by Rob Scott
Garec stared at Gilmour with mixed admiration and amazement. ‘So, it’s true.’
‘What’s true?’ The older man was impatient to get the group moving again.
‘You really are a magician.’ Garec searched for the words. ‘It was all true, everything you said last night.’
‘Of course it’s true. Did you think I was making it up?’ he answered with feigned indignity. ‘Come now, we must hurry.’ Before riding into the forest, Gilmour turned to Sallax and added, ‘The grettans will hit the caravan. I imagine they’ll hit it hard, rout the wagons and ensure that silver never reaches port.’
Sallax nodded grimly in response.
They rode through the day, always north, and Steven soon noticed a change in the landscape. Hardwoods gave way to evergreens and the rustle of leaves under foot quieted into a soft carpet of fallen pine needles. The climb in elevation was gradual, nearly undetectable, but by the end of the day they had reached the southern slope of what appeared to be a range of more substantial foothills that spread far into the distance as misty indigo swells along the horizon. From time to time the group came within sight of the Estrad River; the once-deep current had narrowed to a fast-moving stream.
Versen led the way, accompanied by Mika, who was eager to learn everything the more experienced woodsman could teach him. Steven could understand why Mika was so impressed with Versen: his knowledge of the forest seemed second to none.
Steven rode between Garec and Gilmour and the trio spent much of their time talking. Garec, always alert with his bow, felled several rabbits and a pheasant along the way; the small band would eat well again this evening.
As the new friends exchanged questions and answers about their different lands, Gilmour would periodically chime in with an explanation of Pragan, Falkan, or even Malakasian culture. Garec was astounded at the level of technology in Steven’s world; the young banker’s description of air travel, medicine and warfare had him transfixed. Steven was equally impressed by the complacency about magic that permeated the Eldarni populace. Garec talked about magical incidents, places and historic events as if they were as common as a spring thundershower.
Gilmour’s questions related to the history of various nations on Earth; Steven had to keep reminding himself that the venerable Larion Senator had been there to see much of it unfold. He was most interested in the American Civil War, and spoke in fascinating detail about troop movements and political decisions Steven had never known about. He rattled on at great length about the carnage at Sharpsburg, the accuracy of artillery fire on Henry Hill at Bull Run and the esoteric eating habits of General Lee.
‘I do wish I could have stayed on to observe the end of the war and the reconstruction that followed, but regrettably, my knowledge and leadership were sorely needed in Eldarn,’ Gilmour confided wistfully.
When he heard that President Lincoln had been killed before the Confederate surrender, his mood turned dark. He told Steven he was certain John Wilkes Booth had no sense of fairness and ran one hand thoughtfully through his whiskers before adding, ‘If they were going to kill him, they ought to have waited until after the war.’
Steven had taken a Civil War course as an undergraduate and promised to retrieve all his textbooks from a cardboard box in his basement if Gilmour could spare a few moments while in Idaho Springs. He thought the old man was going to actually kiss him, but Gilmour contented himself with slapping Steven hard across the back and shouting, ‘Outstanding! It’s a nine-hundred-Twin-moon-old novel I will finally get to finish.’
While Steven was trawling his memory for any Civil War trivia that might amuse his companions, Mark and Brynne were getting to know each other too. They rode together all day; occasionally Sallax would cast them a disapproving look. The Ronan partisan was slow to trust anyone, and he was still uncertain about Steven and Mark: were they truly refugees from another world? He had forced himself to believe Gilmour, so for the moment he decided to keep his doubts to himself.
Brynne had obviously put aside her fury at being carted round as a hostage and tied to a tree. The friendly banter she and Mark were exchanging had Brynne blushing and Mark grinning like an adolescent about to steal his first kiss. Sallax cringed each time his sister reached across to touch Mark’s hand or to give his arm an amiable punch, even though he thought he respected the foreigner: at least he had shown a willingness to fight, a tough resilience in the face of danger. He appeared to be extremely bright, and skilled at solving problems under pressure. Sallax supposed Mark might be his choice for Brynne – if he knew the two strangers could be trusted. Until that moment, though, he would look with caution on his sister’s new suitor.
