by Rob Scott
This is it, Mark thought and prepared to dive at Sallax, hoping to distract the man long enough for Steven to call forth the staff’s magic.
He was tensing for his leap when Steven interrupted. ‘So, you succeeded,’ he said quietly. ‘You avenged your parents. Any of us would have done the same thing, but now you are conflicted. You are wrestling with demons over this decision, Sallax. Why? Will you tell us? We’re here, at your mercy. We can’t get the jump on you, you’ve got us at sword-point. Why are you struggling now?’
Sallax exhaled, a long sigh. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly, the wraith.’
‘What did he do?’ Steven asked.
Sallax’s tears came again. He broke down and buried his face in his hands. Mark looked over at Steven, thinking hard, Now! Let’s go now! – but before he could spring forward, Sallax lifted his head and pointed his rapier at Mark’s chest. ‘The spirit, O’Reilly, showed me the captain’s face. My vision, my memory of Gilmour as the captain of that dreadful ship was not real. It was planted in my mind by Prince Malagon. I worked for Malagon for twenty-five Twinmoons planning Gilmour’s death.
‘I killed him, my mentor, my leader. He was my friend and I prepared his death. The captain was not Gilmour.’
‘Why didn’t you say something? If you’d told us the killer was coming, we could have saved him.’ Steven was frustrated.
‘I couldn’t,’ Sallax admitted. ‘I wanted him dead. It sounds stupid, but I couldn’t let go of my desire. It was as though the truth wasn’t strong enough to clear Malagon’s false image from my mind.
‘So I ruined our chances for survival, for Eldarn’s freedom. We are going to die at Nerak’s hand, and it is my fault. I didn’t have the courage to kill myself – I was afraid of what I would find in death. Instead, I watched Gilmour die. I watched his body burn away, my second father, burning like a shadowy image of my first, and all I could think to do was to take care of Brynne again, to get her safely off that mountain. It was Brynne’s heartbreak that pulled me from O’Reilly’s spell. I couldn’t let her fail, because it was the only good thing I had ever done. I saved her life then and I had to save it now.’
‘But it didn’t work,’ Steven said.
Sallax chuckled ironically. ‘No, it didn’t. Instead, it became more difficult to control my thoughts. I hallucinated as guilt warred with magic. I have been lost.’
‘You sound pretty lucid now,’ Mark observed. ‘What’s different?’
Sallax broke down again and Mark took advantage of the opportunity to stand up slowly.
‘Now, this morning, I am lucid. Call it a moment’s respite from myself, but I know why.’ Sallax sliced the rapier’s point through the air with a thin whoosh. ‘Because now it is time for me to die. Steven? Will you do the honours?’
‘No, Sallax,’ Steven replied firmly. ‘I will not kill you.’
‘Then, my friend, you will watch as Mark dies.’ With that, Sallax lunged towards Mark.
‘No!’ Mark cried; there was no time to move, other than to draw his arms in against the sides of his body, his elbows firmly tucked against his ribs. But the fiery pain never came; though it was just a couple of feet, Sallax didn’t land the simple thrust that would have ended Mark’s life in an instant.
As Sallax lunged, Steven opened his mind to the power of the staff and, like the night he killed the Seron warriors, time slowed down for him. He had ample time to reach for the staff, to deflect Sallax’s thrust and to bring the shaft about and take him solidly across the chest. Steven felt the staff’s power: it would kill Sallax as readily as it had killed the Seron, as brutally as it had dismembered the grettan.
But he did not want Sallax dead; he wanted to help. Compassion. He reached out to take control of the magic. ‘I will not kill you, Sallax,’ he heard himself shout. As the staff hit him in the ribs, Sallax was lifted from his feet and thrown with a resounding crash through the door and into the front room.
Garec finally awakened with a start. ‘Rutters!’ he cried, ‘what’s happening?’
Sallax was lying absolutely still and Steven thought for sure he was dead. ‘Oh shit,’ he said as he tossed the staff on the bed, ‘I killed him. Goddamn it all to hell in a handbasket.’ Ignoring his injured leg, he limped towards the front room. Before he made it, Sallax rolled onto one side and began vomiting out the contents of his stomach.
