The Hickory Staff

THE STORM

Private Kaylo Partifan, a soldier in Prince Malagon’s Home Guard, tried unobtrusively to scratch at an irritating itch beneath his tunic. He stood at sentry outside the prince’s royal apartments; his watch was nearly over. His chainmail vest was weighing heavily on his shoulders and the wool tunic beneath was nearly driving him mad. He was not permitted to move whilst on sentry duty, so he bit down hard on his tongue to distract himself from the agony. It didn’t work.

Quickly peering up and down the darkened corridor, he brought one arm up, worked two fingers beneath the chainmail and began scratching furiously at his shoulder.

Across from him, Lieutenant Devar Wentra, his platoon leader and friend, smiled knowingly at the younger man. Kaylo himself would never dare speak while on duty, but Devar whispered softly, ‘You had better hope the prince doesn’t see you doing that.’

Kaylo smiled back and considered chancing a brief response when an ear-splitting roar exploded from Prince Malagon’s chambers.

Visibly shaken, Devar said out loud, ‘Lords, now you’ve done it, Kaylo.’

The private snapped to attention, his itch forgotten as he felt the prince’s approach through the wall.

The door to the royal apartments was nearly torn from its hinges as Prince Malagon burst into the hallway. Kaylo felt his heart pound. He was sure the prince could see it.

Malagon’s voice reverberated in the sentries’ heads, nearly knocking them senseless. ‘Lieutenant Wentra! Do you smell that?’

Devar could not remember the dark prince ever looking at one of his Home Guard, never mind addressing any of them face-to-face. Terrified, he fell to one knee and asked meekly, ‘Smell what, sire?’

Malagon’s shriek was a mixture of ecstasy and frustration. The lieutenant slumped face-first to the floor. Private Partifan stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on a crooked seam between two stones. He was quite certain he could stare at that small patch of grey mortar for the rest of his life if necessary.

‘Kaylo Partifan,’ Prince Malagon called, gesturing towards him with a robed arm from which protruded a cadaverous white hand.

Kaylo dropped to his knees as if he had been struck in the back of the legs with a broadsword. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘Do you smell that?’

‘I am sorry, sire. I do not, sire.’ He hoped that was the right answer.

‘It is woodsmoke,’ Malagon roared, making Kaylo jump. ‘Woodsmoke, a Twinmoon’s journey away. Woodsmoke, Private Partifan.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘They’re burning his body, his dead, broken, frail, dead little body.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Kaylo said. That response seemed to be keeping him alive.

‘Fantus, you old, dead, peace-loving milksop,’ Malagon chuckled. It was the sound of an insane executioner after a lifetime at the block.

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Now, my soulless hunters, bring me the key,’ the dark prince cried towards the ceiling, and coupled his order with a little jump of excitement. It was so inappropriate and unusual that Kaylo shuddered.

‘And while you’re at it, feel free to finish off the rest of his little band of patriots,’ Malagon continued. ‘Do you not agree, Private Partifan?’

‘I do, sire.’ He had no idea what the prince was talking about, but he certainly wasn’t going to disagree with anything his master said.

Suddenly reserved once again, Malagon turned and made his way, almost floating, back to his chambers.

‘Private Partifan,’ he turned back, almost as an afterthought.

‘Sire?’

‘Order the Prince Marek readied. We leave on the dawn tide two days hence.’

Kaylo was terrified. If he asked where the prince planned to travel, he would be struck dead there in the corridor, his body sprawled alongside Devar’s. But the prince’s advisors and generals would surely hang him themselves if he arrived at the docks with an order and no destination.

Malagon was feeling generous. ‘Orindale, Private Partifan. Tell them we sail for Orindale.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The soldier did not wait for Prince Malagon’s chamber door to slam closed once again before he was up and hurrying along the corridor.

Mark Jenkins was freezing to death. The pace he had maintained had taken its toll. As his vision tunnelled and bright pinpricks of yellow light danced before his eyes, he knew he was about to fail. He had eaten a great quantity of snow trying to stay hydrated and his body temperature was falling. He had finished the last of his rations the previous day and hunger pangs were roiling through his stomach. Dehydration made his joints ache and he began falling to his knees more frequently. The first few tumbles he had rationalised by telling himself he was weary from running through deep snow, but he knew his legs were failing beneath him. If he did not get warm and dry he would most likely pass out… and if that happened, he would never wake again.

How had he managed to get himself into this state? He was alone, and lost in a foreign mountain range, in a foreign world – not just a foreign world, but an impossible world, a fantasy world: a land that by rights shouldn’t even exist. And who was this person who was dragging Steven so effortlessly over such massive mountain passes?

Mark struggled to lift one leg, and then repeated the motion with the other. Again and again. Lift and step; lift and step. Completely exhausted, his thoughts came in short bursts, brief snapshots like old black and white photographs, followed by long, silent periods of nothing: no images, no ideas, or no reflections. Those were the better times. Those were times when he covered a great deal of ground, when all he could think was lift and step and all he could see was white and green. He continued his battle not because he believed he could summon the strength to defeat Steven’s captors or even because he believed he could carry his friend off through the forest. He resigned himself to the fact that neither of those outcomes was realistic. Rather, he continued trudging across the Blackstone Mountain range, because he could generate no other options, no creative ways to save his own life. Keep moving or die. It was a simple but motivating mantra and Mark mumbled it to himself during times when his thoughts came too rapidly to sort. Keep moving or die.

So he kept moving.

Mark spent the night dug into a snowdrift with his back pressed against a fallen pine tree, but the night was long. Some time before dawn the torch burned out, snuffed suddenly, as if the force keeping it lit had somehow lost track of Mark’s position. He was so thirsty he had eaten nearly twenty handfuls of snow, even though he knew his body would cool quickly and expend much-needed energy. But he was so thirsty. He decided he would risk death to begin the next day well hydrated.

Mark lay there beneath the unfamiliar constellations he had mapped so carefully one warm night back in Rona. He and Brynne had named them as they huddled together under the blankets. There was the one Brynne called the fisherman, because it resembled a man casting a net across half the galaxy. Another lit up the sky to the north; Mark had affectionately dubbed it Tarzan, because it looked like a man swinging towards heaven on a celestial vine. As he looked at the stars, he thought of Brynne, the feeling of her body pressed tightly against his, the smell of her hair, the touch of her lips, her gentle, clever fingers… lost in the sweet memories, for a moment the omnipresent cold and fear faded.

Mark’s half-dream was rudely interrupted as, from the north, a squall-line of grim-looking storms approached fast. An alarm rang in the back of his mind, but he could do nothing about it. He did not have the strength to build a fire, nor dry the wood even if he could summon the energy. He would be buried alive if he tunnelled beneath the snow for shelter. The coming storm would cover the trail he had been following; if they deviated from their northward course, Mark would never find Steven in the Blackstone wilderness.

He looked at the hillside below, then at his boots, buried beneath him in the snow. How many miles had he travelled? How many places had he seen? It would end here. The whole of the world, his world – Eldarn – it didn’t matter, because the whole of the world ended here, with his feet buried in the snow, here in this place.

‘That’s it, then,’ Mark murmured and began searching around for a suitable place to await the end. He was alone. That thought was stronger than the fear, or the cold, or the worry about Steven and Brynne. Mark recalled a preacher at his mother’s church, who regularly entreated congregation members to foster healthy relationships in the Lord’s name, so when death came, no one would feel alone. Now, dragging himself through knee-deep snow, Mark wondered whether, if he had been better about going to church, he would still feel so alone at this moment.

He feared it was true, but it was too late. He was about to die by himself on the side of an Eldarni mountain.

Finding something that looked like a stalwart old ponderosa growing near a rock outcropping, Mark removed his pack, sat heavily on the cold stone and leaned against the tree to watch as the storm blew in overhead. It was then he smelled woodsmoke, faint at first, then growing stronger. Mark craned his neck to look back towards the mountain pass, now a long way behind him. A curious cloud of dark smoke blew across the peak where a downdraught captured it and brought it racing to where he sat awaiting the coming blizzard. ‘Sonofabitch! Garec? Brynne,’ he mumbled with the last of his strength, ‘did you set the whole goddamn mountain on fire?’ Clenching his frozen fingers into stiff, painful fists, he added in a barely audible whisper, ‘You’re going to have to find Steven, guys. I’m done here.’

