by Hugh Cook
Blackwood was careless about the amount of noise he made, guessing that the two soldiers, Hearst and Alish, would sleep on regardless. And he didn't trouble his head about the wizards, as he had scant respect for pox doctors.
He smiled at the crackling fire, and the fire beamed back.
Miphon had not woken properly when Blackwood roused himself. He lay half-submerged in sleep, lubbery as a sodden old boot. He could hear the grumbling discord of the thoughts of a nearby rock, thoughts which he could understand as the language of stone was one of the secrets known by the order of Nin.
Those thoughts, stronger than any he had ever heard before from rock or stone, or even mountain, were bitter as the face of a widowed bride, bitter as the torment of a young warrior who has lost both eyes from the wounds of his first battle, bitter as the snarl of a hostage whose king - his brother, no less - has by the breaking of a treaty doomed him to lose both his hands and his feet. Miphon lay there, half asleep, listening, piecing together the lament of the rock:
Time was time when the seven-octave wind, Lighter than year-first frost,
Lighter than Tremulo's touch, than Vyvan's
reverberation, Could through me funnel, shaping latelments: When my desire could fist my thought to form Or race the daylight to the night's delight -Stars to calm tentharow aftermath, half-dreaming
trance That followed passion -
Passion we had in days of then When mountains, garrulous and strong, Desired the thunder, fought with lightning For favour and delight -Lemarl! That world where I had sight!
Years faded brightness to an echo of remembered echoes,
Till only echoes we remembered -
Not the glitter-diamond light of crystal Tremulo,
The stride and pride of Vyvan's march,
And Lemstol's flight -
Far less the actual face of Wathnamora,
The songs of Telemornos
And the jokes the mountains told.
Gone for ages, as if forever: then given! No brief surge of strength, strong, but false and
failing, That earthquake brings: This was animation to outpace the wind! Berserk in exultation, My balance spun to frenzy. Joy! My eyes seventy Blazing to the sun!
The world of pulp rolled under as my onslaught Rolled the day to night while the wide earth rolled,
And overhead the stars succumbed to sun, Renewed, and then were sun again.
Then gone: the world smashed down to darkness. A shuffle, then a final jolt. The sun went blind. Now silence pits dark against nothing. Weight renews forever.
There is no death for us: no hell: no resolution. Only the substance split and folded from the
substance, Halving, and, again, halving, Till strength and intellect lie sharded into sand, Too small to think, remember or compute: Pinhead specks of hatred, loss and sorrow Where half-words fractured from millenium memory
echo.
It happens. Truth is bitter as stamagan's taste: bitter As the stretch of sun, the ice contraction, Season's wedge which splits my substance open. Lemarl: that world Had no shadows. No grind of seasons.
The mortal creatures of the pulp have shadows: Vague, to match their mist. And I today so low that I Envy their mortality . . .
Miphon, half asleep, listened . . . floating . . . heard the lament begin again. The repetition reminded him of an animal pacing the bars of its tiny cage. Perhaps the rock would recite the same words for another thousand years, without change: they were all more or less mad, those voices of stone, and with good reason. He knew the rock might change its tune if it became aware of the creatures of pulp camping beside it, but that would take days to happen if it happened at all. Rocks sensed the world slowly, vaguely, or not at all.
Miphon opened his eyes, blinked at the sunrise, and sat up. He could still hear the rock, but only dimly. If he wished, he could start a dialogue with it - but that would probably be an unkindness. Let it go on repeating - perhaps forever - the lament it had made in moments of agony when it had been at least partly sane and coherent. It had adapted to its condition; Miphon had no wish to cause it harm.
Passion we had in days of then When mountains, garrulous and strong, Desired the thunder, fought with lightning For favour and delight -
That had been in the world created by the Horn,
when stones, rocks and mountains had been entities free to love, to shape and to build - passionate, careless and immortal. Then the great god Ameeshoth had fought and killed the Horn. Why? Who knew? The sages claimed to know, but much of their teaching was pure invention.
