Now everyone but the Bishop-elect was in good spirits. The forsaken look of the place, together with the grim unknown fates of the two previous expeditions, might well have given rise to fear; but if such was felt, it did not last long. Already, since leaving the coast, the expedition had been delighted by the richness of the land, of which there was more abundant evidence every day. How fresh the wind was, how pure the air, how different from the fume-laden breezes of the City and the northern plains! How delicious the late figs and apples which the foragers gathered from the woods! How astonishing, the sight of yet another overflowing bee-tree! How rich and tender under the knife, the thick slices of venison, or crackling chine of wild boar, or the great haunches of bear that the hunters without difficulty procured! How good the companionship round the camp-fire of an evening! How ruddy the flames, how sapphire-blue the dome of heaven, how numerous the stars, how bright the Milky Way! These delights were less to be found within the precincts of the swamp itself, on the edge of which Lefnui had raised his flag; yet even here, amidst its dark bogs and streamless mantled pools, its interlacing ridges, its alder-covered hummocks and low copses of willow and laurel and myrtle, its rotting lilies and faded sundews, luxuriant cresses and scarlet hips of bog-rose, there was beauty and fascination, though none needed the warnings of Lefnui and the commanders to remind them of the evident dangers. One company fashioned punts and poles and set out along the wider watercourses to explore and re-map the whole terrain, while another split logs and laid them as pathways between the firmer patches of ground. It was Erum who on the third day noticed the shape of a human heel protruding from the black slime; this belonged to the body of Urnic, Hrem’s messenger; with great difficulty the explorers dragged it up from the plant-tangles and the clinging, sucking morass, washed it clean and bore it back to the camp. It had hardly decayed. That night Hrem watched over it, and in the morning Erum buried it decently. Of the swamp-fires and seductive forms which Hrem had told of, none were yet seen; but the explorers, penetrating deeper, found black mud-pools that bubbled slowly and thickly, where a smell of sulphurous decay hung in the air, and where the edges of the pools had that unnatural rainbow sheen.
There was coal in the swamp also, great submerged baulks and boles of fossilised wood as well as the more familiar slabby, chunky and broken-pebbly shapes, drifted and piled along the banks of the wandering streams. ‘The rock-blood is under the coal,’ said Melohtar thoughtfully. ‘Does that mean it’s a surface deposit, or are there seams leading under those mountains?’ He pointed to the as-yet-unnamed peaks of the Rediath, where the range ascended to pinnacles of great height, touched with the last pink of the sunset. ‘Anyway, we need to explore the woods on that side next.’ ‘It’s incredible,’ said Lefnui, shaking his head in wonder. ‘How can it be that this was here all the time, and we never knew?’ A south-flying skein of geese approached, intending to light on one of the farther pools which were still constantly teeming with birds. A dozen hands reached out for bows and there was a flurry of twanging strings. Five geese broke loose from the formation, thrashing or falling downward. ‘Their shooting’s getting better,’ said Melohtar. ‘It hasn’t been here always,’ he continued, still gazing at the long, dark-fanged horizon, from which the light had now faded. ‘How do you mean?’ asked Erum curiously. ‘It hasn’t always been as rich as this,’ answered Melohtar. ‘These lands were mapped by Kedrahil the First. It’s he who gives us the name of this region, Daelum. He describes it as a barren inhospitable desert. He mentions the coal, but in those days no-one had ever heard of rock-blood; and it was long before the dragon came.’ ‘Be that as it may,’ said Lefnui, ‘it’s high time for us to begin drilling.’ ‘We can’t set up the platforms till the fields have been drained, my lord,’ said Hrem. ‘Yes: that must be the next task, now the Castle’s finished.’ Such was the general spirit of ardour that a great deal of work had already been done. The structure which everyone proudly called the ‘Castle’ was a fortified camp, large enough to hold the whole expedition with their animals and other belongings, built of logs, with a keep or watch-tower, a strong stockade and a gate-house. A wide fence or bailey would also be built out over the swamp, to enclose the area where the first drilling would take place; and a road led to the new quarry, twenty miles away, where the Dwarves were cutting stone for the drainage works and to build the smithies that would soon be needed.
