The Hickory Staff

THE CROSSING

In the avens before dawn, Mark dreamed of the beach in Estrad and the night he slipped and fell through the open portal stretched out across the living room floor at 147 Tenth Street. He looked to the twin moons hanging in the night sky, and the ten thousand visible stars, thick in the air like a cloud of luminous insects, illuminating a pale sandy ribbon stretching off and disappearing into the darkness in either direction. It was humid. Mark removed his sweater and boots and strode into the water, basking in the familiar caress of the waves that gently tugged about his ankles as if to drag him out to sea.

His father was there. It was Jones Beach in New York, and his father had just sat heavily on a folding aluminum lawn chair. The family’s large yellow umbrella cast a circle of dim shade on the sand, and Mark heard the snap of a beer can being opened. But his father didn’t face the water, nor go in swimming, nor did he stretch his bare toes towards the foam as the tide ambled in that afternoon. Rather, he faced the city, turning his chair and squinting into the distance as if to catch a glimpse of the sun flashing off the silvery jets taking off and lumbering into the sky above Jamaica Bay, huge flying fish captured for an instant in a photographer’s flash. By the end of the day, his father would have finished six beers, two ham sandwiches and an ice cream cone, the latter purchased on his one trip to the public restrooms out along the boardwalk. Mark held his hand as they walked and his father regaled him with tales of Karl Yazstremski’s late-inning heroics the previous night and how tiny the ball had looked as it bounced off Fenway’s Green Monster for a game-winning double.

Then the almor was with them, pressing through the hot afternoon sand like an animated puddle of mucus. It came closer and closer, and Mark could smell it there, putrid and rank in the humid New York heat. He tugged his father’s hand, pulling with all the strength he could muster, but for some reason the older man was oblivious to the demon lying in wait at his feet. ‘Chocolate today, slugger, or vanilla?’ he asked, and Mark watched in horror as his father’s ankle disappeared into several inches of the almor’s milky, insubstantial essence. Nothing happened. ‘Or maybe we’ll have a scoop of each, what do you think?’ Mark could smell the faint odour of stale beer, and as his father grinned, he caught a brief glimpse of one gold filling gripping an incisor like a long-ago misplaced piece of costume jewellery.

Careful to step over the almor’s puddle, Mark released his father’s hand and peered down into the sand. The demon’s fluid form swirled about in a tumult of anguish and loathing. Mark’s heart seized and he nearly fell backwards onto the beach when he saw several forms begin to take shape within the ivory puddle. Seron. There were hundreds of Seron, twisting in and out of focus, trapped within the almor’s gelatinous flesh. The Seron were crying out, trying to communicate something. To him? No. They were speaking, or screaming in anger. Some were gesturing at something Mark could not make out. Then they stopped. Staring ahead, each of the warriors began to melt away, half-human soldiers disintegrating into colourless, lifeless imperfections, stark against the almor’s cadaverous, pale backdrop.

One face took their place. It was a common face, sunken-cheeked but not emaciated, with thin lips, a narrow nose, and dark eyes set close together. Mark knew instantly this was Nerak, and as quickly as the dark prince’s portrait took shape, it too began to come apart. Beginning just below the eyes, Nerak’s skin stretched and pulled askew in erratic, random tears, as if the sorcerer were being dismantled from within. The eyes collapsed, their fluid leaking across the taut skin of Nerak’s cheeks, and his lips flattened before bursting in small explosions of sticky blood. He did not appear to be in pain, though, but revelled in the tortuous dismemberment of his human features, gaping out at Mark in a silent roar. With Nerak’s ruined face peering at him, Mark stepped back from the almor and looked for his father. He stood facing westwards along Jones Beach, oblivious to the ghastly display going on just a few feet away. Peeking down at the almor one last time, Mark dashed towards the boardwalk on bare feet and into the safety of his father’s protective embrace.

Mark rolled over on the rocky beach of the subterranean cavern and opened his eyes. An idea, as distant as the faint aroma of Jones Beach, began to tickle at the edges of his mind. The almor, the Seron, the wraiths, Nerak: there was something about them, something they held in common, something beyond the apparent evil in their nature. What was it? He sat up and turned the idea over, reaching into the depths of his consciousness. Careful not to wake Brynne, he got up and tiptoed towards the lake. The stones of the underground beach rubbed together roughly beneath his feet and he was glad to have his boots on – yet, in that same moment, he bent over and began to untie his laces. Methodically he worked through the dilemma again and again, each time opening his mind to different variables or possibilities. Still the answers he sought eluded him.

Mark pulled off his boots and socks and inhaled sharply as he stepped into the frigid lake water. What would his father be doing tonight – watching a basketball game? Reading the paper, or enjoying a second glass of wine before dinner? Perhaps he’d be out at Jones Beach, awaiting news of Mark’s whereabouts, staring west towards the distant glow of Manhattan. No. His father would be in Colorado somewhere, clinging to the idea that his search was still a rescue effort and summarily ignoring news reports outlining the distinct lack of progress in the Idaho Springs Emergency Team’s recovery efforts. Decatur Peak. His father would be out on Decatur Peak every day. He would need snowshoes by now, but that’s where he would be.

Mark shifted his feet. He missed the gentle pull of ocean waves as they broke across his shins before retreating over his ankles. The lake didn’t move. It stretched out before him, imperturbable, and unaffected by his need for clarity. The almor, the Seron, the wraiths, and Nerak. If he wanted to know how to defeat them, he had to get to know them. What weaknesses did they possess? What about them was so irritatingly familiar? An answer was out there, and Mark was determined to find it. ‘Take your time,’ he scolded himself, ‘don’t force things. Just think it through. It will come.’

He was still standing calf-deep in the water when the others woke. Brynne approached him warily. ‘What is it?’ She whispered, despite the background noise of three hundred people making breakfast over dozens of small campfires – the Capina Fair ’s final contribution to the Eldarni revolution – and preparing to cross the lake.

Mark looked at her and felt his stomach flutter: she was lovely, she looked as if she had spent a few extra moments to look attractive for him, beautiful when it didn’t matter, when simply waking to another day was enough. He was touched that something as superficial as her appearance still mattered to her, and he wished for a few hours of freedom, a day or two, to be in love someplace safe, someplace where one cared what one wore and whether one’s hair was clean and tidy.

A desolate sadness came over him as he realised he and Brynne might never have such a time. She had pulled her hair over one shoulder, tied with a short length of rawhide, and her tunic had been belted firmly around her slim waist. Filthy, smelling foully of mud and death, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. He shook his head in disbelief.

