However, in the temple, Valarkin had learnt that men can control gods – even though, if the truth be known, the temple's god had only been a creature of the third hierarchy, which is to say, a common demon. Since men could control gods, they could certainly master the leaders foisted on them by tradition.
'There's wealth in the bottle.' said Valarkin. 'Including a whole room full of books. If we could learn to read them, they'd surely teach us magic'
'Or get us killed,' said Blackwood, dourly.
'Don't be afraid! Think… think of your wife.'
'There's no way for me to rescue her,' said Blackwood, who had been carried helplessly witless for a whole day till they got out of range of the mad-jewel.
'Look,' said Valarkin, holding out a thin chain. A charm gleamed on the end of it.
'Is that yours?'
'I've got another one. The prince gave me this one for safe keeping. Put it on.'
Blackwood took the charm, weighed it in his hand, then slowly put it on. Just then, one of the sleepers woke, and made his way to the edge of the swamp; returning to his bed, he disturbed half a dozen others, who cursed him sleepily. Valarkin waited for everyone to settle down before he spoke again: 'If we start now, we can outpace them to Castle Vaunting, rescue your wife and run for Penvash. They'll never catch us.'
'And the prince?'
'Settle his fate as you will. Are you with me?'
Blackwood hesitated. The common wisdom of Estar taught that each had his weird, and had to endure the doom he was fated to. He knew of only one tale in which a man of peasant stock had tried to take control of his own destiny. That was the tale of Loosehead Robert, who had gathered together a rag-tag army to make war against his prince. After a series of disasters, he had been driven into the hills.
There, in a cave, while thinking wild thoughts of triumph and revenge, Loosehead Robert had watched a spider build its web. Into the web had flown a fly. And how it had struggled! Five times it had almost broken free, but the spider had got it in the end. And Loosehead Robert, looking from the devouring spider to the mouth of the cave, had seen his prince's soldiers standing there, grinning at him. All mothers in Estar told their children the lessons Loosehead Robert learnt, first from the spider and then from his prince's shunting irons.
– But perhaps the story was not told quite right.
He had a charm to protect himself against the mad-jewel. And a companion to share his dangers. He would dare it. He would try.
'I'm with you,' said Blackwood.
Valarkin wanted to leave then and there, but Blackwood took the time to cut swatches of swamp grass and tie them round the hooves of four horses. With a change of horses and a head start, they should be able to outdistance their pursuers easily. Then he made sure that they packed all their gear and tied the packs to the horses. Only then did he agree to set out.
Leaving the dryland island on which they had been camping, they found the passage of Prince Comedo's little army had churned the one-horse track through the swamps into a quagmire. Blackwood's expertise with horses did not extend far beyond an intimate personal knowledge of what it means to be saddle-sore, but his common sense told him they would have to lead the animals till the track improved. So they went on foot, Blackwood leading, the horses roped behind them.
It was slow going, and hideously noisy in the thick mud. After only fifty paces, Valarkin swore softly.
'What is it?' said Blackwood.
'These horses. They won't move.'
Blackwood slurched back through the mud. He was starting to sweat. He had no skill with recalcitrant horses. The first horse whickered at him when he grabbed its bridle. He swore at it, softly, urgently. Then listened, trying to hear any noises from the campsite that would suggest anyone had woken.
What he heard was someone moving.
But not in the campsite: in the other direction!
Someone was sneaking along the path toward the camp, guided in by the light of the campfire. And they were close.
Blackwood sliced through the ropes connecting the horses.
'Turn them around,' he whispered. 'Back to the camp.' 'But – '
Blackwood slapped a hand over Valarkin's mouth, and whispered in his ear: 'Someone out there.'
Valarkin started to turn the horses around. This was very noisy. Almost immediately they were challenged from the night in a foreign language. It was the enemy! Blackwood slapped the nearest horse on the rump and shouted: 'Rouse! Rouse!'
Men and horses plunged through the mud toward the campsite, but the enemy gained on them. Twenty paces from the dryland island, one of Valarkin's horses lost its footing and went down on its knees in the mud, blocking the path. By then, the enemy were almost upon them. Blackwood grabbed Valarkin and dragged him into the swamps. They crashed into the water, and the enemy – Hesitated, moaned, screamed, thrashed around in the dark, sang or babbled with laughter. Blackwood realised what had happened. Someone had brought the mad-jewel out of its lead box.
'Let's go,' said Blackwood.
But at that moment Alish's voice rang out: 'Close the box!'
And suddenly the noise of madness ceased abruptly, and, after a brief pause, was replaced by sharp, angry enemy voices. At the campsite – so near, and yet so very far away – there was a lot of uninhibited swearing as various individuals crawled out of the swamp. Half of them had gone to sleep with their protective charms tucked away in their boots or their packs, so the use of the mad-jewel had been almost as disastrous for the defenders as for the enemy.
'I'm cold,' said Valarkin.
'Shut up!' hissed Blackwood.
But it was too late. One of the enemy gave an urgent command, and attackers waded into the swamp. Blackwood eased back, deeper and deeper into the cold, dark water. Valarkin started to move in the opposite direction. Toward the enemy. He had to be mad. Blackwood concentrated on moving quietly. Something underwater slithered against his legs: an eel.
An enemy soldier cried out in triumph, seeing Valarkin by starlight. Blackwood shrank back behind a clump of rushes. The next moment, he heard a slap as if someone had clapped their hands, a splash of water, then a cry of astonishment from the enemy. Blackwood realised what had happened. Valarkin had used the ring he wore to vanish himself into the green bottle at Blackwood's waist.
Now the enemy were not really sure if anyone was out there. Abandoning the chase, they started to push toward the campsite. They must have known they were grossly outnumbered, but they advanced regardless. To try what?
Blackwood heard Elkor Alish arguing with the wizards, ordering them to use fire against the enemy, and receiving an unqualified refusal. Suddenly there was a shout as the first of the Collosnon gained the dryland island. And the fight was on.
Men hacked each other in the darkness.
With his noisy progress masked by the uproar of a confused and savage battle, Blackwood forced his way through the swamp, gaining the dryland island before the fighting ended.
At dawn, Elkor Alish counted casualties. The enemy had lost fifteen men. Five of his own were dead; two others, who would have to be carried to the High Castle, could be expected to die from their wounds. One was missing, but his protective red charm was found in the top of his pack: if the Collosnon had managed to kidnap him for interrogation, it was unfortunate but not disastrous, as without a protective charm the enemy could not steal the mad-jewel which had been left behind in Castle Vaunting.
Alish realised he had been overconfident: an unpardonable failure for a professional soldier like himself. He had relied on wizard magic, believing, in any case, that any surviving Collosnon would be too demoralised to be a threat. Now he knew better.
Now he must make his men wear their protective charms at all times, so the mad-jewel could be used at a moment's notice, without fear of men mutilating themselves or drowning in the swamps. Proper sentries would have to be posted at night – which meant Alish would have to wake himself up from time to time to make sure his