Now, about the Dwarves. As yet, Aldred has had no occasion in the course of this second narrative to take any notice of them, for the simple reason that they keep themselves apart as much as they can. They were sometimes seen on the streets of Ruminas, for there was in those days a dwarf-colony or ghetto there, where a few hundred of them resided; they worked closely with the smiths of the Aulendili, and Nabbi their leader acted as a kind of ambassador of the Dwarves to the King. But they took no part in his councils, nor in the communal life and festivals of the City. Many of the Dwarves of the North lived in Kibilgathol, the great mountain that overshadows the Bay of Forograst; and from there a dwarf-road ran underground to Orogor and the far end of the Black Mountains. Across the mouth of the bay, which was no longer frozen as in days of yore, the Dwarves sailed their rafts and flat-bottomed freighters, bringing their pig-iron, their copper and more precious ingots to the dragon’s foundry. Yet although they worked with Fëaruk they loved him no more than his slaves and sacrifices did; and although they could withstand the heat and poison of this labour, having the toughness of their race, no Dwarf was able to remain in Lhygost for more than a few months; he must then return to Kibilgathol to recover from the sickness.
There were then, and still are other prosperous city-kingdoms of this folk: in the far West, beyond the great desert of Mithlaid; and at Tingrod, where was made the copy of Swin’s father’s sword. And other tribes and clans were scattered about, half-savage and sullen to Men and to the better-organised communities of their own folk, regarding all as their foes. Of these, the Mute-Dwarves of Orogor are the best known. The relation between them and the Dwarves of Kibilgathol is hard to fathom: a sort of semi-voluntary slavery. The escort sent to meet Swin and Melohtar were evidently Dwarves of this kind. But the tale is now concerned with an even more obscure tribe: the Bald-headed Dwarves of the South.
As we now know, these dwell in the mountains of Harluin, that great remnant of the primeval nine-hundred-mile range which once bestrode the length of North-eastern Midyard. In comparison with this, the Rediath Mountains, upon which Melohtar had gazed, are a mere short spur. It seems that the Dwarves of Harluin and of Kibilgathol are descended from a common stock. This tribe took no part in the last war against Sorgrim, having been weakened and embittered by earlier defeats, and become unfriendly to Men. They dwelt in the Black Mountains, south of the sources of the Malog. After the beginning of the present Age it became necessary for them to migrate, probably because their mines were worked out; but there was a larger pattern of shifting and migrations, of many peoples, in this era. The majority of them desired to go further north, to the places where rich lodes were known to exist; but two or three thousand (among whom, it is said, were many of their women) wished to go South. As to why they wished this: reasons may, in hindsight, be guessed at. The parting occurred, and for a long time nothing was heard of the South-faring Dwarves, except for one very curious fact or rumour: that they had adopted the most un-dwarvish custom of shaving their beards, and often the hair of their pates. As the Bald-headed Dwarves they became a byword, famous for their obscurity: for example, a young student-priest of Ruminas, expounding some over-abstruse point of doctrine, might be genially advised by his tutor to ‘go and preach to the Baldies.’
On this subject, by the way, it had been evident from the outset, even to the most bigoted High Priest, that there was no point in trying to convert the Dwarves to the religion of Dru. They are known to have intense beliefs of their own, in particular their devotion to Maul or Auland, the Smith, who is of course the patron of the Aulendili also. But all the details of their cult are deliberately and lovingly kept secret. The secrecy has for them a special sacred value of its own. In line with this principle, Erum had never made any attempt to get Nabbi’s folk included in the Sunday services, which were compulsory for all the other members of the expedition. But the Dwarves’ industry, skill, strength and self-possession made them interesting to him, as to many others. This was the first time that most of the Thandorians – apart from some select few of the Aulendili – had ever had any opportunity to observe them at close quarters. Nabbi Goldenbeard, as he was formally known (nicknames being for Dwarves always expressions of honour) was a particularly impressive figure. He had been the chief of the Dwarves of Ruminas ever since their first arrival, and that had been a hundred and five years ago. He was said to have a very high reputation among his own people. He had fought in the battles of Forograst and Aduchel. It seemed that the Dwarves must greatly approve of Lefnui’s expedition, that for some unknown reason they wished to award it a signal honour. Even King Oresgal, when he had sent to ask them if they would render help, had never expected that so many should be willing to come, far less that their leader should be Nabbi himself.
