The Hickory Staff

STRANDSON

Brexan lost count of the days they had been riding. Always south and west, towards the sea. Karn did not drive them hard and they rarely pushed their horses faster than a gentle canter, but save for a short break during the midday meal, the Seron escort did not allow the prisoners to dismount. From time to time Versen toyed with the idea of spurring Renna into a full gallop and taking their chances with the almor… but without knowing where it was, he was afraid he would just drive Garec’s beloved mare straight into the demon’s waiting maw. Periodically, he or Brexan would catch a glimpse of a nearby tree or bush withering to dust; the knowledge that such a terrifying adversary flanked them day and night made them both feel sick to the stomach.

On they rode. Sometimes Brexan sat behind him and other times she rode in front. The Seron paid them little heed, so at least they were able to talk freely during the interminable avens in the saddle. They were fatigued to the point of imminent collapse and their bodies ached cruelly, until the steady rhythm of Renna’s stride numbed feeling. It wasn’t long before emotional exhaustion exacerbated their physical pain and began to sap their strength and, worse, their hope.

Versen no longer looked forward to their evening break. Gathering firewood took too long; often he could carry only a branch or two at a time for fear the pain in his back would overwhelm him. He was in constant fear of being struck down on the spot. Brexan, on water duty, struggled to fill a pot and several wineskins, then she would open a bag of the crushed oat and herb mix they had eaten every night since their capture, mix it with hot water and serve it in wooden trenchers.

After dinner, the two prisoners would collapse onto their blankets, no longer even bothering to remove their boots and cloaks, but exhausted though they were, cramping in their backs and thighs combined with hard, uneven ground robbed them of sleep.

And the following day the nightmare began all over again.

Late one day, as the shadows lengthened in front of them like folds in a landscape painting, Brexan dozed against Versen’s back. He in turn allowed his head to slump forward on his chest, shifting slightly every twenty paces to break up the monotony and alleviate the pain. They had moved south of the Blackstones and back into the Ronan lowlands. Despite the coming winter both captives found the heat and humidity oppressive. Versen sweat openly beneath his cloak; he thought he might never be dry again, and the rivulets of perspiration that soaked him attracted no end of biting insects. He spent much of the day fruitlessly swatting at tiny stinging invaders.

Brexan didn’t appear to be bothered by Versen’s flailing, but she did chide him about his aroma. Without lifting her head from its place between his shoulder blades, she said ‘You smell like grettan flatulence.’

‘You have such a special way of putting things,’ he replied. ‘You really must have to beat the men away with a stick.’

‘This isn’t about me, Ox. You smell bad.’ She winced as Renna stepped over a fallen log. Maybe a bit of playful banter would lift Versen’s spirits.

‘Well, okay, I suppose I have no excuse – but look at it this way, you’ve definitely seen me at my worst. Imagine how attractive I’ll be after a day-long bath.’ As if to emphasise his point, Versen crushed a gargantuan fly, leaving a trail of blood and insect gore down his cheek. ‘Yuck.’

Brexan licked the fleshy part of her thumb and scraped the carnage from his face. ‘Make it two days and you have a deal.’

But Versen was not listening. Instead, he sat sharply upright, forcing Brexan’s head back and sending sharp bolts of pain down her already stiff neck.

Angry at first, she scolded, ‘Hey, that hurt!’ Then, worried her jesting might have injured his feelings, she added, ‘You know I was just kidding before.’

‘Do you smell that?’ Versen craned his neck forward.

‘What? Karn?’ Brexan laughed. ‘Oh yeah, he smells much worse than you. Good point. I take it all back.’

‘No, no.’ Versen was serious. ‘The breeze. Can you smell that breeze?’

Brexan inhaled deeply – then distant but clearly evident through the scents of trees and pounded mud, she caught it: the ocean.

Adrenalin coursed through Versen’s body as he sniffed the air: an onshore breeze, there was no mistaking it. Now his ears were attuned, he could hear, faintly, seabirds cawing boisterously to one another. He imagined them diving along a town wharf, battling for scraps as the fishermen cleaned and filleted their day’s catch.

‘We must be near the end of the line,’ he announced quietly.

‘That could be good or bad news; I suppose.’ Brexan, her pain momentarily forgotten, sat tall in the saddle. She looked nervously about for Haden.

