The Hickory Staff

THE WRAITHS

Eldarn’s twin moons rose at nearly opposite poles, north to south, and the result was a calm sea with minimal tides. A light southwesterly wind blew the Malakasian schooner, the Falkan Dancer north along the Ronan coast; the sheets snapped taut with each intermittent gust that bounced out-of-phase off Pragan cliffs far to the west. In the dim light of the southern moon, Carpello Jax, the corpulent merchant with the bulbous mole on his face, argued with Karn and Rala about the fate of the two captives chained securely below. Carpello had no wish to arrive in Orindale without Prince Malagon’s talisman and was endeavouring to convince the Seron to kill their prisoners before reaching port. He believed the dark prince would be more forgiving if the prisoners died trying to escape. Arriving with two living captives who simply refused to disclose the whereabouts of the key would make them all look weak, and the Falkan businessman had no wish to appear weak before his prince.

Karn and Rala disagreed. If Lahp and the rest of their platoon had failed to find the key, and had killed the remaining members of Gilmour’s company, these two would be their only hope. The prisoners would be kept alive until Prince Malagon decided what to do with them.

‘You have an excuse,’ Carpello argued coldly. ‘He already possesses your souls.’ The puffy-faced ship owner held an ornate silk handkerchief beneath his nose and prayed for a stronger breeze to blow the rancid stench of the Seron out to sea. ‘ My soul is another story, and I do not intend to forfeit it to your master.’

‘Na.’ Rala was firm. ‘Two live Orindale.’

Karn nodded in agreement.

‘Then I suggest we step up our interrogation efforts, my disgusting friends. We have plenty of time between here and Orindale to convince them to talk.’

Karn nodded again. He was in favour of that, at least.

While the question of their continued survival was being discussed above deck, Versen and Brexan discussed their own options. Brexan guessed they were in line for a brutal interrogation. ‘They can’t go back to Malakasia empty-handed,’ she said. ‘And I’m quite sure that if your friends managed to escape from that horsecock Lahp, we’ve a tough time ahead of us.’ They had no idea that a half aven after they had been escorted from the base of Seer’s Peak, a grettan herd had torn through Lahp’s platoon, scattering or killing the last of that group in a maelstrom of deadly claws and teeth.

Versen sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. Apart from using an almor to stop us escaping, our treatment has been pretty fair, really. We’re still a long way from Orindale, but sooner or later they’ll decide they’re bored with our silence.’

They were chained by their wrists to support beams and sat across from one another, their lower legs touching in the middle of the narrow cabin. There was no natural light and the perpetual dark weighed heavily on them. Versen had never properly appreciated the power of another’s touch; now he ached for more prolonged contact with the young woman seated so near and yet so far from him. Being able to feel each other’s feet was the only comfort they had, and neither commented on it. Instead, it became an understanding between them: do not pull back. This is about us, and we will get through this together. Now, we have touch.

They sat for days. Sometimes Brexan cried, weeping almost silently into the sleeve of her tunic. When Versen heard her trying to choke back sobs, he racked his memory for off-colour jokes in an effort to raise her spirits. When the woodsman’s hope waned, Brexan regaled him with only slightly embellished tales of her training. Together, they kept each other sane.

The only light in the cabin came when one of the three Seron appeared in the doorway to hand over bowls of the oat and herb mush and to empty their shared chamber pot. With that done, the door would close again almost immediately. In those few moments, Brexan and Versen would squint across at each other, each starving for a clear glimpse, each knowing it would be avens before they saw one another again. Versen’s mind raced every time light flooded the room: was she getting thinner? Did she look sick? Was her face still swollen? As the door swung closed, Versen invariably reached the same conclusion: despite the dirt and grime, she was lovely, a sight to preserve his will to live and his determination to fight back. Her image was indelibly etched in his mind’s eye.

Despite the extreme discomfort, it took several days for Versen to work out that he could reposition himself. He found the chains holding him fast to the ship’s hull were just long enough to allow him to turn over onto his back. Squatting low against the wall, he stepped over the length of chain holding his left wrist in place. With that accomplished, he pivoted his weight around, crossed his arms and lay backwards on the deck with his feet pressed against the bulkhead.

