The Hickory Staff

THE SANCTUARY

Garec was snapping branches into kindling when he saw Gilmour stand suddenly and stare out into the forest. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, tossing two ends of a damp twig onto their struggling fire.

‘Steven is in trouble.’

At that moment, they heard the distant cry of a grettan emanating up from the valley. It reminded him of the scream he had heard when he and Renna swam to safety across Danae’s Eddy. Unconsciously he ran one hand over the knee that Gilmour had healed.

‘Let’s go.’ Mark was already on his feet, pulling on his cloak.

‘You and I can move quickly down the hill,’ Gilmour said. ‘Garec, stay with Brynne and Sallax. Follow our trail when you can. We’ll wait for you wherever we find Steven.’

‘Right.’ Garec felt helpless, but the plan was sound: although Sallax appeared to be improving, he was still in no condition to run anywhere, let alone through knee-deep snow in the freezing cold.

As Mark and Gilmour moved to depart, Brynne caught Mark by the arm. ‘Wait,’ she cried, pulling Mark to her. She brought his face close, looked deep into his eyes and whispered, ‘Be careful.’

‘We will,’ he promised, and kissed her quickly on the lips. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. I’ll see you later tonight.’ He hugged her hard against him, feeling a sudden rush of emotion, and kissed her again, more deeply this time, before reluctantly letting her go.

‘We’ll see you soon. Take your time, and don’t rush Sallax. We’ll be there. I will be there, waiting.’

Steven’s trail was easy to follow. As Gilmour set a rapid pace through the snow they heard another wail from the valley floor, a thin and insubstantial shriek. Mark could not tell whether it was a cry of anguish or rage, but the ensuing silence implied that one of the distant combatants had emerged victorious.

Every now and then Gilmour stopped without warning and closed his eyes in concentration. Mark assumed he was casting about the valley floor for some sign that Steven was still alive. When Mark suggested he search for the staff instead of trying to trace Steven, the magician reminded him the magic in the hickory stick left no detectable ripple in its wake, even when it was being used.

‘It has enough power to kill a grettan, though,’ Mark said, grasping for reassurance. ‘Look what it did to that one last night.’

‘That’s true,’ Gilmour answered, ‘but grettans travel in packs, and are quite intelligent enough to plan surprise attacks when hunting, even when they’re not housing evil sorcerers.’ He smiled grimly.

‘So if Steven didn’t see them coming-’

‘Right,’ he confirmed quietly, and continued down the hillside.

Mark, desperately worried, started cursing Steven for running off alone. ‘Hang in there, Stevie,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘I need you healthy so I can beat the holy shit out of you. You ever do this again and I’ll kill you, I swear to God I will.’ Gilmour pretended not to hear.

It was late in the day when they finally crossed the valley floor. Mark slowed to look towards the peak Steven had dubbed Toilet Brush because of the oddly shaped glacier adorning its craggy ridge. Gilmour watched as Mark’s gaze moved back and forth between Steven’s trail and the distant mountain.

‘He’s moved off course?’

Mark nodded. ‘But I’m not sure why.’ He motioned ahead along their current path. ‘The going here is easy. It’s not like Steven to get turned around – he’s one of the best climbers I know. He’s got a really keen sense of direction.’

‘Then we must assume his thoughts were elsewhere,’ Gilmour said quietly. ‘He was angry and frightened when he left. Perhaps he forgot to check his progress against the mountains.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right. We’ll just have to pray he’s not gone too far east.’ He drew his hunting knife and cut a length of red wool from his sweater. Tying it to a nearby tree, he went on, ‘We’ll have to come back here. It’s the most direct route to the pass above. Hopefully, Garec will see this marker, see the change in our path and realise they need to make camp here.’

‘Perhaps this will help as well.’ Gilmour gestured with one hand above Steven’s footprints and flame burst from his fingers. The heat was so searing that Mark was forced to turn away as Gilmour burned a long black line through the snow and into the frozen earth below. Smoke rose from the deep wound that delineated their change in direction.

‘Yeah,’ he commented dryly. ‘That ought to work. You’ll have to teach me that one someday, Gilmour.’

It wasn’t much later when Mark came to a stop and pointed towards a set of footprints moving at an angle up the hill.

‘There,’ he told Gilmour, ‘that’s where he realised his mistake. Looks like he was trying to cut the corner to make up time. Let’s keep moving before it gets too dark to see.’

Gilmour wiped his forehead. Mark guessed the sorcerer was mentally tallying a list of spells, searching for something that would ensure Steven was alive and unhurt. How ironic: here was one of the most powerful people in Eldarn, and yet he was unable to cast a spell to get them through this predicament. Mark gripped him by the shoulder and squeezed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’

As a light breeze began to blow Mark found himself increasingly irritated at the incessant whisper of the pine tree branches. He bent low over the snow, struggling to follow Steven’s tracks in the dim light. His back ached and he realised for the first time that day that he was hungry, as well as emotionally exhausted. He was ready to collapse.

‘We need light,’ he groaned as he clambered to his feet. ‘Can you make a torch or something for us?’

Borrowing Mark’s battle-axe, Gilmour moved to the nearest tree and hacked off a bough thick with green needles that were quickly fading to black in the waning daylight. No sooner had the branch come away in his hand that it ignited, seemingly of its own volition, with a pleasant yellow flame. Gilmour handed the branch to Mark. ‘Will this do?’

‘Thanks,’ Mark answered wryly, ‘ I didn’t mind spending the last hour stooped over looking for disappearing footprints!’

‘It was not an hour.’

‘You don’t remember how long an hour is. Gettysburg was one hundred and forty years ago,’ Mark reminded him. ‘I’m surprised you remember-’ Mark stopped in mid-sentence and stared at the scene before him now illuminated by the burning branch. It looked like the aftermath of a violent battle, and there was a circular patch of ground that seemed as if Eldarn itself had been wounded: an open sore left infected and festering in the Blackstone Mountains.

‘Good God,’ Mark whispered. ‘What on earth happened here?’

The snow had been dyed a deep crimson and the trees around were splattered with gore. Mark looked around and swallowed, hard. All his previous optimism vanished in an instant. There was no hope of finding Steven alive.

Pieces of something – maybe a grettan, or perhaps a pack of grettans – lay strewn about: a random collection of limbs, entrails and patches of fur. It looked as if the beasts had exploded with enormous force. Squinting through the thin yellow light thrown out by his makeshift torch, he saw the hillside was dotted with bloody fragments. They looked oddly out of place, red splashed on the otherwise unbroken blanket of snow.

Gilmour tore a second branch from a nearby pine and created a torch for himself. He moved rapidly, searching for any sign of Steven, but he could see nothing amidst the carnage.

