by Rob Scott
The question of Nerak’s possible weakness was still nagging at him as Mark packed up his things and prepared to cross the lake. Nothing seemed to help. He felt that he needed the answer, right now, and for some reason waiting another day, or another Twinmoon, would mean disaster for everyone.
He and Brynne ate breakfast with several of Gita’s partisans; the addition of cheese, tempine and dried beef made it a feast in their eyes. The aroma of brewing tecan had Mark dashing back to the longboat to collect a mug from his pack; it wasn’t coffee, but it was the best Eldarn had to offer. He smiled wryly as Brynne recounted the loss of their own supplies, and the brown ribbon of tecan mingling in the river waters on its way to the Ravenian Sea.
A ribbon. The beach had looked like a ribbon in the moonlight. Mark’s thoughts spiralled; he felt trapped, as if he shouldn’t take another step until he had figured it out. Do it now; it will be too late if you wait. This may be your purpose here, Mark. He suddenly felt very close to the Eldarni people, and began to understand more fully why Steven was determined to stay in this strange and beautiful land until Eldarn was free once again. He was struck again by the image of Steven kneeling on the beach beside Rezak. The beach again. It was starting, bubbling up in his mind. He replayed his dream: the beach in Estrad, the twin moons, the unfamiliar stars, feeling fear, and dreaming of his father. He had dreamed of his father that first night in Rona, long ago now, and he replayed that too, hoping something new might emerge.
Nothing. He went further back.
It had snowed. His students wanted the day off, but it was just a flurry, a brief storm that left everything dusty-white. A baseball game playing on the television at Owen’s Pub; Howard carrying on about the Hall of Fame to Myrna and her friends. They were all laughing and drinking together, convivial, happy. Steven came in, carrying his briefcase: that was the moment Mark knew he had broken into the safe deposit box. He disapproved, of course, but he was just as keen to find out was hidden in the box. They stayed for a drink or two with Howard and Myrna, and Steven promised to stay late at the bank and lock up the following day. They’d called in a pizza order before leaving, and Mark pocketed a book of matches, the same matches they’d found in Gilmour’s pack, weeks later in the trapper’s cabin. They had walked up Miner Street, picked up the pizza, and turned right onto Tenth. Mark had accused Steven of being a felon as they approached their house.
He jumped as Brynne wrapped an arm around his shoulders and asked, ‘Do you want the rest of this?’ She was holding the tecan pot.
‘Huh—?’ He was disoriented by the interruption, still lost in his thoughts. ‘Um, sure. Are we leaving?’
‘Yes.’ She looked pointedly around the encampment, where people were busy stamping out fires and loading bundles of food, weapons and blankets into the remaining longboats. Timmon, Hall and Brand were giving curt orders that echoed throughout the cavern as if thousands of platoon sergeants were mustering a million soldiers.
‘Steven and Garec have been huddled there with Gita for the past aven,’ Mark could see them sitting around a small campfire, Steven’s glowing orb still hovering overhead. Even from this distance, Mark could see relief in Gita’s face.
‘She looks happy,’ Mark commented. ‘I wonder what they’ve decided.’
As if overhearing them, Steven searched around the camp until he spotted his friends. He picked up the hickory staff and crossed the camp, sipping at his own mug of tecan as he and Garec walked.
‘What’s happening?’ Mark asked.
‘They’ve got a permanent camp, a hideaway, in a series of caves up near the surface. It’s where they store their weapons and silver. They claim no one’s ever been followed here; they’re positive the occupation forces have no idea this place even exists.’
‘Let’s hope,’ Garec said. ‘I’d hate to climb back out of here to find their secret cave overrun with Seron.’
‘Is there another way out?’ Brynne wondered.
‘They believe so, but no one’s found it yet,’ Steven replied.
‘Then how can they know?’ Mark asked.
‘Because the water is moving,’ Brynne said.
‘Right,’ Garec confirmed. ‘They know this branch of the river must continue somewhere on the opposite side of the lake, but they can’t find it.’
‘I wonder why,’ Brynne mused.
‘Because the outlet might be under water,’ Steven answered. ‘Where we came in was nearly under water – I’ll bet when it rains south of here, or when the snow melts in the Blackstones, that tunnel is completely submerged.’
