by Hugh Cook
***
As the rafts drifted at leisure down the river, Alish completed a commander's rounds by trying to make peace with Blackwood. He had little success.
'Mister,' said Blackwood. 'Don't try that comrade-talk with me. I know what happened. Murder. Women and children. Killing fishermen, stealing their boats.'
'They're only gooks,' said Alish.
'Mister,' said Blackwood. 'You don't believe that.'
Alish had seen alcoholic Melski in Lorford: gross green stumbling wrecks blinded by the alcohol which, for them, was an addictive drug bringing death in two or three years. Many scorned the Melski because of the inability of their body chemistry to handle basic poisons. But Alish, no brawling boneheaded blademas-ter, was too widely-travelled to find such provincial sentiments satisfactory.
Unlike some other people – for instance, the Korugatu philosophers of Chi'ash-lan – the Rovac had no formal theory of war crimes. Nevertheless, the concept was not unknown to them. One did not murder an embassy come to parley during a truce, systematic genocide was considered a bit excessive, and the habit of serving prisoners with bits of grilled meat cut from their own bodies was generally frowned upon.
Moreover, Alish, having learnt a certain unforgettable lesson from personal experience, knew the human cost of what he did – and knew that, as far as ethics were concerned, the term 'human' could reasonably be extended to cover the Melski. He did not find his latest battle-memories easy to live with. it happened,' said Alish. it's done.'
He spoke as if the words were a formula for ending recriminations: and amongst the Rovac, they were. it was a cruel business,' insisted Blackwood. it was necessary.'
'Oh yes, everyone has to die, so I suppose death's necessary.'
'Listen, Heenmor is evil: evil without redemption. Ours is a just cause. We don't want to shed innocent blood, but we had to. We're trying to save the world!'
'The world will be much the same when Heenmor is dead,' said Blackwood. 'Only then you'll have to find another excuse to kill people.'
'You don't understand, Heenmor – '
'Oh, I understand, mister. You've thought yourself a reason to kill lots and lots of people and be proud of it. Well then, kill away. Be happy in your work.'
'I don't enjoy killing.'
'Oh, you don't? And I suppose your sword doesn't either? And does that make the dead less dead?'
'What would you do in my place?'
T could never be in your place, mister. I could never swim through that much blood to get there. But swimming makes some happy, it seems. Your fighting men look happy enough.'
'Of course,' said Alish. 'We've won a victory.'
'It wasn't much of a victory.'
'You're right,' said Alish. Speaking, he felt that he should be glad that Blackwood seemed to have abandoned the subject of his personal sins. But he wasn't glad. It was painful to talk about it, yet worse to keep silent. And who else could he talk to? Not Hearst! 'Yes,' he said. 'You're right. It wasn't much of a victory. There was no fighting to it.'
'Just butchery.'
'Yes. But that's the sort of victory men love. They're getting the best part of their reward now. Inside that cabin.'
Since the evening of the day before, men had been taking turns to go into the cabin he indicated. 'What are they doing in there?' 'What do you think?'
'Is it always like this after a victory?' said Blackwood, looking away.
Alish studied the banks, which were steadily becoming cliffs as the rafts glided down the river.
'Men imagine victory often enough during our campaigns of mud and rain,' said Alish, slowly. 'And when victory comes, they make it everything they had imagined.'
'But not all soldiers can be like this.'
'No,' said Alish. 'Some are worse. The Rovac are worse. In the Cold West, it was policy. Our very name became another word for terror. In the Cold West, there was nowhere for our victims to run to, not during the snows. I remember 'Yes, well,' said Blackwood, who presently had no appetite for any gut-slaughter stories, 'Perhaps you could forget, too.'
'Oh no, no… I could hardly forget. I remember the time… yes, the time when we conquered the city of Morlock on the river Tenebris. We conquered it for the Emperor Yan. Yan, Yanyl – there were marching songs made about that, I can tell you.'
They were talking in Estral, and Blackwood had no hope of understanding the relevant pun in Rovac, equivalent to Ars – Arse. But Alish did not think of that. His eyes were unfocused; the sights he saw now lay far away in time and distance.