When his head came in contact with Brexan’s feet, she yelped, ‘Rutters! What is that?’ and lashed out, catching him a glancing blow on his temple.

‘Stop it, Brexan,’ he pleaded quietly, ‘it’s just me. I’ve managed to turn around.’ He talked her through the same steps and when her head fell gently alongside his, he took a moment to bury his face in her hair. ‘Glad you could join me,’ he said, trying for glib but instead sounding almost boyish in his nervousness.

‘Never mind that,’ she interrupted urgently, ‘just get over here.’

His heart thumped beneath his ribcage as he sidled awkwardly across the floor on his back and shoulders.

Their faces met in the darkness, and when he rested his cheek against hers, Versen realised it was the greatest comfort he had ever known. Later, drifting into unconsciousness, his head tilted away from Brexan’s slightly, and the Malakasian soldier commanded, ‘Get back here.’ Her voice breaking, she added, ‘Back here with me, please.’

Versen shifted his weight, propped his head up on her shoulder and allowed his face to fall back against hers. This time Brexan turned and kissed him gently on the lips. He breathed in her aroma and fell asleep nestled against her, dreaming they were walking together among the rolling hills outside Estrad Village.

The first wraiths materialised inside the cabin like the beginnings of a dream. Falling like cascading water through the roof, emerging between loose planks, the ghostly figures began to take shape before their eyes. The hickory staff felt alive in Steven’s hands, charged with the fury of powerful magic. But would it have enough strength to defeat this army? He bit on his lower lip to steady his nerves. Beside him, Garec had an arrow drawn and trained, while Lahp was crouched low to the ground, weapons in both hands, and ready to spring into the morass of spectres at any moment.

Surprising himself, Steven said loudly, ‘Leave now and you may return to Malakasia.’ The facial features on several of the wraiths came slowly into focus and Steven knew they understood him. ‘Fight, and I will send you all back into the Fold.’

Would he? He hoped so. It sounded like an appropriate threat, given the circumstances. Seeing them hesitate, he went on, ‘I have already killed the almor. You do not frighten me.’

With that, the wraiths inside the cabin charged, moving as one towards Steven, their spectral mouths agape in a silent scream, like the echo of a suicidal cry from the edge of a cliff. Steven countered. He stepped forward, imagining Hannah trapped somewhere in the bowels of Welstar Palace, calling out to him in terror. ‘Come and get me,’ he challenged the wraiths, and slashed at the forward-most attacker. It had once been a woman. As the staff tore through the translucent head and shoulders, he saw a look of intense pain pass over the spirit’s shadowy face. This would work, but he had to be quick if he was going to keep them off his friends.

Steven swung the staff about his head like a broadsword, scattering scores of spirits, tearing them asunder. As before, he felt time shift slightly, and no matter where the attack originated – the walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath his feet – he found there was enough time to ready himself and to strike. Magic burst from the staff; he could smell it in the room, the ozone aftermath of a lightning strike.

Steven breathed the whole experience in like a life-giving drug. This was repayment for all the years he had let others make his decisions – because his will was weak, Slash! For all the opportunities he missed, because he would not speak up for himself, Slash! For the lifetime he had spent hiding in the shadows, Slash! Life was terrifying, but this was more terrifying. Slash! Death was in the room with him, and he screamed in its face: Slash!

‘More!’ he finally cried at the top of his lungs, ‘send me more. Send them faster, Nerak, you weak-willed fucker!’ He danced on his toes, leaping forward and back, spinning to strike at the strange spirit soldiers above and behind him. One spectre emerged from the floor at his feet and he stomped it out with the staff as if he were punctuating a declaration with a hickory cane.

This was what his whole life had been leading up to, and Steven realised he would not trade one day of his twenty-eight years to be anywhere else, to be any one else.

Periodically, one of the ghostly creatures would make an audible sound as it was ripped apart, a low-pitched groan that Mark could feel in his abdomen; he wondered whether the foundations of the cabin were about to open and drop them all into a hellish Eldarni abyss. He clutched Brynne to his chest, not just for comfort, but to ensure she stayed down, where she could be protected.

