The Hickory Staff

THE BEACH CAMP

When Brexan woke, she felt warm and rested, somehow rejuvenated, although soaking wet. She shook the hazy semi-consciousness from her head and realised she was still neck-deep in the Ravenian Sea. Oddly, it was no longer cold – in fact, it felt quite warm, as warm as bathwater. Darkness was falling, but she could make out the Ronan coast; it looked closer now. Suddenly confused, she wondered how it could be that she was still alive, and how she could have come so far. She called out for Versen half-heartedly; the last thing she remembered was crying as he slipped beneath the waves. Treading water, she turned a circle, scanning the surface for any sign of him.

She nearly sank in shock when a voice called back, ‘Over here.’

Through the twilight, she saw him. His shaggy hair was matted down flat against his head, providing a frame for his bright green eyes, broad grin and chiselled features. He no longer looked pale, but robust and strong, fit enough to take up the fight against Malagon and his minions. Tears welled up in her eyes as she paddled furiously across the short distance separating them.

Throwing herself onto him, she wrapped her legs around his waist and cast her arms roughly about his neck. ‘I thought for certain I had lost you,’ she sobbed.

‘Brexan, I-’ Her weight forced his head beneath the surface and the last few words of his response were lost in an abrupt wellspring of bubbles.

‘Oh, demonpiss!’ Embarrassed, she let him go. ‘Sorry, I’m not trying to drown you now!’

Versen floated back to the surface and playfully spat a mouthful of salt water at her. ‘Good to see you again too.’ He reached for her, clasping his large hands firmly on her hips, and pulled her towards him. His stomach fluttered; adrenalin pumped through his veins as she pulled him even closer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of seawater and warm woman. He dared not speak, for fear of making a fool of himself, his emotions were running so high.

Revelling in his touch, Brexan stroked her hands down his muscular shoulders and finally gave in to the passion that had been building from the moment he woke from his coma and told her, ‘I love you.’ She ran her tongue over his lips, tasting the saltwater, flicking the tip of it between his teeth until he was almost dizzy with desire. He growled softly and took possession of her mouth, plundering her sweetness with his tongue. The two of them were carelessly lost in the moment and explored each other, hands stroking, pressing, teasing, while their mouths locked together. Finally Brexan pushed him slightly and he released her. As they gasped for air, she wondered, ‘Are we dead?’

Brexan started to cry again. ‘I saw you go under. I tried so hard to hang on, but it was so cold, and you were so heavy.’

Versen hugged her to him tightly, marvelling at her courage and strength of will. ‘You did everything you could. It wasn’t your job to keep me afloat.’

‘But I saw you go under,’ she gulped as uncontrollable sobs racked her body. Now she clung to his neck as she relived that terrifying moment when she found herself cold and alone in the middle of the Ravenian Sea, too far from land to survive. ‘I gave up. I decided to die, and I was – I was afraid we’d just sink to the bottom and that it would be dark.’ She felt a fool, a little girl afraid of the dark, revealing her feelings in a flood of embarrassing confessions, but Versen interrupted her.

He kissed her again, gently this time, and calmly said, ‘Brexan, it’s all right now. I’m fine. We’re not dead.’

‘But how?’

‘You mean who.’

‘Who? I don’t understand.’

‘I think his name is O’Reilly, Gabriel O’Reilly.’ Versen groped for an explanation. ‘I think he knows Steven Taylor, the foreigner I told you about. He came looking for us – well, for me – when Mark told him we’d been separated at Seer’s Peak.’

‘Where is he?’ Brexan sounded sceptical. ‘Did he swim off to find us a boat or something? And how did he know to find us out there? And how did he warm the sea up?’

‘Well, those are all good questions, and I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I think he’s here with us now.’ Versen’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead in an effort to convey lightheartedness.

‘What do you mean?’ Brexan frowned.

‘Okay, you’ve got to absolutely promise not to panic.’ She looked at him strangely and he laughed. ‘Not helpful? I can see that. Just remember: Gabriel saved us, all right?’ She nodded agreement and held Versen a little bit tighter.

‘Gabriel O’Reilly is a wraith, a spirit of sorts, here from Steven and Mark’s Colorado. He provided a body for Nerak to travel between Colorado and Eldarn a little over nine hundred and eighty Twinmoons ago.’

‘So when you say “here with us”, you mean floating around here somewhere?’ Brexan began searching the skies, squinting into the twilight.

‘No, I mean, here, with us.’ He placed a finger on Brexan’s breastbone, just below her neck. ‘Inside us, warming us from within, and lending us the physical strength we need to survive.’

Brexan looked askance at him. ‘Inside us? Us both?’

‘I am,’ a gentle voice echoed in her mind.

Brexan cried out in surprise, ‘Great gods of the Northern Forest!’ and renewed her iron grip about Versen’s neck. ‘Was that him? Did you hear it too?’

‘I did,’ Versen said, stroking her arm in an effort to calm her down, ‘he and I have been talking for much of the past aven. You were unconscious, but he kept you alive as he helped drag us along through the water.’

‘But how is he doing that? How did he get inside us like that?’

‘He did it to save our lives – without him, I would be- we would both be dead by now. He tracked us from the Blackstones; I don’t know how, but I’m surely glad he did. And he’s brought news of the others. They were attacked by an army of spirits, similar to him, but thousands of them – and definitely not on our side. My friends were holed up in a little cabin on the northern slope of the Blackstone Mountains, not far from the Falkan border. Steven and Garec were preparing to fight them off.’ He paused.

‘What happened?’ Brexan asked, her mouth hanging open a little. Versen smiled, pleased her curiosity had overcome her initial fear.

‘I had to flee.’ Brexan jumped a little as O’Reilly’s voice spoke inside her head.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It may take me some time to get used to having you in there.’

‘My apologies. I will try to surprise you less frequently as we make our way to shore.’

Brexan was so preoccupied at the thought of a thousand-Twinmoon-old spirit haunting her mind that she had briefly forgotten she and Versen were still a long distance from shore, and still in danger of drowning.

‘So, what of Versen’s friends?’ she asked, returning to the topic at hand. ‘Why did you run away?’

‘The spirits who attacked the forest cabin were like me, souls summoned by Nerak to hunt down and retrieve the key to the spell table in Sandcliff Palace. There were thousands of them. I would have been tortured and cast back into the Fold had they detected my presence. If I was to be any assistance to your cause – to our cause – I had to get away.’

The wraith’s voice was a smooth baritone; Brexan wondered if their curious saviour sounded the same to Versen.

The spirit continued, ‘In the moments before the attack, I warned Mark, and then fled west to find you, Versen.’

‘I am extraordinarily glad you did so,’ Versen said with a chuckle.

Brexan smiled at the sight of Versen speaking aloud to no one. He was alive, so very much alive. His head was cast back slightly, and he spoke in a raised voice, as if the wraith was floating above the surface of the water rather than communicating from inside their bodies. She grimaced suddenly; she wasn’t sure how keen she was on some disembodied spirit being inside her while she and Versen were kissing. She flushed bright red. If Gabriel O’Reilly had read her thoughts, he must be appalled at her forwardness… Brexan blushed again, and buried her face in the water for several moments. Changing the topic, she asked, ‘You said “our cause” – how is this your cause?’

‘I am – I was – a bank manager, and it was I who allowed the miner William Higgins to open the account that sealed the far portal and Lessek’s Key away for almost a thousand Twinmoons. I was the last man to carry the evil prince back to Eldarn across the Fold.’ The spirit’s voice hesitated, then continued softly, ‘I suffered an agony unlike anything I had ever imagined when that man – that thing – was inside my body. I could feel parts of me dying, and yet I could do nothing to save myself. I could not cry out, could not bandage my wounds, could not share my thoughts with anyone. I was at his mercy, and in all these years, these Twinmoons, I have been able to do little more than relive that memory, again and again.’

Gabriel O’Reilly’s voice seemed to crack, and Brexan found herself touched by the wraith’s tragic story. ‘So you have issues to settle with our sovereign lord as well,’ she said, her tone icy.

‘Indeed I do.’

