The Hickory Staff

THE RIVER CAMP

Brexan kneeled over the woodsman. He was alive, but he had not yet moved from where he had fallen after the demon’s attack. The Malakasian soldier removed her cloak, folded it into a lumpy pillow and placed it carefully under the big man’s head. Blood was coagulating around an open wound just above his neck: he had hit his head hard; he would be unconscious for some time. She counted his breaths, marking time as his broad chest moved up and down. She struggled to make out his features clearly in the half-light of evening, but she could tell he was handsome, although not necessarily in the traditional sense. This was a woodsman, a man to whom physical appearance meant little, but the unkempt, sandy hair, the wrinkled clothes and the short, scraggly beard did not detract from his striking countenance. His powerful hands rested on the ground and, acting on an impulse, Brexan folded them across his abdomen. From his belt she removed a battle-axe and a long dagger, afraid he might roll over on them and wake too soon.

Hearing a noise, she looked up as several horses wandered back into the remains of the Ronan camp. They had been frightened away by the almor, but had obviously not run far; now they sensed it was safe to return. Brexan took some comfort in that. Despite her confidence that the monster had pursued the others into the canyon, she couldn’t help but worry that it might come back at any moment. She was still surprised it hadn’t killed her on the beach that day after it had taken her old horse – maybe the almor was saving her for some later date.

She rose and walked as softly as she could, so as not to draw any undue attention to herself. Coaxing gently, Brexan corralled four of the animals, tethering them to nearby trees. She took particular care with one fiery mare, a strong animal who appeared to be looking askance at her as she looped the reins over a branch. Brexan stoked their small campfire into a blaze and rummaged through one of the abandoned saddlebags for something to eat. Finding a stash of apples, she removed two, bit into one herself and sliced the other into quarters for her horse. The beast whinnied once and took the fruit greedily from her outstretched palm.

She returned to the woodsman; he hadn’t moved, so she made herself comfortable on the ground beside him. A light breeze blew through the grove as she leaned back against a crooked scrub oak. Gnawing contentedly on the apple, Brexan took stock of her current situation. She was absent without leave from the Malakasian Army. Her stomach tightened, remembering the moment when she had stripped her uniform of its patches and epaulettes. She hadn’t wanted to be seen as deserting her platoon, but she wouldn’t live long travelling alone, in uniform, through Rona. Perhaps she would return to Estrad one day and explain everything to whomever had replaced Lieutenant Bronfio – maybe Lieutenant Riskett. He had always been more reasonable: he was willing to listen to the soldiers and actually responded to their concerns or suggestions, unlike Bronfio. Considering this option a moment longer, she laughed and shook her head.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said out loud, biting the apple as if to punctuate her thoughts. ‘You know you can’t go back there.’ Brexan could only hope Lieutenant Riskett had listed her as lost in the skirmish at Riverend Palace, although without a body to identify her, that was unlikely.

No, if she returned to Estrad, it would be in shackles, and she would be imprisoned, tortured, and hanged at the next Twin-moon as an example to all soldiers of Prince Malagon’s army.

She inhaled deeply. It was cooler here than in Estrad; she was happy to sit quietly and enjoy the evening. The road north had been challenging: Jacrys was difficult to track. She had lost his trail entirely several times, but he kept turning up and now she had no doubts that he was trailing this band of partisans on their flight north. Though she had not seen the enemy they had faced that morning at Riverend Palace, she knew this group had been involved. She was still struggling to make sense of it all: Jacrys had ordered the platoons to take Riverend Palace because partisans had been using it for meetings, as well as storing weapons and silver. That was fine. But in the process, Jacrys had murdered Lieutenant Bronfio and the family of at least one partisan, before taking off after the fugitives. Why Bronfio? And why this particular band of freedom fighters?

Still she had no answers, nothing to explain why Jacrys had followed them into the mountains and ambushed them with a platoon of filthy Seron warriors, nor how he had managed to bring an almor along with him. He did not appear to have a sorcerer’s skills – yet the almor had appeared twice while Jacrys was near of this group of Ronans. Was he controlling it? She bit off another mouthful of apple and, finding it bruised, spat it into the underbrush. He might have some magic at his disposal, but magic enough to control a demon would have to come from elsewhere, from the north. Prince Malagon.

A strand of hair fell over her shoulder and she played with it absentmindedly. It was long, too long. She had meant to have it cut before the last Twinmoon, but hadn’t found time. She looked about the camp for something with which to tie it up. Among the putrefied remains of a dead horse, lying where the almor had tossed the husk of skin and bones after its attack, was an old saddle. Drawing a knife from her belt, she sliced off a thin leather thong tying up a tightly rolled wool blanket. As she cut it free, the blanket fell to the ground and partially unrolled across the leaves and dirt.

‘That’s better,’ she said as she tied her hair back. Night had fallen and Brexan was growing somewhat impatient. She kneeled next to the partisan and shook him gently by the shoulders.

‘Hey,’ she whispered, ‘wake up. You’re safe; wake up.’

The man groaned in response and Brexan spilled a few drops of water across his lips from a wineskin she had found.

‘Try again,’ she encouraged, ‘wake up.’

Versen opened his eyes and, grimacing, tried to sit up. ‘Rutting dogs, it’s you,’ he exclaimed as he looked at Brexan.

Brexan, taken aback, said simply, ‘Yes, it’s me,’ though she had no idea how he could know who she was.

Versen reached out and took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘I never told you… I should have told you. I love you.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her awkwardly on the lips before falling back onto her cloak and drifting back into unconsciousness.

‘Of course you do, of course you love me.’ Brexan leaned back against the twisted oak once again. ‘What else would you say, really? “Hello”, maybe. “Who are you?” perhaps. But no, not you, my brain-damaged Ronan buffoon, you open with “I love you”. Fairly direct of you, and I must give you credit for bravery.’

She drank from the wineskin and added sarcastically, ‘And I know it might be sudden of me, but I love you, too.’ Sleeping soundly, Versen did not respond.

Brexan pulled herself to her feet. As she collected logs for the fire she looked about nervously for any sign of the almor, but the energetic mare was still cropping grass complacently nearby, so she assumed all was well for the moment. She began spreading out her own blankets for the night.

