by Rob Scott
The bowman pointed to a narrow groove running northwest across the cowhide atlas. ‘That’s the valley, the headwaters of this river.’
‘We made it this far.’
Thinking of Versen, Gilmour, Sallax and others, Garec added grimly, ‘Some of us did, anyway.’
Steven put a hand on Garec’s forearm. ‘Making it this far means we have a chance to set things right, to avenge our friends, maybe even to bring an end to Eldarn’s nightmares. Mark’s pretty convinced that Malagon will find the staff’s magic a surprisingly adequate foe. I may not be as confident, but I’ll do my damnedest. I have to. Getting Lessek’s Key to Kantu is our only hope.’
‘Let’s hope that boat Mark’s rigging will get us across then.’
Steven thought of the preparations Mark had been making to the small sailboat. ‘It will. Mark’s got sails, extra line and plenty of tar. Brynne is organising our supplies. All we need to do is figure out a way to get aboard the Prince Marek.’
Garec laughed. ‘I forgot. We have the easy job.’
‘Right,’ Steven agreed half-heartedly. His attention was diverted by a small skiff making its way downriver and out of the inlet. He gestured across the bridge. ‘Isn’t that our friend the fisherman?’
Garec squinted, one hand above his eyes to block the bright morning sunlight. ‘I think it is. Do we know his name yet?’
‘I guess he doesn’t want us to know it,’ Steven replied.
‘So if we’re captured, we won’t be able to turn him in.’
Steven watched as the small boat followed the shoreline south towards the southern piers and the shanty village beyond. ‘For an old guy, he certainly can row: he moves that thing like a champion.’
‘Nothing like a lifetime of practice, I suppose.’
Steven watched the fisherman another moment then suddenly stood up straight, using both hands to block the sun as he leaned across the bridge rail to watch the skiff disappear.
‘What is it?’ Garec asked.
‘Nothing. I just thought I saw him wave.’
With their attention on the little boat, neither Garec nor Steven saw the tall figure wrapped in a dark robe and shouldering a walnut longbow as he strode silently past and headed towards the row of warehouses along the southern wharf.
A quarter-aven later, the two men took their first look at the Prince Marek, Malagon’s personal sailing vessel, moored in the harbour off the northern wharf.
Steven voiced his first impression aloud. ‘We’ll never make it. We’d have to be on board for three days just to find his cabin.’
The ship was a behemoth. As Steven studied it from their vantage point on the pier, he felt his hopes sinking with each passing moment. ‘The far portal could be anywhere. There are – what? Six decks? Two hundred chambers? It’s bloody gigantic.’
‘And black.’
Black it was: the gigantic vessel floated silently in the harbour, dwarfing even the largest Pragan galleons several times over. Steven estimated her length at nearly four hundred feet, with a beam of well over one hundred and a draught of at least thirty-five running empty. Seven masts jutted proudly from her decks – three mains, a foremast, a mizzen, a jib from the bow and a spanker flanking the quarterdeck – and she was outfitted with enough rigging to tie down a rogue hurricane. The main mast sported five levels of sail, all reefed, as she rode at anchor. Two sets of topgallants towered over two sets of topsails hanging above a mainsail that would have easily blanketed the entire lot at 147 Tenth Street. The raised quarterdeck was as broad and as long as a basketball court and Steven marvelled at the size of the helm standing alone in its centre. ‘He must have a giant in his crew just to move the tiller. I couldn’t reach high enough to turn the wheel.
‘Garec, where do ships like this come from? Jesus Highdiving Christ, how is it possible that there are farmers tilling the Ronan soil with wooden plough blades, and this behemoth can roll in here looking like Nelson’s Victory with a glandular problem?’
Garec had been silent since they’d caught their first glimpse of the tremendous floating palace. ‘That is the great irony of Eldarn, Steven. It illustrates how and where Prince Malagon – Nerak, I suppose – has focused the emphasis of his economic resources. We have no higher education, no research institutions and no hospitals worth a pinch of grettan shit, but that rutting horsecock sails around in that thing.’ He gestured toward the remaining boats in the harbour. ‘Look at the others. Naval vessels, merchant ships … all of them state-of-the-art in their design. Nerak had Twinmoons and Twinmoons of Larion research and knowledge in his head when he left Sandcliff Palace, Steven, but he was very careful about which Eldarni institutions benefited from that knowledge over time.’
