The Hickory Staff

SEER’S PEAK

Seer’s Peak, flanked by towering, jagged mountains, looked like an unfinished building in a city of skyscrapers. Short, nearly flat on top, the crest looked as if it had been hacked off, truncated by some vindictive god with a scythe. The initial slope was steep, but Gilmour’s camouflaged trail, although precipitous and narrow, was easily navigable.

Steven, well used to mountain trekking, passed his sturdy length of hickory to Gilmour to use as a support.

‘Thank you, my boy,’ the old man said, leaning on the staff and breathing heavily. ‘I expect this climb will be quite easy for someone with your experience.’

‘I don’t know, Gilmour,’ Steven replied, perspiring. ‘I’m already wishing I’d had less wine yesterday.’

Garec laughed before chiming in, ‘Not to worry, Steven. It’s happened to the best of us.’

Steven’s head still felt as though it was about to crack open and spill out onto the ground, even though he had finished a full skin of water to help the pain subside.

The trio climbed in silence, accustoming themselves to the thinner air as they ascended. The game trail ran along the southern slope of the hillside and disappeared into the narrow canyon that separated Seer’s Peak from the closest of the titanic neighbours. Once within the canyon, Steven could see their trail snaking back and forth along the western hillside in a series of switchbacks until it disappeared out of sight near the end of a razor-thin ridge running westwards along the mountain’s crest.

Pausing momentarily, he voiced his thoughts aloud: ‘I fear it’s going to be a long day.’

‘I hope we’ll be there by midday,’ Gilmour said. ‘That ridge can be dangerous in the dark.’ He wiped a hand across his brow. ‘If the weather holds, we should have no trouble reaching the landing by evening.’

Garec turned from where he had been looking up the trail. ‘The landing?’

‘There’s a flat expanse of rock almost directly above us now, where we’ll camp tonight. I hope we’ll be in communication with Lessek before dawn tomorrow.’ Neither Steven nor Garec were looking forward to their first meeting with the founder of the Larion Senate; Gilmour, noticing their discomfort, changed the subject. ‘Anyway, if I’m going to drag these old bones all the way up there, we had better keep moving.’

They climbed most of the morning, admiring the majestic peaks in the distance and chatting aimlessly to keep their minds off the coming evening. Garec was impressed with Steven’s hiking boots: he had never seen anything like them before and was curious to try them out, especially after Steven showed him how tightening the laces gave more support going downhill.

As they climbed higher, Steven noted several new species of hardwood growing along the slopes. In the crisp autumn morning, the hues of the changing foliage looked like an artist’s palette against the stark grey and black of the rocky cliffs beyond.

Lunch – bread, cheese and dried fruits – was taken during a brief halt; Steven flinched when Gilmour drew a wineskin from his pack, helped himself to a hefty swig, then passed it to Garec. The bowman took a satisfying drink and motioned for Steven to join him.

Steven felt his stomach tighten. ‘Sorry, I’m not quite ready. Perhaps in a month or two I’ll join you again.’

The English word confused Garec. ‘Month?’ he asked, ‘what’s a month?’

Steven, who had been thinking about Eldarni time himself, replied, ‘A measure of time, about a half Twinmoon, I suppose. We have twelve months in one year, the measure we use to chart the length of our lives.’

‘So, how many year are you?’ Garec asked.

‘I am twenty-eight years old now,’ Steven replied, stressing the plural. ‘I’ll be twenty-nine years old next spring.’

Calculating furiously, Garec said, ‘We have a Twinmoon about every sixty days. That means there would be six Twinmoons for every one of your years. That makes you about one hundred and seventy Twinmoons, close to my age.’

‘Yes, but your days are only about five-sixths the length of our days. So, I would need to add another sixth of one hundred and seventy to find my true Eldarni age.’ Steven basked in the mathematics and the joy of having a simple multi-step linear algebra problem to solve. ‘So I must be just over one hundred and ninety-eight Twinmoons.’

‘Excellent!’ Garec almost shouted, ‘we will plan a great two-hundred Twinmoon celebration for you. It is an important milestone for us.’

‘That should just be about enough time,’ Steven replied, grinning, ‘I might be ready for alcohol again in a hundred and twenty days.’

Shortly after lunch, they reached the eastern edge of the narrow ridge that led up to the landing. Now there was only a gradual incline, but the footing on the ridge trail was precarious as it climbed over boulders and up sharp rock faces. There were dangerous drops on either side. They had not realised the north and south faces of Seer’s Peak were nearly sheer when they had looked up from below; a wrong step or loose rock might mean a gruesome fall to the forest floor.

They had no rope and Steven cursed his shortsightedness every time Garec or Gilmour slipped, however slightly: he was an experienced climber and should have known better. Steven sympathised with Garec as he periodically peered over the edge in terror.

‘We were always told to avoid looking down.’ He tried to sound reassuring. ‘But I find it helpful sometimes to take a good long look.’

‘Helpful?’ Garec looked doubtful. ‘How could it possibly be helpful?’

‘Well, it does keep you focused on the task at hand. I mean, there’s nothing like fear as a motivator.’

‘Then I have quite enough motivation, thanks.’ Garec forced a tight-lipped smile. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll work on staring straight ahead.’

Steven made his way to a large flat rock that jutted out over the precipice where he lay flat on his stomach and peered over the edge, following the path of the river to their previous night’s campsite. Versen, Sallax, Brynne and Mark looked like ants from here as they hauled water and firewood. Steven rested for a moment while watching them, feeling sunlight on his back and the familiar texture of rock against his face and hands.

We might not make it. The haunting mantra started once again, but he quickly forced the memory from his thoughts. Another bout with despair would do him no good up here. To distract himself, he thought of how much Mark and Hannah would love navigating this ridge: the challenges, the danger, the stunning vistas; this climb was almost a microcosm of his experiences in Eldarn. Down there, he was the weakest, the least capable, unable to find sources of strength, determination and support. Why could Mark so easily make the transition? He appeared to be completely at ease, acting as though he had grown up in Rona. He had even begun a relationship with a Ronan woman.

Steven lay there in the afternoon sun, pondering his shortcomings, until Garec and Gilmour caught up with him.

The Larion Senator interrupted his thoughts. ‘You look quite at ease up here, Steven.’

‘I am.’ Steven jumped nimbly to his feet. ‘I’ve lived most of my life in a mountain range similar to this. It’s the closest I’ve felt to home since we arrived in Eldarn.’

‘I am glad you’re enjoying the day,’ Gilmour said. ‘I hope tonight we’ll discover it was not a wasted effort.’

Once Steven had toured an aircraft carrier. He remembered the feeling of awe at the size of the thing, particularly the breadth of the main deck. The flat expanse of rock that marked the western end of the Seer’s Peak crest reminded him of that gargantuan vessel. The landing was a geological anomaly. The stone was nearly flat for hundreds of paces and it looked flawless – no cracks, mineral intrusions or crevasses. Steven picked up a small stone and threw it as far as he could and it bounced to a stop less than a quarter of the way across the open area. A skilled pilot could land a plane here with room to spare.

Equally amazed, Garec asked, ‘How can this be? The mountain couldn’t have formed this way naturally.’

Having reached their destination, Gilmour was already smoking his pipe. The chill afternoon breeze carried his residual smoke eastwards along the ridge trail. Clenching the pipe firmly between his teeth, he answered, ‘It seems impossible this is a natural formation, I agree. However, if this area were the result of some mystical force, it occurred long before I was born and long before the Larion Senate began practising magic.’

‘Where – or how will Lessek find us?’ Steven wasn’t sure which question was more appropriate.