‘What?’ she asked again, smiling sexily this time.

‘Nothing,’ he replied and realised his feet were nearly frozen through. He wondered if he would be able to walk.

Steven’s magic dawn brightened, flaming into life above their heads, and he moved down the beach to join the couple at the water’s edge. ‘Going swimming?’ he asked Mark.

‘Just out wading.’

‘Is it cold?’

‘Mercilessly.’ Mark gripped his friend’s shoulder and stepped clumsily from the shallows to the beach. ‘I’ve just been thinking.’ He shook his feet in an effort to move blood into his toes.

‘About what?’ Brynne asked, still curious.

‘I’m not sure,’ Mark replied honestly. ‘Have you ever felt as if there was something lurking on the tip of your brain, just outside your realm of understanding? Like if you could just peek around the next corner, everything would make sense?’

‘Sure,’ Steven answered without hesitation. ‘I call it parametric statistics.’

‘Seriously, think about Nerak and all the mother-uglies he’s sent against us.’

Steven and Brynne were suddenly attentive.

‘Wraiths, the almor, the Seron. What do they all have in common?’

They hesitated, so he went on, ‘They can all be placed on a continuum from real to unreal. Actually, that’s not quite right; it’s more like from whole to less-than-whole.’

‘What difference does that make?’ Steven was interested, but still couldn’t see where Mark was going.

‘The almor drains the life force from its victims. The Seron have had their souls ripped from their bodies.’

‘Well, we don’t really know that,’ Brynne said. ‘Who knows what Gilmour meant when he said “soul”?’

‘Right,’ Mark agreed, ‘but you must agree something about their individuality, their essence, has been forcibly removed.’

‘Agreed.’

Mark pulled socks over his freezing feet. ‘The wraiths are the imprisoned souls, if we can call that essence a soul, of Nerak’s victims through time. He takes over their bodies and discards the physical being, but keeps the soul, the essence, with him. He keeps it prisoner and can control it, send it against us, and force it to kill.’

‘Okay, I understand what you’re saying, but I still don’t know what you mean.’ Steven was racking his brain, trying to get in tune with Mark’s thinking.

‘Neither do I, yet,’ Mark answered despondently. ‘It’s just that if he has a weakness, I believe this is the way to determine what it is.’

‘This continuum of whole to less-than-whole?’ Brynne was still struggling with the concept.

‘Nerak and the almor are whole, evil, and filled with the life force of thousands of dead. The Seron are still evil, but devoid of that same essence.’

‘And they are alive,’ Steven suggested.

‘Right,’ Mark nodded, ‘unlike the wraiths.’

‘But wait a moment,’ Brynne said, ‘Gabriel O’Reilly seemed alive to me. Granted, a different form to any living thing I’d encountered before, but he certainly didn’t seem dead.’

‘A good point,’ Mark acknowledged. ‘On the other hand, the wraiths, alive or not, are certainly less-than-whole, less real, less

… well, less substantial than the others.’

‘So do we need to redefine what it means to be alive to defeat Nerak?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mark was getting frustrated that his hypothesis was no more clear than it had been when he had awakened several hours earlier. ‘Maybe not alive, but possessing the essence of life.’

‘How is that a weapon?’ Brynne fingered the hunting knife at her belt.

‘It can only be a weapon for us if it works against evil,’ Steven tried.

‘Not against evil, but maybe against Nerak,’ Mark responded. ‘It may be a simple question of perception.’

‘Perception?’ Steven mulled the word over for a moment. ‘So, the evil that possesses Nerak may only be as powerful as it is perceived to be by the people of Eldarn?’

‘Or it may only be as powerful as it perceives Nerak to be – or, better yet, as powerful as it perceived Nerak to be when it took him nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’ Mark was speaking quickly, trying to sneak up on his conclusion through sheer speed.

Brynne kicked pebbles into the lake. ‘If Nerak has a weakness, then perhaps the evil minion that controls him has the same weakness.’

‘Because it doesn’t know any better.’ Mark was lacing up his boots.

‘But where is that weakness? It certainly isn’t anything Nerak has acquired since he forfeited his soul to evil.’ Steven groaned. They were heading around the same block once again.

‘It is perception.’ Mark scratched at the several days’ beard growth jutting from his chin. ‘What if Nerak had a weakness way back when, but he didn’t believe it? He never admitted it to himself, so as far as he was concerned, there was no one more powerful in all Eldarn.’

‘And the evil minion believed him?’ Brynne sounded sceptical.

‘Why not? In Nerak’s mind it was absolute truth, regardless of how false it might actually have been. Evil arrives via the spell table in its purist form. It takes over Nerak’s body, devouring his soul, the soul of the most powerful sorcerer in Eldarn. So anything Nerak believed to be fact would influence the emergence of evil in Eldarn.

‘Remember what Gilmour said? That evil arrives in tiny pieces and is scattered by the sheer demand of so many people thinking ugly thoughts or committing nasty deeds. But we all know evil is nothing more than perception. One person’s evil might be another’s righteousness. So, Nerak, as weak as he might have been, did have an impact on the evolution of this particular minion.’

‘That’s fine, but I have to ask again: where is the weakness? And surely evil would have figured it out in the past nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons and dealt with it – or gone off to possess a different sorcerer?’ Steven asked.

‘That’s where things begin to unravel in my mind,’ Mark admitted. ‘And I keep coming back to the victims and the creatures. How is it that Lahp and O’Reilly were both able to escape him? What about those common denominators – what can they teach us about Nerak before he was taken himself?’

‘Maybe it requires those souls to continue its domination, perpetuate its power and maintain its status as the most evil thing known. Perhaps there is greater evil, more powerful evil, but it remains unknown, so this evil actually has limits.’ Brynne was still trying to understand; she was beginning to think she would rather have been ordered to drink the lake dry.

‘I’d hate to bet on that. I’d hate to bet on something unknown, never known.’ Steven said.

‘We may have to,’ Mark said grimly. ‘But that’s not all of it. That’s not enough.’ Mark’s frustration was contagious. ‘Let’s say the evil that possesses Nerak was misled. Nerak was never as powerful as he believed when he was taken at Sandcliff Palace. The minion that took him knows what he knows and understands what he understands-’

‘That he is the most powerful and dangerous man in Eldarn,’ Brynne said.

‘Right,’ Mark agreed. ‘But he is not. Would the evil minion be limited to the things Nerak is able to do, to control, or to bring about as a result of his magic?’