‘But that’s not why they’ve failed to find another exit,’ Garec added, with a sense of foreboding.
Brynne and Marked looked curious.
Garec smiled ghoulishly and gestured back along the beach.
‘Those bones—‘ Mark looked startled. ‘You’re not telling me those things are still down here?’
‘Gita doesn’t know,’ Steven admitted. ‘They think most of the bones date from long ago, Eras before King Remond, even before the Larion Senate.’
‘But some of them might be fresh?’ Brynne felt her skin tighten into gooseflesh.
Garec nodded. ‘Gita said she’s sent scouts down here before now who never returned.’
‘But didn’t she say she’d seen the other inhabitants of this cavern?’ Brynne protested.
‘Apparently she was bluffing.’
‘She’s good at that.’
‘Why were all three hundred of them down here yesterday anyway?’ Mark wondered aloud.
‘They heard us, and they saw Steven’s fire,’ Garec replied, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Some of Brand’s men came down to get some water. They thought Malagon’s forces had discovered the cavern and were flanking them.’
‘So they prepared for their last frontal assault,’ Steven added, ‘and were mightily surprised to find our little rag-tag coterie vacationing down here.’
‘Not enough sun,’ Mark glanced upwards. ‘And the bars close too early. Not sure I’ll be coming back. Maybe the Caribbean next time?’
Brynne elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Stop it! What are their plans now? Will they attack the blockade outside the city?’
‘They seemed pretty determined to do that last night,’ Mark said, ‘but it would be suicide.’
‘No,’ Garec replied, ‘they’re listening to reason. They’ll lead us to the surface, then make their way north.’
‘Why north?’
Mark thought for a moment. ‘To meet us.’
Steven nodded. ‘Assuming we get to Lessek’s Key before Nerak, we may need them to help us cross the border into Gorsk and get into Sandcliff Palace.’
‘Although Gita’s heard nothing from them, she thinks the northern and eastern corps of the Falkan Resistance are moving towards Orindale right now,’ Garec said. ‘She’s going to break up the remains of her force so she can send scouts out to intercept those groups and guide them to a rendezvous somewhere south of the Remondian Mountains.’
‘So, what do we do?’ Mark was curious.
Steven smiled ironically. ‘We move towards Orindale, make our way behind enemy lines, attack Malagon’s ship, seize the far portal, retrieve Lessek’s Key and escape across the Ravenian Sea, whereupon we will find Hannah and Kantu. We will then convince Kantu to help us and travel back into Falkan to meet Gita, Timmon, Hall, Brand and the others near a small town called Traver’s Notch. Oh, and we have some two or three Twinmoons to achieve all this.’
Brynne feigned relief. ‘Oh, well, is that all?’
Mark was stupefied. ‘That’s six months! Steven—’
‘I know, but given what we need to accomplish, I think that’s probably how long it’s going to take us.’
‘And what’s this about attacking Malagon’s ship? When did we become pirates?’ Mark wished he’d had the sense to sit in on their conversation that morning. ‘Why would we assume he has the far portal on his ship?’
‘In case we don’t have
the key,’ Garec said. ‘He assumes we have got it, but none of his creatures have been able to get it back for him – and, thankfully, Sallax obviously never got around to telling Gilmour’s murderer that you two underestimated the key’s importance and didn’t bother to bring it with you when you set off adventuring in a strange and far-off land. And thanks to a bit of magic and a bit of luck, none of his other minions have lived long enough to report back that we don’t have it – not yet anyway. We still don’t know what happened to Versen, of course, but since Nerak’s still trying to get the key from us I think we can assume he hasn’t told them anything, either willingly or not.’
‘Why hasn’t Nerak used the far portal to go looking for himself?’ Brynne asked.
‘Because he’d have to abandon Malagon’s body.’ Steven shuddered. ‘Then he’d need another host.’
‘And because he assumes we have the key,’ Garec reiterated. ‘Now that Gilmour is dead, Nerak isn’t in any tearing hurry – he’s probably quite happy to wait for us in Orindale. But he’ll have the far portal with him in case he catches us, devours our minds and discovers the key is sitting on Steven’s desk.’ Garec began to feel queasy.
