'Draw it off. I'll snatch up the death-stone. Then we can be gone from this place.' 'All right,' said Blackwood, i'm with you,' said Gorn. 'Are you ready?' said Blackwood. 'Ready,' said Alish.
Blackwood and Gorn stepped forward, slowly, slowly. The snake menaced them. They dared another step. The snake slid closer. Alish darted in, snatched up the death-stone, glanced at the writing on it: then raised it in his right hand and shouted a Word.
'Alish!' screamed Hearst.
And threw himself forward. The snake twisted, lunged forward, and struck at his sword-hand. Hearst glanced at the bloody red puncture marks in his hand where the fangs had gone home, then at Elkor Alish, exultant, holding aloft the death-stone. He heard the grinding sound as that power began to manifest itself.
Hearst strode forward, switching his sword to his left hand as he moved, and the sword rose:
– Strength, man of Rovac! Strength!
And the right hand was gone, falling away. And Hearst closed the distance: one step, two.
Alish saw Hearst coming with Hast swinging bloody in his left hand. Alish threw himself to one side, rolling out of reach. He switched the death-stone to his left hand, and all time the grinding sound was growing louder. Alish drew his blade and faced Hearst.
But Miphon took Alish from behind, roping an arm round his neck and twisting the ring on his finger. Miphon, Alish and the death-stone disappeared: sucked into the green bottle.
Silence.
Hearst glanced around and saw Gorn watching, hardly believing what he had seen, his mouth gaping. Blackwood, having succeeded in distracting the snake, was leading it away down the hall, enticing it with a complicated dance of taunt and dare.
T don't believe it,' said Garash.
Hearst glanced at the stump of his right wrist. It was white: bloodless. Every blood vessel had clamped tight in shock, as blood vessels sometimes will in the moments after amputation.
So there stood Morgan Hearst, and in his hand was 316 Hast, blade of firelight steel, poised and balanced. And Hearst could not help but remember an oath freely given and well rewarded: i, Morgan Gestrel Hearst, son of Avor the Hawk, song-singer, sword-master, warrior of Rovac, swear by my sword Hast and the hand that holds it that I will see Garash dead as soon as Heenmor falls.'
Heenmor was dead, and there stood Garash. And there stood Hearst. His right hand was gone, cut free with a lethal dose of poison in the flesh, but he could still wield Hast left-handed – as he had once in a desperate skirmish outside the walls of a city known as Larbreth.
Hearst stepped forward.
He was moving in a daze: moving in a state of shock. Men had sometimes said it was hard to tell his thoughts, but his intentions were clear enough now. Garash saw him coming, and pulled free the shrivelled twist of wood that he wore hung round his neck.
'That's enough,' said Garash, stepping back.
And Hearst thought:
– I'll never reach him.
But he stepped forward to close the distance. Alish, Elkor Alish, traitor, oathbreaker, had tried to kill him, had betrayed him, and if there was a time for Morgan Hearst to die then this was it.
Garash said a Word. The twist of wood extended, grew, and became a staff. Yet Hearst strode forward, Hast in hand. So Garash said a Word – And Gorn, throwing himself forward on the attack, was caught by the full force of the blast of flame from the staff. The twisted wreckage of his body fell to the ground: he had died too.fast for even a scream.
Garash said a Word.
Nothing happened: the power of his staff was exhausted. Garash turned and ran.
Hearst moved to follow him, but at that moment the 317 blood vessels in his right wrist relaxed, and suddenly he had to clutch at the stump with his left hand to try to staunch the pulse of arterial blood, to try and stop himself bleeding to death.
Miphon, materialising in the great hall, saw Hearst clutching the stump of his wrist. He saw the charred remains of Gorn's body, identifiable by his boots and his battle-axe. He saw Garash retreating at speed; there was no sign of Blackwood, who had led the copper-strike snake out of the hall.
Hearst turned to look at Miphon. Blood was forcing its way between his fingers from the stump of his right wrist. i think I'm finished,' said Hearst.
'Not yet,' said Miphon, pulling his surgeon's kit from beneath his jerkin.
And he went to work.
At the hands of any common quack or chirurgeon, Hearst would have stood a good chance of dying, but in his time Miphon had dealt successfully with many appalling injuries sustained by Southsearchers and members of the Landguard in their battles against the swarms – and, sometimes, against each other. Miphon had all the experience he needed.
Working in a welter of blood, hissing, sometimes swearing softly, he managed to strangle the major arteries, tying them off with loops of thread. He worked quickly, doing what he had to, knowing that he had only limited time before shock was succeeded by pain.
Already he was reviewing the practical difficulties of keeping an amputee alive in that hostile environment. If they could find food, it would be best to stay in Stronghold Handfast for some days to allow the wound time to start to heal; after losing a lot of blood, Hearst would need time to recover his strength, and an immediate trek across the Central Plateau would increase his chances of dying of gangrene, as it would be harder to keep the wound clean when they were living rough in the open.
Miphon wished he could take Hearst into the comparative safety of the green bottle, but that would be impossible. Inside the green bottle, Elkor Alish had almost managed to kill him, but Miphon had jumped down a drop-hole. As he fell down the drop-hole he had turned the ring on his finger and had been transported back to the hall in Stronghold Handfast.
Alish was now trapped in the green bottle, together with the death-stone, which was useless to him in that place where no magic had any power. But while Alish was in the green bottle, Miphon dared not return there. it'll be all right,' said Miphon, finishing bandaging the arm-stump, it'll be all right.'
But Morgan Hearst, warrior of Rovac, hero of the era, broke down and wept, tears burning hot from his eyes, body racked with grief. So Miphon held him and rocked him and soothed him as shadows and darkness settled in the halls and corridors of the ancient fortress on the Central Plateau, Stronghold Handfast.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
There was snow on the ground when Blackwood, Miphon and Morgan Hearst left Stronghold Handfast. They presumed Garash had gone south to the Amodeo River,.which would afford him a passage to Brine. So, to avoid all possibility of confrontation, they trekked north across the Central Plateau then over the mountains to the Scourside Coast.
Blackwood, weather-wise sky-reader, was their route finder. Miphon, mind-tracker, found their food: rodents in winter burrows and earthworms in the richer pockets of soil. Under Miphon's care, Hearst's wound had healed by the time they reached the sea.
They found a fishing village crouching in the marginal shelter of a razorback ridge: huddling smokestone cottages lit by guttering whaleoil lamps. The villagers were unsure what to make of these winter-weather visitors. Some were frightened by the cold, bitter grey eyes of the man with only one hand. Asking his name, they were told 'Hasf: the Rovac warrior had taken the name of his sword, for there was little difference between them now, as one was a death-dealer and one a death-seeker, wishing only for an ending.
As for Miphon, although at first he seemed young, vigorous and cheerful, his eyes betrayed a desperate anxiety. Nightly, he dreamt of Elkor Alish exploring the depths of the green bottle, seeking and searching in the silent gloom, sword at the ready in case anything menaced him. In his dreams, Alish escaped; armies marched at his command; entire cities and civilizations were laid waste by the death-stone.