‘It may be an opportunity for us,’ Versen pointed out. ‘If they wanted us dead, they would have killed us long ago. If we get near a town, we might be able to lose the almor, confuse it in a crowd-’ although even as he said it, Versen doubted it could be done. The almor would not be shaken off like a half-drunk pickpocket. Their only hope would be to escape to someplace dry, a rooftop or a tall building maybe.

Strandson had thrived since the Malakasian Navy closed down most commerce in the southern and eastern cities five generations earlier. The northernmost port on the Ravenian Sea, Strandson was the closest Ronan trade centre to Eldarn’s central markets and commercial emporia in Orindale. Although Prince Malagon’s navy kept a tight customs blockade outside the harbour, vessels carrying all manner of consumables – textiles, lumber, grain, Falkan wines and even livestock – were granted passage to the docks, where the army controlled the waterfront traffic.

There were strict rules for vessels hoping to use Strandson Harbour: blockade-ship captains ensured safe passage for legitimate trading fleets, but were quick to prevent illegal or smuggled goods docking. Smugglers’ transports were burned to the waterline; the flames could be seen as far away as the heights above the city.

This public display of Prince Malagon’s control in the Eastlands was intended to quell Ronan traders’ complaints at the consistently heavy tariffs on imported goods. Citizens of Strandson were well aware that they were better off than most other Ronan, Pragan and Falkan ports. Limited paperwork, easily bribed customs officials and well-policed roads leading east through the Ronan countryside made for prosperous businesses. Trade had expanded over the Twinmoons and merchants were used to the unwritten rules that kept the city turning like a well-oiled wheel. Agreements had been established between Strandson and Malakasia and many of the port’s businessmen had grown wealthy thanks to their symbiotic relationship with the occupation force.

Strandson folk were never alarmed when Malakasian soldiers appeared in the city, even though most patrols covered the surrounding forests and roads. From time to time soldiers policed the harbour as a reminder of Malakasian strength, but they rarely made arrests and, unlike parts of southern Rona, murders in Strandson were the exception rather than the rule.

Despite the city’s familiarity with occasional Malakasian interference along the waterfront, Seron warriors had not been seen in northwest Rona in five hundred Twinmoons; and the arrival of Karn’s party created an uneasy stir among Strandson’s citizens.

They had already caused a bit of excitement as the Seron marched their captives through a Malakasian checkpoint leading into the port. Two occupation soldiers appeared, swords drawn, and demanded identification. Karn barked at the confused sentries, showed his Malakasian tabards and motioned them aside. When they hesitated, Haden rode up from his position at the rear, dismounted and began striding towards the soldiers. He did not draw his weapons, but growled, low and menacing. The soldiers looked at each other, then decided discretion was the better part of valour and backed into the trees. As Karn led the party onwards, one soldier made a feeble attempt to recover some of his dignity, squeaking a broken, ‘Proceed!’ as they passed.

Once inside the port limits, the riders drew a crowd of curious and frightened onlookers. Although few challenged them directly, Versen heard several people shouting obscenities from behind; he wondered how brave they would be if the Seron turned back to answer them. Children were hustled indoors, pedestrians scurried out of the way and some less brave merchants drew their blinds and closed up business for the day. None of the Ronans had ever seen a Seron warrior before; most had no idea what the sinister-looking creatures dressed as Malakasian soldiers could possibly want in their peaceable city.

By the time the company reached the main green, the crowd gathering about them had tripled and several burly farmers dared to confront the Seron. Forming a human barrier across the muddy road, they attempted to force the strangers to stop.

Karn, remaining calm, reined in and gestured for the others to halt as well, but neither he nor Rala made any motion to dismount, or to draw their weapons. Looking backwards, Versen could see Haden was prepared to do battle; he swallowed thickly as he pictured the Seron tearing the citizens apart and eating the flesh of the wounded.

As the throng closed in Versen heard people calling out, ‘Are you prisoners?’ and ‘Have they kidnapped you?’, interspersed between sundry rescue offers and shouts of encouragement. ‘Those two must be partisans,’ and ‘Free the prisoners,’ rang above the din as a rallying cry.

Brexan released her arms from Versen’s waist and looked nervously at the ever-tightening circle of angry citizens. Certain the crowd was too thick for them to escape with Renna, Brexan searched for an alley or a side road, or even an open building into which they might disappear. The thick mud caked about the mare’s hooves made Brexan think their progress on foot would be slow. Then her stomach sank.

