The Hickory Staff

THE SOUTHERN SLOPES

Morning in the Blackstones brought rain, a cold drizzle that soaked through cloaks and tunics, leaving everyone chilled to the bone. Garec’s knee was seizing up in the damp; although the injury was healing despite his refusal to rest, much of this sort of weather might damage it permanently. He remembered twisting his knee falling from a cliff above Danae’s Eddy into the Estrad River, escaping from the largest grettan he could ever have imagined. It felt so long ago.

Garec blinked: he had just realised that day had been the beginning of this whole ordeal. He’d got home to find soldiers interrogating everyone. They had beaten Jerond that morning. Now the young partisan was missing; Garec feared he was dead. Namont and Mika were dead and Versen was gone; they had found no sign of him.

Garec wanted to believe that Versen had escaped on Renna and maybe ridden west to find another route through the Blackstones, but he thought it was a bit of a vain hope.

Now searching for a passable route through the southernmost peaks, the small group fought their way up the muddy slope. Despite its gradual incline, the narrow draw was a natural runoff and the travellers found themselves ankle-deep in freezing water and covered with heavy, wet filth.

Garec, the last in line, struggled to make his injured leg move. To take his mind off the pain he replayed images from his dream, trying to work out what Lessek might be communicating to him. Gilmour kept saying Lessek’s message would become clear in time, but Garec was afraid he was letting his companions down by his lack of insight.

Climbing, slipping, cursing, sliding, pointlessly scraping mud from his clothes, pushing on… the Ronan bowman missed his family’s farm. He missed nights sitting around the fire after stuffing himself with roasted meat, mounds of potatoes and succulent fresh vegetables. His father baked bread above the hearth, its aroma permeating the house, maybe even the entire countryside. It was the near-perfect scent of ‘everyone is welcome here’.

He and his sisters would drink red wine and cool ale from casks stored in the family cellar and chat and laugh together for avens on end. Was there any better place in Eldarn? Were there ever better times than those? Garec was clinging to the side of the mountain, yet another mountain, pushing ever forward to battle an unbeatable foe and every part of him wanted nothing more than to turn back, to go home and to fall into the comfort of predictable, familiar, safe routines of life on the farm.

Then they were upon him again, the visions of a beautiful young woman, naked, her body exposed: he was embarrassed to look at her; did she know he was there watching, peering at her longingly in his mind? Her insane partner was there as well, screaming and cajoling unseen demons that scudded across the ceiling, visible to no one but him.

Had they succeeded in creating Eldarn’s king or queen?

If the Estrad River ran dry, if the land cracked and burned, he would never again enjoy a day at the farm. If Rona itself died, there would be no family feasts, no all-day preparation capped by long nights eating, drinking and dancing together.

That was why he continued north. That was why he was cold and wet and miserable. He was looking for answers. Would he be forced to kill Malagon to save Rona? Would he have to die himself?

Garec did not discuss his feelings as easily as the two foreigners did, but like Steven, he was uncomfortable killing. He was skilled; his arrows almost always found their mark. But too often he imagined the pain his enemies experienced, the intense and terrible fire burning from inside out. Garec reflected upon and regretted every arrow, while at the same time knowing he had to sublimate his regrets if he were to survive himself.

‘Just until this is over,’ he promised, ‘just until Eldarn is free.’ With the battle won, he vowed he would find some way to reconcile his actions. Garec imagined how disappointed his sisters would be if they knew their baby brother had become such a finely honed instrument of death. Steven had found great courage and killed with efficiency, but the foreigner killed with a discovered magic, a powerful talisman. Garec had no mystical excuse. He faced his enemies on equal footing and still emerged without a scratch. He was perhaps the most dangerous weapon the Ronans had, because he represented what anyone could become when oppressed or tortured long enough. He was just such a man; he hated killing, yet he killed more often than anyone he knew.

Perhaps, Garec thought, that was why he found himself haunted by visions of ghostly wraiths. Perhaps the souls of those he killed would stay with him for ever, taking up residence in his woods, crowding him out of his most beloved hunting grounds. He saw them again, drifting through his mind’s eye, flitting from tree to tree, their faces hidden from him.

He hoped time would bring him answers; now he struggled to force the images from his mind as he clawed his way uphill.

One particularly resilient ghost remained. Garec closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side before peering into the trees just off the pathway. It was still there, a disembodied spirit, hovering inside a stand of young evergreens. Garec stopped.

