by Rob Scott
Brynne was clinging to Sallax’s arm, looking as if she might collapse if she let go, but she wiped a sleeve across her eyes and bent to retrieve her own pack. Sallax watched the flames a moment longer, then turned to join his sister.
They left the clearing and started moving north. The storm they had seen on the horizon was much closer now and Garec knew it would be upon them long before they reached whatever meagre shelter they could find inside the far tree line.
They were several hundred paces out in an exposed snowfield before any of them realised the fire had spread to the surrounding forest. Branches that had been difficult to ignite now burned readily in the chilly dawn breeze. Garec smelled the aroma of wood smoke and spun round to view his handiwork. Several towering lodge pines were burning brightly in the morning sun and he watched impassively as the fire spread like spilled quicksilver along the hillside. Somehow it seemed fitting that Gilmour’s funeral would be more than just another pyre of sweet-smelling pine and burning flesh. It was appropriate that the forest would burn with the Larion Senator’s body, the sanctuary itself collapsing onto its once-powerful leader.
Brynne had struggled to find something to say as they stood over the old man’s broken form. This was better. Garec wiped tears from his cheek and gripped his longbow as he watched the flames reach into the sky like prayers falling on a god’s deaf ear.
The Bringer of Death had destroyed the sanctuary. He had burned down the walls of the very place he had hoped Gilmour’s spirit would call home for all time. He pulled his cloak close and silently hoped he would be strong when the day came to reckon for his transgressions.
Huge clouds of black and grey smoke climbed above them and they could feel the heat of the flames as they tore through the forest like the last act of a rogue demon.
‘Actually,’ Brynne said, ‘it is quite beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ Garec agreed, ‘and it may serve to let Mark – and Steven – know where we are.’ He adjusted the hunting knife at his belt, shifted the crisscrossed straps of his dual quivers, turned back north and led the others through the snow.
‘It does end an era,’ Sallax said, but neither Brynne nor Garec heard him over the roaring flames and northerly winds. ‘Or maybe it begins an era.’ He cleared his throat, spat back towards the blaze and turned to follow Brynne over the pass.
THE STORM
Private Kaylo Partifan, a soldier in Prince Malagon’s Home Guard, tried unobtrusively to scratch at an irritating itch beneath his tunic. He stood at sentry outside the prince’s royal apartments; his watch was nearly over. His chainmail vest was weighing heavily on his shoulders and the wool tunic beneath was nearly driving him mad. He was not permitted to move whilst on sentry duty, so he bit down hard on his tongue to distract himself from the agony. It didn’t work.
Quickly peering up and down the darkened corridor, he brought one arm up, worked two fingers beneath the chainmail and began scratching furiously at his shoulder.
Across from him, Lieutenant Devar Wentra, his platoon leader and friend, smiled knowingly at the younger man. Kaylo himself would never dare speak while on duty, but Devar whispered softly, ‘You had better hope the prince doesn’t see you doing that.’
Kaylo smiled back and considered chancing a brief response when an ear-splitting roar exploded from Prince Malagon’s chambers.
Visibly shaken, Devar said out loud, ‘Lords, now you’ve done it, Kaylo.’
The private snapped to attention, his itch forgotten as he felt the prince’s approach through the wall.
The door to the royal apartments was nearly torn from its hinges as Prince Malagon burst into the hallway. Kaylo felt his heart pound. He was sure the prince could see it.
Malagon’s voice reverberated in the sentries’ heads, nearly knocking them senseless. ‘Lieutenant Wentra! Do you smell that?’
Devar could not remember the dark prince ever looking at one of his Home Guard, never mind addressing any of them face-to-face. Terrified, he fell to one knee and asked meekly, ‘Smell what, sire?’
Malagon’s shriek was a mixture of ecstasy and frustration. The lieutenant slumped face-first to the floor. Private Partifan stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a crooked seam between two stones. He was quite certain he could stare at that small patch of grey mortar for the rest of his life if necessary.