‘We can camp anywhere you like, Steven,’ Gilmour responded, ‘but I suggest we stay close to this end because it will be cold tonight and the closest firewood is back down the ridge a few hundred paces.’

‘Good point,’ Garec agreed. ‘You two get dinner started. I’ll go back and get some now.’ He dropped his pack and headed towards the trailhead.

Steven followed. ‘I’ll come too – we’ll need as much as we can carry.’

When darkness fell, Steven felt as though they had built a campfire in the middle of the world’s most expansive desert. Wind swept across the top of Seer’s Peak, carrying much of the fire’s heat with it, but Steven was too nervous to be cold; he was dreading the coming conversation with Lessek. He huddled deeper in his blankets, hoping, like a child, they might protect him from evil. He could see nothing except black stone and blacker sky.

Soon emotional and physical exhaustion caught up with him and Steven Taylor fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamed of the bank in Idaho Springs and the playful banter he’d exchanged with Myrna Kessler as she tried to solve his weekly mathematics problems. He had caught her trying to deduce the Egyptians’ formula for the area of a circle, just before he had visited Meyers Antiques for the first time. He had walked to the lobby and asked Myrna if she would process some loan papers so he could get to Denver before the store closed. Peeking over her shoulder, he saw her sheet of paper was filled with squares and circles and notes about circumference and diameter. She had been tracing the base of her coffee cup when he emerged and surprised her.

Embarrassed, she had quickly put her notes aside and said something charming about not being his secretary. What else had she said that day? Her image moved in and out of focus, reminding him he was dreaming. She had teased him about having a geek’s hobby. Howard had agreed. Steven had warned her not to drink too much that night, then left for his drive into the city.

As winds buffeted Seer’s Peak, Steven Taylor, sleeping soundly, pulled his blankets close and rolled over towards the fire.

Garec tossed the last pieces of firewood onto the smouldering coals before curling up inside his blankets. He wanted to stay awake until Lessek arrived, if only so he did not awaken to find the spirit hovering over him. He was quite sure he would expire from shock if that happened.

Seated across from him, Gilmour smoked contemplatively, saying nothing as he stared into the flames.

Garec thought about his family and the farm. He prayed that the Malakasians had not connected his partisan activities with them.

He would miss the late-autumn festival that celebrated the crops successfully harvested and sold, preserves canned, meats dried and smoked, grapes pressed and barrelled and firewood stacked for winter. The festival was five days of celebration: hearty food and plenty of local wine. For the past ten seasons he had provided a deer; the farmers working the land north of Estrad Village would expect him to arrive with fresh venison as usual. He wondered if they would miss him, or just the meat.

He would dance late into the night with the farmers’ daughters, stealing an occasional kiss, but more often simply revelling in the company of vibrant, beautiful young women. He had grown up a farmer and a hunter. Becoming a resistance fighter – a patriot – was something he had stumbled into. Now, awaiting a visit from the ghost of the most powerful man in Eldarni history, Garec realised it would likely be many seasons before he saw another harvest festival.

Looking over at Gilmour, Garec could see his lips moving slightly, but he could not hear the words. Garec guessed the old magician was chanting a spell to let Lessek know they had arrived. Now he was nervous, and fully awake. He checked to be sure his bow and quivers were at hand – he didn’t imagine for a moment that he would fire on Lessek’s ghost, but knowing his weapons were ready reassured him. He had known Gilmour for nearly fifty Twinmoons, but now he had to get used to the idea that one of his closest friends was one of the most powerful sorcerers in Eldarn.

As Gilmour continued the incantation, his lips hypnotically marking time through the avens, Garec soon grew tired and, like Steven, drifted off to sleep.

His dreams came: desultory images, confusing and scattered. He watched as the Estrad River dried up, as crops shrivelled and villagers across Rona starved to death. He saw the land his family tilled, its rich soil dried to hardpan and cracked like the skin of a dying man’s face. He observed ghostly wraiths moving silently through the forbidden forest south of Estrad Village, too many to count, an army of disembodied ghouls searching for something lost.

Then he saw Riverend Palace, the way he always imagined it had looked before it was abandoned and left to crumble: a proud and majestic edifice, with the Ronan colours flying above her battlements. Strong Twinmoon breezes blew in from the sea. Prince Markon strode around, supervising installation of the largest stained-glass window Eldarn had ever seen.

His perspective changed again: a young South Coast woman, stripped naked, stood on the cold floor of a palace apartment. He gazed on her features and became aroused at the idea she might be longing for him – until he realised the look in her face was not one of lust, but of fear and foreboding. An intricately woven rug lay nearby, but she was too afraid even to move her bare feet to the relative warmth of the heavy wool carpet.

Soon Garec discovered why. A beast of a man lay on the rug, also stripped bare. The naked monster appeared aroused, but then Garec saw the maniacal creature was not looking at the girl; instead, he was crying out, shouting unintelligibly at the ceiling. He grabbed his genitals and writhed about on the floor. Riveted, Garec watched as palace guards held the man down while the beautiful, almond-eyed woman moved to straddle the drooling, wretched creature. Behind them, Riverend was in flames. Ceiling supports crumbled, tapestries flared. Servants rushed for the safety of the palace grounds.

All the while, the woman ignored the fire and coupled furiously with her terrifying partner.

Chanting in a soft murmur, Gilmour felt his spirit move outside his body. Standing beside his seated form, he gazed into the darkness beyond the firelight and waited for Lessek. Although he knew the winds above Seer’s Peak were strong, he felt nothing as they passed through him and continued into the night. Steven and Garec slept on peacefully near the fire, which slowly burned down to a pile of dimly glowing coals.

He waited nearly an aven before he detected Lessek’s spirit approaching.

‘Here, Fantus,’ Lessek called from inside his consciousness. Gilmour hadn’t heard his given name in a hundred Twinmoons. His spirit self turned to face that of the long-dead sorcerer. Lessek looked as he had when a young man: tall and confident, with a trim beard and a piercing gaze, wearing the style of robes long ago adopted as standard uniform for all Larion Senators. For a moment Gilmour felt as though he were back at Sandcliff Palace.

‘Welcome, my lord,’ he said softly.

‘You look weary,’ the spirit observed, his voice echoing inside Gilmour’s mind.

‘This struggle has gone on for so many Twinmoons, Lessek. I am tired these days.’

‘You are wondering if you can manipulate the spell table?’

‘I am,’ he said. ‘I have studied for nearly a thousand Twinmoons and yet I am still not certain I’m up to the task.’

‘You have found the key?’ Lessek’s ghost scratched absent-mindedly at his beard and Gilmour was momentarily surprised a spirit could feel an itch.

He motioned towards Steven. ‘This one, Steven Taylor, discovered where Nerak had hidden the far portal as well as your key.’ He paused before asking, ‘Will it be enough, Lessek?’

‘There is enough magic, sufficient power, yes. But you will need more courage than even you can imagine if you are to defeat the evil that controls Nerak.’

‘It can be destroyed, then?’

‘Defeated, not destroyed.’

‘I must banish it back to the Fold?’

‘Not all answers lie in the spell table, Fantus. Evil might be defeated there, but Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere.’ He raised one hand in a show of encouragement and brotherhood and said, ‘Rest now, Fantus and farewell for the moment.’

Gilmour felt his spirit fall back into his body as dawn was breaking over the horizon. He wrapped himself in his riding cloak and allowed sleep to carry him away. Although the old magician required only a fraction of the rest most people needed, he welcomed the respite from his responsibilities, a moment’s grace from the arduous tasks that lay before him.

