by Rob Scott
An injured man, blood pouring down his chest, staggering wildly, appeared behind them, using the tavern wall for support. His head was hanging down, his chin dripped blood, and his obviously expensive tunic front was soaked in crimson nearly to his belt.
Hannah took him round the waist and started, ‘Sir, you need to sit down. We can find someone to help you, but please, you’ve got to sit down.’
Jacrys waited until Hannah had ushered him within arm’s reach of Brexan Carderic, then he whispered, ‘Thank you.’
To Brexan, Hannah said, ‘Help me get him against the wall. We’ll set him down gently-’
Emboldened by the knowledge that he was about to die anyway, Jacrys found a vast reservoir of strength and quickness. Shoving Hannah aside with his left arm, he drew Thadrake’s knife with his right and, screaming a throaty, gurgling cry, slashed wildly at Brexan.
‘No!’ Hannah shouted, falling back. She landed hard on her shoulder and struck her head on the cobblestones. The waterfront and pier flickered white to black, like a camera shutter opening for an instant.
Her eyes rolled back, and a nauseous feeling took hold of her all at once. She wrestled with consciousness, knowing that she needed to get to her feet, but she couldn’t get up, not yet, not even to help Brexan.
Thankfully, Thadrake’s knife had been dulled by a Moon’s use as a cooking tool; the gansel meat, jemma and cheese had taken enough of the edge off that the blade tore through her cloak and tunic, but did little more than scratch her chest. She shouted and stumbled backwards, reeling, more a reflex than anything, and suddenly realised who her attacker was.
‘You,’ she growled at the pale-skinned, gangly stranger with the bloody vestments, ‘not you, not again!’
Unable to take another step, Jacrys wheezed in his dying breath through gritted teeth. He slumped against the tavern wall, hatred alone holding him upright. ‘Come to me, my dear. I’ve been dreaming of this,’ he whispered.
‘That’s fine with me,’ Brexan said.
The Malakasian lunged at her, tried to stab her again, but Brexan batted Jacrys’ hand away and watched the blade skitter across the cobblestones. She took Jacrys’ chin in one hand and wrenched it upwards – she wanted him looking her in the eye – and leaned in close, as if to kiss him goodbye.
Jacrys tried to bite her, but Brexan gently pushed him back against the wall, just hard enough to feel a gust of exsanguinous breath, stinking of old cheese and rich wine.
‘Lieutenant Bronfio,’ she whispered. ‘Sallax and Brynne Farro. Versen Bier. This is for them, horsecock.’ She balled her fist and leaned close enough to feel the greasy strands of his hair caress her face. ‘Oh yes, one more thing: the Larion Senator known as Gilmour is still alive. You did know that, didn’t you?’
His eyes widened. Bubbles of blood dripped from his lips.
Brexan, remembering where Sallax had stabbed him, in the lung, just below the heart, punched him hard, slamming her fist into the same place, hoping it would rip open and bleed, drowning the Malakasian spy in his own blood.
She watched for moment, listening until the last of his breath bubbled to silence at the back of his throat, then she helped Hannah to her feet.
Hannah was speechless. Silently, they went to find Hoyt and Milla.
*
Winter in Pellia was, during cold Twinmoons, a mostly dark time. People living in Pellia grew accustomed to prolonged periods of orange dawn and interminable stretches of violet twilight, the reality of winter in Eldarn’s northernmost city. Glaring yellow sunshine was a rarity during this Twinmoon, so when it did happen, it was a symbol of hope and renewal, of opportunity and rebirth.
Fleeing the wharf, Captain Blackford felt more alive than he had in Twinmoons, and he didn’t hesitate to credit the sun; it had been Twinmoons since he had stopped to appreciate the sun on his face. ‘I’m heading home,’ he said to no one, not caring if anyone heard. ‘My sister’s there; it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.’
He paused to lean against a rail for a moment. He knew he had to get away, but he needed this moment’s grace, a respite from who he had become. With the strange stone nestled in his pocket, he felt he had done something significant, and a moment of sun on his face was not too much to ask in return. He had seen the monster – call it Major Tavon or Redrick Shen; it was still a monster – using the artefact, and he knew the stone was critical to working the table. Without it, he thought Redrick was just hauling an elaborate slab of cold granite north to Welstar Palace. Without it, the table was nothing more than a fancy rock.