The view from his perch was beautiful. There was not a peak, a tree or boulder out of place, and Mark wished he could stay awake longer to appreciate the natural perfection of the valley they had fought so hard to reach. He tried to focus his thoughts on Brynne, but it wasn’t long before his eyes closed of their own accord and he drifted away.

‘Jacrys.’

The Malakasian spy woke with a start. Rolling over quickly, he reached out to brace himself and realised he had planted his hand firmly in the burned-down coals of his campfire. ‘Blast and rutting dogs!’ he cried, driving his scorched palm into the snow beside his bedroll.

‘Who’s there?’ He reached stealthily for the knife he kept tucked inside his blankets.

‘Jacrys,’ the voice repeated, and the spy watched carefully as a small deer emerged slowly from a nearby thicket. Its eyes burned amber: Prince Malagon was in residence.

Moving quickly to one knee, he replied, ‘My lord.’

‘You have done well, Jacrys.’ The deer’s mouth did not move; Jacrys was hearing the dark prince in his mind. ‘You took your time, but in the end, I am pleased with your efforts.’

‘Thank you, sire. Gilmour was a powerful man, difficult to trap.’

‘I would expect nothing less of him.’ The deer shot him a disinterested look. ‘Meet me in Orindale.’

Jacrys’s mind raced. Orindale. Why? What would Malagon be doing in Falkan? And why would he want to see his most effective field agent outside the confines of his palace? If anyone saw them together, Jacrys’s cover would be jeopardised for ever. He stopped. That was it then; Malagon was calling him in.

He tried to calm his racing thoughts; who knew how much Malagon could read at this distance? ‘Yes, sire. Will you require me to bring the foreigner to you? I am certain now that he is the one who bears the stone.’

‘I will take care of him. You get to Orindale.’ Malagon’s voice echoed in his head.

What did Malagon mean, he would take care of Steven Taylor? And retrieving Lessek’s Key had been his charge. How exactly did Malagon plan to see this through from so far away? Even from Orindale, Steven Taylor was too well protected to be an easy target for one of the prince’s black spells. Was he sending another almor? More Seron warriors? Too many unanswered questions, and Malagon brooked neither curiosity nor delay, so Jacrys replied only, ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘For your own safety, move west for three days. Then turn north to the valley and follow the river into Orindale.’ The deer paused for a moment, as if ruminating, then added, ‘I will meet you there.’

So Malagon was sending more of his pets. Grand. More bloodthirsty demons wandering about Eldarn killing without warning, hesitation or remorse. Now, more than ever, Jacrys knew he had to find a way to escape to some place where he could live out his days free from the threat of the dark prince’s minions. And why was Malagon bothering with the Ronan partisans now? Gilmour was dead; the rest were scattered throughout the mountain range with virtually no chance of survival. What did they have that Malagon feared enough to dispatch another killer… and, more importantly, why not him? He was right there on the scene already – surely he could find the young man, retrieve whatever it was the prince desired so ardently and be on his way to Orindale without losing more than a day or two.

Jacrys grimaced. It was obvious: Malagon was using his pets for this task because he no longer trusted his field agent. Jacrys was being summoned back to his execution.

He started suddenly: while he had been kneeling here trying to understand the inner workings of his prince’s decidedly unusual mind, Malagon himself, in the person of the deer, was standing there watching him. He hurriedly looked up. Was it too late?

‘Yes, sire,’ he said. ‘Your word is my command.’

‘Of course.’

Jacrys didn’t think a deer could look sardonic, but this one made a good try.

‘Here is sustenance enough to reach Orindale.’

The deer collapsed dead at his feet.

Jacrys tried not to flinch as the voice in his mind continued a moment longer, ‘Remember, Jacrys, three days west before turning north into the valley.’

Whatever Malagon was using to dispatch the remaining Ronan travellers, he was sending it soon. And unlike the Seron, or even the grettan packs, this threat was dangerous enough for Jacrys to be removed from the area. Now he was scared.

Not wanting to waste another moment, Jacrys rubbed another handful of snow across his blistered palm and began gutting the deer.

By sunrise, he knew he needed more time. He needed to work out why the foreigners and the stone talisman so threatened Prince Malagon, and the only way to do that was to mask his arrival in Orindale. At least he was just the man for the job. He would wait, observe, and then do whatever was necessary to retrieve that stone, even if it meant killing Steven and rifling through his clothing on a busy Falkan thoroughfare.

Steven was cold. He had fallen into a deep sleep after his encounter with the spirit Gabriel and had been awakened by the periodic jolts as his pine-bough gurney bumped its way over fallen trees and rocks only half-submerged by the snow. The sharp pain that burned across his shoulder and ribcage had subsided; Steven wondered how long he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. The piercing agony in his lower leg had eased too. It had been replaced by a rhythmic throb, and for a moment Steven thought he might be able to escape under his own power if he could get free.

He tested his theory by wiggling his toes, but in the end he couldn’t be sure he felt them rubbing back and forth inside Garec’s boots, or if he was imagining their movement because he so desperately wanted them to be all right. He was still at the mercy of whomever was dragging him backwards through the forest.

There was no sign of Mark. Steven wondered whether the mysterious wraith had failed to locate him, or if they had fallen upon some misfortune of their own. It was a bit dumb of him to assume his friends were following along behind, warm and dry and happily chatting back and forth about Falkan cuisine. They’d be facing their own share of hardship and delays as well.

The warmth of last night’s roaring fire was a dim memory now as Steven, unable to move his limbs and increase blood flow to his extremities, was struggling to stay warm. He was beginning to wonder if he were freezing to death; was this how it felt?

Their path had levelled out sometime earlier in the day, and Steven could hear the sound of a river nearby: they had finally reached the valley floor. Although he still had no idea who held him captive, or how one person could drag him along so effortlessly, he was a little consoled by the thought that they were traversing the same route he and Mark had mapped out. Maybe their paths would cross and his companions would be able to spirit him away from his anonymous guard.

His heart sank when, between breaks in the trees, he caught sight of heavy clouds presaging more severe weather. He had to do something . As loud as his still-sore throat could manage, he shouted, ‘Hey, you big bastard-’ he wasn’t sure if that was derogatory in Ronan, but what the hell, ‘-you bastard! Show yourself, you jackass!’ That word definitely didn’t have a Ronan translation so Steven used English and hoped his tone would make his point. He struggled to free his hands once again, and as before he felt pain blaze across his shoulder and ribcage. This time he ignored it and twisted violently, but found that not only were his arms and legs secured, but his head was lashed firmly in place as well. He had overlooked the thick leather strap across his forehead.

‘Shit,’ he cried in a frustrated rage. ‘Shit, Mark, where are you? Goddamnit! How the hell can I have been so stupid? I’ve seen enough sodding movies-’

The gurney stopped.

Steven’s heels rested quietly in the snow and he tried to anticipate what would happen next. Terrifying images flashed through his brain: he would be thrown, still lashed in place, into the freezing river, or run through with a sword, or ripped, limb from limb, and fed to a pack of ravening grettans…

The stretcher was lowered to the ground.

As he strained to see, Steven felt cramp building at the base of his neck and was forced to relax and try to will the pain away. In the seconds that followed he heard the sound of something being tossed to the ground nearby, then unhurried footsteps. He started shaking, cold and fear combining to rob his limbs of strength; if he were not so dehydrated, he knew he would have lost control of his bladder. He was helpless.

Steven gritted his teeth and awaited his captor, but at the sight of him, the shock was too much for Steven to bear. He burst into unexpected tears.

‘Lahp.’

The Seron warrior grinned a crooked smile, gave a grunt of genuine concern and patted Steven gently on the chest.

‘Lahp hep Sten.’

‘Lahp, oh Lahp.’ He was so overwhelmed he could scarcely speak. ‘Oh yes, Lahp help Steven. You have helped me, you have saved my life.’ Overcome with emotion, pain and fatigue, Steven laughed out loud, a disconcertingly maniacal chuckle.