Whatever the reason, after destroying the Horn, Ameeshoth had built this world - the world known as Amarl - over the world of Lemarl. Stones, rocks and mountains had become gross matter, their minds doomed to stasis for all time. If Miphon had been in Ameeshoth's place, he would not have been so cruel: but then, he could not judge the motives of gods.
'Breakfast?' said Blackwood.
'Please.'
'It's not much.'
'It's welcome, whatever it is.'
Breakfast was some small barley meal cakes; they would eat properly when they got back to the castle. Shortly, with all woken, breakfasted and packed, they moved off, glad to get moving to get some warmth into their bones.
'I heard a stone thinking today,' said Miphon.
'We settled the question of stones yesterday,' said Garash with a growl; he thought he was being baited again.
'Your thinking doesn't stop theirs,' said Miphon. 'This one thought most prettily.'
'Really?' said Garash. 'Did it ask your hand in marriage?'
'It said that Heenmor's magic made it free to move for a time.'
'Magic cannot create life,' said Garash, reciting an ancient dogma. 'So how could the stone come alive?'
'It was alive to start with,' said Miphon. 'From the minds of mountains, we of Nin know that they and all their kin have been alive from the beginning of time.'
'What is time then, if you're so clever?' said Garash.
'Time is that which permits,' said Miphon, giving the traditional answer, which is, of course, no answer at all. 'Forget about time, because -'
'Because what? Will forgetting time make me immortal?'
'Garash,' said Phyphor, sharply, 'Hear him out.'
'As you wish,' said Garash. 'I'm sure it's good therapy for him to air his delusions.'
'Let's talk about what you've seen with your own two eyes,' said Miphon, considering and then abandoning the idea of a lecture on the inner life of rocks. 'You've seen stone trees, smashed trees, smashed trails, rocks at the end of the trails. How did the rocks get there? Giants didn't throw them there, and rocks don't fall from the sky.'
'They do, you know,' said Blackwood.
'Shut up!' yelled Garash, sick of this impertinent woodsman who dared to intrude on the debates of wizards.
'Mister,' said Blackwood, with dignity, 'I've seen it myself. A rock fell from the sky when I was a child. In the Barley Hills, it was. As big as a house. Big, and hot as fire.'
'If you believe that,' said Garash, 'you're in your second childhood already.'
'You don't know everything,' said Blackwood. And then, voicing something which sounded like a venture into the field of metaphysics, but was actually an expression of contempt: 'You can't.'
Garash stopped, and turned on Blackwood.
'The woodsman is under our protection,' said Hearst swiftly; he liked Blackwood's mettle, and did not wish to see him come to harm.
'Step back, old man,' said Blackwood, fearless as he was ignorant of his danger. He gave Garash a little shove. 'Back! I don't want to hurt you.'
'Please!' said Miphon.
Garash breathed heavily. He was angry, but not too angry to think. He had lost most of his power trying to blast the dragon on the southern border. If he used the rest to kill Blackwood, he would be helpless in any confrontation with Phyphor.
'It pleases me,' said Garash, 'to let him live. For the moment.'
'Tha
nk you, mister,' said Blackwood. Til do you the same courtesy in return.'
As their march had come to a halt, Phyphor decided to settle the question of rocks and stones before going any further. He asked a question:
'Miphon, what's this argument about rocks in aid of? What are you trying to tell us? From looking around us, we know that Heenmor's got power enough to destroy a city at a single blow. That's a cruel thing to know - but it's simple. We can all tell its significance, so we don't need lectures. Apart from that - is there anything else to know?'
Miphon hesitated, looking round at his listeners: the wizards Phyphor and Garash, the Rovac warriors Alish and Hearst, and the woodsman Blackwood. He had to make them understand! He spoke, choosing his words carefully:
'Heenmor has stolen magic from the Dry Pit,' said Miphon. 'I can now guess the nature of that magic. When used, it destroys part of the world created by the great god Ameeshoth - the world in which we live. The creatures of the Horn, meaning rocks and stones, are set free.
