There really was water!
The dungeon floor was knee-deep in water. It would slow him down. Hearst hesitated. Imagining how Phyphor would greet his retreat: 'So… our mighty dragon-killer returns.'
Hearst was off: running. Water clogged his steps as he panted forward. The ground sagged away underfoot: water surged to his waist. And he could hear the lopsloss. It was coming after him. He lost his footing en tirely. He was afloat! The monster was hot behind. He would never make it. He struck out through the water. And there was a scream- Something heavy crashed into the water.
The lopsloss paused, stopped. Hearst trod water, then eased his feet down, seeking the bottom. His boots touched stone. He stood there, trembling, shivering.
There was a squelch of bulk and suction. The lopsloss was moving. But which way? Hearst counted to one, to three, he was still alive, six to eight, alive, and nine, and ten, take breath- He knew which way the lopsloss was moving.
Slowly, very carefully, he took a step forward. Then another. He eased himself through the water, gaining higher ground. Then his hand found the left-hand wail. He was on course.
Then he heard the lopsloss returning.
'No!' screamed Hearst.
Hobbled by flooded boots, he stumbled through knee-deep water. The lopsloss was gaining on him, driving a wave in front of it. The wave rocked past. It broke against rock. Rock! He ran slap-bang into it. Where now? Left? Right? He chose: right. He dodged: right. Rock opened for him. He ran, slipped, fell, clawed himself forward. The lopsloss slammed against the wall behind him, sucking and groping.
But he was inside. Safe.
Safe and sobbing.
He had done it.
Climbing stairs leading upward into the darkness, Hearst tripped over something. He poked at it with his sword, kicked it, then, when it didn't slither or squeal, felt it. A tree root? A tree root! Further up the winding stairway, the root thickened. Soon there were two, then three. Old and dead, some crumbling to dust beneath his boots, releasing the faintest scent of sandalwood. When he reached the tower of Seth, the larger roots were as thick as his thigh.
In the tower, dead branches choked the daylight. Someone, abandoning the tower, had left a tree behind. Struggling to break through to the outer air, it had choked the tower with its branches; stairs led upwards, but the branches blocked them. Hearst drew Hast and laid about him. Dead, ancient wood shattered to dust and splinters before his blade.
Outside, a battle was in progress. He could hear it. He worked faster, coughing as the dust got to his lungs. He was sweating now. His skin and leathers, soaking wet from his swim, were covered in fine grey dust.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
That was a Collosnon battle-lung shouting: Forward! Forward! Hearst grunted and swung his sword again, driving himself.
'Gen-ha! Gen-ha!'
Sweeping away one last branch, Hearst gained the uppermost chamber. Through windows with panes of diamond, he saw a battle below: a confused pattern of knots of men locked in combat on the battlements between the tower of Seth and the portal giving access to the gatehouse keep.
At a glance Hearst saw the enemy were winning.
Where was the magic? The two boxes? There – above him, caught in branches which had lofted them to the ceiling. He hacked at the branches. They exploded into dust. The boxes fell. Lunging forward, he caught one. The other hit the ground. The lid came off. Dozens of red charms spilt out into the swirling dust, each charm trailing a thin gold necklace. Hearst stared at them aghast, remembering Phyphor's warning. But nothing happened.
Outside, the enemy shouted in triumph. Comedo's forces were falling back in disarray. Hearst looked at the heavy box he was holding. On the lid were hellmouth jaws and the null sign of the dead zero, the sign of the nether magic. He had been warned of the dangers within. But- 'I held the breach at Enelorf,' he said, his voice a whisper.
He bit his lip, and lifted the lid.
Inside, two yellow jewels reclined on verdant velvet. Each was the size of a fist. Was this the great magic? These two baubles? And what was that light that sang and curdled inside them?
The floor canted abruptly, and Hearst found himself sliding toward the jaws of a waiting dragon. Screaming, he fell. Flame scalded him. Its jaws closed, biting him in half. He wailed in despair and- Found himself lying on the dusty floor.
It was very quiet.
The floor was level.
There was no dragon.
His body was intact.
And the box? It lay on the floor beside him. The lid, fortunately, had fallen shut. Slowly, Hearst regained his feet. He sneezed, then wiped the dust from a window. Outside, the fighting had stopped. Some men stood as if stunned; others were picking themselves up from the ground.
'Gen-ha!' shouted the Collosnon battle-lung.
The Collosnon troops started forward again. Hearst knelt by the box. Delicately, using just one finger, he lifted the lid. And heard a dragon roar behind him, screamed as its flame engulfed him- And dropped the lid shut on the box.
No pain, no flame, no dragon.
Outside, the enemy were wavering. Then came a shout: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
Yes, it was the voice of Elkor Alish: challenge echoing from tower to tower as it had when the tide of battle turned in their favour at Vaglazeen. And the voice of Our Lord Despair completed the panic amongst the enemy, and they ran.
And Hearst whispered to himself, again: 'I held the breach at Enelorf.'
'Did it disturb you much?' said Hearst. 'What? When you opened the box?' 'What else?' 'No,' said Phyphor.
But, in truth, each time Hearst had opened the lead box, Phyphor had seen before his very eyes the double spikes of the Neversh, and had fallen screaming to the ground.
'I'm so glad you weren't upset,' said Hearst.
From the way he said it, Phyphor knew the warrior had been told exactly what had happened. Phyphor had screamed. And Garash had roared until his veins stood out.
'Now,' said Phyphor. 'What have you got there? Ah, I see. You managed to find the bottle as well.'
'Yes. But I can't find out what it does.'
'Of course you can't. If you could, you wouldn't hand it over.'
Phyphor caressed the small, green-glazed bottle, which was decorated with two metal bands. He said a Word. The bands loosened, tinkled to the floor, then shrank to finger-sized rings.
'What are those for?' asked Hearst.
'Never you mind,' said Phyphor.
He shook the lead boxes. One rattled: it held the dozens of small red charms on thin chains. Opening it, he ran his fingers through them with an expression close to lust. This was well worth killing for.
'What are the charms for?' said Hearst.
'Can't you guess?'
'I'm a warrior, not a…'
Pox doctor was the term he had in mind. 'Not a wizard,' said Phyphor, finishing his sentence for him.
'Well then,' said Hearst. 'The pair of yellow jewels in the other box, the ones that made everyone go strange when I lifted the lid – what do they do?'
'Can't you guess? They make men insane.'
'Insane?'
'They steal men's wits,' said Phyphor. 'The red charms on the golden chains give protection against the mad-jewels. Now we can kill off the enemy and save our lives, so let's be glad that Blackwood saved yours.'
'Blackwood?'
'Your woodsman friend. We heard you running through water. We knew you'd never reach safety on your own. So when the lopsloss went after you… Blackwood gave the executioner a push.'
CHAPTER TWENTY
Name: Mystrel (wife to Blackwood).
Birthplace: Little Gidding (a hamlet later claimed for ashes by the dragon Zenphos).
Occupation: home executive.
Description: a face which, to Blackwood, is more familiar than his own (since he has no mirror); a voice which he hears in his dreams. Flesh in her flesh lives a life which is not yet entirely its own.