Whenever he relaxed his grip, even slightly, Brynne tried to slash at the wraiths attacking from overhead, until one passed very close to her outstretched arm and Steven barely managed to bring the staff around in time to ward the spirit off. Brynne felt the wraith’s energy bridge the narrow gap separating them and pulled her arm back to her side, shaking. She sheathed her hunting knife and cowered next to Mark. ‘That was too close,’ she whispered, still shuddering with fear. ‘You win. I’ll stay down.’

Holding Brynne’s hands for both their comfort, Mark peered over at Garec. Despite his fear that they would be overwhelmed at any moment, Mark watched the bowman in wonder. Garec was a thing of beauty, a true killing machine. He used his arrows sparingly at first as the wraiths focused their fury on Steven, but as more and more of the spirit intruders attacked, he intensified his retaliation. Concentrating his fire on the wraiths as they entered the cabin, Garec’s arrows, imbued with the power of Steven’s staff, took out scores of ghostly assailants. Howling in surprise, shocked that traditional weaponry could affect them, the ghosts flew into a rage and pressed the bowman from all sides.

Seeing them come, Garec fired twice with blinding speed then dived to the right, rolling against the wall and springing to his feet, swinging the bow like a club at his remaining attackers. He screamed thanks to Steven and the gods of the Northern Forest when he discovered he could use the bow like the determined foreigner was wielding the hickory staff, and three more wraiths fell beneath his deadly swipes.

One slow-moving spirit passed by and Garec hesitated an instant before striking it down. It looked like a man, a normal man, someone who might work for a merchant, or maybe a farmer. If Gabriel O’Reilly was right, each warrior ghost was once an Eldarni citizen, just an ordinary person who had fallen foul of Nerak, an average soul unlucky enough to join the fraternity devoured by the dark prince throughout the Twinmoons. They attacked now only because Nerak had sent them to retrieve Lessek’s Key, to kill the remaining members of their company and to ensure the eventual downfall of the world.

Garec wondered how Gabriel had managed to get free of Nerak’s grasp; he wished the wraith were with him now, inside his head as he sometimes was with Mark, to comfort him and encourage him as he dispatched these souls into the Fold.

Moving into the front corner of the room, Garec found he could protect his flank with the bow itself while firing arrows into the far corners. Twenty, thirty, forty arrows tore wraiths to gossamer shreds before they embedded themselves in the walls, and still Garec continued firing. He grinned broadly as one shaft dispatched three spirits before crashing through the hall window with a fourth in tow. The Bringer of Death: even to the dead, and Garec tumbled gracefully to his left, swinging the bow as he rolled to another stand of arrows.

Then it happened. Garec watched as Steven stumbled, in slow motion, his toe catching the edge of a loose floorboard. He pitched over, cursing and striking out with the staff until he managed to steady himself against the dining table – but that momentary lapse in his defences left Mark and Brynne vulnerable. Two wraiths quickly entered their bodies.

Brynne collapsed immediately, her slight frame lying deathly still on the floor a few paces away. Mark rose to his feet, raised his hands to the heavens and emitted an inhuman cry of pain and suffering.

Garec hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do. He swallowed hard, realised how thirsty he was and promised himself he would make a valiant effort to drink the river dry if he survived this hellish night. Two arrows stood, fletching up, in a wooden plank beside him. Holding his breath, he nocked one, drew and fired directly at Mark’s chest. Before the shaft found its target, Garec had nocked and fired the second into Brynne’s ribcage. Watching the arrows pierce his friends’ bodies, Garec felt the sting, the impossibly painful burn of flint tips and wooden shafts ripping through flesh. The Bringer of Death. He screamed in response to Mark’s cry, struck out with the bow at an attacking spirit and prayed his dangerous play had paid off.

He expected to see the wraiths burst from Mark and Brynne, like souls ascending to the Northern Forest, but nothing appeared to happen. Mark collapsed to the floor near Brynne and neither moved again. ‘Rutting dogs,’ Garec cursed and leaped to another stand of arrows, hoping to fire these as quickly as possible. He needed to create enough breathing space to cross the room into the circle of Steven’s protection and see to his friends. Could he save them? He had no idea what to do now; he might even have killed them himself.

