The Wizards and the Warriors Page 19

  Alish went down. Under, under. He looked around the shadow-green underwater world. In the depths, a wounded Melski turned slow, bloody circles towards darkness as it tried to swim away from agony. Bright surface was the sun. Smudged green shadows were the rafts. Alish swam, then surfaced.

  He threw back his head and engulfed an ocean of air.

  A small frightened Melski, perching on the edge of a raft, threatened him with a knife. The knife was pitted with rust. There were dried fish scales on the blade.

  'Muur!' said the Melski.

  Alish screamed at it. The Melski dived in panic.

  Alish pulled himself from the water, still gasping in buckets of air. The combs which had held his long black hair in place were lost: his hair fell free. He wiped it out of his face.

  Alish snatched up the first weapon he saw - a Melski club - and stood in the sunlight, blinking and gasping. He coughed. The sun was a slash of light in the blue sky. Clouds boiled in the wind. He glanced around and was dazzled by the sunlight on the water. Men, shouting, were plunging from raft to raft, but where were the Melski? Some - little ones - sat in shock, rocking from side to side, moaning. Elsewhere there was still some fighting, but here it was over.

  Many of the cabins were burning where cooking fires had been scattered from their foundations of sand and rocks. Smoke streamed across the rafts, driven by the

  wind, confusing everything. There was fighting somewhere in the smoke. Alish could hear shouts, screams, the thump of boots, the whirr of arrows, the groans of the wounded. He heard the quick crackle of flames sprinting through bamboo cabins, occasional explosions as joints of bamboo heated up then burst.

  The Melski club felt heavy in his hand. He dropped it. He saw a sword, but did not pick it up. Ethlite was gone, Ethlite, Ethlite, his sword, his lover, snatched by the river, drowned too deep to dive for.

  The weariness that came over him then was sudden and absolute. Without looking any more at the flames and the smoke, without listening any more to the fighting, he started walking back toward the shore. Rafts rocked underfoot as he stepped from one to the other. Some water moved inside his left ear; he shook his head to try and get rid of it. His nose was bleeding. The wind knifing through his wet clothes felt cold.

  Alish passed a few of the men who had already begun to plunder the dead. They had all been fighting: they were all hot, red-faced and sweating still. Most were bloodstained; a couple were wounded, but only lightly. Water squelched in Alish's boots as he walked.

  On the shore, the two wizards of the order of Arl, Phyphor and Garash, stood watching the battle with detached interest.

  'Alish!' said Phyphor. 'That was well done. That was very well done.'

  Alish ignored him, and walked past without answering. Wizards! This slaughter was all their fault. A plague on all your houses, then, if you have houses.

  In the camp site were the dismembered remains of a few Melski children; one body had fallen into a fire and was charring with a foul stench. Alish threw himself to the ground, threw himself to the earth, wet though he was. He was the leader, and to collapse was not one of his privileges, but he collapsed all the same. He would have wept, except he was too proud to weep, ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the evening, they set off down the river. That night they heard Melski in the water, exchanging recognition signals. Alish feared an attack, but none came: the Melski seemed content to drift downstream with the rafts. When dawn came, there were none to be seen in the water - but soon afterwards, the leading raft saw one asleep on a rock. It woke, and dived into the water, and the current carried it away.

  Alish feared the Melski might go downstream ahead of the rafts to organise an ambush. The river banks were growing progressively steeper: soon it would be possible to drop rocks from above.

  He also worried about Hearst, who sat apart, brooding. Why? Because he had failed to help Blackwood's Melski friends? Because Alish had lied to him? Or because he had missed the battle?

  Whatever the problem, Alish hoped Hearst would not do anything reckless - he did not wish to have to kill the best warrior in his command. However, if it did come to a confrontation, there was no doubt who would win: they had matched blades in practice often enough to know that Elkor Alish was by far the better swordsman.

  Another who worried about Hearst was Durnwold, who valued the Rovac warrior above all because he had shown that the world could dispense with the governance of the Favoured Blood. The common wisdom throughout the continent of Argan was that the world would collapse in chaos without the guidance of its traditional rulers, but Hearst had proved that a common warrior could be both wiser and stronger than a

  prince. When Comedo had grovelled in helpless fear as the Collosnon attacked, Morgan Hearst had dared the lopsloss, secured the mad-jewels - and had then gained victory for Alish by using his judgment and opening the lead box holding the mad-jewels.

  However, one man cared nothing for Hearst, and that was Blackwood, who believed that Hearst had conspired with Alish to get him out of the way so the attack on the Melski could proceed without possibility of betrayal. As survivors of the court intrigues of Chi'ash-lan, about which they sometimes told outrageous stories of treachery and deceit, the Rovac were entirely capable of such a stratagem, and Blackwood knew it.

  Hearst, for his part, was brooding on the distance separating him from Alish. It had come as a shock to know that he had been excluded from the secret councils which had decided to use a mad-jewel to stand sentry at Castle Vaunting, but now Alish had deceived him, had in fact told him a direct lie - and that was something entirely different again.

  Hearst had blurred memories of an argument in Castle Vaunting. He had been drunk at the time, but he thought he vaguely remembered Alish threatening to kill him. Had that really happened? And if Alish had really said that, had he really meant it? Was it possible that they might one day match steel against steel, with lethal intent?

  No. That was impossible.

  In the Cold West, they had been inseparable. They had shared the same tent, and sometimes the same woman . . . and then . . . and then everything had changed . . .

  * * *

  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 r
edemption. 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!'

  'Mister, 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 So
uth. 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.