The Hickory Staff

THE TRAPPER’S CABIN

Santel Preskam cleared her throat, a raspy inhalation, and spat a mouthful of mucus into the underbrush. She stooped to make sure she was right; it was green. ‘Rutting demonshit,’ she cursed. She didn’t have time to be sick.

‘Rutting demonpiss river,’ she muttered, ‘if I wasn’t soaked to the bone every rutting day, I wouldn’t catch every rutting disease that floats by.’

Two days. It would be two days before she could get back to the cabin, but once there she promised herself she would crawl into bed and remain under the covers until the Twinmoon. But for now she trudged back up the riverbank, two empty traps in tow and tossed them over her horse’s saddle. She had not pulled anything from that run all season; it was time to move the traps further upstream in hopes of snaring a beaver, a weksel, or perhaps a muskrat.

She withdrew a plain green bottle from her saddlebag, pulled the cork and took a long draught of the dry Falkan wine – she might be an ill-educated trapper, but she did know her wines. Before moving south into the mountains, she’d worked in the scullery on a vineyard in the Central Falkan Plain. It was there she had vowed that even if she lived another two hundred Twinmoons, her life would be over too soon to ever drink anything but good vintages. It cost her a great deal in pelts, but she justified the expense as a trade-off for all the clothing and accessories she would need if she lived in a city. ‘I need good wine more than I need clean clothes out here,’ Santel told her horse before enjoying another mouthful. ‘Could do with a decent crystal goblet though,’ she said with a croaky laugh.

As the wine warmed her, she felt a little more confident she would make it back to the cabin despite the infection and fever. She stashed the bottle safely in her saddlebag and peered up through the woods.

Something moved.

Pulling a short forest bow from her shoulder, Santel nocked an arrow and stepped gingerly around her horse, hoping not to draw the attention of whatever it was that had passed between the trees up above. She squinted into the forest, then, seeing nothing, closed her eyes and listened. Nothing again. Exhaling in frustration, Santel whispered to her horse, ‘Whoring rutters! Now I’m seeing things.’

She was about to replace the bow when she felt something cross the path behind her. ‘Lords and gods!’ she exclaimed, pulling the bowstring taut against her cheek.

It moved again, this time to her right, and then again on the hill to her left. Santel held her breath. They were all around her. She was being hunted.

Desperate for a clean shot, she tried shouting, ‘C’mon out here, let’s settle this like adults!’

She detected movement again, behind the horse, and then on the hillside. Straining to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, Santel suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

‘Behind me!’ The words echoed in her mind, an instant too late. She felt that horrible, familiar sensation, the hollow certainty that had followed close on the heels of every careless, costly mistake she had ever made. She whirled about to face her attacker, screaming as she fired directly into its face. They were close about her now.

As the sun glinted through the window, Mark woke and lifted his head from the pillow with a start. Where was he? Nervous insecurity gripped him and he searched the unfamiliar room for the opaque grey patch, until his anxiety relaxed its hold on his memory and the events of the past Twinmoon returned in a flood. The Blackstone Mountains, his brush with death, Gabriel O’Reilly, and finally, finding Steven: the scenes replayed themselves in his head.

But here, safe, lying next to Brynne, it was easy to forget the hardships he and his friends had suffered. He was glad his memory, as if working independently, had softened the images for him this morning.

Gently, so as not to wake her, Mark settled back down and contemplated Brynne’s sleeping form. She lay on her side, her back to him. The edge of her right shoulder and upper arm blocked the sun’s first rays; her flesh was rimmed with a brilliant gold border. Her beauty left him breathless.

He reached out to pull her towards him; as she rolled over, the sunlight shone across her chest and stomach and momentarily blinded him. He ran his palm across the taut firmness of her abdomen, stroking her like a cat. Still asleep, she moved lazily under his hand; as he brushed away several adventuresome strands of hair that had journeyed boldly across her shoulders and now obscured her breasts she sighed softly and, eyes still closed, reached out for him. His arousal was almost instantaneous; as her gentle, clever fingers teased him harder than he had ever thought possible, he bent and kissed the indentation at the base of her neck, running his tongue across her soft skin.

Brynne opened her eyes a slit and smiled up at him. ‘Waiting for permission?’ she whispered, tracing the hard curves of his buttocks. ‘It’s a little late for that, I think.’ She pulled him down and kissed him tenderly. Mark lost himself in her softness and moistness and an almost lazy coming together that exploded into hard, fast emotion that overwhelmed him.

That same emotion had been almost as much a surprise as their passion the previous night. He blinked in an effort to adjust to the sudden brightness as the sun poured into the room. Brynne, smiling like a well-satisfied cat, rolled onto her stomach, pulled the wool blanket over them both and drifted back into slumber.

Last night their passion had been unchecked, their embrace powerful, ardent, fierce in its urgency. Shrouded in darkness, skin on skin, legs lost among legs and fingers entwined as if they would never again be free, they had clung and clawed and come together, a tumultuous wellspring of feelings in the knowledge that they had nearly died among the Blackstone peaks, relief that they had found each other, and fear for the morning, when they would once again have to face the evil that was threatening both their worlds.

Mark had not believed they would ever feel as much again as they had last night, but in the sunlit sensuality of morning, he found that he had underestimated both of them. Last night was not just frantic sex to forget the days and weeks of fear, or to celebrate their survival: it was far more than that.

Now he smiled to himself, because he knew he was falling in love with this woman – had fallen, already. He smiled, because he had held her tightly, had made love with her furiously, here in this bed, had fallen asleep by her side and awakened to find her still there.

Brynne’s reaction to Mark’s sudden appearance had been suitably dramatic: she had leaped up from the floor where she had been sharpening her hunting knife against a whetstone. She pushed the others aside and flew into his arms, alternatively crying against his neck and gazing deeply into his eyes, as if to ensure it really was him, and to ward against the possibility that he might vanish from the room and leave her alone again. In her enthusiasm, Brynne had forgotten to drop the knife; Mark had briefly worried that she might cut off one of his ears, or even accidentally stab him in the back. Now, watching her lush brown tresses fall across her cheek, Mark whispered, ‘That’s my girlfriend, my beautiful, sexy, knife-wielding revolutionary girlfriend.’

He closed his eyes and revelled as long as he could in the moment before the reality of their predicament crept into bed with him. With Steven injured and Sallax in his peculiar state, how were they going to get the small company to Orindale?

They had talked long into the night, discussing options. Mark agreed that Lahp’s plan to build a raft and float the rest of the way was the most viable suggestion so far. There was no way Steven could walk; he couldn’t yet manage more than a few paces at a time – and the rest of them were not much healthier. A few days’ rest here was what they needed first off. It would do them all good, and it would give him and Lahp a chance to construct a decent-sized raft.

Thinking back on what he’d been though, Mark found himself remembering Idaho Springs. This morning he was especially missing the steaming-hot coffee served up by the Springs Cafe. Coffee. It was high time someone introduced the coffee bean to Eldarn.

Moving softly, trying not to wake Brynne, he slid out of bed and padded over to the washbasin near the window. The clear river water was freezing; as he splashed his face he tried not to cry out. At least he was now fully awake.

Mark hadn’t mentioned Gabriel O’Reilly’s warning last night, that one of them was a traitor. Sallax. It had to be, although it didn’t seem feasible. His condition had improved since Mark last saw him: Sallax was beginning to act more like the determined partisan he and Steven had first met back in Estrad. He once again spoke in confident tones, certain of their eventual victory over Prince Malagon. But there was undoubtedly something missing; he had changed – though Mark couldn’t pinpoint what had altered. When talking with the others, Sallax exhibited his old familiar strength, but when he sat by himself, his countenance changed. Mark noticed the difference as Sallax sat near the fire: his face was that of one who had lost hope.

The wraith said he had temporarily weakened the Ronan’s convictions, but Mark didn’t know quite what the spirit meant. Now he cast about inside his mind for the banker’s ghost. Looking back at Brynne, lying naked beneath the blankets, he really hoped Gabriel was elsewhere this morning. After a moment’s concentration, he was convinced the spirit had not returned – Mark hadn’t felt him since the previous evening. Just moments after entering the cabin, he felt the ghost break their connection, calling out in a hoarse whisper before disappearing, ‘I have failed.’

Failed at what? Mark thought back, but Gabriel O’Reilly was already gone and his friends were pulling him into the welcome warmth. There was a lot of news to exchange, including Gilmour’s death. Mark could see Garec felt responsible; his eyes had filled with tears when he talked of organising Gilmour’s funeral pyre. Mark finally understood the smoke over the mountains.

Now, watching the sun creep slowly across Brynne’s blanket-wrapped body, Mark pulled his filthy red sweater over his bare torso and felt it hang on him like a dead sail on a wooden spar. He had lost weight. They all had. Steven looked worst of all. They had talked about Steven’s battle with the grettan – there was something impossible. Although Mark was getting used to believing in a dozen impossible things before breakfast, this was a bit harder: how the hell could Steven have killed the beast after losing consciousness? Lahp insisted that he had not come upon the scene until after Steven had torn the grettan apart. A powerful force must have intervened on his friend’s behalf – maybe the curious wooden staff, working of its own volition to save his life? That possibility was unfathomable too. Mark laced up his boots and left the bedroom.