Steven shook his head. ‘Well, no point in dwelling on it now. What do we do?’
‘We’ll have to enter along the stern line, there, aft beneath the quarterdeck.’ Garec pointed to a thin black line that ran from the stern rail down into the water, barely visible against the hull.
‘Why there?’
‘She’s too long for us to come up the anchor line in the bow and make it safely aft to the stern cabins. That’s where Malagon’s private cabin will be. He’ll have the ship outfitted for his comfort. The raised quarterdeck provides enough room for a spacious apartment. I can’t imagine Nerak would give up that level of comfort to the captain or his officers.’
‘I bet you’re right,’ Steven answered. ‘I can’t see that many men above decks either.’
Garec nodded. ‘Skeleton crew, maybe.’
‘Why not? No one in the five lands of Eldarn would be crazy enough to attempt to board the prince’s private yacht.’
‘Or powerful enough to break through the army around the city. Malagon knows what resistance there is on land; here in the harbour, it would take the combined merchant and Resistance forces of the Eastlands and Praga just to take that ship. Most merchant vessels don’t ride high enough in the water to get a grappling hook over her gunwales. They would need ten thousand fire-arrows to get her kindled, and I bet you a beer that whatever that black substance is that she’s coated in doesn’t burn too easily, either.’
‘No thanks.’ Steven frowned. ‘I already lost my shirt to that old lady with the stones.’
Garec chortled and turned his gaze back towards the Prince Marek. ‘So that’s it, then. We’ll sail Mark’s boat out beyond her stern, towing something small we can paddle in, anchor, tie off to the stern line and board her from the quarterdeck.’
‘Mark and I will climb aboard if you’ll—’
Garec finished his thought. ‘I’ll stay in the skiff and take out anyone who approaches the stern rail.’
‘Garec,’ Steven offered, ‘maybe I can come up with some spell to put them all to sleep for a few moments. I know the only effective magic I’ve been able to muster so far has been fireballs, tricky campfires or massive blasts, but maybe I can work something in between.’
‘It’s all right, Steven,’ Garec assured him. ‘We’re close to the end. I can do it.’ The Ronan ran one hand through the wavy brown hair that hung about his forehead. His eyes danced and he added, ‘Perhaps I’ll get lucky and they’ll be firing back at us this time.’
Steven tried to swallow. ‘Sure, lucky. Anyway, Mark and I will find Malagon’s cabin, open the far portal and I’ll leap back to Idaho Springs for Lessek’s Key. Mark will steal the portal, rejoin you in the skiff and sail south along the coast.’ Steven’s heart raced at the thought of being home: he’d have a chance to confirm whether Hannah was still there, or had managed somehow to get home. He just needed a few hours to try to explain what had happened, or to confirm that she, too, had come through the portal to Eldarn.
‘And I finally get to use this.’ Garec held his wrist aloft, exposing Steven’s watch.
‘Exactly. You open the portal on this side every twelve hours at five o’clock.’ Steven was using the English words so Garec got used to them. ‘Leave it open until five-fifteen and if I don�
�t appear, close it up and keep going.’
‘And you have another watch somewhere in Colorado to know when it gets to be five clocks.’
‘Oh yes,’ Steven chuckled, ‘no shortage of watches there.’
Garec stood tall and gazed across the harbour at the ominous black vessel, bobbing gently in the sheltered harbour. ‘Very well, then. If the boat is ready, we should go tonight.’
Steven felt his stomach roil. ‘Yes. Tonight.’
The two men returned south through the waterfront. Steven was hungry, anticipating a hearty last meal before setting out to board the great black ship. The trip seemed to take longer than it had coming into the city and by the time the two friends crossed the stone bridge over the inlet, the deep reddish-orange sun was setting across the Ravenian Sea. Above, dark clouds massed, heralding a coming storm. Garec and Steven pulled their hoods around their heads and held the folds tightly.
The normally bustling wharf was nearly abandoned and Steven mentally ticked off the final six warehouses as he and Garec passed them en route to a warm fire and a thick jemma steak.