He rarely dreamed, but this morning a brief vision came to him, a glimpse of Kantu and Nerak. They had travelled together to Larion Isle, off the coast of Malakasia, to practise their spells, to harness heretofore-unknown power and to synthesise knowledge of magic and sorcery for the Larion Senate. It was during this trip they had penned the Windscrolls. Gilmour remembered that particular journey; when he saw Kantu limping beside Nerak, supporting himself with a staff and wearing a makeshift cast on his foot, Gilmour had teased the great scholar that he was brilliant enough to wield Eldarn’s most powerful magic but too clumsy to step from a boat without twisting his ankle.

Gilmour woke with a start. The Windscrolls. Pikan Tettarak had sent him to Lessek’s library to find one as she prepared the spell that eventually took her life at Sandcliff Palace. That was what Lessek meant by Nerak’s weakness being elsewhere. He had to get to Sandcliff and find the Windscrolls; he would need to use their wisdom in concert with Lessek’s spell table if he were to succeed in defeating Nerak and sending evil’s minion back into the Fold.

Rejuvenated, Gilmour sprang to his feet and called, ‘Wake up, my boys. We have much to do.’

The sun was well above the horizon now and their campsite was draped in the bright yellow of morning. The winds had died in the night and Gilmour could feel the temperature rising already. To the north, the Blackstones glowed so intensely it looked as if they had caught fire. The clear morning possessed a sense of renewal that sent Gilmour’s heart racing. Moments such as this, moments of clarity of purpose, were rare. He knew where he would find the power to emerge victorious; now he wanted to get there. He had spent half his life waiting for Lessek’s Key to come back to Eldarn without realising that the key alone would not have been enough: thanks to Lessek, they all had been saved from a potentially deadly mistake.

Steven rolled over with a groan. ‘Is it dawn already?’ His legs were sore from yesterday’s climb and his back ached from sleeping on rock. Although riding all day was steady exercise, he had not enjoyed a good cardiovascular workout in weeks. He promised himself as soon as he found some decent shoes, he would run halfway across Rona and back. Stretching, he sat up and squinted through the morning sunlight at Garec. ‘Are we in a hurry?’

Yawning, Garec twisted awkwardly several times to loosen his back muscles. ‘It appears we are,’ he said and then to Gilmour, ‘I assume you received instructions last night.’

The old man was hurriedly packing his bedroll. ‘No, but I did speak with Lessek and I do now have some notion of how we will defeat Nerak.’ He reached into his pack and withdrew the last of their bread, fruit and cheese. Pulling a short dagger from his belt, he cut several pieces for himself before passing the remainder to the younger men.

‘Here, let’s eat quickly so we can get down as-’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Did he speak with either of you?’

Steven and Garec exchanged a worried glance before answering in unison, ‘No.’

‘Rutting dogs.’ Gilmour kicked an imagined pebble towards the precipitous southern cliffs. ‘I was certain he would have some insight for both of you.’ Shaking his head, he added, ‘I don’t understand it.’

Steven began rolling his blankets. ‘I’m sorry, Gilmour. I slept soundly all night.’

‘As did I,’ Garec said. ‘I tried to stay awake. Perhaps if we had been awake, he would have spoken with us as well.’ He pulled on one boot, then remembered their conversation of the previous day and motioned for Steven to trade footwear with him.

‘I did have some strange dreams, though,’ he added.

Gilmour grabbed his wrist, interrupting Garec’s clumsy attempts to lace Steven’s Timberlands. ‘Tell me. Every detail.’

‘I dreamed as well,’ Steven chimed in.

‘You too, then.’ Gilmour stopped rushing and sat down beside them. ‘Tell me everything you remember. Take your time.’

The old man had Steven and Garec relay their dreams to him, over and over again, asking probing questions about people or places his companions had seen. He was trying to get a comprehensive picture of exactly what they had experienced in their sleep.

Garec’s dream did appear to be a message from Lessek, although aspects left the trio confused and guessing. Images of the land dying, of ghosts haunting Rona’s forbidden forest and of the Estrad River running dry were disheartening, but neither Gilmour nor Garec had any idea what they really represented. Garec’s vision of Riverend Palace in flames was real; Gilmour speculated that the bowman’s vision of two people coupling during the blaze was Lessek’s confirmation that a final effort had been made to continue the royal bloodline.

‘What do you mean?’ Steven asked. It was nearly midday and he was not convinced they could learn anything more from the evening’s alleged message dreams.

‘Prince Danmark was struck blind, deaf and insane by the same force that killed his father.’

‘Nerak,’ Steven confirmed.

‘Nerak. Correct. The young prince was not killed right away,’ Gilmour said. ‘He lived another full Twinmoon, not dying until the night of the fire that destroyed Riverend Palace.’

Garec put the pieces together. ‘Someone could have been impregnated by Danmark during that Twinmoon.’ His voice rose slightly as he pieced together his dream. ‘So that bloodline may still be intact today. Prince Danmark could have a living heir somewhere in Rona.’

‘That’s right. And that heir is – or I should say, would be – the rightful king or queen of Eldarn.’

Steven interrupted, ‘How can that be? I thought Brynne said the nations of Eldarn were all ruled by cousins, descendants of some long-dead King Reginald or something.’

‘Remond,’ Gilmour corrected. ‘True, but legend has it that Prince Draven of Malakasia was not the father of his only son, Marek.’

Steven thought about this for a moment, then understood. ‘So, the wife, Princess-’

‘Mernam,’ Garec chimed in.

‘Princess Mernam had an affair, managed to get herself pregnant, spent a long weekend in the sack with Prince Draven to make it all look legitimate and gave birth to a bastard-’

‘Prince Marek,’ Gilmour accented the interruption by slapping his hand against the stone landing. ‘He was the first Malakasian to claim the Eldarni throne and his family has been in power ever since.’

‘But controlled by Nerak,’ Steven said and Gilmour nodded in affirmation. Steven was suddenly interested in the twists and turns of Eldarn history. ‘What about the other families? Were there no surviving heirs?’

‘None who produced any additional children,’ Garec said, then speculated, ‘I’d guess Nerak killed off everyone young enough to carry on King Remond’s bloodline, then laid claim to Prince Marek the bastard, who was still capable of having children.’

‘I wonder why he would care,’ Steven mused aloud.

‘What do you mean?’ Garec asked.

‘If he was being controlled by an evil force from outside the observable universe, why would he care that Remond’s line die off? What threat could they possibly be?’

Garec guessed again, ‘Perhaps he needed some semblance of order here in Eldarn while he studied the spell table and learned the magic necessary to free his master from the Fold.’

‘Maybe,’ Steven agreed, ‘or maybe Remond’s family holds some secret that would interfere with his plan to tap the power of the spell table.’

Running a hand through his whiskers, Gilmour said, ‘This is all very interesting, but we can’t interrupt our journey to begin looking for some mythical Ronan heir. That might take another hundred Twinmoons. Our current goals are more important, at least for now.’ He stood and stretched, then, with an audible sigh, added, ‘I’m afraid Lessek can be very confusing. Now, Steven, back to your bank.’

‘All right, all right,’ Steven answered, ‘but I need a break first. I’m beginning to get a headache.’ He rose and began walking about the plateau, hoping to clear his mind. It was obvious Lessek had spoken to Garec, but Steven did not believe his own dream had any cryptic messages. It was just another day at the bank as he, Howard and Myrna enjoyed each other’s company and tackled a maths problem together. He hadn’t been to Meyers Antiques yet, so he knew nothing of William Higgins’s deposit-box key. It was just a dream, just a run-of-the-mill night-time recollection of one day at work. He certainly hoped so, because if Lessek had overlooked him last night, that might mean he and Mark would be able to find the far portal, return home to Colorado and be finished with Eldarn for ever.

