Scabbard's Song (17 page)

rolled towards the edge of the cliff. His nails raked the ground as he tried to save himself from the drop, but he was unable to stop himself falling out into the blackness. His scream of fear was foreshortened when his dead weight came to the end of Uthellens hair. In his panic he had wrapped the coils of her tresses around his head and throat. This had formed a noose which throttled him as he hung over the precipice. Uthellen was half dragged through the doorway by his weight, but she gamely jammed herself there. One or two wall-bones cracked and gave way, but the structure had been well built and was solid enough to remain intact. For a moment she felt exhilarated. She had won! She had beaten the mad creature. Then she was alarmed to feel movement in her hair. The wild man was not quite dead! He was climbing up her hair, using it for a rope. She twisted and thrashed, until the weight came back with a wrench. This time her hair stayed taut. She could feel his body swaying in the wind. The pair remained thus for two hours: Uthellen stuck between the two door posts and the wild man dangling over the lower world. Dawn came in slow and grey, the ghost of yesterday. Uthellen was in a quandary. It was not so much that the weight of the wild man hurt her head, pulling as it was on her hair. It was simply that she could not think of a way out of this impasse. Then, as the ghost of yesterday grew into the golden child of today, revitalised, reformed, she saw the glint of something near at hand. It was a flint scraper kicked by the wild man as he leapt from his bed. It had skidded across the dirt floor and lay between her and the fire. If she could reach it she could cut her hair and let him fall to oblivion. Dire circumstances produce strength. Uthellen managed to squirm into a position where her heels were one either side of the doorway. Then she pushed out with both legs: legs made strong by much walking during her travels over the landscape with her son. When she was full length, stretched out on her back, she could reach the flint scraper. Using it, she began to cut through her hair, but after only a few strands it went limp. Her movements had caused the wild man to bang against the cliff and thus loosen himself. When she rose and went to look down, she could see the dark and now misshapen figure spreadeagled on some rocks far below. The wild man had murdered and eaten his last wayfarer. His intended final meal had turned out to be the gallows on which he had been executed: poetic justice indeed. You poor foul creature, said Uthellen. How sad that an unnatural child of the earth should turn so bad. She knew there were many wild men living in the woods, in the mountains, who never turned to human flesh. This one had somehow acquired the taste, perhaps during a harsh winter in which meat was impossible to come by, except on two legs. It was over. Any vestige of its miserable life had been smashed out of it by those black rocks. Once she had washed herself and tended to her bruises, Uthellen continued down the mountainside track. At the bottom of the trail she came across a village. There she met a fearful people who gathered round her and asked her how she had survived the wild man. They were a gentle folk, not given to wielding weapons, and had been trapped on their side of the mountains for some years now by the presence of the ogre. When she said she had killed the creature, they at first did not believe her. Then she led them to the bottom of the precipice, to where the broken wild man lay. They marvelled at his death and praised her for her courage. Giving her food, they sent her on her way, rejoicing in their deliverance. A young boy went with her, as a guide through their region, and at every village he told the story of how Uthellen had strangled the wild man with her own hair. Finally she left the territory of the gentle folk and entered a country where the men were severe and kept their women almost as slaves. They asked her why she did not cover her feet and ears, the most ugly parts of the body, they said. They were a tall people, with narrow faces and sharp eyes, and they crowded against her as she used the trails, jostling her, treading on her heels. Finally she rounded on them and told them of her son, threatening them with all kinds of reprisals if they did not leave her alone. These people were not ignorant like the wild man and they knew of the battle between the wizards. They fell back then, frightened by her words, letting her use the paths over their fields without further hindrance. One night, while in the hills of a place she had never heard of, she saw a light from a cave. Wary through her experience with the wild man, she approached this light ready to run if necessary. In the doorway of the cave, which had the warmth and comforts of a home, stood an elderly man with long silvery hair. He was wearing a red cloak covered in moons and stars and held a carved staff in