‘Kaylo Partifan,’ Prince Malagon called, gesturing towards him with a robed arm from which protruded a cadaverous white hand.
Kaylo dropped to his knees as if he had been struck in the back of the legs with a broadsword. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘Do you smell that?’
‘I am sorry, sire. I do not, sire.’ He hoped that was the right answer.
‘It is woodsmoke,’ Malagon roared, making Kaylo jump. ‘Woodsmoke, a Twinmoon’s journey away. Woodsmoke, Private Partifan.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘They’re burning his body, his dead, broken, frail, dead little body.’
‘Yes, sire,’ Kaylo said. That response seemed to be keeping him alive.
‘Fantus, you old, dead, peace-loving milksop,’ Malagon chuckled. It was the sound of an insane executioner after a lifetime at the block.
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Now, my soulless hunters, bring me the key,’ the dark prince cried towards the ceiling, and coupled his order with a little jump of excitement. It was so inappropriate and unusual that Kaylo shuddered.
‘And while you’re at it, feel free to finish off the rest of his little band of patriots,’ Malagon continued. ‘Do you not agree, Private Partifan?’
‘I do, sire.’ He had no idea what the prince was talking about, but he certainly wasn’t going to disagree with anything his master said.
Suddenly reserved once again, Malagon turned and made his way, almost floating, back to his chambers.
‘Private Partifan,’ he turned back, almost as an afterthought.
‘Sire?’
‘Order the Prince Marek readied. We leave on the dawn tide two days hence.’
Kaylo was terrified. If he asked where the prince planned to travel, he would be struck dead there in the corridor, his body sprawled alongside Devar’s. But the prince’s advisors and generals would surely hang him themselves if he arrived at the docks with an order and no destination.
Malagon was feeling generous. ‘Orindale, Private Partifan. Tell them we sail for Orindale.’
‘Yes, sire.’ The soldier did not wait for Prince Malagon’s chamber door to slam closed once again before he was up and hurrying along the corridor.
Mark Jenkins was freezing to death. The pace he had maintained had taken its toll. As his vision tunnelled and bright pinpricks of yellow light danced before his eyes, he knew he was about to fail. He had eaten a great quantity of snow trying to stay hydrated and his body temperature was falling. He had finished the last of his rations the previous day and hunger pangs were roiling through his stomach. Dehydration made his joints ache and he began falling to his knees more frequently. The first few tumbles he had rationalised by telling himself he was weary from running through deep snow, but he knew his legs were failing beneath him. If he did not get warm and dry he would most likely pass out… and if that happened, he would never wake again.
How had he managed to get himself into this state? He was alone, and lost in a foreign mountain range, in a foreign world – not just a foreign world, but an impossible world, a fantasy world: a land that by rights shouldn’t even exist. And who was this person who was dragging Steven so effortlessly over such massive mountain passes?
Mark struggled to lift one leg, and then repeated the motion with the other. Again and again. Lift and step; lift and step. Completely exhausted, his thoughts came in short bursts, brief snapshots like old black and white photographs, followed by long, silent periods of nothing: no images, no ideas, or no reflections. Those were the better times. Those were times when he covered a great deal of ground, when all he could think was lift and step and all he could see was
white and green. He continued his battle not because he believed he could summon the strength to defeat Steven’s captors or even because he believed he could carry his friend off through the forest. He resigned himself to the fact that neither of those outcomes was realistic. Rather, he continued trudging across the Blackstone Mountain range, because he could generate no other options, no creative ways to save his own life. Keep moving or die. It was a simple but motivating mantra and Mark mumbled it to himself during times when his thoughts came too rapidly to sort. Keep moving or die.
So he kept moving.
Mark spent the night dug into a snowdrift with his back pressed against a fallen pine tree, but the night was long. Some time before dawn the torch burned out, snuffed suddenly, as if the force keeping it lit had somehow lost track of Mark’s position. He was so thirsty he had eaten nearly twenty handfuls of snow, even though he knew his body would cool quickly and expend much-needed energy. But he was so thirsty. He decided he would risk death to begin the next day well hydrated.
