by Hugh Cook
'When my enemies come, I'll have to flee,' said Heenmor. T need time yet to perfect my mastery of the death-stone. Till then, I need a bodyguard. It takes more than one pair of eyes to watch out the night.'
T have a job already.'
'What? Guarding Prince Comedo? Guarding that little smear of excrement that vaunts itself as a prince of the favoured blood? Is that the height of your ambition?'
'How can you, a wizard, dare recruit a Rovac warrior?'
T dare anything,' said Heenmor smoothly. T know your oath will bind you. if you enter my service.'
Heenmor's lethal copper-strike snake was coiled on one side of the table, watching. The death-stone sat on the other side. Alish knew himself fast enough to kill the wizard or the snake. But not both. Reaching to the chess board, he moved one of the Neversh to confront one of Heenmor's wizards. Heenmor moved the threatened piece out of range.
'Perhaps Morgan Hearst will accept my offer,' said Heenmor. 'He's a warrior's warrior. I've watched him matching swords with that peasant, Durnwold. Training troops for the spring - and the war Comedo's promised him. He's a killer, isn't he? You can see it in his eyes. Maybe he's my man.'
'Ask him and see,' said Alish.
Would Hearst yield to temptation? Surely not. A Rovac warrior could never pledge himself to a wizard. Alish studied the chess board, trying to work out how to kill Heenmor's two remaining wizards.
'Alish,' said Heenmor, 'All I need is a little time. Then I'll have perfect control of the death-stone. That means power. Enough power to rule the world - or destroy it. Join me. Serve me. What's the choice? To stay here? In Estar? Here is almost like being nowhere.
Winter's ending. My enemies are coming - I'm sure of it. Make your choices, Alish!'
Alish smoothed his hands over his long black hair, thinking carefully. If he struck at Heenmor, the snake would kill him, but what if he grabbed for the stone egg sitting so near to hand?
Heenmor gestured at the stone egg.
'The man who rules this rules everything,* said Heenmor. 'Even if he can't rule himself.'
Alish hesitated - then snatched up the death-stone.
Heenmor laughed.
'So,' he said, 'You do have ambition.'
The stone egg felt cool and heavy.
'See the script on the side of the death-stone?' said Heenmor. 'Any wizard can read it. Raise the death-stone above your head. Say the Words. Do it!'
Alish looked at the characters cut into the stone egg: cursive scrolls, loops and hooks, shapes that imitated worm-casts or the convolutions of the intestines. They meant nothing to him.
Heenmor laughed again.
Suddenly the death-stone kicked, as if it was a living heart.
'Use it now,' said Heenmor. 'Use it - or if you hold it any longer it will kill you.'
Alish threw down the stone, scattering the chess pieces. The snake raised its head and stared at him.
'One day I'm going to kill you.' said Alish. 'One day I'm going to kill every wizard in the world.'
Heenmor laughed, as one might laugh at a child.
CHAPTER FOUR
Salt Road: main trading route serving the continent of Argan, the Ravlish Lands and the Cold West.
Starting at the Castle of Controlling Power by Drangsturm, runs north through the cities of Narba, Veda, Selzirk and Runcorn, through the lands of Chorst, Dybra and Estar, then into the Penvash Peninsular.
Turning west, reaches the Penvash Channel then proceeds through the Ravlish Lands to the city of Chi'ash-lan and the Cold West.
Goods traded along the Salt Road include: salt, silk, slaves, animals, hides, gold, silver, lead, copper, bronze, keflo shell, linen, hemp, glass, crystal, wood, wool, quernstones, lodestones, leeches, sponges, olive oil, lemons, citrons, coconuts, rare birds, amber and ambergris.
News, rumour, gossip and slander also, of course, travel the Salt Road.
* * *
'Phyphor, it's too much for me,' said Garash. 'Can't we rest? Can't we stop?'
Phyphor trudged on, in silence, his eyes downcast. His walk was little more than a survival stagger. The long days spent labouring over the mountains then navigating across open country to regain the Salt Road had worn him to his bones.
'Slave driver,' muttered Garash.
That was about the worst insult one wizard could offer another. When Phyphor did not respond, Miphon
took his hand. It was cold, like a bit of dead wood. 'Phyphor. . ."
The old wizard did not resist as Miphon drew him to the shelter of a clump of roadside trees.
'What's his problem?' said Garash.
'Too much wet, wind and road,' said Miphon.
Acutely aware that there would be nobody to help them if Phyphor began to slip into a death-stupor, Miphon gathered wood, lit a fire, heated a little gruel then fed it to Phyphor, who mumbled it down without resistance. It was the last of their food. They had eaten scarcely enough to warm their skeletons over the last few days.
Phyphor recovered quickly with the help of campfire warmth and gruel. Wizards had resources not given to ordinary men; though he had reached the edge of death, he was soon insisting that they press on. As they tramped north, Miphon engaged him in conversation from time to time to gauge his condition.
Phyphor was still holding up well when late afternoon brought them to the hamlet of Delve - a collection of squatdwellings crouching in the wetrot shadows of trees that choked a narrow gully. No dragon could have seen the hamlet from the air; it was almost invisible from the road.
The wizards knew what they would find: doors that stooped as low as the aching curve of rheumatism, rooves of sodden thatch, dark interiors cluttered with animals, floors of septic mud and manure, and people with the similar squinting eyes and chinless faces that come from generations of drunken fathers ramming their daughters against the walls.
First to greet them was a small black dog which raced through the mud so full of teeth and fury that Miphon at first thought it was rabid. It flung itself at them. Phyphor caught it with his staff, knocking it sideways into a tree. It lay in the rain as if stunned, then slowly crawled away, dragging its hindquarters.
People began to appear in doorways: old women with faces like those of smoke-shrivelled shrunken heads, young men picking at their teeth in a meditative way, a young woman with the bulging belly of a pregnancy near term. None of them said anything. They stood in the doorways as if they had been there all their lives staring out into the rain.
Finally a girl-child came splashing through the mud.
'Galish?' she said.
'No,' said Miphon, in the Trading Tongue. 'Not Galish, what?' said the girl. 'Wizards,' said Miphon.
The girl laughed. She flicked mud at them with one of her small bare feet. Garash growled; Phyphor hushed him.
'Where can we get a bed for the night?' said Miphon. 'Where?'
'A bed? For the night? Where?' 'Where what?'
'Where sleep,' said Miphon hopefully. 'Where sleep.' 'Sleep. Oh, sleep!'
The girl rocked up and down on her toes in the mud, which had splashed up her legs to her knees. She stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth and waited. Miphon brought out a small coin, a bronze bisque from the Rice Empire, with the crescent moon on one side and the disc of the sun on the other. He held it out. The girl snatched it, quick as a frog whipping a fly from the sky. She smuggled it through layers of rags till it lay in some secret hiding place next to her skin.
'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 f
or 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 anything 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 Stoko
s. 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?'