Steven chimed in, ‘That might explain why all the creatures he summons or creates seem to spring from the same origins: that might be evidence of his limitations – deadly and nearly indestructible evidence, but evidence just the same.’

‘It would,’ Mark agreed, ‘and because the evil that controls him takes Nerak’s truths at face value, it makes a mistake that costs it dearly over time.’

‘How?’ Brynne was lost again. ‘It doesn’t appear to have any weaknesses, or to care one whit if we and all the armies of Eldarn march against it together.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Steven said. ‘If it had no weaknesses, it wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing Lessek’s Key to the bank, and it wouldn’t have worried about closing down one of the far portals for ever.’

‘And it did know it lacked the skill to operate the spell table.’ Brynne twisted a lock of hair around one finger. ‘Gilmour told us it needed to create a safe environment in which to master the magic of the spell table. That’s taken it nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons, and hopefully longer. So perhaps it hid the key to keep it safe.’

‘And perhaps it hid the key to keep itself safe.’ Mark wanted this to be true, but found himself at a loss for any evidence to prove it. He frowned and then went on, ‘So, you see? It’s just outside my grasp, just on the tip of my mind, but I’m convinced there is something there, some magical loophole through which we can ram that staff of yours and kick this guy’s ass for good.’

Brynne reached out to wrap her arms around Mark’s waist. Pulling him close, she kissed him lightly on the nose and commanded gently, ‘Well, you keep working on it, Mark. I know you’ll crack it. We’ll need all the understanding we can get when we reach Orindale.’

The question of Nerak’s possible weakness was still nagging at him as Mark packed up his things and prepared to cross the lake. Nothing seemed to help. He felt that he needed the answer, right now, and for some reason waiting another day, or another Twinmoon, would mean disaster for everyone.

He and Brynne ate breakfast with several of Gita’s partisans; the addition of cheese, tempine and dried beef made it a feast in their eyes. The aroma of brewing tecan had Mark dashing back to the longboat to collect a mug from his pack; it wasn’t coffee, but it was the best Eldarn had to offer. He smiled wryly as Brynne recounted the loss of their own supplies, and the brown ribbon of tecan mingling in the river waters on its way to the Ravenian Sea.

A ribbon. The beach had looked like a ribbon in the moonlight. Mark’s thoughts spiralled; he felt trapped, as if he shouldn’t take another step until he had figured it out. Do it now; it will be too late if you wait. This may be your purpose here, Mark. He suddenly felt very close to the Eldarni people, and began to understand more fully why Steven was determined to stay in this strange and beautiful land until Eldarn was free once again. He was struck again by the image of Steven kneeling on the beach beside Rezak. The beach again. It was starting, bubbling up in his mind. He replayed his dream: the beach in Estrad, the twin moons, the unfamiliar stars, feeling fear, and dreaming of his father. He had dreamed of his father that first night in Rona, long ago now, and he replayed that too, hoping something new might emerge.

Nothing. He went further back.

It had snowed. His students wanted the day off, but it was just a flurry, a brief storm that left everything dusty-white. A baseball game playing on the television at Owen’s Pub; Howard carrying on about the Hall of Fame to Myrna and her friends. They were all laughing and drinking together, convivial, happy. Steven came in, carrying his briefcase: that was the moment Mark knew he had broken into the safe deposit box. He disapproved, of course, but he was just as keen to find out was hidden in the box. They stayed for a drink or two with Howard and Myrna, and Steven promised to stay late at the bank and lock up the following day. They’d called in a pizza order before leaving, and Mark pocketed a book of matches, the same matches they’d found in Gilmour’s pack, weeks later in the trapper’s cabin. They had walked up Miner Street, picked up the pizza, and turned right onto Tenth. Mark had accused Steven of being a felon as they approached their house.

He jumped as Brynne wrapped an arm around his shoulders and asked, ‘Do you want the rest of this?’ She was holding the tecan pot.

‘Huh-?’ He was disoriented by the interruption, still lost in his thoughts. ‘Um, sure. Are we leaving?’

‘Yes.’ She looked pointedly around the encampment, where people were busy stamping out fires and loading bundles of food, weapons and blankets into the remaining longboats. Timmon, Hall and Brand were giving curt orders that echoed throughout the cavern as if thousands of platoon sergeants were mustering a million soldiers.

‘Steven and Garec have been huddled there with Gita for the past aven,’ Mark could see them sitting around a small campfire, Steven’s glowing orb still hovering overhead. Even from this distance, Mark could see relief in Gita’s face.

‘She looks happy,’ Mark commented. ‘I wonder what they’ve decided.’

As if overhearing them, Steven searched around the camp until he spotted his friends. He picked up the hickory staff and crossed the camp, sipping at his own mug of tecan as he and Garec walked.

‘What’s happening?’ Mark asked.

‘They’ve got a permanent camp, a hideaway, in a series of caves up near the surface. It’s where they store their weapons and silver. They claim no one’s ever been followed here; they’re positive the occupation forces have no idea this place even exists.’

‘Let’s hope,’ Garec said. ‘I’d hate to climb back out of here to find their secret cave overrun with Seron.’

‘Is there another way out?’ Brynne wondered.

‘They believe so, but no one’s found it yet,’ Steven replied.

‘Then how can they know?’ Mark asked.

‘Because the water is moving,’ Brynne said.

‘Right,’ Garec confirmed. ‘They know this branch of the river must continue somewhere on the opposite side of the lake, but they can’t find it.’

‘I wonder why,’ Brynne mused.

‘Because the outlet might be under water,’ Steven answered. ‘Where we came in was nearly under water – I’ll bet when it rains south of here, or when the snow melts in the Blackstones, that tunnel is completely submerged.’

‘But that’s not why they’ve failed to find another exit,’ Garec added, with a sense of foreboding.

Brynne and Marked looked curious.

Garec smiled ghoulishly and gestured back along the beach.

‘Those bones-‘ Mark looked startled. ‘You’re not telling me those things are still down here?’

‘Gita doesn’t know,’ Steven admitted. ‘They think most of the bones date from long ago, Eras before King Remond, even before the Larion Senate.’

‘But some of them might be fresh?’ Brynne felt her skin tighten into gooseflesh.

Garec nodded. ‘Gita said she’s sent scouts down here before now who never returned.’

‘But didn’t she say she’d seen the other inhabitants of this cavern?’ Brynne protested.

‘Apparently she was bluffing.’

‘She’s good at that.’

‘Why were all three hundred of them down here yesterday anyway?’ Mark wondered aloud.

