by Hugh Cook
'Sleep,' she said, and led them to one of the houses, stamping occasionally so that mud and water flew through the air around her. 'Sleep.'
Peering into the house, the wizards saw a smoking fire and a big wooden table in which hollows had been gouged into which soup could be ladled – this household was too poor to afford food bowls. A man lumbered out of the interior gloom and placed himself in the doorway. 'Galish?' he said.
'No,' said Miphon. 'Are you an innkeeper?' 'Certain, yes.'
'We'd like to stay here for the night if we may.'
'Who might you be then?' said the man, checking the size of his nose with his thumb.
'We're from the south,' said Miphon.
'South is where you're from, but who are you?'
'My style is Phyphor, master wizard of the order of Arl, which has rank among the highest of the eight orders,' said Phyphor.
Phyphor had learnt the Galish Trading Tongue from a wizard who had learnt it from a book; he had let Miphon do most of the talking on their journey north.
'Are we in understanding?' said Phyphor.
'I understand,' said the innkeeper, 'And you?'
He pointed at Garash.
'My style is Garash. Have a care, lest my wrath breed toward destruction. Stand ajar to let us in; spread straw overhead the mud.'
A woman inside the house, who was tending the smoking fire, cackled. Garash swung his head toward her. His protuberant eyes peered suspiciously at her gloomy corner.
'Why is that wet crack laughing?' he said.
'It's a joke to think we've got straw to throw on the floor at this end of a hard winter and a wet spring,' said the innkeeper. 'You now, young one. Who are you?'
'E'parg Miphon,' said Miphon, naming himself with the immaculate Galish of a constant traveller. 'We'd be grateful to have the pleasure of your fireside.'
'Gratitude is all my soul, as the crel said to the egg,' quoth the innkeeper. The word 'crel' was unknown to the Galish Trading Tongue, but Miphon did not ask for a translation, for the innkeeper made his meaning clear enough: 'You, my pretties, must pay with a pretty, for what costs a pretty isn't bought with a word.'
'We've got money enough,' said Garash belligerently, thus compromising their position for the subsequent bargaining.
The innkeeper, standing dry inside the doorway, got the better of the haggling; the wizards, outside in the rain, were eager to get under cover. With money paid, they went in and pulled up stools by the fire. Phyphor pulled off his boots, which were starting to tear apart, and stuck his wrinkled feet close to the fire. It burnt too low for his liking, but he knew the innkeeper would not want to burn more wood than he had to.
'We have more money,' said Miphon, 'If you can get us bread and wine.'
They settled the price: a small dorth, a coin with an ear of wheat on each side, which had travelled with the wizards all the way from Selzirk. The innkeeper spoke to the old woman in Estral, the native tongue of Estar -unintelligible to the wizards – and the two went out into the rain.
No sooner had they gone than Phyphor shoved his staff into the fire and muttered. Flames shot up. The chimney blazed briefly as soot caught fire, then Phyphor muttered again and the flames dampened down a little.
When the innkeeper and the old woman returned, the innkeeper grunted when he saw the fire, and looked suspiciously at the wizards.
'Your fires,' said Phyphor, 'It burns well.'
'Yes,' said the innkeeper. 'Here be food. Here be drink.'
The bread was hard and unleavened; the wine tasted like vinegar. Even so, the wizards ate ravenously and drank deep, sating their hollow hunger.
'You've had many fires along the Salt Road,' said Miphon casually.
'The hills are burnt, yes. The dragon ran amok – no man has asked it why. Hearsay tells the dragon breathed on the steamer to south to fire it up. A hunter gone south saw the steamer spit lightning at the dragon. Next thing, the steamer was all in flames. Blocks the road. Bad for trade, that. Did you venture the mountains?'
'Yes,' said Miphon. 'It was a long journey. But wizards are used to long journeys. We heard of another wizard who's been this way. Heenmor's his name.'
'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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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 anythi
ng 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.'
CHAPTER SIX
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.
These two did not lance boils, perform abortions, repair hymens or draw teeth. They had not devoted themselves to the High Arts in order to labour over ingrowing toenails. Their hands held the powers of thunder; they had mastered the Names and the Words; they had learnt the Four Secrets and the Nine Mysteries; they had the harsh pride of those who follow the most rigorous of intellectual disciplines. They were meant for greatness: but wherever they went, young men would come slinking up to them to beg cures for oozing chancres, and furtive young women would bring them their tears and fears. They would never shake the appellation of pox doctor, even though they had done nothing to earn it.
Of the three, only Miphon had really studied the gentle skills of healing; only he was humble enough to put himself at the service of the common people.