Huddled in the shadows between the southernmost warehouses, the dark figure readied the walnut longbow, then withdrew a long black arrow and nocked it carefully. Chilled to the bone from his vigil, the archer breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling a forgotten crate of rotting fish. Rats scratched and clawed hungrily at the wooden slats lining the crate and he kicked them aside with the toe of his boot as he inched his way forward towards the warped plank walkway. His prey was approaching slowly; the bowman felt his heart thud in anticipation. Risking a glance around the corner, the hunter cursed in a hoarse whisper and retreated quickly into the shadows. The two men walking towards him had enveloped themselves within the folds of their cloaks and with the hoods drawn up, there was no way the archer could tell one from the other. Pulling his own hood back slightly, he glanced around the corner once again. They were much closer this time. Think! he commanded himself. I’ll never get off a second shot; the customs men will be mustered and out here in a whore’s breath.
Grimacing, he spat another curse at the rats beside his feet and then, watching as they scurried away, his mouth curled into a sly, tight-lipped grin.
Steven tallied warehouse number three before pulling his cloak tighter about him. ‘I hope it doesn’t rain tonight.’
‘I don’t think it will, but it’s going to be cold.’ Garec shrugged his own cloak closer. ‘We’ll need to stay dry if we hope to—’
A dull thud emanated from the insignificant space between the two men and Steven stopped, thinking Garec had accidentally dropped his saddlebag. In a heartbeat he knew what the sound had been. Garec was on his knees, an arrow protruding from his ribcage.
‘Garec! Oh Christ, Garec—!’ Steven dropped beside his friend, who exhaled a great sigh and fell over onto his side.
‘Steven, bloody demonpiss, Steven, I’m shot! Someone shot me!’ His voice trailed off as he struggled to draw breath. With each raspy inhalation, Garec emitted a thin wail of pain. ‘It hurts, Steven—’
‘I know. I know.’ For a moment Steven had no idea what to do. ‘Try to relax. I’ll get some help.’ He stood up and roared out, ‘Who did it? Where are they?’ He felt as though he had been sprinting. Strangely, he thought he could sense the staff’s magic swirling through his body, encouraging him to find Garec’s assailant and rip the man’s arm off. ‘Who did this?’ Steven cried again, throwing his head back and allowing his hood to fall across his shoulders.
His shouts brought help as people came quickly to offer assistance, a small group of Malakasian soldiers included. Once he could see the injured man was being looked after, a portly Malakasian soldier, a sergeant, Steven guessed from the uniform, demanded Steven tell him what he had seen.
‘What?’ Steven replied brusquely, then more calmly, added, ‘Nothing – no one. The shot came from over there.’ He gestured between the last two warehouses on the wharf. ‘But you won’t find anyone.’
‘How do you know?’ the sergeant asked.
The question gave Steven a moment’s pause. Somehow he was certain their attacker had fled south through the forest behind the shanty village. In his mind’s eye, he could almost see the man, tall, wearing a dark robe and carrying a longbow, sprinting through a tangle of brambles. But there was a problem with the image. It was more than the forest or the warehouses. His mind’s eye filled in the missing spaces: dark areas where he assumed shadows fell between trees or at the base of the great warehouse. Steven saw things, bright things, he finally recognised as neon illuminated signs, COLD BEER. That was across Tenth Street in the front window of Abe’s Liquor Store, and OIL CHANGE $26.99, the ten-minute oil place on the corner. The yellow, green and orange letters were a shock of colour against the fading hues of the Orindale forest at twilight and Steven watched as the tall man who had just shot Garec fled between the trees. The neon blinked another time or two then faded.
Steven shook his head to clear the images and looked back at the soldier. ‘I’m sorry, sergeant, I don’t know what I was thinking – of course I can’t be sure. He was tall, I think, and cloaked, of course. Not much help, I guess.’
The soldiers hustled off to search for the attacker and Steven walked slowly back to where Garec lay, a bundle of black robes in a growing pool of black blood.
‘Excuse me,’ he said calmly to the crowd gathered about. ‘We live quite close by and our brother knows something of medicine. Please, excuse me, I need to get him home.’ Steven knelt beside his friend. Garec’s eyes had glazed over and his breathing was shallow and wet. It sounded to Steven as if his lung was filling with fluid and had most likely collapsed. There wasn’t much time.