‘Thank you, Lahp. Thank you, thank you, thank you-’

‘Lahp hep Sten.’

‘Yes,’ he said again, gaining a little control, suppressing his tears, ‘yes, Lahp hep Sten.’

The Seron had been huddled in the underbrush when they had first met, and Steven had no idea how large and powerful his new friend really was until now. Looking up at him, Steven estimated that Lahp would stand a full head and shoulders taller than Mark: he was perhaps a shade over seven feet tall, barrel-chested, with enormously powerful arms and thighs. Steven suppressed a grin: next to Lahp, he was a puny dwarf. No wonder the Seron had been dragging him up and down the steepest slopes of the Blackstones so effortlessly, even with his injured leg.

Lahp drew a wineskin from a large leather pouch at his belt and offered Steven some water. For the first time since he had awakened, Steven realised how thirsty he was. He drank deeply as the Seron held the skin carefully for him.

‘Thanks, Lahp,’ Steven said, smiling, ‘Lahp, can you untie me? I have to move. I’m too cold here.’

The giant considered Steven’s request for a moment, peering into the distance as if the correct response would babble by in the river. He turned back and answered, ‘Na, na, na,’ shaking his head furiously to help make his point. ‘Grekac ahat Sten.’ He placed one hand gently on Steven’s injured leg.

Steven felt nothing. ‘Yes, Lahp. I understand; the grettan hurt my leg, but I must move about. I am cold here.’ He pantomimed shivering, aware that it wouldn’t be too long before his teeth would be chattering for real. ‘It’s too cold. I cannot feel my hands or my feet.’

‘Na.’

‘Lahp, I promise I will not run away. I will not move far. I just have to get some blood flowing through my feet.’

‘Lahp a Sten Orindale,’ the Seron countered, pointing northeast along the river.

Steven smiled again. Mark had been right. The river did flow through the mountains to Orindale.

Falling snow was collecting in his eyebrows and lashes and he blinked them away before trying again to convince the Seron to untie his bonds. ‘Lahp, I know you are taking me to Orindale and I thank you for saving my life, but I will not make it to Orindale unless I get warm. So, please untie me. Let’s make a fire and both warm up, and we can continue later today or tomorrow morning.’ Using his eyes to gesture towards his leg, he added, ‘And I must have a look at my leg as well, Lahp. Please.’

Begrudgingly, the Seron drew a hunting knife, gave a long sigh to show he was giving in against his better judgement, and sliced through the leather thongs holding Steven’s injured body in place.

Steven slowly brought his hands to his face and felt his cheeks and mouth. He ran his fingers through his hair: his beard was thicker now, and his hair had grown quickly. He longed for a steaming hot shower, and then a long, long soak in scalding-hot bath… shampoo, and soap, and bubbles, a razor… and a comfortable bed near a blazing fireplace.

His shoulder ached fiercely, but despite the pain, he planted his palms on the ground beside the gurney and lifted himself to a sitting position. Lahp, worried, tried to support Steven’s lower back with one of his enormous hands. Steven was absurdly grateful for the help.

With Lahp’s aid he levered himself so he was sitting upright and took stock of his condition. His ribs hurt, but less than they had. They were bound tightly with a length of cloth that looked as if it had been torn from a blanket. His shoulder was stiff and cramped, but when he raised his elbow he could feel the dislocated joint had been expertly replaced.

Turning his attention to his legs, Steven flinched as he brought his healthy foot up under his body. He made no effort to stand but spent some time rubbing feeling back into his thigh and calf. Wiggling his toes, he felt the familiar sting of wintry cold, but he was heartened to see that the limb responded so well despite having been immobilised for several days in the freezing cold.

He blew several warm breaths into his hands, steeling himself, then reached down to unwrap the blanket around his injured leg. Methodically, like an archaeologist unravelling an Egyptian mummy, he removed the blanket bandages that wrapped his leg from ankle to thigh. He felt strangely detached, as if he were viewing the scene from behind glass, but even so, he gasped as the full damage was revealed. All of a sudden he was back in the real world, swallowing hard to keep from throwing up. It was far, far worse than he could have imagined, even in his worst nightmares.

His leg was a putrid mess of brown, rotting flesh, moist and dripping. In shock, he touched the horribly discoloured skin and nearly passed out when it stuck to his hand and a fistful of noisome tissue came away.

He fell backwards in the snow, screaming, and Lahp quickly pushed one hand down on Steven’s chest and grabbed his left wrist with the other.

‘Querlis, querlis,’ the Seron warrior said, ‘querlis! Lahp hep Sten.’

Fighting to regain his composure, Steven cried, ‘What’s happened to my leg?’

Releasing his grip, Lahp pulled several pieces of the rotting flesh from Steven’s hand and repeated, ‘Querlis.’

‘Querlis?’ Steven echoed, still shaking, ‘what is- What are you talking about?’ Now he examined the contents of his fist more closely, and found that instead of a handful of rotting flesh, he was actually holding dark-brown leaves.

‘Leaves,’ Steven said, nearly weeping with relief. He could have kissed the Seron. ‘ Leaves. They’re just leaves.’

‘Querlis.’

‘Querlis,’ he agreed, then asked, ‘So what is querlis? Why is it all over my leg?’

He painfully hauled himself up so he could see Lahp had entirely encased his lower leg in the damp brown leaves. As he peeled the layers away to examine the wound he asked, ‘Is it some kind of medicine? Is it healing me?’ Lahp nodded, but Steven didn’t notice. His exposed injury had answered the question.

Though the leg was pale, and thinner than the other, that was the worst of it: the limb was intact. The bones that had been snapped like twigs by the angry beast appeared to be set. Where Steven had expected to find irreparably damaged, badly infected flesh, he saw only long thin scars running the length of his calf, as if the grettan had run its claws from knee to ankle. Each wound was meticulously sewn up with crisscrossing stitches. Steven ran his hands along the limb gently, as if to reassure himself that the relatively healthy-looking appendage really did belong to him.

‘Lahp.’ He looked up at the Seron warrior. ‘Did you do this?’

‘Lahp hep Sten,’ he repeated like a mantra.

‘You did, Lahp.’ Steven shuddered as the full implication of his situation sank in. ‘You saved my leg.’

The big man laid a huge hand on Steven’s shoulder. ‘Lahp hep Sten.’ Then he pointed excitedly along the river and said, ‘Lahp a Sten Orindale.’

‘Right, Orindale – but first, we need a fire.’

Steven rested against a pine trunk while Lahp quickly built a gigantic campfire; the heat was intense, but Steven welcomed it. The Seron ran back and forth to the river to fetch several skins of water as Steven finally sated his thirst, then he wrapped the injured leg back up in a fresh layer of querlis leaves. This time Steven thought he could detect a slight tingling sensation as they began their work, a warmth that penetrated his skin and soothed his muscles.

Feeling drowsy, he wondered if the leaves contained a mild opiate; though he endeavoured to stay awake, to watch out for his friends and to learn more about his new companion, it wasn’t long before he was fast asleep.

Lahp patted him on the shoulder and drew the cloak back over the sleeping man.

Steven awoke to the mouthwatering smell of roasting meat and the crackle of hot fat spitting in the flames. Lahp had positioned two thick steaks on a rock at the edge of the fire; all of a sudden Steven felt ravenously hungry. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten.

Lahp gave Steven a crooked grin. ‘Grekac,’ he said, pointing at the slabs of meat.

‘Grettan?’ Steven was taken aback. ‘You eat grettan?’

‘Sten a Lahp grekac,’ he said, and made a show of gesturing at both of them as if proud of the fact they would finally share a meal: travellers and friends.

‘I don’t know if I can eat grettan, Lahp.’ Steven felt his stomach tighten; he was starving, so maybe he could eat grettan. ‘I guess the last one did make quite a production out of eating me!’

‘Na grekac,’ Lahp grinned again and tapped Steven’s leg gently with the end of one stubby finger. ‘Sten grekac.’

‘This is my grettan? The grettan that attacked me?’

Lahp’s smile grew even wider.