From up ahead, Brynne noticed and called over the din of the rainfall, ‘What is it?’ The others, curious, stopped to watch him.

Garec pointed towards the wraith and whispered, ‘It’s one of the spirit creatures I saw in my dream.’

‘Great rutting Pragans! So it is,’ Gilmour exclaimed and started towards the trees. ‘You there,’ he ordered the spirit onlooker. ‘Stay where you are.’

Steven and Mark exchanged a surprised glance and Steven moved quickly to accompany the older man.

‘What is it, Gilmour?’ Steven asked, nervously turning the hickory staff in his hands.

‘I don’t know. But it is watching everything we do.’

‘Can you talk with it?’

‘I plan to try.’ Searching between the young evergreens, Gilmour added irritably, ‘If we can get it to stand still for half a moment.’

‘Do you suppose it was sent here by Malagon? Like the Seron or the grettans?’

‘I don’t know.’ Gilmour moved rapidly into the trees in an effort to flush the spirit out into the open. ‘It doesn’t seem to mean us any harm… yet.’

The trees, just tall enough to block his view, would have made perfect Christmas trees for the average Colorado home, but as a grove, Steven thought, they were a confusing maze of identical clones, all conspiring to keep him at least one half step behind Gilmour as the old man hustled about. Steven rounded a corner and suddenly came upon the wraith; Gilmour was nowhere in sight.

‘Christ,’ Steven yelled and raised the staff to ward off any ghostly attack.

None came. The spirit simply hovered above the ground, its head, shoulders, upper arms and torso now clearly visible. Its extremities seemed to have been forgotten, as if hands and feet were useless in the afterlife; Steven marvelled at how its fringes appeared to dissipate like a cloud of pipe smoke on an undetected breeze. Gilmour came up behind him and Steven jumped. ‘How did you get back there?’

‘Never mind,’ the old man said as he studied the wraith with a practised eye. Steven was convinced this was not the first spirit Gilmour had ever chased through the woods.

Drawing confidence from the magician’s presence, Steven turned to study the creature more closely. One strange feature moved in and out of focus; Steven suddenly realised what he was looking at.

‘It’s a belt buckle, B-I-S! ’ Steven said excitedly, ‘I recognise it! It came from my bank, many years ago. And I know who he is – his photograph hangs in our lobby. He was one of the first tellers at the Bank of Idaho Springs.’

Barely had Steven finished speaking when the wraith vanished, breaking apart with a sense of solemnity and floating off through the rain.

They made camp in the lee of a rock formation: mean shelter, but the best they could find. All were exhausted, but with wet blankets wrapped around wet clothing, no one anticipated sleeping well. Garec was unable to get a fire started so the companions dined on cold rations.

Gilmour’s pipe still burned, though and Mark speculated on the magician’s other means of keeping his tobacco fresh and dry. Steven forced a smile as his roommate motioned towards Gilmour’s pipe; he shrugged as Mark indicated the dripping stack of tinder and sticks Garec had tried unsuccessfully to ignite.

Gilmour caught Mark’s pantomime and smiled wryly. ‘Even if I lit the tinder, the rain’s too heavy to allow any fire to keep going,’ he explained.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, no one felt like talking. In spite of the cold and wet, after nearly two avens, Garec, the last of the company still awake, finally drifted into uneasy sleep.

Steven woke with a start shortly before dawn. The rain had stopped at last and the mountain was deathly quiet. Blanketed with a heavy, humid coverlet, the dank hillside felt like the foetid interior of a freshly breached tomb. Nothing moved; Steven lay there silently staring up at unfamiliar constellations before rising slowly to a sitting position. There at the edge of their small encampment, hovered the pale, ghostly remains of Lawrence Chapman’s first employee.

Steven couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he had often gazed at the photograph in the lobby case, admiring his outlandish attire, particularly the enormous belt buckle embossed with the letters BIS. And here they were once again, this time staring at him from across the hillside.

Steven stealthily reached for the hickory staff, bracing himself for yet another battle with a monster from a netherworld that should never even have existed – but the wraith did not charge. Instead, the creature’s diffuse facial features came sharply into focus. Steven watched it; he thought it might be trying to communicate. The wraith’s lips moved silently; Steven struggled to understand.

‘Mark, wake up,’ Steven urged quietly, but Mark did not stir. ‘Garec,’ he said, poking the Ronan with the staff, but Garec slept soundly as well. ‘What’s happening?’ Steven asked, then understood. ‘You’ve done this to them.’

