by Hugh Cook
Phyphor looked at the man who had been partly turned to stone. There was no intelligence now in his eye: no suffering. And soon he would be dead.
***
Alish shouted orders. Men began to move out, all on horseback but for Blackwood, who had yet to mount. Seeing his wife among the witless victims of the mad-jewels who were now milling aimlessly in the courtyard, Blackwood ran to Comedo to request permission to stay.
'What?' said Comedo.
His horse clattered through the long passage between the central courtyard and the drawbridge. Blackwood ran alongside the horse, shouting, darting glances backwards.
'What?' said Comedo, laughing.
They came out into the sunlight. Blackwood shouted again. They were on the drawbridge now.
'What?' said Comedo.
Blackwood screamed at him.
Comedo, riding high on his high horse, laughed again. He reached down, snagged the fine chain round Blackwood's neck, and tore it away. He threw it sideways. It flashed in the sunlight then fell through dizzy depths into the fire dyke.
Blackwood swayed. The world floundered. Horses buffeted past. A vulture spread its wings in his throat and screamed. The sun clawed his back. He shouted at it. He stepped to the edge of the drawbridge. One foot stepped to the gulf.
A hand hooked into his hair and dragged him back. Blackwood twisted his head and saw Mormormorgan gar garn morgarnn, hearse, Hearst, is that your name, Hearst?
No. It was Alish, who had acted just in time to prevent the destruction of the precious green bottle Blackwood carried.
One moment of clarity: 'Mystrel!' screamed Blackwood.
Then he lost the power of speech.
The little army paused while the prince's bottle-carrier was tied onto the back of a horse: he would recover himself once they were out of range of the mad-jewel.
***
Alone in the castle, Murmer, thumb and fist, bent fox-fur creature, stalked, killed:
– Ha! Have you, have at you, fork-meat. Shlust shroost! Dreams now, milk-warm, dreams. Saaa!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Valarkin woke in the night, and not because of the cold – he was already used to that. He was lying on tough swamp grass, but, after a long day in the saddle, he could have slept on a bed of nails.
He was awake because something was feeding on him.
Not lice, gnats, fleas, mosquitoes or leeches, but something bigger. It was hurting him; it almost covered his chest. Reaching out, Valarkin discovered something cold, pale and greasy. He tore it away from his flesh and hurled it into the darkness.
His body stung where the creature had been feeding. It glimmered in the starlight, sliding back for another try. Valarkin. hissing, pulled out his knife.
The creature flowed onto his leg. He slashed at it. His knife cut through its thin flesh, slicing into his own leg. The creature shot away with rapid, jerky movements. Valarkin tore a strip from his blanket, bandaged his wound, then sat on his pack, knife in hand, waiting in case the creature came back. He began to shiver uncontrollably.
The night was cloudless; the stars were hard, cold, intolerably distant. The lone star called Golem's Eye glowered with red malevolence. To the east lay the frozen starstorm of the galaxy called Maelstrom. And what awaited them in the east? Unlike some others, Valarkin doubted that Heenmor would be lingering in Trest waiting for his executioners.
By starlight, nothing betrayed their marshland campsite except a single fire, and a horse which snorted nearby, making Valarkin start – he was a little bit afraid of horses. He walked to the fire, treading cautiously lest he trample on some sleeping warrior. Blackwood was tending the fire; nearby, the wizards Phyphor, Garash and Miphon lay asleep.
As Valarkin settled himself by the fire, Blackwood put on some more wood. For a while they sat silent; the fire whispered and hissed, occasionally settling with a slight crack as charred timbers broke under their own weight. Elkor Alish had arranged for some horses to carry loads of firewood – otherwise they would have been short of fuel at this camp amid the swamps.
'You're hurt,' said Blackwood at length.
'There was a white thing – I slashed it.'
'Oh,' said Blackwood. 'A quiver.'
'Is that what it's called?'
'Yes. If you cut yourself again, come to me. I could bandage that better than you have.'
