"The wizards and the warriors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cook Hugh)

CHAPTER TWO

Name: Garash. Occupation: wizard.

Status: apprentice to Phyphor, though his training is completed.

Description: stout grey-robed individual with bulging eyes, small scruffy beard and smallpox-scarred face of indeterminate age.

Career: reputedly served the Silver Emperor of Dalar ken Halvar for two centuries before fleeing Parengar-enga after participating in an unsuccessful coup. Began but did not complete apprenticeships with both a wizard of the order of Varkarlor and a wizard of the order of Ebber before taking service with Phyphor.

'Wake up!'

Garash, kicked awake from a banquet, opened his eyes to darkness.

'By the seventh hell!' he growled, his eyes full of sand, his mouth full of stones, 'What is it?'

His dreamtime banquet had disintegrated, but he could still remember the tantalising smell of roast pork. Or was it long pig? One was as good as the other, in his experience.

'Up!' said Phyphor. 'Up!'

'Alright, alright,' said Garash. 'I'm on my feet. What now?' 'Come on, Miphon.'

'No need to use your boot like that,' said Miphon, searching for his feathered hat. 'I'm ready.'

'Hurry then. Up the stairs.' 'What is it?' said Garash. 'Tell us!' 'Outside! Now!'

Miphon groped for his boots, could not find them. Went barefoot. Floor wet, rain dripping through stones, pools in concavities, stairs wet. Garash stumbled, cursed, slipped, swore.

'Hurry up,' said Phyphor.

Up the curve of the stairs – faint phosphorescent gleam from Phyphor's cloak – up the stairs and Out into the courtyard. Garash lubbered along last, panting. Rain fell steadilv. Waves crashed against the shore.

'Look!'

On a hillside two leagues north, a stand of trees was blazing. Other conflagrations glowered in the distance.

'What are they?' said Garash. 'War beacons?'

The sky answered him with a bellow of rage and pain.

'Dragon,' said Phyphor.

'It sounds as if it's gone mad,' said Garash.

'Perhaps it has,' said Phyphor.

Now they understood his urgency. Their donkey, Smeralda, was out there somewhere in the darkness. If the dragon happened to chance upon her, it would know there were people here.

'How far's the donkey gone?' said Phyphor.

He did not know what he asked. It was one thing to listen for Smeralda's thoughts, and quite another to decide distance and direction. Miphon was equal to the task: but only just.

'South,' said Miphon. 'Two hundred paces, maybe less.'

'Get it!' said Phyphor. 'Hurry! Then we'll take shelter.'

'Why kick me up here for this?' grumbled Garash. Phyphor said nothing, but watched as Miphon splashed away into the night. 'Phyphor!' said Garash.

Phyphor looked up. Overhead, a red spark reeled 20 through the sky, like a bit of burning straw spinning in the wind.

'Hold!' shouted Phyphor. 'It's overhead! Back to the cellar!'

The three wizards stumbled down the stairs and stood together in the darkness, wet and panting.

'Call the donkey to you,' said Phyphor.

'I'll try,' said Miphon. 'But it takes time. It's hard work. I can't guarantee success.'

'Try.'

Miphon blocked out the sounds of falling rain, surf-echo, dripping and trickling water. His mind listened for Smeralda's mind. And heard, instead, the dragon's mind – a senseless chant of pain, rage, hate, fierce as the warrior who wrenches a spear from his side and turns it on the enemy.

Then all heard the rush of wings pitched to a scream as the dragon plunged down, down toward the fortress, down with such reckless rage that Miphon thought it would hit the earth. It wrenched out of its dive, blasting the fort with fire as it skimmed past fast as falling. The cellar entrance flamed orange-red.

'It saw nothing,' said Garash, shaken. 'It looked, but it saw nothing. There was nothing for it to see.'

'Hush,' said Phyphor.

'It can't hear us!'

'Hush! Let Miphon listen.'

Miphon listened. The dragon was… gaining height… gaining height… disappointed… circling… circling… rage spent, rage gathering…

'It doesn't know we're here,' said Miphon.

'Of course not,' said Garash. 'There was nothing. Nothing for it to see.'

'What does the dragon do now?' said Phyphor.

'I think -1 hope it'll go and blast something else,' said Miphon.

Then heard: recognition! The dragon saw something! Then they all heard the scream as wings plummeted down, one tortured protest from Smeralda, then the wings of the dragon seeking height again, seeking height with a batblack labouring which overpowered the sound of the surf, conjuring visions of a huge leather bellows wheezing out volumes of air.

The dragon was triumphant because now… now it knew! 'It knows there are people here,' said Miphon flatly. 'A donkey means people. It'll quarter the area till it finds us, if it takes all night. If we stay here it'll sniff us out. then fry us alive.'

'Flame can't reach us here,' said Garash.

'Flame can't but heat can,' said Phyphor. 'Outside!'

They hastened up the stairs to rejoin the rain. They scanned the dark sky. High above, a fire-spark circled slowly. Underfoot, the courtyard stones were still faintly warm from dragon fire. The monster circled, once and again, and then: 'It sees us,' said Miphon.

'You kill it,' said Phyphor to Garash.

'I'll try,' said Garash.

Miphon and Phyphor retreated to the top of the steps. Garash stood alone, licking his lips anxiously. His bulging eyes watched the spark. Red spark. So high, so high. And now… and now it dipped. Garash raised his right hand. He must wait.

