by Hugh Cook
The eggs, when cooked, were good eating, though between them the humans could not consume a single egg entire. Gorn dipped his helmet into the boiling water, and when the contents cooled he washed himself as well as he could. But they could not spare the time for Gorn to cool enough water to wash himself properly, and so he stank of dragon's egg for the next two days, until their march took them to one of the tributaries of the Amodeo River.
The tributary offered them a route north through the Broken Lands and then through the Dry Forages to the city of Kalatanastral. They had no boat, and there was no timber in that country, but reeds grew by the riverbanks, and, at this end of summer, the low water level made it easy to gather the reeds.
An expert can fashion a one-man reed canoe in a single day, but these amateurs were three days making their little flotilla. Then they set forth on the slow-flowing muddy waters; the windings of the river meant that their first day's journey took them toward the west, although ultimately the waterflow would swing to the east, bearing them toward the eastern coast of the continent of Argan.
Their journey took them through lands which legend held to be uninhabited and uninhabitable, but clearly the legends were wrong. On some days, they saw signal fires burning to east or to west. Once, they passed half a dozen lean-to shelters, primitive windbreaks built for a transient camp then abandoned.
The country downriver was flat and monotonous, with sparse grazing, yet they saw, once, in the distance, the dust of a herd of animals on the move; the distance was too great for them to determine what the animals were, and the Rovac warriors resisted the temptation to trek inland for some hunting – they could not afford such frivolities.
They had no need to leave the river to search for food, because it afforded them a sufficiency in the form of eel and water-rat, frog, carp and heron. Their evening hunting was done with sharp skewering stakes, fire-hardened spears or stones flung from improvised slings; the fishing was good.
Yet they saw no human beings until, one day, they saw a stranger some distance downriver, riding an animal of some description. i hope the natives are friendly,' said Hearst. if not,' said Garash, only half in jest, i claim the kidneys. I could do with a change in diet.' iil fight you for them,' said Gorn, not joking at all; he liked kidneys.
'No,' said Garash. 'You have the brains. You could do with a little extra.'
'Peace, children,' said Alish.
Soon they could see the stranger was a hunter, mounted on a kind of shaggy, heavy-bodied ox. He observed them from the river bank without any sign of curiosity. He was an old man with dirty blond hair now fading white, that hair being plaited into a heavy rope which hung down his back.
'Hey,' yelled Gorn. if that animal's female, she can earn herself some money.'
No answer.
'Well, if it's male, we can still do business,' shouted Gorn. it's been a long time. My friends are a bunch of prudes, no fun at all after sunset.'
No answer.
'How about yourself, then? You don't want to die a virgin, do you?' Even this sally raised not a flicker of interest in the old man's timebeaten face. The ox snorted, stamped one hoof, then wheeled away from the river and set off toward the west.
'The locals seem rather snobbish,' said Garash. i don't know,' said Hearst. 'He might come back with friends to invite us to a feast – with our livers and lights as the main course.'
'No,' said Blackwood.
From the behaviour he had seen, Blackwood knew that the old man had no interest in strangers, being content with his own universe, with the dull flat plains which he roamed, with his clothes the shades of earth and dung, his spear ornamented with irregular strips of free-hanging cloth, and the conversation of the wind-chimes which hung from his stirrups and tinkled as the ox lumbered westwards.
They argued it out as they drifted downriver, with Gorn boasting vigorously about what he could do with a brace of native women or even – and it was hard to tell if he was joking – the native cattle.
But no invitations came to feast – or be feasted on.
***
Autumn rains were swelling the waters by the time the travellers reached the Lanmarthen Marshes, where the river lost itself in a wilderness of swampgrass and water-rooted trees. Here, however, lived Melski families, and Blackwood was able to enlist their help for guidance through the marshes; the Melski confirmed that it was indeed, despite the continuing fine weather, autumn.
Once free of the marshes, they followed the Amodeo River through a barren land where no grass grew, and thus came to the city of Kalatanastral, the city of glass. It was built on a rectangular pattern, three leagues by three, with a grid of streets running north-south and east-west. The buildings were, as the legends said, of glass, but, as the travellers discovered, there were no ghosts in that city; they did not hear a single note of the fabled Dawn Songs.
Kalatanastral was a dead place in a dead land. Most of its glass buildings were sealed against the light; others were guarded by oblate spheroids of steel mounted on delicate thin-stemmed legs, half-sentient machineries from the Days of Wrath. The intruders knew better than to challenge those guardians.
If they followed the Amodeo River further, it would take them some hundred leagues or so north-east to the little fishing town of Brine and the ocean that washed against the eastern shores of Argan. However, their way now led north-west, over the barrens to the Ringwall Mountains, and across those mountains to the Central Plateau and Stronghold Handfast, where they would have to challenge the wizard Heenmor for possession of the death-stone.
Garash, as ever, spent much time in meditation; when he dreamed, the death-stone always figured in his dreams, and he knew the task of taking it for his own use would be safer and easier now that he no longer had to contend with Phyphor – or, for that matter, with Miphon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
How fares the sun?
