'A bottle?'
'You'll recognise it if you see it,' said Phyphor. 'Well, are you going? After dragon killing, this should be a picnic!'
Hearst's bootlaces felt too tight. Should he alter them? If he did, he would find his sword was not riding comfortably at his side. And with that adjusted, his boots would feel too loose.
'Yes,' said Hearst, nodding. 'Time to go.'
'Luck,' said Alish, and turned on his heel and strode away: he had to command the defence of the battlements.
'You'll do it,' said Blackwood, offering encouragement.
'Unless you don't,' said Garash.
'If don't, then dead,' said the executioner. 'The feeding isn't always quick.'
Below, the lopsloss sucked back, then rammed the wall with a blow which set the stones beneath them shaking.
'Sometimes,' said the executioner. 'Sometimes, though, it is quite quick. Quite'
'Lower another lantern,' said Phyphor. 'It's got no sight to speak of, so you might as well have the light.'
'No sight,' said Hearst. 'Has it a mind?'
He had heard the Miphon had some power over the minds of animals.
'None that I can hear,' said Miphon, knowing the question was for him. 'Well then,' said Hearst. 'Well… I'll do it.' 'We'll see,' said Phyphor.
Boots braced against wall, Hearst laboured down on a rope, descending toward the doom below. The lopsloss creaked and squelched; Hearst imagined that he heard little wavelets lapping against the walls below, but dismissed the thought. Breathing the increasing meat-rot stench, he almost gagged, but controlled himself. Off to his left, the lantern, hanging above the lopsloss, illuminated only a fraction of its glistening, alien flesh.
He was down far enough.
When he cried out, those above would throw meat to the lopsloss. When it moved away to take the meat, Hearst would have to let himself down to the bottom and sprint for the left-hand corner. He would be running through darkness.
'I'm ready!' he shouted.
He was answered, first, by ghostly echoes of his own voice. Then by an unintelligible shout from above. Then the meat – a dead sheep – splashed down into the darkness. It sounded very much as if it had hit water. The lopsloss quivered, shook, then began to move for the meat. Hearst let himself down to the bottom.
There really was water!
The dungeon floor was knee-deep in water. It would slow him down. Hearst hesitated. Imagining how Phyphor would greet his retreat: 'So… our mighty dragon-killer returns.'
Hearst was off: running. Water clogged his steps as he panted forward. The ground sagged away underfoot: water surged to his waist. And he could hear the lopsloss. It was coming after him. He lost his footing en tirely. He was afloat! The monster was hot behind. He would never make it. He struck out through the water. And there was a scream- Something heavy crashed into the water.
The lopsloss paused, stopped. Hearst trod water, then eased his feet down, seeking the bottom. His boots touched stone. He stood there, trembling, shivering.
There was a squelch of bulk and suction. The lopsloss was moving. But which way? Hearst counted to one, to three, he was still alive, six to eight, alive, and nine, and ten, take breath- He knew which way the lopsloss was moving.
Slowly, very carefully, he took a step forward. Then another. He eased himself through the water, gaining higher ground. Then his hand found the left-hand wail. He was on course.
Then he heard the lopsloss returning.
'No!' screamed Hearst.
Hobbled by flooded boots, he stumbled through knee-deep water. The lopsloss was gaining on him, driving a wave in front of it. The wave rocked past. It broke against rock. Rock! He ran slap-bang into it. Where now? Left? Right? He chose: right. He dodged: right. Rock opened for him. He ran, slipped, fell, clawed himself forward. The lopsloss slammed against the wall behind him, sucking and groping.
But he was inside. Safe.
Safe and sobbing.
He had done it.
Climbing stairs leading upward into the darkness, Hearst tripped over something. He poked at it with his sword, kicked it, then, when it didn't slither or squeal, felt it. A tree root? A tree root! Further up the winding stairway, the root thickened. Soon there were two, then three. Old and dead, some crumbling to dust beneath his boots, releasing the faintest scent of sandalwood. When he reached the tower of Seth, the larger roots were as thick as his thigh.
In the tower, dead branches choked the daylight. Someone, abandoning the tower, had left a tree behind. Struggling to break through to the outer air, it had choked the tower with its branches; stairs led upwards, but the branches blocked them. Hearst drew Hast and laid about him. Dead, ancient wood shattered to dust and splinters before his blade.
Outside, a battle was in progress. He could hear it. He worked faster, coughing as the dust got to his lungs. He was sweating now. His skin and leathers, soaking wet from his swim, were covered in fine grey dust.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
That was a Collosnon battle-lung shouting: Forward! Forward! Hearst grunted and swung his sword again, driving himself.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
Sweeping away one last branch, Hearst gained the uppermost chamber. Through windows with panes of diamond, he saw a battle below: a confused pattern of knots of men locked in combat on the battlements between the tower of Seth and the portal giving access to the gatehouse keep.
At a glance Hearst saw the enemy were winning.
Where was the magic? The two boxes? There – above him, caught in branches which had lofted them to the ceiling. He hacked at the branches. They exploded into dust. The boxes fell. Lunging forward, he caught one. The other hit the ground. The lid came off. Dozens of red charms spilt out into the swirling dust, each charm trailing a thin gold necklace. Hearst stared at them aghast, remembering Phyphor's warning. But nothing happened.
Outside, the enemy shouted in triumph. Comedo's forces were falling back in disarray. Hearst looked at the heavy box he was holding. On the lid were hellmouth jaws and the null sign of the dead zero, the sign of the nether magic. He had been warned of the dangers within. But- 'I held the breach at Enelorf,' he said, his voice a whisper.
He bit his lip, and lifted the lid.
Inside, two yellow jewels reclined on verdant velvet. Each was the size of a fist. Was this the great magic? These two baubles? And what was that light that sang and curdled inside them?
The floor canted abruptly, and Hearst found himself sliding toward the jaws of a waiting dragon. Screaming, he fell. Flame scalded him. Its jaws closed, biting him in half. He wailed in despair and- Found himself lying on the dusty floor.
It was very quiet.
The floor was level.
There was no dragon.
His body was intact.
And the box? It lay on the floor beside him. The lid, fortunately, had fallen shut. Slowly, Hearst regained his feet. He sneezed, then wiped the dust from a window. Outside, the fighting had stopped. Some men stood as if stunned; others were picking themselves up from the ground.
'Gen-ha!' shouted the Collosnon battle-lung.
The Collosnon troops started forward again. Hearst knelt by the box. Delicately, using just one finger, he lifted