The wraith nodded.

Steven grew angry. ‘Leave them alone.’ He stood and drew the hickory staff up with him. ‘Leave them alone, or you’ll have to deal with me.’ Secretly, he hoped his threat would work. He had no idea whether the staff’s magic would respond to his summons again.

Ignoring him, the wraith continued its ardent effort to communicate.

Steven looked askance at the ghostly apparition. ‘Okay, I guess you’re not harming them. What are you saying? Is it Nerak?’

The nearly translucent bank teller nodded again. Then, strangely, its face blurred, as if it were looking off into the distance behind Steven. It mouthed some urgent, unknown message – and disappeared into the night.

As Steven watched the wraith fade, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning on his heels, he brought the staff up in a protective stance as he strained to see into the darkness. It was Sallax. Steven exhaled a long sigh, the pounding in his chest making it difficult to speak.

‘Sonofabitch, Sallax,’ he whispered in English, ‘you scared me.’

‘Steven?’ Sallax was surprised anyone had heard him approach. ‘Go back to sleep.’ Mark and Garec stirred sleepily, the wraith’s spell now broken; Steven assumed the spirit would not return that night. He was wide awake now, so he peeled off his wet blanket and set about trying to start a fire. Searching under the rocky shelter for anything even remotely dry to use as kindling, he wondered where Sallax had been. He summoned his courage and turned to ask, but the big Ronan had already fallen asleep.

At dawn, Garec woke and immediately started up the trail ahead of the group. ‘With this rain, any game below the tree line will have taken cover,’ he said as he adjusted his twin quivers. ‘I’ll see if I can flush something out.’ He moved off quickly before Sallax or Gilmour could stop him.

Just a few hundred paces above their camp Garec heard the sound of an animal, probably a deer, bounding through the underbrush. Sliding along the ground Garec felt like a wraith himself: invisible and deadly. His senses were strangely acute this morning – he credited hunger and fatigue. Garec kept his face down, almost in the dirt and held his breath. He didn’t want anything catching sight of his pale skin in the early light. Even a squirrel might cry out a warning and cause the deer to change direction. He and his friends needed this meat. Garec thought he could smell the animal approaching.

Exhaling slowly, he timed his leap with practised precision. As his arrow bedded itself deep into the animal’s chest he was certain he saw a look of horror pass over its face. The deer didn’t have a chance; it stumbled once, then crashed headlong into a dense thicket. It barked loudly, a death rattle, and then fell silent.

Garec felt the usual bitter mixture of exhilaration and regret. The Bringer of Death had struck again. He stood up, brushed mud and leaves from his tunic and moved towards the thicket.

The deer moved. Without thinking, Garec dropped to one knee, nocking an arrow as he did so in the fluid motion perfected when he was still a boy. He did not fire blindly into the underbrush, but waited, watching for the deer to burst from the thicket. It was impossible the animal was still alive. He had hit it squarely in the chest, driving the arrow deep into its lungs; perhaps even through its heart. Yet he could hear it blundering about.

Garec waited. His companions would be coming along the trail pretty soon and the prospect of fresh venison would surely motivate them to help him flush out the animal and kill it. The beast was quite likely to attack in a final rush of defensive adrenalin and he had no wish to face the deer’s antlers by himself.

Garec sighed. Maybe the deer would die before the others got there. The Bringer of Death, the deadly bowman, an archer so skilled that a Larion Senator has ordered him to Malakasia to rain death upon enemies foolish enough to wander within striking distance: here he was, this fearsome warrior, waiting for a defenceless deer to bleed to death or drown in its own blood. He had killed any amount of game in his lifetime, but he could not remember ever sitting idly by and waiting for an injured, suffering creature to expire. A dull throbbing pain began thumping at his temples; he resisted the urge to drop the bow and massage his head.

The waiting was exacerbating Garec’s headache, so he decided to brave the brush and finish the deer off himself. If it charged and gored him with its antlers, so be it.

The forest shone, intensely bright, where the sunlight refracted through the raindrops. Garec imagined this was what the realm of the gods must be like; he drew a strange confidence from this as he crept closer to the edge of the thicket. With his bow fully drawn, he crouched down at the spot where the deer had dived for cover beneath the underbrush and peered through the tangled branches.