‘Then let’s get moving. We need to get to Orindale and see if the others have made it into the city.’ She started swimming, then stopped again and said, ‘Thank you. I don’t think we’ve actually said that, have we? You saved our lives, and for that alone we can never repay you. And thanks to you, we know the others cleared the Blackstones. That’s an amazing accomplishment in itself. If they managed to escape the wraiths, they might already be in Orindale.’

O’Reilly answered for both of them to hear, ‘There are several fishermen pulling nets not far from here. They will take us to shore. I will remain in you until you have slept and regained some of your own strength. Then we can travel north together.’

An elderly fisherman, shocked anyone would be swimming so far from shore, heaved the duo roughly into his small skiff. Brexan cringed as she landed in a heaping pile of enormous jemma fish. She slipped along the seaman’s scaly carpet and curled up in a small space in the bow. She was asleep before her head hit the deck.

Versen spent a half-aven talking with the fisherman, attempting to explain how he and the young woman had managed to become lost, and then survived the cold autumn waters, when no vessel had been sighted since the twilight aven began. The fisherman, Caddoc Weston, continued pulling in his nets as he humoured his new passengers. He did not believe they had been on a sailing vessel that sank suddenly when some planking came loose in her hull, and a few carefully worded questions about navigation, prevailing winds and rigging confirmed the big Ronan was lying. Versen knew nothing of ships save what little he had gleaned while chained up in the Falkan Dancer. Realising he was caught out, he shrugged and gave a half smile. The fisherman nodded and the matter was dropped.

In an effort to redirect their conversation, Versen asked about the pile of jemma fish.

‘Good night tonight,’ Caddoc said laconically. ‘Large schools of jemma are moving south this Twinmoon. The fishing’s been good.’ A series of hacking coughs racked his frame and he spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm over the side.

‘Are you all right?’ Versen moved to assist him.

‘Fine. I’m fine.’ A second coughing fit had the veins in his neck bulging. Wiping his chin on the back of his wrist, he added, ‘We all die. I get to do it out here.’ He gestured with a bony hand at the Ravenian Sea and Versen realised for the first time since leaving Strandson that the southern ocean was beautiful.

‘You should get some sleep too,’ Caddoc suggested. Versen thought, unnervingly, that he already looked like a skeleton in the waning light.

Picking his way forward to join Brexan in the bow, Versen marvelled at the irony of an alarmingly thin fisherman surrounded by such a bounteous catch. ‘He must not eat any of it,’ he mumbled to himself.

‘I suppose not,’ Gabriel surprised him by answering.

Just after dawn Caddoc carefully manoeuvred the small skiff into the shallows off a narrow strip of sand flanked by rolling dunes. Slowing to a stop, the skiff began to turn in the tide and was soon pitching lazily on the incoming waves. Brexan woke as their host began striking his sail and stowing the small mast. She started to stretch, but was alarmed to find her legs refused to move; it was only when she rubbed the sleep from her eyes that she discovered she and Versen were buried to the waist in jemma fish.

‘Oh, whoring grettanlovers!’ she exclaimed, recoiling from the strong-smelling cargo.

Versen woke and wrapped his arms tightly about her waist. Resting his cheek against her breasts, he yawned and grinned a greeting to the fisherman. ‘You were right.’

‘Yes,’ Caddoc replied, rather more enthusiastic than he had been, ‘I told you it would be a good night.’

‘Ox!’ Brexan was disgusted. ‘How can you be so happy? We were nearly entombed in dead fish.’

‘It appears we were.’

‘Do you have any idea just how appalling you’re going to smell when we get out of here?’ She nudged him playfully in the ribs.

‘You’ve been telling me that for the past Twinmoon.’ He stretched and sat up. ‘I suggest you learn to love me as I am.’

‘Malodorous and badly in need of a shave?’ She pulled a length of matted hair, thick with jemma scales, behind one ear. ‘Not a chance!’

‘All right,’ he teased, ‘but I thought we had something going here.’

‘Ah, so now the truth-’

The fisherman cleared his throat and glanced down at the couple lying hip-deep in his overnight catch. Embarrassed, his face flushed red and he nodded towards shore.

Versen got it and pulled himself up, holding fast to the gunwale so he didn’t slip, then he helped Brexan to her feet. They laughed at the absurdity, offered their sincere thanks, and jumped overboard into the shallows. Thigh-deep in the waves, they turned and waved again, then began walking towards the dunes.

Several paces away, Versen suddenly remembered their destination. Turning back, he shouted, ‘How far to Orindale?’

‘Walking? Four, maybe five days. Good luck,’ he replied then reached down and hefted a large jemma fish to his chest. He tossed it to Versen and advised, ‘Fillet this soon. It should be enough to get you to Orindale.’

Waving their thanks, both for the rescue and the unexpected bounty, they set off to the shore. Caddoc watched as Versen helped the young lady up the sand, then turned back to his haul. ‘No accounting for the sea,’ he said to himself as the strange couple disappeared behind the dunes.

It took them a quarter-aven to reach the top of the tallest dune. Versen, his bare feet buried ankle-deep in sand, held the jemma by the tail and waved out at the slowly disappearing fisherman with the other. The skiff’s single sail, a tiny triangle interrupting the smooth blue backdrop, soon slipped from view. Beside him, Brexan looked around as if expecting someone to emerge and welcome them back to Rona. Or were they in Falkan now? She thought they might have been carried far enough north to have crossed the border, especially if they were only five days’ travel from Orindale.

Watching the waves break across the beach, Versen said, ‘We should get as far as we can today, but if you’re hungry, we can eat some of this now.’

Without answering, Brexan grasped him firmly by the forearm, removed the fish from his fist, dropped it to the sand and began leading him down the dune’s lee slope.

‘What are you doing?’ the Ronan asked.

‘Hush, Ox,’ she commanded, and began unfastening the leather strips holding his tunic closed at the neck.

Feeling her fingertips brush against his chest, Versen inhaled her aroma, all dead fish and tidewater. He winced: not very alluring – but his body responded to her touch regardless. As he leaned into her, his cheek brushed against the swollen purple bruise that still marked the place where Lahp had punched her. ‘I thought I smelled bad,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll breathe through my mouth,’ Brexan muttered, then kissed him quickly and returned to her struggle to undress him. The Malakasian soldier finally gave up grappling with wet leather knots and turned her attention to the woollen ties holding his leggings tight around his hips.

His excitement growing, Versen slipped his hands under the edge of her tunic and pulled it up, exposing her pale skin to the cool onshore breeze. Moving to accommodate him, Brexan crossed her arms, hastily grabbed the front hem of her tunic and prepared to pull it over her head – until, without warning, Versen gripped her by the shoulders and pinned her arms down.

‘Don’t,’ he said, despite his nearly paralysing desire to see her naked in the morning sun.

‘But I want to,’ she replied, with a pout that drove him mad.

‘Brexan, we’re not alone here.’

Pulling her tunic around her torso, the young woman exclaimed, ‘Rutting gods, O’Reilly, are you still here?’

Quiet peals of laughter chimed in her head. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Could you give us an aven or two of privacy?’

The ghost of the bank manager replied, ‘I am concerned you may not feel very well if I depart. Without me you will find yourselves very weak.’

‘We’ll risk it for the moment.’ Brexan did not want to seem ungrateful, but her mind was made up. She’d been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

‘I will return later this morning.’

Brexan felt a wave of nausea pass through her body as the wraith departed; a thin wisp of smoky white gathered itself above their heads and drifted east into a sparsely wooded piece of ground behind the dunes. Her vision tunnelled and her head spun in a momentary attack of vertigo. Feeling an urgent need to lie down, Brexan pressed both palms against the broad expanse of Versen’s chest and forced him into the sand beside her.

A while later, they both slept again.

Steven woke for his watch, rolled onto his side and stretched the stiffness from his back and legs. ‘A bed. I would give just about anything for one night in a real bed. Sprung mattress. Linen sheets. Oh God-’ His neck cracked as he twisted his head from side to side.

‘Soon, my friend, very soon,’ Garec promised. ‘Orindale has wonderful taverns, with hot food, soft down pillows and warm woollen blankets.’

‘I want some new clothes, too. I smell like a rotting corpse in these rags.’ He tugged at the sleeve of his filthy tunic.

‘Brynne and I will take you shopping.’

‘I still have some of that silver we stole in Estrad.’

