by Rob Scott
Unfazed, Nerak went on, ‘The woman Hannah Sorenson.’
Steven’s heart stopped. The gears keeping it beating stripped their cogs and ground together in a nearly audible breakdown. His mouth fell open, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. The staff, now ruby-red and throbbing with latent power, shook in his suddenly weakened hand. His knees felt like jelly and he had to force himself to stay standing.
‘I assume from your struggle to find a witty retort the woman means something.’ Once again, the grettan ran its long tongue over the dripping spikes lining its jaws. ‘Well, Steven Taylor, I thought you might be interested to know that as we speak she is making her way through Praga to meet with Kantu, my other dear Larion colleague. Trust me, Kantu is as much use as Fantus; I could shit more destructive magic than those two simpering fops could ever hope to wield against me.
‘But I lose my thread. Hannah Sorenson-’ The grettan licked his lips in a positively lascivious manner; Steven wanted to retch. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’ The voice was sibilant now, as Nerak relished the sound of her name. ‘Hannah, young Hannah. Such a pretty name. Such a pretty woman. And I will strip that prettiness from her like flaying a deer. The tortures Hannah Sorensen will suffer at my hands will be endless and nameless. She will suffer for aeons, and I assume it is your name she will scream, over and over again, as I tear her mind apart from the inside out. I will leave her her tongue for a while, so I can listen to her agonies.’
Watching Steven for a reaction, the grettan continued, ‘Of course, her suffering will only truly begin after I have destroyed her body.’
Anger and hatred exploded through Steven like the shock-wave of a subterranean volcano. It welled up inside him and any vague memories of Gilmour’s lecture on the appropriate use of magic vanished in the heat of his fury. Wild with rage, the staff in his hands responded, now exuding a searing heat. It seemed to be willing him to strike out at the creature: Be the aggressor! Kill the motherless bastard! He could feel it through his hands and wrists, and the muscles of his forearms rippled as Steven gave in.
‘No!’ he screamed and brought the staff around in a killing stroke. Steven expected to feel the magic tear through the grettan’s flesh as it had torn through the almor; he was shocked when he felt the force of his blow ripping through Gilmour’s canopy like a flaming razor through tissue paper. An instant later, he realised his mistake. He had opened a rift in the protective spell and allowed Nerak to enter their camp unchecked.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ the grettan roared, leaping over him towards his unsuspecting companions.
Steven was dumbstruck: he had been fooled, and he cursed his stupidity as he rushed towards the grettan, hoping at least to wound it so his friends could escape into the forest. But there was Gilmour, already on his feet. Somehow, the old sorcerer had detected Nerak and was waiting for the break in the canopy as his lifelong enemy attacked. The grettan was still in the air, stark and black against the firelight, when Gilmour released the force of his own magic in a bone-shattering blow. Struck in the centre of its massive chest, the beast gave a cry and flipped backwards on itself to land heavily in a confused pile of broken limbs and bloodied fur.
This time Steven did not hesitate. He brought his staff around again and, glowing bright red in the night, it held fast and slashed through flesh and bone, sending the grettan’s left forelimb spinning into the fire.
Almost immediately, the creature’s glowing amber eyes dimmed to black. The grettan, screeching in agony, retreated stumbling into the trees. Garec, who had managed to come to his knees, fired several shots after the fleeing animal. Steven could see arrows protruding from its hindquarter as the grettan disappeared up the slope, leaving a heavy blood trail and deep footprints in the otherwise undisturbed snow.
In a secluded apartment in Welstar Palace, Prince Malagon roared in pain and, rising angrily from the floor, cast a frustrated spell of such magnitude that a heavy stone wall in his chamber cracked and fell to rubble, leaving a new entry to the hallway beyond.
‘Fantus, I will eat your heart!’ he screamed. The guards who had rushed to investigate the crash were struck dead instantly by the waves of magic still coursing through the corridor. The dark prince bellowed again, his fury uncontrolled. It was not that weakling Gilmour’s blow that had driven him from the grettan: the power to dispel him from the Ronan camp had come from Steven Taylor and that pathetic wooden stick.