Leaving this mountain without a supernaturally imposed to-do list had become an important short-term goal for Steven and he didn’t wish to dwell on the scene long enough for Gilmour to start inferring something outlandish from what was just a simple dream.

With Mark on his mind, Steven wandered across to the edge of the landing and lay down on his stomach, looking towards their base camp. Nothing moved. No one was there. Second-guessing himself, he found the river and followed it to the grove of trees where he had fallen asleep two nights earlier. They were gone.

Anxiety welled up in him and his hands started shaking. Leaping to his feet, he sprinted across to where Gilmour and Garec remained deep in conversation.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Steven shouted, ‘they’re gone from camp!’ He quickly hefted his pack. ‘Everyone, even the horses, they’ve all disappeared.’

Versen snapped a branch in two across his knee and tossed both bits onto the burgeoning pile of firewood. Brynne tended the horses, brushing their coats and leading them to the river for water. Fearing another Seron attack, Sallax told her to leave them saddled in case they were forced to leave in a hurry. Sallax himself had gone to scout a trail through the narrow canyon adjacent to Seer’s Peak.

Mark was trying inexpertly to catch fish from the river using Versen’s bow and arrows. Spotting what looked like a small trout shading itself beneath a rock outcropping, Mark took careful aim and let fly, far-fetched hopes of skewering dinner running through his mind. When he missed, which was always, he would leap into the river to retrieve his arrow before the current carried it away, in the process effectively frightening off any fish for several hundred paces along the river. He found himself waiting ever-longer intervals for his quarry to return.

Brynne teased him from the grove. ‘You’ll never hit one, Mark. Give it up.’

‘I’m sure I will, if I can just get the angle correct. I’m going too high,’ he motioned with one arm; ‘I need to aim lower.’

‘Perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with the angle,’ Versen said, joining their conversation. ‘Perhaps you just don’t have any skill.’

Feigning indignation, Mark retorted, ‘I resent that. I’ve come quite close several times.’

‘How many times have you tried?’ Brynne asked.

‘Um. That one makes thirty-two.’

They all laughed and Versen joined him at the water’s edge and retrieved his bow. Shading his eyes, he squinted into the shadows along the far bank. ‘Watch this,’ he said, drawing three arrows from the quiver, jamming two in the ground at his feet and nocking one on his bowstring. ‘It’s really very simple.’ He took aim and fired three shots in rapid succession at different targets under water. Three large trout bobbed to the surface, each pierced cleanly.

Handing the longbow back to Mark, Versen said, ‘Keep practising.’

Dumbstruck, Mark accepted the weapon and stared out at the fish as they disappeared around a lazy bend, the arrows sticking up like little masts on toy boats. Versen clapped a hand on his shoulder and added in a sympathetic tone, ‘Our dinner is floating away. You might want to hurry along after it.’

Sallax returned before nightfall; he licked his lips at the smell of fresh fish grilling over their campfire. ‘Who caught these?’ he asked, accepting a wineskin from Versen.

‘I pulled these from the river myself,’ Mark told him proudly.

Brynne chuckled and Sallax understood. ‘Versen?’

‘Of course, Mark did fetch them from the water before they floated all the way to the Ravenian Sea,’ Brynne clarified. Sallax gave a rare grin and joined them around the fire.

Shrugging, Mark admitted grudgingly, ‘I’ll grant you my skills with a longbow aren’t quite honed to perfection. I think the person who coined the phrase “shooting fish in a barrel” must have been using a machine-gun.’

Sallax tossed him the wineskin. ‘You stick with the battle-axe and you’ll be fine.’

‘So will the fish, I’m sure,’ Versen commented dryly and everyone laughed again at Mark’s expense.

Like Garec, Steven and Gilmour far above them in the night, the Ronan freedom fighters ate bread, dried fruit and cheese as they huddled close to the fire. Passing the wineskin around frequently, they avoided discussing Welstar Palace, Nerak and the journey ahead, talking instead of their families and homes. Mark was saddened to hear that Sallax and Brynne’s parents had died so long ago, even though Brynne said she had been too young to remember them, but Sallax looked so grim that Mark did not pursue it further.

Versen reflected on growing up in a large family of hunters and woodsmen; he smiled proudly as he talked of learning to shoot better than his older brothers. ‘I still can’t shoot as well as Garec, though

… but never tell him I said that out loud!’

Brynne changed the subject again. ‘How far did you get through the canyon today, Sallax?’

Motioning towards the narrow breach in the rock, her brother replied, ‘I managed to get about halfway up the slope of that big mountain behind Seer’s Peak. There’s a pass between it and that crooked fellow to the east, I think, but I couldn’t see beyond those two.’ He broke off a piece of dry bread and scooped up the last piece of trout. ‘I found the Seer’s Peak trailhead as well. It’s about two hundred paces into the canyon, but it’s well hidden behind a stand of pines.’

Versen said, more as an affirmation than a question, ‘So the horses stay here.’

‘There are some high meadows with plenty of grass for cropping, but I can’t imagine we’ll get much further than this pass with the horses.’

Brynne inhaled sharply. ‘Garec will be crushed if he has to leave Renna behind.’

Versen nodded. ‘He’ll want to leave her down here where he knows she can get to water.’

‘I’m quite sure we’ll come home this way to look for her if he has anything to say about it,’ Sallax muttered.

Mark felt for Garec as well. He had only known his own horse, Wretch, for a few days and despite all the pain and agony, he wasn’t happy about leaving the beast to survive on its own in the wilderness. ‘Is there anything else we can do?’ He half-hoped the would come up with some creative means to bring the animals along.

Versen shook his head. ‘Not without doubling back to the nearest farm and paying to stable them there.’

‘But that puts us at risk of more Seron interference,’ Brynne added.

‘Or worse,’ Sallax confirmed. ‘They’ll be all right here. There is shelter in the canyon and plenty of water.’

Versen stood. ‘I’ll bury our saddles beneath that birch tree near the water.’ Motioning to Mark, he said, ‘C’mon, help me with this.’

The horses were tethered in a stand of trees just upstream from their campsite. Mark, enjoying the friendly conversation, hadn’t noticed the sunlight fading behind the Blackstone peaks in the west. He absentmindedly checked for his watch: the sudden onset of darkness was a striking contrast to the relative daylight near the fire. He wished, absurdly, that he knew what time it was in Colorado.

Unbuckling Renna’s saddle, he let it fall to the ground, pulled the soft wool blanket from the mare’s back and gave the horse a slap on the hindquarter. ‘Good luck, Renna. Garec will be down to say good-bye in the morning.’

Moving to Wretch, he grimaced. ‘You, on the other hand – I have half a mind to leave you tied to this tree.’ He glanced over at Versen before adding, ‘No, I’m just kidding. Maybe your next owner will be a true equestrian.’ Wretch gave him a dispassionate look, then bent to continue cropping the undergrowth.

Mark was still stroking the ungrateful animal when he noticed a strange tree across the grove, a large pine; he had not seen it there before. It captured his attention now because it looked dead, as if it had been ravaged by an extremely selective wildfire. He froze. Moving his hand as slowly as possible from Wretch’s neck, he tried frantically to get Versen’s attention without shouting or moving. He was not certain how an almor detected its prey.

The burly woodsman saw Mark waving over at him and called, ‘What’s the matter with you? Get that saddle off and let’s get busy. We have a hole to dig.’