They made camp that evening in the Blackstone foothills. Versen said the bulk of the great range was several days’ ride north and west; they would turn west in the morning, leaving the river and the Merchants’ Highway behind. Although there were a number of passes between the tallest peaks in the Blackstone range, the most commonly accessed trails would be patrolled, perhaps even guarded, by Malakasian sentries. If word of their flight had reached the northern border patrols, no passage through the mountains would be unwatched by occupation forces.
Versen was confident that their only safe route lay to the west, over uncharted peaks and through unmapped passes. Both Garec and Sallax were loud in their dismay at the prospect of navigating a new trail north this late in the season. The potential for bone-chilling cold and deep snow grew with each passing day, and none of the travellers knew enough about the northern slopes to speculate what lay beyond the westernmost peaks.
Gilmour tried to reassure them, telling them their turn to the west was necessary for another reason. ‘We must get to Seer’s Peak,’ he said that evening as they sat around the fire-pit. ‘I must try to contact Lessek before we set sail for Malakasia.’
‘Lessek, the founder of the Larion Senate?’ Garec asked.
‘That’s right. He sometimes visits me when I pass within the shadow of Seer’s Peak.’ Gilmour sucked the last bits of meat from a pheasant leg and tossed the bone casually into the fire. ‘Although this will be the first time I have ever tried to contact him. Usually he comes to me without warning.’
‘Can you do it?’ Mika asked, amazed that anyone could be able to summon a spirit.
‘I don’t know, Mika,’ Gilmour said honestly, ‘but I have to try.’ And, in an offhanded way that surprised everyone around the fire, he added, ‘So must Garec and Steven as well.’
Steven sat bolt upright. ‘Why?’ He looked around the fire hoping for an ally. ‘What could he possibly tell me? I’m not Eldarni.’
‘No, but you have brought Lessek’s Key back to Eldarn,’ Gilmour explained. ‘Your role in this endeavour may be more important than you think.’
‘I didn’t, though. I mean, it’s still there on my desk. I didn’t bring it anywhere.’ Steven tried to talk his way out of meeting with the long-dead ghost of the world’s most powerful magician. ‘I just stole it from— well, found it, really, at the bank.’
‘Without you, Steven, it would not now be within our reach.’ Gilmour glanced at Mark before continuing, ‘Lessek may expect more from you than you can imagine, perhaps from Mark as well.’
‘And why me?’ Garec asked quietly.
‘That will become clear in time, my friend,’ Gilmour answered. ‘But I know Lessek will wish to speak with you.’
Versen was sharpening a small axe against a whetstone. Slowing the rhythmic pattern, he commented, ‘You make it sound as though Lessek can control what will happen to us. Is that true?’
‘No,’ Gilmour answered. ‘I don’t believe he can have an impact on anything directly, at least, he hasn’t in a long time, which is why we must go to him and hope he communicates with us.’ The old man leaned forward and warmed his hands near the flames. The firelight danced off his bald forehead; it looked as though a small, flesh-coloured moon had risen over their camp. ‘Lessek has an important vantage point from which to observe the goi
ngs-on here in Eldarn, a view from the balcony, if you will. He has access to histories and ideas we cannot understand, and his insights are critical to our success. He may disclose much, or he may not come to us at all, but we must endeavour to tap that resource before making plans for our assault on Welstar Palace.’
‘Welstar Palace,’ Steven said, ‘Nerak’s stronghold.’
‘Malagon’s,’ Garec corrected.
‘What do we call him, Gilmour – or should he be it?’ Mark was looking a little confused.
‘Nerak and Malagon: right now, they’re essentially interchangeable,’ Gilmour said.
‘Great,’ Mark grinned, ‘so we’ll agree on shithead, shall we?’
‘Works for me,’ Steven agreed.
‘I’m not sure what a shithead is,’ Brynne pronounced the English word awkwardly, ‘but there are more important things to worry about right now.’ She turned to Versen. ‘How far is it to Seer’s Peak?’