Valarkin took that in silence.
Blackwood poked the fire. Though everyone was asleep but for himself and Valarkin, the camp was safe enough; only a one-horse path led to this island of dry ground deep in the swamp, so enemies could scarcely surround them from all sides then attack.
Sitting there, Valarkin remembered the warmth of his father's hearth. He had never thought he would regret leaving the farm, but he did. He was not made for this life of hot sun, cold nights, mud, insects, rebellious horses and the company of coarse, brutish, dangerous men.
Caught in the throes of nightmare, the wizard Garash twisted in his sleep then groaned. Fire-stars glowed in the branches of a swamp-tree above him, flickered, then died away. Garash turned, settling deeper into sleep.
'What can be the matter with him?' said Valarkin. 'Pox doctors have their problems too, mister.' 'What are the wizards really like? You've been with them a lot, haven't you? Especially Miphon. Do they talk of… of power? Do they say where their power comes from?'
Blackwood remembered Miphon and Mystrel talking together about honey and garlic.
'If you're so interested, why don't you ask them?"
Valarkin did not reply, but sat thinking about the green bottle strung on Blackwood's belt. After two days in the field, Prince Comedo had had enough of the fresh air; using one of the two rings that commanded the bottle, he had retreated to the quarters prepared for him inside. Valarkin, who held the second ring, was to fetch the prince from the bottle when they reached the High Castle in Trest.
'Do you know the countryside well?' asked Valarkin.
'1 know my way,' said Blackwood.
'If men were hunting you, could you escape?'
'Yes, if I ran toward danger as well as away from it. North: they'd never find me there. Not in the mountains of the Penvash Peninsular… that's fearsome country.'
'The bottle you hold is very valuable,' said Valarkin. 'I hold the second ring which commands it.' He waited.
Blackwood poked at the fire again. Coals gleamed dragon-hot. All around were sleeping men whose lives were in his trust. In the green bottle at his belt, Prince Comedo lay sleeping: that was another trust.
'Mister, my fate takes me east,' said Blackwood.
That was the peasant in him speaking. His forefathers had bowed to feudal masters for so many generations that rebellion was now unthinkable. Valarkin knew this; he remembered how his own father, who scorned the castle and its people, found in that scorn only pride in his own way of life, where to own two milch cows was the height of ambition.
However, in the temple, Valarkin had learnt that men can control gods – even though, if the truth be known, the temple's god had only been a creature of the third hierarchy, which is to say, a common demon. Since men could control gods, they could certainly master the leaders foisted on them by tradition.
'There's wealth in the bottle.' said Valarkin. 'Including a whole room full of books. If we could learn to read them, they'd surely teach us magic'
'Or get us killed,' said Blackwood, dourly.
'Don't be afraid! Think… think of your wife.'
'There's no way for me to rescue her,' said Blackwood, who had been carried helplessly witless for a whole day till they got out of range of the mad-jewel.
'Look,' said Valarkin, holding out a thin chain. A charm gleamed on the end of it.
'Is that yours?'
'I've got another one. The prince gave me this one for safe keeping. Put it on.'
Blackwood took the charm, weighed it in his hand, then slowly put it on. Just then, one of the sleepers woke, and made his way to the edge of the swamp
; returning to his bed, he disturbed half a dozen others, who cursed him sleepily. Valarkin waited for everyone to settle down before he spoke again: 'If we start now, we can outpace them to Castle Vaunting, rescue your wife and run for Penvash. They'll never catch us.'
'And the prince?'
'Settle his fate as you will. Are you with me?'
Blackwood hesitated. The common wisdom of Estar taught that each had his weird, and had to endure the doom he was fated to. He knew of only one tale in which a man of peasant stock had tried to take control of his own destiny. That was the tale of Loosehead Robert, who had gathered together a rag-tag army to make war against his prince. After a series of disasters, he had been driven into the hills.
