by Rob Scott
The blurry stranger appeared, more a dark intrusion among his bleached surroundings than an actual person. The silent caregiver wiped Steven’s tunic clean with a length of cloth and forced a wineskin filled with cold water into his mouth. Steven managed a swallow before the stranger spun away into the distance and the dark edges of unconsciousness swallowed him once more.
He was running through deep sand on a beach. It was summer and his thighs ached with the effort. A sea breeze blew in off the bay and he felt it pushing against his chest, holding him fast. I have to get down closer to the water; the sand will be firm there. He heard music, someone playing Bach on a pipe organ. The notes were clean, and each fell into place amongst the fabric of contrapuntal tones that bounced about his head like so many colourful balls. There were wonderful flavours, hearty sauces and grilled meats. Was there more in the kitchen, or should he take less and allow their guests to eat as much as they wanted? Be certain not to inconvenience anyone, Steven.
He ran his tongue over his lips, expecting to capture the vestiges of a delicious meal, but instead he felt them cracked, dried and scabbed over with clotted blood. When had he been hurt? Did he fall? Keep playing that music; it’s a nice way to pass the time, much better than pondering safe deposit boxes, Egyptian geometrics, or cell phones and calculators.
And then the stranger was with him again. Together, they were back in the seamless, bleached-white realm and Steven tried to smile, for no other reason than to let the stranger know he was happy here. He felt his lip tear open and tasted blood trickling into his mouth, no sauces or meats this time. And what was that behind him? Two tracks, long imperfections scratched in the ivory blanket thrown over everything in sight. Following their path, he realised they had been made by his own heels, dragging two thin lines into the distance.
Pick up your feet, Steven. You’re ruining the carpet. What would Lessek say? Lessek would say something confusing or incoherent, something to make him believe his role in Eldarn was complete when he knew he had more to do. Lessek would mock him from beyond the grave, sharing otherwise pointless images from Steven’s life, staying up late to watch the ’86 series or breaking his elbow one summer in Maine. Or he would show him a slow-motion film of the afternoon he met Hannah. Joking with Howard and Myrna, and why? To confirm that Hannah is really here, here in this foul Eldarni prison? The answers lie elsewhere, Steven. Was that it? No. Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere. That was it. Terrific. The answers lie elsewhere; so our time climbing Seer’s Peak, risking our lives against the almor and possibly losing Versen was time wasted?
Screw you, Lessek. Save your own fucking world. It was the first time Steven realised he had been moving backwards. He started to cry.
Fever. What did Dr Wilson say? Fever was the body’s natural response to unwanted intruders. Anything that can live at body temperature will struggle to survive when the environment gets warmer. There was a song about fever, a line from that rolling Beethoven song. But this was Bach, one of the fugues. Steven could not name it; he could never keep them straight. His sister had a fever once; he had watched from the hallway as she writhed about on her bed. It had been strangely erotic, and at the same time, terrifying. He had worried she might die. She had been submerged in a cool bath before being rushed to hospital. Had she died?
He was sweating now. It stung his eyes and ran in cold rivers behind his ears and across his neck. He fought to wipe his face, but could not. He begged for someone – anyone – to mop his brow, but no one came. His ivory surroundings had disappeared. Or had he lost his ability to see?
No, she had not died. She was marrying Ken or Karl or someone and he had to get her china cabinet to California. It had been cold in her room that night. His teeth rattled together and he felt himself begin to shiver uncontrollably. The white world was gone, but a spiralling, colourful array of bright dancing rainbows had replaced it. Sweating. I wonder how much weight I’ve lost. Maybe I’ll wrestle next season. It’s a long time to stay this thin, though. How did it not make them crazy? Wrestlers. It was too cold to wrestle now. The referees would have to wear knit gloves. I wonder if I might scratch imperfections in these colours as well. Bring back the white blanket. I won’t ruin it.
I’ll pick up my feet if someone will just wipe my eyes. It’s give and take. I can avoid becoming a burden for all of you if someone will just clear this stinging, sodding, salty sweat from my eyes.
