He fired another arrow. It slammed into a helmet -the wrong helmet.
– In a green bottle.
– In a green bottle…
– In a green bottle in a country where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard. The wizard had a red bottle but he was trapped in a greenbottle, greenbottle redbottle, no sun no wind no rain and never never never so much as to hear or see a bluebottle… – In a green bottle…
Miphon had for years thought of himself as a hunter because of his love of the chase, of the moment of mastery when the wing high in flight hesitates, circles, then dips. However, he lacked the hunter's patience. Now, waiting in the shadows behind the portcullis, with arrow nocked, he suffered.
He knew Hearst or Gorn or Alish would have been patient as death, despite creaking knees, aching backs, stiff necks and rumbling stomachs. They would have waited. Could a wizard do less?
This wizard, lulled by the unvarying green glow of the bottle, caught himself falling asleep. That would never do. If Comedo came sniffing down those stairs and saw Miphon asleep behind the portcullis with bow and arrow at the ready, he would never come back.
Miphon would only have one chance. He would have to kill with the first shot. Then drag Comedo's body to the portcullis so he could take the ring from Comedo's finger. That would be easy enough to do: tie a rope to a spear then hurl the spear into the corpse.
But what if Comedo was not wearing the ring?
Of course he would be wearing the ring. He always brought it with him to gloat. Miphon would kill him. And get the ring. But what if, escaping from the green bottle, he found himself – well, he might find himself anywhere. Even, perhaps, in a dungeon in Stronghold Handfast, a prisoner of the wizard Heenmor. There was no way to say it was impossible.
Footsteps!
Miphon started. Trembling with excitement, he readied the bow and arrow. The footsteps came closer: and there was Comedo, in full view. Comedo saw him! He screamed in panic, and turned to run – too late! Miphon's arrow slammed home. Slammed into Come do's shoulder. Comedo fell face-first to the stones. Miphon nocked another arrow, but by then Comedo had made it to safety.
'You'll pay for this!' he screamed. 'You'll pay. I'll have you eating glass before I'm through!'
'My prince,' said Miphon in desperation, dragging a little package from beneath his jerkin. 'Look what I've found! A surgeon's kit! Needles, thread, knives, bandages! I can heal you! You need me now!'
Miphon had indeed found a very beautiful surgeon's kit in the red bottle. But Comedo, unimpressed, was only provoked into showing further disrespect for the medical profession: 'You slime-licking pox doctor!' he howled. 'By the syphillis sore you were suckled on, I'll see you pay for this. I'll have you, by the balls of the tenth demon, I'll tear your head from your shoulders and shit on it. What a coward's trick. By the knives, the lice in the slit between your legs have got more courage that you have. Don't think you'll catch me again. If you want to speak to me, yes, if you want an audience – '
Miphon would listen no more. He retreated down the stairs, back to the lower levels, and then into the red bottle. Water and siege dust, siege dust and water: it could keep him alive forever.
– In a red bottle in a green bottle in a country far, far away, where I, my children, have never been, sat a greybeard wizard who was four thousand years old…
It could keep him alive forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
'There it is,' said Garash.
From a high ridge, they had a view across bleak and broken country. Far off, about seven leagues distant, loomed the uprearing vertigo of Stronghold Handfast. impressive, yes?' said Garash.
'Some think so,' said Hearst. 'Saba Yavendar always used to think it was ugly.'
'Really,' said Garash.
'Yes,' said Hearst.
And saw Garash looking at him oddly. Of course, the memory was not Hearst's, but a stray recollection inherited from the wizard Phyphor.
'What do you know of Saba Yavendar?' said Garash.
'His poems are famous.'
'Yes, but the man – '
'Don't you recognise a joke when you hear it?' said Hearst.
'A joke, hey? Does that count as humour where you come from? Don't bother me with any more of your jokes.'
'As you wish,' said Hearst.
Garash again looked at him suspiciously: that was not the way Rovac warriors talked. As you wish. As you please. If it suits your convenience…
'We're on the skyline,' said Blackwood.
'No matter,' said Elkor Alish, buoyed up by excitement at the sight of Stronghold Handfast.
'Blackwood's right,' said Hearst. 'We'd better get off the ridge.'
Hearst did not share Alish's excitement.
As they scrambled down the other side of the ridge, Hearst thought about Saba Yavendar. He remembered him quite clearly: a short man with a big ugly nose, a quick grin, and broken blood vessels mottling his face where years of drinking had done their damage. Phyphor had known him well.
Blackwood halted amidst jagged uprisings of rock and clutches of boulders which would shelter them from scrutiny but still allow them a clear view of the landscape ahead.
'What do you think?' said Blackwood. 'Shall we camp here?'
'It's not far now,' said Alish.
'We won't get there today,' said Hearst. 'It would be foolish to try. Let's just go down into the valley and camp for the night.'
'We can go further than that,' said Alish.
'The sky looks like snow,' said Hearst. 'I want to make camp early. I don't want night to catch us unprepared.'
'A little snow won't hurt us.'
'If there's snow, I'll want fire. Remember why I left the Cold West.'
T remember,' said Alish 'I remember…'
And was silent while Hearst scanned the torn landscape confronting them.
'To the left looks easier,' said Hearst.
'I prefer the right,' said Gorn. 'It's steeper but shorter.'
The two Rovac warriors argued it out. Blackwood did not take sides, though he was sure which was the easier, and was relieved when Hearst won the dispute.
'Let's move out.' said Hearst.
They shouldered their packs and continued their descent. With plenty of time remaining till dayfail, Hearst called a halt in a small valley where tall rocks provided a little shelter. Spindly trees grew here and there; without any chitchat, they felled trees, made a rough lean-to and built a pile of firewood. There would be no cooking: they now had enough food for only one meal each day, which was breakfast. At this rate, their rations would be exhausted in a week.
Some time before darkness, it began to snow. The air seemed to warm a fraction, then, white by white, flake by flake, the snow descended. The first flakes, landing on the dark rocks, puffed out to nothing. But light, white, air-light, more snow fell, settling white on black, white on white on black, then white on white on white.
Blackwood coughed.
'You're not sick, are you?' said Gorn. i thought you'd recovered,' said Hearst. i have recovered,' said Blackwood, and it was true: the parasitic smoke was long dead. T coughed, that's all.'
But he was touched by the concern in their voices. Shared hardships had made them allies against the dangers of the world.
Hearst flexed his hands, which were going numb in the cold, took his tinder box, and, with the skill which comes from long experience, he lit the fire.
Dark, and… Stars! And how cold! 'Who -' 'What?'
'Ahyak Rovac!' 'Hold!' 'Who's that?' 'Blackwood?' 'I'm here 'Miphon!' 'Who else?'
'Miphon, how did you – what took you so long?' 'Here I am.'
'Is it warm in the bottle?'
'It's freezing cold out here. For certain it's warmer inside. Hold my arm. Blackwood.' 'Here. I'm here.'
'Hearst. Alish. Gorn. Garash, come on, Garash. Where are the others?' 'Dragons ate them.' 'Oh. I'm sorry about that.'