‘Thank Christ,’ Steven exclaimed, ‘he’s alive.’
Mark was still checking his abdomen for the puncture he was certain he would find there, the blood seeping into the red wool of his sweater as Brynne burst through, a look of terror on her face. ‘Sallax!’ she cried, rushing to her brother. ‘What happened to you, to your face?’
No one answered, but Sallax pulled himself to his feet and turned to glare wild-eyed at Steven. ‘You’re cheating me,’ he shouted.
‘You’re right, Sallax. I will not kill you, not ever.’
‘Don’t make promises,’ he said and lifted his rapier towards Steven. ‘You have no idea what I might do.’
Brynne gripped his upper arm. ‘Sallax, tell me what’s wrong.’ Turning on Steven, she scolded, ‘Steven, you know he’s ill. What have you done?’
‘Tell her,’ Steven said, turning to look at Sallax. ‘Tell your sister what you told us. She needs to know – and you need to tell her. It’s what Gilmour would ask.’ Steven took a step forward. ‘You know he has already forgiven you.’
‘Forgiven him what?’ Brynne demanded, but Sallax screamed and pushed her to the floor, then turned and ran through the front door and out into the forest.
He nearly ran into Lahp, who was hauling a load of firewood that would have crippled any of them. The Seron shot him a crooked grin and greeted him warmly, ‘Ha, Sallax.’
His face changed when Sallax barked, ‘Out of my way, you half-human beast,’ and stabbed the point of his rapier deep into the Seron’s thigh. Lahp bellowed and fell to the ground, his massive paws gripping the puncture wound closed. The moment he realised it wasn’t life-threatening, he picked up a piece of firewood, lumbered to his feet and, furious, hurled it at Sallax’s back. It struck with a sickening thud, followed immediately by an audible snap, and Sallax pitched forward headlong into the dirt. His shoulder was broken.
Lahp chuckled, a deep arrhythmic bass. Sallax would live, but he would be in considerable pain for a while. Oblivious to the cacophony erupting from the cabin behind him, the Seron rechecked the wound in his leg, tied it tightly closed with a length of cloth he tore from his tunic and began picking up the firewood he had dropped along the trail.
Having recovered from his own initial shock, Mark grabbed Brynne before she could pursue her brother. ‘Don’t follow him, Brynne,’ he implored, holding her tightly, ‘not yet. He’s not thinking right. He might hurt you – kill you, even.’
‘Let go of me.’ Brynne’s voice was desperate and she fought to escape Mark’s embrace. ‘I have to catch him. He’s sick.’
‘Yes, and he’s dangerous,’ Mark pleaded. ‘He tried to stab me.’
Brynne ignored him and broke free. She pushed her way roughly past Lahp, who filled the doorway with his gargantuan frame. The Seron, his breeches stained with blood, looked after her with confusion, took several steps back into the forest and then stopped to wait for Steven to tell him what to do. Brynne disappeared along the trail.
Inside the cabin, no one spoke. The silence was unnerving. Mark watched Brynne sprint off through the trees and then looked questioningly at Steven.
‘Go,’ he said. Mark stooped to pick up Sallax’s own battle-axe before rushing through the door behind her.
It was two avens before Mark and Brynne returned. He held her tightly around the shoulder and their feet fell in perfect sync, stride for stride. Garec watched them, smiling at the comforting rhythm of their step and glad that they remained connected despite the morning’s events. Sallax wasn’t with them; Garec could see Brynne was upset and feared the worst.
Although it was only midday, the yo
ung woman looked exhausted, about to collapse. Mark escorted her into their bedroom and several moments later emerged alone. He threw himself into one of the chairs and reported, ‘We tracked him along the river a way, then he turned up into the foothills, then back into the valley.’
‘Did you catch him?’ Steven asked. ‘Isn’t he running with a broken arm?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s fast and he’s strong. I’ve no idea how he’s managing to keep it up – adrenalin, maybe. To be honest, I’m glad we didn’t catch him.’
‘Why?’ Garec asked.