‘Why not wait for us in Malakasia?’
Steven felt himself grow cold as he answered, ‘Because he must be ready to operate the spell table.’
Brynne swallowed hard and Mark shifted uneasily.
‘He came here to find us, kill us and to retrieve the key if necessary – but his primary reason for coming must be now that Gilmour’s dead, Nerak feels he’s quite safe going back to Sandcliff Palace to continue his studies, or to release his master from the Fold.’ As Steven spoke, the enthusiasm drained from the small group.
Brynne put Mark’s thoughts into words: ‘So, he is ready to use the spell table.’
Garec sighed. ‘He’s either ready now, or he wants to continue his preparations with the table at his disposal. Perhaps he can learn faster if he has a chance to experiment, to work things out firsthand.’
‘So he feared Gilmour enough to have him hunted down and killed, but he doesn’t fear Kantu,’ Mark mused aloud. ‘I wonder why.’
‘I don’t know,’ Steven answered. ‘Maybe Gilmour knew how to kill him, or how to banish the evil possessing his soul.’
Mark looked as though he had been slapped hard across the face. His soul, the essence of his life. Nerak feared Gilmour, because Gilmour could kill him and banish evil’s minion: that’s the only thing in all Eldarn that frightened Nerak. Gilmour had it, but Kantu did not: but what was it? Knowledge? Magic? Power? Why had he planted such a seed in Sallax’s memory, so long ago? Twenty-five Twinmoons ago – that meant Nerak had been afraid of Gilmour for a long time. Nerak might not know his own weaknesses, but maybe Gilmour had … but if that were the case, why had he waited so long to attack? Why was it important that Gilmour died before Nerak travelled to Sandcliff?
Mark thumped his own head, as if to shake up his thoughts: he growled with frustration as he wondered whether Nerak’s weaknesses would be exposed at Sandcliff Palace – but no, he was convinced Nerak had no idea he had any weaknesses.
‘It must have something to do with the table,’ Mark said out loud. ‘Maybe Nerak will be vulnerable when he operates it.’
‘I hate to take that chance,’ Steven commented dryly. ‘I’d hate to wait until he is there, actually working the table, before we do anything.’
‘But we are going to do something,’ Mark retorted. ‘We’re going onto that ship and back to Idaho Springs for the key.’
‘Assuming he doesn’t kill us all and go back for it himself,’ Garec said, feeling nauseous again.
‘We can’t think about that now.’ Brynne tried to imagine what her brother would do in this situation, but drew a blank. She’d have to go with her own best guess. ‘We have to get there first. Then we can work out who’s going to board the ship and take those risks. It may well be pointless for all of us to go.’
‘She’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘Without magic, you’d all be marching to your deaths.’
‘You might be doing the same,’ Brynne pointed out.
‘That’s true, but at least Garec and I have been able to use the magic. I think it should be just Garec and me going on board.’
The Ronan bowman nodded.
‘I’ll be coming as well,’ Mark added quietly.
‘Why?’ Brynne asked under her breath.
‘Because I’m going to figure out how to kill him.’
Mark took his place in Timmon’s longboat and hefted an oak oar into the adjacent oarlock. He had insisted on rowing alongside those soldiers who had not been too badly injured in Steven’s stony hailstorm. Each of the remaining longboats was outfitted with sconces running along the gunwales which Steven ignited with a quick touch of the hickory staff – after Gita had suggested, ‘Let’s just light them one at a time this morning, shall we?’
Steven’s laugh reassured Mark: he was glad to see they were getting along. He had no idea what was waiting for them in Orindale, but it was comforting to know they had the confident support of the local Resistance forces, even if they were a little threadbare.
Brynne sat in the stern with Garec, mending arrow fletching and sharpening arrowheads; Garec would make new arrows once he found suitable trees from which to cut shafts. In the meantime he attended to those he had, fastidiously grating stone against stone to create a rough edge and then working over each tip and blade with what looked like a thick wad of chamois. He made final alterations with the tip of his knife and a small wooden brush with coarse bristles.
Mark was curious; he was sure he had seen more conventional arrowheads in Garec’s quivers before and asked, ‘No metal?’
