The Hickory Staff

THE NORTHERN SLOPES

Eight days after sketching their rudimentary map inside Garec’s saddlebags, the company faced their first snowstorm, which began as a light dusting. The delicate snowfall reminded Steven of winter mornings waiting at the bus stop or playing with friends in the schoolyard. He welcomed the first flakes as a momentary trip home; as it coloured his hair and newly grown whiskers white, he mentally tallied how long he and Mark had been gone and the number of shopping days left to Christmas. He imagined his family would be struggling to maintain any semblance of normality or holiday spirit; he had no idea if they would be able to celebrate despite his unexplained absence. His mother would worry most, but she would also be the one making the greatest effort to help the others relax and enjoy the season. He saw her in his mind’s eye, apron-clad and scurrying from the kitchen to the living room, her face modulating between despair and encouragement as she carried tray after tray of home-baked cookies and pastries back and forth. ‘Remember that time when-’ she would call above the din each time she crossed the threshold, hoping to start up another two-minute conversation to keep everyone’s mind off where Steven had gone, or if he were even still alive. That’s how she would handle it. She would pass the holidays in two-minute increments as the oven roared on at 375 degrees for three weeks without pause, its insulated aluminium maw the one-way entrance to her own personal hell. He wished he could get some word to her that he was fine – well, granted, he was fleeing an occupation army and an array of homicidal demons, heading for the most dangerous place in Eldarn, but right now, here in the falling snow, he was fine. He wiped the flakes and tears from his eyelashes, gripped the hickory staff and continued trudging towards the tree line.

They had spent days working their way north, using the mountains’ physical characteristics in place of a compass, assigning nicknames for easy memory. Over the first two days they had moved between Flat Nose and Kneecap while always keeping the southern face of Turtleneck directly in front of them. Passing through a valley the friends called Broad Belly, they had climbed Dog Tooth to the tree line before turning east towards Chubby Rump.

Each night they had camped within the tree line. Winter was fast approaching, so each day without snow was a bonus. Sallax was a wellspring of determination, pushing them onwards. No one knew when the first storms would blow down from Falkan, and a sense of urgency permeated each day.

Their first night in the mountains had taught them a valuable lesson; exposure to the altitude and elements had already sapped their strength and left them dangerously vulnerable. Now Sallax and Gilmour demanded they move into the relative protection of the forest each night before darkness made the footing uncertain.

Mark taught them how to cross a glacier, and how to remain vigilant for crevasses and areas of thin ice unsupported from below. Their progress had been slow but steady: in eight days they had navigated three high-altitude passes and two long valleys.

Reaching the highest point of their fourth mountain pass, Steven peered south. He felt encouraged by the distance they had covered, until he looked ahead. Even making adjustments to their map he was beginning to feel certain the Blackstone range would stretch ahead for ever.

‘Eight days to get this far,’ he muttered as he closed his coat against the wind. ‘We have at least another twenty – and that’s just what I can see from up here.’

‘We need a string of days in which we don’t climb,’ Mark agreed. ‘We’re pushing the limits of what we can handle already and it’s getting colder all the time.’

Steven pointed northeast towards an open tract of still-green valley. It looked as though the gods who assembled the Blackstones had forgotten a thin patch, or maybe they wanted a flat stretch for a foothold among the jagged peaks. ‘Look there, beyond those meadows. If we clear that pass tomorrow, we might be able to drop behind that range and run northwest along the valley for seven or eight days. It might be a hundred miles through there.’

‘That’s true,’ Mark said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be some exposed areas along that valley floor, but at least we won’t be at altitude, or risking getting stuck out here overnight.’

‘And in a valley that long, we’re certain to find water.’

‘All right.’ He turned to the others. ‘My friends, it appears we can get away without climbing for a few days.’

‘Thank all the gods of the Northern Forest,’ Garec said, tightening the bandage supporting his swollen knee.

‘But we do have to cross this next valley tomorrow and clear that pass the following day,’ Steven said as he pointed towards the range of cruel peaks awaiting them in the distance. ‘With that done, the going should get easier.’

They reached the tree line by early evening, and Gilmour suggested they continue moving down into the hollow vale before the snow accumulated. ‘We’ll have better footing now,’ he explained. ‘We should push on until it is too dark to see.’

‘Let’s keep moving then,’ Steven encouraged.

‘Wait here a few moments,’ Garec said, ‘then follow me down. I’ll see if I can find us some dinner.’ He slid the rosewood longbow from his shoulder, drew an arrow and sidled quietly into the trees.

An aven later, Garec stoked the fire and rotated a large chunk of meat one-half turn above the flames. He had killed a large boar with one shot through the neck; he could have felled another, but didn’t believe he and his friends would be able to carry so much meat over the pass. They were having problems enough with what possessions they had. And if tonight were any indication, he expected to find rich hunting grounds and ample game in the valley just beyond the next ridge.

As the snow continued to fall the travellers found shelter in a grove of evergreen trees. The aroma of pine and cooking meat mixed in the fresh mountain air, nearly making Steven swoon. The idyllic setting made him grin despite his exhaustion.

‘Garec, that smells so good, I might need to you to go out and kill another just for me,’ he said as he inhaled deeply, savouring the scents.

‘I’m sorry we’re out of wine,’ Garec answered, adding redundantly, ‘It would taste much better with a skin or two.’

While Garec cooked, the others made camp. Sallax hung their cloaks and blankets near the fire, hoping to dry as much as possible. Keeping dry was as important as eating well; Sallax was determined to make it through the remaining mountain pass in as much comfort as possible. He motioned for Garec to unwrap his damaged knee and hung the makeshift bandage near the flames. He was worried about his friend and vowed that he would carry Garec over the next rise if necessary.

Sallax turned to listen as Gilmour and Mark pored over the map sketched inside Garec’s saddlebag. Their breath clouded, then dissipated in the frigid air; Sallax imagined two ancient dragons facing one another, their nostrils a smoky warning of incipient firestorm. Then Gilmour exhaled and the cloud hung in the air, a diaphanous mist floating between the two men. Strangely, it did not fade, or disappear on the breeze. When Mark’s breath joined it, the cloud began to take shape: buttons first, then a shirt, a leather belt. Startled, Sallax drew his rapier and shouted, ‘Rutting lords, it’s the wraith!’

Mark stood, looking about anxiously, and demanded, ‘Where is it?’

‘Right there, right in front of you.’ Sallax approached, holding his rapier like a lecturer’s pointer.

Seeing the misty apparition take shape before him, Mark fell backwards into the snow. Gilmour stood slowly and, inches from the mysterious intruder, reached out one hand and felt his fingers pass through the old banker’s gossamer torso. ‘Sallax, stay there,’ he ordered, firm but calm. ‘It’s all right. He’s not here to harm us.’

Steven rose to join the others. ‘Can you feel it, Gilmour?’