The deer was there, lying motionless, quite dead. Garec watched it for some time before relaxing his bowstring and returning the arrow to its quiver. ‘I hope your suffering was brief, my friend,’ he called and began peeling off his cloak before crawling through the dense, thorny foliage.

‘Garec!’ someone shouted from the trail.

‘I’m here,’ he called back, squinting against the morning sun as he watched his friends approach, ‘and I’ve organised breakfast.’

‘Outstanding!’ he heard Gilmour cry. He smiled and turned back to the task at hand. Stripping the quivers from his back, he placed them beside his longbow and drew a short hunting knife from his belt. He would need to clear a path into the thicket to be able to pull the animal out.

Something moved. The faint rustle was too large to be a bird or a squirrel.

‘Bleeding whores,’ he exclaimed and rolled back on his heels. Kneeling in the mud, he could see the deer had not moved. It was still dead. Something else lay hidden inside the thicket. He reclaimed his bow, quickly nocked an arrow and stabbed three into the ground, fletching skywards, for easy access should he find himself in need. Painstakingly, Garec moved along the periphery of the thicket, squinting through leaves and branches to spot what he assumed was a carefully camouflaged foe.

Then it was there: an unnatural-looking hump protruded from the ground in a lazy curve too smooth to be a rock. It was covered with autumn leaves, but Garec’s well-trained eye caught sight of man-made items half-buried there as well – a boot sole, a patch of fabric, two fingers from a leather glove – they, and the telltale stains of blood, told him his instincts had been correct.

He climbed to his feet and motioned for his friends to stay back. Sallax ignored him and came on, his battle-axe drawn and ready.

‘What is it?’ He knelt down where Garec had been and tried to see through the undergrowth.

‘An injured man, but I can tell it isn’t Versen.’

‘How badly is he hurt?’

‘I’m not sure, but I can see dried blood. It’s maybe two or three days old… old enough not to have run in that rain yesterday,’ Garec kept his bow trained on the stranger.

Sallax stood up and called into the thicket, ‘You in there! Either come out on your own, or I’ll have my friend here fire a few arrows into your broken hide to motivate you.’

The leaves covering the injured stranger moved and Garec heard a distinct snarling, like that of a cornered mountain lion.

‘Horsecocks! It’s a Seron,’ he cried and double-checked his aim.

Sallax contemplated the mound a moment, looked around for Gilmour and ordered, ‘Go ahead, Garec, kill it.’

‘No,’ Steven interrupted, pushing his way to the front of the group. Mark looked over at him questioningly, but Steven repeated, ‘Don’t kill it. If it dies, fine, but we should not kill it.’

He joined Garec and called to the injured creature, ‘Seron. Do you understand me? We do not wish to kill you, but we will do so if you make any move to attack. Do you understand?’ There was a low growl in response. Steven searched the brilliant hues of the forest morning for an answer, then grimaced. He looked apologetically at Mark and announced, ‘I’m coming in. Do not touch me or my friends will kill you. Do you understand?’

‘Steven, don’t be a bloody idiot,’ Mark began, but Steven cut him off.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said as he groped in his pocket for his hunting knife. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he continued, trying to convince everyone, himself included. He turned to Gilmour and added, ‘You said they were human once. Just because Malagon has turned them into animals doesn’t mean they can’t respond to human compassion.’

Even Gilmour raised an eyebrow at this proclamation, but Steven was determined.

‘At least take the staff,’ Mark implored, ‘or let me come with you.’

‘The staff won’t work on this one. That’s how I broke it last time. Come if you like, but I’m going now.’ Steven dropped the staff, brandished his hunting knife and pushed his way clumsily inside the thicket. Mark followed.

The Seron had scrambled back against a tree trunk and was emitting a low growl as Steven made his way to the deer carcase.

‘Just keep an eye on the Seron, will you?’ he asked Mark and crouched by the deer, using the knife to hack off one hindquarter. It was a hard, bloody task and he was soon covered in the still-warm bodily fluids.

‘I’d give up hopes of retraining as a coroner if I were you,’ Mark joked, but he couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. ‘Can’t we just drag the deer out and let Sallax do the butchery?’ He was convinced that he and Steven would have been breakfast for the Seron if the creature hadn’t been so badly wounded; as it was, he still felt uneasy.