Garec tried not to think about that possibility and instead launched himself back against the spirit offensive with renewed hatred. Two wraiths emerged near the fireplace and Garec pinned both to the pantry door. It was only when he peered beneath their disintegrating, indistinct forms that he noticed two more arrows buried in the woodwork, arrows he didn’t recall firing.

It must have worked: those were the shafts; they had passed right through his friends. It had to be magic; he had not drawn the bowstring back far enough to fully penetrate a body, let alone drive the shafts into the hard wooden walls. It had to have worked.

On and on the wraiths came, and the battle raged unchanging. To Steven it felt like it was half the night, but he neither slowed nor weakened, despite the near-constant actions of spinning and striking out with the staff.

Garec felt as though his arms would fall off, but still he continued to fight until his last arrow was spent. Then he backed towards Mark and Brynne, protecting them from attack along the hallway with the still-potent longbow. Standing back to back, he and Steven warded off wave after wave of ghostly assailants.

Then it ended.

The interior of the cabin bristled with arrows, each firmly embedded into the woodwork, as if the walls themselves had been the attackers. Garec dropped to his knees, rolled Brynne onto her back and began weeping when he saw she was still alive. Tearing open her tunic, he found no entry or exit wounds; he checked Mark’s chest to be certain. He had not killed them.

Realising, for almost the first time, that he had gambled with his friends’ lives, the Bringer of Death pitched onto his side, felt the cool floorboards against his face and sobbed aloud, unconcerned if anyone heard him break down.

Steven was not ready for the fight to end. A wild and untamed look danced in his eyes as he continued to curse Nerak. With the staff’s magic still coursing through his body, he whirled about, looking for more enemies, needing someone or something to attack, thirsting for another kill, when he finally saw Lahp. The Seron lay in a heap near the front wall. His enormous hands still gripped his daggers, but Steven could see the big soldier was dead.

Not even noticing his friends, he strode to the front door, kicked it open and walked out into the cold mountain night. Darkness had fallen, but Steven found he could see where he was going. His senses were alive, acute, as he made his way through the underbrush towards the river. Reaching the banks, Steven waded in, the glacial cold unfelt as the power of the staff fortified muscle and bone with the strength of a brigade of warriors. His limp was gone, his leg healed, the bones knitted together as if they had never been broken.

‘Nerak!’ he screamed into the night, ‘I will not hide from you, Nerak, and you will pay for Gilmour. You will pay for Lahp, and even your evil master will not be able to save you if Hannah dies!’

Steven raised the staff above his head and drove it deep into the riverbed. A wall of water leaped up before him and careened through the valley, uprooting trees and wrenching boulders from their resting places along the riverbank. He waited until it disappeared from sight then listened as it roared its way between the foothills and off into the canyon beyond. He tossed the staff to the riverbank, then leaned back until the water flowed over his head and chest.

Steven remained submerged until his lungs burned with the need for air. Pushing his wet hair back from his face and gazing down the valley towards Orindale, he knew they had won a great victory.

‘Now, Hannah, I am coming for you,’ he announced loudly. Eldarn’s twin moons flanked either end of the valley: just over halfway to the next Twinmoon. ‘Thirty days? Have we only been here thirty days?’ he asked the valley as he clambered back up the bank, retrieved the hickory staff and strode back towards the cabin.

Versen squinted against the bright sunlight as Karn led them to the raised quarterdeck in the Falkan Dancer ’s stern. The vessel moved briskly north and Versen welcomed the stiff breeze after the stale, humid air of their cell. As he breathed deeply to clear his lungs, he tried to calculate how long they had been at sea.

When his eyes adjusted he could just make out the coast in the distance, an indistinct, blurry mass that looked as though it had been sketched along the horizon. He was heartened to see land at all and for a few brief moments scanned the decks in hopes of discovering some means by which to take the ship – or at least gain control of the helm long enough to run them all aground. A cursory look was enough to dash his hopes: a tally of the crew of hardened seamen, not to mention the Seron, made it quite clear they didn’t stand a chance on their own. He sighed, and quietly braced himself for whatever was going to happen next.

