by Rob Scott
Gita’s eyes were a soft brown; they bespoke wisdom and vast experience. Mark shivered at the thought of what she must have done to earn the respect and command of the crew now making camp along the beach; he found himself unaccountably excited at the thought of watching her work.
Gita said, ‘You are pretty skilled with that stick, Steven Taylor; I am surprised Gilmour didn’t bring you into this undertaking fifty Twinmoons ago.’
‘We were not exactly brought in,’ Steven started to explain, but she had already moved on.
‘And you?’ she asked Mark, ‘what’s your skill? Good with that axe, are you?’
Mark looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see he was still holding the weapon at the ready.
She went on, ‘You look a bit dark for a South Coaster, but I know many of that territory are deadly skilled with an axe.’
Mark tensed, feeling a dormant but familiar sense of rage flood his system. They do it here, too, the racist bastards.
When he didn’t answer right away, Gita asked, ‘You good with that axe, Mark? It was Mark, right?’ She checked with Garec, who nodded.
He decided to let it pass. There had been nothing acrimonious in her voice.
‘I am—’ he shot Brynne a look and felt better, ‘I’m a horseman.’
Recalling Mark’s equestrian ineptitude, Brynne stifled a laugh, and added, ‘He has taught us all a great deal about how to handle our mounts.’
‘Good.’ Gita failed to pick up the joke. ‘Idaho Springs. I have never been there – wherever it is; Rona? – but Gilmour knows more than I ever will, and if he wants you two along, I am sure you must bring some powerful resources to the fight.’
‘Gita,’ Steven began, ‘I think we need to explain—’
The Falkan leader continued to ignore everything any of them said, asking, ‘Where is Gilmour, anyway? Why did he send you all down here on your own? This is a dangerous place to be if you’ve never been through here before.’
‘He didn’t send us down—’ Brynne tried this time, but got no further than anyone else: this woman could apparently talk both hind legs off a donkey, let alone one.
‘Anyway, there is plenty of time for us to catch up with your progress down there in Rona. I sent a rider out your way before the last Twinmoon. He just returned. I hope you managed to get your weapons and silver out of the old palace before it fell. Still, when that old mule Gilmour gets here, we’ll have a few drinks. I’ll buy – just as soon as he coughs up the five silver pieces he owes me.’ She slapped her hand against Garec’s chest and added, ‘Garec remembers that night, don’t you?’
Garec forced a smile. ‘Gita, Gilmour is not—’
She waved three of her men forward, cutting Garec off in mid- sentence. ‘This is Hall Storen, Brand Krug, and Timmon Blackrun. They each have a command within our resistance force. Hall’s from Orindale, Brand hails from the Blackstone Forest, and Timmon’s soldiers come to us all the way from the east, along the coast near Merchants’ Highway.’
Steven nodded to the three, all of whom were eyeing him with suspicion. These were obviously battle-tested fighters; they had most likely faced Seron and an array of otherworldly creatures, compliments of Prince Malagon, over God knew how many Twinmoons. The fact that Steven had stood against them on his own, and could have readily dispatched the entire company with just his wooden stick, had obviously made them wary. He had no doubt they would have preferred a straightforward hand-to-hand brawl rather than grappling with flying stones and rogue waves. He smiled anyway. ‘Nice to meet you all,’ he said.
Timmon and Hall nodded, and Brand asked, ‘What news of Sallax? Where is he?’ Brand Krug was a small, wiry man, with narrow eyes and a pinched nose; he wore a brace of throwing knives and a short sword strapped across his back. When no one answered immediately, he repeated his question.
Brynne began, ‘Sallax has—’
‘Gone on ahead to Orindale,’ Mark interrupted, ‘he’s travelling on foot, and we’re not sure how far he’s got.’