For once in his short life, Blackford had done something significant, something genuinely good.
‘Hello, Captain,’ Redrick said, emerging from behind a dockside house. ‘I know you weren’t trying to escape with my key.’
Blackford felt the blood leave his face. Suddenly cold, and very frightened, he stammered, ‘No sir, I- Uh-’
Redrick raised his hands in a gesture that said calm down, please. ‘Don’t be afraid, Captain. Truly, I would not be here if it were not for you.’
‘Please, sir, I-’
‘Captain Blackford,’ Redrick said, his voice all at once harsh, ‘do you have any idea what I plan to do with that chunk of stone you have hidden in your pocket?’
Blackford swallowed hard. ‘No, sir.’
‘I’m going to kill everything, everyone. Do you understand, Captain?’
Blackford felt the world rush away from him, as if it could leave him there alone, leaning against a public mooring post. ‘I- Uh, no, I don’t understand, sir.’
‘What’s to understand, Captain?’ Redrick said, moving closer, looking as amiable as a chainball partner. ‘I have work to do, and you’re keeping me from it.’
‘But sir,’ Blackford started, ‘I…’ He felt his resolve draining away. He wasn’t a brave man; stealing the stone had been the most courageous thing he had ever done. But if Redrick asked for it back, Blackford knew he would crumble.
Instead, the monster came in close and placed his hand flat on Blackford’s chest. ‘What makes you think that you can steal from me, Captain?’ he asked.
Blackford tried to respond, but the demon’s touch was overwhelming. He tried to back away, but couldn’t. ‘What are you?’ he whispered. ‘What is that rock? Why are you doing this? I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to do this to me, not to me. I-’
‘Shhh,’ Redrick whispered in return, ‘It’ll be fine, Captain. Just close your eyes. Do it now.’
Blackford did as he was ordered. There was a gentle press on his chest, and he thought of his sister. She was everything he wished he could be, and tragically, with Redrick Shen’s fingertips pressing on his ribcage, everything he would never be. Blackford tried, in the final moments of his life, to picture his sister, to make her as clear in his mind as he could. If he had to die, that wouldn’t be so bad; she could be with him.
Redrick held the body long enough to withdraw his fingers from Blackford’s chest, then wiped his hand on the dead man’s clothes and felt through his pockets for the keystone. He left Captain Blackford draped carelessly over the hitching stanchion, his body aglow in the unexpected winter sunlight.
BOOK IV
The Fold
MALAKASIAN COLOURS
‘Pel! Kellin!’ Captain Ford shouted, ‘prepare to get underway – I want to catch the inbound tide. Garec, you help them – no, wait, you go and find us Malakasian colours, the largest you can track down. Buy them, steal them, I don’t care; I want to look like Malakasia’s greatest patriot.’ He leapt to the deck and started securing hatches.
‘Will do,’ Garec said, then turned to Kellin. ‘This is Alen; we’ll explain later. How’s Steven? And Marrin?’
‘About the same,’ Kellin said, ‘both feverish, pale, sweating up a rutting ocean, but at least they’re sleeping.’
‘Brexan’s bringing someone who might be able to help.’ He tossed his bow to Kellin, then jogged off to find a flag.
&n
bsp; ‘Let me have a look at them,’ Alen said, starting towards the aft cabins. ‘Are they in here?’
‘No,’ the captain interrupted, ‘not yet. If they’re sleeping, they’ll be fine for now. I need to see you in my cabin.’ He looked at Gilmour. ‘You too.’
‘Very well,’ Alen said, ‘lead the way.’
‘Pel.’ He tossed the boy a line. ‘When Brexan returns, have her join us. She’s bringing someone who might be injured, so make up a berth.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’ It was clear that Pel was nervous. Circumstances had granted him an overnight promotion and discovering that his maiden voyage as the brig-sloop’s second-in-command would be along the Welstar River was no comfort. He looked as though he might simply lie down and wait to die.
‘Pel, you’ll be fine,’ the captain added. ‘Take a breath; it isn’t a very difficult boat to sail.’ He smiled. ‘Let me know as soon as we’re ready to make way.’