‘Sleep well,’ she called towards the grove. ‘If you still love me in the morning, I might even brew you some tecan.’ The Malakasian soldier lay still in the firelight, watching the stars and feeling the ominous presence of the Blackstone Mountains behind her in the dark, ponderous, black as pitch. Brexan was not looking forward to the next leg of her journey: the Blackstones were renowned for their treacherous cliffs, razor-thin trails and uncertain footholds. ‘I’m not sure I have any choice, though,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I certainly can’t turn around now.’

The breeze along the river had grown into a gusting wind. She shook her head, then sat up, pulled on her boots and walked back into the grove where Versen lay asleep. Finding the blanket she had cut free earlier that evening, she cast it over his still form and started walking back towards her own blankets.

She stopped and set her jaw in frustration. ‘Motherless, inbred, whoring…’ she muttered and turned back towards the trees. When she finally lay back down to sleep, Versen’s boots had been removed and now stood side-by-side on the ground next to him; a blanket Brexan took from Brynne’s abandoned saddle had been carefully tucked beneath his back, legs and shoulders to keep it from blowing away in the chilly evening breeze.

Brexan woke in the grey pre-dawn light to a gentle nudging at her ribs. She kicked the blanket aside as she sprang to her feet, hoping to confuse her attacker and grab a moment’s edge in the coming fight. She had a dagger in one hand and her short sword in the other before reaching her feet then, blinking several times to clear the sleepy fog from her mind, she recognised Versen standing beside her, his hands raised.

‘Whoa, hold on there,’ he cried. ‘I’m unarmed and I think you had something to do with that.’ He lowered his hands slowly to his sides and added, ‘Calm down, please.’

‘What are you doing, coming up on me like that while I’m sleeping, you ox?’ Brexan felt dizzy: the effect of leaping up so suddenly. ‘I could have killed you.’

‘True and you could have passed out.’ He motioned for her to sit down and reached for a wineskin. ‘Don’t you know the moment you wake is the most stressful of the day? Going from deep sleep to anything is a chore; you jumped up like a rutting chainball champion.’ He passed her the skin. ‘Here, have a drink.’

Sheathing the dagger, Brexan accepted the wineskin and took a long draw.

‘My name is Versen. I’m from Rona.’

‘Brexan, and I know.’

‘Did you cover me and take off my boots last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It was cold.’

‘Yes, it was and again, thank you.’ Versen ran one hand across his empty belt. ‘Did you happen to take my weapons?’

Brexan nodded towards the packs and saddlebags stacked near the fire. ‘They’re over there on the ground. I wasn’t disarming you. I just didn’t want-’ She paused. ‘I didn’t want you to roll over and slice yourself open.’

‘Well, again, I must say thank you, Brexan.’

‘You do a lot of that.’

‘You’re right; I do seem to.’ Versen took a seat near the remains of the campfire and proceeded to stir the flames gently until they crackled anew. ‘Do you know what happened to the others?’

‘The almor pursued them that way, into the canyon, but only the woman’s horse was killed.’

Rubbing the back of his head, Versen pulled several bits of dried blood from his hair. ‘I wasn’t much use, was I?’

‘Don’t blame yourself.’ Brexan finally sheathed her sword and sat down beside him. ‘The almor is a magical creature, ancient and powerful. The fact that you aren’t dead is good fortune enough.’

‘Well, when it’s fully light we have to go after them.’ Versen caught himself, looked across at her and corrected himself. ‘I should say, I have to go after them.’ He hesitated another moment, then asked, ‘Who are you, anyway? And what are you doing out here alone?’

Inexplicably, Brexan found herself telling Versen of her role in the battle at Riverend Palace, of Bronfio’s murder and of her decision to pursue Jacrys until she either understood his motives or brought him to justice. Halfway through her tale she wondered if it was wise to tell this stranger so much – after all, he was a partisan, a freedom fighter sworn to rid Rona of the Malakasian occupation forces. But there was something about him that helped her feel at ease; although she did not know why, she believed he could be trusted.

As she finished, the sun broke the horizon.

‘Did you not think they would kill you if they caught you?’ Versen was incredulous. ‘Why leave your unit, make yourself a fugitive from your own army in a land where travelling alone is almost certain to get you killed by partisans who hate you?’

‘I admit I didn’t put a great deal of thought into my decision at the time,’ she said as she took a couple of apples from a saddlebag and tossed him one. ‘I was furious. Killing innocent people is not why I became a soldier.’ She paused to chew and swallow a mouthful before adding, ‘I don’t know; I guess I didn’t think it through.’

‘Well, it looks like you’re on the run now.’

‘No,’ she answered matter-of-factly, ‘I’m going to discover what Jacrys is up to. He murdered a Malakasian officer. That makes him a traitor.’

‘Are all things really so black and white to you?’

‘Many, yes.’ Her directness surprised him. ‘Too many people make things too rutting confusing. Sure, it might be fun sometimes to consider all those other variables. Maybe Bronfio was a spy. Maybe Jacrys was acting under orders. Maybe the lieutenant was sleeping with his wife. Who knows? But eventually, so many things end up making sense just the way you expected from the start. So start there. Jacrys is bad news.’ She began rolling her blankets into a tight bedroll. ‘How is your head?’

‘Cracked clean through, I think.’ He kicked dirt onto the fire. ‘None of my hats will fit any more.’ The flames died a smoky death, billowing dark clouds into the morning air. ‘We ought to fetch me a new one at some point this morning.’

‘Hat? Are you kidding?’

‘Head, and yes I was.’ He moved to the pile of satchels and began consolidating their contents, repacking them into a pair of large saddlebags. ‘You are an intense woman, Brexan.’

‘Soldier,’ she corrected him.

‘You don’t look much like a soldier.’ He smiled and replaced the dagger and battle-axe in his belt.

‘Circumstances forced me to change out of my uniform. I might no longer be a member of the Malakasian occupation force, but I am a soldier and I am good at it.’ She drew herself to her full height and endeavoured to look Versen in the eye. Realising she only reached the upper part of his chest, she looked away quickly. ‘So,’ her voice dropped, ‘I would be grateful if you would try to remember that.’

Versen wanted to come up with something witty to somehow crack her angry exterior, but his head hurt and nothing came to mind. He changed the subject. ‘Where are you heading today?’

Brexan pointed towards the canyon. ‘In there.’ She turned to face him. ‘I lost his trail two days ago, but found yours instead. If the old man took the others up this hill-’ She paused to gaze towards the top of Seer’s Peak; Versen watched as the wind played with the strands of her hair that had come lose from the leather thong. Brexan grimaced and continued, ‘That’s where Jacrys will be going.’