‘They heard us, and they saw Steven’s fire,’ Garec replied, as if the answer was obvious. ‘Some of Brand’s men came down to get some water. They thought Malagon’s forces had discovered the cavern and were flanking them.’

‘So they prepared for their last frontal assault,’ Steven added, ‘and were mightily surprised to find our little rag-tag coterie vacationing down here.’

‘Not enough sun,’ Mark glanced upwards. ‘And the bars close too early. Not sure I’ll be coming back. Maybe the Caribbean next time?’

Brynne elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Stop it! What are their plans now? Will they attack the blockade outside the city?’

‘They seemed pretty determined to do that last night,’ Mark said, ‘but it would be suicide.’

‘No,’ Garec replied, ‘they’re listening to reason. They’ll lead us to the surface, then make their way north.’

‘Why north?’

Mark thought for a moment. ‘To meet us.’

Steven nodded. ‘Assuming we get to Lessek’s Key before Nerak, we may need them to help us cross the border into Gorsk and get into Sandcliff Palace.’

‘Although Gita’s heard nothing from them, she thinks the northern and eastern corps of the Falkan Resistance are moving towards Orindale right now,’ Garec said. ‘She’s going to break up the remains of her force so she can send scouts out to intercept those groups and guide them to a rendezvous somewhere south of the Remondian Mountains.’

‘So, what do we do?’ Mark was curious.

Steven smiled ironically. ‘We move towards Orindale, make our way behind enemy lines, attack Malagon’s ship, seize the far portal, retrieve Lessek’s Key and escape across the Ravenian Sea, whereupon we will find Hannah and Kantu. We will then convince Kantu to help us and travel back into Falkan to meet Gita, Timmon, Hall, Brand and the others near a small town called Traver’s Notch. Oh, and we have some two or three Twinmoons to achieve all this.’

Brynne feigned relief. ‘Oh, well, is that all?’

Mark was stupefied. ‘That’s six months! Steven-’

‘I know, but given what we need to accomplish, I think that’s probably how long it’s going to take us.’

‘And what’s this about attacking Malagon’s ship? When did we become pirates?’ Mark wished he’d had the sense to sit in on their conversation that morning. ‘Why would we assume he has the far portal on his ship?’

‘In case we don’t have the key,’ Garec said. ‘He assumes we have got it, but none of his creatures have been able to get it back for him – and, thankfully, Sallax obviously never got around to telling Gilmour’s murderer that you two underestimated the key’s importance and didn’t bother to bring it with you when you set off adventuring in a strange and far-off land. And thanks to a bit of magic and a bit of luck, none of his other minions have lived long enough to report back that we don’t have it – not yet anyway. We still don’t know what happened to Versen, of course, but since Nerak’s still trying to get the key from us I think we can assume he hasn’t told them anything, either willingly or not.’

‘Why hasn’t Nerak used the far portal to go looking for himself?’ Brynne asked.

‘Because he’d have to abandon Malagon’s body.’ Steven shuddered. ‘Then he’d need another host.’

‘And because he assumes we have the key,’ Garec reiterated. ‘Now that Gilmour is dead, Nerak isn’t in any tearing hurry – he’s probably quite happy to wait for us in Orindale. But he’ll have the far portal with him in case he catches us, devours our minds and discovers the key is sitting on Steven’s desk.’ Garec began to feel queasy.

‘Why not wait for us in Malakasia?’

Steven felt himself grow cold as he answered, ‘Because he must be ready to operate the spell table.’

Brynne swallowed hard and Mark shifted uneasily.

‘He came here to find us, kill us and to retrieve the key if necessary – but his primary reason for coming must be now that Gilmour’s dead, Nerak feels he’s quite safe going back to Sandcliff Palace to continue his studies, or to release his master from the Fold.’ As Steven spoke, the enthusiasm drained from the small group.

Brynne put Mark’s thoughts into words: ‘So, he is ready to use the spell table.’

Garec sighed. ‘He’s either ready now, or he wants to continue his preparations with the table at his disposal. Perhaps he can learn faster if he has a chance to experiment, to work things out firsthand.’

‘So he feared Gilmour enough to have him hunted down and killed, but he doesn’t fear Kantu,’ Mark mused aloud. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I don’t know,’ Steven answered. ‘Maybe Gilmour knew how to kill him, or how to banish the evil possessing his soul.’

Mark looked as though he had been slapped hard across the face. His soul, the essence of his life. Nerak feared Gilmour, because Gilmour could kill him and banish evil’s minion: that’s the only thing in all Eldarn that frightened Nerak. Gilmour had it, but Kantu did not: but what was it? Knowledge? Magic? Power? Why had he planted such a seed in Sallax’s memory, so long ago? Twenty-five Twinmoons ago – that meant Nerak had been afraid of Gilmour for a long time. Nerak might not know his own weaknesses, but maybe Gilmour had… but if that were the case, why had he waited so long to attack? Why was it important that Gilmour died before Nerak travelled to Sandcliff?

Mark thumped his own head, as if to shake up his thoughts: he growled with frustration as he wondered whether Nerak’s weaknesses would be exposed at Sandcliff Palace – but no, he was convinced Nerak had no idea he had any weaknesses.

‘It must have something to do with the table,’ Mark said out loud. ‘Maybe Nerak will be vulnerable when he operates it.’

‘I hate to take that chance,’ Steven commented dryly. ‘I’d hate to wait until he is there, actually working the table, before we do anything.’

‘But we are going to do something,’ Mark retorted. ‘We’re going onto that ship and back to Idaho Springs for the key.’

‘Assuming he doesn’t kill us all and go back for it himself,’ Garec said, feeling nauseous again.

‘We can’t think about that now.’ Brynne tried to imagine what her brother would do in this situation, but drew a blank. She’d have to go with her own best guess. ‘We have to get there first. Then we can work out who’s going to board the ship and take those risks. It may well be pointless for all of us to go.’

‘She’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘Without magic, you’d all be marching to your deaths.’

‘You might be doing the same,’ Brynne pointed out.

‘That’s true, but at least Garec and I have been able to use the magic. I think it should be just Garec and me going on board.’

The Ronan bowman nodded.

‘I’ll be coming as well,’ Mark added quietly.

‘Why?’ Brynne asked under her breath.

‘Because I’m going to figure out how to kill him.’

Mark took his place in Timmon’s longboat and hefted an oak oar into the adjacent oarlock. He had insisted on rowing alongside those soldiers who had not been too badly injured in Steven’s stony hailstorm. Each of the remaining longboats was outfitted with sconces running along the gunwales which Steven ignited with a quick touch of the hickory staff – after Gita had suggested, ‘Let’s just light them one at a time this morning, shall we?’

