by Rob Scott
He did not answer. He was in an untenable position. He backed away slowly, trying to improve his view, but he had to stop when he bumped into the thick oak trunk of the aft mast.
‘Where are you going?’ Brynne began to move towards the starboard stairwell. ‘We were getting on so well.’
Kaylo decided the old man was not Prince Malagon but an intruder, working with the young woman – but how exactly could one woman and one bandy-legged old seaman take the Prince Marek’s crew? Sweat ran freely across his face and neck and he tried, too late, to lie. ‘I should warn you: there’s a crew of a hundred and fifty below decks. They’ll be on hand in a moment.’
‘Sorry,’ Brynne said, ‘if you’d opened with that one I might have believed you, but you spent too long trying to find an escape. Just like a man! You squirm around and then try to lie your way out of trouble.’ She took several steps towards the stairs. She had to keep him talking until she could get close enough to engage him hand-to-hand.
As Kaylo watched her approach the starboard stairs, he spied the answer to his dilemma from the corner of his eye – it was a risk, especially if she had archers with her, but it was the only way to assess the quarterdeck. He sheathed his knives and leaped into the ship’s rigging, climbing the stiff but awkward rope ladders as rapidly as possible until he had climbed high enough to see clearly. The quarterdeck was empty. There was no one with her. She was alone. Who was this woman who thought she could just wander about the decks of Prince Malagon’s ship?
A wry smile played across Kaylo’s lips as he dropped to the main deck with the agility of a cat. ‘You’re by yourself.’ He had no idea how many intruders had already entered the aft companionway, but he was confident that if he killed this woman, he would have the advantage of higher ground whenever her accomplices emerged from the prince’s quarters.
‘Of course I’m by myself.’ Brynne paused. Good. Let him come to me. Get him away from them.
Kaylo drew his knives with a flourish and strode confidently towards this curious girl. ‘Might I ask who you are?’
Staring down at him from above, Brynne’s voice was icy as she replied, ‘I am the one who is going to cut your throat if you go anywhere near those chambers.’ She gestured towards the companionway with the toe of her boot. Her response had the desired effect.
Kaylo saw the strange woman draw twin blades with a practised, graceful motion and mounted the starboard stairs. ‘Well met, then, my staggeringly attractive adversary.’
Brynne bowed slightly to acknowledge his flattery, covertly examining his movements, his grip, even the style and length of the blades themselves. ‘I thank you for the compliment, but I am afraid I am spoken for, and I also have a prior engagement, so might I suggest we just get this over with.’ She considered him for a moment before adding, ‘The quicker the better, my pockmarked, homely and unfortunately malodorous adversary.’
Kaylo recognised that she was sizing him up and he dropped to a crouch to reduce the exposed surface area of his torso and neck to a minimum. Seeing how she maintained her composure, he thought she might prove skilled. He swallowed hard and attempted to remain calm.
‘Now that’s unfair,’ he whispered, ‘I am too far away for you to know I smell bad.’
‘Well, come closer then, and we can discuss it.’ She grinned fiercely.
It had taken Twinmoons for Brynne to recover from being raped and beaten in that corner room at Greentree Tavern. Sallax had wanted desperately to help, but he was young too, and had no idea how badly such an attack could emotionally scar a woman, marking her as damaged goods in her own mind for all time. What he could do was teach her to defend herself. Nothing brought Brynne the sense of grim satisfaction she required except for the knife. She had told her brother, ‘I have to be in close … Sallax, I want to be in close. I want to see them suffer.’
The first time Sallax saw Brynne use her newly developed skill had been devastating. The tavern had been bustling with out-of-town travellers and locals and Brynne scurried about the front room serving wine and beer and food while her brother manned both bar and kitchen.
Returning from his cooking range he detected a change in the atmosphere: the fire crackled contentedly on the far wall, but across the room, something was different. Then he saw his sister. Brynne was struggling to make her way past three brothers who had positioned their chairs to block her into a corner. The men had been drinking heavily and what might have been a moment of sexual banter had elevated quickly to a potentially violent incident. Dropping a stew-stained towel, Sallax called for Garec and Versen, but they had not gone three steps when one of the men reached out to Brynne.
