The Hickory Staff

BRANAG OTHARO’SLEATHER GOODS ANDSADDLERY EMPORIUM

In the days since her arrival in Praga, Hannah Sorenson had seen nothing of Southport; except for a few nervous glances around as Hoyt and Churn led her hastily to Branag Otharo’s Leather Goods and Saddlery Emporium, she had no idea what Southport was like. She had seen the harbour from the hilltop where she spent her first night, but since then she had been sequestered in the storage area at Branag’s. Her deadly dull routine was occasionally enlivened by having to duck inside a hidden antechamber tucked artfully between the saddler’s workshop and the cold room adjacent to the Seaweed Inn, a tavern catering for the more reprehensible of Southport’s wharf rats, sailors and dockside whores. Those were the worst moments: Hannah nearly gagged every time Branag or Hoyt adjusted the replaceable planks to create a space for them to crawl inside. Hannah was becoming increasingly certain nothing but rancid meat and spoiled beer were ever served at the Seaweed, and that every single patron in the dilapidated waterfront structure chain-smoked something Hoyt called fennaroot; in an effort not to breath in the foul stench she kept her face pressed against the ancient boards forming the back wall of Branag’s storage room. From that position, she could at least imagine the tangy aroma of tanned leather and heavy polish breaking through the miasma.

The drill was always the same. A riotous clamour would begin at the far end of Branag’s narrow street whenever a Malakasian patrol was conducting a house-to-house search for the fugitives who had allegedly murdered five – or perhaps even seven – soldiers in a surprise attack outside the city. With each search the brutality worsened as the number of supposed Malakasian casualties grew. On their first night in Southport, a squad of black-clad soldiers burst through the entrance of Branag’s store looking for the murderers who might have killed one soldier somewhere along the coastal highway east of town. They were especially interested in finding a young woman dressed in odd, brightly coloured clothing, wearing white cloth slippers and heavy breeches.

Several days later, the number of Malakasian dead had increased, as had the fugitive band of killers, now a veritable brigade of well-armed, half-crazed homicidal monsters who at any moment might turn against the peaceful citizens of Southport.

The din was a reaction, people crying out, shouting for family members, children, even pets to come inside, but in actuality, the noise was nothing more than a warning that the patrol was coming. Anyone who needed to be hidden had better get hidden quickly, to ensure the Malakasian scrutiny passed harmlessly over the otherwise quiet street.

Branag’s response was always the same as well. Hustling back into the storage area, he whistled a quick warning to Hoyt, who in turn scurried behind the rows of tanned cowhides dangling loosely from the ceiling like macabre curtains to pry open two planks leading to the hidden chamber. Once inside, the trio would sit absolutely still, saying nothing, avoiding positions that forced them to shift their legs or arms, and counting the moments until the platoon moved on to the next block. Hannah would bury her face in her hands and listen to the shuffle and scuff of heavy Malakasian boots as they made their way through Branag’s building. She would try to slide deeper into the shadows, shrinking and folding her thoughts down into the darkest parts of her mind, sitting stone-like, somehow closer to death every time those boots stopped shuffling about. Had they seen something? Did they notice a plank askew? Had one of them finally seen that this building was slightly narrower inside than out? There would be no escape; they were trapped in a closet.

But the soldiers never came. They never noticed. With their departure each time, Hannah would slowly raise her head and bright fireworks of yellow and white light would dance about where she had pressed her eyes too tightly against the hard surface of her knees.

The first night in Southport, Hoyt insisted they remain in the foetid chamber as random searches continued until dawn. Teams of soldiers burst in and tossed saddles, leather harnesses, belts, half-finished boots and even untreated hides aside in hopes of turning up evidence that the saddler was harbouring criminals. That night had been the worst of Hannah’s life. After a while Hoyt, sensing her burgeoning anxiety, lit a thin paraffin taper to bring the tiniest, muted half-light to the foul closet. In the candlelight, Hannah saw weapons, hundreds of primitive axes, swords, daggers and bows, hanging from hooks and wires along the narrow interior of the hidden chamber. Behind her were five bloated hemp bags; one, slightly open, revealed thousands of silver coins.