‘Why did you not go with him?’ Timmon spoke up. He was a large man, tough-looking, despite a little softness about the midsection. While Brand had long hair, drawn back tightly into a ponytail, Timmon Blackrun’s short curly hair looked as if it were gripping the top of his head so it didn’t blow off. Although the cavern was cool, the man was sweating profusely, and Steven started to worry that Timmon was just a few minutes away from a massive heart attack. He still carried his weapons, an enormous war cudgel – like a hammer with a nasty allergy – and a short dagger. Steven could only conclude the big Easterner wanted to be ready in case it became necessary to bludgeon someone to death at a moment’s notice.
He tuned back into Mark’s convoluted tale of Sallax’s determination to find them a safe route into Orindale, their ensuing trip downriver, and eventually their wrong turn into the cavernous tunnel leading down to the lake.
‘That was smart of him,’ Gita spoke up. ‘You wouldn’t have made it into Orindale together, not this Twinmoon, anyway.’
‘Why?’ Steven was relieved they’d made it safely past the topic of Sallax’s disappearance. It was obvious that he was well-respected by the band, and telling them he’d turned odd and helped slay Gilmour probably wasn’t their best move right now.
‘The Malakasian Army has been dispatched along the eastern border of the city. It’s an enormous blockade, almost as though they were trying to find someone – or something – coming into town.’ Gita beamed knowingly. ‘Sallax might make it on his own, but all together, you would have been stopped, captured, and probably killed outright.’
Brynne asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. ‘Was it just soldiers, or were there … other things?’
Gita looked at the Ronans. ‘So you’ve met the enemy along your way as well, my friends.’ To Brynne, she added, ‘Yes, there were more than soldiers. There were warriors, but not men or women. It was as if they had been changed—’
‘Seron,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.
‘Seron?’ Brand asked. ‘What do you know of these creatures?’
Gita interjected yet again. ‘They fought like animals, biting and scratching, many without weapons, others with just a dagger or a knife, and it took three, sometimes four shafts to bring even the smaller ones down.’
‘They are Prince Malagon’s creation, his pets,’ Garec explained. ‘Their souls have been excised from their bodies and they have bred new generations of Seron. Apparently, they were employed in battle many Twinmoons ago, as was the almor, the, uh— the demon.’
Gita shook her head despondently.
Garec went on, ‘We believe Malagon keeps each Seron’s soul in the form of a ghost-like wraith, and these in turn are powerful creatures themselves that can kill with a touch: the wraiths are an army that battles its foe from the inside out.’ Garec’s voice was flat.
‘Well, that explains their tenacity,’ Timmon said.
‘How many did you face?’ Mark asked.
‘Only a few hundred,’ Brand said, ‘but there were probably twenty thousand encamped on the eastern edge of Orindale.’
‘Twenty thousand Seron?’ Mark thought he might pass out.
‘That’s right,’ Gita replied, ‘and that’s not counting the occupation forces already stationed at Orindale.’
‘We’ll never be able to fight our way through.’ Garec stated the obvious.
‘Fight? Ha!’ Timmon’s corpulent frame trembled as he laughed. ‘We had three thousand, boy, and we were hacked to pieces by those beasts. We were lucky to get away with the three hundred we have here. Fighting is suicide; stealth is the only way in or out.’
Brand shuffled nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘It was not just the Seron.’
‘What else?’ Steven asked.
‘There was worse,’ Gita said quietly.
‘Worse?’ Garec pursued.
‘Demon creatures, life-draining beasts, that struck without warning, deep wit
hin our ranks. It was terrifying. Many of our men bolted and ran, fleeing into the forests, but one or two of those things followed. We found bones, weapons and maybe a few bits of tattered clothing. No bodies.’
‘Jesus,’ Steven whispered, ‘I thought there was only one.’ Mark put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘And then there is the dark mist.’ As Hall Storen finally spoke, all eyes turned towards him. ‘There were clouds, misty and insubstantial, but held together by some unseen force. They drifted above the battlefield aimlessly, until whomever – or whatever – controlled them sent them in to attack. They came during the day, they came at night, but it didn’t matter; there was no defence.’
Hall looked to be the youngest of Gita’s lieutenants. Like Timmon and Brand, he had the stone-hard look of a seasoned warrior, but there was something else about him that piqued Steven’s interest. He watched him closely as he described their encounter with the deadly mist. Even Gita remained silent while he spoke.
