by Rob Scott
Ignoring him, the wraith continued its ardent effort to communicate.
Steven looked askance at the ghostly apparition. ‘Okay, I guess you’re not harming them. What are you saying? Is it Nerak?’
The nearly translucent bank teller nodded again. Then, strangely, its face blurred, as if it were looking off into the distance behind Steven. It mouthed some urgent, unknown message – and disappeared into the night.
As Steven watched the wraith fade, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning on his heels, he brought the staff up in a protective stance as he strained to see into the darkness. It was Sallax. Steven exhaled a long sigh, the pounding in his chest making it difficult to speak.
‘Sonofabitch, Sallax,’ he whispered in English, ‘you scared me.’
‘Steven?’ Sallax was surprised anyone had heard him approach. ‘Go back to sleep.’ Mark and Garec stirred sleepily, the wraith’s spell now broken; Steven assumed the spirit would not return that night. He was wide awake now, so he peeled off his wet blanket and set about trying to start a fire. Searching under the rocky shelter for anything even remotely dry to use as kindling, he wondered where Sallax had been. He summoned his courage and turned to ask, but the big Ronan had already fallen asleep.
At dawn, Garec woke and immediately started up the trail ahead of the group. ‘With this rain, any game below the tree line will have taken cover,’ he said as he adjusted his twin quivers. ‘I’ll see if I can flush something out.’ He moved off quickly before Sallax or Gilmour could stop him.
Just a few hundred paces above their camp Garec heard the sound of an animal, probably a deer, bounding through the underbrush. Sliding along the ground Garec felt like a wraith himself: invisible and deadly. His senses were strangely acute this morning – he credited hunger and fatigue. Garec kept his face down, almost in the dirt and held his breath. He didn’t want anything catching sight of his pale skin in the early light. Even a squirrel might cry out a warning and cause the deer to change direction. He and his friends needed this meat. Garec thought he could smell the animal approaching.
Exhaling slowly, he timed his leap with practised precision. As his arrow bedded itself deep into the animal’s chest he was certain he saw a look of horror pass over its face. The deer didn’t have a chance; it stumbled once, then crashed headlong into a dense thicket. It barked loudly, a death rattle, and then fell silent.
Garec felt the usual bitter mixture of exhilaration and regret. The Bringer of Death had struck again. He stood up, brushed mud and leaves from his tunic and moved towards the thicket.
The deer moved. Without thinking, Garec dropped to one knee, nocking an arrow as he did so in the fluid motion perfected when he was still a boy. He did not fire blindly into the underbrush, but waited, watching for the deer to burst from the thicket. It was impossible the animal was still alive. He had hit it squarely in the chest, driving the arrow deep into its lungs; perhaps even through its heart. Yet he could hear it blundering about.
Garec waited. His companions would be coming along the trail pretty soon and the prospect of fresh venison would surely motivate them to help him flush out the animal and kill it. The beast was quite likely to attack in a final rush of defensive adrenalin and he had no wish to face the deer’s antlers by himself.
Garec sighed. Maybe the deer would die before the others got there. The Bringer of Death, the deadly bowman, an archer so skilled that a Larion Senator has ordered him to Malakasia to rain death upon enemies foolish enough to wander within striking distance: here he was, this fearsome warrior, waiting for a defenceless deer to bleed to death or drown in its own blood. He had killed any amount of game in his lifetime, but he could not remember ever sitting idly by and waiting for an injured, suffering creature to expire. A dull throbbing pain began thumping at his temples; he resisted the urge to drop the bow and massage his head.
The waiting was exacerbating Garec’s headache, so he decided to brave the brush and finish the deer off himself. If it charged and gored him with its antlers, so be it.
The forest shone, intensely bright, where the sunlight refracted through the raindrops. Garec imagined this was what the realm of the gods must be like; he drew a strange confidence from this as he crept closer to the edge of the thicket. With his bow fully drawn, he crouched down at the spot where the deer had dived for cover beneath the underbrush and peered through the tangled branches.
The deer was there, lying motionless, quite dead. Garec watched it for some time before relaxing his bowstring and returning the arrow to its quiver. ‘I hope your suffering was brief, my friend,’ he called and began peeling off his cloak before crawling through the dense, thorny foliage.
