'What do you advise, my lord?' said Alish.
T do not advise,' said Prince Comedo. 'I command. I require our return to Castle Vaunting.'
'My lord,' said Alish. 'Heenmor has gained a season on us already. We've not time to go back for the other mad-jewel. Besides, going back, we might run into the Collosnon – we might find ourselves heavily outnumbered.'
'This quest has ceased to amuse me,' said Prince Comedo. 'Do you understand?'
'I will discuss it with the wizards,' said Alish.
He knew it heartened the troops to know they were being led by a prince of the Favoured Blood. In time, he might have to cut Comedo's throat, but for now he would stall to get the maximum benefit from Comedo's presence.
T will retire to my palace of convenience,' said the prince, meaning his green bottle. 'You will arrange what is necessary. When I emerge again, I expect to find us closing with Castle Vaunting.'
'Yes, my lord,' said Alish.
Prince Comedo rode away: Alish guessed that they would not see him again for days if not weeks. By then, it would be too late for anything Comedo might do to matter.
The expedition continued east toward the Kikashi Hills, beyond which lay the Fleuve River and the Spine Mountains. Reaching the hill country, they came upon the ramshackle camp of a family of charcoal burners. Questioned, these people said yes, Heenmor had passed this way. A number of people lived in the hills – deer hunters, truffle hunters, a few lepers, and, more recently, a few Collosnon deserters – and news travelled. Rumour claimed that some Melski had helped Heenmor. 'the blue and ginger giant', to travel down the Fleuve River.
The expedition was on the right trail.
The hills – 'Mountains if they're molehills,' muttered Garash darkly – were rugged and densely wooded. Finding sheer cliffs ahead, and the few hill trails impassable by horse, Alish organised a horse slaughter. Easy come, easy go. They chopped up their mounts, crammed the horse-stomachs with bits of meat and plenty of water, then boiled up the meat in the stomachs and gorged themselves.
Then went on.
The soil was light and sandy, and the pine tree had dominance. Blackwood did not like this unfamiliar kind of forest, but the others were happy enough. They slept each night with the wind lulling through the branches of the pines; they made big fires out of resinous pine cones, throwing on handfuls of pine needles which would flare up like a sudden blaze of wizard magic. In the steep-climbing hills, the land was clean, with far fewer biting insects than the lowlands they had already travelled through.
Durnwold took every opportunity to train with his brother Valarkin. On long summer evenings they sparred together, bearing shields, wielding heavy sticks rather than swords. They used sticks for safety, to prevent damage to their weapons, and so no clash of metal would ring out through the evening to alert any unpredictable strangers living within earshot.
Each evening, as Valarkin picked up his stick and put his arm through the leather thong inside the shield's curve, then grasped the iron bar bridging the space made by the shield boss, he felt more confident. His attempt to steal the green bottle and escape with Blackwood had failed, as had his effort to make the expedition turn back by throwing away the mad-jewel. Since he could not escape this quest, he would do his best to cope with its rigours. But that was not to say he liked it.
Often Valarkin thought of the man his brother Durnwold admired so much – the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst – and wondered if he would get a chance for revenge.
Since Hearst was Durnwold's friend, Valarkin had to keep his bitter knowledge to himself. He was certain that his temple's god had killed the dragon Zenphos. He was a priest, and knew the god's power: the dragon's last flight had been its death throes. A handsome sacrifice had persuaded the god to kill the dragon: he could still remember the screams of the tender boys they had dedicated during seven days of ceremony.
Valarkin knew Hearst must have found the dragon dead in its lair on the mountain of Maf. If Hearst had admitted it, Valarkin could have persuaded Prince Comedo to rebuild the temple. He could not have reconstructed the secrets that had been lost, but… everyone would have believed. Attributing fine weather to the goodwill of the god, he would have made the sun in the sky his miracle, proclaiming storm and foul weather to be the god's wrath. One proven miracle – the dragon's death – and they would have believed for a lifetime.
There was no chance of that now: but there might still be a chance for revenge.
Climbing the unfamiliar, ever-rising cliffs and hills, their pace slowed. They moved cautiously along the pine forest trails, with scouts out ahead and a rear guard behind. At dusk, Elkor Alish sent out clearing patrols to circle their camp site and ensure no enemy was creeping up on them in the twilight; he always chose to camp on high ground, with good defensive prospects, and posted sentries to watch out the night.
He was acutely aware that, while they might be questing for Heenmor's head, a Collosnon revenge force might be questing for them.
After days of hill climbing, they reached the high, isolated uplands of the Rausch Valley. No humans lived here, for the sandy soil would support no crops, and was worthless for grazing. Isolated from the moderating influence of the sea, the valley was blanketed by snow all through the winter: when the spring melts came, the entire valley flooded as snow melted on the mountains of the Coastal Massif.
They marched to the Fleuve River which drained the valley, and followed it downstream, in a southerly direction, to a point where the valley narrowed as the hills closed in. From here, the prospect to the east showed them high mountains, some still tipped with snow. From a Melski encampment, they learnt that the Melski had indeed taken Heenmor downriver to Ep Pass, where there was a pass across the Spine Mountains.
It now seemed certain that Heenmor was making for Stronghold Handfast. And. of course, the expedition must follow – but there was a problem.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On the raft belonging to the Melski headman, Blackwood turned to Hearst: 'It's no use. He refuses.'
'Try again,' said Hearst.
'Mister, they'll talk us out till the river runs dry, but they'll never changesay.'
Tell them,' said Hearst, 'they can't hope to stop us travelling downriver, no matter what they've promised to Heenmor. Tell them it might come to bloodshed if they try to stop us.'
Blackwood addressed the Melski headman, whose language came easily to his lips. In his exile years in Looming Forest, the Melski had been his friends and companions. Looming Forest: Estar: Mystrel. Was Mystrel still alive? 'Old father,' said Blackwood. 'You of the current-cunning, of the long-song memories, know that not everyone honours the virtue of their spawning.'
'Lor-galor,' grunted the Melski headman in assent.
'Now these of the dryhard standing by your home-banks take no part of the Cycle; on them lies no restraint against murder. They can be like stormwater, destroying with as little reason. I offer no threat, but the others lack the honour of peacemakers.'
'You do well to warn us,' said the Melski headman. 'You are one who has honour. May your days lie downstream.'
Then the headman sat back.
'Honoured father -' began Blackwood. it is no use,' said the Melski headman. 'You have the courtesy of our tongue upon your lips, but we cannot unspeak our speaking. The river cannot flow back to the hills, or words unsay themselves. We cannot offer you way by right down the river. If necessary, we will break the Cycle to preserve our truth.'
'What does he say?' asked Hearst.
'He says no,' said Blackwood. 'They won't let us follow Heenmor, even if it means a fight.'
'What's Heenmor paid them?'
'He paid them with their lives, mister. I'm sure you've made that kind of bargain now and then yourself.'
'Try again,' said Hearst, hurt by Blackwood's bitter tone.
'Old father,' said Blackwood. 'He wishes that I fish again.'