‘We were on the far left flank, almost to the Ravenian Sea,’ he started. ‘We had been fighting since dawn and had taken heavy losses. We were using bowmen and foot soldiers working together to punch a hole through their forward line so we could break off the flank, encircle their men and open a passageway through to the beach, and then north into the city.’
‘What would you have done in the city?’ Mark interrupted. ‘Attacked from the rear?’
‘No, these creatures can’t be routed. They can only be slaughtered, until the last one lies dead. If we had reached the city, we would have gone into hiding, regrouped, and prepared a series of guerrilla strikes against them and their supplies.’
‘But you never made it.’ Steven skipped ahead one chapter.
‘No, we didn’t. We were pushing through; all our energy focused on one slowly expanding break in their ranks, when someone started shaking me, tugging at my arm and screaming my name.’ He took the wineskin Timmon offered and slugged back a mouthful. ‘It’s funny: you’re so intent on one thing that you lose sight of everything else. I heard nothing. Everyone was screaming, the wounded and the dying were crying out for help, or water, or for their loved ones. Buildings were on fire, people running everywhere and yet I heard none of it.’ Gita gave him a look of knowing compassion.
Drawing a breath, he continued, ‘Then it was there, a cloud. It looked harmless enough, just a cloud, and I thought nothing of it. Half the place was on fire and it could have been smoke – but then it attacked. It hovered overhead, and I had a premonition, that it would produce not water, but stinging acidic rain. The fighting slowed almost to a stop as everyone – even those Seron creatures – looked up at it.’
‘What happened?’ Brynne whispered, gripping her tunic in both hands and clenching her fingers.
‘I was right. It dropped down. It fell from the sky like a chest-shot gansel. I was lucky; I was out on the periphery, and I closed my eyes, held my breath and ran.’ Everyone was looking at him expectantly, but Hall shook his head. ‘It was worse when it came after dark,’ he added.
A heavy, brooding silence fell over the small group. After a long moment, Gita broke it. ‘So you see the only way into Orindale is to sneak your way in. Once Sallax sees the forces awaiting you, he’ll be back.’
Steven looked at Brynne and shook his head gently, as if to say, not yet. He asked Gita, ‘Why would they be there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why would such an army be massed outside Orindale? What you’re describing doesn’t sound like an occupation force, it sounds like an army dug in and awaiting an attack. What’s coming to Orindale that merits such a force? You? Your three thousand partisans?’
Gita reached out and took Steven’s hand. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Several days after the army dug their trenches outside Orindale, the Prince Marek moored just offshore.’
Garec held his breath and tasted bitter acid in the back of his throat. Brynne groaned audibly. ‘Oh, demonpiss.’
Steven was confused. ‘What does that mean? What’s the Prince Marek when it’s at home?’
‘It’s Prince Malagon’s flagship, Steven. Malagon is in Orindale. My three thousand soldiers attacked a force of twenty thousand because this was the one chance we might ever get to take the head off the snake and allow the body to die on its own. We had to attack here because bringing our force to Malakasia, where there are hundreds of thousands of soldiers massed to protect him, would be suicide. We are back in this cavern to regroup and plan our next attack.’
‘But you’ll just get beaten back again,’ Garec muttered.
‘Most likely, but if he is here, we have to keep trying, down to our very last soldier.’
A wave of nausea swept over Steven and he clung to the staff for support until his knees grew strong beneath him again. ‘Okay. Fine. So, Malagon is in Orindale. Why does he care? He is a powerful monarch, and a sorcerer. Who is coming to meet him who merits such a display of military might?’
Gita grinned broadly at him. ‘Gilmour, my dear. You four, Sallax Farro, and Gilmour Stow.’
Steven felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He closed his eyes as a river of cold sweat ran across his forehead, then tensed, about to retch. Beside him, Brynne sank to her knees.
It was Garec who summoned up the courage to speak first. He leaned heavily on his longbow and announced quietly, ‘Gilmour is dead, Gita.’ He waited for some response from her, but she stared back at him in silent disbelief.