At that moment Hannah realised she had been rescued by two members of some kind of organised militia. If she were found in this place, with this cache of weapons and money, she would most likely be interrogated, tortured and killed. Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she tried not to think about how they might try to extract information – information she didn’t have and couldn’t give them. ‘Steven,’ she whispered, too low even for Hoyt to hear, ‘where are you, Steven?’

When not huddled together and holding their collective breath in Branag’s secret hidey-hole, Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were confined to the storage room. While the two men planned their trip to a town called Middle Fork, they passed the time working on some of Branag’s leather creations. Hannah, bored, discovered she was quite skilled at polishing and buffing saddles to a mirror shine; she beamed when the saddler complimented her work. Branag managed to spirit them food and beer in wooden crates draped with untreated hides or leather goods in need of repair. He was renowned locally for his titanic appetite, and did not think occupation soldiers were scrutinising his behaviour so closely that he would be questioned for having an abundance of food on the premises – but he had learned never to take risks. Preserving his anonymity while protecting the weapons and silver stashed behind his store was of paramount importance, so all their food tasted faintly of leather.

In spite of that, Hannah found the food acceptable. Some of it was delicious, though she elected to pass on a few items: some were unidentifiable, others frankly so disgusting she couldn’t manage, even for politeness, to force herself to eat the gristly morsels. Her jacket and sweater were traded for a wool tunic with a leather belt and, despite her pleas, Hoyt demanded she give up her trainers and blue jeans for sturdy homespun leggings and a pair of newly sewn boots – at least they were Branag’s finest.

Churn cut her hair. Motioning for her to turn around and sit on a short stool, he used a pair of Branag’s sharpest shears to slice off the flaxen tresses. After six or seven deft snips, any evidence that Hannah’s hair had ever reached below her shoulders rested now in a clump at Churn’s feet. He whistled for Branag, who must have known Hannah’s impromptu shearing was on the agenda because he came into the storage room stirring a palm-sized ceramic bowl with a fine horsehair brush. A heavy-bodied dog, a wolfhound, Hannah guessed, padded along beside him.

‘This won’t be permanent,’ Branag told his apprehensive customer. ‘It’s a mixture of berries, tree bark and thin sap, all boiled down with fish oil to make it smooth.’

‘Lovely.’ Hannah looked around the room for the most appropriate corner in which to wretch. ‘Uh… what colour are you- Well, not to be picky, but what colour-’

‘Light blue.’ Branag’s face was stone, the dog at his side, silent. Hannah blanched. ‘How about if we look into a hat or something?’

The big Pragan’s icy countenance broke and his bright smile warmed the room. ‘Brown, Hannah Sorenson. I thought we would dye it a darker shade of brown.’

Hannah sighed with relief. ‘Oh, well, brown shouldn’t be-’ She craned her neck to get a view inside the bowl; for a moment she’d worried that Churn might forcibly hold her down while Branag painted the top of her head the colour of a cloudless summer sky. The leather craftsman tilted the mixture towards her and Hannah calmed noticeably when she saw the grim-smelling amalgamation. It smelled like a fisherman’s socks, but at least the colour would pass.

When they were through, Hannah’s face wrinkled into a grimace she feared she might wear for the rest of her life. ‘How long will it smell like this?’ Even Branag’s wolfhound had moved to the other side of the room, his nose buried beneath two enormous paws.

‘Not long,’ Hoyt assured her, ‘eight or nine days at the most.’

She laughed and slugged him hard in the shoulder. ‘Well, I won’t need to worry about them finding me in that closet. They’ll get within two or three steps of the door and decide something hideous must have died in there.’

Periodically, Hoyt and Churn ventured out separately to check on the disposition of the Southport citizens. Branag had told them several young men had been accused and hanged for the soldier’s murder and Hoyt had to fight the urge to summarily strangle every occupation soldier who happened by. Neither he nor Churn had ever had an innocent bystander punished for their efforts before, and he didn’t like it.