Raising her arms to the crowd, the former occupation soldier screamed a warning, but as she shouted, ‘Get out of the mud! Get back! Off the street, hurry!’, it was already too late.

Some hesitated, looking to Brexan questioningly as the almor struck. Its first target was an obese woman shaking her fist angrily in Karn’s face, but unlike its attack on the scrub oak, the demon did not absorb this victim slowly. Instead, she imploded: her flabby arms, flour-sack breasts and wobbling stomach collapsed inwards. Brexan, anguished, saw the woman’s eyes widen in horror before the eyeballs, devoid of anything resembling a life force, collapsed backwards into her now-vacant skull. Within moments nothing remained of the woman except a leathery skin bag and a collection of brittle bones.

This was only the beginning.

The angry throng still hadn’t quite grasped what was happening when the second victim was taken. The opaque figure, glowing with the energy of its first kill, burst from the mud like a rogue ocean wave and enveloped a man who had been encouraging Versen to escape. The almor rained over the unsuspecting merchant like a cloudburst, each droplet of the demon leaching the vitality from the hapless businessman. His rubicund face turned as pale as the demon itself; the blood drained visibly from his limbs and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The almor was reabsorbed by the dense Ronan mud; the merchant was gone.

The mood had changed in a heartbeat as anger gave way to curiosity and, an instant later, to terror.

Versen and Brexan were still shouting, ‘It’s an almor!’ and ‘Get off the street!’ but the ancient demon took two more victims before the onlookers managed to push their way back to the relative safety of the wooden plank sidewalks lining the road.

Calmly, Haden spurred his mount forward until it stood abreast of Renna. Though the almor appeared to have gone, Versen turned to shout another warning to the fleeing townsfolk. As he did so the Seron cuffed him hard across the mouth. The backhand swipe knocked the Ronan from his saddle and into the mud with an audible splash.

Brexan, terrified, reached for him frantically, crying, ‘Get up. Get out of the mud!’

Versen slowly regained his feet. Never removing his eyes from the Seron, he ran a hand across his mouth and wiped a stream of blood onto his cloak, then reached for the mare’s reins and began leading Renna towards the green. He stroked Brexan’s thigh reassuringly and said, ‘It’s gone. It won’t hurt me. I’m fine down here.’

The young woman turned on Haden, set her jaw and used Renna’s stirrups to spring between the horses into the soldier’s lap. Surprised by the sudden attack, the Seron did not get his hands up in time to ward off her blows. Cursing wildly, Brexan was able to land several solid punches to the Seron’s already marred face before he managed to grasp her by the tunic belt and heave her into the mud. Brexan landed solidly on her back. She didn’t notice Karn and Rala, who had turned in the saddle and were laughing out loud.

Despite his rage, Versen was too tired and in too much pain to join in the fray. Instead, he moved to Brexan’s side and half-helped her to her feet, while half restraining her from another attack.

She screamed angrily up at Haden, ‘It is not over between us, you ugly, motherless horsecock.’

The scarred one spat a mouthful of blood at her feet and Brexan tried to charge him anew. Versen held her tightly, but she continued to berate the soldier, screaming at him like a fishwife.

Versen was surprised once again at the fiery, resilient soldier masquerading as a small, pretty woman. Even in her furious state he found her alluring.

‘I’d go into battle with you anytime,’ he said as he gave her a playful squeeze, then brushed several large clumps of mud from her back.

‘I am going to kill that one,’ she seethed as her injured eye wept a steady stream down her lacerated, still swollen cheek. ‘That one,’ she pointed again, ‘and the soulless horsecock who broke my face. By the lords, Versen, I am going to gut those two and eat their hearts.’

She paused to catch her breath then added, ‘And I want you there with me when I do it.’

Versen smiled and picked some dried mud from her hair. ‘Well, that may just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’

Brexan laughed, wincing at the pain in her cheek, then reached for Renna’s bridle. The mare whinnied once in approval before following Brexan through the mud towards the wharf beyond the green.

Versen hesitated for a moment to take in their surroundings properly. There was not a person in sight on Strandson’s main thoroughfare except for the gruesome remains of the almor’s four victims, lying haphazardly like pockmarks in the earth. Versen shuddered. Each of the mummified husks was like an open sore on the land, sores that might never close or scab over. He was careful to avoid stepping near any of the demon’s victims for fear that the world might open and swallow him and Brexan into a glowing, pearly-white Eldarni hell.