The old sorcerer waved his hand back and forth through the wraith, but if his violation irked the ghostly visitor, it showed no sign. ‘It’s cold,’ he told them. ‘Much colder than the air.’

‘What does it want?’ Brynne asked. She put down the bundle of firewood she had been collecting and edged closer to Mark.

‘It’s taking news of our position back to Malagon,’ Sallax answered. ‘You said we were being followed. This thing has been in contact with Malagon since we left Estrad. That’s why Lessek warned Garec about them. That’s why Malagon has been able to send the almor, the Seron and the grettans out for us. Steven Taylor, use that staff, kill it like you killed the almor.’

Steven looked at Gilmour, but before the old man could respond, the wraith lifted one translucent arm and pointed at Sallax.

‘What?’ the angry Ronan asked defiantly. ‘What is it? I’m right, aren’t I? You’re here spying on us, you horsecock.’

They stood, almost frozen, waiting to see how the wraith would respond to Sallax’s anger. Gilmour realised his hand was still extended inside the spirit visitor and quickly retracted it. Around them the forest was deathly quiet, save for the falling snow and the crackling fire. Slowly, the former bank teller lowered its arm and floated across the camp to face Steven. Its features came slowly into focus and Steven clearly recognised the man from the lobby display case. As before, the wraith tried to communicate, moving its lips exaggeratedly, but before it could complete its first words, Sallax was moving.

He grabbed the hickory staff and raised it to strike at the ghostly visitor. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘No!’ Gilmour shouted, reaching for the weapon, but before Sallax could swing, the wraith disappeared, moving with fluid ease inside Steven’s body. A look of rueful consternation passed across Steven’s face. Then his head lolled forward to rest limply on his chest.

Stunned, Sallax froze. Gilmour hastened to Steven’s side and, gripping him by the shoulders, spoke several words in an unknown language. Whatever Gilmour had said, it worked. Mark breathed a sigh of relief as the wraith oozed out of Steven and hovered in the air again. Steven himself sat down hard in the snow and rubbed his temples for a moment before telling Gilmour, ‘It’s all right. He’s here to help.’

Sallax, still unconvinced, moved back into position, but before he could lash out, the apparition moved with mercurial speed, this time entering the big Ronan. Sallax’s eyes rolled back in his head and he choked off a cry. It was gone; as quickly as it had entered it was gliding from Sallax’s body and turning back to Steven. In a final show of good faith, it appeared to smile, then it faded into the forest, invisible against the slate-grey sky between the pines.

‘Sallax!’ Brynne screamed as she dashed over to her brother. Kneeling in the snow, she cradled his head in her lap and waited frantically for his breath to cloud the air. Mark climbed to his feet and hurried to assist Brynne. When Sallax finally exhaled, his sister nearly burst into tears. ‘Mark, Garec,’ she begged, ‘help me move him near the fire.’

They wrapped him in several blankets. Then, after opening his eyes once, looking up through the intertwining pine branches at the falling snow, Sallax drifted off to sleep. Gilmour touched him gently on the forehead, stared down at the back of his hand as if a diagnosis lay hidden among its wrinkles, and smiled reassuringly at the rest of his companions. ‘He’s sleeping now. We should let him rest.’ He reached out and turned Garec’s roast a half-revolution above the fire.

Brynne looked to Steven. ‘What did it do to you?’

‘Nothing.’ Steven searched for an accurate description. ‘It felt as though a cold breeze blew through my clothes and pressed against my skin, but then, rather than simply chilling the surface, it pushed on and blew right through me.’

Garec tucked the ends of his blanket beneath Sallax’s heels before asking, ‘What did you mean when you said it was here to help?’

‘He spoke to me. He said his name was Gabriel O’Reilly and that Nerak knew where we were. He tried to tell me more, but something Gilmour said forced him out. He was only able to tell me he wanted to help.’

‘Why did he harm Sallax?’ Garec asked. ‘Especially if he wants to help us.’

‘I’m not sure. Perhaps he felt threatened by the staff. Maybe it can destroy him; it certainly made short work of the almor.’ Steven looked to Gilmour. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think if Nerak knows where we are it is because we have been followed. I have not used enough magic for him to trace me.’ The old man made an awkward motion that Steven found unsettling. ‘If he already knows where we are tonight, we might as well enjoy a few creature comforts. There is no more use trying to hide.’ Gilmour waved one hand over the small campfire and the flames leaped to twice their height. Heat from the blaze warmed their campsite and Steven removed the hunk of boar from its wooden spit.

‘Garec,’ Gilmour directed, kneeling beside the blaze, ‘come and sit here near the fire.’

As the bowman complied, Gilmour rubbed his palms together contemplatively until they glowed the same red hue they had the night he restored Steven’s splintered wooden staff. ‘Bend your knee,’ the Larion Senator commanded, and again Garec did as he had been told. As the old man rubbed his hands gently on both sides of the injured leg, Garec could feel a warmth course through his torn cartilage and strained ligaments. The therapeutic spell lasted only a few moments, but the young Ronan was certain, even before he stood to test the leg’s strength, that Gilmour had healed him completely. In fact, he felt better than he had in Twinmoons.

‘Now for the snow,’ the old man said to himself, rising from the ground. He closed his eyes, concentrated for a moment and gestured with both hands above his head, as if drawing the outline of an invisible dome. A brilliant light shone through the pine boughs, illuminating the forest around them and blinding everyone momentarily.

Steven rubbed the flash from his eyes in time to see Gilmour pull a piece of meat from the roast. ‘There,’ the old magician said, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Now there’s no doubt that Nerak knows where we are.’

Steven could feel the intense heat of their now-roaring fire warm the forest around him. He gazed through the trees and saw snow continuing to drape the pine grove in soft winter white, but no more snow fell in the area immediately surrounding their campsite, as if some kind of mystical canopy sheltered them from the storm. Impressed, he moved near the fire and asked, ‘How would the ghost – or whatever it was – of a dead bank teller in Idaho Springs get here to Eldarn if the far portal on our side was locked away in a safe deposit box?’

‘Nerak must have brought him back through,’ Mark said. He gestured to Gilmour. ‘You said he can cross over with only one portal open. Can he make the trip while in possession of an unwilling soul?’

‘Certainly. And although I believe he, like all of us, is subject to the desultory whim of the weaker portal-’

‘That’s the one that drops you anywhere, right?’ Mark interrupted.

‘Yes, exactly,’ Gilmour continued, ‘even though he would be transported almost anywhere in your world going through, coming back, he has the power to pinpoint the open portal at Welstar Palace.’

‘Can you do that as well?’ Steven asked hopefully.

‘No,’ Gilmour answered almost apologetically. ‘My role with the Larion Senate was to oversee research and scholarship. I learned a few useful spells, but I never had access to the portals like Nerak or Pikan or their team.’

‘But you’ve been researching for so long,’ Garec suggested. ‘Just like Nerak.’