There, in a cave, while thinking wild thoughts of triumph and revenge, Loosehead Robert had watched a spider build its web. Into the web had flown a fly. And how it had struggled! Five times it had almost broken free, but the spider had got it in the end. And Loosehead Robert, looking from the devouring spider to the mouth of the cave, had seen his prince's soldiers standing there, grinning at him. All mothers in Estar told their children the lessons Loosehead Robert learnt, first from the spider and then from his prince's shunting irons.
– But perhaps the story was not told quite right.
He had a charm to protect himself against the mad-jewel. And a companion to share his dangers. He would dare it. He would try.
'I'm with you,' said Blackwood.
Valarkin wanted to leave then and there, but Blackwood took the time to cut swatches of swamp grass and tie them round the hooves of four horses. With a change of horses and a head start, they should be able to outdistance their pursuers easily. Then he made sure that they packed all their gear and tied the packs to the horses. Only then did he agree to set out.
Leaving the dryland island on which they had been camping, they found the passage of Prince Comedo's little army had churned the one-horse track through the swamps into a quagmire. Blackwood's expertise with horses did not extend far beyond an intimate personal knowledge of what it means to be saddle-sore, but his common sense told him they would have to lead the animals till the track improved. So they went on foot, Blackwood leading, the horses roped behind them.
It was slow going, and hideously noisy in the thick mud. After only fifty paces, Valarkin swore softly.
'What is it?' said Blackwood.
'These horses. They won't move.'
Blackwood slurched back through the mud. He was starting to sweat. He had no skill with recalcitrant horses. The first horse whickered at him when he grabbed its bridle. He swore at it, softly, urgently. Then listened, trying to hear any noises from the campsite that would suggest anyone had woken.
What he heard was someone moving.
But not in the campsite: in the other direction!
Someone was sneaking along the path toward the camp, guided in by the light of the campfire. And they were close.
Blackwood sliced through the ropes connecting the horses.
'Turn them around,' he whispered. 'Back to the camp.' 'But – '
Blackwood slapped a hand over Valarkin's mouth, and whispered in his ear: 'Someone out there.'
Valarkin started to turn the horses around. This was very noisy. Almost immediately they were challenged from the night in a foreign language. It was the enemy! Blackwood slapped the nearest horse on the rump and shouted: 'Rouse! Rouse!'
Men and horses plunged through the mud toward the campsite, but the enemy gained on them. Twenty paces from the dryland island, one of Valarkin's horses lost its footing and went down on its knees in the mud, blocking the path. By then, the enemy were almost upon them. Blackwood grabbed Valarkin and dragged him into the swamps. They crashed into the water, and the enemy – Hesitated, moaned, screamed, thrashed around in the dark, sang or babbled with laughter. Blackwood realised what had happened. Someone had brought the mad-jewel out of its lead box.
'Let's go,' said Blackwood.
But at that moment Alish's voice rang out: 'Close the box!'
And suddenly the noise of madness ceased abruptly, and, after a brief pause, was replaced by sharp, angry enemy voices. At the campsite – so near, and yet so very far away – there was a lot of uninhibited swearing as various individuals crawled out of the swamp. Half of them had gone to sleep with their protective charms tucked away in their boots or their packs, so the use of the mad-jewel had been almost as disastrous for the defenders as for the enemy.
'I'm cold,' said Valarkin.
'Shut up!' hissed Blackwood.
But it was too late. One of the enemy gave an urgent command, and attackers waded into the swamp. Blackwood eased back, deeper and deeper into the cold, dark water. Valarkin started to move in the opposite direction. Toward the enemy. He had to be mad. Blackwood concentrated on moving quietly. Something underwater slithered against his legs: an eel.
An enemy soldier cried out in triumph, seeing Valarkin by starlight. Blackwood shrank back behind a clump of rushes. The next moment, he heard a slap as if someone had clapped their hands, a splash of water, then a cry of astonishment from the enemy. Blackwood realised what had happened. Valarkin had used the ring he wore to vanish himself into the green bottle at Blackwood's waist.