‘Garec!’ someone shouted from the trail.
‘I’m here,’ he called back, squinting against the morning sun as he watched his friends approach, ‘and I’ve organised breakfast.’
‘Outstanding!’ he heard Gilmour cry. He smiled and turned back to the task at hand. Stripping the quivers from his back, he placed them beside his longbow and drew a short hunting knife from his belt. He would need to clear a path into the thicket to be able to pull the animal out.
Something moved. The faint rustle was too large to be a bird or a squirrel.
‘Bleeding whores,’ he exclaimed and rolled back on his heels. Kneeling in the mud, he could see the deer had not moved. It was still dead. Something else lay hidden inside the thicket. He reclaimed his bow, quickly nocked an arrow and stabbed three into the ground, fletching skywards, for easy access should he find himself in need. Painstakingly, Garec moved along the periphery of the thicket, squinting through leaves and branches to spot what he assumed was a carefully camouflaged foe.
Then it was there: an unnatural-looking hump protruded from the ground in a lazy curve too smooth to be a rock. It was covered with autumn leaves, but Garec’s well-trained eye caught sight of man-made items half-buried there as well – a boot sole, a patch of fabric, two fingers from a leather glove – they, and the telltale stains of blood, told him his instincts had been correct.
He climbed to his feet and motioned for his friends to stay back. Sallax ignored him and came on, his battle-axe drawn and ready.
‘What is it?’ He knelt down where Garec had been and tried to see through the undergrowth.
‘An injured man, but I can tell it isn’t Versen.’
‘How badly is he hurt?’
‘I’m not sure, but I can see dried blood. It’s maybe two or three days old… old enough not to have run in that rain yesterday,’ Garec kept his bow trained on the stranger.
Sallax stood up and called into the thicket, ‘You in there! Either come out on your own, or I’ll have my friend here fire a few arrows into your broken hide to motivate you.’
The leaves covering the injured stranger moved and Garec heard a distinct snarling, like that of a cornered mountain lion.
‘Horsecocks! It’s a Seron,’ he cried and double-checked his aim.
Sallax contemplated the mound a moment, looked around for Gilmour and ordered, ‘Go ahead, Garec, kill it.’
‘No,’ Steven interrupted, pushing his way to the front of the group. Mark looked over at him questioningly, but Steven repeated, ‘Don’t kill it. If it dies, fine, but we should not kill it.’
He joined Garec and called to the injured creature, ‘Seron. Do you understand me? We do not wish to kill you, but we will do so if you make any move to attack. Do you understand?’ There was a low growl in response. Steven searched the brilliant hues of the forest morning for an answer, then grimaced. He looked apologetically at Mark and announced, ‘I’m coming in. Do not touch me or my friends will kill you. Do you understand?’
‘Steven, don’t be a bloody idiot,’ Mark began, but Steven cut him off.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he said as he groped in his pocket for his hunting knife. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he continued, trying to convince everyone, himself included. He turned to Gilmour and added, ‘You said they were human once. Just becau
se Malagon has turned them into animals doesn’t mean they can’t respond to human compassion.’
Even Gilmour raised an eyebrow at this proclamation, but Steven was determined.
‘At least take the staff,’ Mark implored, ‘or let me come with you.’
‘The staff won’t work on this one. That’s how I broke it last time. Come if you like, but I’m going now.’ Steven dropped the staff, brandished his hunting knife and pushed his way clumsily inside the thicket. Mark followed.
The Seron had scrambled back against a tree trunk and was emitting a low growl as Steven made his way to the deer carcase.
‘Just keep an eye on the Seron, will you?’ he asked Mark and crouched by the deer, using the knife to hack off one hindquarter. It was a hard, bloody task and he was soon covered in the still-warm bodily fluids.
‘I’d give up hopes of retraining as a coroner if I were you,’ Mark joked, but he couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. ‘Can’t we just drag the deer out and let Sallax do the butchery?’ He was convinced that he and Steven would have been breakfast for the Seron if the creature hadn’t been so badly wounded; as it was, he still felt uneasy.