Steven’s laugh reassured Mark: he was glad to see they were getting along. He had no idea what was waiting for them in Orindale, but it was comforting to know they had the confident support of the local Resistance forces, even if they were a little threadbare.

Brynne sat in the stern with Garec, mending arrow fletching and sharpening arrowheads; Garec would make new arrows once he found suitable trees from which to cut shafts. In the meantime he attended to those he had, fastidiously grating stone against stone to create a rough edge and then working over each tip and blade with what looked like a thick wad of chamois. He made final alterations with the tip of his knife and a small wooden brush with coarse bristles.

Mark was curious; he was sure he had seen more conventional arrowheads in Garec’s quivers before and asked, ‘No metal?’

Garec shrugged. ‘No money.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Mark laughed.

‘Anyway,’ he said, gesturing at the array of stones and tools in his lap, ‘this is a skill I like to keep up.’

‘Like falling off a bike, I guess.’

Garec waved his knife. ‘Some days, Mark, it’s impossible to understand you.’

Steven was on board Gita’s longboat so they could work out a code the Ronans could use when they got to Traver’s Notch. It was obvious the entire Falkan Resistance wouldn’t be barracked in town, so they needed passwords to ensure their safe passage from Traver’s Notch to the Falkan encampment.

Somewhere near the bow, a rough voice began calling out a slow but steady rhythm: ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke.’

Mark fell to rowing and allowed his thoughts to wander back to Idaho Springs.

He remembered smelling the pizza Steven carried as they approached their house; they had been drinking and Mark was hungry. He grinned to himself: he’d gone hungry a time or two since their arrival in Eldarn, but nothing could rival the need for food after too much beer – the kind of hunger that bore no relation to how much one had eaten or how recently. He and Steven called it foraging, because so few places were open that late at night in Idaho Springs: Owen’s Pub and the diner were pretty much it. Despite his burgeoning appreciation for good tecan, Mark suddenly pined for a steaming mug of coffee, served in a white ceramic mug.

That night was typical: when they got back to 147 Tenth Street he and Steven had fallen on the pizza like starving serfs. They’d finished most of it, washed down with more beer, and finalised plans for their assault on Decatur Peak. Finally Steven had opened the briefcase. What happened next was hazy. Mark’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall overlooked details. There had been a rosewood box, padded inside with something like felt; they had been amused that William Higgins had created such a beautiful box for a commonplace chunk of rock. Then Steven had opened the cylinder. It had unscrewed smoothly, as if it had been oiled once a month for the past century and a half.

‘Stroke, stroke, stroke,’ the voice called, muted, as if from across the lake. Slow and steady, slow and steady.

Wait. Go back again. He was missing something. The cylinder. The cap opened smoothly, no stiffness or rust or corrosion. The rosewood box. That was it. The box. Rosewood. Where had he seen rosewood? In Rona: tight-grained rosewood grew in those forests – Garec’s bow was rosewood. That wood had come from Rona. There had been hinges on the box as well. They had opened smoothly too, like the cylinder, with no rust or squeaking. The rock was the only thing inside – no, not a rock , Lessek’s Key. That rock was Lessek’s Key, the keystone to the spell table, the most powerful collection of magic imaginable, and Mark couldn’t remember anything.

Go back to the box. They had opened it; the hinges had not creaked. The key had been inside, and they had thought nothing of it. They had laughed and set it aside. Mark had made a joke about mercury poisoning; he had even given the rock a name, Barry… Bernie… Betsy. Steven had set it aside, but there had been something about the key, it had made him feel something, a familiarity, as if he had suddenly happened upon someone he had known for a few moments many years before.

A shrill scream burst through the haze of Mark’s recollections and he jumped suddenly, dropping his oar and disrupting the rowers’ rhythm. Scrambling to retrieve it before it disappeared over the side, he cried, ‘What the hell was that?’

The scream came again, a piercing wail that retained its intensity without fading or tailing off. Mark wondered if whatever was emitting the horrible shriek had just found the remains of their camp on the pebbly beach. He froze, waiting for something to happen, or someone to tell him what to do.

Everyone had stopped rowing and two of the tallest men stood on their benches, craning their necks in an attempt to spot the shrieking creature. No one spoke, or even moved, as a feeling of foreboding blanketed the longboats.

Far in the distance, Mark heard a heavy splash. He looked up: he couldn’t see the stone ceiling above them, but the image of the bone ornamentation was etched in his memory. He tried not to think about the possibility that whatever had entered the water had dropped from the ceiling.

The sound of the splash broke the spell and people around him began simultaneously shouting questions and orders. The coxswain took up his charge again; his, ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke’ was a little shaky, but the rhythm helped. Mark realised this was why soldiers marched into battle, all together in step. He fell back into pace with the others and they made their way quickly towards the far shore.

Mark had no idea how long he’d been lost in his reverie. He nudged the man beside him and asked, ‘How far is it to the opposite shore?’

‘Half-aven, last time across,’ he said helpfully, but Mark was still lost. What had Steven said? An aven was about two and a half hours. So seventy-five minutes to cross – but he had no idea how long they’d been rowing. He wondered how fast the shrieking thing could swim, and whether it was chasing them. Maybe there was more than one…

The soldier interrupted Mark’s panicked calculations, adding, ‘But we were coming very slowly, trying not to make a sound, and without torches. It shouldn’t take much more than a third-aven or so to make it back at this rate.’

Great, Mark thought, what’s one-third of two-and-a-half? Steven would laugh if he were here – the maths genius had probably already figured it out. Mark set to the task and, grimacing fiercely, came up with five-sixths of an hour.

‘Well, shit! That’s no damned help,’ he barked in English, making his companion jump. ‘Bugger – no, wait-’ He grinned at the man beside him. ‘Fifty minutes. That’s just fifty minutes. We’ve been out here nearly that long already, I’m sure.’ He had started to feel better when he saw Garec spring to his feet in the stern. ‘Oh no,’ he groaned. ‘That looks like trouble.’

Garec steadied himself and nocked an arrow while peering up at the ceiling. Then Mark heard them too.

It began as a distant clatter, sounding as if someone had dropped a handful of marbles down a wooden staircase, then the flurry was replaced by a steady tapping: something solid against stone. Three or four taps marked time for a few moments before the rattling clatter began again. It sent chills through Mark’s already cold body. When the noise reached their longboats the second time, he realised it was coming closer. It was running across the ceiling. Mark imagined clawed toes clicking off stone. ‘It must have multiple legs,’ he said aloud, ‘or hundreds of toes, to be making that racket.’