While Steven struggled to free the deer leg, Mark got a closeup view of the misshapen hulk Malagon used to assassinate his enemies in Rona. The Seron looked like an exceedingly large man with huge muscular arms, very hairy: but only in his mid-twenties, Mark guessed. The forehead sloped backwards at an exaggerated angle; the bearded chin protruded out. Mark thought the most striking difference was in the Seron’s oval eyes, which were black and lifeless, devoid of all colour. They looked as if they had been inked out by a frustrated creator. Mark wondered if all Seron had such dead eyes. He imagined the torture it must have endured to end up like this and suddenly felt sorry for the beasts. He was glad Steven had decided to give the warrior a chance at survival.

As the Seron cowered in a corner, Mark noticed it was favouring one leg. Nudging Steven, he motioned towards the injured limb and Steven nodded. ‘Don’t shoot, Garec,’ he called out in low soothing tones. ‘Everything is fine in here.’

‘I can take him at any time,’ Garec replied. ‘Just give me the word.’ Behind him, Sallax and Brynne watched in silence. Gilmour cleaned his pipe.

With great effort, Steven finally managed to separate the deer leg from the corpse and, wiping blood from his face, turned to look at the Seron. ‘Food,’ he said, just above a whisper, and tossed the deer leg carefully towards the Seron.

The Seron gave an inhuman snarl and moved awkwardly behind the tree trunk. Neither Steven nor Mark moved as they waited to see what it would do next. After what felt like an eternity, the soldier reached out with one hairy arm and gripped the deer leg with curled grey fingertips.

Steven tried again. ‘Your leg is injured.’ The Seron cast the two friends a menacing glare, but Steven was not to be dissuaded. He pulled a waterskin from his shoulder, drew the cork and poured a thin stream of liquid onto the ground.

‘Water,’ he said quietly. ‘You need water.’ Instead of throwing the wineskin, Steven, maintaining eye contact with the Seron, crossed over and placed the skin at its feet. Again he was rewarded with a low growl and an angry snarl. Steven quickly backed away to deter the soldier from pouncing on him despite its injuries.

He began to fear the creature didn’t understand. A little crestfallen, he looked at Mark and motioned him to back out of the thicket when the Seron finally spoke.

‘Grekac,’ it said, a hoarse whisper like late autumn corn stalks crunching underfoot.

Steven’s heart pounded as he searched his mental lexicon of Ronan terminology. Grekac did not emerge. ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied, ‘What is grekac?’

The beast motioned with one hand towards his leg. ‘Grekac.’

Mark understood. ‘Grettan,’ he said, fighting to contain his sudden enthusiasm. ‘It’s trying to say grettans did this.’

‘Ah, ah,’ the Seron barked, more adamantly this time.

‘Grettans?’ Steven asked, ‘Malagon’s grettans?’

The Seron howled, a furious cry towards the heavens, and pounded the ground with its fists. It was obviously not happy with the idea that its master had sent grettans to Seer’s Peak. Its mind, however twisted and warped by Malagon’s torture, obviously recognised that it and its fellow Seron were expendable commodities. Malagon had taken no steps to protect his warriors from his grettans, even though they were both on the same mission: to hunt down Gilmour and the Ronan partisans.

Steven wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear the sweat that ran in thin streams through the mud and bloodstains splattering his face. ‘May I look at your leg?’ he asked the Seron. ‘I might be able to help you if you let me look.’

‘Grekac ahat Lahp.’

‘The grettans hurt your foot. Yes, I understand,’ Steven said, venturing closer. ‘May I have a look at your foot? I want to help you.’

‘Na, na,’ the Seron said, pounding on its chest, ‘Lahp, Lahp, Lahp.’

Steven got it. ‘Of course, Lahp,’ he said, smiling without baring his teeth. ‘You are Lahp and the grettan hurt your leg.’ He reached out and began clearing the leaves stuck to the matted blood on the Seron’s injured leg. Working slowly and carefully so as not to startle the creature, he pulled apart the shredded remains of its leggings and exposed several deep, badly infected wounds that ran down its calf and across its ankle.

‘Shit,’ he whispered to Mark, ‘it needs antibiotics right away. It looks like the grettan bit him badly – it slashed right through his boot.’

‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’ Mark’s breath came in short, rigidly controlled gasps. ‘The last pharmacy I saw was next to frozen foods in the supermarket on Riverside.’

Steven tore a length of cloth from his tunic, soaked it with water from the skin and washed the Seron’s wounds, then bound the leg as tightly as he dared. When he finished, he held out the skin bottle and waited for the creature to take it from him. He knew the beast was battling an urge to kill him, an urge implanted by a twisted, evil master, but he was determined not leave the thicket until he was certain the Seron understood Steven was merciful and compassionate.