Except for Lahp, who was already gone, no one else was awake. Mark poured a full skin of water into a cast-iron pot. If he couldn’t have a triple espresso, heavily sugared, he would drink an entire pot of Eldarni tecan by himself. Using some of the dry kindling near the fireplace he coaxed a small flame, added a log or two and began heating the water.

‘The whole pot, mind you,’ he whispered to the room. ‘Don’t test the mettle of my conviction.’

Conviction. There it was again, swimming just beyond his grasp. What did Gabriel mean? He attacked Sallax’s convictions, temporarily weakening them. Sallax’s convictions about what? He was a partisan. He hated Malagon and fought for Ronan freedom, for Eldarni freedom. Why attack his convictions? The mysterious wraith had said, ‘One of them is a traitor to your cause.’ A traitor to our cause. That’s not Sallax; he gave birth to this cause. What other cause could there be? Killing Malagon? Keeping evil at bay and imprisoned inside the Fold? Stirring the simmering tecan with a section of kindling, Mark, frustrated, wished Gilmour were there to help him work through these questions.

Gilmour.

‘Oh, no,’ Mark said, and swallowed hard. ‘Gilmour?’ He turned slowly to gaze at Sallax, asleep near the fireplace and asked himself more than the Ronan leader, ‘Did you kill Gilmour? Why would you do that? What convictions do you hold that need weakening?’

Brynne had told him Sallax began to improve almost immediately after Gilmour’s death. Could it be that whatever magic the ghost had used to weaken Sallax had worn off after Gilmour died? ‘No,’ Mark muttered, ‘not worn off, rather, became obsolete. Sallax’s convictions were no longer an issue, so the wraith’s power no longer had a target.’ Mark’s heart began to quicken. He needed to discuss this with someone – but not Brynne, not yet.

Steven was in the second bedroom. He had retired much earlier than the rest of the group, a fresh poultice of querlis making him drowsy. Now Mark tiptoed to the door, stepping gingerly to avoid noisy floorboards. Once inside, he pushed it closed on its leather hinges before attempting to wake his roommate.

‘What?’ Steven groaned, rolling over. ‘What is it?’

Mark was struck by how thin and weak Steven looked, but he grinned broadly, hoping to raise his friend’s spirits. ‘Hey, it’s me,’ he whispered. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘My shoulder hurts, my ribs ache and my leg was nearly bitten off by a prehistoric creature with a bad temper and a glandular disorder. I feel like I want to sleep for another twelve hours or avens or whatever the hell they call time here, but you, my former friend, are waking me up at the crack of whatever time it is.’ He paused for breath, then asked, ‘What the hell time is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mark laughed. ‘I haven’t known in weeks – do they even have weeks here?’

‘Never mind,’ Steven sat up. ‘I smell tecan.’ He rubbed the back of one hand across his eyes. ‘Well, if I can’t think of a better reason, good strong tecan is enough for me to be glad to have you back.’

‘Sorry, this morning I can’t help. I promised myself I’d drink the whole pot.’

‘Really? No sharing? That’s not like you, Mister Public School Teacher.’

‘Nope, not a drop. It was cold where I was. I’m still warming up.’

Steven grunted, ‘Okay, I’ll join you for a second pot after I sleep until noon or whatever they call the time a whole lot later than right now.’

‘Sorry, you can’t do that either.’ Mark was suddenly serious. ‘We may have a big problem.’ Steven raised one eyebrow and Mark continued, ‘No, another big problem: Gabriel O’Reilly told me that Sallax is a traitor.’

‘Oh, shit.’ Steven was instantly awake and lucid. ‘Why? What reason did he give?’

‘He didn’t.’ Mark gestured in the air above Steven’s bed. ‘He’s a bit-’

‘Dead?’

‘Cryptic. But I believe him. He says he crippled Sallax’s confidence – no, his convictions – that night in the forest when Malagon attacked you. And last night, when I finally got here, he fled my mind right after telling me he had failed.’

‘Failed to do what?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he failed to save Gilmour.’

‘But Sallax didn’t kill Gilmour.’

‘Right, but maybe he was working with the killer. Remember Gilmour told us someone had been tracking us all the way from Estrad? That’s probably who killed him.’

Steven nodded. ‘And twice I woke up before dawn to find Sallax creeping back into camp. I thought he had just gone off for a pee or something.’

‘Sonofabitch.’ The word lingered in the room. ‘What do we do?’

‘We should confront him.’

‘Yes, by all means, confront me.’

Sallax was standing in the doorway, his rapier drawn. Mark cast his eyes about the sparsely furnished chamber for a weapon. An old wooden chair stood below the window and he rested one hand on it as he asked, ‘Why?’ His grip tightened. ‘You’re their leader; you’re a revolutionary.’

Steven rolled from the bed and managed to stand, but he dared not pick up the hickory staff for fear of driving Sallax to attack.

Tears began to form in Sallax’s eyes as he closed the door behind him. The rapier’s tip was just a few feet from Steven’s chest.

Steven started, ‘All of Rona needs you, Sallax. There are so few who bring-’

‘I am not Ronan,’ Sallax nearly shouted, then lowered his voice. ‘I am from Praga. Brynne and I are Pragan.’

Mark made an attempt to downplay this revelation. ‘I don’t care if you’re from Ontario. Isn’t Praga under Malagon’s rule as well? Are Pragans not suffering?’ He watched Steven sidle slowly towards the staff, but not pick it up. Smart, Steven, he thought. Don’t piss him off any more than he already is.

‘My parents were kind people.’ Sallax’s voice broke and he fought to control the tremor. ‘They owned a rigging shop on the wharf in Southport. Hawsers, line, cleats, brass quarterdeck bells my father let me polish.’ His gaze drifted to the window and a thin smile graced his lips as he recalled a happier time. ‘They caught the early sun off the water and turned the whole storefront to gold, rippling fluid gold. My mother mended sails; her fingers were callused from Twinmoons pushing and pulling huge needles through tears in the sheets. She always had pots of tecan brewing on the woodstove, but I can’t remember anyone ever paying for a cup. “The first cup of tecan every day should be free,” she would always say, but I never remember anyone paying for tecan at any time of day. They didn’t make much, mind you, but we were always happy and the shop was always filled with people.’

Neither Mark nor Steven had ever heard him say this much, and Mark was about to entreat the big man to put down his rapier when Sallax went on, ‘Brynne played in her crib or on the floor near the woodstove. She could barely stand when they died, and I stole milk for Twinmoons until she was old enough to eat solid food.’

Crying now, he ran a tunic sleeve across his face and it came away slick with mucus and tears. ‘Malagon had just come to power, his father dead only a few Twinmoons, when we began to feel Malakasia’s grip tighten. My parents didn’t mind because all ships – Pragan, Malakasian, even the occasional craft from Rona – they all needed rigging after fighting through the Twinmoon storms on the Ravenian Sea. Business for them was good. I learned a lot, and I was happy. I thought things would be perfect for ever. I was perhaps fifty Twinmoons at the time.’

‘What happened?’ Steven whispered, his eyes still locked on the tip of Sallax’s rapier.

‘People were starving. There were raids, civil unrest, bread lines that became full-scale riots, day after day. You would be surprised what otherwise decent people will do to feed their families.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over and his face paled as he continued in a soft monotone, ‘A raiding fleet came into Southport, probably out of Markon Isle, three of them, heavy ships, several hundred men each. My father had seen them when they were hull-up on the horizon. They flew Pragan colours. He was excited; that meant work for him and my mother that night.’

‘They were Malakasians?’ Steven asked. ‘Flying Pragan colours to allay any suspicion?’

‘No,’ he shook his head slightly, ‘they were Ronan. Searching for food and silver, and girls to work the whorehouses on the Isle. They came in like a pestilence, under full sail. My father knew something was wrong when they didn’t strike their mains but maintained flank speed much too far into shallow water. Most ships would come into port under topgallants alone. These three came on as if they planned to crash through the wharf and dock somewhere on the opposite side of the city.’ Mark leaned on the chair and Sallax, mistaking his movement for something more aggressive, broke from his reverie and barked, ‘Sit down! Both of you!’ His fist closed tightly around the rapier hilt. Although tears fell freely, his voice no longer trembled. Instead, his tone was flat, deadly.

Steven sat near the end of the bed, as far from the rapier as possible, and within an arm’s length of the staff. His left hand almost burned with the desire to reach out: it was the staff’s power calling to him, trying to protect him from Sallax. Suddenly, he thought he understood how the grettan had been killed.

He turned back to Sallax as the partisan continued his story.

‘When they finally struck their mains and topsails, my father sighed. I remember that sigh, because he was relieved, you see. When he saw those sails come down, his thoughts went from worry to amusement. In his mind, those ships went from a threat to a comedy and I will never forget him smiling at me, gripping me by the shoulder and saying, “They just don’t know how to sail, Salboy.” We watched them together, waiting for them to come about and drop anchor. The sun was setting behind them and we had to strain our eyes to see. I squinted directly into the sun to catch a glimpse of one captain. He was backlit by fire, and I could see him giving orders to men in the rigging, and then, in an instant, I remember the sun going out.’

‘Was it magic?’ Mark glanced over at Steven, who nodded slightly. They needed to keep him talking.

