by Rob Scott
‘Hat? Are you kidding?’
‘Head, and yes I was.’ He moved to the pile of satchels and began consolidating their contents, repacking them into a pair of large saddlebags. ‘You are an intense woman, Brexan.’
‘Soldier,’ she corrected him.
‘You don’t look much like a soldier.’ He smiled and replaced the dagger and battle-axe in his belt.
‘Circumstances forced me to change out of my uniform. I might no longer be a member of the Malakasian occupation force, but I am a soldier and I am good at it.’ She drew herself to her full height and endeavoured to look Versen in the eye. Realising she only reached the upper part of his chest, she looked away quickly. ‘So,’ her voice dropped, ‘I would be grateful if you would try to remember that.’
Versen wanted to come up with something witty to somehow crack her angry exterior, but his head hurt and nothing came to mind. He changed the subject. ‘Where are you heading today?’
Brexan pointed towards the canyon. ‘In there.’ She turned to face him. ‘I lost his trail two days ago, but found yours instead. If the old man took the others up this hill-’ She paused to gaze towards the top of Seer’s Peak; Versen watched as the wind played with the strands of her hair that had come lose from the leather thong. Brexan grimaced and continued, ‘That’s where Jacrys will be going.’
She already knew Versen would follow his friends in the hope of finding them alive. ‘You must remember the almor can only travel through a fluid medium, plant roots, underground waterways and the like.’
‘I know.’
‘So if your horse senses it, or if you see evidence that it is nearby, you must get to somewhere it can’t reach you, someplace bone-dry – no plants – a rock outcropping, or up a dead tree,’ Brexan flushed, her face warm despite the cold morning. She did not want the big Ronan to believe she cared at all for his wellbeing.
She turned and caught him staring at her hair. Flushing again, she gathered it in one hand and pulled it self-consciously over her shoulder. Certain it was abysmally dirty, she wished she had a hat, even one of Versen’s that no longer fit his crooked, broken head. She breathed deeply, then set about organising her pack. Irritated with herself, the Malakasian woman had not noticed Versen was now standing absolutely still in the centre of their camp. Shoving a short knife, a length of twine and her tecan pot deep into the satchel, she allowed herself to get lost momentarily in her packing. She wanted to be angry with this man. He was the enemy, a partisan, a criminal, traitor to the Malakasian throne. She ought to kill him right here and leave his body in the grove where she found him.
And how dare he disparage what she did? Look at him, out here, days’ travel from anywhere. Did he really expect his revolution was going to begin here at the base of the Blackstones? She nearly laughed out loud – then she heard the mare whinny; she turned to see the horse pulling nervously on the reins that tethered her fast to a pine at the edge of the clearing. Brexan froze, her breath catching in her throat. Now she could see Versen standing motionless, staring into the trees. His battle-axe and dagger were drawn; his face had changed: no longer the handsome, charming woodsman, now he looked like every inch the revolutionary. For an instant Brexan hoped she would never have to face him in battle.
Rutters, she thought. The almor. Gingerly she let her pack fall to the ground, then cursed silently when it landed harder than she expected. ‘Lords, why not just stomp your feet?’ she whispered, but Versen paid no attention to her. Renna whinnied again; now the other horses began to show signs of anxiety as well, stamping nervously and pulling at their reins. Brexan considered the possibility of getting to them and slicing their leather harnesses to set them free. She didn’t rate her chances of being quicker than the almor.
Then she heard it: a twig snapping, some leaves rustling… a momentary silence – before the woods around them came alive with a cacophony of footsteps, breaking branches, heavy movement through the underbrush and a series of unintelligible grunts that came from everywhere at once. Brexan began backing away, an involuntary response to the wall of sound bearing down on them.
‘Don’t move,’ Versen commanded in a harsh whisper. ‘Stand fast, here, next to me.’
She hurried to his side. Despite the nearly paralysing fear, her senses were alive and finely honed; she caught his scent, wild herbs mixed with a distant aroma of woodsmoke. She surprised herself by inhaling deeply, in hopes of breathing him in again before the attack came from all sides.