She already knew Versen would follow his friends in the hope of finding them alive. ‘You must remember the almor can only travel through a fluid medium, plant roots, underground waterways and the like.’

‘I know.’

‘So if your horse senses it, or if you see evidence that it is nearby, you must get to somewhere it can’t reach you, someplace bone-dry – no plants – a rock outcropping, or up a dead tree,’ Brexan flushed, her face warm despite the cold morning. She did not want the big Ronan to believe she cared at all for his wellbeing.

She turned and caught him staring at her hair. Flushing again, she gathered it in one hand and pulled it self-consciously over her shoulder. Certain it was abysmally dirty, she wished she had a hat, even one of Versen’s that no longer fit his crooked, broken head. She breathed deeply, then set about organising her pack. Irritated with herself, the Malakasian woman had not noticed Versen was now standing absolutely still in the centre of their camp. Shoving a short knife, a length of twine and her tecan pot deep into the satchel, she allowed herself to get lost momentarily in her packing. She wanted to be angry with this man. He was the enemy, a partisan, a criminal, traitor to the Malakasian throne. She ought to kill him right here and leave his body in the grove where she found him.

And how dare he disparage what she did? Look at him, out here, days’ travel from anywhere. Did he really expect his revolution was going to begin here at the base of the Blackstones? She nearly laughed out loud – then she heard the mare whinny; she turned to see the horse pulling nervously on the reins that tethered her fast to a pine at the edge of the clearing. Brexan froze, her breath catching in her throat. Now she could see Versen standing motionless, staring into the trees. His battle-axe and dagger were drawn; his face had changed: no longer the handsome, charming woodsman, now he looked like every inch the revolutionary. For an instant Brexan hoped she would never have to face him in battle.

Rutters, she thought. The almor. Gingerly she let her pack fall to the ground, then cursed silently when it landed harder than she expected. ‘Lords, why not just stomp your feet?’ she whispered, but Versen paid no attention to her. Renna whinnied again; now the other horses began to show signs of anxiety as well, stamping nervously and pulling at their reins. Brexan considered the possibility of getting to them and slicing their leather harnesses to set them free. She didn’t rate her chances of being quicker than the almor.

Then she heard it: a twig snapping, some leaves rustling… a momentary silence – before the woods around them came alive with a cacophony of footsteps, breaking branches, heavy movement through the underbrush and a series of unintelligible grunts that came from everywhere at once. Brexan began backing away, an involuntary response to the wall of sound bearing down on them.

‘Don’t move,’ Versen commanded in a harsh whisper. ‘Stand fast, here, next to me.’

She hurried to his side. Despite the nearly paralysing fear, her senses were alive and finely honed; she caught his scent, wild herbs mixed with a distant aroma of woodsmoke. She surprised herself by inhaling deeply, in hopes of breathing him in again before the attack came from all sides.

‘What is it?’ she asked softly.

‘Seron.’ Versen’s reply was confident, and Brexan found that comforting, as if he somehow knew they would emerge unscathed.

He tucked the dagger under his arm and reached over to take her hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, squeezing her fingers tightly in encouragement. ‘They want us alive.’

‘How do you know?’ Her voice shook and she cursed herself for betraying her fear.

‘Because this is not how Seron attack.’ He dropped her hand; Brexan could feel the warmth of his grip fade with her resolve.

The first Seron came into view, emerging from the trees like a misplaced herd of cattle. The warriors hooted and grunted excitedly when they saw they had their quarry surrounded. Brexan estimated there were twenty of them; she understood immediately there would be no battle. The circle about them closed as the half-human warriors came forward. They were unimpressed by Versen’s show of force: one man, one dagger, one battle-axe. Brexan was relieved she had left her Malakasian uniform in Estrad. Had these Seron realised she was absent without leave, she would be dead already, torn to pieces by the band of foul-smelling creatures.

There were no escape routes. The circle tightened, then the Seron stopped. Many grunted aloud, spat on the ground at their feet or pounded hairy hands against leather and chainmail breastplates. Brexan reminded herself to breathe. She dared not draw her weapons, even though she knew gripping a sword would help steady her shaking fingers.

Take my hand again. She cast her thoughts at Versen and was surprised she did not feel more embarrassment at wanting to feel the big man’s touch. She was shorter than the Seron and could no longer see the forest behind them. In every direction, she could see only the black and brown leather of the Seron uniform. It was as though all Eldarn was folding up inside this clearing; she struggled even to hear the river rushing by. Convinced things would be all right if she could just capture the sound of the water in her mind, the ceaseless stream cascading over perfectly smooth rocks on its endless journey to the Ravenian Sea, she concentrated, but it wasn’t there. It had stopped.

‘Take my hand again.’ She said it aloud this time and without hesitating, Versen dropped his dagger and gripped her hand so tightly she thought he would snap her fingers like so many brittle twigs. Fine. So be it. Just don’t let go.

A huge warrior, a full head taller than Versen, strode forward and stood before them. Pounding a closed fist against his chest, he barked, ‘Lahp.’

Versen dropped the battle-axe rather than letting go of Brexan’s hand. He touched one finger to his chest and replied, ‘Versen.’ He nodded towards her and added, ‘Brexan.’

‘Glimr?’ it grunted back at them. Brexan guessed it was a question, because the creature’s voice rose slightly with the word.

‘I don’t understand,’ Versen said calmly. ‘What is Glimr?’

‘Glimr,’ the creature tried more forcefully this time. ‘Glimr.’

‘Gilmour?’ Versen asked. Brexan felt his grip tighten. The heat from his touch grew in intensity. ‘You are looking for Gilmour?’

Brexan could not remember the last time she had taken a breath. She watched in horror as the hideous Seron ran its tongue over a cracked and bulbous lower lip. Was it about to take a bite out of her?

Instead, it responded to Versen with a nod. ‘Glimr,’ it repeated.

Versen’s hand began to shake, but his face remained calm, still the grim look of a revolutionary willing to fight to the death. The fact that she could feel his fear, and she knew he felt hers, brought them closer together. All at once, Brexan felt she understood the partisans.