Erum met him one morning, on the way from the Smithy to the Stockade. Though Nabbi walked with a toddling gait, his short figure was straight-backed, his head held erect. His white beard was combed and plaited and thrust into his silver belt, and his helmet was burnished bronze, set with green gems. ‘I’m sure we greatly feel the honour of your presence with us here,’ said Erum ingratiatingly.
The Dwarf gave a grunt of amusement. ‘You think of us as grave and silent,’ he said after a short pause, ‘but the truth is that we feel the need to speak merely once, when Men may need to say something a dozen times over.’
Erum was encouraged by his friendly manner. ‘True, I’m sure,’ he responded. ‘For us, if a thing’s worth saying at all, it’s generally worth repeating. Yet perhaps there’s an unspoken question, one implied by all the repetitions you’ve heard?’
‘Then why not ask it, Your Reverence?’
Hearing his honorific thus used, easily and unselfconsciously, by one so very much his senior in years, rank and wisdom, had the effect of making Erum feel abashed. He looked down at his feet, and at the yellow leaves that blew around them, and the hobnailed boots of his companion that clumped vigorously on the split logs.
‘What brings so worthy and important a Dwarf on this journey?’
Nabbi chuckled. ‘Well done, my friend! …Well now, we Dwarves don’t love the dragon any more that you do. He’s a greedy spoilt worm, a brattish child, and he’s like to do endless damage if his thirst isn’t quenched. We don’t want Ruminas to suffer the desolation of the worm, let alone our own City. So it’s important to keep him satisfied for a little longer.’
They reached the drawbridge and entered the gate. The guards saluted.
‘Good morning, lads! Times are changing, Reverence. Haven’t you felt it? I’ve come here with my folk to help you with the boreholes and the refining-gear. Then, when you’ve got a fresh supply of what the old worm likes, we’ll be on our way south. There’s another important job to be done.’
‘So you’d been summoned? You, Nabbi Goldenbeard?’
‘That’s right. Next springtime we’ll be leaving you.’
‘But where to?’
‘Further south, as I say. To Harluin.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Erum came to a stop. He looked down at his companion. Nabbi halted and returned his gaze. The Dwarf’s eyes were black, with the darkness of depth rather than opacity, and there was a twinkle of laughter within those depths. The round cheeks bunched up as the lips, covered by the long white hair, spread out in a smile. ‘We’ll miss you,’ Erum said.
‘Don’t lose heart, lad!’ A gnarled hand patted Erum gently on his upper arm. ‘Those old worms, they don’t live for ever. Better times are coming. You’ll see!’
‘Tell me: is it true that you’ve got tunnels going from those mountains, where you’re going, all the way to your city in the far North?’
‘Of course not. Hundreds of leagues, that is. But there’s some that make the journey, and we keep in touch.’
