by Rob Scott
Mark asked, ‘Did Tenner ever meet those people? Kantu, Marek and the rest? He wrote about inviting them to a meeting the following Twinmoon. Did it ever happen?’
‘No,’ Brynne said, ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘Why?’ Steven asked. ‘Maybe if we can find Kantu, he’ll have some news from their meeting that might be helpful. If he was there, maybe he knows something Gilmour doesn’t.’ Mark shot him a withering look.
‘Sorry,’ Steven amended, flushing, ‘did not.’ He looked apologetically about the table, but no one appeared upset with him for mis-speaking.
‘I don’t believe they ever met, because we know some of what happened in the wake of Prince Markon’s death.’ Brynne laughed wryly. ‘Sallax knew a lot about it, which meant I had to learn a lot about it. Anyway, there was a flurry of political posturing and activity throughout the Eastlands and Praga, as anyone with forged papers and decent clothing had a go at claiming the thrones of Rona and Falkan. I remember Gilmour telling us there was even one family that claimed to be rightful heirs to Gorsk – that was the land ruled by the Larion Senate for thousands of Twinmoons.’
When Steven and Mark didn’t respond, Garec laughed through his nose. ‘It was funnier when Gilmour told it, but no matter.’
Brynne thumbed her teeth at him and continued, ‘Detria Sommerson and Ravena Ferlasa worked furiously to draft a policy ensuring Praga would be governed by a Grayslip family member, even if it meant some obscure second cousin of questionable pedigree.’
‘A bastard,’ Garec said.
Brynne nodded. ‘Princess Danae died in the fire with her son, and not long afterwards a Ronan admiral established a temporary government enforced by a military council.’
‘A dictatorship,’ Mark said.
‘Exactly,’ Brynne went on, ‘and several wealthy merchants battled in what was left of the court system – and in the streets of Orindale – as they sought to claim the Falkan throne. Without Tenner or Anaria to bring any leadership to the Falkan people, anyone with money could hire a band of thugs, call it a peacekeeping force and use brutality and terror to quiet the masses and hold areas of the country hostage.’
Steven anticipated the next event in Brynne’s tale. ‘And then Prince Marek arrived.’
‘Like a plague over the land,’ Garec murmured, ‘his armies came down from Malakasia, killing every false king, insurrectionist, partisan, military leader – in fact, just about anyone who even dreamed of his or her own gain.’
‘So he was seen as a hero,’ Mark surmised.
As Brynne leaned up against him, he shifted in his chair and brought his knee to rest against hers beneath the table. He felt like he was sixteen all over again. Brynne hid a smile and went on with her lecture. ‘At first, yes, but it wasn’t long before everyone in Eldarn knew Prince Marek had changed. He set up military outposts throughout the Eastlands, choked trade along the Ravenian Sea, closed universities in Rona, Praga and Falkan and forbade unauthorised travel in or out of Gorsk.’
Garec ran one finger around the rim of his glass. ‘That was the beginning of the dark period – and we’re still living in it now.’
‘What I don’t understand is why the heirs never surfaced.’ Steven pulled pieces of lint from his sleeve. ‘Regona Carvie or the woman from Capehill, what was her name?’
‘Etrina Lippman.’
‘Etrina.’ He hesitated a moment, pulling his thoughts together. ‘Why would they never come forth with a legitimate claim? Sure, Danmark’s child would be a bastard, but he was in no shape to marry anyone anyway, was he? And Tenner wrote that he married Etrina. I’m surprised she never emerged.’
Mark responded, ‘He also wrote that Etrina knew what to do and where to hide. Maybe she never came forward because she knew she wouldn’t have a hope in hell against Marek.’
‘So the child may never have known he or she was rightful heir to the throne.’
‘Exactly. Oh my rutting gods of the Northern Forest!’ Garec leaped to his feet. ‘My dream! I saw it! That was Regona and Danmark! How can I have been so stupid? Demonpiss, but I’m blind!’
He recounted the dream he’d had on Seer’s Peak. Now, remembering the girl – Regona Carvic – cold and frightened in the moments before one of her encounters with Danmark, it all made sense. That was what Lessek wanted him to know. He sighed, suddenly deflated. ‘But their efforts to impregnate these women were for nothing.’