‘We will make them pay for this,’ he promised under his breath. Hannah detected a different side of the otherwise cheerful young man, a sinister side normally veiled from view by his carefree demeanour. She made note of it, and vowed to be out of the Pragan healer’s reach if he got angry again.

During the next couple of days Hannah marvelled at how Hoyt could change his appearance without apparently trying. A sunken chest, a dropped shoulder, or a protruding stomach: Hannah was startled at the difference such simple changes made. He would leave the store a different person altogether.

When Hoyt returned, he and Branag would speak in hushed tones while signing for Churn. She was sure they were planning something, some retaliation for the innocent lives lost; she was almost glad the trio was keeping her out of the discussion. But as much as Hannah worried their plans might bring her into harm’s way, she did not want to flee and turn herself over to the Malakasians. The only occupation soldiers she had met had been determined to gang-rape her; the Malakasians she was now experiencing – albeit second-hand – were responsible for murdering innocent civilians and trashing Branag’s store at regular intervals for no reason.

Though she tried not to eavesdrop, she could not control herself and strained to make out anything that might give her more information on her whereabouts, on Eldarn, and especially on how she might find Steven and get home.

One morning, Hoyt dared a limp, a dangerous endeavour, he explained, because limps had to be consistent. ‘I’ll never get away with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t kind of limp popular on stage. All of those actors are trying to appear as if they have a limp. That’s their mistake. People with a limp are always trying to look as if they don’t have a limp. That’s my secret.’

‘I’m sorry, Hoyt, but that doesn’t sound like much of a strategy to me.’ Hannah was dubious. ‘You’re going out as a man with no limp pretending to be someone with a limp who doesn’t want people to know he has a limp?’

‘Churn!’ the young man bellowed excitedly, ‘we have a virtuoso among us.’ He grinned. ‘That’s exactly it. Well, that and rhythm.’

‘Rhythm?’

‘Yes. I have to ensure I have the rhythm down. People can live with almost anything if it eventually has a predictability… I mean look at Eldarn. No one really gets riled up about revolution until Malagon starts ordering his emissaries to play too rough and people start dying. Predictability breeds a sense of consistency and security. As long as my limp has a steady rhythm, a steady beat, let’s say drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step, I’ll look like I have been struggling with it for fifty Twinmoons.’

‘Amazing,’ Hannah said, surprised herself at how impressed she was with the young man’s resourcefulness, ‘but why not just change your hair or wear a hat – or maybe grow a beard?’

‘Amateurs.’ Hoyt draped an irregularly shaped length of tanned cowhide over one shoulder, tousled his hair until it fell in ragged unkempt strands across his face and shuffled awkwardly out front, the rhythm of his limp perfected already.

When Hoyt returned that evening, he came back in a rush. His hands were dirty, stained almost black by what appeared to be a mixture of soot and blood. He was breathing heavily and sweating, and his face was covered with a thin coating of dark grey dust.

‘We need to be ready to move into the back,’ he said, signing simultaneously to Churn, ‘there may be searches again tonight.’

Churn was sitting against one of Branag’s trestles while Hannah rested against the far wall. Two tall candles illuminated the room. She fought the desire to ask Hoyt what had happened, deciding he would tell her if it were something she needed to know. She was quietly impressed that even in the wake of whatever blow he had struck for the Pragan Resistance, Hoyt’s adopted limp was still there, drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step. She watched him move towards his bedroll in the back corner and wondered if the sinister side of the healer, the invisible spirit that haunted Hoyt from time to time, had been permitted to emerge and stretch its gossamer legs that evening.

Branag Otharo was a different matter. From what Hannah had gathered during his periodic visits to the storage room, he was an honest businessman who hated the Malakasian occupation force and their leader, someone called Malagon, a prince of some sort. His long days at the shop were fuelled by venison stew, fresh bread and cold beer at the corner tavern, which led her to believe he was not married, or attached, or whatever they called it here in Eldarn. Flanked constantly by the dog Hannah never heard him refer to as anything but ‘dog’, Branag didn’t appear to have any other companions besides the customers who stopped by periodically, and the itinerant rebels hiding in his back room.