Crying out, Steven shivered, hyperventilating, as the faceless nursemaid wiped his face and neck. Then the stranger was gone and Steven was moving backwards once again.
Gilmour had been right. Whoever carried Steven away from the massacre had far more strength and stamina than Mark. He had been following the trail for several hours and the distance between footprints had not diminished at all. Steven’s captor was either enormously tall or running at full speed while carrying his injured companion; he would shatter all international marathon records back home. Mark knew there was no way he would catch up unless Steven’s injuries forced the stranger to stop.
Mark thought about making camp and waiting for the others to join him: it was obviously going to take more than a battle-axe to free Steven from whomever – or whatever – was carrying him. Having Gilmour’s magic available would help. Mark shook his head and continued trudging alongside the footprints. Steven might not survive the night. It was up to Mark. He might have the chance to kill his friend’s captor or to spirit Steven away if the opportunity presented itself. For either of those, he had to be there.
Shortly before dawn, the footprints turned northwards up the slope of a mountain still invisible in the darkness. Mark estimated he had run some fifteen miles east along the trail and his legs and back were aching from the uneven ground. He used snow to keep himself hydrated and finished the last of the boar meat for energy. He was pining for a glass of orange juice, or maybe a steaming cup of coffee. His body burned a dangerous number of calories every time he swallowed a handful of unmelted snow, but he didn’t have the luxury of time to thaw enough to fill his wineskin.
Mark was more concerned about food; none of them had eaten much other than meat since they started climbing. They would all need proper nutrition soon: Mark laughed to himself at the thought that he was actually craving vegetables. It was just a few days since he and Steven had promised to turn over a new leaf in the culinary department, but it felt like a lifetime ago.
The slope made him slow to a quick walk; he was staggered that the stranger’s pace didn’t change or falter, not even when the trail turned uphill. Gilmour’s makeshift torch continued to burn brightly and despite the freezing temperature, Mark had to mop his brow repeatedly with a corner of his riding cloak. ‘They’re heading over the mountain,’ he concluded out loud.
He hoped their path had not taken them so far east that they would miss the valley he and Steven had spotted several days earlier. Mark was certain that valley was their passage to Orindale. It ran northwest for as far as they could see; neither thought to estimate how far southeast it stretched as well. They never imagined they would need to know. Mark felt a pang of insecurity as he tried to picture the vista in his mind. He couldn’t recollect the far end of the valley clearly enough. Even though his plan of travelling north one pass and then heading west until they reached the valley sounded simple enough, the Rocky Mountains had taught him that apparently obvious orienteering decisions often left one lost or stranded.
Seeing his entire boot print disappear into one left by Steven’s captor, Mark’s thoughts shifted to how he might rescue his friend. Gilmour had said that they were being tracked by someone; might this be the someone he had sensed? And if so, how powerful a foe was he chasing? He wasn’t a confident enough swordsman to be much of a threat to anyone more skilled than the average twelve-year-old; he was even more uncomfortable at the thought of fighting with a battle-axe. Sallax’s words echoed in his mind: Don’t try to hack off any limbs.
Great Christ-on-a-stick, was he about to engage in a con
flict where that would be a viable option? He wasn’t much of a fighter. He had been in a scrap with Paul Kempron when he was fourteen, and he’d walked away with a split lip and chipped tooth as he tried to avoid a burgeoning melee between hundreds of drunken Bostonians at a football game. That was the sum total of his fighting experience so far.
He tried to imagine what he was going up against: taller, stronger, certainly faster and more skilled… Mark wasted little time convincing himself that he was not about to get badly beaten, perhaps even killed. And if it was a creature with magical powers, like the almor, or the wraith that had so changed Sallax, then he had no resources to tap.
Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on how he might fool his quarry into leaving Steven unattended long enough for them to disappear into the underbrush. He had never felt less brave in his life.