‘Don’t!’ Sallax cried, but he was too late.
Brynne dropped the tray, and her knives appeared as if by magic. She delivered a deft slash to the first brother’s wrist, a half-moon across the back of his hand that mirrored the scarred merchant who had raped her only five Twinmoons earlier. Bellowing in pain and surprise, the young man stood, toppling his chair and reaching for a dagger at his belt, but Brynne was there first, slashing her blade across the man’s chest: a wide backhand that opened his tunic and left a deep wound.
His brothers were moving now as well, drawing short swords as Brynne dropped to a crouch, lunged across the small round table and buried one knife to the hilt in the fleshy part of the second brother’s abdomen, then pulled it out and, spinning gracefully, brought both knives around in a sharp arc that left twin parallel slashes across the third brother’s stomach. She completed her movement by burying one blade hilt-deep in the first brother’s thigh.
The entire engagement had lasted less than two breaths. A moment later, the entire front room at Greentree Tavern erupted with shouts; patrons sprang to their feet, some to help and others to escape. Sallax was forced to leap onto the bar to see what was happening; he saw Versen and Garec dragging the three men out and dumping them into the muddy street. None of them would die, but each would think twice before trying to have his way with an unwilling woman again.
Brynne was smiling, but there was no joy in her face. There was a fierce pride, and triumph, and bitterness. And there was an unremitting hatred. Sallax shuddered. The merchant had created a monster of his beloved sister.
Now Kaylo saw that smile. Despite himself, he shivered.
Brynne did what she always did when called upon to fight. She superimposed the shadowy image of the Falkan merchant who had stolen her life over the Malakasian’s face. Now she could kill with impunity. She couldn’t remember a hand-to-hand struggle that had lasted more than a breath or two. Someone always lunged a bit too deeply, exposing too much flank, or extended an arm too far forward, and that was when she moved. Would it be the same with this fellow? He seemed well trained.
Brynne looked into Kaylo’s eyes and saw the Falkan rapist. ‘I will kill you again tonight,’ she said, her voice low as her body fell into a practised stance.
‘Kill me again?’ Kaylo twisted one knife back in his hand, perhaps an involuntary response to the stress of the upcoming fight, but Brynne watched as the sharpened edge of the blade turned back towards its wielder. She saw her opportunity and lunged.
Steven and the old man were so engrossed that neither detected the charge in the air, a shimmering wave that passed across the harbour like a rogue gust of winter wind, nor did they hear the foreboding silence that fell over the waterfront.
The dark prince came out of the night sky, cowled in black and nearly invisible, the folds of his robe an inky darkness that extinguished the dim twinkle of distant stars. He came to rest gently on the deck and raised his arms ceremoniously, blasting away the Prince Marek’s quarterdeck. If he noticed two bodies resting silently on the smooth planks of the raised deck, he made no sign. One was already dead, a long knife wound stretching across his face and another laying open his stomach. The smooth wooden hilt of a thin hunting knife still protruded from his thigh. Nearby, a young woman lay with a knife protruding from one shoulder. Blood soaked her tunic. Her legs w
ere curled up to her chest and her breathing rattled, marking out a moist and ragged rhythm as her eyes fluttered in an effort to remain conscious. A small puncture in her abdomen leaked dark blood, indicating a deep wound; she groaned in dismay as she examined her stained fingers.
As Nerak’s rage destroyed part of his great ship, Brynne felt herself cast away. Terror gripped her for a moment, because she knew she was about to strike the water. It would be cold and dark, and she didn’t have the strength to swim. But she was unconscious before she hit the surface, falling amidst a hail of broken planks.
Steven and the old sorcerer were thrown across the floor as the aft end of the Prince Marek exploded from the main deck, but the table, and the leatherbound book upon it, remained untouched. As he clambered to his feet, the metal box still clutched firmly in one hand, Steven realised the hickory staff had rolled away to the other side of what was left of the cabin and was now balanced precariously on the edge of the deck, some thirty feet above the water – and Nerak was standing in front of the old fisherman.