Taking another moment in an effort to flatten the conspicuous tremor in his voice, Versen looked the Seron, Lahp, in the eye and replied, ‘In a thousand Twinmoons, I would never tell you where to find Gilmour, you rancid, open-sored horsecock.’

Lahp struck with unexpected speed, his fist coming forward like a cudgel to land just under Versen’s chin. The thud was audible. Brexan felt the woodsman’s hand go limp an instant later as he fell. Without thinking, she reached for her sword. Gripping the hilt, its leather handle familiar against her palm, Brexan tried to draw the weapon from its scabbard, but she was too slow. Lahp’s fist took her just below the eye in a cruel blow that cracked her cheek and sent her reeling unconscious to the ground.

The first thing Brexan noticed was the breeze. It had picked up. From her vantage point in the dirt, she thought she could see dark clouds massing far to the west. Although the sun still shone, it would rain soon. Her cheek throbbed, a dull ache that resonated through her head with the flat clank of a broken bell. Powerful hands held her down, one gripping the narrow edge of her hip while the other pressed flat against her breastbone. Waiting as the blurry edges of her vision came back into focus, she watched Versen’s face take shape before her eyes.

‘What? Think you’re getting lucky, Ox?’ she managed, almost blacking out again with the effort.

‘Stay down,’ he commanded gently. ‘You took quite a shot.’

‘I’m all right,’ she lied, feeling a spasm of pain rush across her face, a searing sensation that brought tears to her eyes.

‘No, you’re not,’ Versen replied and gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘But you will be in time.’

Deciding not to fight, Brexan lay back and closed her eyes. Tears began to well up behind her lids, but she fought them off. Inhaling sharply, she asked, ‘Are they going to kill us?’

‘I don’t think so, not yet.’

Swallowing hard, she ran two fingers over her swollen face. ‘How can you be sure?’

Versen pulled her hand away and touched her cheek, not the gentle touch of a friend, but the diagnostic touch of a healer. ‘It’s not too bad. I tried to set the bone while you slept, but it wouldn’t move and you kept screaming when I pushed on it.’

‘Well, thanks. Remind me to run you through the heart when I get my sword back.’

‘Better than doing it now while you’re awake. Good news is if it didn’t move, it’s probably just a fracture, a hairline crack.’

‘Grand.’

‘We need to get you to the river. The cold water will help with the swelling.’

Brexan lifted her head far enough to see they were still in the camp near the grove. She could hear the sound of the river and felt better, despite the pain. Their saddlebags and packs had been pillaged and lay about where the Seron warriors had tossed them. It looked as if the last of their food had been eaten; their weapons were now in the hands of the Seron. Resting her head once again in Versen’s lap, she asked, ‘You didn’t answer my question. How do you know they won’t kill us?’

‘They’re looking for something and they haven’t found it; until they do, they have to keep us alive.’

‘Find what?’

‘A key.’ Versen paused, searching for the best way to explain. ‘A key to operate a magic chamber that will give Prince Malagon enough power to destroy the world, and all the other worlds as well, I suppose.’

‘Other worlds.’

‘Yes. Steven and Mark, the two strangers you watched on the beach. They’re from another world, a world they call Color-ado, or something like that.’

Brexan agreed for the moment to give him the benefit of the doubt, no matter how crazy his explanation. They were still alive, after all and there had to be a reason for that. ‘So, they’re looking for Gilmour, because they believe he has this key?’

‘That’s right, but he doesn’t.’

‘Who does?’

‘At the moment, no one.’ Brexan looked confused, so Versen tried again. ‘Right now, it is in Color-ado, where Steven left it. You see, he mistook it for a rock.’

‘A rock? The key to enough magic to destroy Eldarn-’

‘And other worlds as well-’

‘And other worlds as well… The key to more magic than anyone in their right mind can imagine was left somewhere, because some foreigner thought it was a rock.’

‘That’s right, at least as far as I can gather.’

‘So that’s why you’re travelling north. To find this key.’ Brexan was fascinated.

‘In a matter of speaking, yes. We have to get to Welstar Palace to reach a portal that will take Gilmour, Steven and Mark back to Colorado where Gilmour can retrieve the key.’ Versen realised he had been speaking too loudly and lowered his voice. ‘Then Gilmour can use the key to destroy Prince Malagon- well, Nerak, really.’

‘Nerak?’

‘Never mind now; I’ll explain later. You should rest if you can. We don’t know what these monsters have in mind for us today. We should save our strength.’

Brexan suddenly noticed the bruise along Versen’s jaw. ‘He clobbered you pretty well, didn’t he?’

‘This?’ Versen grinned broadly down at her. ‘Oh no, I’ve been hit much harder than this!’

She tried to return his smile, but her cheek reminded her it would be some time before that would be possible again. Instead, she asked teasingly. ‘Oh yes? By whom?’

‘Women in taverns mostly,’ he replied, deadpan, which made her laugh.

‘Don’t,’ she begged, ‘don’t make me laugh, Ox. My face hurts.’ Brexan closed her eyes, caught the distinctive aroma of wild herbs and woodsmoke on the brisk wind and managed a crooked smile despite the painful swelling in her cheek.

The midday aven had just begun when Lahp appeared, hulking across the clearing to where Versen and Brexan were still sitting together. Worried the Seron might strike her again, Brexan moved closer to Versen and pressed her cheek softly against his chest. Please don’t, she thought, clenching her teeth in anticipation of another bone-rattling blow.

It never came. Instead, Lahp stood before them and gestured firmly with one hand for them to stand, grunting, ‘Up, up!’ as he did so.

As Versen helped Brexan to her feet, Lahp roughly shoved them in the direction of the horses and motioned towards the saddles that were lying nearby.

‘Saddle the horses?’ Brexan guessed. Her face twisted with pain and a thin trickle of spittle ran down her chin.

‘Ah, ah,’ Lahp grunted and shoved them both again before returning to directing the Seron preparations for travel.

Versen picked up Renna’s saddle, watching as Lahp gave orders to his platoon. Teams of leather-clad warriors scurried about, preparing weapons, distributing food and wineskins and scratching rudimentary maps in the dirt.

‘We don’t seem to be too well guarded,’ Versen whispered. ‘What’s to keep us from saddling up and riding away?’

Brexan considered his question for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know exactly, but I think I’m afraid to risk it.’