‘I had this coming, Steven,’ Garec managed in a strangled whisper.
‘Bullshit, Garec.’ Steven tried hard to sound assuring. The English obscenity sounded harsh.
Garec laughed weakly, then winced. ‘Bullshit – turkey – what a strange—’ His head rolled lazily to one side.
As soon as he touched the injured man, Steven knew the staff’s magic was alive inside him, even at this distance. With the strength of twenty, Steven lifted Garec as easily as he might have carried a bag of flour. The magic crackled sharply along his muscles and danced about across his back. Running one hand over the Ronan’s chest, he read his friend’s condition: he was right, one lung punctured and collapsed, heart rate weak and slowing, breathing shallow and difficult. If he were to save his friend’s life, he had to get him back to their shack immediately. Calling out thanks, Steven ran as carefully as he could down the wharf, then leaped from the plank walkway into the sand and along the beach towards the fishermen’s village.
‘Curse, that wretched, rutting horsecock!’ Jacrys cried as he ran through the coastal forest. ‘They traded boots! Why in the name of all things would they trade boots?’ Even at this distance, he knew he was at risk if Steven chose to unleash his magic. He could not turn back. Lessek’s Key had been in his grasp and he missed the opportunity to retrieve it. His most powerful bargaining chip, the one thing that would save his life – and he had lost it because two fools had traded boots. ‘Aaargh!’ he screamed in a wild rage before disappearing south towards the Malakasian army pickets.
*
Garec was nearly dead by the time they reached the shanty. Brynne and Mark had been working on the sailboat, packing supplies, an extra sheet, ropes and several balls of sturdy twine beneath its gunwales when Steven sprinted into view. ‘Come quickly, Garec’s been shot!’ Steven cried.
They jumped into the frigid shallows and hurried up the beach, calling questions as they ran.
‘Great northern gods, this is bad,’ Brynne said as she gingerly opened Garec’s cloak.
Tears welled up in Mark’s eyes. ‘Who the hell did this? Who in God’s good name even knows we’re here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Steven replied tersely, ‘although somehow I saw a man, a man in a long cloak, he had a bow and was running t
hrough the woods back there.’ Steven gestured behind the warehouses and into the dense brush flanking the dunes.
Mark was kneeling as well. ‘Jesus, he’s dying. What can we do? He’s dying.’
Steven had already left.
He burst into the broken-down hovel and grabbed the hickory staff, cursing himself for ever going anywhere without it, then pounded back to where Mark and Brynne were trying to make Garec comfortable.
Several steps out, the old fisherman stepped in front of him, a shadow in the darkness. Steven nearly ran the gaunt figure down. ‘Sorry, not now. My friend has been shot. He may not live.’ He was frantic, trapped in the throes of a full panic attack, his thoughts coming too quickly – every idea on how he might save Garec was dulled by the reality: his friend’s life was ebbing away. His hands shook as he struggled to focus on anything, sand, water, the wharf, the old fisherman – nothing registered, and to make matters worse, the magic was flaring up in great bursts that raced through his body like an electrical storm, enough to level a mountain. Steven worried that if he unleashed it, there would be nothing left of Garec to revive.
‘You must save him.’ The fisherman spoke calmly, and grasped Steven’s upper arm with a vice-like grip that hurt enough to slow him down for a moment. ‘Use the magic, Steven Taylor.’
‘What—?’ Steven cared only that the old man was keeping him from Garec. ‘I must go.’
‘Save him, Steven,’ the old man repeated.
Steven shook his arm free and hurried down the beach. Brynne was sitting quietly on the sand, her knees drawn up to her chin. Mark was pushing down on Garec’s chest in a rhythmic motion. Yes, CPR. That’s right. That’s good. Steven was glad to see some evidence of home, of something sane and sensible working to save Garec’s life.
‘He’s dying, Steven,’ Mark whispered. ‘Can you do anything?’
Mark’s plea was another slap in Steven’s face. They were not in Idaho Springs. CPR was not enough. Garec needed him to work magic, to summon the strange, unimaginable force he had at his command, to heal the damaged tissues in the Ronan’s lung and to drain the blood from the wound so Garec might start breathing on his own.