This conversation did not raise Erum’s spirits. The hints of a secret policy and of plans shared by the scattered communities seemed sinister rather than reassuring. The kindness of Nabbi’s manner, though genuine, seemed to stop short of true concern. Better times might be coming for the Dwarves, but what had that to do with Lord Dru and His purposes? Erum stood by his seat at the Board of Council. He exchanged a word with Melohtar and listened idly to Nali and Nar, the sons of Nabbi, who were talking to Hrem with a gravity more solemn than that displayed by their father. Lefnui strode forth from the doorway of his private quarters. ‘His Majesty is eager for news,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear your reports.’ Erum listened to the reports and discussions with efficient half-attention, ready to speak when called upon yet preoccupied in mind and heart: half present, half absent; half composed, half in chaos; half strong, half weak and wretched; half-believing himself healthy, half-aware of the corruption that was invading him like a terrible disease. The secret assaults had continued, were still continuing, twice or thrice in the week, and he still had made no resistance or protest. He was too strongly bound, chained by past acquiescence, to think of doing any such thing. He had always been too strongly bound, had he not, even before the moment of his capture by Atan and Melda? He believed, as he had believed from the first, that the rapist was one of the two commanders. He still could not tell which one of them it might be. His glance stole from Melohtar’s face to Hrem’s. Melohtar – dark, smooth-browed, laughing in response to some dry jest of Nabbi’s – could it not be him? Could it be him? How Erum’s bowels yearned for a touch of tenderness, of assurance, of recognition from the young lord, such as had formerly been vouchsafed during those restful evenings in the City! Yet the thought of Melohtar being guilty of such evil – of his own desire that it might be so – was appalling to his conscience, and must be rejected. Or Hrem now, grizzled and sly, returning Erum’s glance with a full look from below his tufted eyebrows, intense but unreadable – could it be him? But why should it be him? Erum was vaguely aware of his own attractiveness: as he lay prone on his camp-bed, bare from the waist down, breathing fast and shallowly, his mind could quite easily imagine, nay, could take a positive pleasure in imagining his own appearance in the candle-light: the hairless calves and thighs, the plump buttocks glistening with sweat. The layers of perversion bulged and swelled and re-enfolded themselves with increasing complexity. Was the attacker doing this by pre-arrangement with the first attackers? Or was it mere coincidence, the haphazard lust of camp life? Or, if it was coincidence, might it not be seen, even so, as part of a profounder continuity, an archetypal ravishment that corresponded with the rape Lord Lefnui’s host was now inflicting – the rape of the land itself? And yet was not this the Will of Dru? Was Erum somehow being required to draw the sin into himself, to suffer, to atone? And thus was not Lord Dru Himself (in a very real sense) the ravisher?
With thoughts such as these, the fantasies of near-insanity, did he while away the sleepless hours of night, or was afflicted in the daytime, suddenly, while walking back to the stockade, as it might be, after the Blessing of the Kilns or the performance of some other ritual. At such times his legs would wobble and almost buckle under the weight of his lonely misery. Yet there were also moments of calmer reflection, for his self-awareness at that period was almost completely split, as has been said, into two halves. The ‘strong’ calm half was able to observe these sufferings quite dispassionately, to tolerate them and even to welcome the disembodied prick that seemed at all times to be entering through his fundament, filling him and distending him and penetrating upwards, shooting and stabbing and burning as it progressed towards his liver, his stomach, his very heart. He was being taken over. He was being consumed in a magical flame. Willingly, willingly he surrendered. He began to notice, without surprise, the outward effects of this transaction. His voice had never been strong, but now every Sunday sermon he preached seemed to carry with effortless power. He knew that he held his congregation captive, and more, that his urging of vigilance against the deceitful wily Elves was helping to build up a spiritual defence. He decided on his own authority to institute regular weekly sacrifices to Dru. None gainsaid him, least of all the victims themselves! Sunday by Sunday, in the tree-aisled glade that served as an open-air Temple, the captive beasts grew tame at the sound of his voice, approached him docilely, allowed him to raise their heads and expose their throats. The splashing blood, pumped out by the living hearts, dripping and sizzling over the coals of the altar-fire, sent up to Heaven a rich blue smoke that could not but be pleasing to Dru; or so all thought. Every evening Erum now walked round the whole outer bailey, aspersing the fences while his assistant chanted prayers of blessing. Every new artifice – the kilns, the ditches, the forges, the derricks and the assembly-line for the pipework – received its own special unction from his hand. Every morning he besought Dru’s blessing and guidance for the new day, and his hearers responded with a hearty ‘amen’.