It was too late to warn him. The demon exploded from the ground between them and Mark heard Versen scream as he fell backwards into the underbrush. For what felt like a lifetime, Mark watched as the almor reached out with one shapeless, glowing white arm to grab Brynne’s horse bodily from the ground. The animal gave a terrified scream, shrill, like a tortured child, before choking to a sickening silence as the creature sucked its life force dry. It took just seconds, Mark realised dully. The almor tossed the husk of skin and bones to the side; it glanced off a tree before shattering into pieces on the soft needle carpet.

Mark sprinted back through camp. ‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘The almor!’ For two or three heartbeats, Brynne looked confused, until she saw Sallax grab his saddlebag and begin running towards the canyon. She reached for Mark’s outstretched hand and sprinted off behind her brother. Mark did not look back. He leaped over their campfire, half-dragging Brynne along behind.

Sallax paused once to check they were following. He couldn’t see Versen, or hear him either, but there wasn’t time to search. ‘Hurry!’ he called. ‘It can move very fast – and get away from the river!’ Then he was gone, disappearing up the narrow path towards the Seer’s Peak trailhead. Mark and Brynne followed on his heels. Mark didn’t want to run faster than Brynne for fear the beast might suddenly appear and take her, but she speeded up markedly when the demon gave an unholy cry from the canyon entrance behind them. It echoed about the rock walls of the narrow crevasse, sounding like the collective pain and suffering of generations of oppressed souls screaming at once.

‘Lords, what is that thing?’ Brynne called between shallow breaths.

They hurried after Sallax as he burst through a thickly overgrown stand of trees and began climbing the lowest slopes of Seer’s Peak. The mountain was dotted with trees and shrubs nearly all the way to its broad, flat apex and Mark realised the almor could easily find some fluid pathway to cut them off.

There was no way they would be able to maintain this pace until they reached the safety of the granite expanse above the tree line. Already he was slowing, his diaphragm cramping stiffly and his lungs feeling as if they were about to burst. Remembering the tremendous blast Gilmour had produced in Estrad to divert the almor, Mark wished he had thought to ask the old sorcerer what he had meant by explosions aren’t magic.

Mark searched the trail above in the fading sunlight. They needed to reach a safe place soon; having to flee from the almor in the dark would be disastrous. ‘Someplace dry,’ he panted, ‘where can we find someplace dry?’

They were still running at full speed when they rounded the trail’s first switchback. With darkness nearly upon them, Mark saw it, stretched out above like a titanic grey blanket thrown up against the side of the mountain: a rockslide. He shouted ahead, ‘Sallax, stop.’

‘Stop?’ he heard Brynne cry, ‘no! We have to keep going – that thing could be right behind us!’

Sallax slowed to a jog, then turned to face them. A look of disappointment flashed across his face, as if he had to accept that something might best him, that this demon, a nightmare creation of the most twisted god, might beat Sallax of Estrad. As quickly as it appeared, however, the look was gone.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘What do you suggest we do?’

Without slowing, Mark moved past him off the trail and up into the rockslide. ‘Come up here, now,’ he commanded. ‘It’s a more difficult path, but there are no plants or trees.’ Surveying the rocky field, he explained, ‘The almor: it travels through water, doesn’t it? So it might not be able to reach us out here.’

Sallax understood what Mark was planning before he finished speaking; he climbed onto the rockslide behind the nimble foreigner.

Brynne joined them, but said sceptically, ‘We can’t possibly climb this at night, Mark. It’s worse than scaling a building – we’ll be dead in half an aven.’

‘We’ll be dead in less than that out there,’ Sallax told her and pulled her up to balance beside him.

Mark, suddenly feeling more at home, caught his breath and explained some basic climbing rules. ‘This isn’t any more difficult in the dark than it would be at midday. Climbing a slope this steep means you have to get a feel for the mountain. Climb in a steady rhythm and you’ll grow less tired. Be sure to check every hand and foothold before you put all your weight on it. Most important, don’t panic. For every loose purchase that fails below you, there are up to three holding you fast. Keep your weight into the slope but not against it. Climb the mountain; don’t try to slither up it.’

He forced a smile back at Brynne, then went on, ‘I’ll find the easiest pathway. Stay behind me and use the light from the moons to see where I put my hands and feet. Don’t forget: if it supports your weight when you grab it, chances are it will support your weight when you step on it,’ and then, in a less confident tone, added, ‘but not always.’

Sallax seemed almost excited by the potentially deadly challenge. ‘Lead on, Mark Jenkins,’ he called, ‘we’ll be right behind you.’ He positively exuded enthusiasm where, just moments earlier, he had been convinced they were lost, that the almor would suck them dry like the stray dog he had watched disintegrate to a leathery shell. Mark had renewed Sallax’s confidence; now he was almost willing to fight the demon beast hand-to-hand.

There were plenty of solid handholds at the base of the steep, rocky slope and their initial ascent went smoothly. Brynne found the rhythmic pace of Mark’s climb hypnotic and she moved almost without thinking. It didn’t take long for the trio to get several hundred paces up the side of the mountain.

‘You are skilled at this, Mark,’ she called softly.

‘Would you believe Steven and I do this for fun as often as possible?’ he asked. ‘We’re actually disappointed weekends we can’t risk life and limb. Of course, we try to limit our climbing to daylight avens.’

‘What is a weekend?’ Sallax interrupted.

Mark chuckled. ‘A weekend is a glorious concept I will introduce to all Eldarn if we manage to live until morning.’ His right hand slipped and several stones dropped on the others below. ‘Sorry,’ he called, ‘we’re coming into a difficult section here, lots of small, loose stones. Be careful.’

Neither Brynne nor Sallax answered; they were struggling to make out the cliff face, trying desperately to get some sort of visual confirmation that their handholds were solid.

Their progress slowed as Mark clawed his way up towards the switchback trail above. The next hundred feet would be arduous and he knew his friends needed a break. Through the dark, he could see neither trees nor shrubs; no complex root systems growing along the path, but even if there had been water flowing there in abundance, the trio would have to stop, risking attack, just to gain a momentary respite from the difficult ascent. He was an experienced climber and his shoulders and thighs ached: he was impressed with the fortitude Brynne and Sallax were showing as novices on a difficult hill in the dark.

When the demon creature burst from the trail above, Mark’s heart sank. Towering over the rocky hillside, a glowing, formless wall of undulating fluid, the almor screamed down at them. Mark thought he could see into its eyes, vacant pools of suffering and death.

‘Wait!’ Sallax cried. ‘Stop here.’

Laughing – a response to abject terror – Mark replied, ‘I hadn’t planned on going much further, Sallax.’

‘No, I mean it can’t reach us here.’

‘How do you know that?’ Brynne asked, her voice trembling.

Mark realised what Sallax meant. ‘Because it would have already,’ he told her quietly. ‘We need to stay put, to hang on here as long as possible.’

‘And hope it doesn’t rain,’ Sallax added under his breath.

For the first time since he fell through the far portal in Idaho Springs, Mark was glad days in Eldarn were four hours shorter. Clinging to the side of Seer’s Peak, his arms and legs numb, he could do little more than pray, and trust that by remaining completely still he would not fall to his death – or, worse, drag the Ronan siblings with him. He guessed it had been three hours since they had last seen the almor. He called to Brynne to find out what time his watch read.

‘I don’t know, Mark.’ She sounded desperate. He ached to be able to whisk her to safety.

‘Well, now Brynne, I’m disappointed,’ he teased, hoping to lighten the mood. ‘After all those lessons, you can’t tell me what time it is.’