his right hand. He beckoned her to come in, not to be afraid, for he would shelter her from the coming storm. True enough, the heavens opened up a short while later, and the rain poured forth. Flash floods raced pell-mell down the wadis and lightning cracked against the earth. Still very wary she accepted the offer of hospitality from the sorcerer, for that was what he proclaimed himself to be. But not an evil creature, he told her. Simply one who has a gift for magic, a talent which could not be ignored. He made her a hot stew on the fire in the mouth of the cave, giving her bread and water to go with it. All around the cave were the trappings of a man of magic, a marabout. There were wands; shelves carrying bottles full of potions with weird symbols on their labels; there were pointed hats, some jet black, others covered in cryptic letters; there were dried toads, bats, snakes, innards of birds and rodents; there were dusty old books, one a huge tome which lay open on a parsons lectern. In one corner she could see a writing desk, with sheets of parchment spread over it, and various writing implements: styli, reed pens, writing canes, quills, brushes. And scrawled over the parchments themselves was script in black ink: hieroglyphics and uncials. There was dust everywhere. A kind of uniform dust, as if manufactured in an attic and spread about evenly for effect. A clean dust. It made her wonder about the wizard. I thank you for your hospitality, she told him. I have been walking long and weary today. Where are you going, my child? I am on my way to meet my son, IxonnoxI, a wizard like yourself. The old mans eyes brightened. IxonnoxI? Not like myself. I am a humble sorcerer alongside such a wizard. I am greatly honoured to have the mother of such a powerful creature in my home. Of course, there are probably one or two spells, family secrets, which I can do and your son could not . . . but in the main, his magic is far stronger than mine. The old wizard beamed at her. Uthellen became a little suspicious. What if this were some manifestation of an enemy, sent by OmmullummO? This wizard was too benign for words. He looked like somebodys lovable grandfather. But then two shepherds appeared in the doorway of the cave and asked for shelter for the night. The wizard gave it willingly. Come in, come in, he chortled. The more the merrier. I shall have no time for my magic, of course, with so many guests, but there are plenty of nights left for that. He sighed and looked up into the starry heavens. Tis a horned moon this evening, see! The portents are good for magic. There, there, the evening star shines with a special brightness. But never mind, people are more important than work. I shall perform my magic tomorrow. What magic is it that you wish to perform? asked Uthellen. For a moment the old fellow looked taken aback, then his expression cleared again. Why, the coming harvest, of course. And the lambing. He nodded to the two shepherds. My magic ensures that the crops yield their bounty and that the lambs are healthy and strong. Its true, interrupted one of the shepherds, a rough-looking man with crossed eyes. Youm be a comeling, my lady, but if youm lived here like we have all the time since we was borned, youd know that here is a great wizard who makes good harvests and good lambing times. Their host swelled his chest and beamed at the man. But the soil looks good hereabouts, the grass looks green and lush and I know the climate to be very amiable, said Uthellen, so why wouldnt the crops be plentiful and the lambs healthy? Oh, murmured the other shepherd, a young boy with a sun-burned, star-burned face, they wunt be, if twernt for him. There, there, laughed the elderly wizard, thats enough for a modest chap like me. No need to lay it on so thick. I admit the landscape would be in a sorry state if not for my powerful magic, and the rain would have great difficulty in falling, not to say the sunlight appearing, if it were not for my ministrations. It is with great pleasure that I encourage the ministry of frost to appear at the right time, in order to kill all the unwanted insects. Without me, it is true, the dew would not settle on the speartips of the grasses. But hark, I can hear the impatient rumbling of empty stomachs. I would be better turning my skills for magic towards cooking these two hungry fellows a hearty and appetising meal . . . He went about this, humming to himself, happy it seemed to have his cave full of unexpected guests. Uthellen was still unsure about him. Something was not quite right here. It was true that many regions had local wizards, who looked after their own pockets of the kingdom. They did this because they liked to be in control rather than for altruistic reasons, and often local citizens had to put up with a little bullying if they were to have a resident sorcerer. Many farmers, many shepherds, many cottagers with small industries would rather be without one. Local wizards had their