Karn replaced their chain manacles with heavy twine, fixed a short length of rope to the bonds, then dragged the prisoners aft. Brexan, legs cramped and aching from her tenure in the hold, tripped a number of times, which brought jeers from the crew, who hurled insults at the soldier-turned-traitor. Brexan regained her feet and sneered down her nose at the sailors with unbridled contempt. Her eyes narrowed as she wished she were armed with more than just scorn. She would have enjoyed nothing more than to summarily gut one or two of the smug-looking seamen disparaging her from the safety of the rigging.

Carpello Jax was leaning against the stern rail, uncomfortable despite the near-perfect weather. Versen decided the ship’s owner could not be accustomed to long sea voyages; it was probably only his fear of Malagon’s wrath that had motivated him to accompany his crew of mercenaries on this journey. At his side Rala picked absentmindedly at a discoloured fingernail and Haden spat a mouthful of phlegm towards a scupper. The big Ronan grinned to himself as he told the nauseous merchant, ‘I’ll have mussel soup, mussels drenched in white wine and aromatic with savory, a venison stew thickened with a good Falkan red, with gobbets of meat spitting fat and juices, layered potatoes in double cream and cheese, and a goblet of the same- no, actually, come to think of it, I’ll wash it down with beer, a bitter golden beer heady with the finest hops in Rona and with smooth, succulent barley from the lowlands-’

The thought of all that rich food turned Carpello’s already unsettled stomach and Versen couldn’t help his grin as the merchant retched over the gunwale, then wiped his mouth on the silk kerchief. He glared at his prisoner as he spat, ‘Scum – but I am pleased to see you have not lost your sense of humour.’ He gestured at the scarred Seron. ‘It will bring me that much more pleasure to watch him beat it out of you.’

Versen glared back at him, all trace of humour now gone. ‘How can you ally yourself with these Seron? With Malagon? Does the idea of freedom mean so little that you would allow Malagon’s pets to order you around?’

The merchant came forward slowly and lashed out, slapping Versen hard across the face. ‘You’ll watch your mouth on my ship, traitor!’ he screamed, spitting into Versen’s face. ‘I take orders from no one but my prince – your prince, you rutting son of a whore.’

Versen didn’t react; his gaze was locked on Carpello’s right hand.

Calmly he asked, ‘That scar on your hand, have you had it long?’

Carpello Jax flexed his hand. ‘Believe me, scumbag, I have had it my whole life and it will not hold me back when it comes to meting out just punishment.’

‘And the mole, that mole alongside your cavernous nose? Have you had that long as well?’

With a malevolent smile, Carpello turned to Brexan, ignoring Versen’s attempts to bait him. ‘I must ask you some questions, my lovely.’ Versen imagined he could smell days-old garlic on the man’s breath. ‘Depending on how you respond will determine whether the scum lives.’ The merchant was clearly enjoying himself despite his discomfort. ‘Since you seem so little inclined to share what you know, I doubt your woodsman will see another day. I can assure you that our little chat will not prolong your life through the end of this – I would say, under other circumstances – glorious morning.’

‘A very good friend of mine looks forward to meeting you,’ Versen chuckled. ‘If I were you, I would take my own life rather than ever run into her again.’

‘A woman? I shall be enchanted, I’m sure.’

‘You’ll be dead,’ Versen said flatly. ‘And she will make it last for Twinmoons. You will be amazed at how much pain you can feel before you lose consciousness.’

Brexan was confused by the interchange, but said nothing.

‘Are you trying to frighten me, woodsman? I am not the one standing here in bonds and about to have a most unpleasant day.’

‘No,’ Versen replied, ‘not frighten you. I just wanted to make quite sure you understand that a grisly death is on its way to Orindale right now. You should run far, run fast – maybe sail on to Gorsk and hide out in the mountains. It might take her a little longer to find you that way.’

‘Well, I appreciate your concern,’ the merchant said as he dismissed the warning with a wave of his oddly scarred hand, ‘but I feel my own needs are the greater.’