Steven did a quick check of himself: except for a nasty bulge above his left eye, he did not appear to have been injured. Now to retrieve the hickory staff. He tried to ignore the fact that the two master sorcerers were glaring at each other across the battered plank deck and started inching his way nearer to the staff.
‘Fantus!’ Nerak’s voice was overwhelming, and Steven felt its resonance shiver along his bones in jagged waves. ‘Fantus!’ His voice held a mixture of hatred and joy. ‘We meet again, my dearest, dearest friend – and how glad I am you managed to not stay dead. You have grown more skilled since our last meeting.’ As he spoke, the dark prince threw something at his former colleague; though his hand was empty, Steven watched in terror as the blow hit the old man directly in his chest. A spell. He expected his frail companion to fly back through the air, broken and bloody, or maybe even to disintegrate on the spot, but instead, he crumpled to the deck, folding like a dropped handkerchief.
Steven, struck motionless, watched for interminable moments until Nerak began chuckling.
‘Too easy, Fantus,’ he crowed. ‘You have had nearly a thousand Twinmoons – and still you made it too easy. You should have let me kill you that night at Sandcliff. It would have saved you all that unnecessary worry and work.’
The dark prince didn’t appear to notice Steven at all. His attention remained focused on his lifelong enemy, now lying prostrate at his feet. ‘And there goes your revolution, you hapless fool. You might have done better with that broadsword.’
Steven was unable to move: Nerak must have cast a spell to keep him still. Was the old man – was Gilmour – really dead? It didn’t matter if he thought the name now, or even said it out loud; it was too late. Could it really have been that simple? All those years, and all that power, and raising himself from the dead – and all it took was one spell … surely Gilmour would have been better prepared than that?
So what do I now, Steven thought, faced with a pantomime villain from the blackest of fantasy stories? Should he have tried to share the power of the hickory staff with Gilmour as he faced this most dire of enemies? Well, it was too late – and in any case, he was still fifty feet away from the staff. Nerak would crush him to dust before he took three steps towards it.
But Gilmour was not done yet. As the emaciated frame began to move, he whispered, ‘That was well done, Nerak, very well done.’ His voice started soft and grew to an amused howl, mocking the black magician. The old man sat up and smiled. ‘Did it weaken you? And do you have more of those little spells at the ready, hidden in those absurd pyjamas you insist on wearing?’
Nerak’s cloak flapped in the wind from the harbour, but the dark prince remained silent.
Gilmour prodded him again. ‘That was your best, wasn’t it? Was that the same spell you used to wipe out Port Denis? It would have worked just fine – more than enough to do the job, I would think.’
The former Larion Senator regained his feet. ‘You never were a very good student, Nerak.’ He gestured towards the small wooden table and the leatherbound book. ‘What are those? Lessek’s spells? One thousand Twinmoons and you still don’t have it figured out?’ He shook his head, the teacher disappointed.
Steven started to worry again: the old man’s words were having an effect now and Nerak looked as if he were about to explode with rage.
‘That was naught but the tiniest of tastes, Fantus, a minuscule sample drawn from the very furthest reaches of my power.’ With each breath Nerak seemed to grow in size. ‘I toy with you, to enjoy seeing how little I need to do to crush you beneath my boots.
‘I will dine on your flesh, Fantus, and suck the very marrow from your bones as I replace Lessek’s Key and open the spell table for my master’s arrival.’
For the first time, Nerak acknowledged Steven’s presence. ‘And you,’ he said, looking down at him. ‘Steven Taylor, my little Coloradoan. You have done well, found reserves of resourcefulness you never knew you had. Hurrah for you!’ His voice grew harder as he continued, ‘You have used Gilmour’s little wooden toy well in your own defence, Steven Taylor, but it’s a stick, and no stick is a match for me. And I’m getting bored with this little charade. You will turn Lessek’s Key over to me now, or—’
As the dark prince started his threat, Gilmour struck without warning, throwing open both arms and propelling himself forward suddenly as he cried out a strange, multi-syllabled word that twisted and turned in Steven’s mind. Nerak tumbled backwards with an ear-splitting shriek that cracked the thick oaken mainmast and sent it crashing into the deck in a ponderous tumble of rigging and sails. Several of Nerak’s still-unconscious sailors were crushed before it rolled to a stop. The Malakasian prince lay stunned himself, overwhelmed for a moment.