‘That’s true, and I might surprise myself and detect the open portal, but I haven’t made a trip across the Fold in half my lifetime. I wouldn’t want to risk it on my first attempt.’

‘So the ghost of Gabriel O’Reilly haunts the Blackstone Mountains,’ Steven said. ‘Why?’

‘I think he escaped,’ Garec suggested softly.

‘What’s that?’

‘I think he escaped. I think he managed to get away from Nerak.’ He drew his hunting knife and began slicing thick portions of meat. ‘When I dreamed of Rona that night on Seer’s Peak, I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of those wraiths moving through the forbidden forest near Estrad. I thought they were the souls of people I’ve killed coming back to haunt me, but I’ve not killed nearly that many. Seeing Gabriel O’Reilly again, I think he might be an unwilling member of a terrifying army of spirits, each one the disembodied soul of another of Nerak’s victims. I am not sure why Lessek showed them moving through southern Rona, but I don’t like to think about those implications.’

‘Holy Christ,’ Mark whispered under his breath.

‘So, what’s he doing here?’ Brynne asked.

‘He’s obviously trying to tell us something,’ Garec answered. ‘He must be aware of who he is, or who he was, and he’s defying Nerak by making a trip across Eldarn to warn us about another assassin, or some pending challenge.’

‘Like facing an army of those things?’ Mark asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Garec shivered, ‘although I really hope not.’

Noting Sallax still asleep near the fire, Mark began to grow anxious. O’Reilly’s ghost, a benevolent wraith with good intentions, had sidelined the company’s toughest and most dedicated warrior in a matter of seconds. How could they fight an army of wraiths, especially an army bent on killing them? They would be overrun in a heartbeat. ‘We can’t fight them,’ he said cautiously, hoping the others would agree.

‘That’s right,’ Gilmour agreed. ‘We could manage a few, but if Nerak controls the souls of every victim he’s ever possessed, we would be defeated very quickly.’

‘So what do we do?’ Brynne asked. ‘What if Garec’s vision comes to pass and we find ourselves facing thousands of those things?’

Gilmour reached for a second helping of roast boar. ‘We’ll just have to move through them undetected.’

Mark looked down at the slab of cooked meat resting in the bottom of the wooden trencher he had been using since the company of travellers rode north from the orchard outside Estrad. Trench mouth. As a student he’d misheard the term and thought it was the result of eating from wooden bowls, trenchers that had begun to rot. Disgusting. Although he later found out the only thing close was some equally unpleasant disease of the mouth and throat, named for Vincent Price, Vincent van Gogh, Vincent-his-sister’s-dry-cleaner- who knew? Vincent someone, anyway, but whoever it was, he’d never liked using porous crockery. Just to be on the safe side, he had fastidiously cleaned and dried his trencher after each meal. Now his determination to avoid bacteria seemed pretty trivial. Fight an army of ghosts? Move through them undetected? It made trench mouth sound little worse than a cold.

He and Steven had learned to trust Gilmour, but he wasn’t convinced the old man could make them all invisible enough to get past a homicidal ghost army. Shaking his head, Mark turned to watch Steven. He looked very different these days: unwashed, sporting a short beard, and he ate heartily, wiping the grease from his mouth with handfuls of snow from the forest floor. The hickory staff lay across his lap and he seemed more confident than he had ever been. Mark could not remember when Steven had changed from the man terrified of the staff’s power to the man who went nowhere without it.

For a moment Mark wished he had a mirror in which to check the progress of his own transformation. Eldarn was changing him as well; he could feel it. He knew he was losing weight, and that his face was drawn and tired. But what of the wraith hidden within his soul, whatever would be left if Nerak won? Steven said the ghost that haunted them along this trail was the same man whose picture hung in the bank lobby, a grainy black-and-white photograph that radiated seriousness and superiority as only a nineteenth-century professional man could. The wraith version of Gabriel O’Reilly’s soul still looked like the man in the photograph. Mark wondered whether his own spirit would look like an unshaven, emaciated black man lost in a foreign world. Ignoring any bacteria festering in his trencher, he picked up the roughly hewn chunk of meat and began to eat.

Garec woke Steven, shaking him gently and murmuring, ‘It’s your watch. There’s some meat left on the stone near the fire if you’re hungry.’

‘Thanks, Garec.’ Steven stood, stretched and faced the blaze. It roared on, although no one had added wood to it since before dinner; Brynne’s abandoned pile was unneeded. Steven, pleasantly warm for the first time in days, loosened his tunic, hefted the hickory staff and took several long swallows of water from Brynne’s wineskin. Around him he could hear the sounds of the forest and the steadily falling snow. He walked towards the periphery of their camp and saw the snow had piled up to nearly twelve inches – he was standing in less than an inch, all that had fallen before Gilmour cast his protective spell.

‘At least we’ll be able to pack up with relative ease,’ he said to himself. Steven was dreading the coming journey. The sun would most likely not appear all day and he and Mark would have a struggle to keep the group moving in the right direction.

From the top of a mountain pass it wasn’t too hard to select a destination and estimate travel time through the next valley, but from the valley floor, they had been used to relying on the sun for guidance. It was easy to get turned around: a crooked trail through thick underbrush or around a dense grove of trees could often send even the most experienced travellers back over their own tracks. He and Mark would be forced to use the slope of the hillside, as well as their best guess, to ensure the company reached the opposite tree line by sundown.

Standing on essentially dry ground and looking out a few paces to where the snow was piling up in the forest, Steven marvelled at Gilmour’s power. He wondered if the old man might be able to illuminate a path across the valley and up the opposite slope so that he and Mark might use landmarks below to chart their course towards the summit. They’d barely glanced at this valley before descending into the trees; for a moment Steven considered climbing back up to reconnoitre the final pass before the long green vale and the Falkan border.

Then something moved.

Outside camp, the snow was an ethereal white curtain that impeded Steven’s view of the surroundings woods. Staring at the place where he thought he had seen something, Steven felt the staff warm slightly in his grasp, as if it sensed potential danger and was ready for a fight. He felt rather than heard footsteps, a distant vibration. Something approached from the tree line above, making its way down the hillside. He thought it was something large, perhaps a rider. As the minutes ticked by, he began to feel the presence all around him.

He wondered whether he should wake the others, but if he were imagining it he’d feel pretty stupid. Just as he’d made up his mind he was imagining things, Steven caught sight of eyes, glowing eyes, like those of a deer reflecting car headlights. But save for the soft radiance from Gilmour’s fire, there was no light for these eyes to reflect. Instead, they were shining amber, like a glint of sunshine on a muddy puddle. He adjusted his grip on the staff, bent his knees in readiness and moved to the edge of Gilmour’s protection to await whatever creature possessed these eerily incandescent orbs.