'So far, Heenmor can only command a temporary destruction of a small part of the fabric of the world. But if he could learn to control this magic well enough to destroy the fabric of the world of Ameeshoth and then the world of the Horn, he could uncover the original Chaos.
'And if he could learn to shape and control that, then he could make himself into a god. That, I think, could
well be what he's planning. Even if he fails, he might destroy the entire universe just by trying. Against such danger, we need all the strength we can muster. I ask all of you here today to join with me in pledging yourself to a common cause.' Alish laughed, harshly:
'A common cause? Between wizards and the Rovac? Forget it!' Blackwood looked blank.
'What have gods got to do with it?' asked Blackwood, who hadn't followed the argument at all.
'Miphon,' said Phyphor, with unaccustomed gentleness, 'Even if what you say is true, you can't make instant diplomacy between wizards and Rovac'
'And it can't be true,' said Garash, 'because rocks don't walk, think or talk.'
'Come on,' said Hearst, eager to quit this forest where men under his command had suffered and died.
And, yielding to his initiative, they resumed their march. Warm skies fared above them as they walked; reaching the region of living things, Blackwood murmured:
Sky, blue sky, the colour of my lover's eyes; Leaf, young leaf, her hands no softer.
Miphon, delighting in the forest of spring, and remembering the forest of stone they had left behind, thought for the first time in a long time of the sleeping secrets. Heenmor had a power greater than any other known - but the order of Nin also had powers. Great powers. The sleeping secrets. Was this the time to recall those secrets, to open, as the saying went, the book of Nariq?
No.
Only those who sought life, peace and understanding joined the order of Nin. None joined for power - but when they were initiated, the sleeping secrets were
revealed to them, giving them powers too terrible for human beings to be trusted with. In the depths of the Shackle Mountains, in the shadow of thunder, in the place between darkness and light, they were taught by the Book of Nariq, and then they were taught to forget.
None dare start the rites of recall except in the most dire emergency. 'What is known must be unknown; what is revealed must be hidden.' Miphon, tempted, controlled himself. The sleeping secrets could not help them find Heenmor. And once they found him, a knife in the back or an arrow in the heart would serve their purpose. Yet. all the way back to Lorford, he thought of the secret powers which needed only the rites of recall to be his.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Galish: the traders of the Salt Road. Their language, the Trading Tongue (known often simply as 'Galish') serves as a lingua franca for every market place from the Castle of Controlling Power to Chi'ash-lan.
Galish, of necessity, is the unifying language of the polyglot pirate community of the Greater Teeth. Dialects of Galish are also spoken in Sung (in Ravlish East) and on the fishing islands of the Lesser Teeth, both areas first colonised by Galish traders.
* * *
The sky was clouding over as they neared Lorford. Arriving, they found Melski rafts moored in shallow water upstream from the bridge. Galish - hostile, angry and determined - were loading the rafts. Even two of their pregnant women were hard at work. Right now, camels were being herded into custom-built pens on the rafts.
A man - the wizards recognised him as a sea captain from the Harvest Plains - was trying to negotiate a deal with the Galish. They were not interested. When he grabbed one by the shoulder to remonstrate with him, he was knocked unconscious by an elbow jolt. A ragged cheer went up from locals looking on.
'The Melski,' said Phyphor. 'You seemed to know them well. Ask them if they know where Heenmor went.'
But Blackwood was eager to get back to his wife. 'Mister,' he said, 'It's no good talking to the Melski.
They're animals. They can't be trusted. A certain pox doctor told me so.'
'The prince has made peace with these people,' warned Hearst, who did not want to see Blackwood get into trouble. 'Do what they want.'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'your orders command me.'
And he obeyed.
One of the Galish demurred when Blackwood tried to board a raft, but a Melski he knew, seeing his predicament, summoned him.