‘What could have done this?’ Mark asked, his voice hushed.

‘Steven,’ Gilmour said.

‘But I though he couldn’t use the magic to destroy at will.’ Mark sounded confused.

‘It looks like that is no problem when he is protecting us, or the integrity of our eventual goal.’

‘But what about that tree this morning? Why did the staff respond then? That tree was no threat.’

‘That was strange, wasn’t it? I wondered if anyone else had found it odd that he was able to summon the magic by the sheer force of his will.’ Gilmour scratched at his beard. ‘He certainly is an interesting young man.’ He bent over to pick up a section of what appeared to be a grettan forelimb. Turning it over in his hands, he sniffed it, then added ‘This wound had begun to clot and heal. This is the same beast that came for us last night.’

‘Malagon?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Gilmour paused, and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘No, I didn’t detect Nerak’s presence earlier and I don’t now. I think this animal was injured, perhaps dying, and it attacked Steven out of fury, hunger and pain.’

‘So where is he?’

Gilmour moved around the periphery of the carnage, still looking for evidence that Steven had walked away from the devastation. He hadn’t found Steven’s pack or the staff, so he still had some hope that the young man was alive.

Finally, they came upon footprints, moving east through the forest. ‘There,’ Gilmour said, pointing into the distance, ‘that way. Let’s go.’

‘But why would he go east?’ Mark knelt beside the footprints and dabbed his fingers in the congealed blood trail that dotted the snow.

‘He wouldn’t,’ Gilmour stated, as if his conclusions were obvious. ‘He was carried.’

A look of fear passed over Mark’s face and he felt for the battle-axe as he considered their options. ‘I’m going after him,’ he said finally.

‘Mark, look at these strides,’ he said quietly. ‘They’re long, much too long for the average man moving through snow, especially while carrying someone.’

‘What does that mean? Who carried him off?’

‘I’m not certain, but I do know you will never catch up with them in the dark.’

‘What should we do?’ Mark was trying hard not to break down. His best friend was injured, maybe dying, and had been carried off into the night by an unknown someone – or some thing.

Gilmour put an arm across his shoulder. ‘We should collect the others, wait until dawn and then follow along this path as quickly as we can.’

‘Then I’m going ahead now,’ Mark said, resolute. ‘I’ll move slowly enough to give you a chance to catch up, but quickly enough to reach Steven if they stop for the night. If this is his blood, they won’t be able to get far without stopping to bind up his injuries.’

It was obvious Mark would not be swayed, but Gilmour made one last plea. ‘Mark, it really isn’t wise to break up the group even more. Especially not in this weather.’

‘I won’t leave this path,’ Mark promised, ‘and if the trail splits, I’ll follow the blood.’

Gilmour nodded. ‘Fair enough. We will be along as soon as possible. Do not take any unnecessary chances.’

‘Okay,’ Mark said as he hefted his pack. Holding the pine torch aloft, he asked, ‘Any chance you can keep this thing burning for me?’

Gilmour waved once; Mark could see his lips moving slightly. ‘Done,’ he called, and waved again as Mark disappeared into the night.

‘Which one is he?’ Hannah squinted. The tavern was dark and a cloud of tobacco smoke billowed out when Churn pulled open the unwieldy wooden door.

Hoyt joined her at the top of a short flight of stairs that provided a slightly elevated vantage point from which to view the entire great room of the Middle Fork Tavern. Alen apparently frequented this bar during the dinner aven. A great fire roared in the massive stone fireplace at one end of the room and a veritable maze of small tables dotted the landscape between it and the actual bar against the opposite wall. Behind racks of casks, ceramic jars and blown-glass bottles, two windows looked out on a broad thoroughfare running east to west through the village.

The windows, though large, were made of many tiny panes and let little natural light into the room. Hoyt thought the Middle Fork Tavern was as close to drinking in a cave as one could hope to achieve without actually climbing into the mountains.

‘I don’t see him,’ he replied, ‘but the light’s dreadful. Let’s take a walk; I’m sure he’s here somewhere.’

Churn gripped Hoyt’s shoulder and began signing.

‘Right,’ Hoyt agreed, ‘if we don’t find him, I’ll talk with the bartender. He’s sure to know where Alen has gone.’

The room was oddly shaped, much longer than wide, and canopied with an arched stone ceiling. It looked as if some entrepreneurial investor had walled up an unused section of sewer and dropped a staircase down from the street. Great beams framed the walls and outlined the arched canopy in a corps of flying buttresses holding nothing aloft. Hannah shuddered: she felt as if the ancient stone and mortar ceiling might drop on them at any moment.

‘Tell me again what he looks like,’ she said, ‘then we can split up.’

‘Older than me, maybe four hundred and fifty Twinmoons.’ Hoyt did the maths for Hannah and went on, ‘I think you would say about sixty or sixty-five years.’ He pronounced the strange word like ears, and Hannah stifled a giggle.

‘He had short hair last time I saw him, greying – it’s probably all white by now. Not imposing, slightly shorter than me, and a bit heavy around the midsection. If he’s eating, his plate will most likely have a gansel leg, two potatoes with the skins on and half a loaf of bread dipped in gravy.’

‘You know him well, then,’ Hannah laughed. ‘Good. You check the bar; I’ll go towards the fireplace.’ She reached out for Churn and asked, ‘Would you come with me? I don’t like the look of this place. It makes me feel like it’s about to come crushing down on us.’

Churn nodded and followed her through the crowd as Hoyt wandered over to the bar, smiling at several patrons and nodding to the bartender. He didn’t want to draw attention by asking for Alen by name, but if their search turned up nothing he knew he’d have to. Most people were drinking beer, but there were a few wine drinkers; Hoyt admired the heavy ceramic goblets they were using.

From an antechamber off the room came the aroma of gansel stew, venison steaks and roasting potatoes. Hoyt’s stomach groaned a sotto voce complaint; he decided they would eat here, whether they found Alen or not. He completed a circuit of the bar, but there was no sign of his old friend. He paused momentarily to watch three venison steaks being laid in a pan; the cook poured a generous quantity of red wine over each and Hoyt’s stomach growled again.

His mouth watering, he looked around for Churn and Hannah. When he spotted them they were near the other end of the room, moving between tables searching for the old man with the soft paunch and the white hair. Hoyt was heading towards them when he spied an empty space on one of the benches; he hustled to claim it before anyone else got there. As he sat down, more patrons rose to leave.

He caught Churn’s attention and signed, ‘Come over here; let’s eat.’ The giant took Hannah gently by the upper arm and began steering her towards the benches while Hoyt moved to the bar and called above the din of the tavern, ‘Bartender!’