‘I don’t know,’ the tall woodsman answered. ‘I’ve never been there myself. We have about three days of rolling foothills to traverse before we come in view of the Blackstones.’
‘That’s correct,’ Gilmour confirmed, ‘and making good time, we will clear the range and be on the down slope into Falkan before winter hits with all her fury. But now my friends, let’s get to bed. We have far to travel tomorrow.’ He dropped several small logs on the fire before announcing, ‘I will take the first watch tonight. Mika, I will wake you in an aven.’
Late that night, Steven stirred in his sleep. He rolled over and pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders, trapping a loose corner between his knees. Still half-asleep, he hoped being bound as tightly as possible, with nothing exposed to the night air, would help warm the relatively small spaces between the contours of his body and the unruly wool blanket. Adjusting his position on the uneven ground, Steven knocked his jacket off the stone he had been using for a pillow. The cold rock against his face slapped him fully awake.
The night was silent, and except for a dull glow from the last embers in the fire-pit, he could see nothing. Nearby, Mark’s even breathing lent a stately rhythm to the darkness. Slowly Steven’s eyes grew accustomed to the night. Versen stood watch near the fire, sitting up with his back propped against a large stone, but Steven could see the woodsman’s head had fallen forward on his chest. He slept soundly.
Footsteps … coming through the forest behind him, Steven could tell that whoever approached was trying to come unnoticed. He thought about crying out, but he was afraid an arrow hurtling unseen through the Ronan darkness would silence him for ever. His stomach tightened in fear and, almost without thinking, he curled his legs up under him, preparing to leap to safety. He reached for the hunting knife still secure in his belt but it was awkward in his hand; he knew he would be ineffective against any would-be attacker. Without breathing, he craned his neck to peer across their camp.
The footsteps were closer now, just beyond the rock where Versen slept. Straining his eyes, Steven saw a bulky form emerge from the darkness, stow something in a saddlebag, pull back the blanket of an abandoned bedroll and lie down in the fire’s dying light. It was Sallax.
Steven breathed easier, assuming the big man had sneaked away to relieve himself outside the periphery of their camp. Half-awake, he didn’t think to wonder what Sallax had placed in his saddlebag. Soon sleep reclaimed Steven for the night.
For the next three days, the company made their way further into the Blackstone foothills. Scrub oak and evergreen trees grew in abundance; Steven noticed that with the ever-increasing altitude, the hardwoods that had been common in Rona’s southern region were scarce. The scrub oaks were clumsy trees, growing close to the ground in a confusion of twisted branches and oddly placed leaves.
The temperature had dropped significantly as well and for the first time since their arrival, Steven was glad he had worn a tweed jacket to the bank that Thursday. The coat fit tightly over his Ronan tunic, giving him an ungainly appearance, but he didn’t care about Mark’s ribbing that he looked like a university professor visiting a Renaissance festival: it kept him warm.
Though chilly, the weather was clear, and periodically there was a break in the trees that allowed them to see far into the distance. It was late on their third day in the foothills when Versen pointed towards the horizon and, squinting into the slowly setting sun, they could finally make out the distant peaks of the Blackstone Mountains. Ominous, even from this distance, Steven thought. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
The Blackstones were much taller than the Rocky Mountains surrounding his home, and their jagged ridges and deep valleys promised a hard, treacherous journey ahead. Steven loved looking up at the Rockies from the Colorado prairie: you could see the Front Range stretching from north to south in a picturesque combination of green foothills, red stone cliffs and snowy granite peaks. For anyone driving west, the Rockies were a welcome sight, a majestic end to a long journey across the endless flat fields of wheat and corn. Steven cherished that view; he could never tire of looking at the mountains back home.
But the Blackstones were different. Nothing about them made Steven feel welcome. They rose from the foothills at a steep angle, as if the gods themselves had thrown up a sheer granite wall to keep travellers out of Falkan.