‘How did you kill it?’

‘Lahp na.’ He shook his head emphatically before pointing at Steven. ‘Sten.’

‘Not me, Lahp. I didn’t kill the grettan,’ Steven said wryly, ‘I passed out. It was still very much alive then.’ The fire burned bright, crackling away comfortingly.

Lahp stood up and walked over to the stretcher and picked up Steven’s hickory staff. ‘Sten ahat grekac.’

Steven hadn’t even thought about the staff; he found himself pleased to see it again. It looked like that length of wood really had saved his life.

They were still many days’ travel from Orindale, but Lahp planned to build a raft to take them down the river once they had passed through the northwest end of the valley that Steven, in a moment of sentimentality, had dubbed Meyers’ Vale. He was quite sure old Dietrich Meyers had hiked through many a similar valley in the Tyrol as a young man. The keys to the known world. Was that where all this had started? Ghosts of dead bank tellers, gigantic ravenous beasts, life-sucking demon creatures and the threat of evil’s ascendancy in Eldarn…

And where was Hannah? Malagon had told him she was lost and alone in Praga. If that were true, was that what he was supposed to work out from Lessek’s dream?

If Hannah was in Eldarn, he hoped she had discovered a way to blend in, to bide her time while searching for a way back to her own home. He was little good to her now; embarrassingly, he envisioned her waiting for him when he arrived in Orindale. She would have mastered the cultural differences, charmed a small army of Pragans into assisting her, chartered a ship and sailed the Ravenian Sea to Falkan to rescue him. Her arms folded across those exquisite breasts, she would shake her head at him as his raft floated aimlessly into the city. That would be a sight.

Steven smiled as he remembered the faint aroma of lilac that drifted about her, the delicate line of her neck that, already perfect when she looked directly at him, grew nearly impossible in its beauty when she turned away.

‘Lahp.’ He was afraid to ask the question. ‘Lahp, do you know where my friends are?’

‘Na.’ He chewed a piece of grettan, then gestured up the mountain behind them. ‘Lahp fol Sten Blackstone. Sten hep Lahp. Lahp fol Sten.’

Steven had helped Lahp – probably saved his life – so the Seron had followed him through the Blackstones, shadowing him until the grettan attack. When Steven left his friends in the forest to search for Hannah, Lahp had moved ahead as well.

‘I want to wait here,’ Steven said, more a request than a command. ‘I believe they are coming this way.’ There was no response, so he tried again. ‘Maybe just for a day or two.’

He expected Lahp to argue with him and was surprised when the Seron merely nodded in agreement.

Warm, well-fed – the grettan was surprisingly tasty once he’d overcome his initial reluctance – and comfortable, Steven let his head fall back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes. Slowly, he tried to bend his leg, to lift it from where Lahp had it wrapped so thickly in the coarse blankets. After a few moments, he felt it respond. It would not be long before he was walking again.

Always do a little less than you know you can and in the end you will go much further. Steven planned on sticking to the runner’s rule; tomorrow he would bend the leg all the way, maybe even try to stand, but tonight, he would bundle up near the fire, tuck his embarrassed tail between his legs and hope for an opportunity to beg forgiveness from his friends.

He saw the hickory staff, leaning against a tree. He had no idea how he had managed to kill the grettan. ‘Maybe I’ll pick that up again tomorrow as well,’ he said. ‘Hold on, Hannah, we’re coming.’

The patch of grey moved back and forth across the darkness, a thin film superimposed over an obsidian night. Curious: for no light existed here, only cold and darkness.

And then cold began to give way, little by little. His legs were empty vessels, his torso a shell, his arms hollow, and all cold, cold as ice, cold as the breath of the Fimbulwinter, cold as Death… but his arms were growing warm and his chest moved in a ragged breath. Still cold, though… he could not see, except for the grey patch that moved across his field of vision, but where there is no light, there is no sight.

No grey should exist here, but there it was again, and there should be no warmth in this bitter chill, but the impossible warmth intensified as the cold dissipated. He was growing warmer, from the inside out. His empty legs filled, flesh and bone encroaching on the empty space, stinging as the frigid cold was pushed out from bone and sinew and flesh.

His torso next, as air filled the shell, and arms close behind as his body took shape and substance.

He was warm, warmer than he could ever remember being, and still the grey patch floated just out of reach, out along the edge of his vision.

Mark Jenkins woke with a cry. Night had fallen. He closed his eyes again, expecting to open them to inky darkness, but there was the dim grey patch. Not hallucination, but real, almost tangible, a shade lighter than the night, it floated there. Mark felt around himself. He still wore his pack and was sitting against the pine tree he had chosen. This was supposed to have been the perfect place to die, but he appeared to be alive. He needed to take stock.

He was buried almost to the chest in freshly fallen snow. Wrapping an arm around the tree, he hefted himself to his feet and brushed snow from his clothes.

But there was something amiss.

‘I should be dead,’ he said, staring into the night. ‘I might have been dead. Might still be dead. Oh God!’ He thought he heard someone approaching and snapped to silent attention, but after several seconds he decided he was alone. All he could hear was the softly falling snow, the creak of weighted branches and his own frantic breathing.

‘How did I get so warm?’ he asked aloud, then added, ‘This can’t be right. It must be something-’ He turned in a circle, his eyes straining to search the forest as he called, ‘Gilmour, are you out there?’ He brushed the snow from his pack and mused, ‘It must be him. He must have found me and cast some kind of spell down here… unless-’ He thought for a moment, then slowly, as if afraid of what he might see, Mark closed his eyes. There it was, a light grey patch of colour, brighter with his eyes closed than open. What was it? Should he keep his eyes closed – or open his mind? That was it!

‘Open your mind, Mark,’ he commanded. ‘This will make sense if you open your mind.’ He remembered falling asleep once at the wheel; as his car drifted he had heard a voice crying to him as if from across a summer hayfield. It had saved his life that night. Now Mark was strangely convinced that if he relaxed and listened carefully, he would be able to hear Gilmour, for it had to be Gilmour who sent the life-saving warmth that had awakened him from what would otherwise have been eternal sleep.

He sat back down on the rock awkwardly. His clothes, frozen solid, made a cracking sound as he bent over, but still he felt warm and comfortable, not cold at all. ‘Open your mind, Mark,’ he said again. ‘Close your eyes and open your mind.’ He shut his eyes tightly and watched the grey patch move slowly across his field of view.

‘What is this?’ he asked of no one, then allowed the question to linger in his consciousness. What is this? he thought. Who is doing this to me? Gilmour?

There had been an awareness, that night on the Long Island Expressway, something in his mind that understood, regardless of the fact that he was asleep, that he was making a mistake. That was the voice that had called to him from so far away; Mark searched for that voice again now. He knew it was there; he trusted it – the difficulty was being able to give away control of his thoughts.

The grey patch held the answers. Focus on the grey patch. It ought not to be here when I close my eyes, yet it remains.

Then he heard it, faint, like the breathing of a sleeping child, whispering, ‘Mark Jenkins, you must hurry along.’

‘Gilmour? Where are you?’ Mark imagined himself on a journey inside his own mind, searching for this voice.

It came again. ‘Not Gilmour. I used to be called Gabriel. I am called nothing now.’

‘O’Reilly?’ Mark focused his attention on the voice. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly? Where are you? How are you doing this?’

‘I am here. Inside you. I am warming you. You were nearly dead.’

‘Right.’ Mark was dumbfounded. The wraith had somehow worked its way inside his body. He remembered their encounter in the forest, when it had spoken to Steven and battled briefly with Sallax. It had entered both their bodies in a matter of seconds; now it was dwelling inside his frame?

‘ How are you keeping me so warm? ’ he thought to himself, wondering if the wraith could still hear him.

‘I am a creature of energy now. It is not difficult for me to provide you with this, maybe much more. Nerak took my soul many years ago. I have been tortured without mercy for an eternity. But now I have escaped, and I offer my meagre powers in your struggle against the dark prince.’

‘How did you… get away?’

