A reply was shouted back, but it was confused by the hollow thunder of echoing water. After much shouting, Hearst learnt that a Melski had surfaced beside one of the rafts and had stabbed at random, skewering the foot of a soldier.
Alish had the rafts drawn close together and roped to each other for security, to make it more difficult for the Melski to kill them off in the dark, one raft at a time. He conferred with Hearst; apart from ordering the men to sleep in shifts, and to move around in groups of two or three, they could think of no further defensive measures they could take.
'I only wish,' said Hearst, 'that we could send men underwater to kill the Melski.'
'That would be a battle worth making a song about,' said Alish. 'But who would dare it apart from yourself?* Hearst made no answer, doubting that he would dare it himself.
Alish counted heads. There were two hundred and sixty-two survivors. They had, as far as he could determine in the dark, a hundred and seventy packs. This meant there was a shortage of blankets, but the system of sleeping in shifts would compensate for that. Alish had spare clothing divvied up so everyone had enough to keep warm in this cool underground air.
Now all they could do was wait.
They could hear the water racing against the rock walls, sometimes foaming against rock outcrops, but they could see nothing. There was no way to keep track of passing time. It was like being in the belly of a worm. 'Alish,' said Miphon. 'I'm here.' 'Where?' 'Here.'
'Good. Is Hearst around?' 'You're standing on him,' said Hearst. 'Sorry,' said Miphon, shifting his foot. 'What about Blackwood?' 'What do you want with me?' 'It's not me who wants you. It's Phyphor. He's dying.' 'Does he want someone to hold his hand?' said Alish. Silence. Then:
T think you should see him,' said Miphon. 'We'll see him,' said Hearst. 'This way, then.' 'Which way is that?' 'Link hands and I'll lead you.' They went from raft to raft, occasionally stepping on men in the dark, till Miphon brought them to a halt. 'They're here,' said Miphon. 'Let them identify themselves.' 'You know who we are,' said Alish. 'So you're here, Elkor Alish. And Morgan Hearst?' 'I'm here,' said Hearst. 'So am I,' said Blackwood.
'Then listen,' said Phyphor. 'Miphon's given me a potion. I have a short time – then pain again. But I'll be dead before the pain comes back.'
'What do you want from us?' said Alish.
'Your oath.'
'I've already sworn to go questing after Heenmor. Are you asking me to reaffirm my oath? Do you think I'm an oath-breaker? No man of Rovac ever breaks an oath – though not so much can be said for wizards.'
'Elkor Alish, I trust your oath, but now I want you to take on a further burden.'
'And what might that be?'
'To kill Garash!' hissed Phyphor. 'We can't,' said Alish. 'Weil need him to help us kill Heenmor.'
'I've thought of that,' said Phyphor, an edge of pain already in his voice. 'So you must swear that when Heenmor is dead, you will kill Garash.'
'Why should we do you that favour?'
'Listen,' said Phyphor, urgently, it's true what Miphon says. The death-stone does have the power to tamper with the very fabric of the world. If you survive to see the daylight, you must hunt Heenmor down before he has time to experiment and perfect control of that power.'
'We know that,' said Alish, irritated.
'Yes, but listen,' said Phyphor. 'By now, Garash believes Miphon's claims, too. He's had time to think through the truth of it. He'll find such temptation irresistible. So when Heenmor's dead, you must kill Garash. Otherwise he'll kill you for the death-stone.' i know why you want Garash dead,' said Alish. iil take no vows of murder to secure a wizard's revenge.'
'Elkor Alish… these injuries will kill me, but I have three thousand years left to me. Three thousand years left to dispose of as I choose. I've paid for them.'
'What do you mean?' i earned those years in the Shackle Mountains. A bargain with powers beyond your imagining. Believe me. Take the oath, and I will give you a thousand years of life. Think on it, Rovac warrior.'
'Sorcerers can be expert liars. What proof do you offer?'
'Elkor Alish,' said Phyphor, his old man's voice pale from bloodloss. 'You will have the power to enter the tower of Arl. And you will understand the High Speech, the reading of it, the writing of it, the speaking of it.'
That meant: that meant Alish would be able to read what was written on the death-stone. i will take your oath.'
'Let me hear it then.' i, Elkor Alish, son of Teramont the Defender, warrior of Rovac, blood of the clan of the eagle, swear by my heart's blood and by the powers of the fire-flood hell that when the days of the wizard Heenmor are ended, Garash will die as soon as my sword can find him.'
'And you, Morgan Hearst?' 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.'
'Good. And you, Blackwood?'
There was no answer.
'Blackwood?'
'I'm no wizard,' said Blackwood. 'I'm no warrior. Why choose me?'
'Because you have the best motive for murder,' said Phyphor. 'Because it was Garash who told Prince Comedo to leave a mad-jewel in Castle Vaunting. It was Garash who caused your wife's death. There… so now you know. So now you must kill him.'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, 'I'd be simple to think the truth's that simple. In any case, I don't want any part in any killing – or your thousand years of life, either.'
Phyphor sighed.
'As you wish,' said Phyphor. 'But will you… will you do this one thing for me… hold my hand before I die?'
'Mister,' said Blackwood, i can't refuse a dying man. Here's my hand.'
'Good,' said the dying wizard. 'Good. It's good to have a touch of life in my right hand. Miphon…'
And Miphon, needing no instructions more explicit than that, silently urged the others into a circle. Phyphor, Alish, Hearst and – 'What's this?' said Blackwood, as Hearst grabbed his free hand. 'Let go!'
Realising he had been tricked just as a child might have been tricked, Blackwood tried to break away. But it was too late, because – Their bodies were locked rigid by crushing weight and pressure. He heard the sullen double-drum of a labouring heart, cried out as light seared his eyes, and then – Darkness, and then – Sunlight, and a young boy running along a wild open beach, laughing, his arms outstretched, rain and sunlight falling together as he raced the wind, and then – A canyon ablaze with flame. He named it: Drangsturm. And then: a castle which probed for the sky, huge wings against the sun, a Word and a blast of power – A small room smelling of burnt flesh and acrid smoke, voices raised in fear and anger, the harsh commands – A ruined fortress on the border, wind, the evening light failing, surf breaking on the shore, and, as Saba Yavendar said, where wind may walk but men no longer – Again darkness, the crushing pressure, a heart at first loud and then lisping, soft, slow, soft…
'Blackwood,' hissed Phyphor, dying. 'You will find your wife's corpse, and then…'
His voice faltered into silence. The last strength left his hands. It was over.
'He's dead,' said Miphon.
At that moment, there was a shout of triumph from the leading raft. They could see daylight ahead. Everyone cheered as they swept toward the light, but elation turned to despair when they got closer and saw the daylight was from a gap high up in the rock roof. It gave them one brief glimpse of blue sky capping a sheer rockfall shaft, then darkness claimed them again.
Soon daylight was only a memory. Now any of a thousand dooms might write them out of history. The rock roof might draw right down to the water, drowning them. An underground waterfall might shatter rafts and bodies. They might sail out onto a vast underground lake, where the river's current would become lost, allowing them to drift and starve with nothing to guide them to the outlet.
As they drifted onward, hunger came, and was fed; returned, and was fed again.