‘Plenty to completely re-outfit both of you in the finest city fashions.’ Garec’s eyes danced in the flickering light. He was amused at Steven’s grievances when they were buried here beneath the earth in the lair of a bone-gathering monster that might spring upon them at any moment.

‘I don’t need fine fashions, Garec, just clothes that are durable and comfortable.’ He rubbed his eyes, then reached out, took Garec by the wrist and peered down at the watch he had given the young bowman at the start of their journey. ‘Two o’clock,’ he yawned. ‘Of course that means nothing here. It might be the middle of the day or the middle of the night for all I know.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, it’s not your fault. Just don’t let me look at that thing again. It’s depressing.’ He hauled himself to his feet and walked over to where Brynne lay, still fast asleep. He nudged her gently with his foot. ‘Wake up, sleepyhead. We’re on deck.’ He was groggy himself, and not surprised that the young woman barely moved at his touch.

‘On deck?’ Garec asked.

‘Oh, nothing,’ he said and nudged her again. ‘Geez, she can sleep anywhere.’

‘I know,’ Garec agreed. ‘It is a little disconcerting sometimes. Sallax used to jokingly check her for a heartbeat.’

‘Ah, forget it. Let her sleep. She needs it. I’ll be all right by myself.’ He tightened his belt another notch and looked about their camp. ‘Where’s the staff?’ He didn’t appear to be troubled by the fact that the hickory stick was the first thing he sought upon waking.

Swallowing dryly, Garec recalled Steven’s display of magic without benefit of the staff and searched for the right words. ‘Yes, well, about that-’

‘Is it on the raft?’ Steven wasn’t paying attention. ‘That’s a good little fire you have going there, Garec. Ah, here it is.’ He strode to the stone wall and retrieved the smooth length of wood. ‘Do we have any tecan? I could use a bucket or two.’

Garec decided to drop the subject of magic for the moment. ‘No, all we had was drenched as we came through the rapids. I’m sure we left a trail of brown runoff in our wake.’

‘Criminal.’

‘Couldn’t agree more.’

Mark joined them. ‘There’s some food in Brynne’s pack, and feel free to burn more of that log if it starts to die out.’

‘I think we ought to save that,’ Steven replied. ‘Who knows how long we might be down here? It might come in handy later.’ With that, he stamped out their campfire and allowed the absolute darkness of the underground cavern to swallow them. Garec and Mark heard him exhale deeply, then watched as a small fire burst into view where their campfire had been an instant before.

‘I can keep this going while you two get some rest,’ Steven said. ‘When you wake we’ll eat again and then continue down the shoreline.’ He placed the staff on the ground near the fire and began rummaging through his pack.

Garec looked at Mark, shrugged, and folded himself within the protective layers of his blanket. He rolled over to feel the fire’s warmth across his back and was asleep before Mark could spread his own blanket out on the pebbly ground.

Two avens later, Garec woke with a cry and leaped to his feet. Without really knowing why, he checked the watch, and wondered what that rune meant, the one Steven and Mark called ‘Seffen’.

Brynne was already awake. She left her perch on one corner of the Capina Fair ’s deck and asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, and peered into the darkness as if anticipating someone’s arrival. ‘Did you hear something?’

‘Only you jumping out of bed.’ She crouched beside him. ‘Go back to sleep, Garec. You look tired.’

Steven observed their exchange over his shoulder, but remained where he was, standing watch out near the edge of the firelight. He had heard something.

‘I’m all right,’ Garec insisted as he continued staring at the wall of darkness shrouding their camp on all sides. ‘I just thought I heard something.’

‘Well, there’s nothing out there,’ Brynne said, comfortingly. ‘We haven’t heard or seen anything in the past two-’

She was cut off by a wave of shouts, commands and warnings hurled at them from the darkness. Garec dived for his bow and quivers while Brynne reached for a rapier, her dagger, and the hunting knife that was never more than an arm’s length away. She scanned the darkness, half-expecting to see an army of bone-hunters skimming across the surface of the water on spiked tentacles or diving down at them from the obsidian sky – then she realised the cries were human.

Suddenly angry, Brynne prepared herself for a fight. ‘Come right in,’ she cried as Steven’s firelight gleamed along the carefully honed edge of her knife. ‘I haven’t disembowelled anyone in a couple of Twinmoons and I am ready for you!’ She felt the heat of battle rage through her body as she quickly discarded the thick woollen tunic she wore over her cotton undergarment: she needed to be agile and quick, not weighed down by heavy clothing. The number of intruders approaching their camp sounded formidable.

Then Mark was by her side, his battle-axe poised to strike. He didn’t look comfortable. ‘What’s happening?’ he shouted unnecessarily.

‘We’re about to come under attack.’ She shot him a sexy grin and reminded, ‘Remember, don’t try to hack off any limbs – especially not your own.’

Mark gurgled an incoherent reply, regained his senses and yelled to Steven, ‘Hey, how about some light?’

Calmly, Steven nodded, closed his eyes and held one hand out, palm-down. He made a sweeping gesture from shoreline to shoreline: this would get their attention! All at once, scores of enemy torches that had been extinguished to ensure a stealthy approach burst into flame and illuminated the cavern around their camp. The four friends gaped at the force coming towards them. Ten longboats, each loaded with twenty or more armed warriors were approaching over the lake while another crowd of assailants were creeping over the rocky shore to surround their camp: a classic pincer movement.

Mark guessed the screams were meant to intimidate and demoralise, but as all their torches sprang to light simultaneously, their shouting died out in an instant. There was an unexpected hissing as a number of the attackers, stunned by the sudden fire in their hands, dropped their torches into the water. One was so startled that his flaming branch fell into the longboat and cries of warning and anger were replaced by screams of pain and surprise as several men struggled to stamp out the strangely resilient flame dancing about inside their vessel. What had begun as a highly organised silent ambush had evolved into a confused and broken attack, all strategy forgotten, thanks to Steven’s magic.

Cries of ‘Evil magic! Demon fire!’ and ‘Retreat!’ replaced the previous intimidating threats. Steven set his jaw in determination, hoping he had turned the tide before the battle began.

One voice rose above the others. ‘Stand fast!’ it commanded urgently, ‘it’s just a trick. Stand fast!’

Garec had an arrow nocked and ready to fire; two additional quivers were standing ready by his hand. He took in as many details of the enemy as possible. They did not appear to be Malakasian, or if they were, they did not wear Prince Malagon’s colours. On closer examination, he wasn’t even sure they were soldiers: they were a ragtag band of men and women of all ages, and in all states of dress. Even though the light was not that bright, he could see a number of bare feet. Some of the people looked fit and tough; others sported hefty paunches. They were armed with everything from bows to broadswords. Many brandished daggers and even kitchen knives; there were quite a few sturdy wooden cudgels as well. This was no organised fighting force; this was a band of thieves or pirates.

Garec thought they might stand a chance if he and Steven could kill a pile of them before they reached shore, but he had no idea how they would handle the attackers approaching along the beach, then Steven gave him the answer.

‘Stay where you are!’ Steven shouted above the confused din.

‘Steady now,’ the commanding voice called back. ‘On my mark.’ The voice came from a longboat off to Steven’s left.

Shaking his head, Steven pointed the staff at the closest boat and watched as flames crept up its gunwales and licked along the handrail to ignite the oars. Twenty would-be assailants screamed at once and summarily leaped, fell or were pushed over the side. He repeated his directive. ‘Stay where you are!’

One man, about Garec’s age, had been warily creeping along. Now, hidden in the shadows with his back to the stone wall, he waited. When all eyes were on the burning longboat, he took advantage of their inattention and charged towards Mark and Brynne, weapons drawn and bellowing a battle cry. Brynne, who both felt and heard him approach, took several steps towards him, then dropped to her knees and used the young man’s weight against him. Unable to slow in time, he stumbled, tripped over her and tumbled to a stop near the waterline.

Mark stared in disbelief – it had happened so quickly he hadn’t even realised Brynne had moved; her skill with that blade was stunning, terrifying! The foolish man’s stomach had been sliced open; Mark watched silently as the dying pirate struggled to replace several loose coils of intestine that had escaped unchecked as he rolled across the shore.

