by Rob Scott
He couldn’t explain to anyone, not even himself, why he so badly needed this twisted abomination to recognise his redeeming features; maybe he needed to prove to himself that he could exercise some control over the Steven Taylor who had emerged in this strange new world, that Steven Taylor who knew terror and violence firsthand; who had inflicted death himself. He wouldn’t leave the thicket until he and the Seron had displayed mutual trust.
‘Take it, my friend,’ he said, moving the wineskin closer. ‘I know he is pushing you from inside, but I need you to take this from me.’ Steven looked the Seron in its lifeless eyes. ‘Show me you understand.’
‘Lahp ahat Glimr.’
Steven thought for a moment, then realised what he was saying. ‘No, Lahp,’ he reassured the Seron, ‘you are free. You do not have to kill Gilmour.’ Again he urged the soldier to take the offered water. ‘Take this. Drink it. You’ve lost a great deal of blood. This will help you.’
Slowly, as if he had to fight instinct to make every move, Lahp accepted Steven’s wineskin. It drew the cork, drank the skin nearly dry, then spoke again in a hoarse growl. ‘Lahp tak—’
‘Steven,’ Steven said, thumping himself on the chest, ‘my name is Steven.’
‘Lahp tak Sten.’
‘Steven.’
‘Sten.’
‘Fine, Sten it is.’
As he turned to leave the thicket, Steven placed a hand gently on the Seron’s injured leg. ‘Good luck, Lahp.’ Before he could remove it, the warrior reached down and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. The soldier’s enormous hand, although leathery and covered in thick coarse hair, was still surprisingly human.
The skin on Steven’s forearm tightened into gooseflesh. He felt something move with mercurial quickness beneath his skin: a dancing current sparked.
Lahp’s eyes widened in surprise; he watched Steven, seemed confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Lahp tak Sten,’ he said finally and released Steven’s arm.
‘You’re welcome, Lahp.’ Something had passed between them; Steven didn’t know what it was, but this wasn’t the time to examine the feeling. He grasped Garec’s deer by the antlers and together he and Mark dragged it out into the clearing.
Once they had relinquished the carcase into Garec’s capable hands, reaction set in. Mark took Steven by the shoulders and shook him soundly.
‘Are you completely mad?’ he shouted in a whisper. ‘That thing could have killed us – maybe Garec could have killed it back, but not before he’d taken at least one of us out. What the fuck were you thinking?’
Steven was shaking. He held Mark at arm’s-length and said, ‘If it’s any help, I apologise—’ he looked around at their companions, ‘I apologise to all of you. It was just something I had to do – I’m not sure I even know why.’ He turned back to Mark. ‘Thanks for coming with me. That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do. Stupid, but brave.’
Mark pounded him on the shoulder. ‘Stupid I definitely agree with. Next time you intend playing the damnfool hero, perhaps you’d give me a bit of warning.’
While Garec set to dressing the deer, warily keeping one eye on the thicket in case the injured Seron should decide to rush the company in a suicidal charge, Sallax stalked angrily over to Steven and spat, ‘That was foolish. Let’s hope it will be dead by nightfall, because we are going to have to keep a watch going in case it gets better enough to attack us.’
‘He,’ Steven said, ‘it’s a “he” and yes, he might be dead by nightfall, but we will not have killed him. It makes a difference, Sallax. And I think we’re quite safe from him now.’
Steven looked at Gilmour. ‘He was sent for you.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it – sorry, he – was.’ The old man stared down the hillside through the trees standing like monuments to the passage of time. Gilmour was already an old man when these trees were seedlings. ‘Nerak has been trying to kill me for Twinmoons. It looks like he has stepped up his efforts.’
‘Because he’s afraid you have grown too powerful?’ Brynne asked.
‘Perhaps, but more likely because Kantu and I represent the only real threat to his dominion. With us out of the way, he could take a hundred thousand Twinmoons to master the magic necessary to release his evil master from the Fold.’