‘No.’ Sallax looked between the two roommates without blinking. ‘It was the mainsail snapping back into the wind. It blocked the sun for a moment, but in that instant, I knew we were dead.’

‘They reset the sails,’ Steven said softly. ‘It was all a trick to get in close to the shoreline.’

‘That’s right.’ Sallax said. ‘And then it began.’ He ran a thumb along the edge of the battle-axe in his belt and Steven saw a trickle of blood cross his palm.

‘Was there no Malakasian occupation force in the port?’ Steven asked.

‘Oh yes, a huge frigate, with a crew of hundreds. That was their first target. One came from the north, the other from the south. They attacked at flank speed right there in the harbour. Those captains must have been madmen, absolutely insane, or they knew the harbour bed better than anyone in Eldarn. The two ships closed on the frigate, but before they grappled and boarded, they strafed the wharf with thousands of flaming arrows, pitch and tar arrows set alight. Within moments every building was in flames. They wanted to create as much mayhem as possible onshore, to scatter shop owners and merchants, and their plan was executed perfectly. The fires kept the townspeople busy, and many believed the arrows were a diversion to draw attention away from the naval frigate. Somehow, I knew better. I knew they were coming ashore just as soon as they finished destroying that ship.

‘My parents’ shop was one of the first hit and my father turned to hustle me inside. I imagine to this day, he planned to collect Brynne and my mother and spirit us all out the back to safety.’

‘But he was hit,’ Mark predicted under his breath.

‘Right again, Mark,’ Sallax confirmed. ‘We were two, maybe three paces from safety when a burning Ronan shaft took him right between the shoulder blades. I heard my mother wail, an inhuman cry of despair. You see, the pitch on the arrows sprayed out when they struck something hard, which spread the flames to the surrounding area. So while my mother screamed and Brynne cried in her crib, I stood and watched as my father’s body burned to a cinder, right there on the front step.’

Sallax paused a moment and Steven ventured to ask, ‘But why kill Gilmour? This was a raid, a pirate band.’

Sallax ignored the question. ‘They burned the frigate to the waterline. Archers set the rigging aflame; so the captain couldn’t order the sails set to make way. They never even hoisted the anchor. It was like watching sharks on a sleeping whale. They killed the crew and hanged the Malakasian captain from the stern rail. His legs dangled beneath the surface and I imagine he tried to find some solid purchase among the waters of Southport Harbour as his life ebbed away. There were a few Malakasian soldiers in town, but in typical Malakasian fashion, they were out of practice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mark asked. He could smell his tecan burning; the water hissed as it boiled over. Jesus, but Garec could sleep through anything… or maybe he was already dead ‘They hadn’t been drilling. They had grown fat and lazy. There was no army or navy to oppose them, no resistance movement in Praga at the time, so they all attacked the wharf. Two or three platoons massed out on the edge of the dock firing arrows into the pirate ships and calling curses and promises of a swift death to anyone bold enough to come ashore. Stupid horsecocks.’ He almost smiled and Steven realised Sallax truly had no love for Malakasia. At least that much was genuine. ‘They forgot the third ship, or if they didn’t forget it, they didn’t consider it a threat. Well, it was. Nearly two hundred armed mercenaries, tough bastards, came ashore from the third ship, strolled along the wharf as if they were courting some Pragan merchant’s chubby virgin daughter. They proceeded to hack and slash those platoons to ribbons, drove them right off the town docks and into the sea. Then, with a whooping holler, they came for us.’

The burn in Steven’s hand intensified: the staff was warning him Sallax was about to come at them, there would be no subduing him. This would be quick, bloody and to the death.

Sallax went on in matter-of-fact tones, ‘My mother was taken. They dragged her right over my father’s burning body and I watched as the hem of her dress caught fire on his back, a small flame that connected them one last time. It soon went out. I held Brynne tightly to my chest and waited to die, but they ignored us. They took what valuables they could find, including the brass bells I had polished so lovingly, and left the shop to burn. I carried Brynne outside, not out back but out front, out past my father and onto the cold cobblestones of the street. Behind us, the waterfront was in flames, but I couldn’t put Brynne down on the chilly stones because she might catch a cold. So we stood there and waited. That’s when I saw him up close for the first time.’

‘Prince Malagon?’ Steven was confused.

‘No, Gilmour.’

‘Gilmour was there?’ Mark interjected.

‘Gilmour was the captain I had seen giving orders to reset the main and top sails. He then ordered his archers to set fire to the town. When his ship slammed into the naval frigate, he ordered his men to fix grappling hooks and board her, to kill every Malakasian aboard and to burn her to the waterline. With that done, he ordered a launch to carry him ashore where he strode along the waterfront surveying the damage as his men pillaged and raped their way through town. Any who resisted him were murdered. It was simple, beautiful in its efficiency.’

‘I can’t believe it, not Gilmour. ’ Steven realised he had made a mistake as soon as he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t stop the words.

Nor could he stop Sallax from reacting: the man took a step towards him and screamed, ‘It was Gilmour, you rutting foreigner! No one rutting asked you into this!’

Then the staff was there, in his hand, and he felt its power course through him. Compassion. He heard himself say it and looked at Mark to see if he had said it aloud. Compassion.

‘Sallax, don’t do this. I don’t want to kill you.’

‘Kill me, you whoring dog?’ His rapier was inches from Steven’s throat. ‘I’ll run you clean through before you draw another breath. So sit there and shut up! I am not yet finished!’

‘Right. Yes. Okay.’ Steven felt it grow stronger. Compassion. This was a sick man, not a murderer. Sallax did not want to kill them. He was suffering, and Steven had to find a way to help him. He dropped the staff to his side and apologised.

‘Sorry, I interrupted,’ he said quietly.

Sallax glared, but continued, ‘I carried Brynne for days, begging for milk and buying what I could with the few coins my mother had kept inside an iron pot near the fireplace. Brynne cried so much, I thought she would die, but I kept her clean and managed to feed her, stealing when I had to.’

‘How did you get to Estrad?’ Mark asked.

‘We heard a rumour that Malagon was sending a brigade of soldiers down to reclaim the town. The pirates were long gone and no one wanted to be around when a vengeful army showed up with no one to fight. So, many of us piled into anything that would float and made for Rona. We found a husband and wife travelling together who made certain we had food and water during the journey. I have tried for two hundred Twinmoons to find them, but I can’t even remember their names. They saved our lives.’

‘And she doesn’t know any of this?’ Mark asked, trying to keep him talking. He doubted he could get the chair around in time to defend himself against Sallax’s rapier.

‘She believes our parents died in Rona.’

‘But still,’ Steven entreated calmly, ‘how could you fight for Ronan freedom while planning to betray Gilmour?’

Sallax had the look of one already lost, a tragic hero with no escape from the reality of his own weakness. ‘I did not betray Gilmour and I did not betray Rona. I avenged my parents. I never told Jacrys that Lessek’s Key was waiting for Nerak on your writing table, Steven Taylor, and I never passed along secrets of the Ronan Resistance. I avenged my parents; that’s all.’

‘But you have known Gilmour for-’

‘For fifty Twinmoons, yes, but it wasn’t until about twenty-five Twinmoons ago that I realised he was the same man who had ordered the attack on Southport.’

‘How is that possible?’ Mark needed clarification.

‘I had a vision – call it a dream, or a message from my parents. I saw him there, as clearly as if I were standing there, and in that moment, I knew it was he who had led the raiding fleet against my home. The memory of his face had been lost to me for so long; getting it back was like being reborn. I planned Gilmour’s death while fighting alongside him in raids on the Merchants’ Highway. I planned his death while drinking with him at Greentree Tavern. I planned his death while watching him walk with my sister, his arm around her shoulder like the father she never knew.’ Sallax’s voice rose as he spoke and he stood tall, towering over Steven and Mark.

This is it, Mark thought and prepared to dive at Sallax, hoping to distract the man long enough for Steven to call forth the staff’s magic.

He was tensing for his leap when Steven interrupted. ‘So, you succeeded,’ he said quietly. ‘You avenged your parents. Any of us would have done the same thing, but now you are conflicted. You are wrestling with demons over this decision, Sallax. Why? Will you tell us? We’re here, at your mercy. We can’t get the jump on you, you’ve got us at sword-point. Why are you struggling now?’

Sallax exhaled, a long sigh. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly, the wraith.’

‘What did he do?’ Steven asked.

Sallax’s tears came again. He broke down and buried his face in his hands. Mark looked over at Steven, thinking hard, Now! Let’s go now! – but before he could spring forward, Sallax lifted his head and pointed his rapier at Mark’s chest. ‘The spirit, O’Reilly, showed me the captain’s face. My vision, my memory of Gilmour as the captain of that dreadful ship was not real. It was planted in my mind by Prince Malagon. I worked for Malagon for twenty-five Twinmoons planning Gilmour’s death.

‘I killed him, my mentor, my leader. He was my friend and I prepared his death. The captain was not Gilmour.’

‘Why didn’t you say something? If you’d told us the killer was coming, we could have saved him.’ Steven was frustrated.

‘I couldn’t,’ Sallax admitted. ‘I wanted him dead. It sounds stupid, but I couldn’t let go of my desire. It was as though the truth wasn’t strong enough to clear Malagon’s false image from my mind.