Steven agreed. ‘What good is an heir if she or he never emerges to rally the people in revolution?’
‘Any enthusiastic leader can organise a revolution, Steven,’ Brynne said. ‘I bet the heirs remained hidden to protect their bloodlines. Perhaps that was Tenner’s directive: wait for a revolutionary force to assemble; then reclaim the throne.’
Garec said, ‘Or they remained hidden when Tenner never came looking for them. He wrote that he planned to come back and stand beside the Ronan heir. He probably told Regona to remain hidden in Randel until he returned. He died and she melted into the background to save the child.’
‘And herself,’ Brynne agreed. ‘Etrina probably did the same thing.’
Steven said, still curious, ‘I wonder if they ever told the children?’
‘Why would they?’ Mark said. ‘The kids would have been crushed by Nerak. Why put notions in their minds that would get them killed for no reason?’
‘But a generation later, no one knows the heirs are alive.’
‘They do now,’ Garec said. ‘And Lessek knew, because he showed me.’
‘So the fate of the world rests in the serendipitous discovery of a few wrinkled sheets of parchment?’
Brynne smiled. ‘It sounds almost as silly as betting the future of all humankind on the propensity of a bank manager to grow curious and steal a tapestry and an innocent-looking rock.’
Steven feigned offence. ‘Assistant manager – you overestimate my skills – and I did not steal them.’
Mark rose and started towards the trapper’s pantry. ‘Anyone want more of this dried fruit? I like these orange ones particularly. What are they, Garec?’
‘Tempine.’
‘Tempine. Those are my favourites.’ Mark reached for the pantry door when suddenly he collapsed to his knees with a startled cry. Clamping his hands over his ears, he shouted, ‘Damnit, Gabriel, not so loud!’
The others sprang to their feet, toppling chairs and spilling wine.
‘What it is?’ Garec had instinctively reached for his bow. ‘Mark, are you okay?’
Across the room, Lahp was awake and already crouched low to the ground, his weapons drawn. ‘Sten talk Lahp!’ he asked.
‘I don’t know yet, Lahp,’ Steven said calmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Mark. His face was damp with sweat and his eyes wide. ‘Mark,’ Steven said, ‘you have to tell us what’s going on. What do you need?’
‘Wraiths,’ Mark whispered, and turned to Brynne. ‘Hundreds of them, like Gabriel O’Reilly, only they’re not on our side.’ He hugged Brynne close. ‘They’re really not on our side! They’re hunting us. They’ve already killed the trapper.’
‘Sallax?’ Brynne asked, afraid to hear the answer, but scared not to know the truth.
Mark closed his eyes and turned his thoughts inward again for a few moments before saying, ‘Gabriel doesn’t know. He came directly here after finding the trapper’s body out near the river. He saw them moving through the trees and along a ridge downstream from here.’
Mark’s words struck a chord with Garec. ‘I’ve seen that too.’
‘Seen what?’ Brynne asked, adjusting sundry weapons at her belt.
‘On Seer’s Peak.’ Now Garec understood why Gilmour had forced him to go over and over the details of his vision that morning. He would never forget those images. ‘Lessek sent me a dream. I thought it was the forbidden forest near Riverend, and I saw hundreds of wraiths moving between the trees. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Estrad.’
‘That can’t be a coincidence.’ Steven held
the hickory staff, unaware that he had retrieved it from the corner near the hallway. Maybe it really did just appear in his hands when he needed it – that would be a useful attribute, if it were true. So far he couldn’t feel it giving him any direction; it felt more like he were calling up the magic, instead of simply acting as a conduit for its power. He remembered the lodge pine in the Blackstones, the tree he had so casually brought down with one swipe, and wondered if he would be able to summon the staff’s power like that again.
‘Tell us about it again, quickly,’ he said to Garec. ‘Maybe your vision will give us inspiration on how to fight the bloody things. Do you remember how you killed them?’
‘I didn’t.’ Garec closed his eyes in an effort to recall more clearly, but try as he might, he couldn’t rid his mind of the image of Gilmour’s dead body, that of an old, old man, no Larion magic left in that paper-thin, brittle bag of skin. How could they win? How could they possibly have imagined they had any chance against Nerak? He wiped a hand across his forehead and opened his eyes to find everyone staring hopefully at him.