‘So having you around forces him to rush his studies and perhaps make a mistake.’ Mark ran a hand over the battle-axe in his belt. ‘And he has no idea how much you have learned already.’
Gilmour nodded.
‘It’s an interesting dilemma,’ Mark went on. ‘He knows you’re coming to confront him so he unleashes all the demons and slathering homicidal misbegotten creatures he can conjure. He has that luxury, because he couldn’t care less what level of destruction his minions do on their way to find and kill you—’ Mark nodded in the direction of the thicket, ‘—even if they kill each other.’
‘And he cannot rush his studies too much for fear that the spell table will take him.’ Gilmour nudged a group of yellow aspen leaves aside with the toe of his boot. ‘The pressure is on him. He has the greater task ahead.’
‘Opening a rip in the universe?’
‘Exactly.’ Gilmour’s voice brightened. ‘That is an amazingly dangerous endeavour that will probably cost him – it – its very existence.’
Mark frowned. ‘That may be true, but in the meantime, you can’t use magic to send your own devils out to hunt him down, because—’
‘Because he would immediately know both where I was and how powerful I have grown.’ Gilmour smiled at each of his companions in turn, then gestured towards the underbrush.
‘So you’re right. He has every terrifying and insidious resource at his disposal and I have—’
‘Us,’ Steven chimed in dejectedly.
‘Grand,’ Mark echoed with an equal lack of enthusiasm. ‘And,’ Gilmour interrupted their emotional tailspin, ‘we have a certain degree of surprise on our side as well.’
‘How is that?’ Garec looked up from skinning the deer; he’d been following the conversation with interest.
‘Nerak believes we are on our way to Sandcliff. Though he may suspect you two came here without Lessek’s Key, he cannot be certain.’
‘That’s right,’ Mark brought the issue full circle, ‘because with it, we would head right for the spell table.’
‘Exactly. So the fact you ignored the most powerful talisman in Eldarni history as a worthless piece of stone may help us before this is finished.’
‘It didn’t look like much at the time,’ Mark said. Garec grinned up at him.
‘So, how do we mask our approach to Welstar Palace?’ Brynne changed the subject.
‘We avoid using certain forms of magic,’ Gilmour settled into lecture mode. ‘Common tricks and spells should be fine, because lots of people employ them, but I will try to avoid using any incantations Nerak would recognise from Sandcliff.’
‘He can hear it?’ Even Sallax was interested now. He had moved slightly closer while still watching the thicket, his battle-axe in one hand.
‘He can sense it. Magic has a rippling effect on energy planes in the immediate vicinity. The greater the spell’s impact, the greater the ripple. Those with some training or knowledge of sorcery can sometimes feel the change in energy level. Nerak can detect these changes from quite a distance.’
‘So that puts us at an additional disadvantage,’ Sallax mused. ‘We have to enter Malakasia and make our way to Welstar Palace without benefit of your skills.’
‘That’s true to some extent,’ Gilmour confirmed. ‘But it’s not all bad news. I have yet to detect even the faintest disturbance when Steven summons the power of the hickory staff – even when I’ve been standing next to him.’
Mark put a hand on his roommate’s shoulder. ‘So Steven will have the full force of the staff at his disposal.’
‘I believe so, yes.’
Steven blanched. ‘But wait. I don’t know what this thing can do and I certainly don’t know ho
w to summon its magic at will.’
Gilmour beamed. ‘Well, that adds some complexity to our predicament, doesn’t it? Now, how’s breakfast coming along, Garec? I for one could eat a deer.’
The company broke through the tree line just after midday. Brynne felt the abrupt change in temperature through her riding cloak. The Blackstone peaks, although picturesque – in a menacing way – stretched on for ever and Brynne could not yet see much north beyond the slope they ascended. A nervous tension that began in the pit of her stomach had burgeoned into cramp as she made her way up the trail; she had no idea how she would be able to summon the fortitude to continue if the view north mirrored the vast expanse of craggy and inhospitable-looking mountains to the east and west.