He couldn’t explain to anyone, not even himself, why he so badly needed this twisted abomination to recognise his redeeming features; maybe he needed to prove to himself that he could exercise some control over the Steven Taylor who had emerged in this strange new world, that Steven Taylor who knew terror and violence firsthand; who had inflicted death himself. He wouldn’t leave the thicket until he and the Seron had displayed mutual trust.

‘Take it, my friend,’ he said, moving the wineskin closer. ‘I know he is pushing you from inside, but I need you to take this from me.’ Steven looked the Seron in its lifeless eyes. ‘Show me you understand.’

‘Lahp ahat Glimr.’

Steven thought for a moment, then realised what he was saying. ‘No, Lahp,’ he reassured the Seron, ‘you are free. You do not have to kill Gilmour.’ Again he urged the soldier to take the offered water. ‘Take this. Drink it. You’ve lost a great deal of blood. This will help you.’

Slowly, as if he had to fight instinct to make every move, Lahp accepted Steven’s wineskin. It drew the cork, drank the skin nearly dry, then spoke again in a hoarse growl. ‘Lahp tak-’

‘Steven,’ Steven said, thumping himself on the chest, ‘my name is Steven.’

‘Lahp tak Sten.’

‘Steven.’

‘Sten.’

‘Fine, Sten it is.’

As he turned to leave the thicket, Steven placed a hand gently on the Seron’s injured leg. ‘Good luck, Lahp.’ Before he could remove it, the warrior reached down and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. The soldier’s enormous hand, although leathery and covered in thick coarse hair, was still surprisingly human.

The skin on Steven’s forearm tightened into gooseflesh. He felt something move with mercurial quickness beneath his skin: a dancing current sparked.

Lahp’s eyes widened in surprise; he watched Steven, seemed confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Lahp tak Sten,’ he said finally and released Steven’s arm.

‘You’re welcome, Lahp.’ Something had passed between them; Steven didn’t know what it was, but this wasn’t the time to examine the feeling. He grasped Garec’s deer by the antlers and together he and Mark dragged it out into the clearing.

Once they had relinquished the carcase into Garec’s capable hands, reaction set in. Mark took Steven by the shoulders and shook him soundly.

‘Are you completely mad?’ he shouted in a whisper. ‘That thing could have killed us – maybe Garec could have killed it back, but not before he’d taken at least one of us out. What the fuck were you thinking?’

Steven was shaking. He held Mark at arm’s-length and said, ‘If it’s any help, I apologise-’ he looked around at their companions, ‘I apologise to all of you. It was just something I had to do – I’m not sure I even know why.’ He turned back to Mark. ‘Thanks for coming with me. That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do. Stupid, but brave.’

Mark pounded him on the shoulder. ‘Stupid I definitely agree with. Next time you intend playing the damnfool hero, perhaps you’d give me a bit of warning.’

While Garec set to dressing the deer, warily keeping one eye on the thicket in case the injured Seron should decide to rush the company in a suicidal charge, Sallax stalked angrily over to Steven and spat, ‘That was foolish. Let’s hope it will be dead by nightfall, because we are going to have to keep a watch going in case it gets better enough to attack us.’

‘He,’ Steven said, ‘it’s a “he” and yes, he might be dead by nightfall, but we will not have killed him. It makes a difference, Sallax. And I think we’re quite safe from him now.’

Steven looked at Gilmour. ‘He was sent for you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it – sorry, he – was.’ The old man stared down the hillside through the trees standing like monuments to the passage of time. Gilmour was already an old man when these trees were seedlings. ‘Nerak has been trying to kill me for Twinmoons. It looks like he has stepped up his efforts.’

‘Because he’s afraid you have grown too powerful?’ Brynne asked.

‘Perhaps, but more likely because Kantu and I represent the only real threat to his dominion. With us out of the way, he could take a hundred thousand Twinmoons to master the magic necessary to release his evil master from the Fold.’

‘So having you around forces him to rush his studies and perhaps make a mistake.’ Mark ran a hand over the battle-axe in his belt. ‘And he has no idea how much you have learned already.’

Gilmour nodded.

‘It’s an interesting dilemma,’ Mark went on. ‘He knows you’re coming to confront him so he unleashes all the demons and slathering homicidal misbegotten creatures he can conjure. He has that luxury, because he couldn’t care less what level of destruction his minions do on their way to find and kill you-’ Mark nodded in the direction of the thicket, ‘-even if they kill each other.’