‘I can describe it,’ she said. ‘Will that help? The long arm is straight up and the small arm is just next to it.’

‘To the right or the left?’

‘Left. On the rune you called… um… levelen.’

‘Eleven,’ he corrected. ‘Great, the news is on. I wonder what the headlines are tonight.’ Straining his eyes to see below her, he called to Sallax, ‘How are you doing down there?’

‘I will be all right.’ He did not sound convinced. ‘But I’m not sure how much longer we can hang on this slope.’

‘I know,’ Mark answered, ‘but try this, both of you: put your weight on your feet and shake your arms, one at a time. It’ll loosen the muscles and alleviate some of the pain.’

‘I can’t do it, Mark,’ Brynne told him plaintively. ‘I’ll fall.’

‘Yes, you can,’ he encouraged, ‘that’s the easy part. The hard part is the next bit: hanging on with your arms and shaking out your legs.’

‘No,’ she cried again, ‘I just can’t.’

Mark considered his options, swallowing a curse as he called back to Sallax, ‘Don’t let her fall, Sallax. I’ll be right back.’

‘Very well,’ the big Ronan answered. Though he sounded defeated, Mark knew Sallax would fight on to the last ounce of his strength.

‘Brynne, I’ll be back before the long arm reaches the three.’

‘I don’t remember the three.’ She sounded anxious.

‘It’s the one that looks like breasts on a sleeping woman.’

Sallax grunted in ironic amusement. ‘I must learn this system of runes, Mark.’

‘Just hang on until the arm reaches the three and I’ll be back.’ He shook the stiffness from his arms and legs and then, worried he might lose his grip and fall backwards down the slope himself, began hurrying, as fast as he dared, towards the path in the distance. After five minutes of hard climbing, he discovered there was about fifty feet of difficult loose rock before the terrain became more manageable and he could ascend again with some certainty.

By the time he reached the trail, he had worked out how he could rescue the others. Ignoring the potential threat of the almor, he jogged back along the slope until he reached a thin evergreen tree growing along the path. Its growth was stunted by strong winds that raked the sides of Seer’s Peak. Although it had shallow roots, there were sturdy branches along its trunk. He wasn’t positive it would be long enough to reach Brynne across the expanse of loose stones, but if he wasted too much time questioning his strategy, both she and Sallax would fall. He set about trying to push the tree over.

Mark’s watch read 11.22 by the time he reached the upper end of the loose gravel slope. He found two solid rocks on which to brace his feet and shouted to Brynne, ‘I’m going to lower a tree down to you. Grab on with all your strength and don’t let go. I’ll pull you up.’

There was no answer.

‘Brynne,’ he called into the night, his heart racing, ‘Brynne, take hold of the tree. All you need to do is walk up the slope. It’s much easier climbing up here.’

‘I’ll try,’ he heard her answer weakly, ‘but you are well past the three.’

‘I’m sorry, but I am here now, and I’m going to get you to safety. This tree was tougher than I expected.’ He braced himself, then yelled down again, ‘Sallax, you hang on. I’ll send this back in just a moment.’

‘I can wait,’ Sallax shouted back.

Mark lowered the tree trunk-first, fearing Brynne’s hands might slip on the fragile green boughs near the top; he removed his tunic and wrapped it round the top to ensure his own grip held fast.

He still couldn’t feel Brynne’s weight and was about to call when she shouted up the slope, ‘Mark, it doesn’t reach.’

‘Son of a pregnant, mother-humping bitch!’ he cried into the crevasse, then, thinking quickly, pulled the tree back up the hillside. ‘Hang on, I’ll send it right back.’ Resting the tree beside him, Mark removed his boots and stripped off his jeans. Pulling his sweater off as well, he tied the sweater sleeves to the legs of his jeans and secured the jeans to the tree with his belt. ‘I hope to God this holds,’ he prayed in a whisper, then added, ‘and I hope that godforsaken monster doesn’t kill me here in my boxers.’

This time his makeshift rescue line reached and he soon found himself hauling Brynne up the slope, heaving with all his might. When he pulled her up beside him, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard on the lips. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief and ran his hands through her thick hair and across the supple skin of her face: he had wanted to touch her for days now.

They might have taken things further had Sallax not interrupted from below. ‘Hello? I’m still down here,’ he called crossly. Mark wasn’t sure if he had seen them kissing, no matter how fiercely he burned for Brynne, this wasn’t the time.

‘Jesus, Sallax,’ Mark exclaimed and lowered the tree once again. The big man was much heavier than his sister and Mark slipped twice, almost pitching headlong into the ravine. Once Sallax was safe, Mark retrieved his clothes and let the tree fall down the slope. They watched as it disappeared from sight, then heard it strike the trail far below. No one said anything, though all three wore a look of great relief.

As he pulled on his jeans, Mark caught Brynne watching him by the pale light of the Eldarni moons. He flushed, and fastened his belt before pulling on his sweater. The stolen tunic, now ripped to shreds, was tossed into the darkness.

‘Follow me up this slope,’ he told the others. ‘It isn’t far and there are solid rock footholds all the way to the trail.’

When they finally reached the safety of the path, they collapsed on the ground, breathing heavily. Sallax reached over and clapped a strong hand on Mark’s forearm. ‘That was well done, very brave. You saved us all.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Mark replied. As an afterthought, he added, ‘We were there a long time. Did either of you hear anything of Versen passing us along the trail? I didn’t.’

Brynne’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t thought of the woodsman since fleeing the campsite. ‘Lords, do you think we lost him?’

‘I guess we’ll find out tomorrow, when we get off this mountain. That almor leaves behind the barest remains of its victims, but if it took Versen, there should be enough left for us to identify him,’ Sallax said, putting into words what they knew, but were hesitant to say out loud. ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘right now we have to worry about ourselves, and the others up there-’ he pointed up at the wide, flat area atop the mountain. ‘They have no idea that thing is coming.’

‘Mark, can you get us up there by dawn?’ Brynne was worried. ‘I mean, we can’t go up the hillside again.’

‘I can get us there,’ he answered, ‘but we’ll never make it by dawn. We have to risk the trail.’

‘So be it.’ Sallax punctuated his decision by standing and tossing his saddlebags over one shoulder. He reached down to help Mark to his feet. ‘Like breasts on a sleeping woman?’

Mark grinned. ‘That’s right – but if you’ve never seen any, I’d be happy to explain the concept to you.’

Steven hurried along the trail as quickly as he could without leaving Garec and Gilmour behind. Perhaps he was worried for no reason: maybe his friends had moved their camp to a safer location, inside the canyon and out of the open. But scrambling over rocks along the treacherous pathway, he was certain something dreadful had befallen them; he had a gut feeling he couldn’t ignore. If only he had looked over the cliff sooner; they could have been halfway down the mountain by now. Instead, he’d wasted half the day trying to work out the confusing dreams and visions sent to them by Lessek’s spirit. He still thought his dream was just that: a memory of three friends together at work, nothing more.

Steven actually remembered that day well; that afternoon he had met Hannah for the first time. Myrna was planning to go out with her friends and Howard had sent him to pick up tickets to a football game that Sunday. There had been nothing mystical, magical, or even questionable about that day at work. Steven played it over in his mind, but every time he came to the same conclusion: Lessek had nothing to say to him, and he was happy with things that way.

Reaching the floor of a shallow gully, he paused to allow Garec and Gilmour to catch up. Seeing Garec in his boots, Steven was sorry he had agreed to trade for the day. Garec’s own footwear was made of soft tanned deer hide, but it didn’t compare with his own top-of-the-range boots. It was obvious Garec agreed; Steven could only hope he’d get them back one day.