He was a powerful man, with a barrel chest and thick forearms, dressed in a long-sleeved cotton tunic tucked into wool breeches with high boots, regardless of the heat. But what made the greatest impression on Hannah was Branag’s kindness. Despite his size, he appeared to be a gentle soul; he didn’t strike her as the kind of person who would hold anyone, even an occupation force, in such contempt. Like Hoyt though, there was something beneath the surface of the artisan’s jovial demeanour, something unspoken that was motivating him. Hannah could not bring herself to ask what Branag’s grim secret was.

One evening, after a particularly difficult stint in the foul-smelling secret chamber, Branag made a special trip to the tavern to find Hannah some tecan. He brought back a flagon-full, and bottles of beer for Hoyt and Churn.

As she sipped it gratefully, he asked if she had any children.

‘No,’ Hannah replied, ‘at least not yet.’ The question was unexpected; no one had shown much interest in her background so far. She tried to read him, but his face was impassive, not brooding or sullen, but rather devoid of any emotion at all. ‘I do hope to have children one day… perhaps even one day soon,’ she added optimistically.

‘I see,’ he said as he poured her another cup, then he patted the big dog affectionately behind his ears and wished them all good night. Turning to leave, he paused momentarily in the short hallway separating the storage area from the shop’s main showroom. Backlit by a rank of thick candles casting a hazy yellow glow across the burnished saddles and leather goods, he whispered, ‘I believe children are as close as we are allowed to come to feeling as though we have, for just a moment, been singled out by the gods. It is their way of touching us, even briefly, as we make our way to the Northern Forest.’

Hannah could not see his face, but the emotion in his voice answered all her questions. They were gone, and of course he would fight. She felt her chest tighten; she hoped she could reply before he heard her choke back a sympathetic sob. She didn’t feel she had earned the right to cry for the older man.

Casting him a bright smile, Hannah replied, ‘When I have children, Branag, I will remember that, I promise.’

‘A good journey to you, Hannah Sorenson,’ he said, then turned to the Pragans. ‘Hoyt, Churn, good luck.’

Before dawn the following morning, Hannah Sorenson made her way silently out of Branag’s saddlery shop, crouching low behind Hoyt as she moved into the dark street beyond.

Steven Taylor was up and in the saddle, awaiting his companions, before dawn. He felt no hunger or thirst, just an urgent desire to move away from this place. Maybe time and distance between himself and his violence would mitigate the anguish he felt every time he pictured the Seron, dying with a broken length of hickory jutting clumsily from his neck.

He had not been able to participate in Mika’s funeral rites. He had no right to be there. The stench of burning flesh when Sallax ignited the pine boughs beneath the body made him vomit. But he did feel a sense of closure, if not happiness, when Versen and Garec tossed the Seron dead onto their own fire. Even from a distance, Mika’s funeral had been touching. The young Ronan looked as if he were sleeping soundly on a bed of soft, scented pine needles; disposing of the Seron was its antithesis, a makeshift common grave for the animal-like warriors. Soulless and perhaps godless, they burned away in an anonymous pile of broken and dismembered bodies. Garec and Versen tossed the dead into the flames of the pyre, then paid them no further attention.

Now Steven sat astride his mount and waited for the coming dawn. In his hands he held the hickory staff he had used to save his friends’ lives. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over the bloodstain that discoloured the wood: how could Gilmour have reconstructed it so perfectly? Steven could detect no scars where the fragments had broken apart. This morning, as it rested across his lap, he began to grow more comfortable with it there, if no less terrified of what he had done with it.

Steven thought of the magic that had glowed between Gilmour’s fingers; he hoped the old man had enough sorcery left to reconstruct him, to help him forget his experiences in Eldarn and return to Idaho Springs as the timid, scholarly, assistant bank manager he had been only two weeks earlier. He had lived his life as a coward and a pacifist. Although he had discovered bravery in recent days, bravery he had never imagined finding inside himself, he could not accept that he had become violent too. He was deeply uncomfortable with the fact that he had killed two Seron warriors in hand-to-hand combat, even though it had undoubtedly been necessary to save his friends’ lives, but it was the third man who would haunt him for ever.