‘What would we have done with him?’ Mark took a long swallow from an open wine bottle and looked around the room for something to eat. ‘He might have killed us both. I’m no match for him, even if he has got one useless arm.’
‘Where do you think he’ll go?’ Steven asked.
Garec said, ‘I’ve no idea how far it is to Orindale, but he’ll need to have those bones set sometime soon. I suppose he’ll stick to the river until he comes to anything that looks like a town, maybe somewhere on the outskirts of the city.’
‘But we don’t know where we, are or how long it’ll take us to get downriver,’ Mark added.
‘Unless he scales the mountains again, he doesn’t have many options.’
Steven said grimly, ‘Neither do we.’
‘I still think we ought to stay here a few more days,’ Garec said, surprising them. ‘Your leg needs to heal. Brynne needs rest. We all could use a break to deal with Gilmour’s loss and— and, well, Sallax’s disappearance.’
‘That makes sense,’ Mark agreed. ‘We don’t know what comes next. We can’t just march into Malakasia and demand the far portal. We need a plan.’
Steven and Garec shared an anxious glance. Without Gilmour, no one could operate the spell table. Even if they made it into Welstar Palace and managed to find the far portal, they had no idea how to use Lessek’s Key. All they knew was that it had to be kept from Nerak. Who else could tap its power for good? Gilmour had mentioned a colleague, Kantu, another Larion Senator, but he was in Praga and no one knew what he looked like, or where to begin searching for him. They were alone, lost in the northern Blackstones, and they had no idea how to proceed. A few days’ rest might give them a chance to come up with some options.
‘Yes,’ Steven finally agreed. ‘We ought to stay here a while.’
The day passed slowly. Brynne slept, and Mark looked in on her occasionally, watching her chest rise and fall steadily in the waning twilight. Steven and Garec busied themselves with simple tasks, stacking firewood, organising rations and fletching arrows. Steven’s leg felt stronger, and he diligently replaced the querlis with new leaves Lahp had found somewhere along the riverbank. The three men talked idly of their families, their work, and finally, sports, while Lahp listened, resting in one corner of the room with his leg straight out in front of him, his own wound bound and treated with querlis. Steven had no idea what, if anything, he understood, but it was comforting to talk of home. Garec was fascinated at the notion of golf and Mark promised to teach him to play if they could somehow fashion appropriate clubs. Garec reciprocated with an offer to teach the foreigners chainball as soon as they reached a flat stretch of land. They avoided discussing Gilmour, Sallax, Welstar Palace, or Lessek’s Key, and each was happy to bask in the illusion of normalcy for a day.
Just before dark, Garec took his bow and quivers out to the river. Mark watched as Steven redressed his leg, wrapping strips of cloth over the therapeutic leaves on his calf. For the second time that day, Mark took stock of how much his friend had changed. His hair was too long, tucked under his collar, and his trim beard made him look older. Rather than his sometimes lackadaisical attitude of old, now Steven’s motions were deliberate, with little wasted effort; he moved with the purposeful conviction of a warrior preparing for battle. Perhaps that was it, the crux of his transformation: Steven had become a warrior. Although still untested in real battle – he had fought only to protect himself and his companions – it looked as if he had developed a willingness to risk his life for a cause he had embraced wholeheartedly.
Steven’s spirit had changed as well. He was no longer the bored assistant manager who would never complain or inconvenience anyone; now he was a powerful foe who would somehow find a way to confront Nerak, even without Gilmour along to lead them home. Mark had watched him in a Denver restaurant one night, eating roast chicken with red potatoes, asparagus and corn bread. Steven ate the entire meal, commenting on the flavour and the artful presentation – and Mark teased him for weeks afterwards, because Steven had ordered a salad. He had eaten someone else’s meal, because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by complaining or sending food back to the kitchen.
Mark wondered how Steven would manage when they did finally return to Idaho Springs. Watching as his friend ran his hands thoughtfully along the wooden staff, inspecting every grain pattern and bloodstain, Mark was glad Steven had been forced to fight, to toughen his spirit. It might prove to be the one thing that ensured their eventual survival.