A gangly young man with an unsightly skin condition scurried over and asked in a gruff basso, ‘What do you want?’ Hoyt was taken aback at the incongruity of such a booming, resonant voice from such a spindly body. For a moment he was speechless.

‘Come on, speak up. I haven’t got all day to stand around here waiting for you,’ the barman muttered.

Hoyt shook himself. ‘Three beers, three steaks, three bowls of gansel stew, one loaf of bread, the hottest you can find above the hearth, and one dancing girl, preferably younger than two hundred Twinmoons.’

The barman scowled. For a moment Hoyt wondered if the pox marks across the boy’s forehead could be connected to outline a map of the Pragan south coast. ‘For women, you need to see Regon,’ he boy said, gesturing towards a well-dressed patron sitting behind a corner table and speaking with two scantily clad young women. Hoyt estimated their age at just over one hundred and ten Twinmoons, far too young for that sort of work.

‘No thanks, I was just kidding,’ he said. ‘Just the food, thanks.’ He tried to manoeuvre himself onto the bench without kicking anyone: he needed to find Alen and he needed a hot meal – the last thing he wanted to do was get into a bar fight. He cast the bartender a friendly smile and adjusted his position on the bench. Shifting, his foot came down on something soft, a bag of laundry, maybe.

He bent down and peered beneath the seat. The bag of clothes was actually a man, passed out, dead drunk – or maybe even just dead. He looked as if he’d been down there for several avens. He was soaking wet, stinking of beer, with shards of gansel bones caught in his matted hair. He appeared to have fallen asleep in a puddle of vomit.

Hoyt’s stomach churned at the image of this foul-smelling old grettan first crawling under the bench for some rest, then throwing up, and finally passing out. ‘I do not envy you, my friend,’ he said to the inert heap, ‘you are going to feel like you’ve been pissed on by a demon when you wake.

‘But now, be a good fellow, will you? Bend your knees so I can sit down here without stepping on you all day.’ The man did not comply and for a moment, Hoyt thought perhaps the inebriated stranger really was dead.

‘Come on,’ he tried again. ‘Just a little now… bend your knees.’ This time the drunk obliged, rolling slightly to one side, and Hoyt gently nudged the legs out of his way. The corpse-like figure opened his eyes for a moment, peered out at a spot at the far end of the universe and then closed them again with a delicate flutter.

Hoyt shuddered. He looked long and hard into the man’s ghostly features and grimaced. He had found Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.

His heart sank. ‘Alen, oh rutting dogs, she is going to be furious.’ Churn and Hannah were making their way across the crowded room, eager for a hot meal.

‘Think, Hoyt, think,’ he commanded himself, then called for the bartender’s help.

‘What now?’ the boy said sullenly.

Hoyt tossed him a thin silver coin and watched as the homely splotched face split into a narrow grin. ‘Keep the change, and-’ he pointed under the bench, ‘and keep him here.’

Surprised anyone would be interested in the drunk, the bartender shrugged. ‘He’s not going anywhere. He hasn’t for quite some time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s been in here every day-’

‘How long?’ Hoyt interrupted. Churn and Hannah were nearly there; if the foreign woman were not to lose all hope he had to act quickly.

‘Oh, I’d say about ten or eleven Twinmoons now. I’m surprised he’s not dead yet.’

Bleeding whores. Hoyt turned and unobtrusively signed to Churn, ‘We need to leave, now.’

‘Why?’ Churn recognised the need for stealth and Hannah did not notice the two men communicating.

‘Later. Just go.’

Hannah smiled and took one of Hoyt’s hands, as if touching him would make it easier to hear above the tavern’s din. ‘This place isn’t so bad once you get used to it,’ she said, agreeably. ‘It’s a bit smoky, but we can wait a while if you think he’ll be along later. Should we eat? It actually smells quite good.’

‘No,’ Hoyt said quickly, ‘no, I know a better place down the street.’ That was an out-and-out lie, and Hoyt started praying to the gods of the Northern Forest that there was a reputable inn with hearty food within a short distance. Surely the gods owed him something.

‘I let the bartender know we needed to find Alen and he’ll keep an eye out for us.’ Gripping her hand, he turned Hannah back towards the stairs. ‘Let’s take a walk, find a room for the night and then eat someplace a bit less smoky.’

Hannah, still none the wiser, smiled. ‘That sounds great. Let’s go.’ Mounting the stairs, she added, ‘You know, I’m beginning to feel more confident about my chances of getting home. I hope we find him tonight. I don’t think I could sleep knowing he’s somewhere close by.’

Hoyt gave a half-nod, half-shake of his head and muttered under his breath, ‘If you only knew!’

Steven woke screaming as the bones in his lower leg were set. The morning sun was blinding and he could barely make out the blurry features of the dark Samaritan lashing his leg between two heavy pine branches. He lashed out involuntarily, but only one arm responded; pain exploded from his shoulder as he struck his anonymous nurse a solid blow. His lungs ablaze with the fire of a smouldering Eldarni hell, Steven screamed again before passing out from the pain.

Later, he was bathed entirely in white. No discernable line marked the delineation between earth and sky. Steven was moving slowly through a perfect ivory world. It was neither cold nor warm, and there was no scent, no fresh air, no colours. Squinting against the iridescent brilliance, he felt dizzy, and vomited across his chest. Sickened by the sudden foul stench corrupting this pure world, he attempted to move his head to one side, but discovered he was immobile, trapped in a chalky white dream. Unable to escape his own wretchedness, he vomited again, choking out a barely audible cry.

The blurry stranger appeared, more a dark intrusion among his bleached surroundings than an actual person. The silent caregiver wiped Steven’s tunic clean with a length of cloth and forced a wineskin filled with cold water into his mouth. Steven managed a swallow before the stranger spun away into the distance and the dark edges of unconsciousness swallowed him once more.

He was running through deep sand on a beach. It was summer and his thighs ached with the effort. A sea breeze blew in off the bay and he felt it pushing against his chest, holding him fast. I have to get down closer to the water; the sand will be firm there. He heard music, someone playing Bach on a pipe organ. The notes were clean, and each fell into place amongst the fabric of contrapuntal tones that bounced about his head like so many colourful balls. There were wonderful flavours, hearty sauces and grilled meats. Was there more in the kitchen, or should he take less and allow their guests to eat as much as they wanted? Be certain not to inconvenience anyone, Steven.

He ran his tongue over his lips, expecting to capture the vestiges of a delicious meal, but instead he felt them cracked, dried and scabbed over with clotted blood. When had he been hurt? Did he fall? Keep playing that music; it’s a nice way to pass the time, much better than pondering safe deposit boxes, Egyptian geometrics, or cell phones and calculators.