How powerful had Gilmour become if he could create such a weapon for an untrained and untested sorcerer? And where was Jacrys, his so-called master spy? Why had the man not made his way into their camp and stolen the cursed key? He had failed in every attempt to kill the wizard and his band; now Malagon had gown impatient waiting for Gilmour to reach Sandcliff before him.
He would send a wraith to Jacrys with a message: Succeed immediately, or die immediately.
But no, he needed to take more drastic measures. Jacrys was unreliable and Fantus had grown too resourceful. He would send a platoon of wraiths – an army – to wrench the sanity from their minds, to leave them lost and babbling, to join his invincible army of spirits – and to bring Lessek’s Key home to him.
He should have done that in the beginning.
‘I’m sorry; I’m sorry,’ Steven repeated again and again, ‘I let him into camp. I broke through your spell for him. I’m sorry.’ The news that Hannah was in Eldarn had set his mind racing; he paced back and forth, desperate for some plan, some course of action to emerge.
‘He knew Hannah’s name. He said she was going to meet Kantu. She’s in Praga. I mean, she must be. Right? How would he have known her name? Or anything about her at all if she weren’t here? Can he read my thoughts? Did he simply pull her out of my mind while I was sleeping?’ Steven raged on despite Mark and Brynne’s efforts to calm him; he could not regain his composure.
Finally Gilmour took him firmly by the upper arm and forced him to slow his urgent pacing. ‘It’s all right, Steven,’ the old sorcerer said calmly. ‘He tricked you, that’s all. He couldn’t get into camp and needed you to create a tear in the canopy. It’s fine. The blow you struck with that staff dispelled Nerak and broke his hold on the grettan. He’s back in Welstar Palace right now, probably nursing a massive headache.’
Steven would not be calmed. ‘What of Hannah? Is she here? Can you tell if she’s here? How could he know?’
Instead of responding, Gilmour ran one hand slowly over Steven’s sweaty brow. ‘Rest, Steven. I need you to rest.’ Before the elderly man could remove his hand, Steven slumped in his grasp, sleeping soundly.
Like a father bidding good night to a sleeping son, Gilmour carefully laid Steven’s comatose body near the fire and covered him with two heavy blankets.
In the sudden silence Mark asked, ‘Is it true that Hannah’s here?’
‘I’m afraid it might be,’ Gilmour answered. ‘I can’t think of any other way Nerak would know Hannah’s name would get such a strong response from Steven. He’s too far away to read our minds, unless we’re focusing our thoughts towards him directly. So I am very afraid that we must assume the worst.’
‘The worst?’
‘That Hannah is here, and the far portal in your home remains open.’
Mark mused over their last days in Colorado. ‘I don’t think Steven spoke with Hannah the night we opened the contents of the safe deposit box… unless he called her before he left the bank.’
‘Why would that make a difference?’ Brynne asked.
‘Because she would have no idea Lessek’s Key was at all important
… you know- In case Nerak gets to her… takes her-’ Mark was a little surprised at how pragmatic he sounded when discussing Hannah’s possible death. He kicked a bloodstained log onto the fire. ‘We must assume the key is still sitting there on Steven’s desk.’
Gilmour brightened. ‘And we must also assume Nerak remains unaware of that fact.’
‘Right,’ Garec joined the conversation. ‘Or else why would he come here, or at
least project himself here, to threaten and attack us?’
‘But Gilmour,’ Mark interrupted, ‘if he knows where we are all the time, won’t he be tipped off when we make for Welstar Palace instead of Sandcliff?’
‘Yes, he will,’ Gilmour nodded. ‘And there will be nothing to keep him from stepping across the Fold, finding Lessek’s Key and sending his collected forces against us while he studies the spell table at his leisure.’
Brynne pushed an errant lock of hair behind one ear. ‘Do you believe that wraith is the one following us?’
‘Not from what Steven said,’ Gilmour answered, and Garec nodded in agreement. ‘It must be someone else, someone resourceful, with the fortitude and skill to make his way through these hills alone.’
‘Could Malagon be watching us?’