‘You freed me, Mark Jenkins, when you fell through the far portal. I had drifted, blind and mindless, for uncounted ages. Perhaps I drifted near the seam through which you fell; perhaps it was that same seam that carried my body, my stolen body, through the Fold with Nerak in tow those many years ago. I was lucky. Thousands like me are still trapped there in the Fold. They wait as slaves for Nerak to command them.’

Mark listened intently as the wraith continued, ‘It was many days before I regained control of my own thoughts, but once I did, I came looking for you and Steven Taylor.’

Mark suddenly remembered his friend; he wondered how he could have forgotten him. ‘Where is Steven?’

‘He is far below, in the valley.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘Yes,’ O’Reilly replied, ‘he is badly injured, but the Seron is nursing him back to health.’

‘Seron?’ Mark instinctively felt at his belt for the battle-axe. ‘How many are there? The tracks I followed were made by just one person.’

‘That is correct. Only one Seron cares for your friend.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense. I thought they hunted in packs, killing wildly and eating the bodies of their enemies-’ Mark ran a hand across his forehead and thought for a moment. ‘No, there was that one we helped back on the southern slopes near Seer’s Peak. Is that the one? He named himself-’ Again Mark broke off as he tried to recall the conversation.

‘Steven saved it – him. Maybe that’s why… Yes, that must be it. Thank you, Gabriel, for saving my life. Now I have to go.’ He bent down to reclaim his pack.

‘I will accompany you,’ said the ghost. ‘You will need me.’

Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, Mark asked, ‘Out there or… in here?’

‘I must remain in here, Mark Jenkins. Your newfound strength is only because of me. Were I to depart now, you would collapse.’

Mark was uncomfortable with the idea of a dead man’s soul inhabiting his body. The few moments it took to revive him was one thing – although he was deeply grateful to the wraith for saving his life, he wasn’t sure he wanted to prolong the relationship. His mind wandered for a second, picturing a multitude of embarrassing memories and experiences he wouldn’t necessarily want to share.

‘Do not be afraid.’ The spirit’s hollow voice rang in his mind. ‘I have already seen everything you have ever seen and I know everything you have ever known.’

‘Well, shit,’ Mark muttered, then reminded himself that what was important right now was finding Steven. He resigned himself to Gabriel’s continued presence.

‘Okay, then,’ he said, thinking he needed to formally agree. ‘I suppose you ought to stick around in there. I can use the company, anyway.’ He started back on the trail that led down through the pines blanketing the mountain’s north face.

Now that was settled, he allowed his thoughts to turn to the rest of the group, and Brynne in particular.

‘Do you know where my other companions are right now?’ he asked out loud.

‘I do not. But one of them is a traitor to your cause.’

Mark, shocked, had to fight the immediate urge to stop and interrogate the ghost further. Instead, he would have to learn as much as possible from the former manager of the Bank of Idaho Springs while making his way rapidly towards the valley floor. And first, he had to get more comfortable with the idea of carrying a dead man around inside himself. He had always considered himself an agnostic, although more out of a fundamental lack of interest than any real question of faith. Communicating with a man who had been dead for more than a hundred and thirty years called everything he believed into question.

The spirit had detected Mark’s religious dilemma. ‘I agree. It makes us doubt our faith. I was a dutiful Catholic, a Union soldier, a hard-working businessman.’ Gabriel’s hollow voice was unnerving; though it lacked human resonance, it still sounded like the fatigued reflections of anyone grappling with a misplaced faith. ‘My only goal was to ascend to a Christian Heaven, as I assumed so many of my fellow soldiers did after Bull Run.’ There was a brief pause; Mark thought he should offer some condolence to the spirit, but then O’Reilly continued, ‘I will fight Nerak to his destruction, or be enslaved by him and his evil master for all time.’

Mark was suddenly angry. He wasn’t sure if it were his anger, or Gabriel’s, but it was welling up inside him and at that moment he ignored the fact that he was no fighter; he was ready to battle the dark prince hand-to-hand if necessary.

‘You’re right, Gabriel,’ he said as he clenched his teeth together. He felt his shoulders tense with the desire to go to war, to vanquish the enemy and return safely home. ‘And I don’t know if you can, but I want you to come back with us… back to Idaho Springs. Maybe there you can find the peace you deserve.’

‘I will try, Mark Jenkins.’

‘But first, we have to kill Prince Malagon.’

‘You will find no dissent in my mind, Mark Jenkins.’

The threatened storm arrived mid-morning, careening between the sullen peaks like a frozen tidal wave. There was no place to hide on the exposed mountainside. Neither Garec nor Brynne spoke as the winds howled about them; there was nothing to say. Like Mark, they knew they had to continue moving or they would die.

Sallax spoke periodically, but not about the storm, or their route over the pass. He sounded unconcerned as he chatted aimlessly about friends and old times back home in Estrad. Brynne could not hear much of what her brother was saying, but she was getting increasingly concerned at his apparent complacency about their situation. Did he not realise how serious this was?

Even though she bowed her head forward into the wind, she felt the sting of thousands of fast-moving snowflakes pelting her forehead and cheeks. Like tiny needles, the flakes ravaged her flesh until the cold took over and a forgiving numbness set in.

All the while, Sallax prattled on as if his will to live, lost for days, had returned in a rush, like the very storm through which he sauntered so gaily. Brynne heard his voice through the wind, a resonant bass line beneath the screaming soprano bearing down on her from the north. Periodically, she could make out fragments of what he said.

‘Capina, remember her?’ The storm interrupted him for a while, but he didn’t appear to stop. ‘-had a backside on her that must have been created by a god.’

Brynne, trying to catch up with Garec, slipped on the ice. No one appeared to notice. ‘Garec,’ she called, despairing, ‘Garec, something’s wrong with him.’ She heard no response; Garec, almost shapeless under his cloak, continued trudging ever upwards towards the narrow break just below the mountain’s peak.

Brynne squinted into the blinding snow, but she could see nothing beyond Garec. The rocky peak above had disappeared long ago and the ground beneath her feet extended to blend with the ice-white sky in an endless expanse of nothingness.

‘We will be here for ever,’ she whispered to herself. ‘There can be no path through this.’

Sallax’s voice came again from behind, ‘-always did favour Garec… remember her, Garec? Drank too much beer, though, thought you’d marry her… for no other reason than to be around that backside every day… glorious backside-’

Brynne felt her resolve begin to wane. She found solid footing for a moment, on what she guessed was a snow-covered boulder, and she wondered if she should stay there. Even her thoughts were interrupted by desultory static, she mused, difficult to decipher over the noisy winter around her.

Sure footing, a place to sit down later. Ahead there is nothing, an endless white void and behind there is Sallax, my brother, and his madness. Please, gods, let it be a passing illness. Who would know of a cure? Sallax would. We would turn to him were it anyone else.

Suddenly Sallax was there with her, lifting her up by her armpits. When had she sat down?

‘Come on Brynne,’ he shouted, ‘I’m sure there are safer places for you to sit out this storm.’ His eyes stared down at her, through her, and his mouth hung open slightly, the inane visage of a bewildered halfwit.

‘Right, okay, I’m fine,’ she answered with a groan and climbed to her feet.

‘Do you remember the name of that wine we had at Mika’s last Twinmoon?’

She reached out and touched her brother’s face. He was grinning at her, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. ‘Sallax, what’s wrong with you?’ she asked.

‘It was grand. Don’t you recall?’ He looked into the distance. ‘Gods, but that was a good one. Of course, Mika is dead now. But we had it with those venison steaks Garec brought from home… where is Garec?’

‘He’s just up ahead,’ Brynne said in a comforting tone as she rested her head against Sallax’s chest. She felt her breath catch in her throat; she didn’t want to cry again today. She had no idea what had happened to her brother, nor what to do to help him. And as Sallax carried on about wine and women, she kept getting flashes of memory: Gilmour’s lifeless body catching fire among the pine boughs in his funeral pyre. Brynne’s world shrank to a point. A little rip in Sallax’s cloak caught her eye and she studied it, learning its imperfections, watching as the frayed strands of wool blew back and forth together in the cold wind. Her breath cascaded over Sallax’s chest and she blew gently on the fabric wound to watch the threads fight back against the storm.