'You see,' said Blackwood. 'He slaps his thigh. He calls me.'
'Go to him then - but keep out of the way.' 'Thank you,' said Blackwood, and went to the Melski.
The Melski, a male, was named Hor-hor-hurulg-murg for short, and more pretentious things for long. He was leaning against a sweep-oar; he had been out of the water for a long time, and the webs between his green fingers were dry and wrinkled.
'Greetings,' said Blackwood in the Melski tongue, a language which lent itself to sonorous formality. 'Greetings in the hour of the sun, greetings from the land to the water.'
'Greetings, Bla-wod,' said his friend. 'Greetings from the water to the land. May our days lie downstream together.'
'One may hope the cycle permits it,' said Blackwood.
'Indeed, one may hope. One may always hope. We hoped for you, Bla-wod, though the river said your house was ash, your bones the same.'
'The house, yes,' said Blackwood. 'The bones, as you see, still need picking.'
Then they began to talk in earnest. Hor-hor-hurulg-murg told how the Galish, finding out about the Collosnon raids, were cutting short their stay in Estar. Their convoy would leave before nightfall, Melski
muscle labouring it upstream against the Hollern River to Lake Armansis, deep in the Penvash Peninsular; from there, the Galish would cross a mountain pass to the coast then make the short sea journey west to the Ravlish Lands.
Asked about the wizard Heenmor, Hor-hor-hurulg-murg said he knew nothing.
'Me and mine have wintered in the far of the river, north by north from Lake Armansis. Our southing has given us some of the news, but not all. I will ask the river for you; when we meet again, I will have the answer.'
'Thank you,' said Blackwood.
And returned to the bridge, where the wizards and the warriors were waiting for his return.
'You took your time!' said Garash. 'Why so slow?'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'The Melski think before they speak. Try it some time - you'll find it slows the speech remarkably.'
'What did they say?' asked Phyphor, as Garash sought for a suitable retort.
'They don't know. That's all. But they'll ask.'
'Ask what?' said Garash. 'The sky? The trees? The river? Or your precious talking stones?'
'They'll ask their kin,' said Blackwood. 'Then answer us.'
'Till then,' said Hearst, 'we can organise patrols to search north, south, east and west. North in case he's in the forest far from the river and the Melski. South in case he's doubled back on you. That's what I'd do -hide where you'd searched already. West, the river meets the sea. He m
ay have taken a boat from Iglis. East, in case he's fled to Trest. I'll talk to the prince about putting out the patrols.'
'This doesn't mean we're making a common cause with you,' said Alish. 'Just that we all want Heenmor dead.'
Alish disliked Hearst's enthusiasm for working with 118
the wizards, but Alish did want Heenmor's head - and the death-stone. One thing was for certain: wherever Heenmor went, he would have been noted. Twice the height of any other man, he had no hope of hiding himself in a crowd. That made their task easier.
Unknown to Alish, their task was shortly to be complicated by war. Enemy troops were already within the borders, and were closing swiftly on Lorford.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Collosnon Empire: realm of the Yarglat horsetribes and their subject peoples.
Capital: Gendormargensis, ruling city of Tameran.
Ruler: the Lord Emperor Khmar. a warrior ferae naturae.
Religion: no state religion, though the horse cult of Noth is powerful amongst the Yarglat.
Language: Eparget (the ruling Yarglat dialect); Ordhar (the command language of the armies); sundry minor tongues.
History: like most imperial histories, a tale of blood and ashes; the dominant theme is conquest.
By nightfall, the day which had begun so brightly had turned to heavy pounding rain that fell without relief. Through this rain, the first refugees began to arrive from the countryside, bearing confused tales of attack by night, pursuit, swords and slaughter, armies on the march. At dawn, people began to evacuate Lorford, seeking safety in Castle Vaunting; the central court soon filled with the clamour of homeless citizens, their animals and their bewildered children.