He had won the fight, disabled the enemy, and then shown no mercy.

Ignoring the sharp chill that sent cramps rippling through his legs, Steven realised he had never known how important mercy was to him. He had often been shocked and horrified at newspaper or television reports of the brutal behaviour of terrorists, or soldiers battling for a cause. His mental tally included kidnappers who killed victims even after collecting ransom money and gunmen who fired on bystanders even though their escape routes lay open. He had hated those people, he abhorred anyone who chose to be merciless: they were the cruellest and most deplorable examples of humankind.

He had become one of them.

He and Gilmour had murdered Seron in blind rage even though, ironically, they were the only members of the Ronan company who had not been attacked when the assault began.

Steven looked down at the hickory staff. It would never happen again. He would never again forget to show mercy. There was no cause worth fighting for if victory meant he was devoid of compassion. He ran his hands along the smooth wooden grain and raised the stained end to sniff at the vestiges of dried blood that clung to the shaft. He had learned bravery and violence in the last weeks. He was strong and athletic, with a sharp mind; Steven was afraid he had only begun to uncover the potential he had for warfare. Death would surround him on this journey; to live through it, he had to remember his true values. He had been a coward and pacifist, and his life had been empty. He could not afford to be a coward or a pacifist here in Eldarn. Somehow he had to tread the thin line between being a killer and killing to preserve love, compassion and peace for the people of Eldarn.

‘Ah, you’re lying to yourself to soften the blow,’ he chided. ‘That’s a bullshit excuse, and you know it.’ He wanted it to be true, though. He wanted to be the one who would fight for something good, something meaningful for those around him. His grandparents talked of the Second World War, and a common unity in the resolve to prevail against evil. He and Mark faced evil now. Why then could he not achieve that righteous vision, a vision his grandparents had realised in the 1940s?

Perhaps, Steven thought, it’s because we have the illusion of happiness. Perhaps we all live with fear or regret, and that is a tragic reality we face but never discuss. He glanced at the remains of Mika’s funeral pyre. Perhaps my inability to differentiate between killing and killing for a cause is the reality that will crack the foundation of my illusion of contentment.

With resolve and time, maybe his conscience would settle. For today, he would use Garec’s dry Ronan wine to soften his guilt.

‘Again the coward,’ he said, and forced a laugh.

‘What’s that?’ Mark approached carrying two brass goblets filled with the hot tecan Garec had brewed over their small campfire. He handed one up to Steven. ‘Good morning to you too. How long have you been sitting up there?’

Steven pulled a tunic sleeve down far enough to protect his fingers and took the cup gratefully. ‘I don’t know, a couple hours, an aven, a lifetime.’

Mark drank as well. ‘I think I have this tecan figured. When Garec strains it twice and adds an extra pinch of the darkest leaves, it tastes almost like a French roast.’

‘You’re right,’ Steven agreed, ‘it is good.’

‘Now if we could only get some decent coffee cups…’ He grinned, before turning serious. ‘How are you doing this morning?’

‘I’ve stopped shaking, if that’s what you mean.’ He inhaled the aroma, then gestured at Mark’s scratched face and bandaged shoulder. ‘You?’

‘I’m alive, thanks to you.’ He patted Steven’s horse gently on the neck. ‘I know you’re sitting up there analysing yourself to a standstill, but that Seron would have killed us. You saved my life, and Brynne’s too: we couldn’t handle him on our own. You didn’t start this.’

‘How is she this morning?’

‘I haven’t talked with her, but I’m sure she’s fine,’ Mark replied. ‘She’s tough, tougher than any woman I’ve ever known. She didn’t hesitate to pull her knife. Sallax was right; she is skilled with that thing. I can’t believe how she moved in on that big bastard, stabbed him right in the chest, and it barely slowed the motherhumper down.’

‘I hope she’s okay,’ Steven moved to dismount, ‘and I’ll be all right, too. I just never imagined I would kill anyone, never mind three people in fifteen seconds.’ He handed the hickory staff and goblet down to Mark. ‘Hang onto these for a second.’