He leaned forward and pulled with all his might. Where was the opposite shore? Fifty minutes: that wasn’t very long. One class period. Not long at all. Mark realised he lived most of his life in fifty-minute increments: open with a warm-up question, five minutes, move into a reading or a few minutes of lecture or discussion, give them some guided practice, or extend the discussion, circulate while they work independently, answer questions or clear up problems and close with a reminder of the day’s objectives. Fifty minutes. There was nothing to it. He did it five times a day. Fifty-minute increments were in his blood. Where in all the circles of Hell was the opposite shore?

The unholy scream came again, much closer this time, and Mark was not the only one to cry out in response. He felt his skin crawl, as if the yelp had pierced his flesh and buried itself in his bones like a tiny burrowing parasite. They were being hunted. The clattering came from somewhere up above, like clamorous rain, and Mark hunched down, an involuntary response. ‘Please don’t let it drop down on us,’ he whispered, but somehow he knew that was inevitable. It was dark, so dark… his throat tried to close and he struggled to swallow. ‘Surely it’s too dark for anything to live down here,’ he muttered, knowing he was kidding himself.

By now they were all rowing madly, pulling with all their might. As the strangely terrifying tapping drew ever closer, the coxswain’s rhythm began to speed up. ‘Stroke, stroke, stroke.’ Mark could see Steven standing in the stern of Gita’s longboat; his friend raised one hand and sent a glowing fireball up towards the ceiling. All eyes were on the hazy light of the magic orb as it wafted ever closer to the distant stone ceiling and the boats slowed to a drift. There was a short cry, and a quick bustle of inhuman footsteps as the creature retreated from the light. Mark thought he had seen something, a shadow, maybe the irregular outline of a misshapen form. He coughed, and tried to mute the sound. Above, Steven’s fireball moved slowly back and forth, and each time it came near the creature, there was a brief shriek and a commotion as the monster hustled off.

The light. That was it! Mark craned his neck over the side and called to Steven, a hoarse whisper that emerged much louder than he had intended, ‘The light, Steven, intensify the light.’ Steven shot him an understanding look and almost immediately the light grew brighter, changing from a warm yellow to an intense white. As it did, a hulking dark mass dropped from the ceiling a hundred yards away and crashed into the water with a resounding splash. So he was right: despite the weirdness of any living creature calling such a place home – this monster obviously did – living in constant darkness meant it couldn’t stand light. And if it was the bone-collector, then judging by the size of its charnel-house, it had been down here for some time. Mark imagined it with great round eyes, with pupils as large as his fist; even the smallest pinprick of light would be blinding.

He took advantage of the additional light to turn around and search for the opposite shore. It was there, some two hundred paces out: a gently sloping beach that led up to a series of caves. There was a big opening off to the left, with footprints and tracks leading in and out: that would take them back to the surface and safety – well, of a sort, as long as the Malakasians hadn’t found the entrance yet.

Their coxswain sounded comforted by the bright light; his chant was stronger now: ‘ Stroke, stroke, stroke. ’

Mark turned back to his oar and was about to take up the rhythm again when he saw the longboat beside them start to turn slowly about. The two vessels had been moving alongside each other, but now their stern bumped gently into his oar.

‘What’s happening over there?’ he asked his companion. ‘There’s no current here, is there? It can’t be that creature; I can still hear it splashing around back there.’

His companion stopped rowing and looked at him for a moment, but just as he opened his mouth, Marked interjected, ‘Oh, shit! There are two of them!’ He started to shout a warning, but it was an instant too late. The longboat beside them exploded in foam and water. A profusion of long, muscular legs gripped the vessel from below, crushing it to splinters and trapping its inhabitants between the broken planks.

The attack lasted only a few moments, but it was long enough for Mark to see what had been making the tapping sound against the cavern ceiling: each leg was encased in armour plating, a protective exoskeleton of some thick chitin-like substance. At the end of each leg, there was a solid mass of dark, muscular flesh, with six or eight long, thin appendages attached, like elongated toes, each tipped with fierce-looking clawed nails. It must have been those nails tapping across the ceiling.

Garec had reacted at Mark’s first cry and was already firing arrows rapidly into the creature’s hidden bulk, but though he was doubtless hitting his target, his strikes appeared to have little effect.

The victims, held fast by the creature’s legs, started screaming for help and mercy, and Mark stared in horror as the elaborate, clawed toes began tearing the Falkans apart, shredding flesh and plucking off limbs. ‘Good God,’ he whispered, frozen in place by the macabre scene.

There was a cry, and a large splash beside him. The feel of cold water on his face startled him enough to tear his eyes away from the carnage. Timmon Blackrun had drawn a short dagger and dived over the side. Mark was incredulous as he watched the corpulent Falkan leader swim the few strokes that separated the two boats. ‘Does he think he can fight that thing?’ he asked out loud.

No one answered.

‘He must think he can.’ Mark answered his own question and looked over at Brynne, but she wasn’t listening; she had her own knife in her hand and had stripped off her tunic. ‘Brynne, no!’ he shouted, but she ignored him and dived in after Timmon, closely followed by Mark’s rowing companion.

Mark could see Garec was almost out of arrows. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stripped to the waist, grabbed his axe and leaped in behind the others.

The water was cold and the chill swept over his body like a sudden Arctic wind. He dived beneath the surface into a cloudy green glow and watched as the creature began to take shape through the gloom. What was it? It was huge, much larger than the boat. It obviously ate people – there wouldn’t be enough fish in this entire lake to keep something this big alive, even for a Twinmoon. He wondered for an instant how it managed to feed. Did it go to the surface or lurk about in the caves? Did it sneak out at night and steal animals from nearby farms? He shook his head to banish his unanswered questions: this was not the time for Show and Tell…

Don’t try to hack off any limbs! He could hear Sallax’s words – the big Ronan had never seen these limbs, but he was right: it wasn’t the monster’s legs Mark needed to attack. Christ, he’d be at it until spring. Instead, he had to find those big bulbous eyes he was certain it possessed and hack them out with the axe. There was no way they were going to be able to kill this thing, not with such rudimentary weapons; the most they could hope for was to drive it off before it killed even more of Gita’s already weakened force – or any of them: Steven, Garec or Brynne. Blinding the monster would cripple it; if it couldn’t see, surely it would have to give up the offensive.