‘I can’t remember anything else,’ he admitted. ‘The land was dying. The Estrad River ran dry and the fields were parched and cracked—’ like the skin of a dead Larion sorcerer. ‘I saw wraiths moving through the forbidden forest. I think they were hunting for something – or someone.’
‘So that’s it then,’ Mark said. ‘It was a look into the future. They’re here now and they’re hunting us.’
Brynne interrupted suddenly, ‘Mark, ask Gabriel if they have a weakness. Can we kill them? There must be something we can do.’
Again Mark turned his thoughts inward, but when he spoke to the group again, his words cast a pall over the tiny cabin. ‘No. Only Steven and Garec can battle them. The rest of us will be killed at first contact.’
‘How can I fight them?’ Garec demanded in desperation. ‘I have no magic.’
‘I don’t know, Garec,’ Mark replied. ‘Gabriel’s gone into the forest.’ He reached for Brynne’s hand. ‘He will be back to warn us before the wraith army arrives.’
Garec paced back and forth across the cabin floor, sweating freely, until he stripped off his quivers and pulled his wool tunic over his head, tossing it into the corner. ‘I won’t be needing this again,’ he said, a note of finality in his voice. Standing before them in his thin cotton shirt, he looked vulnerable, already lost. Mark tried to say something to build the younger man’s confidence, but nothing came to mind. Garec would fight to the best of his ability, and that meant firing arrows. Sallax had nicknamed him the Bringer of Death, but now, death was coming for him. It was time to atone.
‘How ironic,’ Garec announced, as if reading Mark’s mind, ‘I will fight my last battle against an enemy who can’t be turned by the one weapon I bring to the field.’ He thought again of Gilmour, and how much he had admired the Larion Senator, even before he knew his true history. Garec had aspired to do great things for Rona, but would not have time; the best he could hope for would be to die well, protecting his friends from the coming evil. He expected to be joining Gilmour in the next few avens.
Lahp, still crouching near his bedroll, watched Garec with great interest, before demanding, ‘Sten talk Lahp.’ He pounded a hairy fist against the plank floor to encourage Steven to respond.
‘Lahp, I need you to stay here with Mark and Brynne.’ Steven motioned towards the centre of the room. ‘I need you to stay low and keep your head down until the fight is done.’
Lahp looked at Steven as if he had just asked him to build a suspension bridge over the Danube River. ‘Lahp hep Sten.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Lahp na floor.’
‘You can’t fight these wraiths, Lahp,’ Steven tried to explain. He still had no real idea how much the Seron understood. ‘They are ghosts. They can pass right through you, and kill you from the inside.’
‘Malagon.’
‘Yes, Malagon sent them. They are here for the same talisman you were sent to find.’
‘Lessek’s.’
‘Yes, Lessek’s Key. We don’t have it.’
‘Ha!’ Lahp laughed, and Steven did too, surprised the Seron understood the concept of irony.
‘But I do need you to be here on the floor, where I may be able to keep them from getting to you.’
‘Na, na.’ Lahp shook his head and smiled a toothy wet grin. ‘Lahp hep Sten.’
‘You will die, Lahp, if you fight these creatures on your own.’
The Seron warrior stood slowly, crossed the floor and slapped a fist against his breast. He didn’t need to say anything. They all understood that Lahp was ready to die there, on that oak and pine plank battlefield.
‘Lahp hep Sten.’
Steven nodded. He had no idea what he had done to earn the Seron’s loyalty. He turned the staff over, feeling its wood warm against his palms, and looked up to find Mark gazing at him.
In English, his friend said, ‘This is it. This will be the test of your compassion.’
Forcing a grin, Steven replied, ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘Hey, I’m not joking! I’ve no bloody idea how you fight these things, with compassion or with swords …’ His voice faltered as he felt their final minutes ticking by. ‘Tell me you know what you’re doing.’
‘I don’t.’ Steven reached for the wine and took a long swallow, but his mouth still felt dry. Switching back to Ronan, he urged Mark and Brynne to move to the floor at his feet. ‘If I can keep them off you, I will.’
‘I know,’ Mark said quietly.