'The city fell to us on the same day that the spring thaw broke up the river of ice. That was a night… that was a night they talk about still. They were soft in that city… they screamed even before they were touched…'
He said no more, but he remembered. Yes. The room had been hot if you were near the blazing fire that glowed on the heaving flesh, or frigid if you were by the slit windows that looked out over the river. The ice had grated as floe clashed with floe all night in the swirling water. Toward morning one of the women had made a sound like the grating of old iron against old iron. She had made that sound deep in her throat and soon after that she had died.
And he remembered… yes, the room in the small village under the shadow of the Far Wall that stretched across the tundra… a smoky cave in the Valley of Insects… the inner sanctum of the desecrated Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers…
'Sorrow is sweet,' said Blackwood, knowing that some people can positively enjoy the sentimental satisfactions of remorse.
'Not all sorrow, woodsman. Let me tell you a tale… a true tale of the wars in the Cold West. It is the tale of… well, listen and you will hear.
T had been ten years fighting in the Cold West when there fell to my forces the task of capturing a small city state. It was by the coast. It was important to us: the only harbour for five hundred leagues that did not freeze in winter. Hot springs – a hot river in fact -emptied into the harbour and let ships use it all year round. We laid siege to the city.
'It was a bitter siege. The city was weak, but the people worshipped a god that was strong, and gave them aid. Led by a woman warrior-priest, they fought us, and their defence held, thanks to the powers of their god. The name of the city was Larbreth. Have you heard of that city? No? Well, I suppose you hear little of the Cold West here in Argan.
'One day, the people of the city made a sally against us. They shattered our ranks. I fought their leader, hand to hand, sword against sword. Well, I am not one for boasting, but I was the best man with a sword in all the armies of Rovac. She disarmed me. She took me prisoner. Ethlite was her name.
'She was two hundred years old. Her god kept her body young, but she was wise with the wisdom of generations. They did not hate us, do you know that? They knew who we were and what we were, but they did not hate us. She… she chose me. Was she in love? I think she was too wise for unthinking passion. But she chose me.
'I say they understood us, but they did not really understand. When she knew I was in love with her, she trusted me. She did not understand that the will is stronger than love. Poison was the way I chose. While her body was still warm, I opened the city gates. That was a victory to remember. Oh yes, I remember He remembered that day, and he remembered the night of that day, when the drums of Rovac had worked to a frenzy, and every man had lubricated himself with blood…
'So we had a victory. I took her sword, and named it after her. Ethlite, I called it. That was the best sword I ever held, but I never used it in the Cold West. I went back to Rovac. I wanted…'
But he could not speak of that. He could not speak of the Code of Night. That had been his choice: to renounce the mercenary campaigns which had given him fame and glory, and to dedicate himself to the tasks of righting Rovac's ancient wrongs.
'Mister,' said Blackwood. 'We have to bury our dead. Otherwise they end up living our lives for us.'
'And you're the one who was sorry for the dead Melski!'
'Mi
ster, we mourn to free us for the future. From the sound of it, you're still trapped in the past. Is it the past, perhaps, which makes you drive so hard after wizards?'
Blackwood was only talking, in the most general terms, of the fanaticism which Alish had demonstrated in his pursuit of Heenmor, but Alish was provoked into saying: 'That's nothing to do with the past. Wizards are the final enemy. All of them!'
There. He had said it. He had touched on the hidden matters: the secrets of the Code of Night. But he needed to talk, yes, more than ever before he needed to talk.
'Wizards defeated the Swarms,' ventured Blackwood, who knew that much at least from legend.
Alish laughed.
'I've heard those stories, the same as you have,' said Alish. 'Who do you think makes them up?'
'Wizards, perhaps. They should know their own business, after all.'
'We have records on Rovac going back to the Long War – records which prove that history… history didn't quite happen the way it's told.'
'You have long memories, mister.'