Slowly, as if disgorged by a retreating bank of fog, the intruder began to take shape in the firelight: dark as pitch, and broad across the shoulders. It came in on all fours, and Steven gasped when he realised he was facing an enormous grettan, much larger than those that had routed the Malakasian platoons at Riverend Palace. Curiously, the beast did not charge. Instead, it came forward to the edge of the camp and sat on its haunches in the deep snow, only five or six paces away. Steven studied the monster towering over him. His staff, now radiant, was at the ready. He could see enormous teeth spiking the creature’s powerful jaws. Its front legs were thick with muscle and its paws were ringed with hooked claws. Saliva dripped from its maw and it ran a large pink tongue once over its mouth. Though the height of a Clydesdale, the grettan shared more physical features with a jungle cat than a horse. Steven thought his arms would just be able to span the beast’s massive chest.

Unlike Versen’s description of grettans encountered in the northern territories, this one was alone, not with a pack, nor did it have it the lifeless black eyes the Ronan had described in such detail.

The creature kept its glowing amber gaze fixed on Steven, then startled him by speaking. It made no audible sound, but Steven was able to hear it inside his mind, a carefully contained roar that echoed from the walls of his consciousness.

‘Steven Taylor, it is my distinct pleasure to meet you.’

Behind him, Gilmour’s eyes opened. The magician sat bolt upright. Nerak was here. He looked frantically throughout the camp, but he could not see Steven anywhere. ‘Stop! Steven,’ he shouted into the darkness as he climbed to his feet.

Steven, only a few paces from Gilmour, had no idea he had faded into the night, that he had been swallowed by the dark prince’s spell. He had become a shadow, invisible to his compatriots. Nerak wanted a few moments alone with the surprisingly powerful foreigner.

‘Prince Malagon. Or should I call you Nerak?’ Steven thought he would collapse. He had never felt so frightened, nor so absolutely helpless. ‘You’ve come for Lessek’s Key.’ Under the circumstances, it was perhaps the smartest thing he could say. Howard and Myrna’s lives were all but lost if the evil minion had any notion the key was lying unprotected in Idaho Springs. It was certain now that Nerak was under the assumption Steven had the key in his possession, or the dark prince would not have bothered to come here searching for it.

‘Lessek’s Key will be mine in time,’ the voice growled in his mind, and Steven felt his stomach drop. ‘This evening, I come to share some interesting news with you – just you.’

Despite the cold mountain air, Steven began to perspire; he prayed Nerak could not detect his insecurity. He did his best to compose himself, then responded, ‘You have nothing that I am at all interested in hearing, unless you plan to send out more Seron warriors – or perhaps another almor. I assure you, the last one was delicious.’ He forced himself to grin despite the dryness in his mouth; for a moment his lips were stuck fast to his gums freezing his face in a virulent, toothy glare.

‘Ah, yes, the staff you wield. How nice of Gilmour to make you that little toy. A nightlight to hold me at bay, is it? Let me assure you, the Larion weakling has no idea how powerful I have grown. I was stronger than him at Sandcliff, and I am even stronger now. Fantus will think he has come up against a god when we battle, and I will bask in his terror.’ The grettan seemed to smile back at him as it shifted slightly in the snow and Steven tightened his grip on the wooden staff, hoping desperately the magic would rise to the occasion once again.

‘Even now,’ the grettan went on, ‘though you stand only a few paces away, Fantus has no idea where you are.’

Steven dared not risk a glance over his shoulder to confirm the grettan’s claim. He knew the beast would leap on him as soon as his attention shifted. But then he paused: why had it not torn him to pieces already? Why was it having a conversation with him instead of just breaking into the camp to retrieve Lessek’s Key?

Suddenly, it made sense. Nerak was too far away to break Gilmour’s canopy spell. Nerak – the grettan – could not enter. Emboldened, Steven spoke up. ‘So what’s this news you have for me, you evil piece of shit? Speak up. If you’re hoping to trick me, it won’t work. I know you can’t enter this circle; and if you can, just bloody get on with it.’ The staff grew warmer in his hands, apparently in response to his growing anger. ‘I’ll take my chances against you with Gilmour’s toy.’

Unfazed, Nerak went on, ‘The woman Hannah Sorenson.’

Steven’s heart stopped. The gears keeping it beating stripped their cogs and ground together in a nearly audible breakdown. His mouth fell open, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. The staff, now ruby-red and throbbing with latent power, shook in his suddenly weakened hand. His knees felt like jelly and he had to force himself to stay standing.

‘I assume from your struggle to find a witty retort the woman means something.’ Once again, the grettan ran its long tongue over the dripping spikes lining its jaws. ‘Well, Steven Taylor, I thought you might be interested to know that as we speak she is making her way through Praga to meet with Kantu, my other dear Larion colleague. Trust me, Kantu is as much use as Fantus; I could shit more destructive magic than those two simpering fops could ever hope to wield against me.

‘But I lose my thread. Hannah Sorenson-’ The grettan licked his lips in a positively lascivious manner; Steven wanted to retch. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’ The voice was sibilant now, as Nerak relished the sound of her name. ‘Hannah, young Hannah. Such a pretty name. Such a pretty woman. And I will strip that prettiness from her like flaying a deer. The tortures Hannah Sorensen will suffer at my hands will be endless and nameless. She will suffer for aeons, and I assume it is your name she will scream, over and over again, as I tear her mind apart from the inside out. I will leave her her tongue for a while, so I can listen to her agonies.’

Watching Steven for a reaction, the grettan continued, ‘Of course, her suffering will only truly begin after I have destroyed her body.’

Anger and hatred exploded through Steven like the shock-wave of a subterranean volcano. It welled up inside him and any vague memories of Gilmour’s lecture on the appropriate use of magic vanished in the heat of his fury. Wild with rage, the staff in his hands responded, now exuding a searing heat. It seemed to be willing him to strike out at the creature: Be the aggressor! Kill the motherless bastard! He could feel it through his hands and wrists, and the muscles of his forearms rippled as Steven gave in.

‘No!’ he screamed and brought the staff around in a killing stroke. Steven expected to feel the magic tear through the grettan’s flesh as it had torn through the almor; he was shocked when he felt the force of his blow ripping through Gilmour’s canopy like a flaming razor through tissue paper. An instant later, he realised his mistake. He had opened a rift in the protective spell and allowed Nerak to enter their camp unchecked.

‘Thank you, my boy,’ the grettan roared, leaping over him towards his unsuspecting companions.

Steven was dumbstruck: he had been fooled, and he cursed his stupidity as he rushed towards the grettan, hoping at least to wound it so his friends could escape into the forest. But there was Gilmour, already on his feet. Somehow, the old sorcerer had detected Nerak and was waiting for the break in the canopy as his lifelong enemy attacked. The grettan was still in the air, stark and black against the firelight, when Gilmour released the force of his own magic in a bone-shattering blow. Struck in the centre of its massive chest, the beast gave a cry and flipped backwards on itself to land heavily in a confused pile of broken limbs and bloodied fur.

