could find and then control the greatest number. The idea was to gather them in a whirling halo about your head and the student with the brightest halo was the winner. Finding them was the easy part. They came to life in the Sun’s rays and you could see them in all sorts of places, stray sparkles, flashes and glimmers that dart from pond to tree, roof to pavement with the speed of light. Some maintained they were simply reflections of light, and maybe that was so in some manner of understanding, but they behaved in a most unpredictable fashion, leaping from glassless buildings to the fields of grass hardly bothering to follow the rules reflections are bound by. It was easiest to see them for a long time if you lay on your back and let your gaze reach up into the shimmering blue of a hot day. They so luxuriate in the Sun that they play a game of trying to reach it. Tregar watched them shoot up into the sky and climb, and climb. It looked from below as if they were weaving erratic dances as they rose. When one got so high as to pop out of sight there was always another ready to take its place.
That was a long time ago. Grown men rarely have the time or enthusiasm for sky-gazing. Tregar remembered that he had not won the competition. It was the control aspect that let him down. A quicksilver moved with the speed of light, it could explore any maze in a second and show you the way out. So long as you could make it obey you. Sadly, Tregar’s memory of the event did not include any recollection of the spells he would need. They must have been somewhere in his memory but he realised it would take a mazeboy to find them.
He decided to follow another tack.
What if the road was straight and Tregar was just seeing it bent? He could be following an illusion. Tregar decided that was the most likely explanation, but really he just hoped so. He knew very well how to break this level of illusion. He recalled the spell that would give him true sight and, rocking on his heels slightly, he voiced it three times with his eyes closed. It was as simple as that if you knew the right words.
Looking down he saw that Sirrah was nowhere near the road though he’d not moved as he waited. There it lay away to the West and, though it weaved through bog and hummock, it was essentially a straight road into the North. Tregar’s grin broke into a laugh. ‘The Old Goat!’ he said. As the god had intended, Tregar could see that it was often easy to succeed if only he put his mind and his power into it. Almost childishly pleased with himself, he chuckled as he went to mount up.
Sirrah was never surprised by his master’s changing moods but he was more than confused when asked to walk through a bog, he was reluctant. Laying a hand on the horse’s head the wizard, with a few words, cleared Sirrah’s view of things.
‘Happy now, are we?’ The horse snorted. He didn’t sound too happy. ‘Aye, there’s still a way’s to go, Sirrah, I can’t deny it, and go we must; but take heart: there’ll be a welcome for us when we get there, with a warm stable, a nice brush down and some proper food. And, if you’re very good, maybe the same for you too.’
The day was warming, the air was clean and fresh and their path was clear before them. Confident they would soon reach their journey’s end and a well-deserved rest from their labours, Tregar felt brighter and happier than he had for several days. It was not so bad a thing after all, Tregar thought, to be a messenger of the King.
Francon 3057.7.25
With her back to the high cwm and unseen before her the deep Francon vale, black Greteth stands alone. This morning, clammy fingers of air probe dark corners and closed doors. The sun that warms a wizard’s path in more southerly fields has no power here. Above, below and all around, a besiegement of smothering fog.
Holman Cator peered into the mists from the open gate of the castle and pursed his lips. There was nothing to see but the fifteen yards of metalled road disappearing into the gloom. He was thankful at least that as yet there was nothing to hear. No threat to perceive greater than the blinding fog itself. With a good road to follow and a good horse to carry him what was there to fear?
He weighed the tightly rolled sheet of vellum in his gloved hand as if to test its importance. There was almost nothing to it. A few sentences perhaps. What price could be laid on each word written? What was the worth to those left behind, what benefit to the hand that received? He would never know. His duty did not extend to content or discussion. His task being the mechanical act of transportation, there was one question only that should concern him, and a fine question it was too: looking out into the unknown once more, he couldn’t help but wonder what exactly would be the cost of delivery?
Hard shoes ringing on the cobbles of the gateway roused him from his misgivings. His doubts must have been catching. The dapple grey mare was snorting in protest, eyes rolling and biting at the bit as the ostler dragged her through, as unwilling as a beast could be. Holman raised a wry grin.
‘Jaspar said I’d have the fastest not the daftest.’
The ostler shrugged. ‘Never seen Zara so vexed. But don’t you worry, Holman, she’ll run all right, all the way to Ayer if you let her. Strongest girl I got.’
‘Well I hope you’re right, Robert, but if she just gets me out of the valley and this damn fog that’ll be good enough for me.’
Robert nodded, a grim set to his features. He found nothing to say. Or rather there was no point in saying anything. They both understood the situation fu
ll well.
Holman glanced at the scroll once more, checking that the seal was properly intact before sliding it into the hard leather dispatch case hung from his belt and securing the lid. Nothing for it now, he thought, no chance of turning back.
‘Those girth straps tight enough Rob?’
The ostler gave him a look.
‘Just checking – I’d look a fool falling off before I get out the gate. I’ll have the stirrups a bit higher though.’
As Robert sorted the left Holman sorted the right. The difference they made was a matter of an inch and no more. Robert wasn’t fooled and nor was Holman: he was simply delaying the inevitable.
‘Right then,’ he said, ‘let’s do it.’ With a surge of energy he grabbed at the reins and launched himself into the saddle. Zara bucked just the once but then calmed as Holman settled in his seat.
He looked down at Robert. Just the two of them and the horse; just as he’d wanted it, his friends banished from this leaving. One grim face was bad enough.
‘Cheer up Rob. I’m off to get help I reckon, and I’ll make sure I do. Wish me luck.’
Rob grimaced as he tried to keep his face straight.
‘We’ll all be thinking of you Holman. Min guide you and guard you. Ride fast and arrive safe.’
Holman shrugged.
‘I’ll do my best.’
And with that he pressed Zara forward a few reluctant steps beyond the protection of the gate arch. The crack and scrape of her shoes on the compacted stones bounced off the walls, but louder to his ears was the powerful thumping of blood in his own veins. Zara paused as if readying herself and then moved on a few more yards without prompting, head high, scenting the road before them.