‘Look at them, though,’ he pressed, trying to convince her. ‘It looks as if they’ve mostly forgotten we’re here. They knocked us out, searched our bags – and then ignored us the rest of the day. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Versen, no. We don’t have any weapons. If they ran us down, they’d kill us for sure.’

‘Yes, but we have Renna.’ He draped Garec’s saddle over the mare’s back and patted the horse affectionately. ‘She’s fast, Brexan, faster than any horse I’ve ever known. She outran a pack of grettans once. She’d have no problem with this lot of crippled plough-horses.’ Renna tossed her mane, as if anticipating the coming chase with enthusiasm. Even after the smooth hair along the horse’s neck came to rest, the wind lifted it once more in a momentary illusion of speed and strength.

‘All right,’ Brexan whispered. ‘Let’s do it – but I am not going to get hit again. If we get caught, I want to go down fighting. I don’t ever want to be that frightened again.’

She was preparing the second horse when she caught sight of Lahp coming towards them, this time with three tough-looking Seron in tow.

As if reading her mind, Versen said quietly, ‘Hold fast. Let’s see what this is about.’

Without speaking, Lahp pushed Versen towards Renna and he climbed into the saddle. Grabbing Brexan by the upper arm, the Seron leader shoved her towards the mare as well. Versen reached down to help her up behind him.

Resting one enormous paw on Renna’s pommel, Lahp handed Versen and Brexan two blankets and a wineskin filled with river water. Uncertain if she was allowed to drink from the skin, Brexan held it firmly against her swollen cheek.

Lahp laughed, an ugly, wet and raspy sound. It reminded Brexan of the cry of a beaten dog.

Then the Seron leader grunted a series of orders and the three warriors with him donned packs and climbed onto three of the remaining horses.

One turned to them, balled up his fist and slapped it against his chest. ‘Karn,’ he said malevolently, as if the name meant famine, or death, or some other equally unpleasant thing.

Not wanting to anger their escort, Versen in turn pointed to himself and then to Brexan and said their names clearly: ‘Versen. Brexan. Happy to meet you.’

Brexan nearly cried out in horror when she realised one Seron, the smallest of the group, was a woman – or at least had been a woman, before Prince Malagon purloined her soul and turned her into a monster.

‘Brexan,’ she said quietly, pointing a finger at her broken cheek.

‘Rala,’ the Seron woman replied gruffly.

Brexan glanced at the third member of their escort. He did not speak, but glared back at her in silence. She noticed a long scar that ran across his face like the map of a great river. It had obviously been a deep wound, slicing through his cheek and severing part of his nose.

‘Brexan,’ she tried again, but he stared straight ahead, ignoring her and Versen entirely. With a shiver, Brexan wrapped her arms around Versen’s chest and buried her face in the folds of his cloak.

The leader, Karn, spurred his mount toward a break in the trees. Rala followed, nodding to the scarred creature and grunting, ‘Haden.’

The Seron with the ruined face turned to stare at the prisoners. ‘Ah,’ he growled, pointing towards Rala’s mount.

Versen nodded and nickered Renna into line. They rode off southwest with Haden bringing up the rear.

After breakfasting on the last of their provisions, the travellers made their way down Seer’s Peak and back into their former base camp. It was an aven past midday by the time they reached the forest floor. Steven purposely averted his eyes from the area where the almor’s remains were scattered. He found it odd a demon would be comprised of flesh, albeit rank and putrid flesh, and he had no wish to see what was left of it.

Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the Blackstones while contemplating the next dilemma facing them: getting safely to Falkan before winter set in. He and Mark were the only experienced climbers in the group; although Gilmour had shown uncanny agility, it would be up to them to get the band of freedom fighters safely over the passes and into Orindale.

Steven gripped the hickory staff and breathed deeply. He felt reborn. The air smelled fresh and clean; the earth felt familiar under his feet and the evergreens were starkly outlined against a flawless blue sky. He wasn’t certain if he felt better because he could summon a mysterious and powerful magic, or because he had faced his fears and emerged unscathed. Either way, he had to admit to being almost excited about their journey to Welstar Palace – and the inevitable confrontation with Prince Malagon.

During the descent from Seer’s Peak, Steven allowed his mind to wander, not along memorised trails in the impossibly distant Rocky Mountains this time, but along the path he imagined his life taking in the future. Looking back was safe but humiliating. Looking forward was terrifying but exhilarating and he was determined not to make his old mistakes again, not here in Eldarn, or back home in Idaho Springs.

He had been both victim and coward for too long; now he could see with more clarity; he could feel with more compassion and genuine concern. His only regret was that Hannah was not there with him.

The remains of the camp punctured Steven’s mood. Seron and grettan tracks crisscrossed the area in a confusing jumble. Splatters of blood disappeared south and west and numerous footprints ran into the canyon and along the western edge of Seer’s Peak.

Sallax went immediately to the grove where the almor had first attacked. Garec could hear him moving about in the fallen leaves. Everyone held their breath in anticipation of the grisly report, but their immediate fears were unfounded.

‘No sign of Versen,’ he started, pausing as a collective sigh ran through the group. ‘Except for the remains of Brynne’s horse, the other mounts are gone – saddles too.’

Garec snapped into action. ‘Then one of these blood trails might be Versen’s. Mark and Steven, you follow the blood south. Brynne, you and Gilmour follow to the west.’

They all nodded as Garec warned them, ‘Remember, a wounded animal is always dangerous and a wounded grettan is worse: it will be an angry nightmare. If Versen is injured, it was most likely by the Seron, not the grettans, but that doesn’t matter right now: the loss of blood might mean he doesn’t have much time left.’

They drew weapons and, crouching close to the ground, followed the tracks into the forest.

Garec was already wishing Versen were there to help him decipher the clues hidden in the footprints. They had, between them, managed to work out that a large group of Seron had stormed into camp, probably expecting to take the Ronans by surprise. Finding the camp deserted, it looked as if the Seron had pillaged the abandoned packs and saddlebags, drinking – and spilling – the wine and eating the last of the food. They had taken time to re-saddle the horses before setting off again, although Garec could see from the hoofprints that several mounts were missing. His stomach turned: he feared he would never see Renna again.

The grettans had come from the west, so not the pack Gilmour had summoned to the Merchants’ Highway to raid the caravan. Thin telltale ruts running through the clearing showed where the ravening beasts had dragged their hapless victims; Garec wasn’t sure if he hoped that Versen were still alive at that point. He even felt a little sorry for the Seron.