‘So I ruined our chances for survival, for Eldarn’s freedom. We are going to die at Nerak’s hand, and it is my fault. I didn’t have the courage to kill myself – I was afraid of what I would find in death. Instead, I watched Gilmour die. I watched his body burn away, my second father, burning like a shadowy image of my first, and all I could think to do was to take care of Brynne again, to get her safely off that mountain. It was Brynne’s heartbreak that pulled me from O’Reilly’s spell. I couldn’t let her fail, because it was the only good thing I had ever done. I saved her life then and I had to save it now.’

‘But it didn’t work,’ Steven said.

Sallax chuckled ironically. ‘No, it didn’t. Instead, it became more difficult to control my thoughts. I hallucinated as guilt warred with magic. I have been lost.’

‘You sound pretty lucid now,’ Mark observed. ‘What’s different?’

Sallax broke down again and Mark took advantage of the opportunity to stand up slowly.

‘Now, this morning, I am lucid. Call it a moment’s respite from myself, but I know why.’ Sallax sliced the rapier’s point through the air with a thin whoosh. ‘Because now it is time for me to die. Steven? Will you do the honours?’

‘No, Sallax,’ Steven replied firmly. ‘I will not kill you.’

‘Then, my friend, you will watch as Mark dies.’ With that, Sallax lunged towards Mark.

‘No!’ Mark cried; there was no time to move, other than to draw his arms in against the sides of his body, his elbows firmly tucked against his ribs. But the fiery pain never came; though it was just a couple of feet, Sallax didn’t land the simple thrust that would have ended Mark’s life in an instant.

As Sallax lunged, Steven opened his mind to the power of the staff and, like the night he killed the Seron warriors, time slowed down for him. He had ample time to reach for the staff, to deflect Sallax’s thrust and to bring the shaft about and take him solidly across the chest. Steven felt the staff’s power: it would kill Sallax as readily as it had killed the Seron, as brutally as it had dismembered the grettan.

But he did not want Sallax dead; he wanted to help. Compassion. He reached out to take control of the magic. ‘I will not kill you, Sallax,’ he heard himself shout. As the staff hit him in the ribs, Sallax was lifted from his feet and thrown with a resounding crash through the door and into the front room.

Garec finally awakened with a start. ‘Rutters!’ he cried, ‘what’s happening?’

Sallax was lying absolutely still and Steven thought for sure he was dead. ‘Oh shit,’ he said as he tossed the staff on the bed, ‘I killed him. Goddamn it all to hell in a handbasket.’ Ignoring his injured leg, he limped towards the front room. Before he made it, Sallax rolled onto one side and began vomiting out the contents of his stomach.

‘Thank Christ,’ Steven exclaimed, ‘he’s alive.’

Mark was still checking his abdomen for the puncture he was certain he would find there, the blood seeping into the red wool of his sweater as Brynne burst through, a look of terror on her face. ‘Sallax!’ she cried, rushing to her brother. ‘What happened to you, to your face?’

No one answered, but Sallax pulled himself to his feet and turned to glare wild-eyed at Steven. ‘You’re cheating me,’ he shouted.

‘You’re right, Sallax. I will not kill you, not ever.’

‘Don’t make promises,’ he said and lifted his rapier towards Steven. ‘You have no idea what I might do.’

Brynne gripped his upper arm. ‘Sallax, tell me what’s wrong.’ Turning on Steven, she scolded, ‘Steven, you know he’s ill. What have you done?’

‘Tell her,’ Steven said, turning to look at Sallax. ‘Tell your sister what you told us. She needs to know – and you need to tell her. It’s what Gilmour would ask.’ Steven took a step forward. ‘You know he has already forgiven you.’

‘Forgiven him what?’ Brynne demanded, but Sallax screamed and pushed her to the floor, then turned and ran through the front door and out into the forest.

He nearly ran into Lahp, who was hauling a load of firewood that would have crippled any of them. The Seron shot him a crooked grin and greeted him warmly, ‘Ha, Sallax.’

His face changed when Sallax barked, ‘Out of my way, you half-human beast,’ and stabbed the point of his rapier deep into the Seron’s thigh. Lahp bellowed and fell to the ground, his massive paws gripping the puncture wound closed. The moment he realised it wasn’t life-threatening, he picked up a piece of firewood, lumbered to his feet and, furious, hurled it at Sallax’s back. It struck with a sickening thud, followed immediately by an audible snap, and Sallax pitched forward headlong into the dirt. His shoulder was broken.

Lahp chuckled, a deep arrhythmic bass. Sallax would live, but he would be in considerable pain for a while. Oblivious to the cacophony erupting from the cabin behind him, the Seron rechecked the wound in his leg, tied it tightly closed with a length of cloth he tore from his tunic and began picking up the firewood he had dropped along the trail.

Having recovered from his own initial shock, Mark grabbed Brynne before she could pursue her brother. ‘Don’t follow him, Brynne,’ he implored, holding her tightly, ‘not yet. He’s not thinking right. He might hurt you – kill you, even.’

‘Let go of me.’ Brynne’s voice was desperate and she fought to escape Mark’s embrace. ‘I have to catch him. He’s sick.’

‘Yes, and he’s dangerous,’ Mark pleaded. ‘He tried to stab me.’

Brynne ignored him and broke free. She pushed her way roughly past Lahp, who filled the doorway with his gargantuan frame. The Seron, his breeches stained with blood, looked after her with confusion, took several steps back into the forest and then stopped to wait for Steven to tell him what to do. Brynne disappeared along the trail.

Inside the cabin, no one spoke. The silence was unnerving. Mark watched Brynne sprint off through the trees and then looked questioningly at Steven.

‘Go,’ he said. Mark stooped to pick up Sallax’s own battle-axe before rushing through the door behind her.

It was two avens before Mark and Brynne returned. He held her tightly around the shoulder and their feet fell in perfect sync, stride for stride. Garec watched them, smiling at the comforting rhythm of their step and glad that they remained connected despite the morning’s events. Sallax wasn’t with them; Garec could see Brynne was upset and feared the worst.

Although it was only midday, the young woman looked exhausted, about to collapse. Mark escorted her into their bedroom and several moments later emerged alone. He threw himself into one of the chairs and reported, ‘We tracked him along the river a way, then he turned up into the foothills, then back into the valley.’

‘Did you catch him?’ Steven asked. ‘Isn’t he running with a broken arm?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s fast and he’s strong. I’ve no idea how he’s managing to keep it up – adrenalin, maybe. To be honest, I’m glad we didn’t catch him.’

‘Why?’ Garec asked.

‘What would we have done with him?’ Mark took a long swallow from an open wine bottle and looked around the room for something to eat. ‘He might have killed us both. I’m no match for him, even if he has got one useless arm.’

‘Where do you think he’ll go?’ Steven asked.

Garec said, ‘I’ve no idea how far it is to Orindale, but he’ll need to have those bones set sometime soon. I suppose he’ll stick to the river until he comes to anything that looks like a town, maybe somewhere on the outskirts of the city.’

‘But we don’t know where we, are or how long it’ll take us to get downriver,’ Mark added.

‘Unless he scales the mountains again, he doesn’t have many options.’

Steven said grimly, ‘Neither do we.’

‘I still think we ought to stay here a few more days,’ Garec said, surprising them. ‘Your leg needs to heal. Brynne needs rest. We all could use a break to deal with Gilmour’s loss and- and, well, Sallax’s disappearance.’

‘That makes sense,’ Mark agreed. ‘We don’t know what comes next. We can’t just march into Malakasia and demand the far portal. We need a plan.’

Steven and Garec shared an anxious glance. Without Gilmour, no one could operate the spell table. Even if they made it into Welstar Palace and managed to find the far portal, they had no idea how to use Lessek’s Key. All they knew was that it had to be kept from Nerak. Who else could tap its power for good? Gilmour had mentioned a colleague, Kantu, another Larion Senator, but he was in Praga and no one knew what he looked like, or where to begin searching for him. They were alone, lost in the northern Blackstones, and they had no idea how to proceed. A few days’ rest might give them a chance to come up with some options.

‘Yes,’ Steven finally agreed. ‘We ought to stay here a while.’

The day passed slowly. Brynne slept, and Mark looked in on her occasionally, watching her chest rise and fall steadily in the waning twilight. Steven and Garec busied themselves with simple tasks, stacking firewood, organising rations and fletching arrows. Steven’s leg felt stronger, and he diligently replaced the querlis with new leaves Lahp had found somewhere along the riverbank. The three men talked idly of their families, their work, and finally, sports, while Lahp listened, resting in one corner of the room with his leg straight out in front of him, his own wound bound and treated with querlis. Steven had no idea what, if anything, he understood, but it was comforting to talk of home. Garec was fascinated at the notion of golf and Mark promised to teach him to play if they could somehow fashion appropriate clubs. Garec reciprocated with an offer to teach the foreigners chainball as soon as they reached a flat stretch of land. They avoided discussing Gilmour, Sallax, Welstar Palace, or Lessek’s Key, and each was happy to bask in the illusion of normalcy for a day.