*

Beyond the green lay Strandson Harbour. Normally a hive of activity, the docks now were silent. Word of the almor attack had spread throughout the small port and save for a pair of drunks sleeping soundly beside an empty wooden crate, Versen was unable to find a stevedore, sailor or merchant, or even a prostitute, out among the abandoned cargoes and shipments. It felt as if they were riding through the inside of a sea god’s tomb, complete with ships, channel markers, trawlers and mooring buoys. Versen and Brexan whispered together, loath to break the silence that blanketed the city. A squabble of seagulls padded contentedly along the wooden docks, searching for food and Brexan shuddered at the thought that even these most clamorous of seabirds remained silent in the wake of the almor’s carnage.

Strandson had five docks stretching out into the harbour. The longest of these, an improbable structure balanced precariously on oak pylons and reaching out into the deeper water, accommodated a twin-masted topsail schooner. Drafting deep in the water, the ship was stocked and ready to sail with the morning tide.

Despite her size, the Falkan Dancer was a sleek vessel with a narrow beam and fluid lines; to Versen it looked like she was already in motion, even though he could clearly see she was tied securely to enormous stanchions. Squinting in an effort to improve his vision, he detected motion on the schooner’s decks. He had a horrible thought that he and Brexan were bound for the open sea.

Almost in answer to Versen’s silent query, Karn and Rala shepherded their charges across the wide plank boardwalk, between stacks of wooden crates bound for unknown Eldarni ports and onto the dock where the Falkan Dancer was moored. Versen caught sight of the Malakasian colours, hanging limply from the stern rail. There wasn’t enough wind to lift it into life, but he didn’t think many needed the flag to know this was a vessel of Prince Malagon’s Imperial Navy.

Turning slightly, he whispered, ‘What do you know about ships?’

Brexan leaned against the woodsman’s back, her arms wrapped about his torso: a position she found most comforting. ‘Well, that appears to be a ship over there.’ Every word made her face hurt and she would have given ten Twinmoons off her life for a handful of querlis. ‘Why? Don’t you know anything about ships?’

‘I’m a woodsman,’ he said, a touch of sarcasm colouring his quiet voice. ‘That’s wood: as in trees. This is the closest I have ever been to a ship. I don’t particularly want to get closer.’

Brexan squeezed him more tightly. ‘I can’t say I blame you. I do know that if we board that one, we’re probably bound for Malakasia.’

Versen grimaced. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’

As they approached the end of the wharf, Versen could see the schooner’s crew was made up entirely of Malakasian soldiers and sailors dressed in a motley collection of rags. Surprised, he said, ‘It’s not a naval vessel. Those are merchant seamen.’

Brexan watched as the horde of sailors and stevedores busied themselves about the ship and up aloft in the rigging. Despite her concern for their future, she was almost excited at the prospect of a journey across the Ravenian Sea. ‘From the looks of those crates they’re loading, we might be a late addition to this cargo,’ she said. ‘Judging by the response we got back there, I don’t believe too many people were expecting us.’

As if on cue, a squat, pig-faced merchant, puffy about the eyes, balding and sweating profusely, approached the gangplank. The man dragged a sodden handkerchief over his shining pate again and again, as if polishing it. He wore a highly unsuitable silk suit over a delicate, frilly tunic; Brexan guessed that he was the Falkan Dancer ’s owner as he looked absurdly out of place; he was too well-dressed to be a captain. When he turned to look directly at her, Brexan was hard-put not to react to the sight of a large, misshapen mole growing from the side of his nose.

The merchant struggled for several moments to communicate with Karn, then glanced over at the two prisoners with disappointment. His voice rattled, as if his larynx were coated with phlegm. ‘This will be easier on both of you if you tell me where I can find the talisman.’

‘We don’t have it,’ Versen answered.

‘Where is it, then?’

‘It was left at home.’ Versen glared down at the merchant in disgust. ‘What are you doing working with this bunch? Where’s your honour? Your sense of decency?’

‘I have no decency. I am a businessman and this is business. The prince is interested in-’ The fleshy merchant hesitated a moment, as if confounded by the idea that Malagon would be searching for so dishevelled and disagreeable a quarry, then continued, ‘The prince is interested in you two and I am here to deliver you – for a handsome fee.’ Rolls of flab wobbled about his abdomen as he chortled. Brexan shuddered with distaste.