Inside his cabin, the Larion sorcerers accepted wine and he took a bottle of beer himself. ‘I’ll get right to it,’ he said, sitting down across from them. ‘We are about to sail the most dangerous stretch of water in Eldarn. The fact that we have made it this far and are still alive is staggering enough, but at this point, I need honesty from both of you.’
‘What can we tell you?’ Gilmour said.
‘Will we live through this? Will my ship and my crew survive? Or is this a suicide mission?’
Alen said, ‘Captain Ford, that’s a difficult thing to answer. If you’re wondering whether you’ll live through the day-’
‘I’m not worried about myself.’ He didn’t care that he had interrupted one of Eldarn’s most powerful men; recent events had made him willing to forego the social niceties. ‘I’m worried about what’s left of my crew, Marrin and Pel, and Kellin and Brexan, and this new woman too, young Hannah. If you’re not certain we’ll see the end of this endeavour in one healthy piece, I want to give them the opportunity to stay behind.’
‘That’s fine,’ Gilmour said, ‘but won’t we need them to crew the Morning Star?’
‘I’ll manage without them if it’s necessary to save their lives. You two can help.’
‘Well then, if we’re being frank, I don’t much care for our chances without Steven,’ Gilmour admitted.
‘The staff wielder?’ Alen asked.
Gilmour nodded. ‘That’s him – though he doesn’t need the staff any longer. He gave it to Nerak, and its power drained – at least I believe – into Steven himself.’
‘Gave it to Nerak? I don’t understand.’ Alen looked as bemused as he sounded.
‘We’ve such a lot to discuss,’ Gilmour sighed. ‘This was an act of compassion. Steven handed the staff over so that Nerak might gain critical knowledge and, in turn, sever the bonds holding him fast to the evil that had taken him all those Twinmoons ago. It was a chance for Nerak finally to die in peace. Well, you know him; he didn’t take advantage of it. Instead, he tried to use the staff to kill Steven… so Steven threw him into the Fold.’
‘Steven threw him into the Fold?’ Alen repeated, incredulously. ‘So Nerak’s dead?’
‘Sorry, I should have mentioned that.’
‘Then who’s-’ Alen hesitated. ‘The thing – the minion itself?’
‘Broke from Nerak at the last moment.’ Gilmour swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘It sensed that Steven was about to send it into the Fold, and it broke away.’
‘And later it took Mark Jenkins?’
‘Confirming for all of us that for the past nine hundred and eighty-three Twinmoons we have been focusing on the wrong thing.’
Alen was still bewildered. ‘So it was never him, the motherless horsecock.’
Gilmour patted his old friend’s shoulder. ‘Oh it was, and it wasn’t – but don’t worry about it now. We have more important things to do.’
‘Which brings us back to my question.’ The captain had been listening carefully, but felt none the wiser.
Alen said, ‘Captain Ford, I fully intend to survive this ordeal, as does my friend here. However, if anyone is going to die on this journey, it will be us.’
‘And Steven, I’m afraid,’ Gilmour added. ‘But you’re right: we should give the others the option of staying behind with the sick.’
‘They won’t,’ Alen said.
‘That’s probably true.’ Ford poured more wine. ‘But for my own sanity, I need to make the offer. I’ve lost too many good people on this journey. I have too many difficult visits to make when I return to Southport.’
‘I’m sorry for that, Captain,’ Gilmour said. ‘It might be some small comfort to their families to know that they died doing the most important thing any of us will ever do.’
‘Would it comfort you?’
‘No,’ Alen said.
He leaned back in his chair. Sighing, he said, ‘This is all a mistake, this whole thing.’
Gilmour got up and started pacing, trying to explain. ‘Captain, a Falkan merchant named Carpello Jax has been sending schooners to Welstar Palace, filled to bursting with some kind of bark or bits of tree.’
‘Old Carpello,’ Captain Ford said, ‘Yes, I know him – knew him, I should say. What’s your point?’
‘The bits come from a forest of enchanted trees near Estrad Village in Rona, planted when Prince Marek took control of Eldarn nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago. The forest is closed to the locals, the trees have grown over time, and Carpello has, over the past hundred Twinmoons or so, begun harvesting the bark, leaves and roots for Prince Malagon, Princess Bellan, our former colleague Nerak, and now Mark Jenkins.’