Now the enemy were not really sure if anyone was out there. Abandoning the chase, they started to push toward the campsite. They must have known they were grossly outnumbered, but they advanced regardless. To try what?
Blackwood heard Elkor Alish arguing with the wizards, ordering them to use fire against the enemy, and receiving an unqualified refusal. Suddenly there was a shout as the first of the Collosnon gained the dryland island. And the fight was on.
Men hacked each other in the darkness.
With his noisy progress masked by the uproar of a confused and savage battle, Blackwood forced his way through the swamp, gaining the dryland island before the fighting ended.
At dawn, Elkor Alish counted casualties. The enemy had lost fifteen men. Five of his own were dead; two others, who would have to be carried to the High Castle, could be expected to die from their wounds. One was missing, but his protective red charm was found in the top of his pack: if the Collosnon had managed to kidnap him for interrogation, it was unfortunate but not disastrous, as without a protective charm the enemy could not steal the mad-jewel which had been left behind in Castle Vaunting.
Alish realised he had been overconfident: an unpardonable failure for a professional soldier like himself. He had relied on wizard magic, believing, in any case, that any surviving Collosnon would be too demoralised to be a threat. Now he knew better.
Now he must make his men wear their protective charms at all times, so the mad-jewel could be used at a moment's notice, without fear of men mutilating themselves or drowning in the swamps. Proper sentries would have to be posted at night – which meant Alish would have to wake himself up from time to time to make sure his sentries had not gone to sleep. In this ragtag outfit, there was nobody he could delegate the duty to. Except Gorn – but Gorn, when given responsibility, was a savage disciplinarian, and Alish did not want to wake up to find someone had got their head hacked off as a consequence of falling asleep on sentry duty.
Alish also needed to lecture Blackwood and Valarkin. He could prove nothing, but he suspected they had been making off in the night when the enemy attacked. Otherwise why would he have found them unloading their packs from muddy horses after the battle?
Even without proof positive, Alish would have punished the pair severely, except that his will tojustice was disabled by his guilt over his own hand in the decision to leave a mad-jewel behind in Castle Vaunting. He was sure that setting a jewel to guard the castle was the right move – but he should have forced Comedo to agree to evacuate the castle first.
He consoled himself with the thought that taking Heenmor took precedence over everything else. Garash had casually suggested inflicting madness on the castle's surplus population and Comedo had taken the idea to heart; Alish could no
t afford to waste the time needed to argue Comedo out of his enthusiasms.
So… … Blackwood and Valarkin got off with a lecture.
'We now know the enemy have got patrols following us,' said Alish. 'It's obvious what they want. A prisoner: to interrogate. To find out our numbers, our intentions, and the nature of the unthinkable powers we've used against them.
'That's what I'd want, if I was the Collosnon commander: information. And I'd happily tear a man apart with red-hot hooks to get it. You may think you can escape from me. Perhaps you're right – but you can guarantee the enemy would kill you if I didn't.'
Alish saw that Valarkin was too frightened to give him any more trouble, and that Blackwood would not try anything again because he had lapsed into a mood of profound fatalism. Alish was right. In Blackwood's case, a brief stand against authority had brought instant and absolute failure, thereby confirming the beliefs which had been bred into him.
Besides… he could not hope to get away for another day at the earliest, which was a long time in the lives of the helpless people left behind at Castle Vaunting… by now, he knew, there was probably no point in returning even if he had been allowed to.
***
They marched on without event – until, one evening, disaster befell Valarkin. At first, when his waking nightmare started, he panicked, drew a knife – then found there was nothing sensible he could do with it. He decided his only hope was to ask the wizards for help. And quickly!
First he went to Phyphor, who listened with little patience then – doubtless with malicious intent – told him to take his problem to Garash. But when Valarkin did so, he was interrupted by a roar of fury:
T am not a pox doctor!'