‘What is it?’ she asked softly.
‘Seron.’ Versen’s reply was confident, and Brexan found that comforting, as if he somehow knew they would emerge unscathed.
He tucked the dagger under his arm and reached over to take her hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, squeezing her fingers tightly in encouragement. ‘They want us alive.’
‘How do you know?’ Her voice shook and she cursed herself for betraying her fear.
‘Because this is not how Seron attack.’ He dropped her hand; Brexan could feel the warmth of his grip fade with her resolve.
The first Seron came into view, emerging from the trees like a misplaced herd of cattle. The warriors hooted and grunted excitedly when they saw they had their quarry surrounded. Brexan estimated there were twenty of them; she understood immediately there would be no battle. The circle about them closed as the half-human warriors came forward. They were unimpressed by Versen’s show of force: one man, one dagger, one battle-axe. Brexan was relieved she had left her Malakasian uniform in Estrad. Had these Seron realised she was absent without leave, she would be dead already, torn to pieces by the band of foul-smelling creatures.
There were no escape routes. The circle tightened, then the Seron stopped. Many grunted aloud, spat on the ground at their feet or pounded hairy hands against leather and chainmail breastplates. Brexan reminded herself to breathe. She dared not draw her weapons, even though she knew gripping a sword would help steady her shaking fingers.
Take my hand again. She cast her thoughts at Versen and was surprised she did not feel more embarrassment at wanting to feel the big man’s touch. She was shorter than the Seron and could no longer see the forest behind them. In every direction, she could see only the black and brown leather of the Seron uniform. It was as though all Eldarn was folding up inside this clearing; she struggled even to hear the river rushing by. Convinced things would be all right if she could just capture the sound of the water in her mind, the ceaseless stream cascading over perfectly smooth rocks on its endless journey to the Ravenian Sea, she concentrated, but it wasn’t there. It had stopped.
‘Take my hand again.’ She said it aloud this time and without hesitating, Versen dropped his dagger and gripped her hand so tightly she thought he would snap her fingers like so many brittle twigs. Fine. So be it. Just don’t let go.
A huge warrior, a full head taller than Versen, strode forward and stood before them. Pounding a closed fist against his chest, he barked, ‘Lahp.’
Versen dropped the battle-axe rather than letting go of Brexan’s hand. He touched one finger to his chest and replied, ‘Versen.’ He nodded towards her and added, ‘Brexan.’
‘Glimr?’ it grunted back at them. Brexan guessed it was a question, because the creature’s voice rose slightly with the word.
‘I don’t understand,’ Versen said calmly. ‘What is Glimr?’
‘Glimr,’ the creature tried more forcefully this time. ‘Glimr.’
‘Gilmour?’ Versen asked. Brexan felt his grip tighten. The heat from his touch grew in intensity. ‘You are looking for Gilmour?’
Brexan could not remember the last time she had taken a breath. She watched in horror as the hideous Seron ran its tongue over a cracked and bulbous lower lip. Was it about to take a bite out of her?
Instead, it responded to Versen with a nod. ‘Glimr,’ it repeated.
Versen’s hand began to shake, but his face remained calm, still the grim look of a revolutionary willing to fight to the death. The fact th
at she could feel his fear, and she knew he felt hers, brought them closer together. All at once, Brexan felt she understood the partisans.
Taking another moment in an effort to flatten the conspicuous tremor in his voice, Versen looked the Seron, Lahp, in the eye and replied, ‘In a thousand Twinmoons, I would never tell you where to find Gilmour, you rancid, open-sored horsecock.’
Lahp struck with unexpected speed, his fist coming forward like a cudgel to land just under Versen’s chin. The thud was audible. Brexan felt the woodsman’s hand go limp an instant later as he fell. Without thinking, she reached for her sword. Gripping the hilt, its leather handle familiar against her palm, Brexan tried to draw the weapon from its scabbard, but she was too slow. Lahp’s fist took her just below the eye in a cruel blow that cracked her cheek and sent her reeling unconscious to the ground.