Mark shook himself and climbed over to check that Brynne was okay. She bent down to clean the knife-blade on the man’s tunic, then drew herself up and glared at the group of men and women who were watching her. Although she said nothing, her expression was taunting, almost daring them to come forward and face her.

The injured man thrashed about, splashing water up as he kicked his legs and flailed his arms. He screamed for his mother, and to someone else – not a name Mark could recognise – and then, thankfully, fell silent. The ruffians on the beach moved forward slowly, waiting for the order to engage the enemy.

‘This is not good,’ Mark said as he shuffled nervously back and forth, his feet ankle-deep in the pebbles.

‘Do not come against us,’ Steven yelled towards the longboats, then, with a note of sincerity in his voice, ‘I have no wish to kill you.’

‘You are outnumbered, fifty to one,’ their commander called back with a laugh. ‘Yield now.’

‘You don’t understand.’ As Steven raised the staff, the closest assailants cringed visibly before him. ‘We will not yield. You will lay down your arms, or you will die.’

Garec searched the gloom, an arrow drawn full, hoping to pinpoint the leader’s voice. He sighted down its shaft waiting for an opportunity to silence the man for ever, but he was beaten to it: off to his right, from somewhere out on the water, he heard the telltale snap of a bowstring.

There was no time to cry out a warning; he drew a quick breath and held it, waiting for the arrow to pierce him through. But he was not the target: he watched in almost stupefied amazement as Steven, with positively inhuman speed, snatched the shaft from the air and snapped it in two with one hand. Recovering quickly, the Ronan bowman found the enemy marksman crouched in the bow of a longboat and sent his own shaft hurtling across the water. With a muted thud, the arrow embedded itself in the man’s neck. Several startled cries nearly drowned out the pirate’s incoherent last words and Garec felt his hands shake for a moment as the dead man fell forward into the water with an insignificant splash.

The voice cried out again, this time in anger, ‘Beach party, attack! Longboats forward! Take them now!’

Brynne dropped to a crouch and Mark fought the urge to run as thirty armed ruffians charged with an unholy bellow that sounded as if it would reverberate through the cavern for an eon. Behind him he heard similar cries as the group flanking them advanced as well. Oars squeaked in rusty oarlocks, groaning as the longboats made for shore.

Garec’s hands were steady again. Calm and controlled, he began firing into the boats, aiming for the oarsmen, not just to slow down their approach, but to force more of the enemy to expose themselves as targets while they struggled to clear the benches of their dead. He’d made three shots for three clean kills when he caught sight of the force bearing down on Mark and Brynne. Grimacing, he changed target, but though he killed or wounded a soldier with every shaft, there were simply too many: the horde was about to overrun his friends.

Steven wished Garec would stop firing for a moment so he could try to bring a peaceful end to the confrontation. He was sorry Gilmour wasn’t there; somehow the old man would have negotiated a truce by now and they’d all be sitting around the fire together, smoking pipes, chucking back the local liquor and swapping stories.

He sighed, and glanced to his right, where Brynne and Mark were about to engage a force large enough to take Denver in an afternoon. So much for peace to all humankind! Maybe he could have this deeply meaningful philosophical discussion with himself once he’d saved his friends from being chopped into the evening’s main course. Steven closed his eyes and focused his thoughts.

The shoreline came to life as thousands of small, smooth, rounded stones and pebbles sprang into the air and careened through the marauding horde as if fired from an invisible catapult. With a gesture, Steven repeated the attack on the group advancing from the adjacent shore. Eyeballs were ruptured, noses broken, ribs cracked and teeth dislodged; deep welts and bruises coloured exposed flesh as the stones ripped mercilessly through the enemy ranks, denting helmets and even shattering sword blades. The raiders screamed in terror, diving into the lake or running headlong back along the beach in an effort to escape the punishing hailstorm of pebbles. A small cloud of stone projectiles pursued every one of them, punctuating the message that the small company was not about to surrender.

In spite of the blood and broken bones, no one had died in Steven’s counter-attack. He wondered if they appreciated that yet.

Steven turned his attention to the longboats. His initial reaction was to sink them all, but it occurred to him that a boat or two might be useful for them, so instead, he drove the staff into the shallows at his feet and, replicating the wave he had created in Meyers’ Vale, sent a wall of water forward to capsize the boats and leave their passengers adrift. ‘Kill as many as you like, Garec!’ he shouted loudly enough to be heard above the cries of the injured, ‘but try not to hit the boats. We’ll need at least one of those intact.’

Garec looked over at him, and Steven shook his head slightly. He set off to examine the pirate Brynne had so deftly gutted. For a moment he hoped the man might be saved, but he shuddered as he looked down. The massive wave had washed away the blood and if he didn’t look any further than his face, the dead raider looked as though he had simply fallen asleep with his feet in the water. Steven avoided looking anywhere else; he knew that seeing entrails would make him vomit. On the beach before him lay five or six more of Garec’s casualties, each with an arrow jutting awkwardly from someplace soft and vital.

He turned to Brynne. ‘Did you have to-’ His voice trailed off. Of course she did. The man had attacked her. He had come screaming out of the shadows, and if Brynne had not dispatched him so efficiently, she or Mark would be lying here instead.

Steven couldn’t take his eyes off the corpse. He had seen the man clumsily trying to push his own organs back in, as if the act of forcing them back inside his abdomen might save his life. It was a reflex; anyone would have done the same, grasping feverishly at the slippery, blood-soaked intestines and shoving them back inside, not caring even if they were returned to their correct position. Were his hands clean? He hoped so, because forcing clumps of dirt in between the tubes might cause an infection. Looking down into the dead man’s face, Steven saw that although open, his eyes were askew in their sockets, pointing in different directions. Were his hands clean? If not, it hadn’t mattered for long. The body sprawled, arms and legs akimbo, somehow taking up too much space. The warden of this subterranean boneyard would not be pleased. As Steven folded the man’s arms across his chest, a bemused chuckle escaped his lips. He drew back, momentarily shocked at the sound of his own voice.

‘Don’t get jaded, Steven,’ he told himself, and ran a hand over his eyes. He wiped his hand contemplatively on his tunic. ‘Don’t get used to this,’ he repeated.

Two large groups had formed on the beach, one behind him and one before. People were still emerging from the water, many dragging their injured with them. At a quick estimate there were nearly three hundred of the soldiers, pirates, ruffians or whatever they were still standing, but regardless of their numbers, their attitude had changed. They hovered between embarrassment and fright – embarrassed at how handily they had been put down, and frightened, because they did not expect to leave the cavern alive. Nine longboats lay capsized about fifty yards from shore. One still burned, smoke billowing up in great clouds beneath the bone-decorated stone ceiling.

Steven looked at the person emerging from the lake to address them; he assumed it was their leader, the one who’d ordered the foolish attack. He waited expectantly, silently.

Even Brynne gave a little start when the raider clasped a handful of matted hair and pulled it behind one ear. It was a woman. Steven cleared his throat, adjusted his grip on the staff, and waited.

‘I have come to surrender, and to beg your mercy for my warriors.’ The second surprise of the moment was the woman’s voice, soft and gentle, far divorced from the commanding voice with which she had ordered the abortive attack. ‘You have a power, that is obvious, and I cannot risk more of my soldiers’ lives against you.’

Steven beamed. ‘Well, I’m glad you came to your senses before-’ Brynne pushed in front of him, her knife drawn and ready.

‘Brynne, what are you doing?’

A tense murmur rippled through the ruffians assembled along the shore as they watched the interchange. Garec retreated several steps and drew his bow, ready to fire in an instant.

Brynne placed her knife at the woman’s throat and with her free hand reached behind the pirate’s back to withdraw an evil-looking dagger with a curved blade and a short wooden handle. ‘Steven, I appreciate what you did with the rocks, and that tremendous wave, but you still have a lot to learn.’ She tossed the dagger to Mark. ‘One doesn’t get to be the leader of a band like this by surrendering at the first sign of trouble.’

Steven paled.

‘She was going to kill you, so they-’ she nodded towards the pirate ranks inching slowly along the beach, ‘-could kill the rest of us.’