Mark ran his hand along the smooth wooden staff. ‘It’s remarkable. I can’t see where it was broken.’

‘I can’t either, and it seems stronger than it was last night, almost as though Gilmour’s magic has imbued it with some impenetrable strength.’ He laughed at himself. ‘Listen to me: I sound like I believe all this voodoo magic shit.’ He shuddered slightly, then added, ‘I wonder why he insisted on repairing it anyway. It’s just a piece of hickory.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ Mark said.

‘And?’

‘Do you see any hickory trees in this ravine?’ Mark gestured towards the hillside. It was true. There were no hardwoods in sight save the twisted scrub oaks growing beneath the evergreens. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was no accident you picked up this piece of wood.’

By midday, Steven had finished most of a wineskin by himself. He was drunk, not falling-from-the-saddle-drunk, but numbingly, pleasantly drunk. It was a skill he had learned after graduating from college: how to drink just enough to maintain a happy and painless stupor. College had taught him nothing about alcohol except that drinking as much as he could stand inevitably resulted in poor sexual performance, sickening bed spins and powerful all-day hangovers. It took years to learn to slow or stop drinking when he achieved the perfect inebriated state, somewhere between sober and falling down.

His thoughts began to drift back to Colorado, and the many trails, each turn and switchback memorised, that crisscrossed foothills similar to these. Loosely gripping the reins, he imagined himself wandering through Three Sisters Park or along the Mt Evans trail above Evergreen. He could feel glacier snow beneath his boots and smell clouds of pine pollen as spring breezes cascaded along the Front Range. He saw himself break through the tree line above Leadville as he approached Mt Elbert’s peak, and remembered the lush ferns growing near a stream that flowed past the Decatur Peak trailhead.

Decatur Peak. He and Mark had planned to climb it one last time before winter set in. Hannah had wanted to come with them.

He thought of Hannah Sorenson, and the lilac aroma that lingered in the space between her neck and hair. It was like an alcove, a tiny cave where he could hide away, inhale her essence, and close his mind to the frightening and terrible things he had seen and done since his arrival in Eldarn.

He wondered where she was, and if she was worried about him. He imagined her brow furrowed as she leaned patiently on the staff sergeant’s desk at the Idaho Springs police station. Would the officer find that wrinkled brow endearing, or would he simply push a sheaf of papers across the desk at her? ‘Fill these out, ma’am,’ he would say, unconcerned that she might be losing hope, or worse, losing interest. Steven worked to keep his thoughts focused, frightened of the pain that lay just beyond the edge of his consciousness. If he allowed his mind to run its course, he would convince himself that Hannah had become distracted by more important things in her life. She would forget him and move on. Did she not know how he cared for her? If their roles were reversed, he would never stop looking for her.

Then it was too late. He crossed the line and his musings were out of control. He was a murderer, lost and alone in this curious world of terror and hatred, and he had just convinced himself that his girlfriend was already forgetting him. Reaching for the wineskin again, he decided a comfortable, relaxed stupor was not enough to get him through the afternoon. He needed the whole package, the falling-down, blubbering, sobbing, blacking-out inebriation he remembered from his youth. If Sallax and Versen were disappointed in him and his weakness, so be it. They could tie him to the saddle if they were so damned set on getting to Welstar Palace.

‘Good night,’ he called aloud to anyone listening, and was about to take a long swallow from the wineskin when Gilmour interrupted his tailspin.

‘They weren’t human, you know.’ The old man took the wineskin from him and swallowed a mouthful.

‘What’s that?’

‘The Seron aren’t really human.’ Gilmour re-corked the wineskin. ‘You didn’t kill human beings last night, Steven. It was more akin to killing a pack of wild dogs that attacked you in the forest.’

‘No it wasn’t, Gilmour. It was exactly like killing people, because at the time I killed them, I believed they were people.’

‘You make a good point. However, if it’s any comfort, those Seron were denied the opportunity to enjoy a full human life many Twinmoons ago. Look at it as bringing peace to unthinkably tortured creatures.’ He gave Steven a compassionate look before adding, ‘We may face much worse before we reach Welstar Palace.’