While Steven struggled to free the deer leg, Mark got a closeup view of the misshapen hulk Malagon used to assassinate his enemies in Rona. The Seron looked like an exceedingly large man with huge muscular arms, very hairy: but only in his mid-twenties, Mark guessed. The forehead sloped backwards at an exaggerated angle; the bearded chin protruded out. Mark thought the most striking difference was in the Seron’s oval eyes, which were black and lifeless, devoid of all colour. They looked as if they had been inked out by a frustrated creator. Mark wondered if all Seron had such dead eyes. He imagined the torture it must have endured to end up like this and suddenly felt sorry for the beasts. He was glad Steven had decided to give the warrior a chance at survival.
As the Seron cowered in a corner, Mark noticed it was favouring one leg. Nudging Steven, he motioned towards the injured limb and Steven nodded. ‘Don’t shoot, Garec,’ he called out in low soothing tones. ‘Everything is fine in here.’
‘I can take him at any time,’ Garec replied. ‘Just give me the word.’ Behind him, Sallax and Brynne watched in silence. Gilmour cleaned his pipe.
With great effort, Steven finally managed to separate the deer leg from the corpse and, wiping blood from his face, turned to look at the Seron. ‘Food,’ he said, just above a whisper, and tossed the deer leg carefully towards the Seron.
The Seron gave an inhuman snarl and moved awkwardly behind the tree trunk. Neither Steven nor Mark moved as they waited to see what it would do next. After what felt like an eternity, the soldier reached out with one hairy arm and gripped the deer leg with curled grey fingertips.
Steven tried again. ‘Your leg is injured.’ The Seron cast the two friends a menacing glare, but Steven was not to be dissuaded. He pulled a waterskin from his shoulder, drew the cork and poured a thin stream of liquid onto the ground.
‘Water,’ he said quietly. ‘You need water.’ Instead of throwing the wineskin, Steven, maintaining eye contact with the Seron, crossed over and placed the skin at its feet. Again he was rewarded with a low growl and an angry snarl. Steven quickly backed away to deter the soldier from pouncing on him despite its injuries.
He began to fear the creature didn’t understand. A little crestfallen, he looked at Mark and motioned him to back out of the thicket when the Seron finally spoke.
‘Grekac,’ it said, a hoarse whisper like late autumn corn stalks crunching underfoot.
Steven’s heart pounded as he searched his mental lexicon of Ronan terminology. Grekac did not emerge. ‘I don’t understand,’ he replied, ‘What is grekac?’
The beast motioned with one hand towards his leg. ‘Grekac.’
Mark understood. ‘Grettan,’ he said, fighting to contain his sudden enthusiasm. ‘It’s trying to say grettans did this.’
‘Ah, ah,’ the Seron barked, more adamantly this time.
‘Grettans?’ Steven asked, ‘Malagon’s grettans?’
The Seron howled, a furious cry towards the heavens, and pounded the ground with its fists. It was obviously not happy with the idea that its master had sent grettans to Seer’s Peak. Its mind, however twisted and warped by Malagon’s torture, obviously recognised that it and its fellow Seron were expendable commodities. Malagon had taken no steps to protect his warriors from his grettans, even though they were both on the same mission: to hunt down Gilmour and the Ronan partisans.
Steven wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear the sweat that ran in thin streams through the mud and bloodstains splattering his face. ‘May I look at your leg?’ he asked the Seron. ‘I might be able to help you if you let me look.’
‘Grekac ahat Lahp.’
‘The grettans hurt your foot. Yes, I understand,’ Steven said, venturing closer. ‘May I have a look at your foot? I want to help you.’
‘Na, na,’ the Seron said, pounding on its chest, ‘Lahp, Lahp, Lahp.’
Steven got it. ‘Of course, Lahp,’ he said, smiling without baring his teeth. ‘You are Lahp and the grettan hurt your leg.’ He reached out and began clearing the leaves stuck to the matted blood on the Seron’s injured leg. Working slowly and carefully so as not to startle the creature, he pulled apart the shredded remains of its leggings and exposed several deep, badly infected wounds that ran down its calf and across its ankle.
‘Shit,’ he whispered to Mark, ‘it needs antibiotics right away. It looks like the grettan bit him badly – it slashed right through his boot.’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you.’ Mark’s breath came in short, rigidly controlled gasps. ‘The last pharmacy I saw was next to frozen foods in the supermarket on Riverside.’