And then the stranger was with him again. Together, they were back in the seamless, bleached-white realm and Steven tried to smile, for no other reason than to let the stranger know he was happy here. He felt his lip tear open and tasted blood trickling into his mouth, no sauces or meats this time. And what was that behind him? Two tracks, long imperfections scratched in the ivory blanket thrown over everything in sight. Following their path, he realised they had been made by his own heels, dragging two thin lines into the distance.

Pick up your feet, Steven. You’re ruining the carpet. What would Lessek say? Lessek would say something confusing or incoherent, something to make him believe his role in Eldarn was complete when he knew he had more to do. Lessek would mock him from beyond the grave, sharing otherwise pointless images from Steven’s life, staying up late to watch the ’86 series or breaking his elbow one summer in Maine. Or he would show him a slow-motion film of the afternoon he met Hannah. Joking with Howard and Myrna, and why? To confirm that Hannah is really here, here in this foul Eldarni prison? The answers lie elsewhere, Steven. Was that it? No. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere. That was it. Terrific. The answers lie elsewhere; so our time climbing Seer’s Peak, risking our lives against the almor and possibly losing Versen was time wasted?

Screw you, Lessek. Save your own fucking world. It was the first time Steven realised he had been moving backwards. He started to cry.

Fever. What did Dr Wilson say? Fever was the body’s natural response to unwanted intruders. Anything that can live at body temperature will struggle to survive when the environment gets warmer. There was a song about fever, a line from that rolling Beethoven song. But this was Bach, one of the fugues. Steven could not name it; he could never keep them straight. His sister had a fever once; he had watched from the hallway as she writhed about on her bed. It had been strangely erotic, and at the same time, terrifying. He had worried she might die. She had been submerged in a cool bath before being rushed to hospital. Had she died?

He was sweating now. It stung his eyes and ran in cold rivers behind his ears and across his neck. He fought to wipe his face, but could not. He begged for someone – anyone – to mop his brow, but no one came. His ivory surroundings had disappeared. Or had he lost his ability to see?

No, she had not died. She was marrying Ken or Karl or someone and he had to get her china cabinet to California. It had been cold in her room that night. His teeth rattled together and he felt himself begin to shiver uncontrollably. The white world was gone, but a spiralling, colourful array of bright dancing rainbows had replaced it. Sweating. I wonder how much weight I’ve lost. Maybe I’ll wrestle next season. It’s a long time to stay this thin, though. How did it not make them crazy? Wrestlers. It was too cold to wrestle now. The referees would have to wear knit gloves. I wonder if I might scratch imperfections in these colours as well. Bring back the white blanket. I won’t ruin it.

I’ll pick up my feet if someone will just wipe my eyes. It’s give and take. I can avoid becoming a burden for all of you if someone will just clear this stinging, sodding, salty sweat from my eyes.

Crying out, Steven shivered, hyperventilating, as the faceless nursemaid wiped his face and neck. Then the stranger was gone and Steven was moving backwards once again.

Gilmour had been right. Whoever carried Steven away from the massacre had far more strength and stamina than Mark. He had been following the trail for several hours and the distance between footprints had not diminished at all. Steven’s captor was either enormously tall or running at full speed while carrying his injured companion; he would shatter all international marathon records back home. Mark knew there was no way he would catch up unless Steven’s injuries forced the stranger to stop.

Mark thought about making camp and waiting for the others to join him: it was obviously going to take more than a battle-axe to free Steven from whomever – or whatever – was carrying him. Having Gilmour’s magic available would help. Mark shook his head and continued trudging alongside the footprints. Steven might not survive the night. It was up to Mark. He might have the chance to kill his friend’s captor or to spirit Steven away if the opportunity presented itself. For either of those, he had to be there.

Shortly before dawn, the footprints turned northwards up the slope of a mountain still invisible in the darkness. Mark estimated he had run some fifteen miles east along the trail and his legs and back were aching from the uneven ground. He used snow to keep himself hydrated and finished the last of the boar meat for energy. He was pining for a glass of orange juice, or maybe a steaming cup of coffee. His body burned a dangerous number of calories every time he swallowed a handful of unmelted snow, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to thaw enough to fill his wineskin.

Mark was more concerned about food; none of them had eaten much other than meat since they started climbing. They would all need proper nutrition soon: Mark laughed to himself at the thought that he was actually craving vegetables. It was just a few days since he and Steven had promised to turn over a new leaf in the culinary department, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

The slope made him slow to a quick walk; he was staggered that the stranger’s pace didn’t change or falter, not even when the trail turned uphill. Gilmour’s makeshift torch continued to burn brightly and despite the freezing temperature, Mark had to mop his brow repeatedly with a corner of his riding cloak. ‘They’re heading over the mountain,’ he concluded out loud.

He hoped their path had not taken them so far east that they would miss the valley he and Steven had spotted several days earlier. Mark was certain that valley was their passage to Orindale. It ran northwest for as far as they could see; neither thought to estimate how far southeast it stretched as well. They never imagined they would need to know. Mark felt a pang of insecurity as he tried to picture the vista in his mind. He couldn’t recollect the far end of the valley clearly enough. Even though his plan of travelling north one pass and then heading west until they reached the valley sounded simple enough, the Rocky Mountains had taught him that apparently obvious orienteering decisions often left one lost or stranded.

Seeing his entire boot print disappear into one left by Steven’s captor, Mark’s thoughts shifted to how he might rescue his friend. Gilmour had said that they were being tracked by someone; might this be the someone he had sensed? And if so, how powerful a foe was he chasing? He wasn’t a confident enough swordsman to be much of a threat to anyone more skilled than the average twelve-year-old; he was even more uncomfortable at the thought of fighting with a battle-axe. Sallax’s words echoed in his mind: Don’t try to hack off any limbs.

Great Christ-on-a-stick, was he about to engage in a conflict where that would be a viable option? He wasn’t much of a fighter. He had been in a scrap with Paul Kempron when he was fourteen, and he’d walked away with a split lip and chipped tooth as he tried to avoid a burgeoning melee between hundreds of drunken Bostonians at a football game. That was the sum total of his fighting experience so far.

He tried to imagine what he was going up against: taller, stronger, certainly faster and more skilled… Mark wasted little time convincing himself that he was not about to get badly beaten, perhaps even killed. And if it was a creature with magical powers, like the almor, or the wraith that had so changed Sallax, then he had no resources to tap.

Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on how he might fool his quarry into leaving Steven unattended long enough for them to disappear into the underbrush. He had never felt less brave in his life.