'Yes,' said Alish. 'Remember Rovac has never tried to conquer, only to serve as mercenaries. That's why we've 'scaped the cycle of rise, decline and fall that empires suffer. Our archives are intact. So let me tell you a little of the history of this continent, Argan.
'There was a time when the Swarms lived much, much further south than they do now. Way back then, the people who called themselves the Dareska Amath lived in the lands bordering the Ocean of Cambria. They were warlike, always engaged in blood feuds and clan fights.
'Then the wizards, who wanted to rule the known world, decided to capture an entity known as the Skull of the Deep South. The Skull commands the Swarms. Controlling that power, the wizards could have conquered the world.
'They persuaded the Dareska Amath to help them, and the Dareska Amath agreed. Armies marched south in support of the wizards. They suffered great losses at the hands of fearful enemies, but they persevered, for there were heroes among them. In the end, though, in a crucial battle against the Swarms, the wizards broke and ran. It was an act of cowardice which led to a terrible defeat and the end of the expedition.
'Now the wizards knew the Swarms would begin to move north. They had committed a crime against humanity by stirring up the wrath of the Skull of the Deep South: so they decided to kill all witnesses. They laid waste to the lands around the Ocean of Cambria.
'That was the time of selection. Only the best fighters and seafarers survived the destruction of our homelands. Exiled from Argan, they sailed west till they came to the islands of Rovac. Our destiny is to destroy the wizards and recapture the lands around the Ocean of Cambria.'
'I have never heard that story before,' said Blackwood.
'It is not a story lightly shared,' said Alish.
'I understand,' said Blackwood.
And Alish lay back on the raft, shut his eyes, and was quiet, as if sleeping.
Another short summer night passed, uneasily, but without incident, and morning found the rafts still drifting down the river. That morning, Comedo emerged from his bottle and blinked at the river, the rafts, and, not the least of his amazements, the sunlight.
'What are we doing here?' he said.
Nobody paid him any attention. The least of those fighting men now felt himself to be a questing hero; their respect for the Favoured Blood had declined with their shared experiences of marching and battle which had occured in the absence of that Blood.
'What are we doing here?' yelled Comedo.
'Look!' cried an anonymous wit, safe in the company of his fellows, it's the rare and famous hairy woubit!'
There was a light splatter of laughter.
Comedo stalked over to Hearst, who was trailing a fishing line off the end of a raft..'Where are we? What are we doing here?'
'We're going down the Fleuve River on some Melski rafts,' said Hearst. 'Soon we'll reach Ep Pass. Then we'll head east across the Spine Mountains, making for Stronghold Handfast.'
'Valarkin said as much,' said Comedo, looking pale and agitated. 'But it can't be true! I said to go home! Days ago! I've had enough, do you hear me? I want to go back.'
'My lord,' said Hearst. 'You're surely comfortable enough in your miraculous green bottle.'
'Didn't you hear me? I want to go back.'
'You pledged yourself to pursue Heenmor to the uttermost limit and to do all in your power to destroy him,' said Hearst. 'We're to kill Heenmor and give his magic death-stone to the wizards for them to take south and return to the Dry Pit.' i withdraw my pledge,' said Comedo.
Hearst spat.
'A man's word is not like a snake that comes out of a hole to look at the sun. It can't run back inside.'
Comedo started to scream. Some men looked up, slow and lazy as Hearst was, and studied his face. Comedo screamed himself hoarse. It did him no good. i want to go home,' said Comedo.
Hearst laughed in his face.
Comedo's face twisted in anger. His mouth clutched breath, then he began to scream again. Screaming, he spun round and round, then suddenly twisted the ring on his finger and dissolved into smoke which was sucked back into the bottle.
The rafts drifted on down the river.
They enjoyed hot, lazy, sunlit weather in which a single day seemed to stretch half-way to eternity. Drifting downriver in that golden weather, the men sunbathed, gambled, tattooed each other, swam in the riverdrift, told jokes and obscene stories, exchanged confidences, caught fish and invented new ways of cooking it: with cloves and a pinch of siege dust; smoked slowly over burning pine resin; guts and flesh mixed together in a clay ball with a little barley flour, and baked. Some men, like Durnwold and Alish, practised weapon skills. Elkor Alish put on spectacular displays of shadow-fighting as he accustomed himself to the balance of an antique Melski blade which he had taken for his own use.
