'I'm blind!' screamed Garash. 'Blind!'
The air stank of burnt hair. The back of Garash's head had been singed and the back of his cloak had been scorched.
'You were lucky you fell backwards,' said Phyphor. 'Heenmor must have set a blast trap here. If you'd walked in facing forward, you might have lost your eyes.'
'Don't you hear me? I'm blind.' 'It's only flash-blindness,' said Phyphor. 'You'll get back your sight in a day or two.' 'Help me up,' said Garash. Phyphor laughed at him.
By the ochre everlast light of the firestones of the tower of Arl, Phyphor's mouth showed heavy brown sheep- teeth in a mirthless grin. Standing there, tall figure in robes and skullcap, scars on his chin and lines of age seaming his face, he looked like a deathmessenger.
'Upstairs,' said Phyphor. 'You first, Garash. If there's any surprises, they're yours.'
At first Garash demurred – but soon yielded to Phyphor's blunt methods of persuasion.
The tower of Arl rose from the battlements in fifty levels. The first thirty, windowless, held nothing but clasp- sealed jars of water and urns of siege dust. The next twenty were bare but for some stone furniture. As they climbed, Miphon and Phyphor followed Garash at a distance. The stairs were shallow, as wizards might have to climb them through thousands of years of frail old age. The stairway walls were covered with strange markings: glyphs and star-symbols which Miphon had never seen before. He did not like to ask what they were, but Phyphor volunteered the information.
'All that you see is written in the Inner Language of the order of Arl,' said Phyphor. 'It's used for saying that which must not be overheard. You're probably the first wizard of Nin even to hear of its existence. Does Nin have anything like it?'
'No,' said Miphon.
He was not telling the truth. His order did have a special method for secret conversations. Theirs was the only order able to speak to and hear animal minds, so they would use the slow, clear mind of a tortoise. They would sit it down on a table, with a few lettuce leaves so it would not wander, then one wizard would put a thought into its mind for the others to pick up. The thought would fade swiftly, allowing questions, answers or elaboration. Miphon kept this secret, guessing wizards of any other order would find this ceremony ludicrous.
'We've no great secrets like the other orders,' said Miphon. 'Everyone knows that.'
'Everyone presumes that,' said Phyphor. 'But I'm not so sure. Hurry up, Garash! You're not crippled, only blind.'
The murderous fifty level climb exhausted all of them. However, there were no more traps. In the uppermost level, they found a table, a couple of chairs and a chess set. On the floor was a stone relief map of the lands of Estar, Trest, Dybra and Chorst. The map showed the flame trench on the southern border of Estar throbbing with red light.
'That's new since I was here last,' said Phyphor. 'It would have told Heenmor the southern fire trench was burning again. The day we reached the border, he must have known it.'
'What are you talking about?' asked Garash, from his blindness.
'Nothing that need concern you,' said Phyphor. Garash yelped.
'That's a chair,' said Phyphor. 'There's a couch to your left.'
Garash groped his way to the couch, then lay down. With a grinding-grating, the stone conformed, at least approximately, to the curves of his body. Phyphor frowned at the ugly noise: it suggested that time's decay was telling even on the tower of Arl. Garash, lying back, went limp, as if unconscious.
'What if his sight doesn't come back?' murmured Miphon.
'There's a drop-shaft on every level of this tower,' said Phyphor. 'They have their uses.' Miphon hoped he was only joking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Name: Durnwold (brother of Valarkin). Birthplace: Little Hunger Farm, Estar. Occupation: soldier.
Description: a strong, swarthy young man who looks rather stupid but actually has all his wits about him.
Career: since leaving his father's house, has served Prince Comedo. Has trained with the sword under the tutelage of Morgan Hearst, warrior of Rovac.
Footling – knocked from his horse by a branch – fell with a cry. His horse, dismounted, stopped. But the chase went on.
Durnwold urged his horse: 'Ya! Ya!'
Hearst rode silent and intent, bent low beneath the whipping branches. The trail swung into undergrowth too thick to ride through. Durnwold and Hearst swung down from their horses. Bent low beneath branch and bough, they ran with swords drawn.
One of their quarry turned at bay. Durnwold was at him first. Sword clashed with sword as Hearst slipped past to follow the trail. Durnwold, on his lonesome, fought the Collosnon soldier.
The earth was damp. Their boots slipped and stumbled. Their mouths were open: breathing harsh. In the dim underbranch light they thrust and countered. Fear for fear they matched each other. The Collosnon soldier dared a cut which Durnwold only half-turned. The blade ripped his flank. It hurt! He parried another blow then hacked for the head.
Metal bit metal. The Collosnon sword shattered. The soldier looked at it – shocked, astonished. Durnwold's blade bit to the bridge of his nose. Durnwold sliced, thrust, hacked, chopped, grunting, sweating, swearing, butchering his enemy to a bloody mess of gore and bone. Then dropped his sword and staggered to the support of a tree, where he rested, clutching his wounded side, panting, gasping.
It was a while before he realised he was only lightly wounded, and not likely to die yet.
Meanwhile Hearst, now far out of sight, ran on along an easy trail of broken twigs, footprints, torn branches, and, once, a vivid red wound where a boot had ripped the skin from an exposed tree root. He saw marks where his exhausted quarry had slipped and fallen. Bursting into a clearing, Hearst saw his quarry: sprawled full length with an arrow in his chest. Hearst saw the archer: a dark-haired weatherbeaten man of middle years, and behind him… what? It fled, leaving him with a vague impression of large eyes and fox fur.
'Who are you?' demanded Hearst, speaking Estral.
'Blackwood,' said the archer.
'And what was that thing that ran away?'
'A fodden.'
'What's that? Paw and claw? Or thumb and fist?'
'Thumb and fist,' said Blackwood. 'But it lives like paw and claw. It finds game for me.'
Blackwood spoke the language of Estar well enough to assure Hearst that he was a native of the land. Hearst switched to the Trading Tongue, in which he was more fluent.
'Do you claim the head?' said Hearst.
'The head? Mister, I'm not that hungry.'
'The prince will want to see it,' said Hearst, chopping down on the corpse with his sword.
He gave a quick look round, sheathed his blade, then set off at a jog, holding the head by a fistful of hair. He did not look back.
Blackwood wondered about that warrior who had demanded his name before leaving without giving his own, who had cropped grey hair, cold eyes, and a brutal way with human flesh. He hoped they would not meet again.
The dead Collosnon soldier had discarded his sword, helmet and cuirass to be able to run faster, but the spider amulet at his throat told the world which master he served. Sighting that amulet, Blackwood had shot without hesitation. The arrow had caught the soldier just to the left of the breastbone; he had spun round and fallen dead.