This time Steven did not hesitate. He brought his staff around again and, glowing bright red in the night, it held fast and slashed through flesh and bone, sending the grettan’s left forelimb spinning into the fire.

Almost immediately, the creature’s glowing amber eyes dimmed to black. The grettan, screeching in agony, retreated stumbling into the trees. Garec, who had managed to come to his knees, fired several shots after the fleeing animal. Steven could see arrows protruding from its hindquarter as the grettan disappeared up the slope, leaving a heavy blood trail and deep footprints in the otherwise undisturbed snow.

In a secluded apartment in Welstar Palace, Prince Malagon roared in pain and, rising angrily from the floor, cast a frustrated spell of such magnitude that a heavy stone wall in his chamber cracked and fell to rubble, leaving a new entry to the hallway beyond.

‘Fantus, I will eat your heart!’ he screamed. The guards who had rushed to investigate the crash were struck dead instantly by the waves of magic still coursing through the corridor. The dark prince bellowed again, his fury uncontrolled. It was not that weakling Gilmour’s blow that had driven him from the grettan: the power to dispel him from the Ronan camp had come from Steven Taylor and that pathetic wooden stick.

How powerful had Gilmour become if he could create such a weapon for an untrained and untested sorcerer? And where was Jacrys, his so-called master spy? Why had the man not made his way into their camp and stolen the cursed key? He had failed in every attempt to kill the wizard and his band; now Malagon had gown impatient waiting for Gilmour to reach Sandcliff before him.

He would send a wraith to Jacrys with a message: Succeed immediately, or die immediately.

But no, he needed to take more drastic measures. Jacrys was unreliable and Fantus had grown too resourceful. He would send a platoon of wraiths – an army – to wrench the sanity from their minds, to leave them lost and babbling, to join his invincible army of spirits – and to bring Lessek’s Key home to him.

He should have done that in the beginning.

‘I’m sorry; I’m sorry,’ Steven repeated again and again, ‘I let him into camp. I broke through your spell for him. I’m sorry.’ The news that Hannah was in Eldarn had set his mind racing; he paced back and forth, desperate for some plan, some course of action to emerge.

‘He knew Hannah’s name. He said she was going to meet Kantu. She’s in Praga. I mean, she must be. Right? How would he have known her name? Or anything about her at all if she weren’t here? Can he read my thoughts? Did he simply pull her out of my mind while I was sleeping?’ Steven raged on despite Mark and Brynne’s efforts to calm him; he could not regain his composure.

Finally Gilmour took him firmly by the upper arm and forced him to slow his urgent pacing. ‘It’s all right, Steven,’ the old sorcerer said calmly. ‘He tricked you, that’s all. He couldn’t get into camp and needed you to create a tear in the canopy. It’s fine. The blow you struck with that staff dispelled Nerak and broke his hold on the grettan. He’s back in Welstar Palace right now, probably nursing a massive headache.’

Steven would not be calmed. ‘What of Hannah? Is she here? Can you tell if she’s here? How could he know?’

Instead of responding, Gilmour ran one hand slowly over Steven’s sweaty brow. ‘Rest, Steven. I need you to rest.’ Before the elderly man could remove his hand, Steven slumped in his grasp, sleeping soundly.

Like a father bidding good night to a sleeping son, Gilmour carefully laid Steven’s comatose body near the fire and covered him with two heavy blankets.

In the sudden silence Mark asked, ‘Is it true that Hannah’s here?’

‘I’m afraid it might be,’ Gilmour answered. ‘I can’t think of any other way Nerak would know Hannah’s name would get such a strong response from Steven. He’s too far away to read our minds, unless we’re focusing our thoughts towards him directly. So I am very afraid that we must assume the worst.’

‘The worst?’

‘That Hannah is here, and the far portal in your home remains open.’

Mark mused over their last days in Colorado. ‘I don’t think Steven spoke with Hannah the night we opened the contents of the safe deposit box… unless he called her before he left the bank.’

‘Why would that make a difference?’ Brynne asked.

‘Because she would have no idea Lessek’s Key was at all important

… you know- In case Nerak gets to her… takes her-’ Mark was a little surprised at how pragmatic he sounded when discussing Hannah’s possible death. He kicked a bloodstained log onto the fire. ‘We must assume the key is still sitting there on Steven’s desk.’

Gilmour brightened. ‘And we must also assume Nerak remains unaware of that fact.’

‘Right,’ Garec joined the conversation. ‘Or else why would he come here, or at least project himself here, to threaten and attack us?’

‘But Gilmour,’ Mark interrupted, ‘if he knows where we are all the time, won’t he be tipped off when we make for Welstar Palace instead of Sandcliff?’

‘Yes, he will,’ Gilmour nodded. ‘And there will be nothing to keep him from stepping across the Fold, finding Lessek’s Key and sending his collected forces against us while he studies the spell table at his leisure.’

Brynne pushed an errant lock of hair behind one ear. ‘Do you believe that wraith is the one following us?’

‘Not from what Steven said,’ Gilmour answered, and Garec nodded in agreement. ‘It must be someone else, someone resourceful, with the fortitude and skill to make his way through these hills alone.’

‘Could Malagon be watching us?’

‘No, it’s too far. He would be forced to focus his will for long periods of time.’ Gilmour tore a piece of cold meat from the uneaten chunk of boar still lying near the fire. ‘This is someone crafty, with enough magic to camouflage his or her presence when I cast about searching for them. When we were in the foothills or out near the river, I detected many others about, travellers mostly. However, now that we’re in an uncharted section of the Blackstones, I am confident that when I find someone, it will be our Malakasian shadow.’

Garec completed Gilmour’s thought. ‘So we need to be certain we find this spy before we make a definitive move towards Welstar Palace.’

‘Right.’ Looking towards the stars, Gilmour added, ‘Dawn is approaching. Let’s get things packed for the day. Sallax and Steven may sleep a bit longer, but then we must continue on.’

By midmorning, Garec realised the group dynamic had changed dramatically. Sallax, their confident and indefatigable leader, had grown sullen and quiet. He trudged through knee-deep snow, brooding, not talking. He had awakened with a start, crying out and springing to his feet as Garec was repacking their saddlebags. Brynne had rushed to her brother’s side, but he refused to discuss the wraith’s attack, even with her. He assured her he felt fine, and then refused to elaborate. Garec watched him now as he pushed his way downhill through the drifts while his cloak dragged behind him; it looked like an exceedingly long cape draped over a man half his height. Garec felt a pang of doubt ripple through his stomach. No one had appointed Sallax their leader, but he was a source of strength; he helped the others feel as though they would never be defeated as long as he was there to push them onwards. Though Sallax looked physically sound, Garec was worried Gabriel O’Reilly’s ghost had done something to break his friend’s spirit, to weaken him emotionally, maybe even killed his desire to win back Rona’s freedom. The mysterious wraith had told Steven it wanted to help, but that had been the extent of its communication. Who knew what it had done to Sallax?