Most of the grettan tracks then left the camp together and headed east, though a couple disappeared into the canyon, most likely in pursuit of fleeing Seron warriors.

Steven and Mark’s prompt return confirmed Garec’s suspicion.

‘It looks like a grettan dragged one of those Seron soldiers off about a hundred paces,’ Mark told him, ‘and ate it. We couldn’t find any blood beyond the large stain where it tore the body apart.’

‘Are you certain it wasn’t Versen?’

‘Yes,’ Steven said, grimacing. ‘It left the boots there.’

‘And any tracks?’ Sallax asked.

‘They moved off east,’ Mark confirmed.

Gilmour and Brynne had found a similar scene, but the grettan they had tracked headed south into the foothills after feeding on an injured Seron. Brynne carried what was left of a thick hairy forearm. She dropped it into the ashes of their forgotten campfire where it settled, a mutilated stump half dusted in black and grey.

‘We ought to make camp in the canyon tonight,’ Sallax suggested. ‘If we can get to higher ground that would be even better. We only have about a half aven before it’ll get dark so we had better get moving.’

‘I wasn’t able to find Versen’s boot prints,’ Garec explained, ‘so we should assume he is alive and that he rode out of here on one of the horses.’

Gilmour chimed in, ‘Hopefully, he has ridden into the canyon and has a head start on us.’

‘He knew we couldn’t get far up the first pass with the horses, so if we don’t find him in the next two days, there’s a good chance he rode south or west,’ Mark added.

Sallax interrupted, saying, ‘It doesn’t matter. We have to clear out of here and get as far up that hill as possible before it gets too dark.’

‘I’ll get us some fish for dinner,’ Garec said as he drew several arrows from his quiver and hurried off towards the river.

‘And I’ll fill the skins,’ Brynne said. ‘We don’t know how far into the mountains we’ll go before we find a stream.’

‘Good,’ Sallax agreed, then turned to Steven. ‘See what you can salvage from the packs and saddlebags strewn about here on the ground.’

The evening grew cold as the group navigated the twists and turns of the narrow canyon. Passing the Seer’s Peak trailhead, Gilmour became lost in thought once again. Garec guessed what troubled his friend. The almor, the Seron and the grettans had found them at the base of Seer’s Peak shortly after their arrival. They were being watched, tracked. Malagon knew where they were every step of the way.

Garec was not sure why the Seron would be battling grettans when they had both been sent to kill the Ronan partisans; perhaps Nerak simply didn’t care if they killed one another. Perhaps the use of all three killers was designed to bring as much deadly force down upon the band of travellers as possible. It appeared to be a pretty safe bet that as long as Gilmour and the others were killed, Nerak was indifferent to his servants getting killed themselves in the process.

Snaking through the canyon, Garec thought again of his dream, watching as the land died, turning into an arid wasteland as the Estrad River slowed to a trickle. He hoped Lessek’s vision was not one of an unavoidable future. He remembered ghostly wraiths moving between trees in the forbidden forest, a thousand eerily silent souls floating effortlessly above the ground. Garec had no idea who – or what – the spirits sought. And he pondered the significance of the strange pair coupling furiously on the woollen carpet of a Riverend Palace apartment. Garec did not understand why such an exquisite woman would be willing to engage with such a partner.

If it had been a final effort to carry on the Grayslip family line, maybe there was an heir to the Eldarni throne somewhere in Rona. Garec was still confounded by the fact that Lessek had shared such a vision with him. Was he destined to seek out and serve Eldarn’s next king or queen, to remain in Rona while his friends continued north? It might take hundreds of Twinmoons to locate the great-great-great grandchild of an unknown woman who had been impregnated by a dying prince so long ago.

And if it were true that Prince Draven of Malakasia was not Prince Marek’s father, then the Malakasian line was ruling Eldarn illegally. Perhaps that was his mission: to restore to Eldarn its true king.

Garec realised suddenly that he, like Gilmour, had fallen into deep thought. Looking around at his companions, he guessed they were all sorting out difficult questions for themselves as they slogged dejectedly north.

The canyon ended in a slight draw running between two imposing peaks, the beginning of a pass over which the travellers would climb the following day. It was nearly dark now and Sallax suggested they make camp and eat the meagre supplies they had been able to salvage. Garec immediately backtracked down the canyon to a rock outcropping that provided an aerial view of the narrows in both directions. Maybe there was light enough for him spot and shoot any unwary animal in search of a safe place to bed down for the night.

A half-aven later he could no longer see far enough for an accurate shot. He returned to camp empty-handed, tired and hungry.

*

Versen stretched his stiffening muscles in an attempt to alleviate cramp: they had been riding without a break all day and he was feeling the strain. Their Seron escort had paid them scant attention, other than to ensure they kept moving. Karn led the way southwest along a narrow path through the foothills which would eventually reach the Ravenian Sea. Renna was between Karn and Rala and the scarred Seron, Haden, brought up the rear. Although Karn and Rala conversed in grunts and odd phrases, Haden did not communicate with anyone.

The company ate an unappetising midday meal on horseback: day-old fish, stale bread, and a few pieces of welcome tempine fruit. Later, Versen tried to recall its sweet orange flavour. Behind him, Brexan appeared unaffected by the long ride and poor food. The Malakasian soldier was obviously very fit, for she rode all day without complaint. Versen marvelled at her stamina.

‘Aren’t you tired?’ he asked, shaking his hands to get some feeling back in them.

Brexan smiled. ‘Thirty-five Twinmoons of dance lessons, Ox. I have better posture than you.’

‘So you’re aching a bit too?’

‘I think my bottom fell off an aven ago,’ she responded, grinning wryly.

Versen laughed aloud for a moment, quieting quickly when Karn glared at him. Leaning back, he whispered, ‘I’m sure you have some part of it left down there.’

Brexan whispered back, ‘Thank you for not peeking, Ox. I meant it about the posture, though.’

The Ronan woodsman sat upright in the saddle, straightening his back and holding his head high. ‘There, how’s that?’

‘You’ll make a fine dancer.’

Versen scoffed. ‘Dance lessons? Only in Malakasia. Ronan kids have to learn those things in secret, dancing in basements or barn lofts, thanks to your occupation.’