‘Have you ever been through this way?’ Mark asked Versen, who was still peering into the distance.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I’ve crossed over the eastern peaks, but never this far west. These mountains are very different to those out near the Merchants’ Highway.’ He looked at Gilmour as he added, ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’
‘Which one is Seer’s Peak?’ Steven asked, still shielding his eyes against the setting sun.
Versen shrugged. All eyes turned to Gilmour who pointed towards the tallest mountain in the range. ‘You see that tall peak there in the middle?’
‘Is that it?’ Mark asked, ‘the big one with glacier snow on top?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘instead, look immediately east of there. It’s difficult to see, because it’s not a very tall peak, but if you look really hard you can spot it. It’s a much shorter mountain, with a long narrow ridge opening out onto a nearly flat surface at its west end.’
‘I see it,’ Brynne exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t look like much, Gilmour.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ he answered, ‘but there is something powerful about it, something that makes it possible for Lessek to visit us in that place.’
Sallax, as ever, was all business. ‘Well, let’s get there. We still have a good half-aven of light left. We might be able to clear the next hill if we push on now.’
Without answering, Versen spurred his horse forward and led them down the north slope of the hill, picking his way through the trees, careful in the fading daylight.
Near the bottom of the shallow valley, the woodsman noticed what looked like a game trail winding around the base of the next foothill. Turning in the saddle, he called to Sallax, ‘We ought to follow this. It may lead to fresh water.’
‘I don’t like the idea of being on trails,’ Sallax said tersely.
‘There are no signs that any riders have been through here in a long time,’ Versen countered. ‘I think we’ll be fine.’
‘All right, let’s keep moving,’ Sallax agreed grudgingly, adding, ‘Garec, stay alert through here, we might find something for dinner.’
As the sun’s last rays gleamed through the evergreen boughs high above, Garec imagined the forest atop the hill in flames. For a moment he felt unaccountably glad that Versen had elected to seek refuge here on the sheltered valley floor. Turning his eyes from the luminous orange rays he allowed them to readjust in the semi-darkness, then began scanning the forest for wildlife: rabbits, game birds, there might even be deer. The quiet rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the pine needle carpet was the only sound he could hear. Hunting in a pine glade was more challenging; with no telltale autumn leaves on the ground his quarry were a
ble to move about in near-silence. He tuned his ears to the forest.
Then he heard it: a faint rustle. Craning his neck to pinpoint its direction, he heard it again: scratching, like the sound of a boot crushing a few shards of broken glass. Garec didn’t recognise the sound; he thought it strange any animal would make such a noise, calling attention to itself and then moving again before freezing to scan for predators.
Garec suddenly realised what he’d heard, just an instant later, but it was already too late. Before he could cry out, a group of Malakasian soldiers attacked from the underbrush, coming all at once in a howling blur from all sides. They were taken entirely by surprise.
Strangely, the attackers did not strike at them with weapons; instead, they pulled the riders from their mounts and grappled furiously with them on the ground.
Having a heartbeat’s warning gave Garec time enough to draw and fire at point-blank range into a charging soldier’s chest. The man had no shield and Garec’s arrow killed him almost instantly. Not slowing for a moment, the bowman nocked another shaft and felled a second warrior who had Mika pinned beneath his horse. He was beating Mika’s face with his fists, and the arrow took him in the neck, showering the youngest partisan in blood.
These were not normal soldiers; there was something different about them, something dark, almost apelike. Garec wished in vain for more light as he released a third shaft into the ribs of yet another of the curious assailants; in spite of the rapidly increasing gloom of twilight, the arrow found its mark. The Ronan bowman was reaching into his quiver again when strong leathery hands finally pulled him to the ground.
As the attack started, Steven watched dumbstruck as Garec felled several enemy soldiers with lightning-fast bow-fire. A moment later, two of the warriors burst from the underbrush and wrestled the Ronan from his horse. Garec blindly fought to ward them off as they clawed at his face. In the distance Mark struggled to pull one of the attackers away from Brynne as Versen and Sallax hacked at their assailants with battle-axes. Mika lay still beneath his horse. The scene was surreal.