And Comedo did not return.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Alish lay half-asleep in the sun, dreaming vaguely about conquering Argan with the death-stone. Should he take Prince Comedo on his campaigns? There might be rulers in Argan who would find it easier to bow to a prince of the Favoured Blood than to a Rovac mercenary. He would think about it… 'Elkor Alish.'
He opened his eyes, and saw the woodsman Blackwood. 'What is it?'
'We're almost there. We're almost at Ep Pass.'
'Good," said Alish, getting to his feet.
Throughout the flotilla, men began to rouse themselves. They heaved on sweep-oars, guiding the rafts toward a stony beach on the eastern side of the river. Beyond the beach was a gap in the cliffs about two hundred paces wide: the beginning of Ep Pass, the way through the Spine Mountains.
Downstream, the river narrowed, running swiftly between towering cliffs; perched on rocks by the racing river were a few dozen Melski, some with small fires burning. Some of the men tried the range with arrows.
'That's enough of that!' said Alish.
There was no point in going to war with the Melski, who had passed up every chance of ambush and seemed to be planning no more than the recovery of some of their rafts. It would be a long, slow journey for them to oar their way upstream, but for the task they had greater strength in their chests and arms than most humans.
On landing, Alish had the rafts dragged ashore. 217 Despite the proximity of the Melski, he did not want to march east immediately, thinking it best to scout ahead a little first, to get an idea of what the country was like. He chose Hearst and Durnwold to go with him.
As they set off, Hearst called to the wizards: 'Garash! Care to stretch your legs?'
Garash looked up, but did not favour them with a reply.
'I don't think he's exactly thrilled at the idea of mountain climbing,' said Durnwold.
'Stiff socks,' said Hearst, meaning tough cheese. 'He needs a good sweat to unblubber him.'
It was a hot, dry, bluesky day: one of those days on which it is impossible to believe that it will ever be wet or cold again. They walked uphill betwee
n scattered rocks, some many times the height of a man. Though the ground was stony, gnarled and twisted trees with dark green leaves wrested a livelihood from the soil, making little thickets between the rocks.
The cliffs closed in; it grew quieter. Soon they could no longer hear the noise of the river or the men by the river, only the sounds of their boots on rocks, the tatcheting of insects, the hush of their own breathing. Small lizards darted over the rocks, sprinting for shelter as the men approached.
'Stop,' said Alish.
'What is it?' said Durnwold.
T see it,' said Hearst. 'Smoke! Over there!' it could be Melski,' said Durnwold.
'Or Heenmor,' said Alish.
'We don't know enough to start laying bets,' said Hearst, 'but we'd best go back for the wizards in case it is Heenmor.'
Alish looked at him.
'Are you afraid… friend dragon-killer?' For a moment, they stared at each other. 'What do you think?' said Hearst, i think you know the answer better than me.'
'He's not afraid,' said Durnwold. 'There's no sword -'
'Enough,' said Hearst. 'Weil go on. But if it is Heenmor, how will we take him?'
'His only protection is a blast of fire or the bite of that snake of his. If we come at him from three different directions, if he hesitates for a moment – we should do it.'
'And what if we run into something altogether different?' said Hearst. 'What if it's a band of twenty head-hunting nomads? Who knows what manner of people live in this part of Argan?' if it's not Heenmor,' said Alish, 'we retreat, quietly. I estimate the smoke is… a hundred paces ahead. Let's split up. Durnwold can go right, I'll go left and you go straight ahead.'
Hearst nodded.
'Draw your sword now,' said Alish to Durnwold, 'so when you're closer you won't have to take it from its sheath.' it's sheathed in oiled leather,' said Durnwold. it won't make any noise.'
'Yes, but if you're crawling forward through vines or brambles, you might make a noise like earth's own bone-breaking if you have to jerk out your sword in a hurry.'