Just before dark, Garec took his bow and quivers out to the river. Mark watched as Steven redressed his leg, wrapping strips of cloth over the therapeutic leaves on his calf. For the second time that day, Mark took stock of how much his friend had changed. His hair was too long, tucked under his collar, and his trim beard made him look older. Rather than his sometimes lackadaisical attitude of old, now Steven’s motions were deliberate, with little wasted effort; he moved with the purposeful conviction of a warrior preparing for battle. Perhaps that was it, the crux of his transformation: Steven had become a warrior. Although still untested in real battle – he had fought only to protect himself and his companions – it looked as if he had developed a willingness to risk his life for a cause he had embraced wholeheartedly.

Steven’s spirit had changed as well. He was no longer the bored assistant manager who would never complain or inconvenience anyone; now he was a powerful foe who would somehow find a way to confront Nerak, even without Gilmour along to lead them home. Mark had watched him in a Denver restaurant one night, eating roast chicken with red potatoes, asparagus and corn bread. Steven ate the entire meal, commenting on the flavour and the artful presentation – and Mark teased him for weeks afterwards, because Steven had ordered a salad. He had eaten someone else’s meal, because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by complaining or sending food back to the kitchen.

Mark wondered how Steven would manage when they did finally return to Idaho Springs. Watching as his friend ran his hands thoughtfully along the wooden staff, inspecting every grain pattern and bloodstain, Mark was glad Steven had been forced to fight, to toughen his spirit. It might prove to be the one thing that ensured their eventual survival.

What was most ironic was that Steven didn’t see the change in himself; he was still convinced that if he showed compassion, everything would be all right in the end – but would it? Mark doubted Nerak could be defeated with compassion; as a historian, he believed there were times when destroying the enemy utterly and completely was the only real option. Nerak needed to be destroyed, annihilated. Did Steven’s compassion give him real strength? Mark could only guess. Garec was different. His strength was formidable: he fired arrows and killed foes. Real strength, real results and an unquestioning will to win.

That’s what Steven needed. He might be developing the spirit of a warrior, but unless he also had the tools of a warrior, the magic of a Larion Senator and the willingness to destroy Nerak, Mark worried their cause might be in jeopardy.

Feeling a little guilty for doubting Steven, Mark went to inspect his roommate’s medicinal handiwork. ‘How’s the leg?’

‘Much better, thanks.’

‘Maybe we’ll get you out for a walk tomorrow. If the weather holds, it will be nice along the river.’

Steven looked puzzled. ‘What’s on your mind, Mark?’

‘Nothing much, just the fact that you’re our only hope.’ He pointed at the staff in Steven’s lap. ‘Do you think you can get us into Welstar Palace and through the portal without Gilmour?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Steven admitted, ‘but we’ve still got to try. I was hoping Gabriel would help us to find a way to get in.’

‘I hadn’t thought of him. That’s actually not a bad plan.’

‘To be honest, I have my doubts that we should be making this attempt at all.’

‘Do we have any choice? It’s our only way home.’

Steven stared into the fire. ‘We could stay and fight.’

Mark almost laughed, and then he realised his friend was serious. ‘What? Here? For ever?’

‘No, just until Nerak is defeated. Going into Welstar Palace before I really know how to use this thing is suicide.’ He adjusted the hickory shaft across his lap. ‘We ought at least to find someplace safe to research the staff, to practise with it. I can feel its power. It calls to me when trouble is coming. I do nothing; it controls everything.’

‘And it killed that grettan.’

‘Yes,’ Steven finally looked up. ‘After I passed out. At least I think it did; I can’t remember.’

‘Do you have enough power to beat him, though?’

‘I can’t say. Gilmour wasn’t much help; he had no idea how powerful the staff might be. I may be ten times stronger than Nerak, or a hundred times weaker.’

‘Then this is crazy. We’ll get in there and be dead in minutes.’

Steven remembered his mantra, and how it calmed him. He repeated it now, to explain. ‘We might not make it. You’re right, but somehow I’m certain the strength of the staff lies in my willingness to wield it.’

‘So wield it then. Crush him, if you’re convinced it’s strong enough.’

‘No.’ Steven shook his head to emphasise the point. ‘It doesn’t work that way. You saw it shatter on that Seron. It broke like a piece of kindling. I have to show compassion.’

Mark moved towards the fireplace and tossed a misshapen log into the flames. ‘I don’t know that Nerak is the kind of enemy who deserves compassion. Maybe the staff will recognise how insidious he is.’

Steven stood and hobbled awkwardly across the room to stand beside Mark. ‘We have to find the far portal. Nerak controls it. He doesn’t seem to be able to detect the staff’s magic, nor can he locate Lessek’s Key from afar. If he could, he would know we don’t have it, and God love Sallax for not sharing that information with Malagon’s spy. So, there are five things we know, and there are about seven hundred things we don’t.

‘I think we need to buy ourselves some time, work with the staff, decipher its purpose and its power and then make a decision about how to get home.’

There was something Steven hadn’t said, so Mark added it for him. ‘And we may find news of Hannah.’

‘ If Hannah arrived here,’ Steven interrupted hopefully.

‘It just doesn’t feel like a lot to go on.’

‘To me it does.’

Mark pushed his palms against the mantel and leaned there, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Garec pushed his way into the room, brandishing dinner: five large trout, each neatly skewered through the gills. ‘Fish, anyone?’

Steven grinned. ‘Fry ’em up, Garec!’

‘I’ll get Brynne,’ Mark said. As he made his way through to the bedroom, he thought about Steven’s desire to study the staff’s power and use its magic to help the Eldarni people win back their freedom. He obviously had no intention of going back to Idaho Springs before the evil controlling Nerak was banished into the Fold.

Stopping before the door to their bedroom, Mark’s thoughts moved to Brynne. Could he leave her here alone with an unholy fight looming before her? No, of course not. She could return to Colorado with him – they all could. But now he sounded like the coward, a sensible coward, but a coward just the same. Despite his friend’s confidence, Mark believed Nerak would kill them all.

Steeling himself against the wellspring of emotion he felt whenever he saw Brynne, Mark entered the room quietly, hoping not to disturb her right away. They would remain in Eldarn until this business was finished.

Garec pulled hard until the resistant plug popped from the bottle with a satisfying report. ‘Whoever this trapper is, he has great taste in wine,’ he said as he poured for each of the friends, topping his own glass to the brim before handing the unfinished portion to Lahp, who proceeded to drink directly from the flask. The bottle looked like a toy in the Seron’s hand and Garec laughed as Lahp finished the contents in one enormous swallow.

‘Remind me not to get into a drinking contest with you,’ he said, crossing to the fireplace to removing his trout fillets. ‘Sorry it’s fish again tonight,’ he told the company, ‘but tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a deer or something.’

‘This is fine, Garec,’ Brynne replied. She looked much better for having slept most of the day. ‘Without you we’d be reduced to roots and berries.’

‘She’s right,’ Mark agreed, sipping noisily. ‘You missed my archery display at Seer’s Peak: thirty-two shots and not one fish.’

They all laughed at Mark’s admission except for Brynne, who continued to watch the front window anxiously. She was cross that she’d slept the day away and promised herself that dawn would find her scouting the riverbank to find some sign that Sallax was all right.

Mark gripped her hand beneath the table. ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow,’ he whispered.

At that moment she loved him, for knowing what she had been thinking, and for saying what she needed him to say.

Garec finished the last of his dinner, examined the bottom of his wooden trencher and chucked it into the fire. ‘These bowls are too old,’ he observed. ‘We’ll have sores in our mouths if we keep eating from these.’ He watched as the wood burst into flames. Rising from his seat, he crossed the room to retrieve the worn canvas pack. ‘I think Gilmour had a few fresh trenchers in here,’ he said, unfastening twin leather straps.

No one spoke as Garec started absentmindedly pulling out items, placing things on the wooden table like exhibits at a trial: a hat, one glove, a pair of wool socks, some tobacco in a leather pouch, a small book written in Pragan. Then Garec’s hand came to rest on a carved wooden pipe and he stopped short, appalled.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered, almost crying, ‘I’m really sorry.’ He began returning the old man’s possessions to the bag. Brynne crossed and took him in her arms.

‘It’s all right, Garec,’ she said. ‘You’re doing the right thing. There’s no sense in you carrying two packs. Combine what you need in your bag and leave the rest here.’

Garec hesitated, as if waiting for something to happen. His forehead began perspiring and he released the pipe, now moist from his grip, to fall into the bottom of the satchel.

‘Garec,’ Steven said, ‘his memory doesn’t live in those things.’

Garec nodded, without looking at anyone, and, unable to reopen the pack, handed it to Steven. The young bowman picked up his quivers and started mending fletching.

Steven looked quickly at Brynne before reopening Gilmour’s bag. Garec was right. The old sorcerer did have three fresh trenchers, and Steven stacked them neatly in the centre of the table. Not knowing whether to continue, Steven reached gingerly back into the pack and withdrew three pipes, two more packs of tobacco, a short knife, some lengths of twine, several articles of clothing and a small bar of clean-smelling soap. Mark grabbed one of the trenchers and began turning it over in his hands, ostensibly inspecting the wood for worms, termites or rot. The vestiges of Gilmour’s life looked like a pile of junk: his socks had holes in them, his knife was bent and its leather sheath was torn and useless. These were not the final possessions of a powerful educator and magician; they were more like secondhand items distributed at the reading of a homeless person’s will. Mark drank deeply from his goblet and hoped the unnerving ritual would end soon.