‘No, it’s too far. He would be forced to focus his will for long periods of time.’ Gilmour tore a piece of cold meat from the uneaten chunk of boar still lying near the fire. ‘This is someone crafty, with enough magic to camouflage his or her presence when I cast about searching for them. When we were in the foothills or out near the river, I detected many others about, travellers mostly. However, now that we’re in an uncharted section of the Blackstones, I am confident that when I find someone, it will be our Malakasian shadow.’
Garec completed Gilmour’s thought. ‘So we need to be certain we find this spy before we make a definitive move towards Welstar Palace.’
‘Right.’ Looking towards the stars, Gilmour added, ‘Dawn is approaching. Let’s get things packed for the day. Sallax and Steven may sleep a bit longer, but then we must continue on.’
By midmorning, Garec realised the group dynamic had changed dramatically. Sallax, their confident and indefatigable leader, had grown sullen and quiet. He trudged through knee-deep snow, brooding, not talking. He had awakened with a start, crying out and springing to his feet as Garec was repacking their saddlebags. Brynne had rushed to her brother’s side, but he refused to discuss the wraith’s attack, even with her. He assured her he felt fine, and then refused to elaborate. Garec watched him now as he pushed his way downhill through the drifts while his cloak dragged behind him; it looked like an exceedingly long cape draped over a man half his height. Garec felt a pang of doubt ripple through his stomach. No one had appointed Sallax their leader, but he was a source of strength; he helped the others feel as though they would never be defeated as long as he was there to push them onwards. Though Sallax looked physically sound, Garec was worried Gabriel O’Reilly’s ghost had done something to break his friend’s spirit, to weaken him emotionally, maybe even killed his desire to win back Rona’s freedom. The mysterious wraith had told Steven it wanted to help, but that had been the extent of its communication. Who knew what it had done to Sallax?
Steven was different too, desperate in his determination to move on, and he shouted back at them, encouraging everyone to move as quickly as possible down the slope and across the narrow valley to the next incline. Progress was slow and Garec doubted they’d make it to the pass before nightfall. He thought deep drifts might have collected at the base of the mountain, forcing them to make camp among the pines and put off pushing for the tree line until the following morning.
Unable to make his way through the snow and remain vigilant for passing game at the same time, Garec wore his longbow slung across his shoulders and used both hands to maintain his balance as he hurried along behind Steven.
However worried about their progress he was, Garec did spare a thought for Steven’s anguish: he was obviously tortured by the thought that his love was alone in Praga. They could hear the guilt in Steven’s voice, and he gripped his hickory staff as if he expected Malagon to rise up bodily from the earth. Steven was convinced this woman – Hannah – would be safe at home if he had never opened the far portal. Garec felt for him.
Like Sallax, Steven looked as if he had been cut off at the knees and propped up in the drifts. ‘Please, everyone,’ he called, sounding harried, ‘we must hurry. We’re facing a really difficult climb and we need to reach the base of this slope as soon as possible.’
Mark shot Steven a glance; Garec could see the two friends disagreed on how far the group would progress that morning.
Steven too noticed Mark’s doubt and he stopped for a moment, crestfallen, as if he had only just realised they would not be able to walk all the way to Welstar Palace without rest. He set his jaw, brushed a clump of snow from his cloak and entreated his friends again, ‘We must try. I’ll break the trail. Stay in my tracks and you’ll find the going easier.’
Behind him, Garec detected the aroma of Gilmour’s pipe. The old sorcerer had said nothing all morning.
From time to time Garec peered through the highest pine branches towards the sky, but the sun was invisible behind the unbroken cloud. Garec recognised that Steven was doing a heroic job maintaining a direct line to the base of the mountain; it had taken an aven or two watching him, but Garec had finally worked out that Steven was checking and adjusting their progress when, periodically, he would hold the hickory staff aloft and sight along it towards two peaks visible in the distance. Garec promised himself he would learn this navigation strategy.
Steven’s breath came in laboured gasps as he forced himself to continue breaking the trail. Garec almost wished Steven would just keep staring into the distance rather than turning around to speak with them at all, for his desperation was written all over his face. Despite the biting cold, he was sweating profusely and his skin shone palely white, nearly matching the snowy hillside around them. Had it not been for the bright red flush across his cheeks and the billowy clouds marking time with his breath, Garec would have rushed down the slope to see if Steven was still alive.