Steven watched as Lahp drew an array of weapons from his pack: daggers, a battle-axe, a short sword and several hunting knives, all weapons that required their wielder to look each victim in the eye. Despite the Seron’s confidence, Steven knew Lahp would fall quickly to the wraiths and he couldn’t risk Mark or Brynne to save Lahp. The Seron had made his choice and Steven would honour it, however much he might wish to stop him.
If he lost his concentration they might all perish. It wasn’t going to be easy, watching Lahp die, but he had to remain focused on the task at hand. How brave of the warrior to share this battle, because he would not allow him and Garec to fight alone.
Then an idea began forming in Steven’s mind. Sharing. They had to share the fight. Could they share the magic? The power of the staff would dispatch Malagon’s wraiths, of that, Steven was confident. But could the power be shared?
‘They’re coming,’ Mark interrupted his thoughts. He crouched on the floor at Steven’s feet. ‘They’re just outside the cabin on the hill, but moving this way.’
‘No, wait; I need more time,’ Steven protested. ‘I think I’ve got it, but I just need more time.’
‘We don’t have any time.’ Garec was pale and his face ran with sweat, but his hands were steady as he drew two arrows from each quiver and stabbed them into the wood floor for quicker access.
‘Yes we do, Garec.’ Steven had put the pieces together quickly; now he had to see if it would work. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered, ‘quickly now.’ Garec gave him a curious look, but turned his back. Steven concentrated his will into the staff. He felt Garec’s fear and insecurity and called upon his own determination to help the bowman succeed in the coming fight. The staff flared to life and Steven felt its familiar heat burning through his fingers. With one end of the shaft, Steven brushed the quivers Garec wore high on his back.
‘Lords,’ Garec exclaimed, ‘what was that?’
Steven didn’t answer, but as Garec turned back towards him, it was clear he understood.
‘Yes,’ Garec whispered. ‘I can feel it.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Should you do the bow as well?’
‘I don’t know, but let’s be safe, anyway.’ As Steven brushed the staff along the rosewood longbow the younger man’s countenance slowly changed from despair to determination.
The Bringer of Death. Garec’s eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. He began drawing arrows by the score and jamming them, fletching up, in between
cracks in the plank floor: ten by the window, ten in the corner, ten near the fireplace. It was close quarters, almost too close, but with a short draw he could still send shafts out quickly and accurately.
‘Let them come,’ he said stabbing the last of his arrows into a wide wooden plank near the hallway. ‘This is going to work. This is what Lessek wanted me to know. It isn’t that I was atop Seer’s Peak; it’s that we were there together.’
‘Yes,’ Steven felt his confidence rise. ‘Bring ’em on.’ He was surprised that he was not more afraid. He had expected to find his limbs stiff with fear and his mind unable to focus, but he had channelled that fear, sublimated it into his determination to win, to fight with grace and speed, and to kill with compassion but without hesitation. He remembered sneaking out through the back window of Owen’s Pub one night to avoid a fight with a drunk, a lifetime ago. Now he was up against an army of homicidal wraiths; any one might kill him with a touch, but he was not afraid.
‘I will see you again, Nerak,’ he whispered. ‘If you harm Hannah, Mark, Brynne, Garec or Lahp, I will make sure you pay, a thousand times over.’ He caught the young bowman’s eye and said more loudly, ‘Good luck.’
‘To you, too,’ Garec replied.
Then the wraiths were upon them.
THE WRAITHS
Eldarn’s twin moons rose at nearly opposite poles, north to south, and the result was a calm sea with minimal tides. A light southwesterly wind blew the Malakasian schooner, the Falkan Dancer north along the Ronan coast; the sheets snapped taut with each intermittent gust that bounced out-of-phase off Pragan cliffs far to the west. In the dim light of the southern moon, Carpello Jax, the corpulent merchant with the bulbous mole on his face, argued with Karn and Rala about the fate of the two captives chained securely below. Carpello had no wish to arrive in Orindale without Prince Malagon’s talisman and was endeavouring to convince the Seron to kill their prisoners before reaching port. He believed the dark prince would be more forgiving if the prisoners died trying to escape. Arriving with two living captives who simply refused to disclose the whereabouts of the key would make them all look weak, and the Falkan businessman had no wish to appear weak before his prince.