Steven broke the silence. ‘That’s it.’ He fumbled about inside the pack for another moment before adding, ‘Except for these.’ He tossed a book of matches to his roommate. Mark caught it in one hand, flipped it over and read the advertisement printed on the back: Owen’s Pub, Miner Street, Idaho Springs. ‘And this,’ Steven removed several pages of old parchment, folded over and ragged along the edges. He placed it on the table near the trenchers and dropped Gilmour’s empty pack to the floor.

‘Sonofabitch!’ Mark exclaimed and Brynne looked at him curiously. ‘My paper and my matches, that old dog. He must have picked these up that night we went swimming in the river.’

‘ Machess? ’ Brynne asked, fumbling with the foreign word.

‘Matches.’ Mark tore one from the book and struck it into flame. Both Brynne and Garec gasped when the small torch ignited and Garec reached over to test the flame with a fingertip, as if somehow it might be an illusion. ‘It’s magic,’ he said in awe.

‘Nonsense,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s chemistry, exceedingly simple chemistry.’ He handed the burning match to Brynne who watched as the flame crept closer and closer to her fingertips before burning out on its own. ‘I’m surprised the Larion Senate didn’t bring these back from one of their trips.’ He considered this a moment, then said, ‘Actually, they probably did. I bet they just ran out of them, or didn’t write down the formula to make more… who knows? Maybe some smoker there at Sandcliff used them up.’ No one laughed; so, Mark proceeded to unfold the parchment. ‘Damn, but I could have used this up there.’ He gestured towards the southeast and the Blackstone peaks.

‘Where did you find it?’ Garec asked, examining the burned match stump.

‘At Riverend, in the room where Steven and I were tied up. These pages were hidden behind one of the stones above the fireplace mantel.’

‘What’s written on them?’ Brynne leaned over to look.

‘It’s probably an ad for a Gore-tex parka and some snowshoes,’ Steven teased.

‘No,’ she went on, ‘it looks like a letter, a note to someone.’

‘Who wrote it?’ Garec asked, only half listening as he worked on his arrows.

Mark handed Brynne the pages and she flipped through them quickly in search of a signature. She froze when she reached the final sheet. ‘Garec?’

‘What?’ he mumbled without looking up from his fletching.

‘It’s from Tenner Wynne.’

Garec returned the arrows to his quiver and reached for a wine goblet. ‘Tenner Wynne? The Tenner Wynne?’

‘Mark found these in a third-storey chamber at Riverend. How many Tenner Wynnes lived there before the fire?’ She continued scanning through the parchment for additional evidence that the letter she held was authentic.

‘Who’s Tenner Wynne when he’s at home then?’ Steven asked, nibbling on what he guessed was a dried apricot.

‘ Was,’ Brynne corrected, ‘Tenner was a prince of Falkan, a descendant of King Remond.’

Garec said, ‘But he abdicated the Falkan throne to his sister-’ He groped for her name.

‘Anaria,’ Brynne supplied. ‘Princess Anaria. She was a Barstag by marriage.’

‘Right,’ Garec said, adding sheepishly, ‘Brynne paid attention in school better than I did.’

‘Too bad you missed me on the Stamp Act,’ Mark told him, ‘you’d have been sound asleep before the end of first period.’ Garec grinned and raised his goblet. Mark responded in kind and said, ‘To the Stamp Act.’

‘The Stamp Act, whatever that might be.’ He emptied his glass and reached for another bottle. Lahp, who had been listening in silence, shrugged before crossing the room to stoke the fire again.

Steven refocused the conversation. ‘So Tenner was at River-end the night of the fire?’

‘He lived there,’ Brynne explained. ‘He was a famous doctor, probably the most famous healer in Eldarn, but he was known throughout the world as Prince Markon’s best friend and closest advisor.’

Uncorking the new bottle, Garec said, ‘Tenner organised the medical programme at the university in Estrad and students came from all over to study.’ He poured for everyone and gestured to Lahp, who shook his massive head and began rolling out blankets on the floor. ‘He was a great leader, but he’s remembered more as an advisor and protector of the king.’

‘King?’ Mark was confused. ‘I thought Remond was already dead.’

‘He was,’ Brynne continued, ‘but Remond ruled Eldarn from Rona, from Riverend actually, right there in the forbidden forest. Prince Markon was the eldest son of Waslow Grayslip and rightful heir to Eldarn’s throne.’

Garec chimed in again, ‘He actually died while hosting his cousins, the royal families of Falkan, Malakasia and Praga. They were all at Riverend when the virus killed Markon and several guests. I think it was Anaria, the Falkan princess, Tenner’s sister, who killed herself when her son died, and Prince Draven of Malakasia died of the same virus in the next Twinmoon.’

‘The virus we now suspect was Nerak?’ Steven queried.

‘In one Twinmoon the descendants of King Remond and the ruling families of Eldarn were toppled.’ Brynne leaned towards Mark; he wrapped an arm around her waist.

‘But not Marek,’ Steven said hoping he was beginning to get the family genealogy organised in his mind.

‘Correct,’ Garec confirmed. ‘Marek Whitward was the first Malakasian dictator to rule Eldarn from Welstar Palace.’

‘But his legitimacy was questioned.’ Steven remembered their conversation atop Seer’s Peak.

‘Right again,’ Brynne said. ‘Marek was believed to be the bastard child of Princess Mernam and a member of Prince Draven’s court.’

‘So any Malakasian claim to the Eldarni throne is illegitimate,’ Mark said thoughtfully.

‘Some believe so.’ Garec sipped from his goblet. ‘Although it’s been nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons and no one really thinks about it any longer.’

‘Sallax does,’ Brynne said quietly.

Mark continued trying to understand. ‘Tenner gave up the Falkan throne to be in Rona. He built a career there as a doctor, but he was really there to protect King Markon?’

‘Not King Markon,’ Garec corrected. ‘Markon never wanted to be a king. He wanted the five lands to unite, to share resources in education, commerce and medicine. He was happy to rule Rona, but he wanted to see Eldarn reunited under the collective governance of King Remond’s descendants.’

‘Parliamentary government,’ Mark reflected. ‘Good for him.’

‘But he was killed before it could be established,’ Brynne snuggled in close to Mark, who tightened his grip around her slim form. ‘Tenner was one of the most powerful people in Eldarn at the time. If he hid these pages in the fireplace, they must mean something.’

‘Brynne, read it out, will you?’ Steven asked. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, as Brynne looked over the brittle pages.

To whomever finds these notes:

I will not stand on ceremony; there is no time. If these documents are discovered after my death, they should be considered my last testament. Their contents do not supercede or nullify anything I have written in an official context or in my personal papers. Those can be found in the Falkan archives at my family home in Orindale. These notes are my last testament, because they contain information critical to the continuation of the Ronan and Falkan family lines. The royal houses of Rona and Praga lie in ruins. With my sweet sister’s death, I alone am left to carry on the Falkan line and to date I do not have a living heir. Word has reached us here in Estrad that the Larion Senate has been destroyed and only the Larion Senator Kantu remains, but his whereabouts are unknown. He no doubt waits, gathering information to combat this virus that hunts us all down. But in my capacity as Professor of Medicine, I state here that the deaths of Prince Markon and Princess Anis were not caused by a virus. There is no virus that is so selective as to limit its impact to members of one family. Their deaths are the direct result of something sinister, something evil, something that seeks to supplant Eldarn’s leadership with terror, chaos and fear.

Thus far, it has proven effective. Over the last Twinmoon, the arable lands of my beloved Falkan have been razed and farmers murdered, unfairly suspected of growing the grain or harvesting the fruit that killed Prince Markon or that drove Princess Anis to murder. I say now, though it is too late for them, that they are not the guilty parties. There have been riots at the markets. Flocks of sheep and herds of cattle have been slaughtered and left to rot in the Ronan sun and the harbours at Southport, Estrad, Strandson and Orindale have become battle zones as ships carrying wine, fleeces and foodstuffs have been summarily boarded and sunk, or burned to the waterline by terrified citizens.

Princess Danae waits quietly in her chambers to die. She will never rule this country now. Prince Danmark remains confined to his chambers, a mad shadow of his former self. He too will never recover from his encounter with this virus. The Ronan people have demanded an audience with their new ruler and I do not know how much longer I will be able to convince them that he is alive and well, but remains in private, mourning for his father. My ruse will certainly not last through the next Twinmoon.

By the gods of the Northern Forest, I am tired.

Princess Detria struggles to maintain order in Praga, but her people know she and Ravena are too old to produce new heirs. Anis was Ravena’s last child, and Ravena, in her grief, confines herself to her country home. Detria is strong, but she is old and I worry that the uncertain future of Praga will kill her if the virus does not.

I must return to Falkan to salvage what is left of my sister’s court and bring peace to my people, but I will not leave until I have assured the future of the Ronan line. It is of this I need now to write. Regona Carvic, a servant of no noble birth, has lain with Prince Danmark for this last Moon in an effort to produce an heir to the Eldarni throne. It has been an ugly business and I know I will one day be held accountable for my actions over these past days. Regona ranks among the most strong-willed and loyal people I have ever known; it is my misfortune that our acquaintance came so late.