Then Garec was with them, bearing a coil of rope he’d unearthed from his pack.

‘Garec,’ Sallax called jovially, ‘d’you remember Capina?’

Garec blinked, but replied, ‘Of course – how could I forget her?’

‘She was built like a brick alehouse, though, wasn’t she?’

Garec gripped his old friend by the shoulder and grinned. ‘You should have seen her naked, Sallax. Break your heart to see that girl naked.’

‘I knew it, you dog rutter!’ Sallax, apparently thrilled with Garec’s confession, laughed out loud. He appeared to be completely unaware that the Blackstone Mountains were trying once again to kill them.

All the while Garec was indulging Sallax’s madness, he worked with the rope, one end of which he tied to Sallax’s belt. He ran out a length of some three feet and looped a hitch around Brynne’s belt, then did the same for himself.

‘This way none of us will get lost in the blizzard,’ he shouted to Brynne. ‘We need to keep moving, to keep together. We’re near the top of the pass now. We’ll deal with Sallax once we’re safe, but for now, we need to get out of here.’

As Brynne smiled waveringly, he came back and hugged her. ‘It will be okay, Brynne. You’re the strongest, bravest woman I have ever met.’ He rubbed his hands briskly up and down along her back. ‘This storm will kill me ten times before it even begins to dent you.’

‘I’m afraid, Garec.’

‘So am I,’ he said as he pushed her hair back and pulled the hood of her cloak firmly over her head. ‘I don’t know what will happen when we find the others, and I don’t know how we’ll get to Malakasia, but I do know that we’re not going to die on this gods-forsaken mountain, not today.

‘I’ve seen you get angry, Brynne. It’s your strongest survival skill.’ He looked down at her feet, invisible in the snow. ‘It’s all right if you get angry today. Get mean with this storm and you’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll try,’ she muttered, still fighting back tears.

‘You’ll do it.’ He smiled at her again. ‘And you’ll be toasting my memory a hundred Twinmoons after I’m gone.’

She took his hands in hers and squeezed as tightly as she could. ‘We can make it together.’

‘Just one step at a time, and don’t be afraid to hang on to the rope. Let’s go,’ he shouted as he turned back into the wind, ‘Sallax, we’re off!’

Lahp constructed a hasty but durable lean-to from several fallen trees, then gingerly moved Steven into its shelter, trying hard not to jostle the injured man. ‘Firood,’ he said, and when Steven nodded to show he’d understood, the Seron bounded off nimbly towards the river.

Steven rested in relative comfort, listening to the sound of the river rushing by and feeling the delicate tingling sensation of the querlis interacting with the muscle and bone tissues of his lower leg. Adjusting his position, he focused his attention along the trail and up the slope behind their camp. Several minutes passed and he began to grow impatient.

‘C’mon Mark,’ he called, as if it might speed him along. The moments ticked by at an agonisingly slow pace while he tried to remain vigilant. A clump of snow, falling from an overburdened branch, made him crane his neck, hoping to spot his friends appearing suddenly from the underbrush. Soon his legs fell asleep and his lower back began to ache from sitting up straight. He realised he was getting hungry.

Finally, admitting to himself that his companions were not about to arrive right away, Steven allowed his thoughts to wander back to Lahp, and his immense good fortune at having been rescued by the Seron. Lahp was nothing like Gilmour had described: although the soul of a man may have been torn from the Seron’s body long ago, Lahp was as caring and compassionate as anyone Steven had ever met. He could not imagine Howard Griffin, for example, going out of his way to build a stretcher and then drag him for mile after mile across the Rocky Mountains.

He thanked God that he’d not just walked away and left Sallax to murder the injured Malakasian warrior. Lahp had repaid that moment of compassion in full. He wondered if other Seron might behave differently if they, like Lahp, could escape the iron grip of Prince Malagon. Though the Seron attack had become a little hazy in his memory, he knew they had been fierce, eager fighters. He had a sudden pang of guilt when he remembered how easily he – well, the staff, really – had dispatched the other Seron. Mark and Garec had tried to convince him that he had not killed people; it was more akin to putting an injured animal out of its misery, but perhaps they too could have become friends if Gilmour had been able to help them free themselves from Malagon.

He had made a promise to himself the morning after the Seron attack. Sitting astride his horse, there in the foothills, he had smelled burning flesh from the twin funeral pyres. One represented last rites for a friend; the other was little more than basic sanitation, but the aroma was the same.

He knew, intellectually, that he had had no choice; if he had not killed the Seron, then he and his friends would likely all be long dead by now. But emotionally, he could not justify the killing, and the promise he made that morning was this: he would be compassionate and merciful. Regardless of what happened, he would show kindness, because kindness itself was a powerful weapon.

Now he had proved it: Lahp was an ally, one who knew the roads and trailheads that would provide him, Mark and the Ronan freedom fighters a safer passage to Welstar Palace. Steven let his chin fall forward onto his chest. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, stared at the snow and waited for Lahp to return. Before long, Steven fell back asleep.

*

When he awakened, it was to the sound of Lahp moving about under the lean-to, searching inside his pack for something. Darkness had fallen and two grettan steaks grilled near the fire. Steven felt warm, dry and quite comfortable cocooned in blankets. He wiggled his toes, hesitantly at first, but there was little pain, so he tried moving his injured leg. This time, when he bent his leg at the knee, it moved with greater ease and far less agony.

‘It feels better, Lahp,’ Steven called, patting his knee firmly. ‘I think I might be able to walk some once the others get here.’ He looked about the lean-to and added almost to himself, ‘Although it might be tough in this snow, so I will probably need to use my staff for support.’ Hearing no response, Steven looked over at the Seron, who continued to root around inside his pack. ‘Lahp, what’s wrong?’

Lahp turned, and once again Steven was awed by the soldier’s massive arms and shoulders. ‘A one comes,’ he said, pointing back along the trail.

Steven immediately reached for the hickory staff, and listened carefully, but he heard nothing. Twisting the staff in his hands, he asked, ‘How do you know, Lahp? I can’t hear anything.’

‘Na, na.’ Lahp shook his head then inhaled deeply, sniffing the air. He pointed again, along the river. ‘A one comes.’

‘You smell them coming?’ Steven was incredulous. ‘I can’t smell anything except the smoke and those steaks.’

‘A one comes.’

‘If you say so, Lahp.’ He tried to see outside the circle of firelight. Beside him, Lahp gave a grunt of satisfaction and pulled a long hunting knife from his pack. He drew a second from a sheath at his belt, and as he turned back to face the river, Steven gave a jolt. Lahp’s face had changed: the gentle giant who had saved his life and nursed him back to health was no more; in his place was a Seron warrior, a deadly efficient soldier. At that moment Steven realised his companion was a killer.

Crouched near the ground, his lower jaw set firm and slightly forward, Lahp looked as if he could fight an entire platoon of soldiers without breaking into a sweat. Steven was almost afraid to ask what was happening.

‘Lahp, what should I do?’ Steven whispered, struggling to stand. He leaned heavily on the wooden staff; he was not going to be much help in a fight.

‘Na. Sten stay,’ Lahp commanded quietly, and motioned for Steven to sit back down beneath the lean-to.

‘How far away is he?’

There was no answer. Lahp crouched lower, his enormous legs like those of a pouncing jaguar, motionless except for the movement of his eyes as he strained to see into the darkness and the flaring of his nostrils as he sniffed the breeze.

Steven backed up but planted the hickory staff firmly in the ground and clung to it rather than retaking his seat beneath the lean-to. Lahp’s concentration was unnerving and Steven too began to share the Seron’s concern that whoever was approaching was not a friend.

Still unable to detect movement outside the camp’s periphery, Lahp closed his eyes and listened. Steven was about to whisper another question when a low humming broke the silence an instant before an arrow ripped through their camp and embedded itself in a tree just over Lahp’s right shoulder.

Before Steven could move, the Seron had taken cover behind a narrow pine trunk and was gesturing furiously for him to get out of the line of fire while ordering, ‘Sten, dahn, dahn!’