Jacrys approached from above the tree line. He had worked his way around their camp and moved out onto the exposed slopes of the hillside before descending silently, a predator in the night. He knew the old man rarely slept, but even a Larion Senator would need some rest after the pace they had been maintaining, especially with the tricky slope awaiting them the next morning. He used a cloaking spell which made him virtually invisible, even to Gilmour, and was so close he could smell meat roasting above the campfire. They were discussing the foreigners’ disappearance; they had been tracking one all day, and were about to follow his path over an uncharted peak to the north. The woman, Brynne, was concerned their detour had taken them too far east, that they would have to retrace their steps to find passage to Orindale.
Jacrys was tired. He was tired of climbing peak after peak, tired of finding no real opportunity to complete his mission. He was tired of focusing solely on one kill. He was not a murderer by nature; he thrived on espionage, on the analysis and evaluation of situations and information, the political, economic, emotional and religious factors that influenced human behaviour. Travelling for days at a time with just one goal – and that simply murder – was boring, and exhausting. He might be about to kill the most powerful man in the occupied lands, but he would rather have been in a smoky tavern exchanging silver for news, or eavesdropping on a rogue Malakasian officer as he shared state secrets with a whore. Jacrys was adept at violence when necessary, and certainly not squeamish, but this was different. There was a point of no return for the nations of Eldarn, and he was about to push the entire world beyond it. With Gilmour dead, only the seldom-seen Kantu would have the knowledge and power to rival the dark prince, but it would not be enough. Malagon would rule unchecked until the end of his days.
Jacrys closed his eyes briefly and ground his teeth together until his jaw ached. Malagon’s family had ruled for nearly a thousand Twinmoons. Would it really matter if Gilmour died now?
Peering through icy brambles, Jacrys watched as the Ronan partisans prepared to turn in for the night. This was it: he would finally do away with Gilmour and win his freedom from Malagon’s continuous scrutiny – that was an uncomfortable place to be. Too many otherwise talented soldiers, spies, magicians and political figures had died without warning just because they had been under his watchful eye. Steven Taylor, the one with the key Malagon wanted so badly, was gone, disappeared after the rogue bull grettan attacked their camp. At least he had taken the deadly staff along with him. That was one less potentially life-threatening variable to contend with. The other was the bowman; he wouldn’t be able to flee quickly enough to avoid the young man’s lightning-fast bowfire, so he needed to disarm the young killer first.
Garec was posted to the first watch. He propped himself up against a tree trunk near the old man. Perfect. It wasn’t long before the bowman’s eyelids started to flutter, evidence of his losing battle to remain vigilant. When Garec’s chin slumped onto his chest, Jacrys drew two knives and moved slowly through the thicket towards his prey, thanking the gods of the Northern Forest for the blanket of snow muting his approach.
As he reached Gilmour’s side, the Malakasian spy hesitated for a moment. Prince Malagon was a cold, cruel and dangerous man, devoid of compassion or empathy. He killed without warning, and appeared to care little for the wellbeing of his Malakasian citizens, let along those of the conquered lands. Gilmour was a legend, the protector of the ideal that all people should be permitted to live in peace, free from fear and want. Could he actually kill this man? He was under no illusion of what would happen if he did not: he would be summoned to Welstar Palace and tortured for a Twinmoon or two, and then – if he were very lucky – he might be allowed to die.
The waning firelight illuminated Gilmour’s silent profile in a warm yellow glow. What would come of killing this man? Poverty? Civil unrest? The collapse of the Resistance movement in Rona? Most likely.
But Jacrys would escape, he would find a niche somewhere. Glancing at Brynne’s form, shapely, even beneath her blanket, he imagined he might even find happiness. He was resourceful, enormously so, and he would make his way as far from the coming conflict as possible.
As long as he did his duty, and emerged unscathed, he would survive. He wiped his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then raised his dagger to strike.
Jacrys slammed his arm down with all the force he could summon. The blade’s tip caught for the briefest moment in the thick cartilage over the breastbone, then plunged hilt-deep into the old man’s chest. There was a thin snap; it sounded like a pine knot exploding in the dying embers of the fire. The old man’s eyes flew open, a look of absolute terror. He drew breath to scream, but all he could manage was a gurgled, shuddering groan.