He was not liked. He knew and accepted this. Melohtar was really his friend no longer, and Lefnui had never warmed to him after that first unfortunate lunchtime. Nevertheless they all had a great respect for him, and he knew that his contributions were valued. November had passed into December; the long nights had grown frosty at last; the game was sparse, although plenty of meat had been smoked and salted away for the winter; but as yet the encampment had suffered no mysterious memory-loss, nor seen any apparitions, nor heard any seductive music. The work was going as well as if Dru really did intend it to succeed. Six flare-towers now burned steadily, their orange-golden flames dotted about the marshland and shining through the grey dusk like vigil-lights, and now, a quarter of a mile away from the camp, the wrights had erected the first drill-tower, a cone-shaped structure of massive wooden beams, the most conspicuous object in view. The pipes had been welded into a perfectly straight length of a hundred and fifty feet. The drilling-screw, which the Dwarves had named Felakzigil, was poised above the surface of the mud. Twenty-four strong horses, four teams of six, stood harnessed to the bars of the cogged capstan which would supply the power. Their circular courses were laid out on a well-supported wooden platform. Men stood by with whips, ready to urge the horses on. Erum threw holy water on the teeth of the gear-wheels and the bright spiral of the bit. He prayed aloud, and the elvish words fell on the men’s ears with a cold thrilling shock, and then the drivers laid their whips onto the horses’ backs; the bars turned, the wheels of Felakzigil began to spin and the long shaft pricked the skin of the earth. Mounds of churned-up sludge and soil began to appear around the borehole. The straining horses came to a stand, and the drilling stopped. Filled with anger, as he had not been for many a month, Erum raised his hands and cried words whose meaning he hardly knew: Tur an roechyn! Engrin coroth cuio! Thunder rumbled in the sky and the horses neighed and screamed, tossing their heads and glaring in terror; the capstan began to turn ponderously and the drill bit down through the rock. Erum imagined it penetrating the rocky fundament, piercing the bowels of the earth; and he smiled to himself as he walked away.
Two days later, sooner than expected, the tower yielded the must of its dragon-wine. Erum was sitting by himself in his own cabin, reading one of the books he had brought, when he was roused by the sound of voices shouting, feet running, the trumpet sounding the alarm. Without haste he closed the volume and came out. Everyone save those whose duties kept them on the camp-walls was rushing to the swamp. Here came rolling a clumsy procession of the large vats from the cooper’s yard, each pushed by three men. One rolled off the wooden path and settled into the mud; the men made desperate efforts to pull it out, struggling in the slime and sinking to their waists. Erum ignored their cries and walked on. He kept his eyes fixed on the new tower. The vertical pipe had sunk down almost to its full depth. Dwarves and Men were busy about the tower’s base. The horses were being unharnessed and led away. At fifty yards’ distance Erum saw the first black fountain emerge from its top. The fountain collapsed and died away. There was a deep muttered coughing, a sequence of muffled explosions, and then the fountain rose up again, standing, ascending and blossoming. Thick black rain-drops began to fall all around, and with them came the waft of an unfamiliar stench, pungent, vaporous and very strong. A black oil-drop splashed on Erum's forehead. He rubbed it off with two fingers: he looked at the treacly stain and sniffed it with relish.
By midnight the fountain had been capped, and by next morning a controlled flow was being tapped off as fast as the barrels could be brought up to contain it. The chief Cooper and his men were frantically busy, but they shared with everyone else – including Erum, this time, and all the Dwarves – in the joyful sense of achievement. Lefnui commanded a special feast for the whole company. In the cold night the carcasses roasting on the great open fires gave off a wonderful smell, and the flames of the flare-towers shone through the red wine in Erum’s glass like points of crimson fire. ‘Well, my friends, what shall we drink to?’ said Lefnui. ‘A toast for us, Your Reverence?’
‘Druhantale,’ said Erum, smiling. ‘Thanksgiving to Dru on this day.’
They drank thanksgiving, Dwarves and all, and then sat down to roast wild mutton. ‘What a shame Melohtar isn’t here to celebrate with us,’ said Lefnui. ‘Still, we’ll see him tomorrow.’