‘If you tell me where I can find the stone, I will see to it that you are well cared for: good food, comfortable accommodation, a change of clothes and perhaps-’ he glanced at Brexan as if imagining her after a hot bath ‘-perhaps even some querlis for that face, young lady.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘Now tell me where it is.’

Unimpressed, Versen glared down at the merchant, which sent the man retreating slightly across the pier. ‘Not ever, and you, especially you, should pray to the gods of the Northern Forest I do not get my hands on you.’

The merchant laughed at Versen from a safe distance. ‘Not to worry, my malodorous friend, I have special quarters arranged for you for our journey to Orindale.’

Orindale. Versen forced himself to remain calm. Smiling contemptuously on the sweaty merchant, he drew a long, slow breath and said, ‘Well then, let’s get to sea.’

Hannah Sorenson slogged through ankle-deep mud. For the first time since her unexpected arrival in Eldarn she was happier to be wearing boots than her running shoes. Their progress along the road to Middle Fork had speeded up since they had moved north of what she guessed was the greater Southport area. Although the local Malakasians had identified and hanged a number of Pragans, ostensibly for murdering the soldier who attacked Hannah along the coastal highway, everyone knew those hanged were not the guilty parties. Searches continued for the killers, as well as for that small group – or perhaps even one exceedingly brave (or exceedingly addle-pated) member – of the Resistance who had burned a Malakasian cargo ship to the waterline. No one died in the fire, but an enormous supply of weapons, silver, food and clothing was destroyed by the blaze. The only clues to the arsonist’s identity came from one witness, who claimed to have seen a man fleeing the quay. The man must have been injured because his limp was clearly visible, even from a distance, as he hurried into the night.

As they moved north Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were stopped several times a day and questioned about their destination and their business. They stuck to the same story: they were migrant workers who had finished the autumn tempine harvest outside Southport; now they were heading to Middle Fork to find scullery work for the winter season. Hoyt always gestured towards Churn and added, ‘Except for him, of course. We’re just hoping he’ll bring a few copper Mareks for hauling some firewood or shovelling snow.’ Frequently the Malakasian platoon sergeant would cast him and Hannah an understanding nod after taking in Churn’s vacuous expression.

So far the trio had been permitted to proceed without additional delay. They were obviously law-abiding, hard-working Pragans, already burdened with caring for the simple-minded giant, hardly the sort to be out there killing armed soldiers with their fists, or burning Malagon’s galleons in late-night raids.

Hannah remained silent during the interrogations, allowing Hoyt to work his special magic and gain them safe passage for the next leg of their journey. Every time they were stopped, she was conscious that she could get them captured, or even killed almost instantly: her underwear and her socks were a dead giveaway that she was not a local peasant. Hannah had initially made the decision to keep her bra, her panties and her socks because she had no idea what women in Eldarn wore beneath their clothing. She couldn’t face making a trip on foot without socks, and there was no way she was going to hike for untold miles in scratchy homespun wool without underwear. She decided that as long as she never disrobed where anyone could see her, there would be no problem.

Now she was regretting choosing comfort over caution. Every time they were stopped her heart missed a beat: what if they were searched? What if some randy soldier decided to have a tug at her tunic? Whilst her underwear was not especially racy or provocative, it was certainly not from Eldarn. There would be no hiding it – especially not if it rained; Hannah was terrified that her breasts would give them away more than any verbal slip she might make as a wet tunic plastered against her body would display the unnatural ability of her breasts to defy gravity. They might not be especially large or cumbersome, especially not by American standards, but they did benefit from the support of her bra.

Hannah, guessing Malakasian men were no different in that regard to any man in her world, began to hunch over and tug at the front of her tunic every time soldiers approached and as they moved through the checkpoints.

‘What in all the rutting world is wrong with you?’ Hoyt asked in a harsh whisper as a mounted platoon trotted slowly southwards. ‘Appearing to have one intellectually challenged individual is enough for us. We don’t need you playing at loopy as well.’

‘It’s my-’ Hannah struggled for the word as her boots made strangled sucking noises. ‘It’s my – my figure.’

Trying not to laugh as the soldiers cantered by, Hoyt asked, ‘What’s wrong with your figure?’

‘What do you mean, what’s wrong with my figure?’ Hannah hadn’t intended to sound quite so indignant.