‘He’s harvesting the Forest of Ghosts as well,’ Alen said.
‘Given what we learned from Brexan,’ Gilmour continued pacing, ‘I can’t say that I’m surprised at that either.’
‘How does this impact the orders I have to give in the next aven?’ The captain was trying to stay focused on the safety of his ship and his crew.
Alen took up the story. ‘We believe Nerak was milling the bark into a powder, then using it in a powerful spell that traps soldiers – men and Seron warriors – in an endless, mindless nightmare, scenes from their lives, played over and over again. It’s a spell Lessek, the Larion founder, called-’
‘The ash dream,’ Gilmour interrupted, ‘holy whores, it’s the ash dream!’
‘Nicely done, my friend – you have been paying attention.’
Gilmour was as pale as a sheet. He managed a smile. ‘At least I’ve been awake for the past thousand Twinmoons.’
‘And you’re no further ahead than I am, so maybe there is something to being well-rested.’ Alen grinned back at him.
Captain Ford asked, ‘Can we get back to the sorcery bit? The stuff about the trees, please?’
‘Right, sorry,’ Alen continued, ‘so all of us, Hannah included, have experimented with bark from the Forest of Ghosts. Some of us were attacked by the trees, but all of us, even my friend Hoyt – who came through the forest unscathed – were subject to the power of the bark once it was harvested. So the implication is that while some can pass through the Forest of Ghosts freely, no one can escape the power of the bark in its milled form. By experimenting, we were able to determine that the bark is unpredictable. Hoyt was entranced for several avens, happily reliving an enjoyable dinner conversation from his youth, and while ensnared, he took orders and performed basic tasks – and even though he should have been falling-down exhausted, he continued working, without a break, until Hannah and I removed the bark. But that only worked with Hoyt; the rest of us, when we were caught in the forest, were inconsolable, unable to take direction, and certainly unwilling to perform even rudimentary jobs.’
‘Hoyt was under the influence of the harvested version?’ Gilmour asked.
‘Yes,’ Alen clarified.
‘So harvested and milled, this tree bark makes it so that you can listen to orders but not care about what you’re asked to do?’
‘Yes,’ Alen said, ‘but again, that
’s just the harvested bark. We hadn’t milled it, and Hoyt hadn’t ingested it in any way – he’d not smoked it, snorted it or eaten it; it was just tied round his neck in a leather pouch.’
Gilmour said, ‘And presumably the milled form would be even more destructive.’
‘But why?’ Ford asked. ‘Who needs something like this? Prince Malagon, or whoever it is now, already has everything Eldarn has to offer. What more could he possibly want?’
Gilmour swept his cloak back and sat down opposite the Pragan sailor. ‘He is probably preparing himself and his army for the advent of an Era so evil, so rife with terror and hatred, that only such a drugged creature could hope to bear the reality of life in Eldarn.’
‘Actually, I think we saw them,’ Alen said.
‘The Seron? They’re in the Eastlands as well. I think Nerak started breeding them again when he knew his crop was ready for harvest.’
‘No, worse than Seron. There’s an encampment at Welstar Palace packed with hundreds of thousands of soldiers, most of whom were obviously under the power of this spell, potion, whatever it is.’
Ford swallowed dryly and checked his tankard. ‘Whoring rutters, and that’s where we’re heading. I hope we catch Mark before he arrives. If we get moving, there’s no reason to think we won’t.’
‘Were they working?’ Gilmour asked, ‘following orders? Keeping busy?’
‘Some, yes,’ Alen replied, ‘but most were simply staring across the river. It was a wretched, dismal place, the worst conditions I’ve ever seen… ever imagined. Boils, pox, infections, broken limbs, severed body parts, bugs and lice – and all of them completely ignored by the officers. The stench of the place was unbearable: rotting flesh, dead but not quite convinced of it yet.’
‘So that explains the Estrad variable,’ Gilmour guessed aloud. ‘If the bark from the Forest of Ghosts sends them reeling back through their lives, only to get ensnared in something hideous – or lovely, maybe – I suppose the bark from Estrad is the leveller.’