As if to fill the silent void, he went on, ‘We were crossing the Blackstones when an assassin got him. In our camp. He’s dead. We gave him a funeral pyre.’ Garec said nothing about Sallax’s role in the plot to kill the Larion Senator.
Slowly, Gita asked, ‘What happened to the assassin?’
‘He escaped.’ Garec fingered the smooth rosewood of his bow. ‘Whoever it was knew enough about us to cut my bowstring. He was gone from camp before we knew what happened.’
‘And where were you and your magic stick?’ she asked Steven coldly.
‘I was badly injured at the time,’ was the best he could offer. He cringed as he said it; he knew how it sounded.
Silence reclaimed the space between them. Neither Timmon nor Brand made a move to comfort Gita as her world began unravelling. Soon she began to speak again, but her comments were not directed at anyone.
‘My whole life— this moment represents my whole life. We attacked them. We made time for you to get here – we sent riders to Riverend last Twinmoon, but it had fallen. We assumed you were coming, watched for you in the east along the highway, but then this— The Prince Marek sailed right into the harbour. We figured if Malagon’s not at Riverend, he would be here. We can attack, keep them busy, because somehow Gilmour would know. He always knew.’
She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, then stood up straight and turned to Brand and Timmon. Gita was back and giving orders. ‘Get your soldiers ready to travel. We’ll cross in the morning and make for Orindale as soon as possible.’
‘Are we going in together? Or should we plan to break up and make our way into the city incognito?’ A frontal assault would doubtless mean certain death for everyone, but Brand appeared happy for either response from Gita.
Before answering, the Falkan leader turned to Steven. ‘Are you heading for Orindale?’
‘We were, but now that you’ve told us about the defences, I’m not sure. Our ultimate goal is to get to Praga and find a former Larion Senator named Kantu.’
‘Larion Senator?’ Gita gaped at him in disbelief. ‘Young man, there have been no Larion Senators for a thousand Twinmoons.’
‘It’s a long story. We really need to talk before you make any decisions.’
‘Fine. We can send a rider to intercept Sallax. Where had you planned to meet him?’
Steven frowned. ‘No, we really do need to talk, before we do anything.’ He motioned her towards the nearby campf
ire.
Later, while the others slept, Mark lay beside Brynne, listening for her breathing and marvelling at her ability to sleep in the wake of such momentous news. It still echoed in his mind; he didn’t anticipate being able to sleep before his turn to stand watch. He stared into the darkness and imagined the stone canopy far above, blanketing them from the outside world. For once he was happy to be shrouded by such a formidable coverlet; he wondered for a moment whether it was possible to stay beneath the surface for ever.
Seron, and much worse. The Seron were terrifying enough. They’d been lucky, that night in the Blackstones, but if Steven hadn’t found the staff, they all would have died, perhaps even Gilmour. And then there was Lahp. Together, Steven and Lahp had broken Malagon’s hold on him, and Lahp had protected Steven, up until the moment the warrior died – and even in that moment, he had not hesitated. It had taken four wraiths to defeat the Seron. Mark swallowed hard as he imagined the ghosts tearing Lahp apart from the inside out.
If Lahp was that emotionally and physically resilient, the Seron waiting for them outside Orindale, and in Malakasia, would be impossible to defeat. On the other hand, if Lahp had withstood that brutal attack for so long because he was less than human, the Seron would be equally impossible to defeat. Mark sighed. This was pointless; they were in a lose/lose situation. It would take real magic to defeat the army, powerful magic.
The Falkan Resistance had been routed, and unless they adopted guerrilla tactics and stuck to them, they’d be nothing but a token force, full of determination and eloquent, rousing speeches, but devoid of any real substance. ‘Like Rona’s?’ he wondered aloud, and then fell silent, unnerved at the sound of his voice in the vastness of the cavern. Sallax had talked of a resistance force in Estrad and southern Rona, but save for a cache of weapons lost in the cistern at Riverend Palace, they’d seen no evidence of it.