At long last, this very evening, I am confident she carries a child and I have asked my valet to escort her north, where she will give birth in hiding as an adopted family member to the merchant Weslox Thurvan of Randel. When the current turmoil surrounding the royal family subsides, I will return to Estrad and stand by the child as he or she assumes leadership of the Ronan court and the Ronan people.

I have given my support and duty to the Ronan prince for my entire adult life because he was the rightful King of Eldarn. His vision to see Eldarn reunited in a representative government shall not die while I live.

Finally, I recognise that I too am a target for the virus that has killed my friends and relatives. If it has sought to kill the heirs of Eldarn, as I believe, I am certainly at risk and might be taken at any moment. Therefore, in the wake of Markon’s death last Twinmoon, I took Etrina Lippman of Capehill to wife. Although we have done this in secret, it is a lawful union. She is a Falkan noblewoman of good family and I can think of no one better able to carry on our work to bring peace and prosperity to Eldarn. She does not love me, but these times demand sacrifice, and her bravery and commitment are a model for us all. One day we may have the luxury of time and love may follow, but for now we are content that Etrina and I have succeeded in conceiving an heir to the Falkan throne. Should I perish, a victim of this demon plague, Etrina will go immediately into hiding and ensure our child will grow up safely, that he or she may eventually take on the mantle of rulership of my beloved Falkan.

I wait now only to hear of Regona’s safe arrival in Randel. A court doctor has been ordered to force-feed Danae while I am away, and I will pray daily that she comes through her grief to find something for which to live before I return.

I have put these things in motion. My own efforts, and those of my two brave, patriotic, loyal women, Regona Carvic and Etrina Lippman, may be the only way to ensure Eldarn’s future. Prince Draven survives in Malakasia and young Marek stands to inherit the throne should his father pass on as well. Marek is a good-hearted, well-read young man. I have sent word for Draven and Marek to meet me in Orindale next Twinmoon. Perhaps, together with Detria and Kantu, we can rebuild what has so quickly fallen into ruin.

May Prince Markon’s vision for Eldarn become reality.

In my own hand, by me,

Tenner Wynne of Orindale, Prince of Falkan

For several moments, no one spoke; only the crackling fire and Lahp’s resonant breathing could be heard. Then Brynne paged back through the document, in case she’d missed something. Finding nothing new, she carefully folded the pages and passed them across the table to Steven. ‘We need to keep that,’ she said, embarrassed she had broken the silence with something obvious.

Placing the parchment in his inside jacket pocket, Steven asked, ‘Did Tenner die before he knew about Marek?’

‘He did,’ Garec replied. ‘Riverend Palace burned before Draven died so Nerak must have gone from Estrad to Malakasia.’

Mark asked, ‘Did Tenner ever meet those people? Kantu, Marek and the rest? He wrote about inviting them to a meeting the following Twinmoon. Did it ever happen?’

‘No,’ Brynne said, ‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Why?’ Steven asked. ‘Maybe if we can find Kantu, he’ll have some news from their meeting that might be helpful. If he was there, maybe he knows something Gilmour doesn’t.’ Mark shot him a withering look.

‘Sorry,’ Steven amended, flushing, ‘ did not.’ He looked apologetically about the table, but no one appeared upset with him for mis-speaking.

‘I don’t believe they ever met, because we know some of what happened in the wake of Prince Markon’s death.’ Brynne laughed wryly. ‘Sallax knew a lot about it, which meant I had to learn a lot about it. Anyway, there was a flurry of political posturing and activity throughout the Eastlands and Praga, as anyone with forged papers and decent clothing had a go at claiming the thrones of Rona and Falkan. I remember Gilmour telling us there was even one family that claimed to be rightful heirs to Gorsk – that was the land ruled by the Larion Senate for thousands of Twinmoons.’

When Steven and Mark didn’t respond, Garec laughed through his nose. ‘It was funnier when Gilmour told it, but no matter.’

Brynne thumbed her teeth at him and continued, ‘Detria Sommerson and Ravena Ferlasa worked furiously to draft a policy ensuring Praga would be governed by a Grayslip family member, even if it meant some obscure second cousin of questionable pedigree.’

‘A bastard,’ Garec said.

Brynne nodded. ‘Princess Danae died in the fire with her son, and not long afterwards a Ronan admiral established a temporary government enforced by a military council.’

‘A dictatorship,’ Mark said.

‘Exactly,’ Brynne went on, ‘and several wealthy merchants battled in what was left of the court system – and in the streets of Orindale – as they sought to claim the Falkan throne. Without Tenner or Anaria to bring any leadership to the Falkan people, anyone with money could hire a band of thugs, call it a peacekeeping force and use brutality and terror to quiet the masses and hold areas of the country hostage.’

Steven anticipated the next event in Brynne’s tale. ‘And then Prince Marek arrived.’

‘Like a plague over the land,’ Garec murmured, ‘his armies came down from Malakasia, killing every false king, insurrectionist, partisan, military leader – in fact, just about anyone who even dreamed of his or her own gain.’

‘So he was seen as a hero,’ Mark surmised.

As Brynne leaned up against him, he shifted in his chair and brought his knee to rest against hers beneath the table. He felt like he was sixteen all over again. Brynne hid a smile and went on with her lecture. ‘At first, yes, but it wasn’t long before everyone in Eldarn knew Prince Marek had changed. He set up military outposts throughout the Eastlands, choked trade along the Ravenian Sea, closed universities in Rona, Praga and Falkan and forbade unauthorised travel in or out of Gorsk.’

Garec ran one finger around the rim of his glass. ‘That was the beginning of the dark period – and we’re still living in it now.’

‘What I don’t understand is why the heirs never surfaced.’ Steven pulled pieces of lint from his sleeve. ‘Regona Carvie or the woman from Capehill, what was her name?’

‘Etrina Lippman.’

‘Etrina.’ He hesitated a moment, pulling his thoughts together. ‘Why would they never come forth with a legitimate claim? Sure, Danmark’s child would be a bastard, but he was in no shape to marry anyone anyway, was he? And Tenner wrote that he married Etrina. I’m surprised she never emerged.’

Mark responded, ‘He also wrote that Etrina knew what to do and where to hide. Maybe she never came forward because she knew she wouldn’t have a hope in hell against Marek.’

‘So the child may never have known he or she was rightful heir to the throne.’

‘Exactly. Oh my rutting gods of the Northern Forest!’ Garec leaped to his feet. ‘My dream! I saw it! That was Regona and Danmark! How can I have been so stupid? Demonpiss, but I’m blind!’

He recounted the dream he’d had on Seer’s Peak. Now, remembering the girl – Regona Carvic – cold and frightened in the moments before one of her encounters with Danmark, it all made sense. That was what Lessek wanted him to know. He sighed, suddenly deflated. ‘But their efforts to impregnate these women were for nothing.’

Steven agreed. ‘What good is an heir if she or he never emerges to rally the people in revolution?’

‘Any enthusiastic leader can organise a revolution, Steven,’ Brynne said. ‘I bet the heirs remained hidden to protect their bloodlines. Perhaps that was Tenner’s directive: wait for a revolutionary force to assemble; then reclaim the throne.’

Garec said, ‘Or they remained hidden when Tenner never came looking for them. He wrote that he planned to come back and stand beside the Ronan heir. He probably told Regona to remain hidden in Randel until he returned. He died and she melted into the background to save the child.’

‘And herself,’ Brynne agreed. ‘Etrina probably did the same thing.’

Steven said, still curious, ‘I wonder if they ever told the children?’

‘Why would they?’ Mark said. ‘The kids would have been crushed by Nerak. Why put notions in their minds that would get them killed for no reason?’

‘But a generation later, no one knows the heirs are alive.’

‘They do now,’ Garec said. ‘And Lessek knew, because he showed me.’

‘So the fate of the world rests in the serendipitous discovery of a few wrinkled sheets of parchment?’

Brynne smiled. ‘It sounds almost as silly as betting the future of all humankind on the propensity of a bank manager to grow curious and steal a tapestry and an innocent-looking rock.’

Steven feigned offence. ‘ Assistant manager – you overestimate my skills – and I did not steal them.’

Mark rose and started towards the trapper’s pantry. ‘Anyone want more of this dried fruit? I like these orange ones particularly. What are they, Garec?’

‘Tempine.’

‘Tempine. Those are my favourites.’ Mark reached for the pantry door when suddenly he collapsed to his knees with a startled cry. Clamping his hands over his ears, he shouted, ‘Damnit, Gabriel, not so loud!’

The others sprang to their feet, toppling chairs and spilling wine.

‘What it is?’ Garec had instinctively reached for his bow. ‘Mark, are you okay?’

Across the room, Lahp was awake and already crouched low to the ground, his weapons drawn. ‘Sten talk Lahp!’ he asked.

‘I don’t know yet, Lahp,’ Steven said calmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Mark. His face was damp with sweat and his eyes wide. ‘Mark,’ Steven said, ‘you have to tell us what’s going on. What do you need?’

‘Wraiths,’ Mark whispered, and turned to Brynne. ‘Hundreds of them, like Gabriel O’Reilly, only they’re not on our side.’ He hugged Brynne close. ‘They’re really not on our side! They’re hunting us. They’ve already killed the trapper.’