Steven tore a length of cloth from his tunic, soaked it with water from the skin and washed the Seron’s wounds, then bound the leg as tightly as he dared. When he finished, he held out the skin bottle and waited for the creature to take it from him. He knew the beast was battling an urge to kill him, an urge implanted by a twisted, evil master, but he was determined not leave the thicket until he was certain the Seron understood Steven was merciful and compassionate.
He couldn’t explain to anyone, not even himself, why he so badly needed this twisted abomination to recognise his redeeming features; maybe he needed to prove to himself that he could exercise some control over the Steven Taylor who had emerged in this strange new world, that Steven Taylor who knew terror and violence firsthand; who had inflicted death himself. He wouldn’t leave the thicket until he and the Seron had displayed mutual trust.
‘Take it, my friend,’ he said, moving the wineskin closer. ‘I know he is pushing you from inside, but I need you to take this from me.’ Steven looked the Seron in its lifeless eyes. ‘Show me you understand.’
‘Lahp ahat Glimr.’
Steven thought for a moment, then realised what he was saying. ‘No, Lahp,’ he reassured the Seron, ‘you are free. You do not have to kill Gilmour.’ Again he urged the soldier to take the offered water. ‘Take this. Drink it. You’ve lost a great deal of blood. This will help you.’
Slowly, as if he had to fight instinct to make every move, Lahp accepted Steven’s wineskin. It drew the cork, drank the skin nearly dry, then spoke again in a hoarse growl. ‘Lahp tak-’
‘Steven,’ Steven said, thumping himself on the chest, ‘my name is Steven.’
‘Lahp tak Sten.’
‘Steven.’
‘Sten.’
‘Fine, Sten it is.’
As he turned to leave the thicket, Steven placed a hand gently on the Seron’s injured leg. ‘Good luck, Lahp.’ Before he could remove it, the warrior reached down and gripped his wrist with surprising strength. The soldier’s enormous hand, although leathery and covered in thick coarse hair, was still surprisingly human.
The skin on Steven’s forearm tightened into gooseflesh. He felt something move with mercurial quickness beneath his skin: a dancing current sparked.
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br /> Lahp’s eyes widened in surprise; he watched Steven, seemed confused for a moment, then nodded. ‘Lahp tak Sten,’ he said finally and released Steven’s arm.
‘You’re welcome, Lahp.’ Something had passed between them; Steven didn’t know what it was, but this wasn’t the time to examine the feeling. He grasped Garec’s deer by the antlers and together he and Mark dragged it out into the clearing.
Once they had relinquished the carcase into Garec’s capable hands, reaction set in. Mark took Steven by the shoulders and shook him soundly.
‘Are you completely mad?’ he shouted in a whisper. ‘That thing could have killed us – maybe Garec could have killed it back, but not before he’d taken at least one of us out. What the fuck were you thinking?’
Steven was shaking. He held Mark at arm’s-length and said, ‘If it’s any help, I apologise-’ he looked around at their companions, ‘I apologise to all of you. It was just something I had to do – I’m not sure I even know why.’ He turned back to Mark. ‘Thanks for coming with me. That was an incredibly brave thing for you to do. Stupid, but brave.’
Mark pounded him on the shoulder. ‘Stupid I definitely agree with. Next time you intend playing the damnfool hero, perhaps you’d give me a bit of warning.’
While Garec set to dressing the deer, warily keeping one eye on the thicket in case the injured Seron should decide to rush the company in a suicidal charge, Sallax stalked angrily over to Steven and spat, ‘That was foolish. Let’s hope it will be dead by nightfall, because we are going to have to keep a watch going in case it gets better enough to attack us.’
‘He,’ Steven said, ‘it’s a “he” and yes, he might be dead by nightfall, but we will not have killed him. It makes a difference, Sallax. And I think we’re quite safe from him now.’
Steven looked at Gilmour. ‘He was sent for you.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it – sorry, he – was.’ The old man stared down the hillside through the trees standing like monuments to the passage of time. Gilmour was already an old man when these trees were seedlings. ‘Nerak has been trying to kill me for Twinmoons. It looks like he has stepped up his efforts.’