Steven was different too, desperate in his determination to move on, and he shouted back at them, encouraging everyone to move as quickly as possible down the slope and across the narrow valley to the next incline. Progress was slow and Garec doubted they’d make it to the pass before nightfall. He thought deep drifts might have collected at the base of the mountain, forcing them to make camp among the pines and put off pushing for the tree line until the following morning.

Unable to make his way through the snow and remain vigilant for passing game at the same time, Garec wore his longbow slung across his shoulders and used both hands to maintain his balance as he hurried along behind Steven.

However worried about their progress he was, Garec did spare a thought for Steven’s anguish: he was obviously tortured by the thought that his love was alone in Praga. They could hear the guilt in Steven’s voice, and he gripped his hickory staff as if he expected Malagon to rise up bodily from the earth. Steven was convinced this woman – Hannah – would be safe at home if he had never opened the far portal. Garec felt for him.

Like Sallax, Steven looked as if he had been cut off at the knees and propped up in the drifts. ‘Please, everyone,’ he called, sounding harried, ‘we must hurry. We’re facing a really difficult climb and we need to reach the base of this slope as soon as possible.’

Mark shot Steven a glance; Garec could see the two friends disagreed on how far the group would progress that morning.

Steven too noticed Mark’s doubt and he stopped for a moment, crestfallen, as if he had only just realised they would not be able to walk all the way to Welstar Palace without rest. He set his jaw, brushed a clump of snow from his cloak and entreated his friends again, ‘We must try. I’ll break the trail. Stay in my tracks and you’ll find the going easier.’

Behind him, Garec detected the aroma of Gilmour’s pipe. The old sorcerer had said nothing all morning.

From time to time Garec peered through the highest pine branches towards the sky, but the sun was invisible behind the unbroken cloud. Garec recognised that Steven was doing a heroic job maintaining a direct line to the base of the mountain; it had taken an aven or two watching him, but Garec had finally worked out that Steven was checking and adjusting their progress when, periodically, he would hold the hickory staff aloft and sight along it towards two peaks visible in the distance. Garec promised himself he would learn this navigation strategy.

Steven’s breath came in laboured gasps as he forced himself to continue breaking the trail. Garec almost wished Steven would just keep staring into the distance rather than turning around to speak with them at all, for his desperation was written all over his face. Despite the biting cold, he was sweating profusely and his skin shone palely white, nearly matching the snowy hillside around them. Had it not been for the bright red flush across his cheeks and the billowy clouds marking time with his breath, Garec would have rushed down the slope to see if Steven was still alive.

The insecure banker who had arrived in Eldarn such a short time ago had given way to the angry, frustrated and guilt-ridden warrior who stood before him now; Garec was beginning to think that without Sallax’s leadership, the future of the Ronan Resistance might rest in the hands of Steven Taylor. He couldn’t work out why Gilmour had remained silent all morning, nor why the old man was allowing Steven to push them so hard. They were wet and cold, and uncertain they could make the climb over the next pass. Mark knew it. Brynne knew it, and he knew it. If Steven continued at this pace, none of them would have the strength to go on. They would never make it at this pace; they would not succeed. Sallax, Gilmour, even Mark: one of them needed to take control. Steven needed to understand that his guilt at Hannah’s plight was not reason enough to put them all at risk. Garec longed for Versen to appear and take charge.

He looked back at Gilmour, who gave him a warm, ironic smile through a cloud of pipe smoke. Then, surprised at the sound of his own voice, Garec cried out, ‘Stop!’

Everyone turned to look. Steven, irritated at the interruption to his forced march, called back, ‘No, Garec, we must continue moving. We’ve nearly reached the base of this valley. It won’t be long before we’re climbing that slope.’ He gestured towards the ominous rise awaiting them in the distance.

‘I’m sorry, Steven,’ Garec called back, ‘but we have to take a break. Sallax is ill and we’re all wet and cold. If we push ourselves to exhaustion today, none of us will clear that pass tomorrow.’ Garec was worried the others might disapprove, but if he didn’t try, they would probably all die in the snow.

Steven ran a sleeve across his forehead and, panting loudly, tried to convince them to move on. ‘Do you all know what is happening up there?’ He pointed towards the hillside before them. ‘It’s snowing up there and every hour – every aven – we spend dawdling down here, the deeper it gets and the more difficult our passage becomes.’

‘Garec’s right, Steven,’ Mark said, but Steven interrupted angrily.

‘How the hell can you suggest we stop?’ Steven was incredulous. You know what’s waiting for us up there.’

‘That’s exactly why we ought to camp on the valley floor tonight,’ Mark said. ‘Sallax needs more rest. Hell, we all do.’

‘Sallax is fine. He’s the only one keeping pace without complaining.’

Sallax said nothing, and his very indifference concerned everyone but Steven.

‘Fine.’ Steven’s voice rose. ‘Camp down here. Camp here until spring. I’m going over that pass tomorrow morning.’

‘Steven.’ Gilmour finally spoke. ‘Your passion is commendable, and I’m certain Hannah would appreciate it. But the only way for you to help her now is to stick to our plan.’

‘Don’t you see, Gilmour?’ He looked from side to side through the trees, as if someone who understood him might appear and take up his cause. ‘Finally, something about this mystical, enchanted nightmare of a world you call home makes sense. She’s here and she needs me. I’m going to her now.’

Gilmour remained calm. ‘She needs you, and you can help, but not by killing yourself and us. Nerak cannot detect the magic of your staff. It leaves no ripple as our own magic does. We will not make it into Welstar Palace on my power alone.’ The old man’s words fell, solid as bricks. All eyes turned back to Steven.

‘Come with me now to Praga,’ he begged, ‘please. I must save Hannah.’

‘No,’ Garec answered, ‘our mission is clear. We must win back the key. If we fail to do that, Hannah will be only one of millions upon millions of deaths at Nerak’s hands. Our world, yours – and who knows how many more-’

Steven looked as though he might expire. He rubbed one hand across his face and wiped away the tears, then turned to Mark. ‘You know where you’re going.’

‘Steven, no.’

‘You know where you’re going. Keep moving north. If there’s a river into Orindale, you’re bound to run right into it.’ He looked up at Gilmour. ‘Wait for me at Orindale. I’ll find her and be back.’

‘You must stay with us.’ Garec was beginning to lose his temper. ‘You know where Lessek’s Key is.’

‘So does Mark.’

‘And if Mark dies between here and Welstar Palace, what then?’ The Ronan bowman took a few steps forward. ‘Stay with us, Steven. Defeat Nerak and Hannah has nothing to fear.’

Steven felt confused and cornered and lashed out at Garec. ‘Stay back,’ he called, raising the staff as if to strike. In an instant Garec had his bow drawn and an arrow trained at Steven’s chest.