The first thing Brexan noticed was the breeze. It had picked up. From her vantage point in the dirt, she thought she could see dark clouds massing far to the west. Although the sun still shone, it would rain soon. Her cheek throbbed, a dull ache that resonated through her head with the flat clank of a broken bell. Powerful hands held her down, one gripping the narrow edge of her hip while the other pressed flat against her breastbone. Waiting as the blurry edges of her vision came back into focus, she watched Versen’s face take shape before her eyes.
‘What? Think you’re getting lucky, Ox?’ she managed, almost blacking out again with the effort.
‘Stay down,’ he commanded gently. ‘You took quite a shot.’
‘I’m all right,’ she lied, feeling a spasm of pain rush across her face, a searing sensation that brought tears to her eyes.
‘No, you’re not,’ Versen replied and gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘But you will be in time.’
Deciding not to fight, Brexan lay back and closed her eyes. Tears began to well up behind her lids, but she fought them off. Inhaling sharply, she asked, ‘Are they going to kill us?’
‘I don’t think so, not yet.’
Swallowing hard, she ran two fingers over her swollen face. ‘How can you be sure?’
Versen pulled her hand away and touched her cheek, not the gentle touch of a friend, but the diagnostic touch of a healer. ‘It’s not too bad. I tried to set the bone while you slept, but it wouldn’t move and you kept screaming when I pushed on it.’
‘Well, thanks. Remind me to run you through the heart when I get my sword back.’
‘Better than doing it now while you’re awake. Good news is if it didn’t move, it’s probably just a fracture, a hairline crack.’
‘Grand.’
‘We need to get you to the river. The cold water will help with the swelling.’
Brexan lifted her head far enough to see they were still in the camp near the grove. She could hear the sound of the river and felt better, despite the pain. Their saddlebags and packs had been pillaged and lay about where the Seron warriors had tossed them. It looked as if the last of their food had been eaten; their weapons were now in the hands of the Seron. Resting her head once again in Versen’s lap, she asked, ‘You didn’t answer my question. How do you know they won’t kill us?’
‘They’re looking for something and they haven’t found it; until they do, they have to keep us alive.’
‘Find what?’
‘A key.’ Versen paused, searching for the best way to explain. ‘A key to operate a magic chamber that will give Prince Malagon enough power to destroy the world, and all the other worlds as well, I suppose.’
‘Other worlds.’
‘Yes. Steven and Mark, the two strangers you watched on the beach. They’re from another world, a world they call Color-ado, or something like that.’
Brexan agreed for the moment to give him the benefit of the doubt, no matter how crazy his explanation. They were still alive, after all and there had to be a reason for that. ‘So, they’re looking for Gilmour, because they believe he has this key?’
‘That’s right, but he doesn’t.’
‘Who does?’
‘At the moment, no one.’ Brexan looked confused, so Versen tried again. ‘Right now, it is in Color-ado, where Steven left it. You see, he mistook it for a rock.’
‘A rock? The key to enough magic to destroy Eldarn-’
‘And other worlds as well-’
‘And other worlds as well… The key to more magic than anyone in their right mind can imagine was left somewhere, because some foreigner thought it was a rock.’
‘That’s right, at least as far as I can gather.’
‘So that’s why you’re travelling north. To find this key.’ Brexan was fascinated.
‘In a matter of speaking, yes. We have to get to Welstar Palace to reach a portal that will take Gilmour, Steven and Mark back to Colorado where Gilmour can retrieve the key.’ Versen realised he had been speaking too loudly and lowered his voice. ‘Then Gilmour can use the key to destroy Prince Malagon- well, Nerak, really.’
‘Nerak?’
‘Never mind now; I’ll explain later. You should rest if you can. We don’t know what these monsters have in mind for us today. We should save our strength.’
Brexan suddenly noticed the bruise along Versen’s jaw. ‘He clobbered you pretty well, didn’t he?’
‘This?’ Versen grinned broadly down at her. ‘Oh no, I’ve been hit much harder than this!’
She tried to return his smile, but her cheek reminded her it would be some time before that would be possible again. Instead, she asked teasingly. ‘Oh yes? By whom?’