By sunset they were only a few hundred paces below a ridge that appeared to mark the upper rim of the pass. With daylight fading quickly, Garec pointed at a narrow depression in the rock: cramped but adequate shelter for the night. Everyone had carried or dragged as much wood as they could manage from the tree line; now Sallax set about building a fire. With darkness clawing its way up the slope behind them, the high altitude air had grown frigid. Sallax silently hoped they would be spared rain or snow overnight.
Brynne dropped the tree limb she had dragged along for most of the day and scrambled hand over foot up the steep final slope: a fanatical pilgrim finally reaching a holy place on the far edge of a vast desert. The anticipation of seeing out above the peaks to the north had nearly driven her mad; she had spent much of the day engaged in an animated conversation with Mark and Steven just to avoid thinking about what awaited them beyond the pass. Now, with the end in sight, she moved as quickly as she could manage in the thin mountain air. Try as she might to control her anxiety, she felt her breath coming in ever-shorter gulps. Her vision tunnelled and her legs buckled weakly as she reached for the rocky ridge.
Mark saw her go and sighed. Having lived in the mountains, he knew what she would discover. He smiled sadly to himself and hustled after her.
He was halfway there when Brynne reached the summit. Her body became rigid for a moment, as if she had been met by an unexpected cold wind and then she slumped, her shoulders collapsed and her knees gave way. She appeared to age fifty years in one breath. Worried she might fall, Mark hurried the last few paces to catch her. When he reached her side, he was breathing heavily from the effort. He estimated they had climbed to an altitude of nearly thirteen thousand feet – the peaks on either side of the pass were far higher than the tallest mountains he and Steven had ever tackled back home.
He took the last few steps slowly, uncertain how Brynne would respond to him, but when she looked back and saw him there, she opened her cloak, inviting him inside its thick woollen folds.
She laid an arm over his shoulder and Mark reached one around her waist. Together they stood, taking comfort in the shared warmth. Brynne rested her head on his shoulder and stared into the distance. ‘We’ll never make it before the snows come.’ The panic attack had passed as quickly as it had arrived. The tough, knife-wielding tavern owner was back.
‘You’re right.’ Mark gazed out across the endless range of forbidding peaks and high-altitude passes. In the waning sunlight, the Blackstone Mountains were utterly beautiful. They would be unmerciful. Loose shale, glacier ice and sheer rock faces would force the travellers to double back, wasting valuable time. Mark would not have wanted to traverse this range in the best conditions. Moving into the sea of valleys, peaks and passes with winter only days away verged on the suicidal. Resting his cheek against Brynne’s soft tresses, Mark realised he was looking on the place he would most likely die.
Turning, he felt her body press against his beneath the cloak. Constant travel with little food or rest had hardened them all. Mark felt her lean body as Brynne pulled him closer; her scent aroused him unbearably. Burying his face in the fold of her neck, he ran his hands across her back and pulled her tightly against him. She kissed him with such urgency Mark wanted to carry her away someplace safe, someplace where they would be uninterrupted.
‘We can’t go back south,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll be looking for us all the way to Estrad.’
‘Steven and I have no choice. We must push on if we’re ever going to get home.’ He ran one hand through her hair, letting it glide between his fingers. ‘We’ll just have to hope the weather holds.’
He tried to chart a course north in the fading light. Each morning he and Steven would map each visible peak, noting the shallowest passes and picking out secondary and even tertiary routes, in case the way was blocked or impassable. For tonight, however, there was the promise of fresh venison and the solace of Brynne’s woollen cloak.
‘Hey, come and eat,’ Steven shouted, ‘dinner is about ready.’
‘On our way,’ Mark replied.
Brynne took his hand and led him back down the rocky slope.
At first light, Mark rose carefully, trying to avoid waking Brynne. Covering her with his blanket, he joined Steven and Garec as they stared out over the Blackstones from the ridge above.
Garec had saved enough wood to heat water for tecan. He handed Mark a steaming mug.