Mark lay there beneath the unfamiliar constellations he had mapped so carefully one warm night back in Rona. He and Brynne had named them as they huddled together under the blankets. There was the one Brynne called the fisherman, because it resembled a man casting a net across half the galaxy. Another lit up the sky to the north; Mark had affectionately dubbed it Tarzan, because it looked like a man swinging towards heaven on a celestial vine. As he looked at the stars, he thought of Brynne, the feeling of her body pressed tightly against his, the smell of her hair, the touch of her lips, her gentle, clever fingers… lost in the sweet memories, for a moment the omnipresent cold and fear faded.
Mark’s half-dream was rudely interrupted as, from the north, a squall-line of grim-looking storms approached fast. An alarm rang in the back of his mind, but he could do nothing about it. He did not have the strength to build a fire, nor dry the wood even if he could summon the energy. He would be buried alive if he tunnelled beneath the snow for shelter. The coming storm would cover the trail he had been following; if they deviated from their northward course, Mark would never find Steven in the Blackstone wilderness.
He looked at the hillside below, then at his boots, buried beneath him in the snow. How many miles had he travelled? How many places had he seen? It would end here. The whole of the world, his world – Eldarn – it didn’t matter, because the whole of the world ended here, with his feet buried in the snow, here in this place.
‘That’s it, then,’ Mark murmured and began searching around for a suitable place to await the end. He was alone. That thought was stronger than the fear, or the cold, or the worry about Steven and Brynne. Mark recalled a preacher at his mother’s church, who regularly entreated congregation members to foster healthy relationships in the Lord’s name, so when death came, no one would feel alone. Now, dragging himself through knee-deep snow, Mark wondered whether, if he had been better about going to church, he would still feel so alone at this moment.
He feared it was true, but it was too late. He was about to die by himself on the side of an Eldarni mountain.
Finding something that looked like a stalwart old ponderosa growing near a rock outcropping, Mark removed his pack, sat heavily on the cold stone and leaned against the tree to watch as the storm blew in overhead. It was then he smelled woodsmoke, faint at first, then growing stronger. Mark craned his neck to look back towards the mountain pass, now a long way behind him. A curious cloud of dark smoke blew across the peak where a downdraught captured it and brought it racing to where he sat awaiting the coming blizzard. ‘Sonofabitch! Garec? Brynne,’ he mumbled with the last of his strength, ‘did you set the whole goddamn mountain on fire?’ Clenching his frozen fingers into stiff, painful fists, he added in a barely audible whisper, ‘You’re going to have to find Steven, guys. I’m done here.’
The view from his perch was beautiful. There was not a peak, a tree or boulder out of place, and Mark wished he could stay awake longer to appreciate the natural perfection of the valley they had fought so hard to reach. He tried to focus his thoughts on Brynne, but it wasn’t long before his eyes closed of their own accord and he drifted away.
‘Jacrys.’
The Malakasian spy woke with a start. Rolling over quickly, he reached out to brace himself and realised he had planted his hand firmly in the burned-down coals of his campfire. ‘Blast and rutting dogs!’ he cried, driving his scorched palm into the snow beside his bedroll.
‘Who’s there?’ He reached stealthily for the knife he kept tucked inside his blankets.
‘Jacrys,’ the voice repeated, and the spy watched carefully as a small deer emerged slowly from a nearby thicket. Its eyes burned amber: Prince Malagon was in residence.
Moving quickly to one knee, he replied, ‘My lord.’
‘You have done well, Jacrys.’ The deer’s mouth did not move; Jacrys was hearing the dark prince in his mind. ‘You took your time, but in the end, I am pleased with your efforts.’
‘Thank you, sire. Gilmour was a powerful man, difficult to trap.’
‘I would expect nothing less of him.’ The deer shot him a disinterested look. ‘Meet me in Orindale.’
Jacrys’s mind raced. Orindale. Why? What would Malagon be doing in Falkan? And why would he want to see his most effective field agent outside the confines of his palace? If anyone saw them together, Jacrys’s cover would be jeopardised for ever. He stopped. That was it then; Malagon was calling him in.