What was most ironic was that Steven didn’t see the change in himself; he was still convinced that if he showed compassion, everything would be all right in the end – but would it? Mark doubted Nerak could be defeated with compassion; as a historian, he believed there were times when destroying the enemy utterly and completely was the only real option. Nerak needed to be destroyed, annihilated. Did Steven’s compassion give him real strength? Mark could only guess. Garec was different. His strength was formidable: he fired arrows and killed foes. Real strength, real results and an unquestioning will to win.
That’s what Steven needed. He might be developing the spirit of a warrior, but unless he also had the tools of a warrior, the magic of a Larion Senator and the willingness to destroy Nerak, Mark worried their cause might be in jeopardy.
Feeling a little guilty for doubting Steven, Mark went to inspect his roommate’s medicinal handiwork. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Maybe we’ll get you out for a walk tomorrow. If the weather holds, it will be nice along the river.’
Steven looked puzzled. ‘What’s on your mind, Mark?’
‘Nothing much, just the fact that you’re our only hope.’ He pointed at the staff in Steven’s lap. ‘Do you think you can get us into Welstar Palace and through the portal without Gilmour?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Steven admitted, ‘but we’ve still got to try. I was hoping Gabriel would help us to find a way to get in.’
‘I hadn’t thought of him. That’s actually not a bad plan.’
‘To be honest, I have my doubts that we should be making this attempt at all.’
‘Do we have any choice? It’s our only way home.’
Steven stared into the fire. ‘We could stay and fight.’
Mark almost laughed, and then he realised his friend was serious. ‘What? Here? For ever?’
‘No, just until Nerak is defeated. Going into Welstar Palace before I really know how to use this thing is suicide.’ He adjusted the hickory shaft across his lap. ‘We ought at least to find someplace safe to research the staff, to practise with it. I can feel its power. It calls to me when trouble is coming. I do nothing; it controls everything.’
‘And it killed that grettan.’
‘Yes,’ Steven finally looked up. ‘After I passed out. At least I think it did; I can’t remember.’
‘Do you have enough power to beat him, though?’
‘I can’t say. Gilmour wasn’t much help; he had no idea how powerful the staff might be. I may be ten times stronger than Nerak, or a hundred times weaker.’
‘Then this is crazy. We’ll get in there and be dead in minutes.’
Steven remembered his mantra, and how it calmed him. He repeated it now, to explain. ‘We might not make it. You’re right, but somehow I’m certain the strength of the staff lies in my willingness to wield it.’
‘So wield it then. Crush
him, if you’re convinced it’s strong enough.’
‘No.’ Steven shook his head to emphasise the point. ‘It doesn’t work that way. You saw it shatter on that Seron. It broke like a piece of kindling. I have to show compassion.’
Mark moved towards the fireplace and tossed a misshapen log into the flames. ‘I don’t know that Nerak is the kind of enemy who deserves compassion. Maybe the staff will recognise how insidious he is.’
Steven stood and hobbled awkwardly across the room to stand beside Mark. ‘We have to find the far portal. Nerak controls it. He doesn’t seem to be able to detect the staff’s magic, nor can he locate Lessek’s Key from afar. If he could, he would know we don’t have it, and God love Sallax for not sharing that information with Malagon’s spy. So, there are five things we know, and there are about seven hundred things we don’t.
‘I think we need to buy ourselves some time, work with the staff, decipher its purpose and its power and then make a decision about how to get home.’
There was something Steven hadn’t said, so Mark added it for him. ‘And we may find news of Hannah.’
‘If Hannah arrived here,’ Steven interrupted hopefully.
‘It just doesn’t feel like a lot to go on.’
‘To me it does.’
Mark pushed his palms against the mantel and leaned there, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Garec pushed his way into the room, brandishing dinner: five large trout, each neatly skewered through the gills. ‘Fish, anyone?’
Steven grinned. ‘Fry ’em up, Garec!’
‘I’ll get Brynne,’ Mark said. As he made his way through to the bedroom, he thought about Steven’s desire to study the staff’s power and use its magic to help the Eldarni people win back their freedom. He obviously had no intention of going back to Idaho Springs before the evil controlling Nerak was banished into the Fold.