Down came the dragon.

Garash waited, trembling.

He could hear the wings.

The spark was a fire, a bonfire, a furnace. Close, closer, too close! Garash screamed a Word.

White fire flared from his hand. The dragon, way off to one side of the blast of power, slewed sideways and went gliding away into the darkness.

'What were you trying to do?' said Phyphor. 'Fry eggs?'

'It wasn't where I thought it was.'

'Get into the cellar, you. I'll kill it myself.'

Garash stumbled away, having wasted the accumulated strength of four hundred and seventy-nine days of the Meditation of Power on turning raindrops into steam.

"Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor, blinded by the flare of light. 'I can't see anything.'

'The dragon's thinking,' said Miphon. 'Making a plan.'

'I thought it wasn't in any state to make plans.' 'Near-death can sober up anything, even a raging dragon. It's cautious now. It's thinking.' 'What?' 'I can't tell.'

As Phyphor's night-sight recovered, he scanned the sky, blinking against the rain. 'Is the dragon moving?' 'No. It's on top of the cliffs.' 'Doing what?' 'Searching and finding.' 'Finding what?'

'I can't tell. Phyphor, it's in the air again. Up there!'

'Where? Where?'

'Above us.'

'But I can't see it!'

No red spark betrayed the dragon, which was not forced to show fire as it flew if it chose not to.

'If I try to blast it, can you guide my hand?'

'I can't pinpoint the dragon,' said Miphon. 'That's too hard.'

'Then I'll wait till it dives,' said Phyphor. 'I've stood against the Neversh. I can stand against a dragon.' They heard something falling. A rock shattered beside them. 'The cellar!' yelled Phyphor.

They ran. The dragon plunged down, dropping rocks as it swooped. They heard its wings cutting the air. A rock shattered at the head of the stairs, but they were al ready in the cellar, bleeding from a dozen rock splinters. The fort shook as the dragon crashed to earth. It bellowed. It blasted out fire. Flame filled the stairwell. Rainwater boiled to scalding steam. A flush of heat hit the cellar.

'Blast it!' screamed Garash.

'It's not in line of sight, fool,' said Phyphor.

Another blast of fire. The stink of dragon. The scrabble of talons. More fire. More steam. They were being cooked alive.

Phyphor stepped forward to try for a clear shot at the dragon. A blast of fire sent him reeling back, beating at his burning cloak. He had been singed by just the last fraction of that blast: any closer, and he would have been killed. Miphon pushed past, but Phyphor grabbed him.

'Where do you think you're going?' 'To stay is to die,' said Miphon. 'If it gets me, it may think there's nobody else.' 'Wait,' said Phyphor.

He raised his staff and hammered it down.

He spoke a Word.

The earth trembled and shook.

Phyphor spoke a Word and a Word and a Word. There was a roar louder than any dragon, or any clan of dragons. Garash screamed, throwing himself to the ground. Miphon listened. – pain, pain, pain – 'The dragon's hurt,' said Miphon. 'It's going.' They heard it bellow. (Distant. Fading.) Miphon ran upstairs. Phyphor followed close behind, panting as they burst out into the night air. The walls of the fort lay in ruins. Blocks of stone had been flung through the air as the flame trench, exploding, cleansed itself of the debris of four thousand years in a single convulsive spasm. Now the flame trench was alive, flames raging for half a league between mountain and sea. Heat beat against their faces. The clouds above smouldered with bloodlight reflections.

'Are you hurt?' said Miphon.

'My hands are burnt a little.' said Phyphor.

'Over here," said Miphon. leading him from the fort to find water where he could cool his singed hands.

'Where's the dragon?' said Phyphor.

'Far away now,' said Miphon. 'Far away. It won't be back. It's hurt. The rocks thrown by the blast hurt it.'

'Will it die?'

'I don't know. But it won't be back. It won't be back.* The ground trembled underfoot; they smelt torn earth, the stink of dragon, the dust of splintered rock; heat and light from the fire dyke beat against their faces. They heard the roar of flames, the hiss of rain boiling as it struck fire, waves from the sea exploding into steam.

Garash joined them.

'The dragon?' said Garash.

'It's gone,' said Miphon.

'How long will the flames burn for?' said Garash. who knew the answer – fifty days at least, and maybe longer – but half-hoped that someone would tell him different.

'Too long,' said Phyphor. 'We'll have to find a way over the mountains.'

Where the flame-trench ran out into the sea for a hundred paces, the waters seethed and boiled. Lacking a boat strong enough to venture out into those turbulent waters – lacking, indeed, any boat at all – the wizards could not outflank the flame trench on the seaward side.

'Mountains!' said Garash. spitting out the word with disgust.

'We could swim,' ventured Miphon. 'You could, perhaps." said Garash. 'I've never learnt to play fish.'

Garash, having wasted all his accumulated power in trying to kill the dragon, felt weak and exhausted. He felt, obscurely, that Phyphor had somehow tricked him. After all, Phyphor had finally driven off the dragon simply by calling out the Words which had made the fire dyke erupt. Garash could have done as much, if he had thought of it. He was comforted by knowing he still had power stored in the shrivelled twist of wood hung round his neck, power he had stored there during dull days in the Castle of Controlling Power.

'I couldn't venture the swim either,' said Phyphor. "So it'll have to be the mountains.'