He tried to calm his racing thoughts; who knew how much Malagon could read at this distance? ‘Yes, sire. Will you require me to bring the foreigner to you? I am certain now that he is the one who bears the stone.’
‘I will take care of him. You get to Orindale.’ Malagon’s voice echoed in his head.
What did Malagon mean, he would take care of Steven Taylor? And retrieving Lessek’s Key had been his charge. How exactly did Malagon plan to see this through from so far away? Even from Orindale, Steven Taylor was too well protected to be an easy target for one of the prince’s black spells. Was he sending another almor? More Seron warriors? Too many unanswered questions, and Malagon brooked neither curiosity nor delay, so Jacrys replied only, ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘For your own safety, move west for three days. Then turn north to the valley and follow the river into Orindale.’ The deer paused for a moment, as if ruminating, then added, ‘I will meet you there.’
So Malagon was sending more of his pets. Grand. More bloodthirsty demons wandering about Eldarn killing without warning, hesitation or remorse. Now, more than ever, Jacrys knew he had to find a way to escape to some place where he could live out his days free from the threat of the dark prince’s minions. And why was Malagon bothering with the Ronan partisans now? Gilmour was dead; the rest were scattered throughout the mountain range with virtually no chance of survival. What did they have that Malagon feared enough to dispatch another killer… and, more importantly, why not him? He was right there on the scene already – surely he could find the young man, retrieve whatever it was the prince desired so ardently and be on his way to Orindale without losing more than a day or two.
Jacrys grimaced. It was obvious: Malagon was using his pets for this task because he no longer trusted his field agent. Jacrys was being summoned back to his execution.
He started suddenly: while he had been kneeling here trying to understand the inner workings of his prince’s decidedly unusual mind, Malagon himself, in the person of the deer, was standing there watching him. He hurriedly looked up. Was it too late?
‘Yes, sire,’ he said. ‘Your word is my command.’
‘Of course.’
Jacrys didn’t think a deer could look sardonic, but this one made a good try.
‘Here is sustenance enough to reach Orindale.’
The deer collapsed dead at his feet.
Jacrys tried not to flinch as the voice in his mind continued a moment longer, ‘Remember, Jacrys, three days west before turning north into the valley.’
Whatever Malagon was using to dispatch the remaining Ronan travellers, he was sending it soon. And unlike the Seron, or even the grettan packs, this threat was dangerous enough for Jacrys to be removed from the area. Now he was scared.
Not wanting to waste another moment, Jacrys rubbed another handful of snow across his blistered palm and began gutting the deer.
By sunrise, he knew he needed more time. He needed to work out why the foreigners and the stone talisman so threatened Prince Malagon, and the only way to do that was to mask his arrival in Orindale. At least he was just the man for the job. He would wait, observe, and then do whatever was necessary to retrieve that stone, even if it meant killing Steven and rifling through his clothing on a busy Falkan thoroughfare.
Steven was cold. He had fallen into a deep sleep after his encounter with the spirit Gabriel and had been awakened by the periodic jolts as his pine-bough gurney bumped its way over fallen trees and rocks only half-submerged by the snow. The sharp pain that burned across his shoulder and ribcage had subsided; Steven wondered how long he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. The piercing agony in his lower leg had eased too. It had been replaced by a rhythmic throb, and for a moment Steven thought he might be able to escape under his own power if he could get free.
He tested his theory by wiggling his toes, but in the end he couldn’t be sure he felt them rubbing back and forth inside Garec’s boots, or if he was imagining their movement because he so desperately wanted them to be all right. He was still at the mercy of whomever was dragging him backwards through the forest.
There was no sign of Mark. Steven wondered whether the mysterious wraith had failed to locate him, or if they had fallen upon some misfortune of their own. It was a bit dumb of him to assume his friends were following along behind, warm and dry and happily chatting back and forth about Falkan cuisine. They’d be facing their own share of hardship and delays as well.