‘Women in taverns mostly,’ he replied, deadpan, which made her laugh.
‘Don’t,’ she begged, ‘don’t make me laugh, Ox. My face hurts.’ Brexan closed her eyes, caught the distinctive aroma of wild herbs and woodsmoke on the brisk wind and managed a crooked smile despite the painful swelling in her cheek.
The midday aven had just begun when Lahp appeared, hulking across the clearing to where Versen and Brexan were still sitting together. Worried the Seron might strike her again, Brexan moved closer to Versen and pressed her cheek softly against his chest. Please don’t, she thought, clenching her teeth in anticipation of another bone-rattling blow.
It never came. Instead, Lahp stood before them and gestured firmly with one hand for them to stand, grunting, ‘Up, up!’ as he did so.
As Versen helped Brexan to her feet, Lahp roughly shoved them in the direction of the horses and motioned towards the saddles that were lying nearby.
‘Saddle the horses?’ Brexan guessed. Her face twisted with pain and a thin trickle of spittle ran down her chin.
‘Ah, ah,’ Lahp grunted and shoved them both again before returning to directing the Seron preparations for travel.
Versen picked up Renna’s saddle, watching as Lahp gave orders to his platoon. Teams of leather-clad warriors scurried about, preparing weapons, distributing food and wineskins and scratching rudimentary maps in the dirt.
‘We don’t seem to be too well guarded,’ Versen whispered. ‘What’s to keep us from saddling up and riding away?’
Brexan considered his question for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know exactly, but I think I’m afraid to risk it.’
‘Look at them, though,’ he pressed, trying to convince her. ‘It looks as if they’ve mostly forgotten we’re here. They knocked us out, searched our bags – and then ignored us the rest of the day. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Versen, no. We don’t have any weapons. If they ran us down, they’d kill us for sure.’
‘Yes, but we have Renna.’ He draped Garec’s saddle over the mare’s back and patted the horse affectionately. ‘She’s fast, Brexan, faster than any horse I’ve ever known. She outran a pack of grettans once. She’d have no problem with this lot of crippled plough-horses.’ Renna tossed her mane, as if anticipating the coming chase with enthusiasm. Even after the smooth hair along the horse’s neck came to rest, the wind lifted it once more in a momentary illusion of speed and strength.
‘All right,�
�� Brexan whispered. ‘Let’s do it – but I am not going to get hit again. If we get caught, I want to go down fighting. I don’t ever want to be that frightened again.’
She was preparing the second horse when she caught sight of Lahp coming towards them, this time with three tough-looking Seron in tow.
As if reading her mind, Versen said quietly, ‘Hold fast. Let’s see what this is about.’
Without speaking, Lahp pushed Versen towards Renna and he climbed into the saddle. Grabbing Brexan by the upper arm, the Seron leader shoved her towards the mare as well. Versen reached down to help her up behind him.
Resting one enormous paw on Renna’s pommel, Lahp handed Versen and Brexan two blankets and a wineskin filled with river water. Uncertain if she was allowed to drink from the skin, Brexan held it firmly against her swollen cheek.
Lahp laughed, an ugly, wet and raspy sound. It reminded Brexan of the cry of a beaten dog.
Then the Seron leader grunted a series of orders and the three warriors with him donned packs and climbed onto three of the remaining horses.
One turned to them, balled up his fist and slapped it against his chest. ‘Karn,’ he said malevolently, as if the name meant famine, or death, or some other equally unpleasant thing.
Not wanting to anger their escort, Versen in turn pointed to himself and then to Brexan and said their names clearly: ‘Versen. Brexan. Happy to meet you.’
Brexan nearly cried out in horror when she realised one Seron, the smallest of the group, was a woman – or at least had been a woman, before Prince Malagon purloined her soul and turned her into a monster.
‘Brexan,’ she said quietly, pointing a finger at her broken cheek.
‘Rala,’ the Seron woman replied gruffly.
Brexan glanced at the third member of their escort. He did not speak, but glared back at her in silence. She noticed a long scar that ran across his face like the map of a great river. It had obviously been a deep wound, slicing through his cheek and severing part of his nose.