‘Oh lay off, Ox. I never had dance lessons.’ Brexan scowled. ‘I’m a better rider than you, that’s all.’ The scowl vanished as she added, ‘And I didn’t grow up planning to occupy Rona; I just wanted to be a soldier. My division was sent to Rona. I wasn’t happy about it and I left without permission because I realised how unfair our occupation had become. I’m a criminal in my own country now. I’ll be executed the moment they find me. So you should be more pleasant to me.’

Versen slouched forward and muttered, ‘I’ll give you the better posture, but you are not a better rider than I am.’

Refusing to back down, Brexan retorted, ‘One day, we shall see.’

Smirking, the big Ronan teased her, ‘Well, I can certainly sing better than you.’

‘Love arias? Songs about the many intelligent and engaging women you meet in taverns?’

‘Maybe a little of both.’

‘Well, I can’t wait to hear your “Ode to Capella of Capehill”.’

Versen feigned surprise. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Stop it, Ox,’ she said as she poked him in the ribs.

‘ She never minded my peeking.’

At that Brexan laughed and rested her head between his shoulder blades. Her cheek still ached; she longed for the healing power of querlis leaf. Periodically Versen asked how she was and periodically she answered, ‘I’m fine.’

She had been too embarrassed at her obvious fear of the Seron to discuss the incident with Versen earlier, but now that he had seen her as low as she could possibly get, she brought it out in the open. Drawing away from the comfort of his broad back, Brexan said quietly, ‘I am sorry about this morning.’

‘Why?’ Versen said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. We were surrounded.’

‘No-’ She hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more-’

‘Brave?’

‘Well… yes.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You were brave enough.’

‘I was terrified.’

‘So was I.’

‘I thought they were going to kill us.’

‘Had we been more brave, they probably would have.’

‘I wanted you to think I was a good soldier.’

‘I am quite certain you are a good soldier and I am also quite certain all good soldiers are afraid when under attack.’ He turned slightly to look into her swollen face. ‘You deserted your platoon to pursue a spy and murderer. You followed him halfway to Falkan, alone. You risked everything to bring justice to a dead lieutenant you didn’t particularly like.’

Versen reached down and squeezed her knee gently. ‘You’re one of the bravest people I have ever known.’

Brexan inhaled sharply and held her breath. She did not want him to see her cry. It was somehow important to keep her emotions under control.

Versen sensed her discomfort and changed the subject. ‘How’s your face now?’

Brexan’s voice caught in her throat. ‘It hurts. It really hurts.’ This time she couldn’t stop the tears.

‘Don’t worry,’ Versen said, trying – and failing – to think of anything comforting. ‘I’ll look at it when we stop.’

‘I don’t want them to hit me again,’ she said, crying openly now.

‘I won’t let them hit you. I promise. Why don’t you try to get some rest? I won’t let you fall.’

Brexan muttered a thank-you and rested her face against his shoulder again. Talking with him helped.

Versen, trying to take Brexan’s mind off the pain, said, ‘The first caravan we raided along the Merchants’ Highway, I was young, maybe one hundred and ten Twinmoons. It was heavily guarded, but we went in anyway.’

‘What happened?’

‘I never drew an arrow or lifted a sword. I just stood there until an escort soldier, a Ronan mercenary hired to protect the shipment, came at me with an axe. I pissed myself, right there in the road.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘My friend Garec killed him – a miracle shot, right through the neck, dropped him in mid-stride.’ Versen’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Garec was even younger than me, maybe eighty-five Twin-moons. He was already the best shot I’d ever seen, and I’ve still not met a better. He killed six people that morning, saving my life and others… it was the day Sallax started calling him “Bringer of Death”.’

‘You were so young.’ Brexan lifted her head. ‘You shouldn’t have been there.’

‘That may be true, but my point is that I learned early how to hide my fear.’

‘I’ll work on that for next time.’

‘Up to you, but not necessary.’ Versen took her hand. ‘I’ll never judge you – or anyone – for being afraid during a battle.’

‘What happened to your friend?’ Brexan asked.

‘He’s even more deadly these days, a real virtuoso with a longbow. It bothers him to do it, though.’

‘To kill?’

‘Right. He hates it. He may be better at it than anyone in Eldarn, but he hates it. Every arrow he fires saps the strength from his soul.’

‘Perhaps he should stop.’

‘Perhaps he should.’

With that, Brexan snaked her arms around the Ronan’s torso and once again buried her injured face in the folds of his cloak until she fell asleep. Something had changed between them in the last half-aven; each felt easy with the other’s touch.

Versen revelled in the knowledge that the young woman felt comfortable enough with him to sleep soundly against his back, but, no longer distracted by their conversation, he realised just how much he still ached.

‘Dance lessons,’ he laughed to himself, ‘well, it can’t hurt to try.’ Moving carefully so he didn’t awaken Brexan, he adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter and lifting his head. Rutters. She was right. It helped.

A half-aven later Karn motioned for them to rein in and dismount. Unsure what to do next, the captives remained standing next to Renna. Brexan, whispering meaningless phrases, ran her hands along the mare’s neck. She wished she had an apple or some oats to offer the tired beast.

Rala pushed them both out of the way and led the mare off the trail to a small clearing. She looped the reins over a low-hanging branch, leaving the horse free to graze.

Karn motioned for Versen and Brexan to join him. He tossed them each a blanket, then gestured for Versen to gather wood for a fire.

Versen, mindful of his promise and unwilling to leave Brexan alone with the Seron, demanded, ‘She comes with me.’

Karn lumbered over to him and the Ronan winced in anticipation of another painful blow. Instead, the Seron surprised him by smiling, flashing him a mouth filled with discoloured, crooked teeth.

‘Na, na,’ the foul soldier insisted and indicated that the young woman should retrieve his saddlebags.

‘It looks like they want you to cook,’ Versen said, relieved. ‘I think you’ll be all right.’

Brexan forced a lopsided smile, her cheek bulging. One eye had swelled nearly shut. ‘Well, when they discover I can’t even brew tecan without a recipe, they’ll put me on wood collection next time.’

Dinner consisted of pale mush, a mixture of crushed oats, wheat, nuts and some herbs, Brexan guessed. Her job had been to find and boil water, stir in a small bag of the grain concoction and stand by as it began to congeal. She watched as their Seron escort ate heartily; beside her, Versen did the same. He paused to look at her quizzically when he noticed her staring.