The insecure banker who had arrived in Eldarn such a short time ago had given way to the angry, frustrated and guilt-ridden warrior who stood before him now; Garec was beginning to think that without Sallax’s leadership, the future of the Ronan Resistance might rest in the hands of Steven Taylor. He couldn’t work out why Gilmour had remained silent all morning, nor why the old man was allowing Steven to push them so hard. They were wet and cold, and uncertain they could make the climb over the next pass. Mark knew it. Brynne knew it, and he knew it. If Steven continued at this pace, none of them would have the strength to go on. They would never make it at this pace; they would not succeed. Sallax, Gilmour, even Mark: one of them needed to take control. Steven needed to understand that his guilt at Hannah’s plight was not reason enough to put them all at risk. Garec longed for Versen to appear and take charge.
He looked back at Gilmour, who gave him a warm, ironic smile through a cloud of pipe smoke. Then, surprised at the sound of his own voice, Garec cried out, ‘Stop!’
Everyone turned to look. Steven, irritated at the interruption to his forced march, called back, ‘No, Garec, we must continue moving. We’ve nearly reached the base of this valley. It won’t be long before we’re climbing that slope.’ He gestured towards the ominous rise awaiting them in the distance.
‘I’m sorry, Steven,’ Garec called back, ‘but we have to take a break. Sallax is ill and we’re all wet and cold. If we push ourselves to exhaustion today, none of us will clear that pass tomorrow.’ Garec was worried the others might disapprove, but if he didn’t try, they would probably all die in the snow.
Steven ran a sleeve across his forehead and, panting loudly, tried to convince them to move on. ‘Do you all know what is happening up there?’ He pointed towards the hillside before them. ‘It’s snowing up there and every hour – every aven – we spend dawdling down here, the deeper it gets and the more difficult our passage becomes.’
‘Garec’s right, Steven,’ Mark said, but Steven interrupted angrily.
‘How the hell can you suggest we stop?’ Steven was incredulous. You know what’s waiting for us up there.’
‘That’s exactly why we ought to camp on the valley floor tonight,’ Mark said. ‘Sallax needs more rest. Hell, we all do.’
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‘Sallax is fine. He’s the only one keeping pace without complaining.’
Sallax said nothing, and his very indifference concerned everyone but Steven.
‘Fine.’ Steven’s voice rose. ‘Camp down here. Camp here until spring. I’m going over that pass tomorrow morning.’
‘Steven.’ Gilmour finally spoke. ‘Your passion is commendable, and I’m certain Hannah would appreciate it. But the only way for you to help her now is to stick to our plan.’
‘Don’t you see, Gilmour?’ He looked from side to side through the trees, as if someone who understood him might appear and take up his cause. ‘Finally, something about this mystical, enchanted nightmare of a world you call home makes sense. She’s here and she needs me. I’m going to her now.’
Gilmour remained calm. ‘She needs you, and you can help, but not by killing yourself and us. Nerak cannot detect the magic of your staff. It leaves no ripple as our own magic does. We will not make it into Welstar Palace on my power alone.’ The old man’s words fell, solid as bricks. All eyes turned back to Steven.
‘Come with me now to Praga,’ he begged, ‘please. I must save Hannah.’
‘No,’ Garec answered, ‘our mission is clear. We must win back the key. If we fail to do that, Hannah will be only one of millions upon millions of deaths at Nerak’s hands. Our world, yours – and who knows how many more-’
Steven looked as though he might expire. He rubbed one hand across his face and wiped away the tears, then turned to Mark. ‘You know where you’re going.’
‘Steven, no.’
‘You know where you’re going. Keep moving north. If there’s a river into Orindale, you’re bound to run right into it.’ He looked up at Gilmour. ‘Wait for me at Orindale. I’ll find her and be back.’
‘You must stay with us.’ Garec was beginning to lose his temper. ‘You know where Lessek’s Key is.’
‘So does Mark.’