The first of the exploring parties had gone out at last. Melohtar, with six men, had been absent a week, exploring the wooded hills beyond Ninniachlo and the borders of Rediath. In the general optimism no-one, except perhaps Hrem, had any doubt of his safe return. But this time a doubter would have been in the right, for the scouts failed to return on the appointed day. For days after that, while the great barrels were filled and arranged, Lefnui grew more and more anxious. At last, a week late, Melohtar did come riding into the camp; he and one other. The other survivor was a man named Vinseric. His face was vacant, his memory completely gone. Melohtar himself recognised Lefnui and Hrem with difficulty. His report was vague, its fragmentary themes similar to those of Hrem’s tale. Melohtar believed that he had actually met the Elves, but he could add nothing more to this statement. After an hour of fruitless interrogation it occurred to Lefnui to send for Erum. As Erum entered Lefnui’s cabin the coals in the hearth happened to settle and to flare up; he hesitated at the doorway and the light played on his pale face, his off-white robe and light straw-coloured hair. ‘What, Erumardil?’ cried Melohtar, oddly startled: ‘are you here? But where’s your lamp?’ ‘In the City,’ answered Erum gravely, ‘but the City is here amongst us, is it not? Let me look into your eyes, my lord.’ Remaining seated, Melohtar raised his face; Erum placed his hands on Melohtar’s temples and stood before him, searching his obscurity as with a lantern. Melohtar blinked several times. A rapid play of expressions passed over his face. His mouth fell open. Then he mastered himself. ‘Many thanks, Reverence,’ he said. ‘Now see what you can do for that poor fellow.’ Under Erum’s hands Vinseric made a similar recovery. The effect was impressively magical. Yet though both regained their wits, their memories of the trip were inadequate, even contradictory. There had been Elves, they were both sure, and they had heard the music of harps and pipes. There had been a path through the woods of the lower Rediath. The party had turned southward, then become disoriented. Bildan – or was it Olrog? – had ridden his horses over the edge of a cliff. Andreg had vanished in the night. They had seen the flare-towers in the distance, but could not make for them directly, the end of the marsh being still impassable. Melohtar showed the jotted notes and sketch-maps he had tried to make. Presently Erum yawned and excused himself from the meeting.
As he returned to his own little hut, he noticed a faint flicker or glimmer over the log wall. The night was cold and overcast; it should be dark, but a dim cloudy lightness seemed to be flowing through the air. Erum’s sense became alert. He changed his course and went to the gate-house. The guards were leaning on their spears and gazing out at the swamp. For the fires were up. Pale yellow, pale blue, pale grey, they walked and danced a confusing measure. They seemed to be advancing slowly. Sometimes they disappeared behind one of the swamp-groves, or were doubled by the appearance of their own reflections in a black pool. They were beautiful. One or two of them had a graceful, human appearance. Erum noticed the other men who were looking out over the stockade, completely absorbed. Most of them were quite still; but there were a few others, outside the camp, who were dreamily moving towards the outer fence. No-one spoke: all stared at the alluring flames. Erum also stared. He exerted all his will, and the fascination ceased. He yelled at the guards.
‘Wake up! Wake up! Call Lord Lefnui!’
Soon the camp was all astir. Lefnui acted vigorously. The dazed men were herded back into the camp. The guards were well scolded, and double watch was now kept, with additional men posted to watch the guards themselves. Lefnui commanded that everyone must sleep within the stockade from now on, except for the Dwarves; they had not been affected by the apparitions, but they were concerned about the fires moving near the wooden towers, now all soaked in rock-blood; the sons of Nabbi would camp out in the marsh and guard against the whole enterprise going up in flames. Erum went back to bed. His sleep was fitful but unmolested.
Next morning Lefnui held an emergency council.
‘Thanks, and double thanks, to Your Reverence,’ he said. His manner was a little effusive. ‘Took a priest to raise the alarm, didn’t it? My men were no use at all. Thank all the Gods, we had you.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘They are, and we didn’t lose anyone. You acted just in time.’
‘Praise Dru!’
‘Amen. But it isn’t satisfactory. If we’re to be penned up in camp every night, we can tap the wells that are near to us, but it’s going to be hard to get farther off; and impossible to get over the mountains. As you know, the local resources are sufficient only for the short-term.’