‘And he cannot rush his studies too much for fear that the spell table will take him.’ Gilmour nudged a group of yellow aspen leaves aside with the toe of his boot. ‘The pressure is on him. He has the greater task ahead.’

‘Opening a rip in the universe?’

‘Exactly.’ Gilmour’s voice brightened. ‘That is an amazingly dangerous endeavour that will probably cost him – it – its very existence.’

Mark frowned. ‘That may be true, but in the meantime, you can’t use magic to send your own devils out to hunt him down, because-’

‘Because he would immediately know both where I was and how powerful I have grown.’ Gilmour smiled at each of his companions in turn, then gestured towards the underbrush.

‘So you’re right. He has every terrifying and insidious resource at his disposal and I have-’

‘Us,’ Steven chimed in dejectedly.

‘Grand,’ Mark echoed with an equal lack of enthusiasm. ‘And,’ Gilmour interrupted their emotional tailspin, ‘we have a certain degree of surprise on our side as well.’

‘How is that?’ Garec looked up from skinning the deer; he’d been following the conversation with interest.

‘Nerak believes we are on our way to Sandcliff. Though he may suspect you two came here without Lessek’s Key, he cannot be certain.’

‘That’s right,’ Mark brought the issue full circle, ‘because with it, we would head right for the spell table.’

‘Exactly. So the fact you ignored the most powerful talisman in Eldarni history as a worthless piece of stone may help us before this is finished.’

‘It didn’t look like much at the time,’ Mark said. Garec grinned up at him.

‘So, how do we mask our approach to Welstar Palace?’ Brynne changed the subject.

‘We avoid using certain forms of magic,’ Gilmour settled into lecture mode. ‘Common tricks and spells should be fine, because lots of people employ them, but I will try to avoid using any incantations Nerak would recognise from Sandcliff.’

‘He can hear it?’ Even Sallax was interested now. He had moved slightly closer while still watching the thicket, his battle-axe in one hand.

‘He can sense it. Magic has a rippling effect on energy planes in the immediate vicinity. The greater the spell’s impact, the greater the ripple. Those with some training or knowledge of sorcery can sometimes feel the change in energy level. Nerak can detect these changes from quite a distance.’

‘So that puts us at an additional disadvantage,’ Sallax mused. ‘We have to enter Malakasia and make our way to Welstar Palace without benefit of your skills.’

‘That’s true to some extent,’ Gilmour confirmed. ‘But it’s not all bad news. I have yet to detect even the faintest disturbance when Steven summons the power of the hickory staff – even when I’ve been standing next to him.’

Mark put a hand on his roommate’s shoulder. ‘So Steven will have the full force of the staff at his disposal.’

‘I believe so, yes.’

Steven blanched. ‘But wait. I don’t know what this thing can do and I certainly don’t know how to summon its magic at will.’

Gilmour beamed. ‘Well, that adds some complexity to our predicament, doesn’t it? Now, how’s breakfast coming along, Garec? I for one could eat a deer.’

The company broke through the tree line just after midday. Brynne felt the abrupt change in temperature through her riding cloak. The Blackstone peaks, although picturesque – in a menacing way – stretched on for ever and Brynne could not yet see much north beyond the slope they ascended. A nervous tension that began in the pit of her stomach had burgeoned into cramp as she made her way up the trail; she had no idea how she would be able to summon the fortitude to continue if the view north mirrored the vast expanse of craggy and inhospitable-looking mountains to the east and west.

By sunset they were only a few hundred paces below a ridge that appeared to mark the upper rim of the pass. With daylight fading quickly, Garec pointed at a narrow depression in the rock: cramped but adequate shelter for the night. Everyone had carried or dragged as much wood as they could manage from the tree line; now Sallax set about building a fire. With darkness clawing its way up the slope behind them, the high altitude air had grown frigid. Sallax silently hoped they would be spared rain or snow overnight.

Brynne dropped the tree limb she had dragged along for most of the day and scrambled hand over foot up the steep final slope: a fanatical pilgrim finally reaching a holy place on the far edge of a vast desert. The anticipation of seeing out above the peaks to the north had nearly driven her mad; she had spent much of the day engaged in an animated conversation with Mark and Steven just to avoid thinking about what awaited them beyond the pass. Now, with the end in sight, she moved as quickly as she could manage in the thin mountain air. Try as she might to control her anxiety, she felt her breath coming in ever-shorter gulps. Her vision tunnelled and her legs buckled weakly as she reached for the rocky ridge.