‘ Nothing ’s wrong with your figure; that’s not what I meant. Bleeding whores! Do you see those soldiers? Are we having this conversation now?’ There was a slightly frantic tone in Hoyt’s voice. ‘I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with your figure. Your figure is fine… nice even… Demonpiss! What’s it got to do with you acting like a halfwit?’ He turned as the platoon lieutenant rode past and said, ‘Morning sir.’

‘It’s coming up now because, if you haven’t noticed, my figure has a way of presenting itself, especially in the rain, for any man’s enjoyment. Any soldier ’s enjoyment. For God’s sake, Hoyt, look at my breasts!’

Hoyt chuckled. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but that is something of a neat trick. I know a few women in Southport I’d like you to teach it to.’ The last of the horsemen passed, their mounts churning the roadway into mud. ‘What is it, some kind of corset or something?’

‘Or something, yes, but it appears to work… better. I don’t know how, but it supports more completely than whatever Pragan women wear.’ Hannah was hideously embarrassed, fighting the flush rising in her cheeks.

Churn grunted his amusement at the absurd way his friends were carrying on.

Hannah made another self-conscious adjustment before going on, ‘So, until it stops raining or until I get to a town where I can acquire something more appropriate and throw mine away, I have to resort to rolling my shoulders and tugging a bit at the front of this deplorably hot and itchy tunic you provided me to stop it clinging in such a revealing fashion. So, if that means you have to spin a tale about travelling with two palseated lunatics instead of one, then I suggest you get creative, my friend.’

At that Churn bellowed, a curious belly-laugh that sounded both joyous and somehow tragic, a fanfare blown through a broken tuba.

‘Fine,’ Hoyt gave up and started laughing himself. ‘You deal with your- er, “figure”, and I will come up with a convincing story as to why I’m travelling with a woman whose “figure” is so very pointed in the rain!’

Hannah finally chuckled too, despite her fear that something as stupid and embarrassing as her underwear might get them caught. Then she changed the subject and asked, ‘Tell me more about Alen Jasper.’

Hoyt was happy to comply; he too was blushing by now and the pair of them looked like twin victims of mild heatstroke. ‘Alen. He’s an interesting man. I’ve known him since I was young; I guess I know him as well as anyone. He taught me to read when I was a boy – that might not sound like much, but I was never very good at getting myself to school and without him, I probably would be illiterate; I certainly wouldn’t know anything about healing and medicine.’

‘Is he a doctor as well?’

‘No.’ Hoyt searched for an explanation. ‘When Prince Marek came to power, what, almost a thousand Twinmoons ago-’ He stopped as Hannah looked confused and started again. ‘When Marek took over, let’s say five or six generations ago, he closed all the universities, and over time, the idea of studying to be a doctor was lost. These days our healers all learn through oral tradition. We don’t officially call ourselves doctors, because we still have a sense of what doctors used to be. I’ve learned more than many, but even I don’t have nearly the education they did before the Grayslip family collapsed.’

‘That’s a tragedy. How can a ruler have let his land get so debased?’

‘I have no idea, but there isn’t much I can do about it now. Even if we could get the universities open again, we don’t have any practising doctors, proper doctors, to re-create the teaching programmes.’ He kicked a thick wad of mud off the toe of one boot. ‘There isn’t anyone left alive who knows what we need to learn.’

‘How did you learn?’

‘Alen helped.’ Hoyt gestured for Churn to turn around, then reached into the bigger man’s pack and withdrew a wineskin. ‘He taught me a great deal himself, but more importantly, he gave me books and told me where to find more.’

‘Are books that scarce?’

‘Apart from those we study in school, they’re very rare. I would probably be hanged for a full Twinmoon if anyone found the books I have stashed outside Southport.’

Hannah’s head swam. It was all too much to believe – what kind of place was this? What kind of person was Prince Marek – how could anyone condone such a brutally narrow-minded policy? ‘How did Mr Jasper get so many medical books if he isn’t a doctor?’ she asked.

‘Alen,’ Hoyt corrected her. ‘That’s a great question, because the books he gave me are old. They’re jammed full of medical knowledge and procedures, and they’re eight hundred, maybe nine hundred Twinmoons old. None of them came off any underground or outlaw presses operating in Praga today.’ Hoyt took a drink and passed the skin to Hannah. ‘My guess is that he somehow found a way into an old university library and stole the books.’

‘That doesn’t sound so outrageous.’

‘Well, it is when you think that all our university libraries were razed to the ground when Marek came to power.’

‘They must have missed one.’