‘What?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

‘How can you eat that stuff?’

‘This?’ Versen gestured into his trencher. ‘This delicate souffle of finest quails’ eggs, over which you laboured for avens?’

‘Ox-’

‘I am famished,’ he told her, ‘and you must be. It may be bland, but it’s perfectly edible. At least it’s not some rotting animal. You should eat. You know better than to go hungry when you don’t have to.’

Brexan scooped up a finger full of the gloop, ate it and scowled. ‘It tastes like yesterday’s laundry.’

‘Eat it anyway.’

Pouting like a schoolgirl, Brexan finished her portion, but nearly retched when Versen reached into the pot and ladled another helping into her trencher. She soon recognised that he was as much interested in seeing the Seron’s response to him acting without permission as he was in feeding her up.

Surprisingly, Karn grunted his approval and motioned for Brexan to eat as much as she desired.

Opposite the prisoners, Rala and Karn began arguing. Versen couldn’t make out the topic of their disagreement, other than Rala was disagreeing with her leader about something. Though Karn was in charge, he didn’t appear to be as dangerous or violent as Lahp. At least Karn was willing to listen to Rala -Versen imagined Lahp would have run Rala through simply for daring to question his orders. Versen hoped their less rigid approach might provide him and Brexan an opportunity to escape… but Haden was always lurking on the periphery. He said nothing.

After an animated exchange, Rala cursed angrily and wandered off to unpack her bedroll. Karn looked upset as well. He moved the horses to another area of the clearing, where sedge and grass grew in abundance. Neither Seron spoke, and neither seemed concerned with their prisoners. Without looking at Brexan, Versen whispered, ‘If they continue like this, I’m sure we’ll be able to get away.’

‘They aren’t paying much attention to us at all,’ Brexan agreed.

‘No and I’m not sure why.’

‘Maybe they don’t care if we escape. We obviously don’t have that key you were talking about.’ She pulled her knees in tightly against her chest and rested her chin on them.

‘That’s why they have to keep us with them, though,’ Versen said. ‘If they capture Gilmour, they’ll find out that none of us have it.’

‘What will happen then?’

‘They will most likely kill Gilmour and torture the others.’

‘And us?’

Versen didn’t mince words. ‘This one with the scar… he will kill us.’

As night fell, Haden placed the last of their firewood on the dimly glowing coals and rolled into his blankets to sleep. Rala dozed against a nearby tree trunk; Brexan watched as her head slumped forward onto her chest. Karn remained awake for another aven, whittling at an oak branch with his dagger and humming an out-of-tune melody to himself. Finally he nodded towards his captives and shuffled off to his own bedroll.

Despite her fatigue, Brexan was completely awake, but she feigned sleep, breathing in a slow, measured rhythm, until she was confident all the Seron were asleep.

‘What are they doing?’ she asked quietly. ‘They must know we’ll run.’ The thought was so loud and vivid in her mind that she was sure the Seron could hear it.

‘I don’t know.’ Versen was sceptical as well. ‘But we have to risk it. You get Renna. I’ll get Karn’s saddlebags.’

‘No,’ Brexan said, too loudly. She lowered her voice and continued, ‘You’ll wake them. Let’s just go. We’ll find food tomorrow.’

Versen furrowed his brow, then agreed. They crept to where Renna was tethered and Brexan gingerly disentangled the mare’s leather reins from the oak tree while Versen saddled her, trying to avoid the stirrups clanging together.

Brexan stroked the horse’s neck and whispered, ‘We need you to be quiet, Rennie, very quiet. We’re going to find Garec.’

Versen reached down and helped the Malakasian up behind him. His hand lingered in hers a moment. ‘That’s what Garec calls her, too.’

‘Rennie?’

Kicking the horse softly in the ribs, the woodsman added, ‘It appears you’ve made another friend this trip, Brexan.’

The young woman responded by wrapping her arms more tightly around Versen’s waist.

As silently as they could, they rode towards the trail. Renna appeared to have understood their need for haste and stealth; she stepped lightly despite carrying two riders.

As they turned east along the forest path, Versen thought for a moment they had made it. His heart leaped as he peered back at camp. None of the Seron had moved. The remaining horses would be no match for Renna in a race. Still, running a full sprint carrying two riders was dangerous and would tire the mare more quickly, so Versen determined to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the Seron. With every step their chances improved.

But some fifty paces outside the firelight, Versen realised something was wrong. He heard a faint rustle coming from a twisted scrub oak along the trail. He reined Renna to a stop.

‘What’s the matter?’ Brexan whispered. ‘We have to keep moving.’

‘Quiet just a moment,’ Versen whispered, then asked, ‘Do you hear that?’

‘It’s just the wind.’

‘There is no wind.’

He could feel the young woman tense behind him. ‘Again, the soldier,’ he whispered to himself. ‘She’s freed her arms, ready to fight.’ He grinned, despite the tension. ‘And she thinks she’s a coward.’

Versen squinted into the darkness, struggling to see what was making the tiny oak shrub quake before them.

‘Maybe it’s just a bird,’ Brexan suggested, but as she spoke the faint moonlight broke through the confounding tangle of pine branches overhead and lit the tree, which appeared to shrink. It grew smaller, then withered.

‘Rutters,’ Versen spat. ‘They have an almor. No wonder they didn’t care if we wandered about.’

‘I thought it went after the others.’ Brexan trembled; watching the scrub oak wither to a husk, she thought better of their plans to escape.

‘Maybe there’s more than one,’ Versen speculated. ‘Who knows what demons Malagon can summon?’

‘Should we run for it, run the other way?’

‘We’d never make it. They’re too fast. It would have Renna in an instant and then we’d be left on foot.’

As if reading their minds, the almor extended one fluid appendage above the ground. Glowing palely white, starkly contrasted against the darkness of the forest, it was a ghostly warning: ‘Turn back.’

Bringing Renna about, they covered the short distance back into camp, tethered the mare to the same oak branch and returned to their bedrolls. Karn and Rala still slept soundly, Rala snoring loudly through her nose while Karn lay on his back, his arms thrown above his head in a gesture of mock surrender.

Brexan adjusted her cloak, folding it into an uneven pillow. She was about to close her eyes against the night, against their captivity and against her fear when she saw Haden peering at her through the firelight. He grinned, hideously.

Brexan did not sleep until exhaustion overtook her an aven before dawn.