Jacrys approached from above the tree line. He had worked his way around their camp and moved out onto the exposed slopes of the hillside before descending silently, a predator in the night. He knew the old man rarely slept, but even a Larion Senator would need some rest after the pace they had been maintaining, especially with the tricky slope awaiting them the next morning. He used a cloaking spell which made him virtually invisible, even to Gilmour, and was so close he could smell meat roasting above the campfire. They were discussing the foreigners’ disappearance; they had been tracking one all day, and were about to follow his path over an uncharted peak to the north. The woman, Brynne, was concerned their detour had taken them too far east, that they would have to retrace their steps to find passage to Orindale.

Jacrys was tired. He was tired of climbing peak after peak, tired of finding no real opportunity to complete his mission. He was tired of focusing solely on one kill. He was not a murderer by nature; he thrived on espionage, on the analysis and evaluation of situations and information, the political, economic, emotional and religious factors that influenced human behaviour. Travelling for days at a time with just one goal – and that simply murder – was boring, and exhausting. He might be about to kill the most powerful man in the occupied lands, but he would rather have been in a smoky tavern exchanging silver for news, or eavesdropping on a rogue Malakasian officer as he shared state secrets with a whore. Jacrys was adept at violence when necessary, and certainly not squeamish, but this was different. There was a point of no return for the nations of Eldarn, and he was about to push the entire world beyond it. With Gilmour dead, only the seldom-seen Kantu would have the knowledge and power to rival the dark prince, but it would not be enough. Malagon would rule unchecked until the end of his days.

Jacrys closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. Malagon’s family had ruled for nearly a thousand Twinmoons. Would it really matter if Gilmour died now?

Peering through icy brambles, Jacrys watched as the Ronan partisans prepared to turn in for the night. This was it: he would finally do away with Gilmour and win his freedom from Malagon’s continuous scrutiny – that was an uncomfortable place to be. Too many otherwise talented soldiers, spies, magicians and political figures had died without warning just because they had been under his watchful eye. Steven Taylor, the one with the key Malagon wanted so badly, was gone, disappeared after the rogue bull grettan attacked their camp. At least he had taken the deadly staff along with him. That was one less potentially life-threatening variable to contend with. The other was the bowman; he wouldn’t be able to flee quickly enough to avoid the young man’s lightning-fast bowfire, so he needed to disarm the young killer first.

Garec was posted to the first watch. He propped himself up against a tree trunk near the old man. Perfect. It wasn’t long before the bowman’s eyelids started to flutter, evidence of his losing battle to remain vigilant. When Garec’s chin slumped onto his chest, Jacrys drew two knives and moved slowly through the thicket towards his prey, thanking the gods of the Northern Forest for the blanket of snow muting his approach.

As he reached Gilmour’s side, the Malakasian spy hesitated for a moment. Prince Malagon was a cold, cruel and dangerous man, devoid of compassion or empathy. He killed without warning, and appeared to care little for the wellbeing of his Malakasian citizens, let along those of the conquered lands. Gilmour was a legend, the protector of the ideal that all people should be permitted to live in peace, free from fear and want. Could he actually kill this man? He was under no illusion of what would happen if he did not: he would be summoned to Welstar Palace and tortured for a Twinmoon or two, and then – if he were very lucky – he might be allowed to die.

The waning firelight illuminated Gilmour’s silent profile in a warm yellow glow. What would come of killing this man? Poverty? Civil unrest? The collapse of the Resistance movement in Rona? Most likely.

But Jacrys would escape, he would find a niche somewhere. Glancing at Brynne’s form, shapely, even beneath her blanket, he imagined he might even find happiness. He was resourceful, enormously so, and he would make his way as far from the coming conflict as possible.

As long as he did his duty, and emerged unscathed, he would survive. He wiped his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then raised his dagger to strike.

Jacrys slammed his arm down with all the force he could summon. The blade’s tip caught for the briefest moment in the thick cartilage over the breastbone, then plunged hilt-deep into the old man’s chest. There was a thin snap; it sounded like a pine knot exploding in the dying embers of the fire. The old man’s eyes flew open, a look of absolute terror. He drew breath to scream, but all he could manage was a gurgled, shuddering groan.

Jacrys felt his hand slide down the knife’s grip and come to rest on Gilmour’s chest. He was suddenly overcome by surprise. A look of genuine perplexity passed over his face: Gilmour, the legendary leader of the Larion Senate in the Twinmoon of its collapse, the most powerful man in Rona, was nothing stronger than flesh and bone. He was human. There was no great release of deadly magical force, no explosion of mystical ancient power. No brilliant burst of colourful flame radiated from the site of the old man’s now-mortal wound.

Rather, Jacrys’s knife slid smoothly into the old man’s heart and stopped it a breath or two later. Gilmour Stow was dead.

Lucid again after his unexpected moment of empathy, Jacrys did not pause to enjoy the fruits of his labour but turned and lashed out with the second blade towards Garec. The groggy bowman woke with a start, but he was too slow. Reflexively he tried to use the tree trunk to deflect the knife. Its edge reflected firelight and glinted in the air as it whistled past Garec’s throat and up over his shoulder.

But Jacrys was not intent on killing Garec; as his blade found its target the Ronan’s bowstring gave a sharp, punctuated cry and Jacrys quickly sprinted into the woods, disappearing before anyone could gain their feet.

Garec began running almost immediately, but the attacker was too far ahead to track down in the dark. Surprise had served the man well. Garec cursed loudly into the night as he gave up the chase and turned back towards camp.

As he approached through the trees, he saw a shapeless lump, rimmed by firelight, rocking slightly back and forth on the ground. Finally he recognised Brynne, and ran the last few paces into camp to join her. She was cradling Gilmour’s head in her lap, sobbing in anguish against his chest, her thin body wracked periodically as she drew short, raspy breaths. Sallax, his lips pressed flatly together, stood nearby, staring at his sister. He showed no emotion. Garec dropped to his knees, but he did not need to find Jacrys’s knife protruding from Gilmour’s breastbone to know the old man was dead.

*

‘Good night, Hannah – and please don’t worry. I know we’ll find him tomorrow.’ Hoyt waited for the door to close before he turned to Churn. ‘I saw him. I saw the mule-rutter there at the tavern.’

Churn gestured, ‘Why did we leave?’

‘He was flat-nosed, ass-over-hill dog-pissed.’

Churn waved one hand irritably in front of the smaller man’s face.

‘Yes, I know I can sign those things, but sometimes, Churn, we need to express ourselves a bit more eloquently.’ Hoyt’s fingers moved in a rhythm that somehow matched the timbre of his voice. ‘He was drunk… crushed… ruined as a whore at Twinmoon Festival.’