‘And even worse when we arrive there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure I can do it, Gilmour.’ Steven tightened his grip on the hickory staff.

‘You rose to the occasion last night.’

‘I was in a blind rage last night. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

Smiling his boyish grin, Gilmour reach over and gripped Steven’s shoulder in a show of empathy. ‘Yes, you did. It’s just that you never realised what it feels like. All rage is blind rage, Steven. Learning to tap it to save yourself or your friends will see you through this ordeal.’

‘I don’t want to learn to tap it; it’s not a tap I can turn on and off.’ He searched for the right words. ‘I’m afraid that if I master that skill, I will lose myself. I will never again be Steven Taylor, the person I was before I unfolded that bloody tapestry, or before I picked up this miserable stick.’

‘I can tell you already, my friend, losing Steven Taylor, the bank employee from Colorado, was done the moment you withdrew Lessek’s Key from the safe.’

‘I’m not ready to accept that, Gilmour,’ Steven said, even now knowing, deep inside, that the old magician was right.

‘You need to get ready. I can’t guess what Lessek will tell you, but I do know we must try to summon him tomorrow night.’

A narrow canyon, invisible from a distance, cut a snakelike path through the precipitous slopes of the Blackstone Mountain range. Brynne squinted against the dwindling sunlight, trying to pick out the pathway Gilmour assured her was there, but she couldn’t see it against the shadowy grey of the cold granite wall before them. Her back was sore from days of hard riding, and she longed to make camp for the night, eat a hot meal, and pass out in her bedroll. The brief but unexpected skirmish with Malagon’s Seron warriors had left her shaken, but she worked to divert her attention to more productive thoughts. Their journey was important to the people of Eldarn, and she knew much more would be expected from her in the coming Twinmoons.

Reflecting on the battle, Brynne found it curious that she had feared more for Mark Jenkins than herself; she’d been deeply relieved when he emerged from the struggle unscathed. Her anxiety grew as she imagined the coming conflict, especially now that she knew she would put herself in harm’s way to protect the charismatic stranger. It was an awkward time to discover she had feelings for him and ironic that her most ardent feelings rarely emerged at a convenient time.

The day passed quietly. Steven Taylor was drunk but rode well enough to keep up with the rest of the group. An air of nervous tension lay over the sober members of the party, and though no one mentioned it, they were all contemplating Gilmour’s disclosure that they had been tracked from Estrad by an unseen enemy. Anticipating another attack at any moment, Garec kept an arrow nocked on the longbow across his lap. Versen held a short battle-axe in one hand, and even Mark had his sword loose in its scabbard.

Despite their exhaustion, Sallax pushed them ever forward, encouraging Versen to find a navigable trail over the last wooded foothill that lay between them and Seer’s Peak. When they finally reached the mountain’s base, just before twilight, Brynne nearly fell from the saddle. Mark had to reach up to help her dismount. He was shattered and there was no affection in his touch; rather, it was a courtesy offered from one spent traveller to another. Steven half-climbed and half-rolled from the saddle, clumsily untied his bedroll and collapsed. Within moments, he was asleep.

Mark felt badly for Steven, but didn’t envy his friend the hangover he would have in the morning. Taking in their surroundings, he noticed the valley they were in was lush with shrubs, ferns, evergreens and the ubiquitous scrub oak. Gilmour told them they would camp here for two nights while he, Garec and Steven climbed Seer’s Peak and attempted to summon Lessek’s spirit. Breathing deeply, Mark smelled the cool mountain air and wished he were in a valley along a stream near home. He found a comfortable place in which to unroll his blankets and was about let sleep take him for the night when Sallax approached across the clearing.

‘You’re first watch tonight,’ the indefatigable Ronan partisan said sharply. Brynne tried to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping on the exchange.

‘You trust me, Sallax?’

‘I saw you fight that Seron. You were trying to protect Brynne.’

‘Of course. I would have fought to protect any of us-’ He stood and looked Sallax in the eye. ‘Even you.’