The only way to move quickly was to fall. As he did, a second arrow, its thin shaft illuminated by the firelight, hurtled through the night and found its mark scant inches from the first, deep in the bark of the nearby pine. They were warning shots, carefully placed warning shots.

A weak voice, raspy with weariness, called from the forest in as threatening a tone as it could muster, ‘Get away from him, you monster, or the next one will find your throat.’

It was Garec.

Steven wrestled his body from the icy ground and managed to reach his knees. He was not going to stand by and witness the inevitable outcome of a duel between the seemingly indestructible Seron warrior and the exhausted bowman.

‘Garec,’ he shouted, ‘don’t shoot! I’m fine! He’s a friend!’ Lahp looked at him questioningly, his broad forehead furrowed in consternation. ‘It’s all right, Lahp,’ he said more quietly. ‘It’s Garec, my friend.’

Lahp went from battle-readiness to calm right away. He tossed the second dagger down and helped Steven regain his feet, tapping at his leg questioningly.

‘No, Lahp. I am fine,’ Steven said, ‘no more damage – but thank you.’

Nodding, Lahp busied himself building up their campfire, apparently completely uninterested in Garec’s approach. Steven scratched his beard and considered how extraordinary it was to have earned Lahp’s confidence. He trusts me, Steven mused. He could not care less who comes down that path right now.

With that thought, Steven heard footsteps crunching through the snow and he began hobbling out to meet his companion, the pain in his leg forgotten momentarily.

Garec looked gaunt and completely worn-out, but he hugged Steven fiercely. ‘We thought you dead, Steven Taylor,’ he said as he removed two packs and placed his bow on the ground between them. He glanced over at Lahp and added, ‘I see you have a tale to tell us. I am very glad you are all right-’ He looked at Steven’s carefully bound lower leg. ‘ Are you all right?’

But Steven had not heard him; he was staring at the satchel on the ground beside the longbow. He swallowed hard before raising his eyes to meet Garec’s. ‘Why are you carrying Gilmour’s pack?’

Lahp had scrutinised Garec carefully when he followed Steven into the lean-to. He examined the longbow, tugged several times at the bowstring and even sniffed at the fletching of the arrows in the twin quivers.

Curiosity satisfied, he drew another grettan steak from what looked to be a bottomless pack and placed it carefully next to the two already cooking.

Garec ate hungrily; he told his companions he had never realised how lean and tender grettan meat would be. ‘I’m too tired even to remember what fresh bread tastes like,’ he joked. ‘There’s bound to be fish in the river, even in this cold. I’ll get some for breakfast; we must, after all, have a varied diet.’

Grunting his culinary approval, Lahp bid them both a good night and retired to his own pile of blankets next to the fire, leaving space beneath the lean-to for Garec. When the Ronan tried to protest, the Seron just pushed him back.

‘Na, na,’ he said. ‘Lahp na cahld. Lahp good.’

Wrapped up in a white-coated huddle, Steven thought the Seron looked rather like a pitcher’s mound after a spring snowstorm.

Later, huddled together under the entwined branches of their shelter, the two men caught up on each other’s news. Garec said he had moved ahead of Brynne and Sallax once they reached the valley floor. He had been looking for game to shoot when he smelled the smoke from Lahp’s fire. Brynne and Sallax would be along sometime soon; as for Mark; they had split up some days before. Steven, deeply concerned at this news, kicked angrily at a wayward ember that popped from a burning log and landed near his feet.

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Garec said, a little unconvincingly. ‘He is at home in the mountains, far more than the rest of us, certainly.’

‘That’s true,’ Steven answered, feeling horribly responsible for his friend’s wellbeing. ‘He’s tough, much tougher than me.’ He reached behind Garec for more wood. ‘We need to keep the fire going until the others get here.’ He leaned forward and gently placed the logs into the blaze. ‘Until all of them get here.’

Finally, he asked about Gilmour. When Garec hadn’t answered earlier, Steven knew the news was bad. He did not cry; he didn’t believe he still could. Instead, he felt his stomach tighten, as if he had eaten something rancid and was about to retch.

The feeling lingered and intensified: without the Larion Senator, he and Mark might never get home. Selfish, but true. And Nerak would use Lessek’s spell table to tear open the Fold and free his evil master. If they were to cross the Ravenian Sea and make their way to Welstar Palace without Gilmour, he might be called upon to wield the hickory staff in defence of his friends. Steven nearly choked. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his knees in an effort to ease the pain across his stomach. It was hard to breathe, as if the air had thinned suddenly, and he reached for the staff, pulling it close under the lean-to, a magical comfort in a wild and desperate land. Garec patted him gently on the shoulder and Steven realised that he had to do it. He would risk everything to save them. He would go to Malakasia, and face Nerak, even without being able to say goodbye to Hannah, or, more importantly, to say sorry.

He would lose, that was a given: it was as clear to him as anything he had ever known – but he was not as afraid as he had expected to be. Rather, he was sorry. He was sorry he would never see Hannah again. She was here; she was so close that he could almost feel her, smell the aroma of lilac that surrounded her… and he would not see her again in this lifetime. It was sad, but not tragic.

‘She must know I love her,’ he whispered, and Garec squeezed his shoulder more tightly.

‘I am certain she does.’

‘I’ll have to face Nerak.’

‘Yes.’ Garec stared into the fire and again saw his sisters, the farm and his family back in Rona. ‘But I’ll be there with you.’

‘You?’

‘Of course.’ He forced a smile. ‘I never imagined it would be the thing I do best.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Kill.’ Garec stared down at their boots, side by side in the snow. He could not remember when they had traded. ‘I wanted to be a woodsman, a hunter, like Versen, but circumstances forced me to become a killer. I fire arrows that find their target. It’s not magic; it’s just my willingness to do so. Its simplicity is beautiful. I am the best bowman I have ever known, and I say that not as a boast but as a matter of fact. I never hesitate, but afterward, I have frightening regrets; I often wish I had not fired at all. But if I can help you at Welstar Palace, Steven, I will.’

‘Your arrows will have no effect on Nerak.’

‘True enough, but I imagine there’ll be hundreds of guards on hand, and servants too, every one willing to give their life to save his.’

Steven remembered Garec standing atop Seer’s Peak, his bow at the ready. When the almor attacked, he had fired shaft after shaft with almost inhuman speed. Garec was right; he would be a powerful ally when it came time for their assault on Nerak’s keep.

‘Well, don’t we make a pair,’ he said. ‘Two hesitant killers out to battle evil, hopelessness, tragedy and suffering.’ Steven paused a moment before elbowing Garec gently in the ribs. ‘I think we’re going to get our asses kicked.’

The Ronan archer needed a translation, but when he had deciphered the colloquialism, he burst into laughter, a jovial belly-laugh that woke Lahp from his slumber and brought a moment’s grace to the frozen valley floor.

*

Steven had fallen asleep when Brynne and Sallax entered the clearing, but he awakened when Garec leaped up to help them. Lahp, seeing their drawn faces and emaciated bodies, was rummaging for more grettan meat before they’d even sat down. Hugging Steven tightly, Brynne whispered, ‘Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ Steven answered, ‘but I’m sure he’s all right. He’s very strong.’ He released her, dried a tear from her cheek with a corner of his cloak and said quietly, ‘I am so very sorry about Gilmour.’

Brynne’s brow furrowed and her mouth turned down slightly at the edges, a tiny gesture that spoke volumes. Her eyes glistened and she shook her head sternly from side to side. ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘I will not-’ She paused to drag a sleeve under her nose, a starkly unladylike gesture that made Steven grin with genuine affection. ‘I will not lose them both.’ She looked at him as if her will alone would bring Mark Jenkins jogging contentedly along the trail. ‘I will not.’

‘I know,’ Steven responded reassuringly. ‘He’ll be along. He has to. Who’s going to save my life the next time I go wandering off on a fool’s errand?’

‘Steven,’ Sallax said loudly, and slapped him hard across the back, ‘it’s good to see you doing so well.’

‘And you, too, Sallax,’ Steven returned. ‘The last time I saw you I was quite worried.’

‘That has passed,’ the big Ronan grinned. ‘That demon wraith hit me hard, but I’ve recovered. We shall have to be on the lookout for that horsecock, and I hope you’ll have a chance at him with that staff of yours.’