Miphon wondered about that as he mumbled down another mouthful of siege dust. He also wondered if iron filings might make a pleasant change from a diet of siege dust: he rather suspected they might.
The red bottle held stone urns packed with enough siege dust to feed him for centuries. There was water, too. He would not starve, or die of thirst. Prince Comedo would die before Miphon did: age would kill the man before it killed the wizard.
With Comedo dead, Miphon would be left with no way of escape, unless he cared to choose the quick death offered by a drop-shaft. He would have no chance to get his hands on the ring commanding the green bottle. He would live on, mumbling siege dust, sipping water and dreaming of the sun. In time, no doubt he would forget what the sun looked like. Perhaps one day someone entering the bottle with another magic ring would find him, and then the story would be told:
– In a red bottle in a green bottle in a country where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard who was four thousand years old…
Four thousand years! Yes, he could rot here that long – or longer. This was worse than the journey underground, for their river journey had promised them that before too long they would meet with death or deliverance. And there had at least been other people, other voices.
Miphon finished his meal, such as it was, and picked up his bow, which was one of many – the red bottle, packed with siege dust, water and weapons, must have been built to house an army. Comedo had sometimes visited Miphon at the portcullis, but Miphon's most strenuous diplomacies – pleas, threats, cajoleries – had achieved nothing. Now he was going to try murder.
The bowstring was slightly sticky with preservative grease that had protected it… for how long? It was difficult to bend the bow to string it.
There: it was done.
He was on the third level of the red bottle, with all the room he needed for target practice. He nocked an arrow, drew the bow and aimed at one of the faceless helmets that hung around the walls. He loosed the arrow.
The bowstring vibrated, stinging his thumb. The arrow clattered into a rack of throwing spe
ars. The next one went wide, and the third caroomed off the ceiling. Miphon swore.
He had always thought of himself as a practical person, particularly since the months on the Salt Road when he had dealt with tasks of tending fires, finding food for the donkey and cooking. But those were routine tasks which he had learnt – however painfully -years ago. Archery was a new skill which he would have to master, and no amount of intellectual analysis would make the labour shorter.
To be trapped in the bottle where magic was useless was like being crippled. He had not realised he had relied so heavily on magic.
He fired another arrow. It slammed into a helmet -the wrong helmet.
***
– In a green bottle.
– In a green bottle…
– In a green bottle in a country where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard. The wizard had a red bottle but he was trapped in a greenbottle, greenbottle redbottle, no sun no wind no rain and never never never so much as to hear or see a bluebottle… – In a green bottle…
Miphon had for years thought of himself as a hunter because of his love of the chase, of the moment of mastery when the wing high in flight hesitates, circles, then dips. However, he lacked the hunter's patience. Now, waiting in the shadows behind the portcullis, with arrow nocked, he suffered.
He knew Hearst or Gorn or Alish would have been patient as death, despite creaking knees, aching backs, stiff necks and rumbling stomachs. They would have waited. Could a wizard do less?
This wizard, lulled by the unvarying green glow of the bottle, caught himself falling asleep. That would never do. If Comedo came sniffing down those stairs and saw Miphon asleep behind the portcullis with bow and arrow at the ready, he would never come back.
Miphon would only have one chance. He would have to kill with the first shot. Then drag Comedo's body to the portcullis so he could take the ring from Comedo's finger. That would be easy enough to do: tie a rope to a spear then hurl the spear into the corpse.
But what if Comedo was not wearing the ring?
Of course he would be wearing the ring. He always brought it with him to gloat. Miphon would kill him. And get the ring. But what if, escaping from the green bottle, he found himself – well, he might find himself anywhere. Even, perhaps, in a dungeon in Stronghold Handfast, a prisoner of the wizard Heenmor. There was no way to say it was impossible.
Footsteps!
Miphon started. Trembling with excitement, he readied the bow and arrow. The footsteps came closer: and there was Comedo, in full view. Comedo saw him! He screamed in panic, and turned to run – too late! Miphon's arrow slammed home. Slammed into Come do's shoulder. Comedo fell face-first to the stones. Miphon nocked another arrow, but by then Comedo had made it to safety.
'You'll pay for this!' he screamed. 'You'll pay. I'll have you eating glass before I'm through!'
'My prince,' said Miphon in desperation, dragging a little package from beneath his jerkin. 'Look what I've found! A surgeon's kit! Needles, thread, knives, bandages! I can heal you! You need me now!'
Miphon had indeed found a very beautiful surgeon's kit in the red bottle. But Comedo, unimpressed, was only provoked into showing further disrespect for the medical profession: 'You slime-licking pox doctor!' he howled. 'By the syphillis sore you were suckled on, I'll see you pay for this. I'll have you, by the balls of the tenth demon, I'll tear your head from your shoulders and shit on it. What a coward's trick. By the knives, the lice in the slit between your legs have got more courage that you have. Don't think you'll catch me again. If you want to speak to me, yes, if you want an audience – '
Miphon would listen no more. He retreated down the stairs, back to the lower levels, and then into the red bottle. Water and siege dust, siege dust and water: it could keep him alive forever.
– In a red bottle in a green bottle in a country far, far away, where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard who was four thousand years old…
It could keep him alive forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
'There it is,' said Garash.