‘What then would you have me do, my lord?’ asked Erum.
‘Listen to what Lord Melohtar has to say.’
‘Erum,’ said Melohtar, leaning forward with a winning smile, ‘Hrem here thinks we’ll be safe enough inside the camp for the winter. We’re adequately supplied. We can keep an eye on each other. We can make good lamps and we’ll soon have distilled rock-blood to burn in them.’
‘It’s the bailey-fence, you see, Your Reverence,’ said Hrem in a gruff but deprecating manner. ‘We hadn’t got no fence before, and by the time we might have thought of building one it was too late. The men were wandering off all ways. That’s not to make light of what Your Reverence has achieved. I couldn’t do that, and you mustn’t take it ill, what I say. But I do say, if my lord Melohtar needs you, we can get along without you now.’
Erum said nothing.
‘The point is, my friend, that I want you to come scouting with us,’ explained Melohtar. ‘We need your gift. We positively can’t do without you. We’re not going to achieve anything, as the Baron says, unless we gain some knowledge of the territories further South. This is imperative. Beyond the vitally important matter of the next oil-wells, the King’s going to have to annex those territories next year. That means an invasion. And however great the invading force is, and it will indeed be very great, it may still be routed if it plunges in without knowledge of the land or its inhabitants. This is my own command from His Majesty. And it’s in his name that I request you to come with us next time we go. Which should be tomorrow, or sooner!’
‘This is a request, then, Lord Lefnui – not a command from you?’ asked Erum.
Lefnui was magnanimous enough to reveal a little shame. He looked down at his own fingers, which were striving against one another on the table-top. He looked at Erum again. ‘Lord Bishop,’ he said, ‘I appreciate that you’re in a difficult position.’
And so, after a little more thought, did Erum. His part, clearly defined by his superiors, was to attend to the spiritual welfare of the expedition. Later on, when more settlers came and more men and resources were available, he was to supervise the building of a church, and from there to exert spiritual authority over the region. He was not to go gallivanting off on hazardous explorations. And yet he was directed to co-operate with Lord Lefnui… But of course whatever decision he made would be judged and justified by its results. If the surveying parties were a failure, and the matter subsequently came to the attention of Ar and Atan, and if some worse disaster followed on from the failure of the surveying parties, he would be condemned. There would not be a straw’s worth of use in pleading that he had done only and exactly what they had ordered him to do. To sum it up crudely, he was liable to be buggered whatever he did. But then, had he not been well and truly buggered already?
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Master Hrem may be right. Also you’d still have my chaplain. He knows the rituals. Would you promise, my lord, to support him in all things, as full-heartedly as you have supported me?’
‘Most certainly,’ said Lefnui.
Erum rose from the table. Lefnui and some of the others noticed, not without a certain dismay, how his pleasant round face had closed and hardened. ‘I’ll give you my decision in twenty-four hours,’ he said briefly, and went out.
He walked back to his hut, thinking deeply. His footsteps were soft, as always, and he entered through the open doorway before the man inside the hut became aware of him. Berven the chaplain-assistant was sitting on Erum’s bed, holding his hand up before his eyes and talking quietly to a small robin that stood on his forefinger. Its breast was red, its little eyes round and beady and bright. Berven’s eyes were smiling and half-closed in concentration.
‘Hey! Stop wanking!’
The young man sprang upright. The bird slipped from his finger and fluttered out of the doorway. Berven stared at Erum, flushing red, as if he really had been caught in that shameful activity. He was a tall young fellow, well-built, broad-shouldered, with thick dark-golden hair. In their daily relations Erum’s manner towards him was as distant as to everyone else, so that Berven, despite their frequent contact, had hardly more awareness than anyone else of his superior’s divided and tormented state. Berven, as Erum had perceived with some relief, was among those whose love would always be given to women; unlike Erum, and maybe as a result of that easier preference, he had mingled freely with their companions of the expedition. His bodily strength had made him welcome whenever any strenuous job, ditch-digging or barrel-rolling, was going poorly. Unlike Erum he could talk easily to informal questioners about all matters of religion, and in doing so, as Erum fully appreciated, he had helped to forge an important bond. Erum very much envied Berven’s possession of the common touch, while Berven, reciprocally, envied him: of that, Erum was also aware: he envied his growing stature and confident use of magical power.