While the two men spoke, the Seron had moved behind the prisoners; now, without warning, Haden picked up the merchant’s cane and struck Versen across the back of his legs. The woodsman roared and fell to his knees. Karn wrapped his arms tightly about Brexan’s torso, pinning her hands down; although she kicked and screamed curses, Karn was unmoved. She froze as Rala and Haden hefted Versen towards the stern rail and dumped him overboard. Slowly, as if he had all morning, the scarred warrior found the other end of the rope attached to the twine manacles – Versen’s lifeline – and tied it to a stanchion. It pulled tight as the woodsman’s body was dragged through the water behind the ship. Brexan wailed and kicked wildly at her captors. The crew cheered from the decks and up in the rigging: this was certainly better entertainment than a usual morning at sea afforded them.

Carpello watched, smiling, as Versen bobbed along in the schooner’s wake, then turned to the young Malakasian. ‘He does not have much time, my lovely, so I would encourage you to focus.’ Brexan could see his crooked yellow teeth behind cracked and bleeding lips. ‘Who has the key?’

‘The what?’ Brexan strained her eyes, trying to see Versen’s head come above the surface of the water. There it was. He managed a breath just then; she was certain.

‘Focus, my lovely,’ the merchant repeated, grasping her face in his hands and forcing her to look directly at him. ‘The stone. I am looking for the stone.’

Brexan’s mind raced; there was no time. Versen would surely drown. She had to act swiftly if she were to save his life, and there would be only one chance for a rescue. Trusting her instincts, she cried out, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll tell you.’

‘That’s grand, my lovely,’ and then to Karn, ‘Release her.’

As soon as the Seron relaxed his grip, Brexan reached back into his belt and drew his knife in a smooth gesture. She spun on her heels and brought the blade around in an arc that sliced across Carpello’s stomach, opening his abdomen through his frilly silk tunic. The wound was superficial, but it was enough to make him scream in terror. Brexan would have lingered over that look for the rest of the morning aven, but there was no time. Instead, she continued her circle, next slicing through the muscles in Karn’s thigh. Screaming, the Seron leader fell backwards onto the deck and the young woman saw her escape route open. Two steps to freedom. Already Rala and Haden were moving to intercept her. Using all her strength, the soldier took two running steps towards the stern rail and dived in. As she made her escape, she reached out with Karn’s knife to slash the rope: one swipe, one chance from midair to sever the cord and free the woodsman.

Her heart sank as she fell headlong into the water. She had missed.

Brexan slammed awkwardly into the water and a stinging pain lanced across her neck and back. She ignored the discomfort, kicking swiftly towards the surface. She had to cut that line. She nearly cried out for joy when she saw the taut stretch of rope rushing by overhead, a second chance. Breaking the surface, she saw Versen’s body coming up fast, not all that far from where she had emerged; she kicked hard two, three, then four times, desperate to reach the rope before he was dragged by. Too slow! She screamed inside her head: Faster! Kick harder. Swimming with her wrists bound together was nearly impossible. Bring your hands up. Reach for the rope. Cut it. Cut it now.

Brexan slashed at the thick hemp trailing Versen behind the Falkan Dancer, but the knife didn’t cut through. She needed a chance to slice twice or perhaps three times in the same place, not simply to hack away at the rope as it hurtled past her at fifteen knots.

Choking back a cry, Brexan spat out a mouthful of seawater, took a deep breath and in a last-ditch effort, leaped onto Versen as he was dragged by.

The force of the schooner’s progress nearly broke her grip, but she clung to his tunic belt. They were too heavy together and Versen sank beneath the waves, unable to surface, unable to get another breath. She inched her way up his body, careful not to drop the knife. Her limbs screamed with the effort and her lungs were bursting, but every time she thought she would have to give up, to let go, she remembered that Versen had been submerged far longer.

Then it was there, the knife against the rope. Cut! Cut faster. Hold your breath. Cut! Her eyes stung and her lungs burned for air. Gripping Versen’s wrists with her fingertips, she worked the blade back and forth as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t enough. She had to let go. She had to surface. She needed air. She had to leave him. Death first? No, she couldn’t do it. Her will to live was too strong. She would leave him to die. Slashing one last time with the tip of the knife, Brexan let go. She released her grip and felt herself slow down almost immediately as the Falkan Dancer raced north.

The sea masked her tears…

Then Versen was there with her. It had worked – that last slice had severed the twine and Brexan, empowered by a surge of adrenalin, reached for him and hauled him to the surface.

Coughing and spitting, the Ronan patriot struggled to speak.