‘Thanks,’ Mark said.
‘I wish I hadn’t left those pens in Estrad,’ Steven said. ‘We could really use one to sketch out these passes.’
‘Pens?’ Garec asked curiously.
‘Writing instruments,’ Steven clarified. ‘I felt guilty robbing someone’s home and I left him two pens from my bank. I thought he might find them fascinating.’
‘Of course, he was probably illiterate,’ Mark added dryly. ‘So right now he’s probably using them to pick his teeth, or perhaps to scratch his backside.’
‘Great,’ Steven said dejectedly. ‘Although they wouldn’t do us much good without any paper.’
Mark perked up. ‘I have some paper.’ He reached into his jacket, then checked his jeans. Finding nothing, he groaned. ‘I must have lost it. I found it at Riverend, tucked behind a rock in the fireplace. Remember?’
‘I do. You had it at the river when you washed your clothes.’
‘I guess I left it there. Sorry.’
‘Well, we still don’t have a pen. I suppose we’ll just have to commit as much to memory as possible.’ Steven sipped the tecan, exhaled loudly and added, ‘I don’t like the idea of going through there without a map. It could take all winter.’
‘I have a leather saddlebag,’ Garec suggested. ‘We could scratch a map on it with a stone.’
‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ Steven agreed and turned to follow him back to camp.
STRANDSON
Brexan lost count of the days they had been riding. Always south and west, towards the sea. Karn did not drive them hard and they rarely pushed their horses faster than a gentle canter, but save for a short break during the midday meal, the Seron escort did not allow the prisoners to dismount. From time to time Versen toyed with the idea of spurring Renna into a full gallop and taking their chances with the almor … but without knowing where it was, he was afraid he would just drive Garec’s beloved mare straight into the demon’s waiting maw. Periodically, he or Brexan would catch a glimpse of a nearby tree or bush withering to dust; the knowledge that such a terrifying adversary flanked them day and night made them both feel sick to the stomach.
On they rode. Sometimes Brexan sat behind him and other times she rode in front. The Seron paid them little heed, so at least they were able to talk freely during the interminable avens in the saddle. They were fatigued to the point of imminent collapse and their bodies ached cruelly, until the steady rhythm of Renna’s stride numbed feeling. It wasn’t long before emotional exhaustion exacerbated their physical pain and began to sap their strength and, worse, their hope.
Versen no longer looked forward to their evening break. Gathering firewood took too long; often he could carry only a branch or two at a time for fear the pain in his back would overwhelm him. He was in constant fear of being struck down on the spot. B
rexan, on water duty, struggled to fill a pot and several wineskins, then she would open a bag of the crushed oat and herb mix they had eaten every night since their capture, mix it with hot water and serve it in wooden trenchers.
After dinner, the two prisoners would collapse onto their blankets, no longer even bothering to remove their boots and cloaks, but exhausted though they were, cramping in their backs and thighs combined with hard, uneven ground robbed them of sleep.
And the following day the nightmare began all over again.
Late one day, as the shadows lengthened in front of them like folds in a landscape painting, Brexan dozed against Versen’s back. He in turn allowed his head to slump forward on his chest, shifting slightly every twenty paces to break up the monotony and alleviate the pain. They had moved south of the Blackstones and back into the Ronan lowlands. Despite the coming winter both captives found the heat and humidity oppressive. Versen sweat openly beneath his cloak; he thought he might never be dry again, and the rivulets of perspiration that soaked him attracted no end of biting insects. He spent much of the day fruitlessly swatting at tiny stinging invaders.
Brexan didn’t appear to be bothered by Versen’s flailing, but she did chide him about his aroma. Without lifting her head from its place between his shoulder blades, she said ‘You smell like grettan flatulence.’
‘You have such a special way of putting things,’ he replied. ‘You really must have to beat the men away with a stick.’
‘This isn’t about me, Ox. You smell bad.’ She winced as Renna stepped over a fallen log. Maybe a bit of playful banter would lift Versen’s spirits.