‘So? I’m sure she’s seen drunks before.’

‘Not drunk, Churn, absolutely demonpissing comatose. I should have checked him for a pulse.’ They made their way down a flight of stairs into the great room of the more reputable inn they had found.

‘I’m still not entirely convinced he’s alive down there.’

‘Are we going back?’

‘Yes. I didn’t want Hannah to see him. It’s better if she sleeps now, anyway. She’s been so nervous. I think she would faint if she saw him in this condition.’ Hoyt paused a moment, trying to remember something the pox-scarred bartender had said. ‘I think Alen’s been at this for a long time.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know-’ Hoyt broke off and announced, ‘Let’s go find him. We’ll bring him back to our room, let him sober up and make introductions in the morning.’

The Middle Fork Tavern was three muddy streets away. It wasn’t long before the Pragans were back in the dark room with the exposed beams and fiery maw blazing at the base of the far wall. They found Alen exactly where Hoyt had left him two avens earlier. The healer politely asked the men sitting around him to clear an area so he could extricate the drunk.

‘Shove off,’ a gruff, elderly man barked at Hoyt. ‘These seats are taken.’

‘Oh, no, sir, you misunderstand: I don’t want your seat, I just want to dislodge my friend-’

‘Do you have a hearing problem, son?’ The grizzled patron turned round with some difficulty. Hoyt’s charm obviously wasn’t working too well.

He tried a different tack. ‘Ah, no,’ he said, gesturing with an outstretched thumb towards Churn, ‘but he does.’

Churn stepped forward, gripped the bench with both hands and lifted. The heavy wooden seat, along with the four drinkers astride it, began to rise, slowly, from the floor. The old man’s quickness belied his age: in a heartbeat he was brandishing a thin dirk and lurching towards Churn’s exposed ribs. Hoyt was faster. Without a flourish he drew a small steel blade, honed to a surgeon’s edge. Two quick slashes, one to the old man’s wrist, just behind the thumb, and another across the fleshy part of the forearm: the dirk fell to the floor.

The old man, his hand now useless and hanging limp, slid off the bench to his knees. ‘You bleeding horsecock!’ he screamed, more in fury than pain. ‘You crippled me, you bastard.’ He started to choke back embarrassing sobs. ‘How am I going to work now?’ He looked around the room, hoping for sympathy, but everyone looked away, gazing thoughtfully into goblets and tankards.

‘Any local healer can stitch that,’ Hoyt told him calmly. ‘Go soon, and for the forest gods’ sake, keep it immobile until you get there. If you don’t, you’ll rip those tendons – and then you really won’t be happy. Go on, be quick about it. Get moving.’

Hoyt didn’t wait to see if the old man did as he was told but turned his attention to the filthy plank floor. There was Alen, still in a crumpled heap, sleeping – or perhaps even dead. He didn’t appear to have moved since Hoyt had nudged his feet out of the way earlier that day. Churn bent down to peer under the table himself. He raised an eyebrow at Hoyt and when the healer nodded, hauled the stinking figure out as if he weighed less than the sack of dirty laundry he so resembled.

Back at their own far more salubrious lodgings, they discussed what to do. Hoyt was nervous that Hannah might have been looking for them; perhaps, unable to sleep, she’d come downstairs to sit near the fire and sip tecan or try a goblet of the local wine.

‘We have to be quick and silent,’ he gestured in twists and flicks of his hands. ‘Up to our room. We’ll decide what to do with-’ he cast a sidelong glance at Alen’s cadaverous face, ‘- with him once we get there.’ He peered through a crack in the front door: they were safe, the room was empty. Throwing the door open, he and Churn carried their foetid bundle across the great room and up the stairs along the back wall. Hoyt could feel his heart rate slowing once they’d tiptoed past Hannah’s door. They were going to make it. Only a few steps further along the hall, then they would have all night to clean him up.

Creak!

Churn stepped heavily on a loose floorboard and Hoyt froze, holding his breath. He waited for what felt like a Twinmoon, then moved to their own door. He grasped the leather thong that threaded through a small hole to the latch inside the door and pulled.

Creak!

The ancient wood groaned as the door swung open slowly. Again Hoyt waited, motionless, his gaze fixed on Hannah’s door across the hall. The planks were pretty warped, he noticed. Nothing moved.

Shaking his head, he relaxed and indicated that Churn should go ahead into the narrow chamber. He closed the door as quietly as the moan of leather against wood and protesting hinges would allow and was several steps into the room before he noticed the candle.

‘Did we leave that-?’

‘No. I lit it.’ Hannah smiled enigmatically. ‘Hello boys,’ she said.

Hoyt was rooted to the floor as she stood up and stretched, then moved closer to get a better look at the grim carcase Churn had slung over one shoulder like the evening’s kill. ‘And who is this? A friend you met at a bar, or another body we need to dispose of before morning?’ Hannah was enjoying herself. ‘Oh, relax, you two! I don’t care if you went out for a drink. I just couldn’t get to sleep. So I started thinking about ways to find Alen and-’ She paused. They still hadn’t moved.

‘Are you all right?’ Hannah took a step towards them. ‘And who is this? Oh God, is he dead? Not another one. I was joking! What happened? Please tell me; don’t just stand there like frightened children. Who is he? Did he try to kill you? Is he a spy?’

Something broke and finally Hoyt was able to move. ‘Hannah,’ he began tentatively, ‘this is my dear friend, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’

Steven woke in the night; though it was cold, he could feel the warmth of a fire somewhere nearby. Struggling to lift his arms, he realised he was tied down, lashed to pine boughs and covered with thin wool blankets. He swallowed; his parched throat felt like sandpaper. Above him he could see an interlocking mass of branches, a near-impenetrable canopy.

He abandoned the struggle to loosen the straps when the tangle of irregular green branches started spinning before his eyes and he nearly lost consciousness. Slowly he realised he was not alone.

‘Who’s there?’ he croaked, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

No one answered. He tried to lift his head far enough to see across the campsite, but this time pain shot from his ribcage across his back. He remembered the grettan attack and his breath quickened as he recalled the image of his leg disappearing into the beast’s canine-studded jaws. Wincing, he hesitantly tried to move his feet. His left leg, although tied firmly, moved with little pain, but his right did not respond at all. Steven remembered the sickening snap of his calf bones as the grettan slammed its jaws closed above his boot. Now he could feel nothing from the knee down. Despite the cold, he started to perspire as he imagined the mutilated stump the animal might have left him. Sharp, jagged canines. Those pierce and tear flesh. It must be gone.