Angry and embarrassed with himself, Steven cursed aloud in English, a string of epithets that left Mark shaking his head in admiration at his friend’s grasp of the vernacular. Recovering, Steven summed it all up with a rousing, ‘Son of an open-sored Atlantic City whore!’ and stepped forward as if to punch the woman hard across the face.

She raised her own fists, but rather than backing away, she taunted him, ‘Go ahead, sorcerer, kill me. The way you pined over Rezak back there, I’m surprised you didn’t kiss him goodbye.’ She stared up at him, her eyes fierce. ‘What’s the matter, sorcerer, don’t like confrontation? Afraid to kill me?’

Rezak. Steven would remember that. He looked down at the unsavoury character glaring at him. ‘I’m not a sorcerer,’ he said.

‘Look at that,’ the woman said. Steven fell back several paces as she shoved him hard and laughed, ‘You are afraid to kill me.’ Around them, members of her pirate band laughed and hooted uproariously. The woman spat at Steven’s feet and, reeking confidence, stepped towards him.

In an instant Brynne was between them again, the hunting knife drawn. Steven barely had time to blink before Brynne had flicked her wrist twice and taken off both the woman’s earlobes. She sounded deadly serious when she told the pirate leader, ‘I, however, am not afraid to kill you.’

The woman recognised Brynne’s unemotional savagery and lowered her fists. She drew a wet kerchief from around her neck and dabbed at the blood that dripped steadily from her ears. ‘I am wondering how you managed to get in here,’ she said offhandedly, not sounding in the least bit threatened. ‘You could not have come from the river with such a vessel-’ she indicated the Capina Fair, ‘-and I know you didn’t enter this cavern through-’ She hesitated, as if discarding certain words, ‘through other places. So unless you used magic to get inside, I have to assume you have lived your entire lives down here and I have simply never seen you before. It is possible. This is a large lake, and an even larger cavern. And yet, I find that unlikely, because I have met the other permanent inhabitants of this cave on several occasions, and they tend to be a good deal hairier, blinder, and-’ she smiled at Steven for the first time ‘-less attractive than the lot of you.’ She squeezed blood out of the kerchief, then bent down to rinse it in the lake before reapplying it to her ears – although they were still bleeding freely, she didn’t appear to be terribly upset about it.

‘So, sorcerer, how did you get down here?’

For the first time, Steven noticed she was using just one hand, her right hand: her left had either been hanging limply at her side or slightly behind her back since she had joined them on the beach. Looking down at it now, he noticed she was curling and straightening different fingers in a repeating pattern. Behind her, the pirates were standing perfectly still. He thought they looked to be somewhat closer than they had been when he first stood up from the dead man’s body, but perhaps that was a trick of the light. He couldn’t see the raiders assembled behind the first row or two, but there was some movement, as if they were shuffling nervously from side to side, or trying to move without being detected.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it. A big man, older but tough-looking, with a shaved head and a long scar running across the outside of his neck, was watching the woman’s fingers intently. He was bleeding from several lacerations on his face and arms, but like the woman with the now neatly clipped earlobes, he did not seem to notice his wounds. Instead he stared between Brynne and Mark, watching the curling and straightening of the woman’s fingers.

She was sending messages to him. It was a code. Steven couldn’t work out what the patterns meant, but there was no question the woman before him, still carrying on about him being a sorcerer, was sending orders to the ranks behind her. Steven was almost dazed: he was watching the scene unfold as if he were just a bystander. Now the big pirate began sending a message to someone flanking Steven and the others. The man’s hand rested quietly on his thigh, then, slowly, his index and then ring fingers curled up beneath his palm. It was the tiniest of gestures, almost impossible to catch if you weren’t looking for it. Steven assumed they had been ordered to gather their weapons and prepare an assault. The scarred man curled and waggled his fingers over and over again; Steven guessed he was communicating with the group back along the beach, behind Mark and Brynne.

His mind raced: an attack was coming, and it would come from both sides at once. He had to act fast. The woman, obviously their leader, was still taunting him, but now Steven understood why. It was a ruse: buy time. Rearm. We have seen his magic, but we have also seen he is unwilling to kill. If he is unwilling to kill, we can take him and the others. Prepare. Prepare in silence.

This band had not looked to be an organised fighting force, but Steven realised he had been horribly wrong: they were much more than that; this was a group of people who had been together long enough to be able to read one another’s thoughts. They’d come out of the lake in certain positions not by chance, but because of what would come next. Those who could read the code were in front, because any shuffling of ranks after they had all assembled on the beach would have been suspicious.

This was no ragtag band, and now they were coming for Steven and the Ronan partisans.

Looking to Mark and Garec, Steven tried his own form of nonverbal communication to get them to move in close. Brynne was still by his side, her knife drawn and held loosely in one hand. After a moment, Mark took a few steps forward, but Garec was wary, not sure he should give up his vantage point against the cavern wall, where he was in a good position to shoot into either group. Steven cried out in his mind, and sneaked quick but piercing glances at Garec, all the while trying not to give anything away to the enemy leader before him.

Come over here, Garec. Come over here. I can’t protect you if you don’t get your sorry self over here now. Steven willed the bowman to understand. His grip on the staff tightened.

Garec understood that Steven was trying to tell him something, but he had no idea what. Get ready? Shoot someone? Draw more arrows? What? Confused, Garec looked left, then right, then back at Steven, trying to work out what he was supposed to do. They had moved. The pirates, both groups, had crept forward without anyone noticing. It was only a pace or two, and it had taken them some time, but they were inexorably closing the gap between themselves and the travellers. After what felt like an eternity to Steven, Garec seemed to get the message. The bowman started to grin, then recovered himself and wiped his face clear of all expression. He hastily took stock of what he had, and what he would need to continue this fight in close quarters.

Calmly lowering his bow, he fought to slow his heart rate and breathing. They were coming. Any moment now, they were coming. He reached slowly down to retrieve the dozen arrows he had stabbed tip-first into the beach. With those firmly in hand, he suddenly took off, running across the camp. As he leaped into place beside Brynne, he cried, ‘Now, Steven, now!’ and with a wave of Steven’s outstretched hands, a great circle of molten fire burst from the ground to surround them. So fast did the flames appear that Garec’s leggings caught fire and he spent several moments patting out the blaze before he could turn his attention back to the raiders.

The explosion of fire forced the attackers in the forward ranks to fall backwards, their faces and hands seared from the sudden blast, coughing and spluttering and trying to clear their lungs of the intense heat they had inadvertently inhaled. They gaped at the fiery wall, and at their leader, now trapped on the wrong side of the flames, in shock. The tongues of fire reached halfway up the cavern, but there was very little smoke and the heat was far less intense than Mark had expected.

Seeing Mark’s inquisitive look, Steven grinned. ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s much hotter on their side than ours.’

‘Outstanding!’ Mark was impressed. ‘Steven, you’re getting good at this.’ He gazed around their fire chamber and, almost absentmindedly, put his arm across Brynne’s shoulders.

‘Not really.’ Steven shook his head. ‘Most of the time, I imagine what I want to happen and then try to make adjustments once I get things started.’

‘But still,’ Mark was encouraging, ‘you’ve come a long way since the Blackstone foothills.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Steven still wasn’t so sure. ‘Except for dealing with Malagon’s wraiths, I’m not sure I’ve done much more than a bit of conjuring.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘What the hell am I saying? How can I be so blase about something that shouldn’t even be possible?’ He turned to the pirate leader, who hadn’t moved. Her jaw hung slack as she stared at the dancing flames separating her from her band of ruffians.

‘However,’ he said directly to her, ‘I am not a sorcerer.’

‘Then what are you?’ she asked quietly.

‘I’m a bank manager,’ Steven said. ‘Actually, I’m assistant manager, and if Howard ever retires, then I will become manager. I am only an assistant manager because I lack the skill to be a professional baseball player, and I lack the will and the self-confidence to risk becoming much more than I am – or than I was six weeks ago. I appear to have been chosen by this staff to wield it in compassionate defence of myself, my friends and our cause, but other than that, I have never been able to produce, let alone understand, anything magical, mystical, or supernatural.’ He would have continued parodying his former life, but she interrupted.

‘What are you called?’