‘Don’t make a mistake, Steven,’ he warned in steady, even tones, ‘I am impressed with your newly acquired magic, but I will drop you in your tracks before you can think to summon it against us.’

White fire burst from the spaces between Steven’s fingers and, crying out in pain, he dropped the staff.

Thinking Steven had cast a spell, Garec grimaced and released his arrow. It never left the bow. Instead, the shaft remained nocked, frozen in place with the bowstring drawn full. Garec stared in disbelief at his weapon and then turned to see Gilmour, his eyes closed and his palms extended before him.

The old Larion Senator spoke. ‘We will not fight among ourselves.’ Slowly, Garec’s bow relaxed in his grip and the arrow fell to the ground.

Gilmour said. ‘Steven, we cannot defeat Nerak without you. When we find shelter, I will endeavour to contact Kantu in Praga. It will take me a day, and I must channel all my energy to that task; I cannot risk it here in the forest. I will tell him that Hannah is looking for him and he should bring her to Welstar Palace.’ His tone was firm but understanding, a worried parent struggling to communicate with an angry teenager. ‘He will see her safely north to join you and Mark before your return home.’

Steven knew Gilmour was right. Despite his near inhuman need to find Hannah, he knew the best course of action would be to recapture Lessek’s Key and give the sorcerer the tools he needed to ensure victory. Still his emotions ran through him like a flood tide and the thought of camping overnight in the valley made him furious. Torn between his desire to find Hannah and his reborn determination to help his friends, Steven felt his head begin to spin. The sweat on his face and neck grew suddenly cold; his vision tunnelled and he fought to remain lucid.

He lifted the hickory staff from the snow and delivered a mighty blow to the trunk of the nearest lodge pine. Swinging with all his strength, he bellowed into the forest, crying even as the staff tore through the trunk and the enormous pine came crashing down in a blurred cloud of snow and green boughs. Once again surprised the staff had not shattered in his hands, Steven turned and ran towards the mountain slope in the distance.

Diving involuntarily away from the massive tumbling pine, Mark could have sworn he saw colour, bright neon colour, and text. COLD BEER illuminated for a fraction of a second in the wake of Steven’s swipe at the tree. Dispelling the idea as a momentary hallucination, or perhaps a trail of thin fire clinging to the shaft, Mark propped himself up on one elbow, brushed the snow from his face and cried after his friend, ‘Steven, wait!’

‘It’s all right,’ Garec said calmly, ‘he’ll come to his senses. He can’t keep up that pace very long.’

Angry, Mark turned on the bowman. ‘Where’s your head? You were going to shoot him.’

‘I was not going to shoot him,’ Garec assured them. ‘I thought he was going to turn on us with that unholy stick.’

Sallax stared blankly at the others. Brynne, getting increasingly worried about her brother’s wellbeing, pleaded, ‘Let’s rest here. Maybe Steven will come back when he tires. We have to give Sallax a chance to recover.’

Steven struggled to catch his breath as he raced blindly down the slope. The forest around him was a jumble of greens and browns cast randomly on a backdrop of ghostly white. His thoughts overwhelmed him, an involuntary mosaic of ideas and images, and he fell hard twice, rolling through hillside drifts. Coming to his feet, he fought for control and pushed on again, running with knees high, forcing himself to lift his feet clear of the snow with each step. Finally, his adrenalin waning, Steven felt himself calming and the athlete in him took over. Find a rhythm, he started repeating as a mantra. Run with your legs, not your lungs.

Stopping for a moment, he wiped his face clean with a handful of snow and dried his eyes on a corner of his cloak. Drawing several deep breaths, he felt his heart rate drop and his thoughts clear. Deliberately, Steven removed the cloak, folded it neatly and fastened it to his pack with a thin length of rawhide. Hefting the pack under one arm like a bulbous football, he carried the staff in his opposite hand.

Steven was disappointed none of the others had followed. Turning to the unbroken snow ahead, he began jogging towards the distant mountain pass. With his first few steps, he felt a pang of guilt at leaving his friends, but soon he forced it from his mind. They would be fine. Gilmour would ensure their safety and he would rejoin them after he had found Hannah. He had no idea how he would get to Orindale – even where Orindale really was – and was even less certain how he would cross the Ravenian Sea, so he ran, until his breathing, heart rate and pace all met in a steady aerobic plateau. He could do this for hours, skimming through the snow, his feet leaving postholes behind him like tiny air shafts to subterranean chambers. Soon he had crossed the valley floor and began making his way up the mountain slope towards the tree line. He would find her.

Years of running had taught Steven that as long as he did not overwork his lungs, he could maintain a steady, loping gait for great distances. He adjusted his stride to be certain plenty of oxygenated blood coursed to his leg muscles. He sustained his pace; if he broke his stride, he wouldn’t be able to continue – he’d taken part in dozens of road races where he felt as strong as a lion through ten or even twenty miles, then nearly collapsed when crossing the finish line. Sucking on handfuls of snow as he ran to hydrate himself, he allowed the rhythm of his stride to lull him into a state of subdued awareness. Only the steady pounding of his feet and the quick but gentle repetition of his breathing made any sound.

He was pleased to discover the snow at lower elevations had not accumulated much above his ankles. Feeling stronger as endorphins rushed through his bloodstream in a natural narcotic fix, he leaped over a small stream babbling east, flushed a covey of what looked like Eldarn’s version of quail from beneath a juniper bush and spooked a large deer from a thicket. The forest was beautiful, undisturbed by the myriad nefarious horrors that haunted the rest of Eldarn. Steven could smell fresh pine, a sweet aroma that lingered on the furthest edge of the morning air. He inhaled as deeply as possible to wallow in the delicate scent; despite a painful chill in his nose, the rewards justified the effort. Lodge pines similar to the one he had so viciously truncated that morning grew to impossible heights all around him, determined contestants in an interminably slow competition to reach the heavens. He found it comforting they could never move; anything more than the gentle sway in the mountain breeze might mitigate their flawlessness. Steven was certain he would never encounter anything as simple and beautiful as a tree. If he were to remain trapped in Eldarn, he would come back to this secluded valley and live in isolation, protected by the forest from the dark magic of Malakasia and Welstar Palace.

Dicot, a five-letter word for pre-paper. That clue was clever, but not one Steven could remember solving. Instead, he kept trying to fit the word trees into the allotted spaces even though he knew ‘d’ was correct, because he had solved Daniel, a six-letter word for lion tamer, and then ‘n’, in nectar, a six-letter word for Dionysus’s lunch. There was a woman who could solve the New York Times crossword puzzle, every day, in ink, some sequestered and genetically anomalous freak of nature from Parsippany, New Jersey. Steven periodically measured himself against that same benchmark. Every morning, his routine was the same. Turn left from Tenth Street onto Miner, walk two blocks to the cafe, buy a cappuccino and choose a newspaper for the day. Some mornings he did choose the Times: Idaho Springs had an abundant selection of out-of-state newspapers. But most days he would look at its small fonts and its crowded front page, shake his head and dejectedly purchase the Clear Creek County Gazette, a local rag with gripping headlines, regional news and a much easier crossword.