Mark saw her go and sighed. Having lived in the mountains, he knew what she would discover. He smiled sadly to himself and hustled after her.

He was halfway there when Brynne reached the summit. Her body became rigid for a moment, as if she had been met by an unexpected cold wind and then she slumped, her shoulders collapsed and her knees gave way. She appeared to age fifty years in one breath. Worried she might fall, Mark hurried the last few paces to catch her. When he reached her side, he was breathing heavily from the effort. He estimated they had climbed to an altitude of nearly thirteen thousand feet – the peaks on either side of the pass were far higher than the tallest mountains he and Steven had ever tackled back home.

He took the last few steps slowly, uncertain how Brynne would respond to him, but when she looked back and saw him there, she opened her cloak, inviting him inside its thick woollen folds.

She laid an arm over his shoulder and Mark reached one around her waist. Together they stood, taking comfort in the shared warmth. Brynne rested her head on his shoulder and stared into the distance. ‘We’ll never make it before the snows come.’ The panic attack had passed as quickly as it had arrived. The tough, knife-wielding tavern owner was back.

‘You’re right.’ Mark gazed out across the endless range of forbidding peaks and high-altitude passes. In the waning sunlight, the Blackstone Mountains were utterly beautiful. They would be unmerciful. Loose shale, glacier ice and sheer rock faces would force the travellers to double back, wasting valuable time. Mark would not have wanted to traverse this range in the best conditions. Moving into the sea of valleys, peaks and passes with winter only days away verged on the suicidal. Resting his cheek against Brynne’s soft tresses, Mark realised he was looking on the place he would most likely die.

Turning, he felt her body press against his beneath the cloak. Constant travel with little food or rest had hardened them all. Mark felt her lean body as Brynne pulled him closer; her scent aroused him unbearably. Burying his face in the fold of her neck, he ran his hands across her back and pulled her tightly against him. She kissed him with such urgency Mark wanted to carry her away someplace safe, someplace where they would be uninterrupted.

‘We can’t go back south,’ she said quietly. ‘They’ll be looking for us all the way to Estrad.’

‘Steven and I have no choice. We must push on if we’re ever going to get home.’ He ran one hand through her hair, letting it glide between his fingers. ‘We’ll just have to hope the weather holds.’

He tried to chart a course north in the fading light. Each morning he and Steven would map each visible peak, noting the shallowest passes and picking out secondary and even tertiary routes, in case the way was blocked or impassable. For tonight, however, there was the promise of fresh venison and the solace of Brynne’s woollen cloak.

‘Hey, come and eat,’ Steven shouted, ‘dinner is about ready.’

‘On our way,’ Mark replied.

Brynne took his hand and led him back down the rocky slope.

At first light, Mark rose carefully, trying to avoid waking Brynne. Covering her with his blanket, he joined Steven and Garec as they stared out over the Blackstones from the ridge above.

Garec had saved enough wood to heat water for tecan. He handed Mark a steaming mug.

‘Thanks,’ Mark said.

‘I wish I hadn’t left those pens in Estrad,’ Steven said. ‘We could really use one to sketch out these passes.’

‘Pens?’ Garec asked curiously.

‘Writing instruments,’ Steven clarified. ‘I felt guilty robbing someone’s home and I left him two pens from my bank. I thought he might find them fascinating.’

‘Of course, he was probably illiterate,’ Mark added dryly. ‘So right now he’s probably using them to pick his teeth, or perhaps to scratch his backside.’

‘Great,’ Steven said dejectedly. ‘Although they wouldn’t do us much good without any paper.’

Mark perked up. ‘I have some paper.’ He reached into his jacket, then checked his jeans. Finding nothing, he groaned. ‘I must have lost it. I found it at Riverend, tucked behind a rock in the fireplace. Remember?’

‘I do. You had it at the river when you washed your clothes.’

‘I guess I left it there. Sorry.’

‘Well, we still don’t have a pen. I suppose we’ll just have to commit as much to memory as possible.’ Steven sipped the tecan, exhaled loudly and added, ‘I don’t like the idea of going through there without a map. It could take all winter.’

‘I have a leather saddlebag,’ Garec suggested. ‘We could scratch a map on it with a stone.’

‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ Steven agreed and turned to follow him back to camp.