disadvantages. They took what they wanted, they sometimes got the magic wrong, and things ended up much worse than before. And they were normally very testy creatures who would turn a boy into a toad on the wrong sort of morning. Wizards by nature jealously guarded their own territories. They did not like other wizards settling in the same area and trying to take over or carve a slice from the region. They were rather like birds who marked their territories with a twilight song, or mammals who did the same to the periphery of their hunting area with their urine. Wizards threw out invisible boundaries and they knew when they had been violated by another of their kind. This one did not conform to the usual image of a local wizard. It was true he bragged a lot, as his kind was wont to do, but he was far too cheerful for a sorcerer. Sorcerers generally had little or no sense of humour - Uthellen could attest to that, knowing her own son and their natures were often twisted and bent so badly they were always ill-tempered. Uthellen had not known a great many local magicians they were thin on the ground - but enough to know that this one worried her. May I know your name? she asked the wizard, as he stirred a pot. I wish to recommend you to my son. He seemed startled and about to argue, but changed his mind and replied, Certainly, my dear - my name is AmmA. And have you lived here all your life? My, my, what a lot of questions. Yes, yes, I do believe I have. Hem very well known for hundrids of miles around, said one of the shepherds, tucking into his stew. Everbudy know AmmA. Yes, yes, they know me as a very potent sorcerer, a wizard to be reckoned with. They finished the meal and AmmA suggested they all get a good nights sleep. One of the shepherds went out to the flocks that grazed around the cave and settled them, before returning. He then, like the other one, unrolled his blanket, laid it in the mouth of the cave and went to sleep. Uthellen wondered if they would be so trusting if this AmmA was not all he protested. If he were a creature of OmmullummO he must have been recently recruited. Uthellen pretended to go to sleep too, in a dark corner, but kept her eyes open and on the wizard. She saw him fiddle with a few of his potions and dried reptiles, but when he believed everyone was in dreamland he relaxed a little. She watched intently as he went to a chest with some small drawers, each marked with a symbol. He took something bright and shiny from one of these drawers. Then he went to a rather larger cabinet and removed another object: it was sort of egg-shaped and it appeared to be made of a hard material. Finally, he sat on a stool under a lamp and began working with the items in his hands. She saw what he was doing. AmmA was darning a sock. The bright thing had been a needle, the other a brook-smoothed darning stone. He hummed under his breath as he worked his magic on the holed woollen sock. The chore was soon finished. He bit off the wool end and held up his work. It was indeed neat. Uthellen had not performed a neater task. AmmA pulled on the sock and stared at it with great satisfaction. Then he blew out the lamp and lay down on a rush mat by the fire. Whatever he was, Uthellen decided, this man was no good at magic. If he had been, why spend valuable time darning socks? He was a fake. But for what reason? Had he been planted here to trap her? What if these two bumpkins who had arrived later were also spies, or agents for OmmullummO? All things were possible. She slept lightly, waking in fits and starts and staring about her, wondering if there were enemies inside the cave. It was a long night, and in the morning she confronted him with a dagger in her hand. Your name is not AmmA. The fake wizard stared at her, his eyes revealing panic. The two shepherds, halfway through their porridge, let their gobs fall open to reveal the food within. You two, close your mouths, she ordered, and you tell me your real name, or I will cut out your heart. I have already killed a wild man this last week. I will do the same to you if you do not give me believable answers. My n-n-name is AmmA, he stuttered. B-be very careful, young lady, that I I do not change that weapon into a d-deadly snake! You couldnt change a babys nappy, she snapped. Your real name, or I wreak havoc on your home. He hung his head. Riddelstem. My real name is Riddelstem. And why do you pretend to be a wizard? Have you been offered a reward for my head? Speak up, quickly, man! Your head? He looked shocked. So did the two men huddled over their bowls of porridge. What would I who I mean your head? I know youve been told to trap me in some way, stop me from continuing my journey. Let me tell you that once my son gets to hear of this youll wish you were dead. He will hunt you down with all the power of a King Magus. He will shrivel your souls and send them hurtling down to hell. OmmullummO will not be able to protect you. Whatever that evil creature has promised