‘I am called Steven Taylor, of the Idaho Springs Taylors. You can call me Steven.’ He reached out to shake her hand, but she simply stared, unsure how to proceed. Giving up after a few seconds, Steven introduced his friends: ‘This is Mark Jenkins, a teacher of history, our history, so he finds himself with a head full of completely useless knowledge here in Eldarn.’

‘An absolute pleasure to meet you,’ Mark said. ‘Sorry it had to be behind a wall of fire, but we’re not keen on being slaughtered just at the moment.’ He grinned.

‘Mark Jenkins,’ the woman echoed faintly.

Steven introduced Garec and then Brynne. He was about to suggest the woman reciprocate, and explain why she had ordered her crew of pirate ruffians to attack them without provocation when she interrupted him once again.

‘Garec Haile, the archer. And you-’ she pointed to Brynne. ‘He said your name was-’

‘Brynne. I am Brynne Farro of Estrad. I own the Greentree Tavern in Greentree Square, if you know the place.’

Mark added, ‘We don’t, Steven and me. We tried to go one night. I wanted a tuna sandwich, but a legendary, life-draining demon chased us out of town after eating a stray dog that happened by. Garec and Sallax have assured us that it’s a nice place. Good food, and the kitchen’s open late at weekends.’ The woman wasn’t paying him any attention; she didn’t even query the English word weekend.

Instead, she stared intently at Brynne, and Steven was sure he saw a look of relief pass over her face, although it was replaced almost immediately by the grim visage he was getting familiar with.

‘Sallax,’ she said under her breath, ‘Sallax Farro of Estrad.’

‘My brother.’

‘Where is he now?’

Brynne’s jaw tensed. ‘He is making his way to Orindale.’

‘Is Gilmour Stow with him?’

Garec perked up. ‘Who are you? How do you know Gilmour?’

The woman ignored him and continued staring at Brynne. ‘You must tell me where Sallax Farro is right now. It is important.’

Steven broke in, ‘As congenial as we are trying to make this little gathering, I think it’s time to remind you that you are no longer in a position to be making demands or dealing out orders.’

Brynne ignored Steven and demanded, ‘What do you know of my brother?’

The woman grimaced as she realised blood was still dripping from her mutilated earlobes. Then, grinning, as if she alone were in complete control of all their destinies, she said, ‘When days in Rona grow balmy…’ Her voice faded. She looked expectantly at them.

Steven was getting annoyed; he thought he’d behaved remarkably decently so far, given the woman had been about to kill them all without a second thought. ‘Being cryptic will get not get us anywhere. Now, answer the question. What do you know of Sallax – and for that matter, what do you know of Gilmour?’

‘When days in Rona grow balmy,’ she repeated.

Steven grew more angry. ‘We have tried to be nice about this, but I will suspend you and your entire band of bullies from the damned roof of this place for the next Twinmoon if you don’t-’

Garec grabbed Steven’s arm and hissed, ‘Wait. Give me a moment.’ He dropped his bow and began rubbing his temples, muttering to himself. The others caught bits of what he said, but with his head down and his eyes closed, he sounded more than a little crazy. ‘Sallax, you rutter… so pissing covert – crazy old sorcerer, drunk that night… it’s always balmy down there- I remember! I remember it now, we were drunker than demon-spawn, but I remember!’ He was shouting as a thin smile broke across the woman’s stony countenance.

Then, taking them all by surprise – the bleeding pirate included – Garec threw his arm about her shoulders and drew her firmly to him in a warm embrace. Throwing his head back, he shouted, ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon!’

‘What the hell is happening here?’ Mark was thoroughly confused.

The stranger smiled broadly at them, her arm now draped over Garec’s shoulders. ‘When days in Rona grow balmy-’

Garec completed the sentence, ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon.’ He laughed out loud, relief clear on his face.

The woman clapped Garec on the back, then reached out with her opposite hand to slap Steven firmly but good-naturedly across both cheeks. ‘Welcome to Falkan, Steven Taylor, Mark Jenkins. My name is Gita Kamrec, of Orindale, and I lead the southern corps of the Falkan Resistance Movement.’

Steven looked at Gita and Garec while his firewall raged around them.

She smiled again and asked, ‘Would you turn this off now, please?’

Garec nodded agreement and said, ‘It’s really okay.’

As Steven relaxed the wall of flame, Mark suddenly remembered the band of thugs assembled on the stony beach. His body tensed as the fiery shimmer dissipated, tiny flecks of fire dancing about them like orphan snowflakes after a blizzard. The pirates came slowly back into focus. Mark ground his teeth together and felt his stomach flop over. Warily, he reached for the battle-axe. Hearing Garec laugh and carry on with the stranger was not enough to make him entirely confident that they were out of harm’s way. He held his breath, waiting for an attack and hoping Steven could retrieve their defences as quickly as he had released them.

As the flames withdrew, Gita lifted her left arm to the roof and made a fist. She then opened her fingers and rotated her hand a number of times; it looked to Steven as if she were trying to make sure every single one of her soldiers could see it. Mark tensed again; he was about to reach up and wrench Gita’s hand back until her wrist snapped when he detected a sudden change come over the cavern. It felt as if the granite bedrock itself sighed with relief as the entire band of attackers breathed out – the physical exhalation was audible. The sounds of daggers being sheathed, bowstrings released and swords sliding back into scabbards echoed around the vast cavern. Intimidating grimaces were exchanged for toothy grins, some still bloody from flying stones. People started to pull out scarves and handkerchiefs and bits of rag to clean each other’s wounds and a low murmur rose, sounding like the last few moments before the curtain rises on a play.

There would be no attack. The cut-throats were chatting among themselves amiably, passing the time as if some of their number were not lying dead, scattered about the beach like bloody driftwood. Mark became less anxious as men began wrapping their fallen comrades in heavy wool blankets, then arranging the bodies in a neat row alongside the back wall.

Some of them were taking longer to recover from the shock of dealing with a magician as apparently powerful as Steven. Mark laughed to himself: how embarrassed these dangerous partisans would be if they knew the most dangerous thing Steven did most days was cross Miner Street against the lights.

He could hear laughter, and teasing, and Mark wondered at the alacrity with which this band had changed from being a deadly fighting force to a group of friends joking with one another at a beach party. Some had evidently drawn the Eldarni equivalent of a short straw and had dived into the freezing lake to retrieve those longboats that remained. Garec’s campfire was reignited and wineskins, dried meats, bread and even cheese were being produced. Mark had no idea who Gita Kamrec of Orindale was, but her command of this group was impressive. He looked nervously back at her pale hands, wondering if he would recognise the go ahead and dismember them sign. Catching him staring at her, Gita smiled and shoved both hands into her tunic.

She was a small, thin woman, and Mark was astonished such a tiny wisp could command an army. Her hair, although wet and matted now, was long and looked as if it were usually well cared for. Instead of the solid leather belt most soldiers used to carry their daggers, knives or rapiers, Gita wore a woven and embroidered wool belt. It may have been pretty, and colourfully decorated with beads, but it served its purpose well, holding sheaths for two short daggers, a curved, dangerous-looking blade like a fillet knife, and a long sword with a decorative pommel. Looking closer, Mark noticed Gita’s skin was tanned nearly to leather, as if she had spent a lifetime outdoors. Her arms, though skinny, were muscular, and Mark guessed she would be good with a knife, quick and low to the ground.

Gita’s eyes were a soft brown; they bespoke wisdom and vast experience. Mark shivered at the thought of what she must have done to earn the respect and command of the crew now making camp along the beach; he found himself unaccountably excited at the thought of watching her work.

Gita said, ‘You are pretty skilled with that stick, Steven Taylor; I am surprised Gilmour didn’t bring you into this undertaking fifty Twinmoons ago.’

‘We were not exactly brought in,’ Steven started to explain, but she had already moved on.

‘And you?’ she asked Mark, ‘what’s your skill? Good with that axe, are you?’

Mark looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see he was still holding the weapon at the ready.

She went on, ‘You look a bit dark for a South Coaster, but I know many of that territory are deadly skilled with an axe.’

Mark tensed, feeling a dormant but familiar sense of rage flood his system. They do it here, too, the racist bastards.

When he didn’t answer right away, Gita asked, ‘You good with that axe, Mark? It was Mark, right?’ She checked with Garec, who nodded.

He decided to let it pass. There had been nothing acrimonious in her voice.