‘Sallax?’ Brynne asked, afraid to hear the answer, but scared not to know the truth.

Mark closed his eyes and turned his thoughts inward again for a few moments before saying, ‘Gabriel doesn’t know. He came directly here after finding the trapper’s body out near the river. He saw them moving through the trees and along a ridge downstream from here.’

Mark’s words struck a chord with Garec. ‘I’ve seen that too.’

‘Seen what?’ Brynne asked, adjusting sundry weapons at her belt.

‘On Seer’s Peak.’ Now Garec understood why Gilmour had forced him to go over and over the details of his vision that morning. He would never forget those images. ‘Lessek sent me a dream. I thought it was the forbidden forest near Riverend, and I saw hundreds of wraiths moving between the trees. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Estrad.’

‘That can’t be a coincidence.’ Steven held the hickory staff, unaware that he had retrieved it from the corner near the hallway. Maybe it really did just appear in his hands when he needed it – that would be a useful attribute, if it were true. So far he couldn’t feel it giving him any direction; it felt more like he were calling up the magic, instead of simply acting as a conduit for its power. He remembered the lodge pine in the Blackstones, the tree he had so casually brought down with one swipe, and wondered if he would be able to summon the staff’s power like that again.

‘Tell us about it again, quickly,’ he said to Garec. ‘Maybe your vision will give us inspiration on how to fight the bloody things. Do you remember how you killed them?’

‘I didn’t.’ Garec closed his eyes in an effort to recall more clearly, but try as he might, he couldn’t rid his mind of the image of Gilmour’s dead body, that of an old, old man, no Larion magic left in that paper-thin, brittle bag of skin. How could they win? How could they possibly have imagined they had any chance against Nerak? He wiped a hand across his forehead and opened his eyes to find everyone staring hopefully at him.

‘I can’t remember anything else,’ he admitted. ‘The land was dying. The Estrad River ran dry and the fields were parched and cracked-’ like the skin of a dead Larion sorcerer. ‘I saw wraiths moving through the forbidden forest. I think they were hunting for something – or some one.’

‘So that’s it then,’ Mark said. ‘It was a look into the future. They’re here now and they’re hunting us.’

Brynne interrupted suddenly, ‘Mark, ask Gabriel if they have a weakness. Can we kill them? There must be something we can do.’

Again Mark turned his thoughts inward, but when he spoke to the group again, his words cast a pall over the tiny cabin. ‘No. Only Steven and Garec can battle them. The rest of us will be killed at first contact.’

‘How can I fight them?’ Garec demanded in desperation. ‘I have no magic.’

‘I don’t know, Garec,’ Mark replied. ‘Gabriel’s gone into the forest.’ He reached for Brynne’s hand. ‘He will be back to warn us before the wraith army arrives.’

Garec paced back and forth across the cabin floor, sweating freely, until he stripped off his quivers and pulled his wool tunic over his head, tossing it into the corner. ‘I won’t be needing this again,’ he said, a note of finality in his voice. Standing before them in his thin cotton shirt, he looked vulnerable, already lost. Mark tried to say something to build the younger man’s confidence, but nothing came to mind. Garec would fight to the best of his ability, and that meant firing arrows. Sallax had nicknamed him the Bringer of Death, but now, death was coming for him. It was time to atone.

‘How ironic,’ Garec announced, as if reading Mark’s mind, ‘I will fight my last battle against an enemy who can’t be turned by the one weapon I bring to the field.’ He thought again of Gilmour, and how much he had admired the Larion Senator, even before he knew his true history. Garec had aspired to do great things for Rona, but would not have time; the best he could hope for would be to die well, protecting his friends from the coming evil. He expected to be joining Gilmour in the next few avens.

Lahp, still crouching near his bedroll, watched Garec with great interest, before demanding, ‘Sten talk Lahp.’ He pounded a hairy fist against the plank floor to encourage Steven to respond.

‘Lahp, I need you to stay here with Mark and Brynne.’ Steven motioned towards the centre of the room. ‘I need you to stay low and keep your head down until the fight is done.’

Lahp looked at Steven as if he had just asked him to build a suspension bridge over the Danube River. ‘Lahp hep Sten.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Lahp na floor.’

‘You can’t fight these wraiths, Lahp,’ Steven tried to explain. He still had no real idea how much the Seron understood. ‘They are ghosts. They can pass right through you, and kill you from the inside.’

‘Malagon.’

‘Yes, Malagon sent them. They are here for the same talisman you were sent to find.’

‘Lessek’s.’

‘Yes, Lessek’s Key. We don’t have it.’

‘Ha!’ Lahp laughed, and Steven did too, surprised the Seron understood the concept of irony.

‘But I do need you to be here on the floor, where I may be able to keep them from getting to you.’

‘Na, na.’ Lahp shook his head and smiled a toothy wet grin. ‘Lahp hep Sten.’

‘You will die, Lahp, if you fight these creatures on your own.’

The Seron warrior stood slowly, crossed the floor and slapped a fist against his breast. He didn’t need to say anything. They all understood that Lahp was ready to die there, on that oak and pine plank battlefield.

‘Lahp hep Sten.’

Steven nodded. He had no idea what he had done to earn the Seron’s loyalty. He turned the staff over, feeling its wood warm against his palms, and looked up to find Mark gazing at him.

In English, his friend said, ‘This is it. This will be the test of your compassion.’

Forcing a grin, Steven replied, ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Hey, I’m not joking! I’ve no bloody idea how you fight these things, with compassion or with swords…’ His voice faltered as he felt their final minutes ticking by. ‘Tell me you know what you’re doing.’

‘I don’t.’ Steven reached for the wine and took a long swallow, but his mouth still felt dry. Switching back to Ronan, he urged Mark and Brynne to move to the floor at his feet. ‘If I can keep them off you, I will.’

‘I know,’ Mark said quietly.

Steven watched as Lahp drew an array of weapons from his pack: daggers, a battle-axe, a short sword and several hunting knives, all weapons that required their wielder to look each victim in the eye. Despite the Seron’s confidence, Steven knew Lahp would fall quickly to the wraiths and he couldn’t risk Mark or Brynne to save Lahp. The Seron had made his choice and Steven would honour it, however much he might wish to stop him.

If he lost his concentration they might all perish. It wasn’t going to be easy, watching Lahp die, but he had to remain focused on the task at hand. How brave of the warrior to share this battle, because he would not allow him and Garec to fight alone.

Then an idea began forming in Steven’s mind. Sharing. They had to share the fight. Could they share the magic? The power of the staff would dispatch Malagon’s wraiths, of that, Steven was confident. But could the power be shared?

‘They’re coming,’ Mark interrupted his thoughts. He crouched on the floor at Steven’s feet. ‘They’re just outside the cabin on the hill, but moving this way.’

‘No, wait; I need more time,’ Steven protested. ‘I think I’ve got it, but I just need more time.’

‘We don’t have any time.’ Garec was pale and his face ran with sweat, but his hands were steady as he drew two arrows from each quiver and stabbed them into the wood floor for quicker access.

‘Yes we do, Garec.’ Steven had put the pieces together quickly; now he had to see if it would work. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered, ‘quickly now.’ Garec gave him a curious look, but turned his back. Steven concentrated his will into the staff. He felt Garec’s fear and insecurity and called upon his own determination to help the bowman succeed in the coming fight. The staff flared to life and Steven felt its familiar heat burning through his fingers. With one end of the shaft, Steven brushed the quivers Garec wore high on his back.

‘Lords,’ Garec exclaimed, ‘what was that?’

Steven didn’t answer, but as Garec turned back towards him, it was clear he understood.

‘Yes,’ Garec whispered. ‘I can feel it.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Should you do the bow as well?’

‘I don’t know, but let’s be safe, anyway.’ As Steven brushed the staff along the rosewood longbow the younger man’s countenance slowly changed from despair to determination.

The Bringer of Death. Garec’s eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. He began drawing arrows by the score and jamming them, fletching up, in between cracks in the plank floor: ten by the window, ten in the corner, ten near the fireplace. It was close quarters, almost too close, but with a short draw he could still send shafts out quickly and accurately.

‘Let them come,’ he said stabbing the last of his arrows into a wide wooden plank near the hallway. ‘This is going to work. This is what Lessek wanted me to know. It isn’t that I was atop Seer’s Peak; it’s that we were there together.’

‘Yes,’ Steven felt his confidence rise. ‘Bring ’em on.’ He was surprised that he was not more afraid. He had expected to find his limbs stiff with fear and his mind unable to focus, but he had channelled that fear, sublimated it into his determination to win, to fight with grace and speed, and to kill with compassion but without hesitation. He remembered sneaking out through the back window of Owen’s Pub one night to avoid a fight with a drunk, a lifetime ago. Now he was up against an army of homicidal wraiths; any one might kill him with a touch, but he was not afraid.

‘I will see you again, Nerak,’ he whispered. ‘If you harm Hannah, Mark, Brynne, Garec or Lahp, I will make sure you pay, a thousand times over.’ He caught the young bowman’s eye and said more loudly, ‘Good luck.’

‘To you, too,’ Garec replied.

Then the wraiths were upon them.