His ribs were broken, his shoulder was dislocated, his leg was ripped off below the knee: Steven was surprised he was not more terrified. He must be in shock. He was aware of himself and his surroundings, but his mind was protecting him from the thought that he was gravely, perhaps mortally injured. Except for the searing pain in his ribs and the dull throb in his leg, he felt little pain. His shoulder ached with every motion, but since he could still move his fingers, his arm was clearly intact.

‘How am I supposed to treat a shock victim?’ he wondered aloud, but nothing came to mind. He couldn’t remember how he’d done with first-aid training, but he was pretty sure he had not excelled. Mark would have scolded him and accused him of not paying attention. For a moment Steven stopped thinking about his own condition.

‘Mark, Garec?’ he called out over the campfire, ‘Gilmour?’ Nothing. Panic began to set in: had they been attacked as well? Were they all dead? If that were the case, how had he escaped – and more to the point, who had tied him up like this – was it for his safety, or to confine him?

All of a sudden Steven’s mind was beset with questions: where was he? With whom? Why? Using his good arm he examined the bonds that held him: several wool blankets were wrapped around him, thick leather straps and coarse hemp kept his legs, hips and torso straight. His head was held in place by a padded leather thong tied between the two pine branches that made up the skeletal frame of what he thought might be a makeshift stretcher. He couldn’t have been left to die because his – captor? saviour? – had left a fire burning.

‘Why won’t you answer me?’ he called in as calm a voice as he could muster. ‘I know you’re there; I can feel you.’

Straining to bend his neck, Steven watched smoke from the fire leaving a ghostly white trail. The ethereal tendrils danced slowly in the soft evening breeze. Steven watched, transfixed, as several pieces of lighter-than-air ash drifted upwards from the crackling fire. Then the smoke trail began to take on a more definite shape.

‘Gabriel O’Reilly,’ Steven said softly when he realised what was happening, ‘Gabriel, please come down here.’

The dead bank teller floated slowly down from the treetops to join Steven near the fire. He thought he could see genuine concern and compassion in the spirit’s features as he gazed on his broken form.

‘Is it that bad?’ he asked.

The spirit shook his head, as if to say, ‘I have seen much worse.’

‘Are both my legs intact?’

Again the wraith paused a few seconds, but this time he nodded.

‘Thank Christ,’ Steven sighed. His lower leg must be broken and numb, perhaps from the cold, or maybe because of a more serious infection.

‘Did you rescue me from the grettan?’

The spirit shook his head.

‘Who did?’ Steven felt anxiety begin to well up in him once again. This method of communication was so slow.

The wraith pointed towards the forest. Maybe he – or they – were off gathering food, water or firewood.

‘Are my friends nearby? Can you bring them to me? Can you find them?’

Gabriel O’Reilly’s spirit shook his head again, then extended a translucent finger into the air.

‘One of them is searching for me? Who?’

The wraith rubbed the back of one smoky white hand across his cheek.

‘The one with the dark skin, Mark? Yes! Will you guide him, Gabriel? I know you don’t owe me anything, but please, will you bring Mark here?’

The spirit stared down at Steven for several seconds before nodding slightly.

Then, hesitantly, as if his abandonment of his friends and his failure to defeat the grettan somehow made him unworthy to wield it, Steven asked, ‘Is my wooden staff here?’

Gabriel nodded again.

Steven asked, ‘Do you know from where it gets its power?’ When the wraith shrugged, he went on, ‘But Malagon fears it?’

The spirit shrugged again and Steven said quickly, ‘Right. How would you know? Sorry.’ He felt out of sorts, awkward and vulnerable without the staff. Now that he was alone and incapacitated here in the forest, he was deeply embarrassed at his behaviour. He hoped his friends would forgive his impulsive – stupid – decision to rush off in search of Hannah. As if one man, even with a magic stick, could face down Nerak… Steven’s face flushed as he imagined himself admitting that he had been attacked and nearly killed by a grettan less than a day later.

Steven turned his attention back to the wraith: he needed more information. ‘There is a woman; she is special to me… Lessek sent a dream, a vision, to me – at least, I think he did. Anyway, I think the dream may be his way of telling me she is here.’ Steven was waffling; he started again, ‘I need to know if she is really here, in Eldarn.’

Again, Gabriel O’Reilly shrugged.

‘That’s all right. I had to try. I am just so – so stuck here, so lost.’ Exhausted now, his voice trailed off. His head began to swim and he felt his vision fading. He tried to steel himself for more questions, but he lacked the strength. He made a final effort, croaking, ‘Please, Gabriel, bring Mark Jenkins here.’

This time the wraith nodded emphatically. He brought his facial features into focus, as he had on previous visits, and Steven realised O’Reilly was trying again to tell him something important.

‘There is one-’ He mouthed the words, but Steven did not understand.

‘What?’ Steven was drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘Say it again.’

‘There is one-’ O’Reilly tried a second time, but Steven’s eyes glazed over as his breathing steadied. Gabriel O’Reilly extended a nebulous hand, rested it on Steven’s forehead for a moment, then slid through the trees towards the mountain pass behind them.

Garec stood up and backed slowly away from the body. ‘He’s dead,’ he murmured to Brynne. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’ He filled his hands with snow and tried to wash off Gilmour’s blood.

‘He’s not dead,’ Brynne sobbed, ‘he’s going to be fine. He just needs some time.’ Supporting Gilmour’s head in her lap, Brynne looked as though she had been dipped in blood. Her face was streaked with tears and she coughed violently as she tried to regain her breath. She rolled up her sleeves and bared her forearms, then awkwardly pushed Gilmour’s flesh around the knife, hoping to stem the flow of blood from the wound. Though her arms were stained red to the elbows, it appeared her efforts had been successful, because no additional blood was seeping out.

But Garec knew otherwise.

‘He’s dead, Brynne,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘That’s why the bleeding has stopped. His heart isn’t beating.’

Brynne’s gaze dropped and she looked at the old man’s drawn, grey visage. In a sudden burst of revulsion, she pushed the Larion Senator’s body away and scrambled a backwards retreat across their camp to where her brother was still standing his silent vigil. Gilmour’s ancient body looked smaller, thinner than it had earlier that day. Garec reached down to close an errant flap of tunic that had torn away to reveal ashen skin.

Now sobbing uncontrollably, Brynne collapsed at Sallax’s feet. He reached down and placed one hand gently on his sister’s shoulder, the first show of emotion since his encounter with Gabriel O’Reilly’s spirit.

Garec looked around at the stoic lodge pines, tall and stately, ignoring the pitiful human drama being played out at their feet. This clearing, here in the Blackstone Mountains, was as close to a Larion Senate sanctuary as they would ever find outside Sandcliff Palace.