‘I am-’ he shot Brynne a look and felt better, ‘I’m a horseman.’

Recalling Mark’s equestrian ineptitude, Brynne stifled a laugh, and added, ‘He has taught us all a great deal about how to handle our mounts.’

‘Good.’ Gita failed to pick up the joke. ‘Idaho Springs. I have never been there – wherever it is; Rona? – but Gilmour knows more than I ever will, and if he wants you two along, I am sure you must bring some powerful resources to the fight.’

‘Gita,’ Steven began, ‘I think we need to explain-’

The Falkan leader continued to ignore everything any of them said, asking, ‘Where is Gilmour, anyway? Why did he send you all down here on your own? This is a dangerous place to be if you’ve never been through here before.’

‘He didn’t send us down-’ Brynne tried this time, but got no further than anyone else: this woman could apparently talk both hind legs off a donkey, let alone one.

‘Anyway, there is plenty of time for us to catch up with your progress down there in Rona. I sent a rider out your way before the last Twinmoon. He just returned. I hope you managed to get your weapons and silver out of the old palace before it fell. Still, when that old mule Gilmour gets here, we’ll have a few drinks. I’ll buy – just as soon as he coughs up the five silver pieces he owes me.’ She slapped her hand against Garec’s chest and added, ‘Garec remembers that night, don’t you?’

Garec forced a smile. ‘Gita, Gilmour is not-’

She waved three of her men forward, cutting Garec off in midsentence. ‘This is Hall Storen, Brand Krug, and Timmon Blackrun. They each have a command within our resistance force. Hall’s from Orindale, Brand hails from the Blackstone Forest, and Timmon’s soldiers come to us all the way from the east, along the coast near Merchants’ Highway.’

Steven nodded to the three, all of whom were eyeing him with suspicion. These were obviously battle-tested fighters; they had most likely faced Seron and an array of otherworldly creatures, compliments of Prince Malagon, over God knew how many Twinmoons. The fact that Steven had stood against them on his own, and could have readily dispatched the entire company with just his wooden stick, had obviously made them wary. He had no doubt they would have preferred a straightforward hand-to-hand brawl rather than grappling with flying stones and rogue waves. He smiled anyway. ‘Nice to meet you all,’ he said.

Timmon and Hall nodded, and Brand asked, ‘What news of Sallax? Where is he?’ Brand Krug was a small, wiry man, with narrow eyes and a pinched nose; he wore a brace of throwing knives and a short sword strapped across his back. When no one answered immediately, he repeated his question.

Brynne began, ‘Sallax has-’

‘Gone on ahead to Orindale,’ Mark interrupted, ‘he’s travelling on foot, and we’re not sure how far he’s got.’

‘Why did you not go with him?’ Timmon spoke up. He was a large man, tough-looking, despite a little softness about the midsection. While Brand had long hair, drawn back tightly into a ponytail, Timmon Blackrun’s short curly hair looked as if it were gripping the top of his head so it didn’t blow off. Although the cavern was cool, the man was sweating profusely, and Steven started to worry that Timmon was just a few minutes away from a massive heart attack. He still carried his weapons, an enormous war cudgel – like a hammer with a nasty allergy – and a short dagger. Steven could only conclude the big Easterner wanted to be ready in case it became necessary to bludgeon someone to death at a moment’s notice.

He tuned back into Mark’s convoluted tale of Sallax’s determination to find them a safe route into Orindale, their ensuing trip downriver, and eventually their wrong turn into the cavernous tunnel leading down to the lake.

‘That was smart of him,’ Gita spoke up. ‘You wouldn’t have made it into Orindale together, not this Twinmoon, anyway.’

‘Why?’ Steven was relieved they’d made it safely past the topic of Sallax’s disappearance. It was obvious that he was well-respected by the band, and telling them he’d turned odd and helped slay Gilmour probably wasn’t their best move right now.

‘The Malakasian Army has been dispatched along the eastern border of the city. It’s an enormous blockade, almost as though they were trying to find someone – or something – coming into town.’ Gita beamed knowingly. ‘Sallax might make it on his own, but all together, you would have been stopped, captured, and probably killed outright.’

Brynne asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. ‘Was it just soldiers, or were there… other things?’

Gita looked at the Ronans. ‘So you’ve met the enemy along your way as well, my friends.’ To Brynne, she added, ‘Yes, there were more than soldiers. There were warriors, but not men or women. It was as if they had been changed-’

‘Seron,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.

‘Seron?’ Brand asked. ‘What do you know of these creatures?’

Gita interjected yet again. ‘They fought like animals, biting and scratching, many without weapons, others with just a dagger or a knife, and it took three, sometimes four shafts to bring even the smaller ones down.’

‘They are Prince Malagon’s creation, his pets,’ Garec explained. ‘Their souls have been excised from their bodies and they have bred new generations of Seron. Apparently, they were employed in battle many Twinmoons ago, as was the almor, the, uh- the demon.’

Gita shook her head despondently.

Garec went on, ‘We believe Malagon keeps each Seron’s soul in the form of a ghost-like wraith, and these in turn are powerful creatures themselves that can kill with a touch: the wraiths are an army that battles its foe from the inside out.’ Garec’s voice was flat.

‘Well, that explains their tenacity,’ Timmon said.

‘How many did you face?’ Mark asked.

‘Only a few hundred,’ Brand said, ‘but there were probably twenty thousand encamped on the eastern edge of Orindale.’

‘Twenty thousand Seron?’ Mark thought he might pass out.

‘That’s right,’ Gita replied, ‘and that’s not counting the occupation forces already stationed at Orindale.’

‘We’ll never be able to fight our way through.’ Garec stated the obvious.

‘Fight? Ha!’ Timmon’s corpulent frame trembled as he laughed. ‘We had three thousand, boy, and we were hacked to pieces by those beasts. We were lucky to get away with the three hundred we have here. Fighting is suicide; stealth is the only way in or out.’

Brand shuffled nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘It was not just the Seron.’

‘What else?’ Steven asked.

‘There was worse,’ Gita said quietly.

‘Worse?’ Garec pursued.

‘Demon creatures, life-draining beasts, that struck without warning, deep within our ranks. It was terrifying. Many of our men bolted and ran, fleeing into the forests, but one or two of those things followed. We found bones, weapons and maybe a few bits of tattered clothing. No bodies.’

‘Jesus,’ Steven whispered, ‘I thought there was only one.’ Mark put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.

‘And then there is the dark mist.’ As Hall Storen finally spoke, all eyes turned towards him. ‘There were clouds, misty and insubstantial, but held together by some unseen force. They drifted above the battlefield aimlessly, until whomever – or whatever – controlled them sent them in to attack. They came during the day, they came at night, but it didn’t matter; there was no defence.’

Hall looked to be the youngest of Gita’s lieutenants. Like Timmon and Brand, he had the stone-hard look of a seasoned warrior, but there was something else about him that piqued Steven’s interest. He watched him closely as he described their encounter with the deadly mist. Even Gita remained silent while he spoke.

‘We were on the far left flank, almost to the Ravenian Sea,’ he started. ‘We had been fighting since dawn and had taken heavy losses. We were using bowmen and foot soldiers working together to punch a hole through their forward line so we could break off the flank, encircle their men and open a passageway through to the beach, and then north into the city.’

‘What would you have done in the city?’ Mark interrupted. ‘Attacked from the rear?’

‘No, these creatures can’t be routed. They can only be slaughtered, until the last one lies dead. If we had reached the city, we would have gone into hiding, regrouped, and prepared a series of guerrilla strikes against them and their supplies.’

‘But you never made it.’ Steven skipped ahead one chapter.

‘No, we didn’t. We were pushing through; all our energy focused on one slowly expanding break in their ranks, when someone started shaking me, tugging at my arm and screaming my name.’ He took the wineskin Timmon offered and slugged back a mouthful. ‘It’s funny: you’re so intent on one thing that you lose sight of everything else. I heard nothing. Everyone was screaming, the wounded and the dying were crying out for help, or water, or for their loved ones. Buildings were on fire, people running everywhere and yet I heard none of it.’ Gita gave him a look of knowing compassion.