Steven risked a glance back at Brynne. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the same Sallax who had led them from Estrad. Garec had mentioned that Sallax was still sick, despite his seeming improvement, but this was a very curious condition. The man standing before him had a wild look in his eye, as if an untamed beast lay just beneath the surface of his jolly exterior.

It was as if Sallax were carrying something wicked that was chiselling away at him from within, leaving him half-sane, just a few fragmented and disjointed pieces of Sallax that had been rearranged, twisted about and whitewashed over with a boyish grin and a hearty laugh.

Deciding to wait until he could find a suitable time to discuss her brother’s condition with Brynne, Steven redirected the conversation. ‘Come, let’s get you something to eat,’ he said. ‘I know you’ll enjoy grettan steaks; I’m quite a convert.’

Sallax grinned.

By dawn it had stopped snowing and the air felt a little warmer than of late. Steven discovered a bit of a thaw had left very little in their small but now crowded camp dry; he intended stoking up the fire to dry clothes and blankets before they got underway. Garec and Lahp were already gone, but Sallax and Brynne were still deeply asleep.

Asleep, Sallax looked the same as he had back at Riverend Palace, a bit thinner, perhaps, but his face looked calmer, much more the confident partisan Steven remembered.

In the distance, he saw Garec making good on his promise to provide fish for breakfast. Crossing the Blackstones had toughened Garec; he didn’t appear to be having as much fun as he had in the orchard outside Estrad, when he’d brought the highest apple to the ground with one shaft. He had been young then, filled with excitement at the promise of a journey north. Mark and Steven were strangers to him, still enemies at the time, and Garec had paid them little heed as he entertained himself there among the apple trees.

Now Steven knew that despite Garec’s intense focus on the riverbed, he was also acutely aware of their surroundings. Nothing would threaten their camp this morning without first experiencing Garec’s skill with a longbow. Gathering fish to stay alive was not fun. Steven grimaced as he watched the archer loose another shaft into a shallow pool. It ought to be fun; given time and extraordinary luck, perhaps he would live to see Garec firing arrows through apples again.

Breathing the crisp morning deep into his lungs, Steven rose slowly, tested his leg and found it stronger. The querlis was working well; he was healing quickly now. He draped his blankets over the edge of the lean-to to dry and made his way, slowly and carefully, down to the river to watch Garec.

For the next three days, the company made their way northwest alongside the river towards Falkan and Orindale. Steven, still unable to walk very far, reluctantly allowed Lahp to drag him in the pine gurney. Lahp seemed to mind far less than he did, and he didn’t appear to tire. Although nights were still cold, the days were bright with sunshine and warm enough for them to remove their cloaks and walk along in tunics and wool hose or leather breeches.

Brynne walked with Sallax. The two spoke for avens about what was happening, where they were going and how they might successfully navigate their way to Welstar Palace without Gilmour. Brynne worked to keep her brother focused, emotionally and intellectually. Without her incessant reminders and redirections, his mind would wander, latching on to silly ideas or amusing memories, going off on a tangent or forgetting where they were and why they were heading for Malakasia. No one found his behaviour threatening, but they were all hoping he would make a quick recovery once they arrived in Orindale.

Periodically Sallax would show some improvement: his speech slowed to a normal rate, his excitability waned and his eyes managed to focus on the people and places around him – but this never lasted long; Brynne was conscious that she needed to get him to a healer as soon as possible.

On the morning of the third day they reached a cabin, set back in the trees from the south bank of the river. Garec guessed the cabin, a pretty basic structure, was used by trappers who worked the river and surrounding mountains for pelts. To them it represented sanctuary, a safe haven to rest, heal and plan.

Inside, they found a cache of food stockpiled for winter: dried fruits, smoked meat, a stack of bottles of Falkan wine and even a block of Ronan cheese, all neatly stored in a dry closet near the fireplace. Garec assumed the trapper who owned the cabin must be nearby, because the cheese was not too mouldy and the wine had been bottled recently.

Lahp helped Steven to a chair near a dusty table in the centre of the front room. A short hallway ran to bedrooms in the back. A neat stack of wood was arranged carefully beside the fireplace and as soon as he was certain Steven was comfortable, Lahp set about building a fire. Brynne looked haggard; she was worried for Sallax and anxious for news of Mark. To take her mind off things, she busied herself searching for candles, wiping the table and hanging their wet blankets and clothes to dry above the fireplace. Occasionally she looked over her shoulder at Sallax, who sat on the floor changing Steven’s dressing. Lahp’s supply of querlis was dwindling, but he indicated that he would find more of the miracle leaves in the valley.

Steven assured him his leg was much better. ‘A few days by this fire and I’ll be ready for the four-hundred-metre hurdles,’ he said, using English where he could not find an appropriate Ronan translation. He was sad to see Sallax didn’t react: either he did not notice or, more likely, did not care to understand what was said.

Garec emerged from the hallway drinking from a bottle of red wine. ‘There are two rooms in the back with thatch mattresses that don’t appear to have bugs or lice. Whoever sleeps back there ought to sleep on a blanket, though, just to be safe.’

‘I’m just glad not to have to sleep on the bare ground tonight,’ Steven said. ‘Someone else can have the rooms. I don’t mind.’

Brynne came to kneel beside her brother. She took Steven’s lower leg in her hands and examined his wounds closely. ‘They look much better,’ she said, ‘but you’re still not cured. Take one of the beds. You need rest.’

Garec grinned at them. ‘Fight all you like over the rooms. I’m sleeping out here, as close as I can get to the fire without burning, and then maybe just a little closer. I don’t think I remember what it’s like to be warm.’

Brynne looked up from her work. ‘What if the trapper comes back?’

‘I checked outside and there aren’t any recent tracks. The cheese is still fairly fresh though, so he can’t be more than a few days away.’

Steven chimed in, ‘Can we leave him money? Mark and I found some silver back in Estrad.’

‘Found?’ Garec took another swallow.

‘Okay, stole, but I’m happy to leave it here. This place may have saved our lives.’

‘Fine,’ Garec agreed. ‘We’ll pay handsomely for his hospitality.’ He passed the bottle to Steven, who took a long swallow and suddenly remembered how much he liked Falkan wine – in fact, any wine.

‘Garec, if we live through this, I want you to take me to a Falkan vineyard for a full Twinmoon. My treat.’ Again Steven used an English colloquialism.

‘Treat?’ Garec asked, trying the word out on his tongue.

‘I’ll pay.’

‘Ha,’ Sallax laughed, ‘if Steven is paying, count me in too. ’

Brynne smiled as the friends engaged in friendly banter – the first time they’d felt secure enough for a long time. Her relief that Sallax would have a safe place to rest for a few days was mitigated only by her continued worry for Mark. Looking up at Steven, her smile faded.

Steven squeezed her hand tightly and passed her the wine bottle. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘He’ll be along any time now, probably on skis, or with a posse of St Bernards in tow.’ Despite the levity in his voice, Brynne was not comforted.

Later that day Steven dozed in a chair near the fireplace as the querlis worked its healing magic, dancing along the injured tissues and through his ever-strengthening bones. Garec had pulled a string of large trout from the river and they were all looking forward to a hot meal of fresh fish and dried fruit – they had found apricots, apples, tempine and pears, and an assortment of nuts and berries. Steven opened one eye long enough to pop a piece of dried apple into his mouth. Bliss!

When he woke again, the sun was low in the western sky. Lahp was stoking the fire while Garec prepared the trout. Sallax stared out of the window, watching the sun sink behind the mountains. By the time Brynne announced dinner it was dark. The flames crackled cheerfully as they gathered around the table; Steven realised it felt like home, and these people were family. It would be so wrong of him to return safely to Colorado leaving them to suffer. He would encourage Mark to go home, but he would stay. They had rescued him, cared for him and treated him as one of their own. There were no excuses for him to flee, to find safety a universe away in the First National Bank of Idaho Springs. Mark would fight him on it, but he would stay and he would wield the hickory staff in their defence until this business was done.

A short while later, Mark Jenkins knocked softly on the door.