Jacrys felt his hand slide down the knife’s grip and come to rest on Gilmour’s chest. He was suddenly overcome by surprise. A look of genuine perplexity passed over his face: Gilmour, the legendary leader of the Larion Senate in the Twinmoon of its collapse, the most powerful man in Rona, was nothing stronger than flesh and bone. He was human. There was no great release of deadly magical force, no explosion of mystical ancient power. No brilliant burst of colourful flame radiated from the site of the old man’s now-mortal wound.
Rather, Jacrys’s knife slid smoothly into the old man’s heart and stopped it a breath or two later. Gilmour Stow was dead.
Lucid again after his unexpected moment of empathy, Jacrys did not pause to enjoy the fruits of his labour but turned and lashed out with the second blade towards Garec. The groggy bowman woke with a start, but he was too slow. Reflexively he tried to use the tree trunk to deflect the knife. Its edge reflected firelight and glinted in the air as it whistled past Garec’s throat and up over his shoulder.
But Jacrys was not intent on killing Garec; as his blade found its target the Ronan’s bowstring gave a sharp, punctuated cry and Jacrys quickly sprinted into the woods, disappearing before anyone could gain their feet.
Garec began running almost immediately, but the attacker was too far ahead to track down in the dark. Surprise had served the man well. Garec cursed loudly into the night as he gave up the chase and turned back towards camp.
As he approached through the trees, he saw a shapeless lump, rimmed by firelight, rocking slightly back and forth on the ground. Finally he recognised Brynne, and ran the last few paces into camp to join her. She was cradling Gilmour’s head in her lap, sobbing in anguish against his chest, her thin body wracked periodically as she drew short, raspy breaths. Sallax, his lips pressed flatly together, stood nearby, staring at his sister. He showed no emotion. Garec dropped to his knees, but he did not need to find Jacrys’s knife protruding from Gilmour’s breastbone to know the old man was dead.
*
‘Good night, Hannah – and please don’t worry. I know we’ll find him tomorrow.’ Hoyt waited for the door to close before he turned to Churn. ‘I saw him. I saw the mule-rutter there at the tavern.’
Churn gestured, ‘Why did we leave?’
‘He was flat-nosed, ass-over-hill dog-pissed.’
Churn waved one hand irritably in front of the smaller man’s face.
�
�Yes, I know I can sign those things, but sometimes, Churn, we need to express ourselves a bit more eloquently.’ Hoyt’s fingers moved in a rhythm that somehow matched the timbre of his voice. ‘He was drunk… crushed… ruined as a whore at Twinmoon Festival.’
‘So? I’m sure she’s seen drunks before.’
‘Not drunk, Churn, absolutely demonpissing comatose. I should have checked him for a pulse.’ They made their way down a flight of stairs into the great room of the more reputable inn they had found.
‘I’m still not entirely convinced he’s alive down there.’
‘Are we going back?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want Hannah to see him. It’s better if she sleeps now, anyway. She’s been so nervous. I think she would faint if she saw him in this condition.’ Hoyt paused a moment, trying to remember something the pox-scarred bartender had said. ‘I think Alen’s been at this for a long time.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know-’ Hoyt broke off and announced, ‘Let’s go find him. We’ll bring him back to our room, let him sober up and make introductions in the morning.’
The Middle Fork Tavern was three muddy streets away. It wasn’t long before the Pragans were back in the dark room with the exposed beams and fiery maw blazing at the base of the far wall. They found Alen exactly where Hoyt had left him two avens earlier. The healer politely asked the men sitting around him to clear an area so he could extricate the drunk.
‘Shove off,’ a gruff, elderly man barked at Hoyt. ‘These seats are taken.’
‘Oh, no, sir, you misunderstand: I don’t want your seat, I just want to dislodge my friend-’
‘Do you have a hearing problem, son?’ The grizzled patron turned round with some difficulty. Hoyt’s charm obviously wasn’t working too well.
