'The Melski?' said Garash. 'Those animals are dangerous.'
'I've made them my friends,' said Blackwood. 'Then more fool you.' Blackwood made no answer.
Pebbles began to crunch underfoot: a few at first, then many. They were fragile and light, like pumice; they were the size of tears.
That was rain,' said Blackwood. 'Falling through the sky, it turned to stone. Water on the ground became black glass.'
'Who said so?' said Garash. 'The Melski?'
'Yes,' said Blackwood. 'They called it the black rain.'
'If it rained stones, the leaves would've been shredded.'
'The stones are very light,' said Blackwood. 'Besides, the leaves weren't out when Heenmor worked his magic'
Further on, they passed a huge rock which had splintered several trees.
'It looks as if a giant threw it here,' said Phyphor. 'Are there giants in Estar?'
'Mister, there's no such thing as giants,' said Blackwood. The rock walked here.'
'You're wrong about giants,' said Garash. 'And about rocks. Rocks don't walk.'
'This one did. So did the others. After Heenmor did his magic. Some died after they walked into the river -the Melski saw them.'
'Rocks don't die,' said Garash. 'They're not alive to start with.'
'They walked,' insisted Blackwood, firm in his faith in the Melski. 'They talked.'
T see,' said Garash. 'Did they go into town to ask for a mug of beer and a bed for the night?'
'No, mister,' said Blackwood. 'They didn't have the money to buy such.'
'No money?' said Garash.
'It's true.' said Alish, taking up the story. 'They had no money, for Heenmor picked their pockets. These rocks, you see, they're not well up on the ways of wizards and the world.'
'Pockets?' said Garash, outraged. That can't be true. Rocks don't have pockets!'
'I've read of such things,' said Miphon quietly. 'They're dealt with in the Terminal Texts. All walking rocks have three pockets at least. Surely you remember that from your own readings?'
That was a barbed thrust. The Terminal Texts were a set of notoriously difficult manuscripts owned by the Confederation of Wizards, and Garash was not one of the world's greatest scholars.
'What kind of pockets?' said Garash slowly.
'Green ones,' said Miphon promptly. 'Each big enough to hold two and a half sticks of tobacco.'
'Miphon!' said Phyphor, annoyed to see Miphon joining this demented Garash-baiting. 'That's enough about rocks and pockets for today and forever!'
'You mean it's not true?' said Garash. And then, with rising anger: 'It's not true?'
'Of course it's true,' said Alish. 'Any drunk will tell you.'
At that moment, they came upon a leafless tree with grey twigs. Garash snapped one off. It was stone. His protruberant eyes stared at it. He started as Alish drew a knife – but the warrior only wanted to pry at some bark. Turned to stone, it flaked off to show wood beneath.
'It's only on the surface,' said Phyphor.
'Still,' said Miphon, 'It killed the tree. Look – the very ground is stone.' He kicked a hole in it. Stone snapped beneath his heel. 'Again, the surface only. But what's that, there?'
'A puddle,' said Blackwood.
Miphon knelt down and dug it out of the ground. Whatever it had been, the 'puddle' was now a thin plate of obsidian. Miphon passed it to Phyphor, who turned it over in his hands then gave it to Garash. Hearst had no wish to handle it, but Elkor Alish reached for it; after a moment's hesitation, Garash yielded it.
Alish was fascinated. Here was power indeed, a weapon that destroyed all living things without exception, leaving the land barren and uninhabited. Nothing else could do that – except fire, a chancy weapon easily affected by wind or rain. A man commanding such power would be hard put to conjure up ambition to match his ability.
'Let's go on,' said Hearst.
They went on through a forest of stone. Many of the trees had collapsed under their own weight, shattering to shards. Their feet went crunchy-scrunchy over the stones. This, Alish knew, was what Heenmor's death-stone had done; the garbled reports of survivors who had run fast enough to escape its action had not captured the terrible magnificence of the destruction.
Further on, they discovered the body of a man. It had been turned to stone.
'This is one of the ten who died,' said Blackwood.
'Did the Melski see them die?' said Phyphor.
'The Melski shadowed them,' said Blackwood. 'They keep a watch on intruders in the forest. But when the rain started to turn to stone, the Melski ran. They said there was a grinding sound in the sky; the sun grew dark. Those who ran survived: those who lingered died. They did not get much time to run.'
'Where was Heenmor?' said Phyphor.
'He was at the centre,' said Blackwood. 'Everything around turned to stone except in the place just around where he was standing. When the Melski first went to see, rocks chased them.'
'But walking rocks aren't real!' howled Garash, provoked beyond endurance. 'We settled that! They're not real, understand? They're like – like sleeping pictures.'
'He means dreams,' said Miphon.
'Dreams? Mister, I dreamt of the sky last night. If dreams aren't real, what then?'
Garash, not agile enough for this debate, made no answer. He took out his frustrations by kicking at the stonemade man. A fold of clothing splintered. He kicked again, snapping a thousand fine threads of what had once been hair. He trod on the face. The stone curve of an eye broke under his boot, revealing an eyesocket empty but for a bit of stone the size of a pea, as if the eyeball had shrivelled up to that little bit of rock.
Blackwood looked up at the sky. 'It's getting late,' he said. 'Unless we turn back, we'll have to camp somewhere among the stones.' 'Rocks,' muttered Garash.
Could rocks really walk? He didn't like the idea at all.
'I say we should press on,' said Alish, seeing that Garash was discomforted. 'The more we learn about this the better.'
'We know enough,' said Garash.
'We don't yet know the truth about walking rocks,' said Phyphor. 'Let's go on.'
They did – with difficulty, as many branches had fallen from the trees, covering the ground with shattered stone.
'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor.
'Yes?'
'This magic… some men died, some escaped. Did any escape with their lives but with… consequences?'
'Maybe,' said Alish. 'Tell him,' said Hearst. 'He's a wizard,' said Alish.
'Yes,' said Hearst, 'and we're living men, not the incarnation of the wrath of the dust of history.'
'You speak too lightly of blood matters,' said Alish.
'If you don't tell him, others will,' said Hearst. 'Plenty know. Two survivors didn't run as fast as the others. Bits and pieces of them turned to stone. One died quickly; the other still lives. Prince Comedo keeps him as a toy.'
Both Hearst and Alish had seen that last living victim when Comedo put him on display. His skin was mostly grey; his hands had thickened to useless chunks of rock; one leg was paralyzed and the other had turned to stone below the knee. Stone lips kept his mouth forever open; his tongue licked round uneasily in the warm darkness within. One eye blinked; the other, together with most of the face, had turned to stone.
'The survivor,' said Phyphor, 'Will he live or die?'
'I don't know,' said Alish. 'I don't think he cares.'
'I think he envies the dead,' said Hearst.
'Look,' said Blackwood, 'There's water ahead.'
The rain had filled a dip in the ground where Heenmor's magic had turned the earth to stone. The water was dark, still and silent. They came to a halt by the sinister dark waters. Grey stone. Dark water. The sky above was turning grey. And no bird sang.
Blackwood coughed, loudly, and spat. The march had wearied him. These last few years, he had not felt as fit