‘Bishop, sir! What does that mean? What do you think of me?’
And now, contemplating the hurt, ashamed face, Erum felt the two almost-sundered halves of himself come together with a bang, swing together as if connected by a hinge. For he was genuinely fond of Berven. We could say ‘loved’, provided that we distinguish that love from the perversion of desire that had almost corrupted both halves, both the confident and the despairing. Almost: for there was still a true core of goodness in him, like the pin joining the two halves of the hinge itself, invisible and groaning under terrible strain, but as yet unbroken. It was this, the residue of the old true Erum, that had a genuine liking for Berven and desired his happiness and success. But the voice that had just spoken so cruelly belonged to the corrupt new Erum, the temple thrall and sorcerer, who now looked back over the long leagues to Ruminas, where the Temple stood, and the Tree withered, and the golden Eagle glittered in its glory: this new Erum whose imagination beheld the faces of the High Priest and the Second Highest, the one smiling in austere approval, the other beaming forth cheerful encouragement. ‘He wants the Craft,’said they: ‘Give him what has been given to you! Pass it on! Widen the circle!’ Meanwhile Erum continued to study Berven’s face. It was wide open – confused and passionate. His soul was all in his eyes, right there, malleable and manipulable. His size and strength of body were irrelevant. It would be so easy to work on him.
‘When you find what you’re seeking,’ Erum heard himself begin to say, in a thin dry tone, ‘you’ll find that it’s all one. There are many forms – the magic and the desire of the Craft…’ His lips froze; his voice died in his mouth. He had chosen. He would not corrupt this younger man. Then the despair hit him again, an overwhelming weight of it, like a landslide. He fell into a swoon.
He remembers coming back to consciousness in a sitting position, becoming aware of discomfort and a nasty smell.
‘I’m not well,’ he mumbled at last. ‘Help me to bed. You can hold the Vigils and asperse the Bailey. I’d be grateful.’
‘Of course, Reverence.’
‘Forget what I said. It was cruel. I’m truly sorry.’
‘Forgotten already, sir. Now let me just…’
One of Berven’s duties, and that a small one, was to act as Erum’s manservant. Swiftly he now removed Erum’s soiled garments, fetched water, cleaned him up with a small towel and helped him into clean things. Erum lay down on the bed. Berven went out, closing the door gently, and Erum was at once plunged into a deep slumber.
Then it was dark. He had awoken after sleeping all day and half the night. He felt greatly refreshed, and calm, but expectant. He clenched his left hand into a fist and ran his right hand gently over the hard knuckles. Through the small unglazed window he could see the stars that were shining in the dark blue sky. When was the last time he had struck someone in anger? When had that been? Had it ever been?
There was the quiet unlatching and the scraping of the door. Erum sat up silently. The other man’s habits of movement, the sound of his breathing and the clutch of his hand were all just as usual. Erum waited for the head to appear against the faint light from his window. Then he struck with all his strength, and more: far more strongly than he had expected. The blessing and the power of Dru, he realised, as his fist punched the middle of the dark face, could operate in more than one way! The head jerked back and the man gave a thick, throaty gasp. Then, as the head seemed still to hang in mid-air, Erum drew back his fist for another blow. This time he split his knuckles on a cheek-bone.
‘Out,’ he said.
The man slid to one side and fell on the floor. Erum heard the scuffling noises as he crawled away.
How – how – how in the world had he ever allowed himself to be intimidated by such an attacker?
At morning prayers Hrem appeared with a black eye and a broken cheek. Neither he nor Erum ever referred to the incidents of the night-time. After prayers Erum breakfasted with an excellent appetite. Then, with his face as sober as ever but with a new spring in his step, he went to find Lord Lefnui, who was surprised and delighted to hear Erum’s favourable answer.