Stronghold Handfast.
At ground level, fifty-seven arches giving entrance. Walls rising abruptly, then bulging out in bubble-smooth curves. High above ground level, as if designed to permit entrance and egress by air, three dozen randomly-spaced vents twisting inwards into darkness – entering one of those vents, a dragon or even one of the Neversh would have looked like a gnat flying into a mammoth's mouth.
Higher still, a delicate tracery of arches and linkways patterned the sky; rising through this spiderweb fantasy, seventy-six towers soared skywards, each swelling suddenly toward zenith. Stronghold Handfast, then: made by masters so long forgotten that it was no longer possible even to say whether they had been human.
This entire structure was made of building blocks no larger than a man's thumb, and, in their millions, they changed colour with a slow, crawling rhythm, so that at any one time some were blue, some green, some red, some yellow. This gave the impression that the structure was, in some ominous way, alive.
'It looks deserted,' said Blackwood.
'Maybe,' said Hearst.
They had spent a long time concealed amid rocks near one of the entrances to Stronghold Handfast, but their scrutiny had told them nothing more about what they might be faced with.
'Let's charge,' said Alish, rising, 'and see how far we get.'
'We could wait for darkness,' said Garash. 311 'Wait if you wish,' said Alish. 'All right then, I'll come. But maybe we should go in through the back door.' 'For all we know, this is the back door.' 'Oh.'
'Wait a moment,' said Hearst. 'What's the hind legs?'
By which he meant: what's plan B?
This Rovac idiom sounded very peculiar in the Galish Trading Tongue, which they were using out of courtesy to the wizards, who spoke no Rovac. if we don't get in through the nearest entrance,' said Alish, 'it'll be because we're dead, so we don't need any hind legs.'
'That's just as well,' said Garash, 'because I was born without them in any case.'
'Yes,' said Alish. 'Like the rest of the chickens. Now run!'
They sprinted across the open ground to the nearest entrance, boots crunching in the crisp snow. Garash, whose sprint was rather leisurely as there was no dragon or similar to inspire him – in the traditional story about the tortoise and the old, old wizard, there is no mystery at all about why the tortoise won the race – was last to gain the entrance. It was doorless.
'Which way now?' said Blackwood, finding he had no empathy whatever with the utterly alien maze confronting them.
'Silence,' said Hearst. 'Listen.'
They waited: listening, watching. Hearst, Alish, Gorn, Garash, Blackwood, Miphon: they were all tense, apprehensive, on edge.
Hearst drew Hast, but the balance of the blade gave him no confidence. He was unnerved by Stronghold Handfast. Unlike any architecture he had seen before, it had no symmetry. From where they stood they could see into a great hall where in some places the roof dipped low but where in other places it soared upward into dizzying heights. Pillars rose at random to support the weight of the roof: some square, some arched, some twisting upwards in spirals.
– A pile of rocks, but. Who are we to be frightened of a pile of rocks? But what hands? What feet? Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Are you not a hero?
Hearst failed to draw comfort from his own thoughts.
Somewhere along their long journey – perhaps when he had inspected the corpse of his first dragon-kill – he had begun to have his doubts about the merits of the ethos of the kind of ruthless, sword-slaughtering heroism celebrated by the songs of Rovac.
Still… he had sworn his oath, so he could hardly turn back now. Whatever his thoughts about heroism, he had no doubts whatsoever about the sacred nature of an oath.
So, sword in hand, he followed when Alish advanced. The others also followed, glancing back from time to time at the daylit entrance, which steadily receded behind them. Suddenly a coil of liquid black light flickered to life in the air in front of Alish. His sword outpaced his scream: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
Trembling, blade in hand, heart sprinting, Alish confronted the twisting coil of black light. His challenge echoed from wall to wall, repeating itself time and time again, growing louder with each repetition, until it sounded as if a giant was bellowing out the traditional challenge of Rovac. Then the echoing scream began to diminish, at last falling away to a whisper, then to nothing.
Slowly, the twisting coil of black light began to slide away, hissing softly. It hesitated when it was twenty paces away: waiting for them? Alish glanced round at the others: none dared to speak, lest that place amplify their merest whisper to a shout. Hearst shrugged, and gestured to indicate they should proceed.
And what else could they do?
Not knowing the nature of that softly hissing entity of 313 black light, they could not hope to outwit it and enter Stronghold Handfast unseen. And it was already too late to enter unheard!
Alish darted forward. The others followed.
The black light led them through halls and corridors to a region of Stronghold Handfast where the air felt dead and cold, and where the writhing colour-shifts shaping their way across the walls seemed slow and lethargic. Here Garash, losing his nerve, hesitated.
'Come on,' said Alish.
His voice seemed muffled. Irritated, he spoke louder: 'Come on!'
His voice had no echo in that dead place. So cold. No smell of living thing. No life-sign: no husk of insect, no feather of bird, no leaf of tree.
The black light – spirit? ghost? messenger? servant of the stronghold's long-dead masters? – led them onward. Finally they reached a hall where they could breathe more easily, and where their footsteps no longer sounded muted and muffled.
They looked down the length of the hall. And saw:
Heenmor.
He sat far away at the end of the hall, seated on a throne of sorts. He had not seen them. Garash raised his hand.
'Forward now,' said Garash, his voice hardly more than a whisper. 'If he moves to raise his hand, I'll kill him. Miphon: watch for the snake.'
As they walked forward, the coil of black light did not accompany them. Instead, it: disappeared. Uneasily, Hearst looked back to see if it was following them – but it was nowhere to be seen.
As they drew nearer to Heenmor, still the immensely tall wizard did not move.
'Is he dead?' said Gorn.
'Forward,' said Garash.
They advanced with a rush. Hesitation could not save them now. Closing with Heenmor, they saw that his body had been turned to stone. Near him lay the stone egg, the death-stone. Experimenting with its powers, he had risked too much, bringing about his own death. 'Hold!' said Blackwood.
They halted abruptly. The copper-strike snake still guarded Heenmor's body. It moved: menacing them: supple, lithe, quick and flexible, swaying this way and that.
'Miphon,' said Garash. 'Draw it away from us.' "I… I can't!' 'What's wrong?' i don't know,' said Miphon. 'Perhaps this hall's built to stop my kind of power. I can't make contact with the mind of the snake.'
Garash swore.
Til kill it myself,' he said.
And said a Word.
Fire blazed from his hand.
But the snake survived: it was faster than any fat wizard. Garash spoke again: a Word. And again. And again. Stone cracked and splintered. Fire blazed in fury. Waves of heat swept through the hall. But the snake dodged, ducked, twisted: and survived.
Garash raised his hand again and said a Word.
Nothing happened.
The snake moved to the left, menacing Gorn and Blackwood. They fell back, and it moved to the right, menacing Hearst and Alish. They in turn retreated. It threatened Miphon and Garash, who also drew back.
'Blackwood," said Alish.
'Yes?'
'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.