'If he wakes the dragon, it's death for all of us,' said Garash. 'Hearst, stop!'
Hearst did not look back. Garash raised his right hand.
'Watch yourself, or my knife will taste your kidneys,' said Gorn, standing behind Garash. The wizard stood quite still. He knew Gorn would have no hesitation in killing him if he harmed Hearst.
'Blackwood!' said Garash. 'Blackwood! Alish! Get him back! Bring him back!'
'No,' said Alish. iil get him,' said Blackwood.
'Don't move, as you value your life,' said Alish.
And so they stood there and watched Hearst retreat out of sight. Then they waited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Rock was underfoot; overhead, the sky.
Morgan Hearst stood at the bottom of the steep slope leading to the dragon's lair. Now was the moment of decision. Hearst knew he could not simply creep back to the others and confess that his fears had defeated him, for Alish had clearly given him a choice between facing the dragon or his sword.
Shadows crowded the mouth off the dragon's lair. Death waited inside. If life was the most important thing for him, then his choice was simple: if he wanted above all else to live, then he should turn and sneak away, slipping away to the south and abandoning this quest.
But from his earliest days, Hearst had learnt that life is worth living only for the things that give it significance: the honour and the glory that a warrior wins by resolute action matched to high resolve.
Life is a mere matter of calories, hydration and defecation; if that was all Hearst valued, then on many occasions in the past he would have turned and run from overwhelming danger. And now, above all else, he wanted to redeem himself in Alish's eyes. They had been battle-comrades before, close as blood-brothers; if it was a lie that had poisoned the words that passed between them, then there must be a truth to redeem the lie.
Carefully, he studied the slope and the entrance to the dragon's lair; his studies told him nothing. He could not pretend that further hesitation would add to his knowledge. He drew his sword Hast, though he knew that, face to face with a dragon, it would be about as much use as a toothpick.
He began to climb.
His shadow flickered over the broken ground, dodging from rock to rock. Stones shifted underfoot, slipped, and clattered down the slope. At Hearst's feet there was a flash of movement as a snake struck at one of his boots. He kicked it away. Its fangs had left marks deep in the leather.
Hearst paused, watching the entrance to the dragon's lair. His shadow crouched against a rock, silent, waiting. There were many talon marks on the rocks outside the entrance; stray scales were scattered in the cave mouth, where the rock had been rubbed smooth by the dragon forcing its body in and out. Half a dozen men could have walked arm in arm through the mouth of that cave.
Inside, it was gloomy. The air stank, but the cave was empty. Empty: but it opened onto another chamber, from which came a dull ochre glow.
– Strength, man of Rovac, strength.
Step by step, balance by strength, Hearst dared his way toward that glow. His breathing was the breathing of a ghost, a ghost with no shadows: dead men have no shadows. But balance is balance and poise is poise, and:
– We have a chance.
He found himself looking into a vast chamber lit by firestones which had been stolen from some place of wizard-work. By that light, he saw loose scales, heaps of treasure – and the dragon.
The dragon!
It was alive, it could not be doubted that it was alive: the fires that showed between its parted jaws hissed and pulsed with its breathing, and in sleep its entire body moved with a slow, regular rhythm, as if it was forever stretching and relaxing.
– Strength now, strength!
The ground was slippery. Hearst glanced down, and by the combined light of firestones and dragon-fire he saw he was walking on glass, in which were embedded rings, swords, crowns, goblets, sceptres. Generations of treasure were buried in this cave, but more still lay about in loose heaps.
– Forward, warrior, battle-song hero!
And one pace, then one pace more. And in the heat his body was greased with sweat, his thighs trembling, hot sweat, eyes red, legs wet, forward, one step, a spear – He sheathed Hast, and chose a pair of spears from the heap of treasure. They were ornamental weapons, chased with silver and gold, but the killing blades were steel, and the balance was right. No hesitation now, but:
– Aim and throw!
The first spear struck home. And Hearst, snatching up the remaining spear, was running even as the steel lanced home. He slipped on the glass, went down, scrabbled for balance and was off again. As the dragon roared. The walls of the cave flushed red with reflected fire as the dragon blasted flame at random.
Hearst, spear in hand, made it to the gloom of the outer chamber. He stood gasping, panting, chest heaving. Hearing the dragon lumbering forward, Hearst opened his mouth and screamed, at the last moment shaping the scream to words: 'Ahyak Rovac!'
And, calmed by that incantation of courage, he counselled himself quickly. He had taken out the right eye: now for the left. He waited. The massive head came thrusting through the entrance. Hearst threw the second spear. Then ran: fleeing to the furthest corner of the outer chamber as the dragon raged forward, spouting flame and bellowing in agony.
With both eyes gone, only memory guided the dragon as it hauled itself towards the cave mouth and the open air. It was moving slowly now: crawling, dragging itself along. It stopped, half-way out of the cave, its body jamming the exit. Spasm after spasm shook its body.
And what if it died now, its massive corpse jamming the entrance?
– Forward, Morgan, forward now, darkness, a night attack, one foot, two, strength, warrior of Rovac, steel and strength, balance, by the hell, by the fourth hell, you have a chance, sweet blood and vodka, a chance, Hearst, Hast, brother, blood-brother, hold my hand my blood my brother, hold me tight, hold for chance, one chance.
– Sword to be strength, strength to be sword: 'Hah!'
Shouting, Hearst thrust Hast between the overlapping scales armouring the dragon. The blade drove no more than a handspan into the dragon's flesh: but now in its dying rage it knew its enemy was in the cave behind it.
The dragon's body convulsed. Hearst clung to his sword, his lips locked back in a snarl which was half a scream. The dragon's tail coiled and thrashed, snapping this way and that, sweeping bone-crunching death through the darkness. But it could not reach Hearst. Rock screamed as talons tore it open. The darkness belched as wings endeavoured to unfold, as leather-tough membranes battered against restraining rock.
Hearst grunted, trying to force his sword in deeper. There were no decisions left: his only hope lay in brute strength and endurance. His hands were slippery. He could not tell whether they were wet with sweat or blood.
Then the dragon started to back into the cave. Those massive limbs, with all the dragon's dying strength behind them, forced its weight backwards into the cave. Hearst braced himself, knowing the dragon had just one reason to get its head back into the cave: to ravage the forked creature now tormenting it.
Forcing itself backwards, the dragon, by its own efforts, drove Hearst's sword-blade deep into its body. Hast was that sword, firelight steel forged on Stokos. It cut through sinew and tendon, sliced through blood vessels and nerves, probing between the monster's ribs.
Pain convulsed to agony. The dragon lurched forward, jerking Hast from Hearst's hands. Hearst jumped backwards. Then ran, fleeing from the sweep of the tail which sought him as the dragon plunged forward.
The rock walls of the cave found him, and mothered him, and he clung there, clung to the rock, exhausted, half-weeping, his heart kicking like a baby. He heard a bellow from the dragon, then a hint of daylight diminished the darkness.