‘We have to give him his rites,’ he said softly. ‘We have to burn his body.’

Dawn was breaking when Garec finished amassing enough tinder for Gilmour’s pyre. Brynne had insisted on an enormous pile of prickly, dry tinder, to be certain their friend’s body would burn entirely away, even in that cold, snowy wilderness. Sallax helped, and despite his sadness, Garec was heartened at his improvement.

Garec hacked away at the exposed limbs of several fallen trees, then trimmed off the lowest hanging branches from a circle of lodge pines ringing the clearing. He felt a wave of fear and loneliness pass over him, turning his stomach and causing a moment of dizziness. The clearing seemed to brighten as his pupils dilated and his head swam. Angrily, he fought off the urge to cry. They were too far from home, in too much danger from freezing to death, being killed by grettans, Seron, an almor, let alone whatever other monstrosities Malagon was saving up for them. He had to keep himself under control.

Sallax methodically gathered branches; save for the gentle touch he offered his sister, he showed no other emotion, and said nothing. Brynne knelt near Gilmour, her bloodstained hands wrapping the body tightly into his cloak and brushing hair away from his cold forehead. Garec knew he would have to keep them moving, to keep them busy, or they would lose hope. Perhaps even he would lose hope.

A thick branch, still green, snapped back and struck Garec in the face. The stinging sensation across his already cold cheek was painful and he felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He choked back an almost inaudible, ‘No,’ and began chopping furiously. His vision blurred, but he continued hacking with all his might, cutting and chipping away at the majestic pine as if it had murdered Gilmour. The branch fell away, but Garec continued to chop at the tree trunk. He was guilty. He had fallen asleep, drifting off while standing watch. He had been awake a moment later, but it was a moment too late. Visions of the killer’s knife sticking out of Gilmour’s chest flashed through Garec’s mind and his rage grew.

Brynne and Sallax turned when they heard his scream, but neither made a move to comfort him. They watched, nearly motionless, as the young man’s anger played itself out. Then his arms, weak from effort, slowed, and his determination to bring down the entire Blackstone forest was thwarted before even one of the proud, disinterested trees fell.

Despite the thick wool cloak, Gilmour’s body looked tiny on the pyre of freshly cut branches. Brynne thought perhaps the magic of the Larion Senate had kept him robust despite his age. Now, with his magic gone, only a hollow shell of the great leader remained, like Riverend Palace: a broken monument to a fallen era of strength and prosperity.

Brynne watched as Garec drew a burning branch from the fire. She felt the urge to say something. There they were, the three of them, responsible for the funeral rites of one of the most powerful, the most influential heroes in Eldarn. It would be wrong just to set fire to his body without offering a eulogy or prayer of some sort.

‘We ought to say a few words.’

Garec hesitated, then returned the branch to the fire, kneeled in the snow and told her, ‘Absolutely. You’re right. Say what you think

…’ Behind him the sun crested above the distant peaks; to the north a storm was brewing.

Brynne looked at the billowy, slate-grey clouds, searching for the words, but nothing came. A feeling of abject despair crept up on her once again, and she muttered, ‘Someone else should be doing this. Someone eloquent. Someone powerful. We were just his friends. For most of our lives we never even knew who he really was.’

‘Maybe that’s enough.’ Sallax spoke for the first time in days. Garec looked up in surprise.

Seemingly unaware of her brother’s comment, Brynne steeled herself and went on, ‘His goal was to save Eldarn, to bring peace and hope back to the people of the world.’ She paused, thinking of the hopelessness of their situation. They probably wouldn’t make it to Orindale alive, never mind find a way to retrieve Lessek’s Key and return Steven and Mark to Colorado.

‘What can we do now, Gilmour?’ she asked rhetorically, her voice dropping to a whisper as she turned and nodded at Garec.

The flames began as a flicker at the base of the entangled branches and Garec thought he would have to ignite the tinder a second time to make sure it took. Just as he was reaching to light another branch from their little fire, a great cloud of smoke blew through the camp and the pyre burst into flame with an audible roar. Thousands of pine needles crackled and caught and fire danced around Gilmour, an ancient volta of spiralling scarlet and orange and vermilion and yellow…

Garec’s secret hope, that the old man might wake suddenly and spring to safety before his flesh burned away, disappeared with the pine boughs. The Larion Senator lay impossibly still as his cloak and then his hair caught fire. Garec turned towards the trees, unable to watch any longer.

‘Come on,’ he said as he hefted his and then Gilmour’s pack. ‘We have a long way to go today if we’re going to catch up with Mark and Steven.’

Brynne was clinging to Sallax’s arm, looking as if she might collapse if she let go, but she wiped a sleeve across her eyes and bent to retrieve her own pack. Sallax watched the flames a moment longer, then turned to join his sister.

They left the clearing and started moving north. The storm they had seen on the horizon was much closer now and Garec knew it would be upon them long before they reached whatever meagre shelter they could find inside the far tree line.

They were several hundred paces out in an exposed snowfield before any of them realised the fire had spread to the surrounding forest. Branches that had been difficult to ignite now burned readily in the chilly dawn breeze. Garec smelled the aroma of wood smoke and spun round to view his handiwork. Several towering lodge pines were burning brightly in the morning sun and he watched impassively as the fire spread like spilled quicksilver along the hillside. Somehow it seemed fitting that Gilmour’s funeral would be more than just another pyre of sweet-smelling pine and burning flesh. It was appropriate that the forest would burn with the Larion Senator’s body, the sanctuary itself collapsing onto its once-powerful leader.

Brynne had struggled to find something to say as they stood over the old man’s broken form. This was better. Garec wiped tears from his cheek and gripped his longbow as he watched the flames reach into the sky like prayers falling on a god’s deaf ear.

The Bringer of Death had destroyed the sanctuary. He had burned down the walls of the very place he had hoped Gilmour’s spirit would call home for all time. He pulled his cloak close and silently hoped he would be strong when the day came to reckon for his transgressions.

Huge clouds of black and grey smoke climbed above them and they could feel the heat of the flames as they tore through the forest like the last act of a rogue demon.

‘Actually,’ Brynne said, ‘it is quite beautiful.’

‘Yes,’ Garec agreed, ‘and it may serve to let Mark – and Steven – know where we are.’ He adjusted the hunting knife at his belt, shifted the crisscrossed straps of his dual quivers, turned back north and led the others through the snow.

‘It does end an era,’ Sallax said, but neither Brynne nor Garec heard him over the roaring flames and northerly winds. ‘Or maybe it begins an era.’ He cleared his throat, spat back towards the blaze and turned to follow Brynne over the pass.