Surprising Mark, Sallax laughed out loud, a sound like a muffled gunshot. ‘Yes, perhaps even me. Let’s hope we never have to find out.’ Reaching into his belt, he withdrew a deadly-looking axe and handed it to Mark. ‘Here, use this. That rapier doesn’t suit you.’

Accepting the menacing little weapon, Mark thanked Sallax before asking, ‘Why is this better for me?’

‘The rapier takes many Twinmoons to master, and even then it leaves too many holes in one’s defence.’ Using his hand as a makeshift axe, he demonstrated. ‘The battle-axe is much easier to wield. Just remember to make snap blows with your wrists and forearms, retracting as quickly as you strike. Don’t try to hack off limbs. It will slow you down and leave your upper body open to counterattacks.’

‘Very good,’ said Mark, swallowing hard, ‘I won’t try to hack off any limbs.’

‘Excellent!’ Sallax hugged Mark in an uncharacteristic show of camaraderie and commanded, ‘Wake Garec in an aven.’

Dawn found Gilmour awake and already brewing a large pot of tecan. He knew Steven and Mark missed their daily coffee; this was the best compromise he could come up with. Though he had racked his brain, he could not recall coffee’s flavour. He had finished his last cup on Little Round Top above Gettysburg, Pennsylvania just before Confederate artillery began shelling those heights from far below. The Larion Senator promised himself that if they succeeded in ending Nerak’s reign of terror, he would return to Pennsylvania and perhaps brew another pot there in the trees above Devil’s Den. That was for the future. Today, he would climb Seer’s Peak and, hopefully, contact Lessek. While his friends slept around him, he questioned whether his determination and magic were enough to defeat Nerak. He lacked confidence, and although he would never do so in front of the others, he wondered seriously whether they could really win against evil itself. Could it work? He knew of no force in the universe strong enough to defeat evil. The best they could hope for was to equalise it, to evenly match it with powerful magic, not to destroy it. He believed there was as much good in the universe as evil, and far more good in Eldarn than the evil Nerak represented. But Nerak was evil itself, an intact minion of evil’s essence held together by a supreme mandate from beyond the plane of the universe, the Fold.

If this were to be done, he would need Lessek’s help. Gilmour yearned for the founder of the Larion Senate to offer encouragement and to give him a strategy to save Eldarn. ‘And ourselves,’ he added quietly in a hopeful whisper, ‘to save ourselves as well.’

He needed to be more careful. He had put himself in harm’s way so frequently in the Twinmoons since the fall of the Larion Senate he never considered the potential consequences. With him dead, Nerak would come down on Mark and Steven like a firestorm. It would take only a moment, and the location of Lessek’s Key would no longer be a secret. Gilmour represented their only protection. He would use his own magic to safeguard Steven and Mark from the dark prince’s possession. He had to stay alive.

‘Nerak believes we have the key with us,’ the old sorcerer mused aloud. ‘That’s why he’s trying so diligently to kill us.’ He warmed his hands over the fire and stirred the tecan. ‘As long as he thinks we have the key and as long as I’m alive, we’ll have an advantage.’

Branag Otharo perched the tankard of beer precariously on his upturned wrist, placed a small loaf of bread atop a mountain of steaming venison stew in a wooden bowl and freed one hand to tug down on the leather strap threaded through the door to his saddlery emporium. He felt the latch inside come free, retrieved the mug and nudged the door open with his toe. The day had been warm, but with sunset, a cool wind had moved in with the rising tide.

Branag paused in the doorway and searched the street. ‘Dog!’ he shouted, then peered along the road in the opposite direction. ‘Dog! Come on now!’ The big wolfhound had been at his side all day, even as he walked to the tavern to pick up his dinner. ‘Dog!’ Branag cried again and waited several moments before adding, ‘All right then, but you’ll be out all night.’ He paused, hoping to detect the familiar sound of the great hound’s loping run along the muddy thoroughfare. Hearing nothing but the distant jangle of a ship’s bell, Branag entered the shop and allowed the door to close behind him.