Garec shrugged. ‘No money.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Mark laughed.
‘Anyway,’ he said, gesturing at the array of stones and tools in his lap, ‘this is a skill I like to keep up.’
‘Like falling off a bike, I guess.’
Garec waved his knife. ‘Some days, Mark, it’s impossible to understand you.’
Steven was on board Gita’s longboat so they could work out a code the Ronans could use when they got to Traver’s Notch. It was obvious the entire Falkan Resistance wouldn’t be barracked in town, so they needed passwords to ensure their safe passage from Traver’s Notch to the Falkan encampment.
Somewhere near the bow, a rough voice began calling out a slow but steady rhythm: ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke.’
Mark fell to rowing and allowed his thoughts to wander back to Idaho Springs.
He remembered smelling the pizza Steven carried as they approached their house; they had been drinking and Mark was hungry. He grinned to himself: he’d gone hungry a time or two since their arrival in Eldarn, but nothing could rival the need for food after too much beer – the kind of hunger that bore no relation to how much one had eaten or how recently. He and Steven called it foraging, because so few places were open that late at night in Idaho Springs: Owen’s Pub and the diner were pretty much it. Despite his burgeoning appreciation for good tecan, Mark suddenly pined for a steaming mug of coffee, served in a white ceramic mug.
That night was typical: when they got back to 147 Tenth Street he and Steven had fallen on the pizza like starving serfs. They’d finished most of it, washed down with more beer, and finalised plans for their assault on Decatur Peak. Finally Steven had opened the briefcase. What happened next was hazy. Mark’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall overlooked details. There had been a rosewood box, padded inside with something like felt; they had been amused that William Higgins had created such a beautiful box for a commonplace chunk of rock. Then Steven had opened the cylinder. It had unscrewed smoothly, as if it had been oiled once a month for the past century and a half.
‘Stroke, stroke, stroke,’ the voice called, muted, as if from across the lake. Slow and steady, slow and steady.
Wait. Go back again. He was missing something. The cylinder. The cap opened smoothly, no stiffne
ss or rust or corrosion. The rosewood box. That was it. The box. Rosewood. Where had he seen rosewood? In Rona: tight-grained rosewood grew in those forests – Garec’s bow was rosewood. That wood had come from Rona. There had been hinges on the box as well. They had opened smoothly too, like the cylinder, with no rust or squeaking. The rock was the only thing inside – no, not a rock, Lessek’s Key. That rock was Lessek’s Key, the keystone to the spell table, the most powerful collection of magic imaginable, and Mark couldn’t remember anything.
Go back to the box. They had opened it; the hinges had not creaked. The key had been inside, and they had thought nothing of it. They had laughed and set it aside. Mark had made a joke about mercury poisoning; he had even given the rock a name, Barry … Bernie … Betsy. Steven had set it aside, but there had been something about the key, it had made him feel something, a familiarity, as if he had suddenly happened upon someone he had known for a few moments many years before.
A shrill scream burst through the haze of Mark’s recollections and he jumped suddenly, dropping his oar and disrupting the rowers’ rhythm. Scrambling to retrieve it before it disappeared over the side, he cried, ‘What the hell was that?’
The scream came again, a piercing wail that retained its intensity without fading or tailing off. Mark wondered if whatever was emitting the horrible shriek had just found the remains of their camp on the pebbly beach. He froze, waiting for something to happen, or someone to tell him what to do.
Everyone had stopped rowing and two of the tallest men stood on their benches, craning their necks in an attempt to spot the shrieking creature. No one spoke, or even moved, as a feeling of foreboding blanketed the longboats.
Far in the distance, Mark heard a heavy splash. He looked up: he couldn’t see the stone ceiling above them, but the image of the bone ornamentation was etched in his memory. He tried not to think about the possibility that whatever had entered the water had dropped from the ceiling.
The sound of the splash broke the spell and people around him began simultaneously shouting questions and orders. The coxswain took up his charge again; his, ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke’ was a little shaky, but the rhythm helped. Mark realised this was why soldiers marched into battle, all together in step. He fell back into pace with the others and they made their way quickly towards the far shore.