That night, there was a birth. As the local midwife had lately died of septicaemia, Miphon served as accoucheur, delivering the child with aplomb. It was the easiest birth he had ever attended – and he had seen many in the families of the Landguard of the Far South. As always, he felt joy at this most common yet most profound of all miracles. As it has been Written (in Kalob IV, quilt 9, section 3b, line xxii): 'The greatest Heights yield to those who stoop the Lowest'. Miphon. reaching those Heights, was amply rewarded.
The people credited him with the easy birth, though in fact he had done little except be there to catch the baby. He was honoured by being asked to name the perfect girl-child who had just joined humanity.
T name her Smeralda,' said Miphon, giving her the nicest name he knew.
'May we know who she is named after?'
'A good person,' said Miphon, thinking quickly. Who'd choose to be named after a deceased donkey? He improvised: 'A princess of Selzirk, pride of the Harvest Plains.'
This satisfied everyone.
Miphon got little sleep, for Phyphor woke in the early-early, and forced them to set off down the road by darkness. Proper food and a proper bed had rejuvenated him; he was eager to close with Castle Vaunting and finish their business with the wizard Heenmor.
And so it was that three Forces left Delve by night, all Powers in the World of Events, Lights in the Unseen Realm, Graduates of the Trials of Strength, Motivators of History, masters of lore versed in the logic of the Cause and the nature of the Beginning. And the peasants of Delve, despite their gratitude for the successful birth, told rude pox doctor jokes when the wizards were gone, then returned to the pleasures of seducing their sisters and scratching the boils on their backsides and the lice in their hair.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dragon: large scale-armoured egg-laying fire-breathing carnivore, not to be confused with the sea serpent of the Central Ocean or the taniwha of Quilth. Dragons are not related to the colony creatures of the Swarms but are related – distantly – to the phoenix and the basilisk, and – very distantly – to the platypus. There are three types:
1. Common or land dragon: very large, inimical, extremely destructive aviator of limited intelligence, typically leading a solitary, cave-dwelling existence;
2. Sea dragon: flightless, intelligent, gregarious creature noted for vanity and promiscuity. Robust swimmer, but mates on land – frequently. Properly flattered, is relatively harmless, but if scorned becomes extremely dangerous;
3. Imperial dragon: lithe, sinuous, domesticated flying dragon of Yestron, where it is famed for its gentle nature and plaintive song. Extremely susceptible to all those diseases which affect bees, it also swiftly becomes alcoholic if exposed to temptation.
***
Alish, watching the rising stars, judged the night half gone. It was time to set out. Hearst, roused from sleep, was soon asleep in the saddle; he did not wake again until they were nearly at Maf, ten leagues south of Castle Vaunting.
Waking, he found that words already dared by Prince Comedo's jester began to nag through his head:
Sing now the song of Hearst the dung, A drunkard with a braggart's tongue.
Now Hearst he thought that pigs could fly, W
hen wine-cups he had gundled, So pumped his loins and puffed his boasts, Then off to Maf he trundled.
But Hearst found pigs can't reach the sky:
No dragon had he fondled When slipped his foot to fill his mouth, And screaming he fell down to land, Spread wide across the grinning rocks:
The place which now the seagull mocks.
Sing now the song of Hearst the dung, Unmastered by his pride and tongue, Split from his crutch to his boasting lung, No prettier than what the seagull done.
The song had found popular appeal with Comedo's men, a rag-tag rabble of bandits, pirates, assorted thugs and deserters. Later, no doubt, they would have time to make a longer, bawdier, funnier song.
Their drinking doggerel would tell of how, a few days after the dragon Zenphos raged across Estar, the wizard Heenmor fled the castle. Prince Comedo, desiring revenge for insults and injuries the castle had suffered, sent Morgan Hearst out wizard-hunting with nineteen mounted men. But when his horse fell lame, he missed the kill – and it was the men who died, not the wizard.
Hearst's temper – never a steady beast, that temper -had grown stormy in the days of lame-foot limp-foot jokes that followed, leading him to drink more than he should have to ease that temper to its nightly sleep.
Finally Morgan Hearst, scourge of the Cold West, had sat at the card table with a full skin to lose money, shirt and sword to the young fool Prince Comedo.
Hearst – drunken, boastful, vain – had made one last gamble: 'This one last wager I'll make with you on the turn of the next card, and if I win I'll reclaim all I've lost, and if I lose…' – Ah yes, you lost, didn't you, bird-dung, and that's why you're here.
For this was the wager: 'If I lose, I'll go to Maf to scale the cliff that daunts the eagle's wing; I'll raid the lair where the dragon Zenphos lives; I'll bring you the red ruby of legend which the wizard Paklish set in the dragon's head, after the sage Ammamman tore the left eye from its socket.'
Thus the wager.