‘That doesn’t sound like Marek to me.’ Hoyt was doubtful. ‘But anyway, after Alen gave me the initial collection, he told me where to find more, all over Praga, hidden in dilapidated buildings, forest cottages, cabins along the seashore, all kinds of places. And can you guess what I discovered?’

‘They were all old?’

‘Right.’ Hoyt retrieved the skin and passed it back to Churn, who drank nearly half of what was left before corking it and stuffing it back in his pack. ‘They were all old texts, not illegally printed books or manuscripts from the Pragan underground, but rather, all vintage stuff. Medical journals and leather-bound treatises.’

Hannah was looking forward to meeting Alen with growing anticipation. ‘Sounds intriguing. Did you ever ask him where they came from?’

‘I did and he told me he once worked in education and public health. I don’t know if that explains anything, but that was all he’d tell me.’

‘All right, regardless, go back to Mr- to Alen. Tell me about him. Why do you think he will know how to get me home?’ Hannah had already realised the strange tapestry rolled out on Steven’s floor at 147 Tenth Street must have been responsible for her improbable arrival on the hilltop outside Praga. Why was a different matter entirely.

‘On that you have to trust me,’ Hoyt said matter-of-factly. ‘If there is anyone in Praga who can get you back to Denvercolorado, it’s Alen Jasper. The breadth of his knowledge is colossal. I have yet to find something he doesn’t know or can’t speak to first hand – it’s as if he’s somehow lived everywhere and experienced everything. He will deny it, but I have seen him work actual magic. Only mild spells, mind you, playful tricks he learned as a child.’

Hannah had heard and challenged the notion of magic so many times since the trio began travelling together that she didn’t even bother to argue with Hoyt this time. He spoke of impossibilities with such nonchalance that Hannah thought perhaps the word meant something slightly different in Eldarn – although given the uncommon way she had arrived in Southport, by way of Steven’s living room, the strength of her initial disbelief was beginning to wane. ‘When is the last time you saw him?’ she asked.

‘It must be fifteen, maybe seventeen Twinmoons ago. Churn and I haven’t been this far north in a while. Things along the south coast were good for us for a long time and we decided to stay on there.’

‘Does Alen not travel to Southport?’

‘I have never known him to be anywhere but Middle Fork.’ Hoyt stopped suddenly and turned to face Churn. ‘I’ve never thought of it before, but it’s true. I have never known Alen to leave Middle Fork. I wonder why.’

‘Is it much further now?’

‘No,’ he said, signing briefly to Churn, who nodded and answered with a turn of his wrist. ‘Maybe two or three days. It depends on the weather.’

Hannah had seen nothing in Praga so far that made her feel confident anyone here had the means, mystical or otherwise, to send her back to Colorado. The land, people and culture were so archaic, almost mediaeval; it would almost have to be something supernatural to get her back to a reality she recognised, something able to manipulate the gears, locks and switches of this impossible place and all its impossible characteristics.

What had happened still staggered her, still made her shake her head in disbelief and pinch herself and cry out, ‘Wake up, silly. This isn’t real.’ Yet here she was, slogging through thick mud, undoubtedly alive, undoubtedly awake, undoubtedly lucid, travelling through a fantasy land that shouldn’t exist but did, in search of the one man who might be able to offer both an explanation and help.

The road wound its way over gently rolling hills, always heading north and Hannah imagined herself taking in her surroundings as the first settlers might have as they rolled into Virginia or Massachusetts. The landscape was green, the torrid green she had seen in films of rain forests or jungles. The grasses and rushes of the meadows, cloaked in a humid mist, gave way to the foliage of the forest underbrush, dense in spite of the interwoven canopy of leaves and vines. Shafts of sunlight intermittently broke through and lit the brush beneath the towering trees.

It was beautiful, and pristine. The endless green was dotted with patches of the grey-white fog. Stuffed far too full to rain, the clouds came to rest for a moment on the soft meadow grass, where Hannah imagined they dissipated into ten thousand miles of dew. And everywhere she looked, the land itself cried out that this place was alive and this place was dangerous.

Hannah wiped rain and tears from her cheeks and stared north along the muddy path, wishing she could find something familiar, anything, that might help her feel it was wise to maintain hope. Although her eyes rested for a moment on the mud-splattered mangy dog trotting past them, the sight of a stray wolfhound wandering along the road did not register as curious with the anxious young foreigner.