The Gazette’s puzzle was nothing like the Times ’. Rather than frustrating prompts, the Gazette contained large, obvious clues that broke the puzzle’s back early so working the crossword quickly became nothing more than filling in the blanks. Enormous, mid-line clues such as a 14-letter word for bilateral Christmas treat, gingerbreadman, or a 17-letter word for Georgia raptors, theatlantafalcons, made the victory inherent in inking the last box both shallow and fleeting. Steven could only guess at what would cause a person to choose the Gazette over the Times. Perhaps it was the comprehensive local sports scores and statistics from high school basketball games. Maybe it was the full column account of the roast beef supper at the United Methodist Church the previous Sunday. Or possibly it was the fact that any barely literate child could struggle through the Clear Creek County Gazette’s crossword puzzle, oftentimes in ink, while it took a more resilient and soundly tempered individual to navigate the Times’ cryptic spaces.

‘Ah, bullshit… Give me the Gazette any day,’ he said in a soul-cleansing confession. ‘If I can’t tell the truth out here, I’ll never be able to.’

Slipping on an icy branch, Steven woke from his reverie. He tapered his pace to a slow jog and peered up through the trees in search of the peaks he had been using to triangulate his position. Slowing to a walk, he felt dizzy for a moment and quickly swallowed two handfuls of snow. Dropping his pack, he held the hickory staff aloft and sighted along its edge towards a naked granite mountaintop in the northeast. He was out of position. Looking northwest, he repeated the motion and failed to find the second peak. ‘Well, damn it all to hell and back,’ he spat, and sat down dejectedly in a nearby drift to catch his breath. His daydreaming had put him far off course to the east. Now he would have to backtrack, realign his position between the mountains and make up for lost time. Drawing a cold piece of boar from his tunic, he took several hearty bites before it occurred to him that he would need to ration what little meat he had until he found another food source. With snow on the ground, he had plenty of water, although he would need to start melting it over a fire before long; he couldn’t continue to eat snow by the handful without risking a change in his body temperature. That would be a deadly mistake out here.

He would also need food soon, and without a bow, or even a rudimentary spear, Steven realised he was looking at going hungry for the next day or two. He wrapped the slab of meat and replaced it securely in his pocket.

‘Okay, time to move. I’ll get nowhere sitting here.’ Steven cursed as he pulled himself to his feet. His thighs and chest ached. He was finished running for the day.

Moving west along the lower slopes of the mountain, he craned his neck in an effort to catch a glimpse of the peak he had been using as a fixed navigational point. Realising he could not look around the mountain, no matter how far he stretched, Steven suddenly felt awkward. He peered about the forest just to make sure no one was watching him. The stillness of the valley struck him as unnatural and he listened for a moment before shrugging and continuing through the snow.

He estimated he had come about half a mile too far along the valley floor. If he climbed at an angle, splitting the difference between a direct assault on the peak and a full trip around its base, he should eventually cross his original path to the top of the mountain. But climbing at such a curious angle soon made the soles of Garec’s boots roll beneath his feet, and with each uncomfortable step he pined for his own hiking boots. He cursed himself for not retrieving them when he had the chance. The day that Garec had borrowed his boots to descend the rocky slopes of Seer’s Peak seemed a lifetime ago.

Remembering that brought the memory of Garec aiming an arrow at his chest. Steven forced the image from his mind, reassuring himself that his friend would never really have fired to hit him. Secretly, he was glad Gilmour had intervened. Steven swallowed hard as he imagined the shaft piercing his rib cage. It would have come fast, too fast to avoid, but not so fast that it would be invisible. He would have seen the arrow coming… he cringed, and tried hard to think of something else.

When the blow did come, it was different. A blur of mercurial darkness from above and slightly behind him, its force took Steven in the ribs. It wasn’t the precision targeting of a Ronan arrow; instead of piercing his flesh, the impact sent him reeling backwards down the hillside. The blow was rough and clumsy: he felt like he’d been struck by a truck. The air exploded from his lungs as he landed hard on his back, then rolled over several times before he finally came to rest against the trunk of a thick pine. Several clumps of snow fell from its branches, landing on his face and shoulders, and he rubbed his eyes clear as he struggled to fight off the disorientation and see what had hit him.

Still dizzy from the fall, it took a moment for his eyes to focus, but as his vision sharpened he flinched in terror as the hulking form of a huge grettan took shape before him. It was missing a forelimb and Steven could see a mass of congealed blood matting its fur. It was obviously the same animal that had attacked their camp the night before, but now it was just a grettan, a gigantic, wounded and most likely ravenous grettan. Its eyes shone black in the dim winter light; Steven’s first thought was relief that at least Malagon was not controlling the beast today.

Now the creature lay in the snow only a few paces away, obviously exhausted from the effort of attacking Steven. Slowly it lifted its enormous head and turned on him, its jowls dripping with the effort. Its initial leap had drained it; now it needed to muster the strength to come at him again. Steven fought to regain his feet. He cried out as a sharp pain lanced beneath his arm. At least one of his ribs was broken. As he fell back against the tree he looked around frantically for the hickory staff: it was lying some ten paces away and there was no way he was going to get to it before the grettan pounced. The animal growled and Steven, bracing himself for the inevitable, closed his eyes tightly against the pain in his side and sprang to his feet.

Two, three, then four steps. Behind him, the grettan was on its feet now.

Five, six steps. An unholy cry: the beast howled in pain. Steven’s heart soared; he might just make it.

Seven steps. Foes, both injured, fighting with the last measure of their strength.

Eight steps. Steven was unable to bring his right foot forward. He looked down to see his boot, Garec’s boot, disappear into the grettan’s jaws. Eight steps. He hadn’t made it. We might not make it. Throwing his body forward, a sprinter finishing a dead heat, he reached for the staff, but as he fell face first into the snow, he knew it was beyond his grasp.

The grettan clamped its jaws down on Steven’s calf and he felt the razor-sharp teeth pierce his flesh to the bone. He screamed, forgetting the staff, forgetting everything. His thoughts focused on nothing. Nothing. Not Hannah, nor his mother. Not the mountains of Colorado or the vast, surf-tipped surface of the ocean. Not his myriad embarrassments or failures. Nothing. No bright light, no symbolic tunnel, no benevolent deity and no cinematic review of his life.

At the moment of his death, nothing passed through Steven’s mind except: We might not make it.

We might not make it.

These were the last in a string of moments he had na??vely believed would go on for ever.

Steven felt the bones of his lower leg snap just before he heard it, like twigs breaking under his boots, Garec’s boots. Uncertain whether his leg had been torn from his body, Steven Taylor fell away into darkness.