Gilmour was quiet, almost brooding. Although he hustled along at Steven’s urging, his thoughts were elsewhere, deep within Riverend Palace or buried among the Windscrolls at Sandcliff. He made Steven promise to reflect on his dream in an effort to uncover anything out of the ordinary; Steven agreed he would investigate every single detail, if only they could just hurry back down Seer’s Peak. He needed to know the others were safe – after that, he would be happy to spend days talking about his recollections of Howard and Myrna.

Cresting a short rise in the path, Steven could see eastwards towards the sunlit end of the ridge trail. To his surprise, he saw Mark, Brynne and Sallax climbing towards him. Turning back to Garec and Gilmour, he shouted, ‘They’re here!’

Gilmour looked up. ‘Who is here?’

‘Everyone, I think – well, everyone except Versen. I can’t see him yet.’

The old magician hurried up, using Steven’s bloodstained hickory stick for support. Squinting at their companions rushing along the dangerous ridge, he calmly warned, ‘Get ready. Something’s wrong.’

Gilmour handed Steven the staff and dashed along the path with the speed and agility of a mountain goat. Steven could barely keep pace; Garec, still nursing his sore knee, was left well behind.

Working to keep his footing, Steven cursed Gilmour as they trotted over rocks, loose soil and rotting deadwood. Razor-thin bottlenecks had sheer drops to the forest floor on either side.

‘He’s like a damned Sherpa,’ Steven muttered to himself, angry for believing, even for a moment, that there was anything Gilmour could not do. He lost sight of the old man around an enormous boulder that lay directly on the trail, then, hurrying past it, he nearly ran headlong into him: Gilmour had stopped suddenly on the opposite side and was now standing motionless. About twenty paces away, Mark, Brynne and Sallax, mirroring Gilmour, were standing absolutely still as well, their eyes fixed on one another. No one moved or spoke.

‘What’s happening?’ Steven asked of anyone listening.

‘Quiet,’ Gilmour commanded. ‘It’s the almor. It has found us.’

Embarrassed that he had been unable to keep up with the older man, Steven swallowed hard and endeavoured to catch his breath quietly.

‘Where is it?’ he whispered. ‘Is it hunting us?’

‘It is hunting me,’ Gilmour replied.

Garec had climbed up onto a small pile of rocks some fifty paces behind them; he had his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked and two full quivers at his feet. But even though Steven had never known a bow could be fired with the accuracy and precision Garec showed with every shot, he wasn’t filled with confidence; he didn’t believe traditional weapons would have any effect on the soul-sucking demon.

Still no one moved. It was the world’s largest game of Russian Roulette and no one knew when the gun would fire.

He glanced around at his friends, looking from face to face. Everyone was anticipating the inevitable. When would the gun go off? Whom would the almor choose?

Mark, Brynne and Sallax looked as though they had already been in a war; they were ready to collapse from fatigue. He guessed they had run up the trail overnight to warn him. Versen’s absence must mean the Ronan woodsman had been the demon’s first victim. What had it been like? Would he have felt the almor grab him from beneath the surface of the ground? Or perhaps his consciousness simply faded to black, like Steven’s had when he had his appendix removed.

Versen knew. It had killed Versen and now it was here for Gilmour, and doubtless anyone else who stood between it and the old man. Steven felt fear begin to well up inside him once again, but he forced it back down.

‘No! My dream didn’t mean anything,’ he said to himself. ‘Lessek did not speak to me because I’m done here; I did my job. I showed a surviving Larion Senate member where to find Lessek’s Key. That was my role. I can go home now and God can shit on this place. I can go home and be a coward for ever. I can be a coward who murdered a Seron. That’s goddamned perfect. I’ll be a murdering coward, assistant manager in a small town bank, overqualified and uninspired. That will be my lot. Great.’

Steven had never given much thought to the possibility that his life had evolved the way he allowed it to. He knew only that he was unhappy and disappointed with choices he had made. Choices. That was the crux of his problem. He never made any choices. A fatalist and a coward, he left things to the winds and accepted consequences, jeopardising and abandoning whatever values he may have had to keep his life heading roughly in the right direction.

Versen had not been that kind of person. Versen made decisions in the best interests of his friends and family. He worked to free Rona from the chokehold of Malakasian occupation. Versen was a better person, a stronger person. Steven realised in an instant that he would never be that brave, that compassionate, or that willing to cling to his beliefs no matter what the consequences were.

At that moment, Steven’s fear was overshadowed by rage, not the blind rage he had felt whilst battling the Seron, but a seething, controlled rage spiralling up from twenty-eight years of cowardice.

Without thinking, he strode to the centre of the path, separating Gilmour from Mark, Brynne and Sallax. They all cried out, almost in unison, for him to stand still, but he ignored them. It was clear what he had to do.

Steven began banging the staff against the earth, as if he were summoning the devil from its core.

‘Come out, you demon bastard!’ he shouted. ‘Come out here and fight me!’ He cried out at the top of his lungs, as if anything less would mitigate the moment, ‘Show yourself, you chickenshit tapioca nightmare. I’ll kick the shit out of you – if you’re not afraid to come out here and take me!’

Mark, watching from a distance, was dumbfounded. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he screamed. ‘It will kill you, Steven!’

He started down the path towards his roommate, but Sallax tackled him from behind, pinning him to the ground. ‘You go and it will kill you both,’ he whispered urgently in Mark’s ear. ‘This way Gilmour will know where the almor lies waiting and perhaps be able to save your friend’s life.’

‘No!’ Mark shouted, but his plea was muffled by the explosion of earth and rock that enveloped Steven as the almor burst once again from the depths of Seer’s Peak.

Blinded momentarily by the eruption of debris around him, Steven held his breath and tried to maintain his footing. The demon had not yet taken him. It towered above him, all around him. His vision was blurred, his hearing dulled by the cloudy fluid of the almor’s mass.

Then Steven realised why he was still alive as the ghastly abomination spoke. ‘We will battle now and you will learn what it means to feel fear.’ The hollow voice rang in his head like the reverberations of an out-of-tune pipe organ.

‘Then you can teach me nothing,’ Steven shouted as he raised the hickory staff. He figured he had one shot before the beast dragged his soul into hell.

‘I will savour your energy for a thousand lifetimes,’ it roared back, but Steven was not listening; he was preparing for his last act of defiance: a mighty swing of the hickory staff he had found in the forest south of the Blackstone Mountains. That swing held all his trepidation and insecurity, all his tendencies to please others at his own expense, all his cowering in the shadows waiting for safe opportunities to be or become Steven Taylor. He held nothing back. He had one strike only and even that would be useless: a whittled section of tree branch had no chance against an ancient, otherworldly demon. He was about to die.

As he unleashed his blow, Steven began to feel his own life force draining into the almor. It was all right. He did not mind, just as long as he had just this one chance to do something for himself, of his own volition.

Against all the odds, it worked. He felt the shaft tear through the milky fluid of the almor, rending it open and spilling its malodorous blood into the dirt of the Seer’s Peak ridge trail. The agonising cry rang in his head like an artillery volley and he nearly passed out at the shock wave.

Falling back, he watched as Garec fired into the creature as quickly as he could draw and release; shaft after shaft passed through the almor’s frame. And as he fell outside the demon’s grasp, Steven felt the blast of Gilmour’s magic slam into the monster, opening the wound further and casting the creature off the cliff and down to the forest below. It screamed inside Steven’s head as it fell, the terrified roar of a god’s fall, an immortal seeing the ash-grey face of mortality.