‘Now, Steven!’ Gilmour cried, ‘open it now!’
Steven snapped out of his reverie and returned his attention to the metal box. ‘One, two, one,’ he whispered, trying to ignore the black sorcerer and focus on his task. The first cone on the front face was still depressed, flush against the smooth metal. ‘Damnit. Which side was next?’ Steven’s hands began to shake. ‘Did we try right or left?’
Nerak drew his legs up beneath him, preparing to stand.
‘Right or left?’ Steven’s mind went blank and in desperation he depressed the twin cones on the adjacent side to the right of the front face of the locked box.
Nerak sat up and looked at him. A low rumble vibrated through Steven’s body and he realised Nerak was laughing.
The twin cones in the centre of the lower edge of the adjacent side refused to stay in place. Steven turned the box over and depressed the centre carving on its opposite side. The silver ornament snapped flat and remained flush. ‘Two,’ he shouted gleefully to Gilmour, then silently berated himself for attracting Nerak’s attention.
‘What is he doing, Fantus?’ Nerak said, and Steven wondered if he had imagined the dark prince’s look of confused hesitation.
Gilmour didn’t reply.
‘You’re not here for the far portal, are you? I would have thought you wanted the spell book; you cannot have any hope of defeating me without it.’ Nerak was standing now and his voice reverberated in Steven’s mind, a great tidal wave of sound crashing in on him from everywhere at once. ‘What good will the far portal do you? Are you hoping to run from me? That’s absurd, little Coloradoan. You should know there is no place you can hide from me.’
Gilmour remained silent, summoning the power to beat the dark prince into submission long enough for Steven to escape. Flecks of coloured light danced from the older man’s fingertips and veins bulged along his anorexically thin forearms.
‘One, two, one,’ Steven whispered and depressed the second single cone on the front face of the metal lock box. Now he was able to ignore Nerak as the silver ornament clicked into place; he rushed to press the quadruple cone carving left protruding from the upper edge of the box’s top. ‘Four!’ he shouted triumphantly as the four si
des, top and bottom of the metal box fell open and clattered to the wooden deck with a series of resounding clangs. He shuddered as he looked down at the length of folded cloth in his hand: the sensation was just the same as when he and Mark first unrolled the stolen tapestry across the floor all those months ago at 147 Tenth Street, Idaho Springs, lifetimes and worlds away from here. He looked quickly at the hickory staff, wishing he had it to take with him, but it was too late for that – he would be lucky enough if he managed to get the far portal unfurled before Nerak battered through Gilmour’s defences and killed them both.
Nerak almost hovered in the air as he advanced on the infuriatingly resilient old man. His head tilted slightly to one side, he considered Steven’s hasty attempt to escape.
‘Really, Fantus, what is your little protégé doing now?’ He looked down at the novice sorcerer. ‘You have impressed me, boy, opening my box, but now you have a choice. I will not just kill you, but I will make your death last days, or weeks, or millennia of your time, if you do not hand over the key. But should you come to your senses, I will allow you to depart my ship alive. Choose now, choose quickly and choose well. My generosity will not be repeated.’
Steven clapped both hands over his ears and dropped the far portal for a moment as Nerak’s voice nearly tipped him into unconsciousness. He shook his head violently to dispel the echoes, then reached down and gripped the portal by a corner and cast it out before him. In a stroke of good luck, most of the tapestry fell flat on the deck of the great black ship; just one corner remained folded back over itself and Steven cursed as he crawled bodily across the cloth in an effort to smooth out that final fold and fall into his living room at 147 Tenth Street. Unnervingly, even that familiar address sounded strange to him.
As Nerak saw Steven crawling on all fours across the tapestry, he finally realised his mistake. He turned to Gilmour and spat, ‘You don’t have it! Where is my key?’
With studied satisfaction, Gilmour ran one hand across his nearly bald head and grinned. ‘Lessek’s Key, I think you mean – no, we don’t. And we never did.’