He spoke a Word.
The earth trembled and shook.
Phyphor spoke a Word and a Word and a Word. There was a roar louder than any dragon, or any clan of dragons. Garash screamed, throwing himself to the ground. Miphon listened. – pain, pain, pain – 'The dragon's hurt,' said Miphon. 'It's going.' They heard it bellow. (Distant. Fading.) Miphon ran upstairs. Phyphor followed close behind, panting as they burst out into the night air. The walls of the fort lay in ruins. Blocks of stone had been flung through the air as the flame trench, exploding, cleansed itself of the debris of four thousand years in a single convulsive spasm. Now the flame trench was alive, flames raging for half a league between mountain and sea. Heat beat against their faces. The clouds above smouldered with bloodlight reflections.
'Are you hurt?' said Miphon.
'My hands are burnt a little.' said Phyphor.
'Over here,' said Miphon. leading him from the fort to find water where he could cool his singed hands.
'Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor.
'Far away now,' said Miphon. 'Far away. It won't be back. It's hurt. The rocks thrown by the blast hurt it.'
'Will it die?'
'I don't know. But it won't be back. It won't be back.* The ground trembled underfoot; they smelt torn earth, the stink of dragon, the dust of splintered rock; heat and light from the fire dyke beat against their faces. They heard the roar of flames, the hiss of rain boiling as it struck fire, waves from the sea exploding into steam.
Garash joined them.
'The dragon?' said Garash.
'It's gone,' said Miphon.
'How long will the flames burn for?' said Garash. who knew the answer – fifty days at least, and maybe longer – but half-hoped that someone would tell him different.
'Too long,' said Phyphor. 'We'll have to find a way over the mountains.'
Where the flame-trench ran out into the sea for a hundred paces, the waters seethed and boiled. Lacking a boat strong enough to venture out into those turbulent waters – lacking, indeed, any boat at all – the wizards could not outflank the flame trench on the seaward side.
'Mountains!' said Garash. spitting out the word with disgust.
'We could swim,' ventured Miphon. 'You could, perhaps.' said Garash. 'I've never learnt to play fish.'
Garash, having wasted all his accumulated power in trying to kill the dragon, felt weak and exhausted. He felt, obscurely, that Phyphor had somehow tricked him. After all, Phyphor had finally driven off the dragon simply by calling out the Words which had made the fire dyke erupt. Garash could have done as much, if he had thought of it. He was comforted by knowing he still had power stored in the shrivelled twist of wood hung round his neck, power he had stored there during dull days in the Castle of Controlling Power.
'I couldn't venture the swim either,' said Phyphor. 'So it'll have to be the mountains.'
CHAPTER THREE
Name: Heenmor. Occupation: wizard.
Status: Master wizard of the order of Arl. A renegade wanted dead – most definitely dead – by the Confederation of Wizards.
Description: a massive, troll-shouldered giant, twice the height of any ordinary mortal. Black eyes, blue beard and ginger hair. Robes of khaki, boots of white leather.
Career: most notable exploit was his organisation of an expedition to loot an artefact of power from the Dry Pit in the Forbidden Zone. His companions either died in the Dry Pit or were murdered by Heenmor afterwards; notes found in their archives alerted the Confederation of Wizards to Heenmor's misdeeds.
'With this, I can conquer the world,' said Heenmor.
He was talking about the stone egg which sat on one corner of the table: a sullen grey weight lit by dull light from the twelve firestones which studded the walls of this chamber high in the Tower of the order of Arl. The everlast ochre light cast no shadows.
'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor, in a voice which mocked his opponent.
Elkor Alish, warrior of Rovac, said nothing, but studied the wizards and the warriors arrayed on the chess board. In chess, as in real life, a wizard had a hundred times the power of a warrior – but wizards could still be killed.
'Aren't you interested?' said Heenmor again. 'Believe me: the death-stone has power enough to conquer the world.'
Alish raised his eyes.
'What exactly does it do?'
'I'd love to know what Heenmor's taken from the Dry Pit,' said Garash, stumbling along a punishing mountain trail. 'I'd love to know what it does.'
'We'll find out soon enough,' said Phyphor.
T only hope it's something worth risking our lives for.'
'We're not in this for personal gain!' said Phyphor sharply.
'No, no, of course not,' said Garash hastily. Then went sprawling as a stone slipped beneath his feet.
'Test each stone before you trust it,' said Miphon. Garash swore, and ignored him. 'I'd still like to know,' said Garash, 'Just what it is and what it does.'
'So you'd like to know?' said Heenmor. 'Yes,' said Elkor Alish.
'Ah,' said Heenmor, 'That's… that's a secret.' And Heenmor smiled.
When Alish had been initiated into the Code of Night, they had told him this: remember that the wizard, scorning us, is apt to forget how fast your sword can end his life. Alish had never forgotten – which was why, face to face with the ancient enemy, he matched Heenmor time and again at chess, enduring the wizard's contempt.
But what was the death-stone? What did it do? Why was it so important? Why did Heenmor boast about it? 'Why do you invite me here so often?' said Alish.
'Perhaps I just like a game of chess,' said Heenmor.
'There's more to it than that.'
'You're right. There is. The truth is, I want to recruit a bodyguard. You, perhaps. I want the best. They say you're the best. But is it so? They call you the man who does not shed blood. That's a strange name for a Rovac warrior, isn't it?'
'My name is Elkor Alish.'
'The man who does not shed blood.'
Yes, that was what they called him now. But in the Cold West, men had known him by other names: Red Terror, Bloodsword, He Who Walks, Our Lord Despair. In the Cold West, he had been a great mercenary leader, until the day when, sickened of the slaughter, he had chosen to commit himself to the vows of the Code of Night: to destroy the ancient enemy and take the continent of Argan for the people of Rovac.
'I can kill if I have to,' said Alish.
'I've seen no proof of it,' said Heenmor.
Alish focused on the chess pieces: castles, merchants, sages, wizards, warriors, hell-banes, battering rams -
