It was starting already. The Swarms were moving north for the first time in four thousand years. And, his own faith in free will steadily eroding, he thought:
– We are prisoners of history.
An odd thought for a Rovac warrior. Not bitter, but melancholy. Almost philosophical. Almost. He would have to snap out of this mood. He would have to unlearn some of his painfully-acquired wisdom, and think himself back into being a hero, for that was what the age demanded: a man prepared to dare all in a desperate race to the Dry Pit to gain a weapon powerful enough to contend against the Swarms.
Despite himself, he recalled his many failures. He did his best to suppress them, but one memory still surfaced. It dated back to the time at Ep Pass. Durnwold had worked his way behind the wizard Heenmor, had stood at the top of a cliff, had raised a rock… had died.
Should Hearst blame himself for that death? Alish had thought up the attack plan, but should Hearst have accepted it? Maybe there had been a better way to do it. The fact was, a man had died, trusting Morgan Hearst. So many men had died trusting him.
Miphon was still talking: '… so you see, the question of free will, is, to a large extent, a purely epistemological question. You do see that, don't you. Don't you?'
'What?' said Blackwood, who had a rather glazed expression on his face. 'Yes, yes. Indeed.'
'Now,' said Miphon. 'If we could return for a moment to Impalvlad's theory for quantifying the stochastic and deterministic elements – '
'Perhaps,' said Hearst, coming to Blackwood's rescue, 'we could leave the quantifying till later, and talk about the Southsearchers.'
'Oh,' said Miphon. 'No, no, not just yet. This will only take a moment.'
'According to Sarla's theory of time, a moment can sometimes be infinitely extended – and I think this might be one of those moments.'
'Who's Sarla?' said Miphon.
'You tell me about the Southsearchers, and I'll tell you later.' 'This person does really exist?'
'Of course, of course,' said Hearst, blandly.
And, by such temptations, managed to get Miphon to abandon the question of free will. They heard all about the Southsearchers, then Hearst told a long – and, alas, unprintable – story about Sarla of Chi'ash-lan, and her very amusing theories about sex, alcohol, time, and the nature of the universe.
They could not risk setting out until it was dark.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
'Those are the Needle Rocks,' said their guide, indicating dark shapes in the night which blanked out stars and constellations.
Somewhere a blowhole spluttered as a wave forced its way up its gullet. Paddling, Hearst strained to see their landing ground, which must be close now.
'Those rocks have claimed many ships,' said their guide, his own paddle helping drive their canoe forward even as he spoke. 'Storms make these waters dangerous.'
'It looks calm enough now,' said Blackwood.
'Yes,' said the guide. 'But storms do come in from the Ocean of Cambria. Open water reaches away east to Ashmolea. Storm waves league westward, building their strength.'
And Miphon thought:
– Yes. Yes indeed.
Remembering.
They came in under towering cliffs, where swells, leisured yet powerful, surged onto rocks. A narrow shingle beach afforded them a landing.
'A league's easting along these rocks takes you to the start of the Chameleon's Tongue,' said their guide. 'Nobody will have seen us land, not here in the cliff-shadow. Take care, and perhaps you'll reach Seagate without being seen.'
'Whose eyes should we fear?' said Miphon.
'Any ship cruising the Ocean of Cambria counts as danger,' said their guide. 'Worst are the Alvassar pirates, who sometimes raid this far north – but others can be as bad.'
'What others?'
'Whalers from the Ebrell Islands, who will meet you with a smile then ram a harpoon between your shoulder blades. And the sea traders from Asral, the Malud -they fancy a little knife-work now and then.'
'So much for the dangers from the sea,' said Miphon. 'What about the people living on the Chameleon's Tongue?'
'Nobody lives on this coast for fear of Alvassar slaving raids,' said their guide. 'Over the Lizard Crest Rises, which run the length of the Tongue, there's people living by the shores of the Sponge Sea.'
'What kind of people?' said Hearst.
'Who cares? It's a rugged coast, no good for travellers. I do hear tell that they're poor: I don't know if they'd kill you for your flesh and bones, but I do know this coast's safest.'
'Weil keep to it then,' said Hearst. 'Many thanks for your help.'
'Life is for life.' said their guide, dismissing his thanks. 'All speed!' 'And you,' said Miphon.
The canoe ventured out into the night. Miphon. Blackwood and Hearst began to pick their way over the rocks toward the Chameleon's Tongue. Once they got there, five hundred leagues of sandmarching would take them to the mountains near Hartzaven and Seagate: a twenty day journey, if they made good time.
While Southsearchers had handed them from village to village on their journey through the Stepping Stone Islands, it had been a blessed relief for Hearst to have all command responsibilities taken from his hands. He had failed so many times that he had come to doubt his own fitness for command.
Now he was reluctant to lead his party away from the shelter of the cliffs and onto the Chameleon's Tongue. He wished they could have stayed in some South-searcher village, to live out their lives in island isolation while the world contended with its troubles. Yet he carried a guilt-burden: therefore he committed himself to this quest. It was the least he could do.
The tide was half way out; from dark sand dunes, an expanse of beach over two hundred paces wide sloped gently to lines of small surf breaking under the stars; the distances were hidden in the night.
'Well,' said Hearst. 'Let's be on our way.'
Leading them onto the sands, he felt nervous, uneasy: the beach was too open, too wide. But time was important, and they could travel faster along open sands than through the dunes, scrub and rocklands of the hinterland.
Soon they fell into a steady rhythm, tramping over the firm seasand at a pace they could keep up right through the night; slowly the cliffs receded into the darkness behind them. But nothing soothed Hearst, not their steady progress, not the lull of the rhythms of the heart, not the low-mounting seafall of beaching swells. Still apprehensive, he kept glancing backwards, thinking how easy it would be for horsemen to ride them down on the beach.
Suddenly, from the darkness ahead, something huge rose from the sand with a seething, hissing cry. Points of white shone within its expanding darkness as it swept toward them.
Hearst screamed: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
His sword leapt to his hand. His body braced to receive his enemy: braced to meet his death.
The monster broke apart into separate flashes of white which wheeled away into the night, cold cries now clear and recognisable.
'It's only seabirds,' said Miphon mildly. 'Only gulls.'
Hearst stood there, shaking.