Mark swam beneath the creature and reached out with his free hand to anchor himself. In the half-light he could see thick hair growing across a nearly flat area – maybe its back, or its underbelly, he wasn’t sure which – but as his hand drew near he realised that what he had taken to be thick fur was actually an expanse of clawed toes similar to those that spiked the ends of each armour-plated leg. The spindly tentacles had already gripped him by the wrist; now they began to pull.

He brought the battle-axe around and lopped off the spindles holding him fast, then surfaced quickly to draw a much-needed breath and to survey the battle going on above. He felt something moving fast, brushing against the bottoms of his feet and realised the second creature was closing in on them. He caught a glimpse of Steven, standing in the stern of Gita’s longboat and looking indecisive. If Steven joined them in the water, he might not be able to control the magic fuelling the now-powerful fireball. They would be plunged into darkness – and that would be the end of them all. These bone-collectors ruled the dark. The water’s chill sent an icy finger along his spine as he kicked back beneath the grim assailant. He hadn’t spotted Brynne but couldn’t think about that now.

Mark came up beneath the monster once again, careful not to get too close, and swam towards one end, searching for an eye, or anything that looked vulnerable, but he found nothing except a narrow, tapered end of the tentacled expanse: wrong end. He was about to swim back when the monster began to sink, dragging the remains of the longboat and its crew with it. Mark could see that many of the crew, although injured, were still alive: it looked like the beast was going to drown the remaining survivors, then drag the whole lot off to a quiet beach to feed.

Something went by him in a rush: the other creature? It had circled around and now came at full speed to attack another of the boats. Please don’t let it be Steven’s boat, or Garec’s. Cold comfort that Brynne was already in the water, but maybe while she was trying to kill the first monster she’d be overlooked by the second.

‘Stay there, Steven,’ he prayed, ‘keep the light burning. Hit it if you can, but keep the light burning.’

He turned his attention back to the bone-collector: its surviving victims didn’t have much time. Dodging an armour-plated leg and lashing claws, he kicked down. Maybe he could tug free some of the struggling soldiers.

Then he saw it: glinting in the light, reflecting Steven’s fire like a pane of glass. It shut off suddenly, but that one quick glimpse was long enough: Mark had found the creature’s eyes. So the tapered end was the creature’s head. Perhaps, in battle, it folded its head beneath itself for protection while it gripped its victims with its mighty arms and legs. Arching its protective back and tucking in its head and underbelly would leave no part vulnerable – but Mark had seen the light reflected briefly off its wide black corneas. He knew what to do.

Mark swam to the surface and filled his lungs then, exhaling slowly, he descended back to the monster’s face. As he passed through a thermocline he realised it was getting too deep: he had just this one chance. The creature, as if sensing his approach, swiped a massive forearm, trying to crush the annoyance, but Mark saw it coming and just managed to spin out of the way. He could see, even in the murk, a number of Garec’s arrows had pierced the creature’s armour after all.

Suddenly he spotted an opening. The beast, a hideously mutated child of the gorgon, lashed out at him with the spiked appendages that dotted its face and neck. Mark chopped away half a dozen of them, but had to dodge and dive to avoid the one free limb still groping for him.

There it was! The creature’s eye opened again, and without even pausing to think, Mark took his best shot, plunging the blade of the battle-axe deep into the iris. The monster screamed, a shriek that resonated throughout Mark’s body and echoed around the vast cavern like a crowd of banshees heralding the death of deaths; it so unnerved him that he inadvertently drew a breath, stopping just in time as the lake water filled his mouth. As he stretched for the surface the monster released its grip on the longboat and its crew. The creature rolled its head, presenting the other eye, and even though he was in danger of choking, Mark could not resist the chance to repeat his success and swiped with his axe as he swam past. This time he wasn’t so lucky: a flailing tentacle sliced a gash across Mark’s stomach, and he clutched the wound as he broke the surface of the lake. He trod water for a few seconds, gasping and coughing out the last of the water. His stomach hurt, but he wasn’t dead.

He looked around. No sign of the monster, and Mark had no idea if any of the victims had survived. Flotsam from the wrecked longboat bobbed on the water around him. He started to push his way past the bloating corpses, feeling weak, exhausted and in pain.

Then Steven’s light went out.

Steven had watched, terrified, as the first longboat was dragged beneath the surface. Standing in the stern, he had hesitated, not out of fear, but to consider his options. Mark and Brynne were already in the water, following Timmon; he saw Brynne fighting bravely, ramming her hunting knife into one of the creature’s forelegs and pulling its victims to safety. Should he dive in and try to blast the creature from below? He could do it, he was sure, but it was already hard work keeping the intensely bright light glowing; he didn’t want to lose his concentration and leave them all in total darkness. There were at least two of these monsters, and it seemed like the light was keeping the second away – but what if there were three, or thirty? He had no choice: right now his magical light was their best defence.

He wondered if he could strike out at the monster without injuring any of Gita’s men, but he was already too late: the longboat was gone. Brynne and Timmon’s crewmen had collected the few survivors and were swimming back to their own boat. There was no sign of Timmon himself. Garec was still standing in the stern, waiting for another opportunity to fire on the beast. Steven could see his quivers were nearly empty.

Where was Mark? Steven shouted ineffectually at the water, ‘Mark, where the hell are you?’

Hearing him, Brynne turned around and began searching frantically, but he was nowhere to be seen. He was a strong swimmer, they knew that, but no one had seen him since Brynne jumped to Timmon’s aid. How long ago had that been? Could he remain submerged that long? She looked up at Steven; they didn’t need to speak. Brynne drew a deep breath and disappeared beneath the surface of the lake.

Steven tore off his jacket and tunic, gripped the staff in one hand and dived in. He swam vigorously and, realising the creature was dragging the longboat to the bottom, followed it. Judging by the number of bodies, it didn’t look as if any of the longboat crew had survived; several of the dead had already been dismembered and large bites had been taken out of limbs and torsos. Timmon’s huge frame floated by. Steven marvelled at the peaceful look on the soldier’s face. He had died in battle – perhaps that was enough for him. Steven was praying that his friend had survived, but doubt began to elbow its way past the chill and settle in his bones.

Something rushed by him with a whoosh and Steven was turned over in the strong current that followed in its wake. A second beast was attacking.

Mark? Where the hell are you? Steven struggled with his conscience: if he didn’t return to the surface, another boat might be taken – no, never mind. It was too late: at that speed, the monster would have reached the little flotilla: it probably had a vessel in its grasp already. He needed to find Mark. He needed to keep the light burning.