Drawing a breath, he continued, ‘Then it was there, a cloud. It looked harmless enough, just a cloud, and I thought nothing of it. Half the place was on fire and it could have been smoke – but then it attacked. It hovered overhead, and I had a premonition, that it would produce not water, but stinging acidic rain. The fighting slowed almost to a stop as everyone – even those Seron creatures – looked up at it.’

‘What happened?’ Brynne whispered, gripping her tunic in both hands and clenching her fingers.

‘I was right. It dropped down. It fell from the sky like a chest-shot gansel. I was lucky; I was out on the periphery, and I closed my eyes, held my breath and ran.’ Everyone was looking at him expectantly, but Hall shook his head. ‘It was worse when it came after dark,’ he added.

A heavy, brooding silence fell over the small group. After a long moment, Gita broke it. ‘So you see the only way into Orindale is to sneak your way in. Once Sallax sees the forces awaiting you, he’ll be back.’

Steven looked at Brynne and shook his head gently, as if to say, not yet. He asked Gita, ‘Why would they be there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why would such an army be massed outside Orindale? What you’re describing doesn’t sound like an occupation force, it sounds like an army dug in and awaiting an attack. What’s coming to Orindale that merits such a force? You? Your three thousand partisans?’

Gita reached out and took Steven’s hand. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

‘Know what?’

‘Several days after the army dug their trenches outside Orindale, the Prince Marek moored just offshore.’

Garec held his breath and tasted bitter acid in the back of his throat. Brynne groaned audibly. ‘Oh, demonpiss.’

Steven was confused. ‘What does that mean? What’s the Prince Marek when it’s at home?’

‘It’s Prince Malagon’s flagship, Steven. Malagon is in Orindale. My three thousand soldiers attacked a force of twenty thousand because this was the one chance we might ever get to take the head off the snake and allow the body to die on its own. We had to attack here because bringing our force to Malakasia, where there are hundreds of thousands of soldiers massed to protect him, would be suicide. We are back in this cavern to regroup and plan our next attack.’

‘But you’ll just get beaten back again,’ Garec muttered.

‘Most likely, but if he is here, we have to keep trying, down to our very last soldier.’

A wave of nausea swept over Steven and he clung to the staff for support until his knees grew strong beneath him again. ‘Okay. Fine. So, Malagon is in Orindale. Why does he care? He is a powerful monarch, and a sorcerer. Who is coming to meet him who merits such a display of military might?’

Gita grinned broadly at him. ‘Gilmour, my dear. You four, Sallax Farro, and Gilmour Stow.’

Steven felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He closed his eyes as a river of cold sweat ran across his forehead, then tensed, about to retch. Beside him, Brynne sank to her knees.

It was Garec who summoned up the courage to speak first. He leaned heavily on his longbow and announced quietly, ‘Gilmour is dead, Gita.’ He waited for some response from her, but she stared back at him in silent disbelief.

As if to fill the silent void, he went on, ‘We were crossing the Blackstones when an assassin got him. In our camp. He’s dead. We gave him a funeral pyre.’ Garec said nothing about Sallax’s role in the plot to kill the Larion Senator.

Slowly, Gita asked, ‘What happened to the assassin?’

‘He escaped.’ Garec fingered the smooth rosewood of his bow. ‘Whoever it was knew enough about us to cut my bowstring. He was gone from camp before we knew what happened.’

‘And where were you and your magic stick?’ she asked Steven coldly.

‘I was badly injured at the time,’ was the best he could offer. He cringed as he said it; he knew how it sounded.

Silence reclaimed the space between them. Neither Timmon nor Brand made a move to comfort Gita as her world began unravelling. Soon she began to speak again, but her comments were not directed at anyone.

‘My whole life- this moment represents my whole life. We attacked them. We made time for you to get here – we sent riders to Riverend last Twinmoon, but it had fallen. We assumed you were coming, watched for you in the east along the highway, but then this- The Prince Marek sailed right into the harbour. We figured if Malagon’s not at Riverend, he would be here. We can attack, keep them busy, because somehow Gilmour would know. He always knew.’

She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, then stood up straight and turned to Brand and Timmon. Gita was back and giving orders. ‘Get your soldiers ready to travel. We’ll cross in the morning and make for Orindale as soon as possible.’

‘Are we going in together? Or should we plan to break up and make our way into the city incognito?’ A frontal assault would doubtless mean certain death for everyone, but Brand appeared happy for either response from Gita.

Before answering, the Falkan leader turned to Steven. ‘Are you heading for Orindale?’

‘We were, but now that you’ve told us about the defences, I’m not sure. Our ultimate goal is to get to Praga and find a former Larion Senator named Kantu.’

‘Larion Senator?’ Gita gaped at him in disbelief. ‘Young man, there have been no Larion Senators for a thousand Twinmoons.’

‘It’s a long story. We really need to talk before you make any decisions.’

‘Fine. We can send a rider to intercept Sallax. Where had you planned to meet him?’

Steven frowned. ‘No, we really do need to talk, before we do anything.’ He motioned her towards the nearby campfire.

Later, while the others slept, Mark lay beside Brynne, listening for her breathing and marvelling at her ability to sleep in the wake of such momentous news. It still echoed in his mind; he didn’t anticipate being able to sleep before his turn to stand watch. He stared into the darkness and imagined the stone canopy far above, blanketing them from the outside world. For once he was happy to be shrouded by such a formidable coverlet; he wondered for a moment whether it was possible to stay beneath the surface for ever.

Seron, and much worse. The Seron were terrifying enough. They’d been lucky, that night in the Blackstones, but if Steven hadn’t found the staff, they all would have died, perhaps even Gilmour. And then there was Lahp. Together, Steven and Lahp had broken Malagon’s hold on him, and Lahp had protected Steven, up until the moment the warrior died – and even in that moment, he had not hesitated. It had taken four wraiths to defeat the Seron. Mark swallowed hard as he imagined the ghosts tearing Lahp apart from the inside out.

If Lahp was that emotionally and physically resilient, the Seron waiting for them outside Orindale, and in Malakasia, would be impossible to defeat. On the other hand, if Lahp had withstood that brutal attack for so long because he was less than human, the Seron would be equally impossible to defeat. Mark sighed. This was pointless; they were in a lose/lose situation. It would take real magic to defeat the army, powerful magic.

The Falkan Resistance had been routed, and unless they adopted guerrilla tactics and stuck to them, they’d be nothing but a token force, full of determination and eloquent, rousing speeches, but devoid of any real substance. ‘Like Rona’s?’ he wondered aloud, and then fell silent, unnerved at the sound of his voice in the vastness of the cavern. Sallax had talked of a resistance force in Estrad and southern Rona, but save for a cache of weapons lost in the cistern at Riverend Palace, they’d seen no evidence of it.

He turned his musings back to the task at hand, content to leave military engagements to those better qualified to organise them. Their path did not lie with the Falkan Resistance, anyway. If they were to find Kantu, they would need to employ stealth, cunning, timely retreats, and a healthy ration of luck.

Steven desperately needed the Larion Senator’s help if he were to master the quixotic magic of the staff and bring its full potential to bear against Nerak. Mark hoped his friend was up to the task; he was worried that Steven’s dogged determination to preserve life, no matter how badly they were being threatened, would cost them all dearly in the end. It had been dreadful, watching him kneel over the body of the dead soldier while an enemy force surrounded them on the beach. Mark had wanted to scream, ‘Steven, pay attention, you idiot! He’s dead. Leave him and see to us, before we are too.’

Mark sighed. He was pretty sure Steven had only just begun to tap the staff’s inherent strength: if he’d wanted to, he could have incinerated the entire band of assailants in one sweeping gesture. Once he knew how to employ the magic properly, he might use the staff to level a mountain range, to summon fire from the sky, or to bring Welstar Palace down about Nerak’s neck and bury the murdering bastard in a pile of rubble.

He’d watched Steven battle the wraith army; it had been like watching a ballet, graceful and perfectly coordinated. That was the magic Steven needed at his fingertips, not rock clouds and glowing balls of light.

Mark grimaced: this was pointless; he was speculating on things he knew nothing about. Steven would do his best to save them all, to save Eldarn, and to find them a way back to Colorado. He rolled onto his side and hoped once again to fall asleep.

It was a long while before he did.