‘Just relax,’ Brexan ordered, her arms aching with the effort to keep him afloat. ‘Relax and breathe. Just breathe.’

He coughed and managed, ‘He-’

‘Shut up, Ox. Tell me later.’ Brexan heaved him as far as she could above the waterline but she got his head and shoulders clear for only a moment before Versen sank back to chin level. ‘What could be so rutting important?’

Versen’s body was wracked by a long, wet cough, then he managed to draw several deep breaths before shouting, ‘That’s the bastard whore’s get who raped Brynne! That bleeding horsecock raped Brynne!’

‘When? What are you talking about?’

‘Seventy, maybe eighty Twinmoons ago, in Estrad.’ Versen coughed again and rolled onto his back to allow Brexan to finish cutting the bonds holding his wrists. ‘He raped her all night – she was young, just a kid. She’s been giving that scar to every ass-grabbing drunk in Greentree Tavern ever since. She doesn’t talk about it, but that’s him. We have to find him again.’

They were lost at sea. The Ronan coast was at least an aven east under full sail. There was no way they were going to survive – and all Versen could think of was avenging one of his friends. She could have kissed him at that moment, but instead agreed, ‘All right. We will. We’ll find him again.’

Then Versen was suddenly lucid. Treading water awkwardly in his tunic and boots, his face turned the colour of parchment.

‘The almor’s in the water,’ he said.

Carpello cursed. How was he going to tell Prince Malagon they had lost the prisoners? Please, by all the fustinating gods of the Northern Forest, let them reach Orindale first, before that black-hearted horsecock and his gargantuan floating palace. Carpello would pass the bad news on to someone else – an admiral, maybe, or one of the generals. They died at sea. It was simple. They committed suicide, jumped overboard to their deaths. That’s what it was, after all, suicide: they had no hope of surviving, leaping into the ocean this far from shore. They were probably dead already.

‘Come about, Captain Yarry!’ he shouted urgently, ‘come about! We need to find the bodies.’

Ignoring the blood running from his thigh, Karn grunted agreement.

‘Sir?’ the captain asked, ‘come about, sir? On this tack, sir, and with this wind it will be a half-aven before we’ll be back at the spot where they went in.’ Captain Yarry looked around at his crew, who were all nodding. ‘They’re dead, sir. It’s too far to swim to shore, sir, and that foul demon following us will have had them by now, even if the water hasn’t killed them. They are dead, sir.’

‘Come about, Captain, or I will have you executed for mutiny.’ Carpello held a folded piece of sailcloth against his bloody midsection. ‘You may be captain, but this is my ship, and we will come about this instant!’

Yarry ran one hand through his unruly hair and gave the order. The cry echoed along the deck and up into the rigging and the Falkan Dancer slowly lumbered to port, her bow coming around gradually until it cut through the swells, a knife’s edge leading them back towards Strandson.

Three avens later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Carpello resigned himself to the fact that he – they – had failed. The Seron had been particularly vigilant in their efforts, as if they knew it would be worse for them if they returned to Orindale without the prisoners or the key. Seron were assumed to be soulless and without minds of their own, but these three appeared to understand quite coherently that losing the Ronan partisans would mean death for them. Even as the sun faded in the west, they maintained their watch, squinting to improve their vision through the waning twilight.

Carpello shuddered as he imagined his own meeting with the dark prince. He had been praying for avens that Lahp and his platoon had managed to find Gilmour and retrieve the wretched stone. Although the bleeding had stopped, his abdomen burned; he spat into the waves and hoped out loud that Brexan had died slowly and unpleasantly, knowing she had failed.

‘Captain Yarry,’ he called softly, ‘back to Orindale.’

The Seron shared a look, as if they could not believe the merchant would call off the search, then secured their weapons, pulled off their boots and dived headfirst into the sea.

‘Rutting dogs,’ Carpello Jax shouted: there behind the ship, the three Seron warriors bobbed in the waves for a moment before beginning to swim towards the Ronan coast. ‘They’ll succeed or they’ll die,’ the fat trader mused. ‘It’s that simple.’ He watched them disappear into the half-light then called, ‘Full sail to Orindale, Captain Yarry.’