From a high ridge, they had a view across bleak and broken country. Far off, about seven leagues distant, loomed the uprearing vertigo of Stronghold Handfast. impressive, yes?' said Garash.
'Some think so,' said Hearst. 'Saba Yavendar always used to think it was ugly.'
'Really,' said Garash.
'Yes,' said Hearst.
And saw Garash looking at him oddly. Of course, the memory was not Hearst's, but a stray recollection inherited from the wizard Phyphor.
'What do you know of Saba Yavendar?' said Garash.
'His poems are famous.'
'Yes, but the man – '
'Don't you recognise a joke when you hear it?' said Hearst.
'A joke, hey? Does that count as humour where you come from? Don't bother me with any more of your jokes.'
'As you wish,' said Hearst.
Garash again looked at him suspiciously: that was not the way Rovac warriors talked. As you wish. As you please. If it suits your convenience…
'We're on the skyline,' said Blackwood.
'No matter,' said Elkor Alish, buoyed up by excitement at the sight of Stronghold Handfast.
'Blackwood's right,' said Hearst. 'We'd better get off the ridge.'
Hearst did not share Alish's excitement.
As they scrambled down the other side of the ridge, Hearst thought about Saba Yavendar. He remembered him quite clearly: a short man with a big ugly nose, a quick grin, and broken blood vessels mottling his face where years of drinking had done their damage. Phyphor had known him well.
Blackwood halted amidst jagged uprisings of rock and clutches of boulders which would shelter them from scrutiny but still allow them a clear view of the landscape ahead.
'What do you think?' said Blackwood. 'Shall we camp here?'
'It's not far now,' said Alish.
'We won't get there today,' said Hearst. 'It would be foolish to try. Let's just go down into the valley and camp for the night.'
'We can go further than that,' said Alish.
'The sky looks like snow,' said Hearst. 'I want to make camp early. I don't want night to catch us unprepared.'
'A little snow won't hurt us.'
'If there's snow, I'll want fire. Remember why I left the Cold West.'
T remember,' said Alish 'I remember…'
And was silent while Hearst scanned the torn landscape confronting them.
'To the left looks easier,' said Hearst.
'I prefer the right,' said Gorn. 'It's steeper but shorter.'
The two Rovac warriors argued it out. Blackwood did not take sides, though he was sure which was the easier, and was relieved when Hearst won the dispute.
'Let's move out.' said Hearst.
They shouldered their packs and continued their descent. With plenty of time remaining till dayfail, Hearst called a halt in a small valley where tall rocks provided a little shelter. Spindly trees grew here and there; without any chitchat, they felled trees, made a rough lean-to and built a pile of firewood. There would be no cooking: they now had enough food for only one meal each day, which was breakfast. At this rate, their rations would be exhausted in a week.
Some time before darkness, it began to snow. The air seemed to warm a fraction, then, white by white, flake by flake, the snow descended. The first flakes, landing on the dark rocks, puffed out to nothing. But light, white, air-light, more snow fell, settling white on black, white on white on black, then white on white on white.
Blackwood coughed.
'You're not sick, are you?' said Gorn. i thought you'd recovered,' said Hearst. i have recovered,' said Blackwood, and it was true: the parasitic smoke was long dead. T coughed, that's all.'
But he was touched by the concern in their voices. Shared hardships had made them allies against the dangers of the world.
Hearst flexed his hands, which were going numb in the cold, took his tinder box, and, with the ski
ll which comes from long experience, he lit the fire.
***
Dark, and… Stars! And how cold! 'Who -' 'What?'
'Ahyak Rovac!' 'Hold!' 'Who's that?' 'Blackwood?' 'I'm here 'Miphon!' 'Who else?'
'Miphon, how did you – what took you so long?' 'Here I am.'
'Is it warm in the bottle?'
'It's freezing cold out here. For certain it's warmer inside. Hold my arm. Blackwood.' 'Here. I'm here.'
'Hearst. Alish. Gorn. Garash, come on, Garash. Where are the others?' 'Dragons ate them.' 'Oh. I'm sorry about that.'
'So was the dragon. Their armour gave it indigestion. Come on now!'
And Miphon twisted the ring on his finger, and the whole party was sucked into the green bottle.
'Here we are,' said Miphon.
'The bottle's gone from my belt,' said Blackwood.
'Of course,' said Miphon. 'You're inside it now.'
'Food,' said Gorn. T can smell food.'
'Down here,' said Miphon. 'Down these stairs.'
'Where's Comedo?' said Alish.
'Ah,' said Miphon. 'Thereby hangs a tale
***
For hungry men, stomachs demanded satisfaction before curiosity had its turn. When appetites were satisfied, Miphon told his story.
'… so there I was, trapped behind the portcullis,' said Miphon. i must admit, I felt foolish to have been caught so easily.'
'You should have ripped his guts out right at the start,' said Gorn.
'So you were caught behind the portcullis,' said Alish. 'Did you try to raise it?'
'Yes, but that proved impossible. However, I went deeper down in this green bottle. After a while I found a red bottle, together with a ring which I could use to enter it.'