Keep the light burning, Steven thought, but his lungs ached and the hand clenching the staff was cramping. Mark! Keep the light burning, Steven. Where are you, Mark? It was taking too long. He wasn’t as strong a swimmer; he couldn’t stay submerged much longer. He was torn by the need to find his best friend and the need to keep the orb at its current brilliant intensity, but he had little choice now. He would deal with the consequences if they lived through the next five minutes. As he had beneath the river in Meyers’ Vale, Steven summoned the staff’s magic to fill his lungs with air. The magic came quickly, but his fears were confirmed, for as his breathing eased, the cavern above was plunged into complete darkness.

Steven had to search by hand now, putting aside his squeamishness to grope over the bodies trying to identify Mark, but so far all he had found were dead Falkans. Finally he decided his search was pointless. If Mark was still submerged, he was dead. He summoned the staff’s magic to his fingertips and swam towards the longboats.

As soon as he emerged, the brilliant light returned. He cast it high into the air above the carnage and shuddered as it illuminated the second beast: the bone-collector looked like an offspring of Cthulhu, and it was lying astride the remains of a crushed longboat, using its hideous tentacles to shred its victims. In the stafflight Steven could see blood gushing and splattering into the water as heads were torn from torsos and legs and arms ripped apart. The crack of splintering bones punctuated the air, as did the screams of pain, horror and despair, a veritable wall of sound that echoed about the cavern. Steven shuddered: he would hear these sounds for ever in his nightmares.

In a white-hot rage, he cast the staff’s magic into the beast’s body, with devastating effect, as the inhuman howl of the monster mingled with the sobbing screams of the dying. Steven, caught up in almost physical fury, imagined breaking the creature’s legs as it had pulled apart the Falkan partisans. As if in response to his thoughts, the beast’s chitinous exoskeleton snapped with an audible crack. Two of its forelegs were torn off and left to sink into the lake.

Steven thought he heard someone calling his name; was that Mark gripping the gunwale of Garec’s longboat? But he ignored his friend and turned his attention back to the Cthulhoid monster.

‘Get off them, you bastard sonofabitch!’ he raved, and released another burst of magic. ‘Come over here, come over here to me,’ he crooned. He could feel nothing, not the cold water nor the heat from the gigantic fireball suspended above. For a moment he became faintly aware that people were swimming towards him and he roared, ‘Get back! Back away! It’s coming!’

With a mighty cry, the black-tentacled bone-collector found purchase on the surface of the water and leaped into the air. What was this wretched creature that dared to challenge it? Humans did not dare; they squealed and ran and suffered. It would kill him, dine on his flesh, suck out his brains and polish his bones. It would kill this interloper, and then slowly feast on the others as it healed over the next generation. But blinding pain started to crest through its body as Steven’s magic tore it apart.

The monster screamed, an ancient curse that only a god could now decipher, and sprang full-bodied into the air, its deadly legs and writhing tentacles poised to grasp and disembowel the annoying staff-wielder.

Time slowed. Steven knew the creature would come for him; it would come from the air, as it had attacked the longboat. But he made no move to escape; instead, he remained with his head and shoulders above the water, peering up at the bone-collector as it hung in the air for a moment, then came crashing down upon him.

Mark, watching in awe and horror from the longboat, saw Steven finally move, reaching up at the last possible moment, just as the monster’s legs were closing down on him and the huge body was about to push him down into the very depths of the lake. ‘No!’ Mark yelled, but his cry was cut off by a deafening explosion that echoed and re-echoed through the cavern. A shockwave of water threw him backwards and capsized the remaining longboats.

Mark endeavoured to get his wits about him again. Save for the light from two torches that had miraculously survived, the cavern was dark. Steven’s fireball had been extinguished when he called upon his magic to destroy the subterranean creature. The Falkans, many stunned to find they were still alive, swam around trying to right their boats. Mark was surprised at the silence – until he realised he couldn’t hear anything except for the dull ringing that clamoured in his head. He dreaded the headache that would follow, but at least his ears weren’t bleeding. He looked around for Brynne: she was clinging to the side of a longboat with Garec. They both appeared unharmed.

Then he looked around for the monster, but all he could find were pieces of black chitinous carapace floating on the surface: it looked as if the creature had been blown to pieces by the force of Steven’s explosion. Mark called out to his friend before he realised Steven was missing.

‘Fuck!’ Mark swore, as loudly as he could manage, but he heard nothing. He took a deep breath and dropped beneath the surface. It was dark, too dark to see anything, so he had to trust his instincts. He felt the thermocline again, so he was at least twenty feet down, and dropping deeper with each moment. He equalised the pressure in his ears and continued kicking towards the lake bed. He’d be enormously lucky to find anything – if he were off, even by a few feet in either direction, he might swim right by Steven’s body.

Thirty feet: it would have to happen in the next few seconds. Thirty-five. His lungs ached, but he was determined to last at least another thirty seconds. He allowed his breath to begin escaping his lungs, slowly, so slowly; the simple act of exhalation helped him to hang on.

Forty feet. He could see nothing, sense nothing. It was cold and dark. Then he felt them. Tentacles.

At first Mark was frightened he had come upon the blinded creature, lurking below and entirely capable of ripping him to pieces, but he quickly realised these tentacles were not moving, not reaching for him. They swayed gently in the current, but they were lifeless. This was it. This chunk of the creature’s broken body was huge, and somehow he knew Steven lay trapped beneath it.

Twenty seconds more. He began to count: twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen

… He ran his hands through the forest of tentacles, trying not to focus on the pain when the evilly serrated claws sliced through his flesh. He found the ragged edge where the monster had broken apart in the explosion and gripping hard, Mark pulled with all his might.

Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. He started as the body shifted, then stretched out on the sandy lake bottom, reaching beneath the carcase for any sign of Steven. Nothing. He exhaled more bubbles, trying to fool his body into staying down for a few additional moments.

He tugged again, moving the corpse further away. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. He stretched as far as he could beneath the monster Finally! Mark’s fingers closed around a leather boot. He pulled, and felt something give. Four. Three. He shifted his weight and pulled again. Two. Finally, Steven’s body came free. One.

Mark kicked off the bottom, dragging Steven’s inanimate form behind him. Forty feet. That would take fifteen seconds, twelve if he were lucky. Steven had been under water far too long; Mark’s worry overcame his own need for air. At about twenty feet, his temple struck something hard, but as he raised an arm to brush it away he realised it was the staff. He shoved it towards the surface like a javelin, following as fast as he could. When he broke through the surface he was screaming, ‘Someone help me!’