The force of the almor’s savage grasp tearing itself from Steven’s mind caused him to roll over and vomit repeatedly into the dirt. He felt the creature slam into the rocks below. It was a surprisingly soft thud. Then it was gone.

Steven’s head swam as he fell in and out of consciousness. He had done it. He had challenged and bested the demon. Dazed, he managed a smile – and realised Mark was supporting his head and shoulders. ‘Do not try that at home, boys and girls,’ he mumbled.

Mark laughed, a nervous chuckle to mask his fear and exhaustion. His voice cracked as he asked, ‘You reckless bastard, do you need some water? What can we get for you? Anything?’

He tried to give his roommate a drink from Garec’s wineskin, but Steven shook his head. ‘Need?’ he rambled on, delirious, in English. ‘Need? I need to go home. I need a howitzer, the defensive squad of the New York Giants and a tactical nuclear weapon. We’ll show that Nerak a thing or two.’

Garec leaned down to offer the young foreigner his hand. ‘Can you stand?’

‘Sure, I can stand,’ Steven looked up into the faces of his newfound companions. The relief in their eyes was in such contrast to the stark fear he had seen there only moments earlier, he decided that alone was worth the risk he had taken in summoning the almor to the surface.

‘I can stand,’ he repeated shakily, then passed out on the dusty, rock-strewn trail.

When Steven woke again, it was dark. He rolled over to find Gilmour sitting near a small campfire. Around him, the others slept, breathing the steady rhythm of those who were troubled by nothing. As he sat up, he found they were once again camped on the flat surface of the landing. Gilmour waved him over nearer the fire.

‘We’re back up here,’ Steven observed, stretching.

‘It was the safest place for all of us,’ Gilmour replied. ‘Brynne, Sallax and Mark had a long night reaching the ridge-trail. You slept most of the day.’

‘Versen?’ Steven asked, fearing the worst.

‘They’re not sure what happened. No one saw him taken by the almor, but then again, no one saw him along the trail either.’ Gilmour filled his pipe bowl with tobacco. ‘We will return to camp tomorrow morning to see if we can find his remains.’

Steven nodded, then changed the subject. ‘You know that staff is magic.’

‘I do,’ the old man confirmed, ‘but I have no idea where it comes from. It is not familiar to me. It’s not mentioned in any of the scrolls or spells I have studied for the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons. It is either very, very old, or essentially brand-new.’

‘Seems strange.’

‘If there’s anything I’ve learned, Steven, it’s that if it seems strange, it’s probably strange.’

‘You should wield it,’ Steven said. ‘Think of how powerful it would be in your hands. You’re the sorcerer, after all.’

‘It would do nothing in my hands, Steven. It chose you.’

‘Chose me?’

‘Of course. We both know there were no hickory trees in that valley. That staff found you, a half instant before you desperately needed it.’ He tossed a big chunk of bark onto the fire. ‘It found you for some reason, Steven, but I don’t know what it is.’

‘Why did it shatter that night but remain intact today?’

‘The power of the magic you wield.’

‘I don’t wield any magic,’ Steven said.

‘Sure you do. We all do.’ He thought for a moment, then asked, ‘Tell me, what did you feel the night you killed the Seron?’

‘Hatred,’ Steven said, remembering the experience with pain. ‘Hatred, and maybe fear that I might not make it home alive.’

‘And what did you feel today?’

He thought back to the moments before he challenged the almor to confront him one-on-one. ‘I suppose I felt fear and embarrassment, frustration and a lack of control.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘And cowardice. Mostly that. I felt acutely aware of twenty-eight years of cowardice.’

‘But that’s not all you felt,’ Gilmour said, guiding his thoughts. ‘At whom were these emotions directed today?’

‘At no one. It wasn’t like the Seron warriors. They were easy to hate. Today was different. Today, I was angry that we were all standing there waiting for one of us to die so the others would be able to pinpoint the threat.’ He reached for a wineskin, but it was empty, so he tossed it back to the ground. ‘I felt as though I needed to be the one killed so you all might live.’

‘Compassion?’

‘No. More like inadequacy. I looked around myself and thought, “Whose is the most expendable soul?” and I answered the same way.’

‘Yours.’

‘Yes, mine.’

‘So, compassion.’

‘I suppose so,’ Steven agreed. ‘That got me started, anyway. From there, all those other emotions took over and my course of action was inevitable.’

‘That, Steven Taylor, is the secret of your magic,’ Gilmour grinned, firelight dancing in his eyes. ‘You killed the Seron warriors out of fear for your own life. I heard you shouting, “We might not make it”, again and again. Today, you fought for others. Granted, your emotions were still very powerful, but today, you fought the way the staff wants you to fight, with compassion.’

‘It’s strange you describe it that way, Gilmour, because after killing the Seron, I promised myself I would never be so merciless again.’ Steven peered off into the distant Blackstones as something began to form in his mind. ‘I was angry with myself, because anyone incapable of mercy is the most evil enemy we can face. That night, I became that person.’

‘And your magic weapon shattered with the effort.’

Steven nodded before going on, ‘But today, it remained intact. It allowed me to funnel all that emotion into one furious strike at the almor.’

‘Because you were acting out of compassion. Today, you were not afraid for your life. There was nothing selfish in your actions.’

‘I suppose I was hoping to trade my life for yours.’ He peered around the campsite at the bodies thrown into sharp relief by the flickering campfire. ‘And theirs.’

‘Well, my boy, that is your first lesson in the use and appreciation of magic.’ Gilmour reached for a saddlebag. ‘Come, sit down here. You must be hungry.’

Back along the ridge trail, Jacrys kneeled down in the dirt where the battle had taken place. He dabbed his fingers in the thick, foul-smelling gore, the almor’s vital fluids. The young stranger was braver and more powerful than the spy had imagined. And although he was glad to see another of Malagon’s disgusting pets destroyed, Jacrys felt a momentary lapse in his confidence. The old sorcerer was surrounded by a skilled group of killers, which would make Jacrys’s task much more complicated. They had defeated the Seron beasts; now they had killed an almor. He had never heard of anyone killing an almor. Historically, the creatures could only be banished by the combined resources of powerful magicians and mystics – never by ordinary people, let alone one man or woman. That was impossible. Jacrys considered the dilemma another moment, then hurried along the ridge into the night.

Later, the dream came again; Steven watched it unfold on the broad canvas of his mind. It was the same Friday afternoon, and once again he was joking with Howard and Myrna about his own passion for maths and her passion for Ja?germeister. He watched himself come out of his office and catch her trying to fit diameter lengths around a circle. She was organising it incorrectly, but he didn’t tell her; it was fun to watch her struggle with knowledge she had learned in high school but assumed she would never apply. The circle itself was no help: she needed to use the shape to construct a rectangle. He demonstrated it once when Howard ordered pizza for lunch. ‘Like giant teeth,’ he explained. ‘Organise the pizza slices across from one another. What do they form? A makeshift parallelogram. Now, imagine ten million tiny pizza slices organised in the same area. What do they form?’

‘It’s a rectangle,’ she cried.

‘Almost a rectangle,’ he told her, ‘but close enough for Egyptian architects to figure out the area of a circle is basically-’

‘Length times width!’ Myrna nearly came out of her chair, especially when she realised the problem was still confounding Howard Griffin.

‘Exactly,’ Steven confirmed. ‘You see? There’s no reason to make it more difficult than it needs to be.’

Howard reached for a slice of pizza, interrupting the quasi-edge of Steven’s impromptu quadrilateral. ‘There,’ he said, ‘figure that one out; I call it subtraction.’