by Rob Scott
He tried a different tack. ‘Ah, no,’ he said, gesturing with an outstretched thumb towards Churn, ‘but he does.’
Churn stepped forward, gripped the bench with both hands and lifted. The heavy wooden seat, along with the four drinkers astride it, began to rise, slowly, from the floor. The old man’s quickness belied his age: in a heartbeat he was brandishing a thin dirk and lurching towards Churn’s exposed ribs. Hoyt was faster. Without a flourish he drew a small steel blade, honed to a surgeon’s edge. Two quick slashes, one to the old man’s wrist, just behind the thumb, and another across the fleshy part of the forearm: the dirk fell to the floor.
The old man, his hand now useless and hanging limp, slid off the bench to his knees. ‘You bleeding horsecock!’ he screamed, more in fury than pain. ‘You crippled me, you bastard.’ He started to choke back embarrassing sobs. ‘How am I going to work now?’ He looked around the room, hoping for sympathy, but everyone looked away, gazing thoughtfully into goblets and tankards.
‘Any local healer can stitch that,’ Hoyt told him calmly. ‘Go soon, and for the forest gods’ sake, keep it immobile until you get there. If you don’t, you’ll rip those tendons – and then you really won’t be happy. Go on, be quick about it. Get moving.’
Hoyt didn’t wait to see if the old man did as he was told but turned his attention to the filthy plank floor. There was Alen, still in a crumpled heap, sleeping – or perhaps even dead. He didn’t appear to have moved since Hoyt had nudged his feet out of the way earlier that day. Churn bent down to peer under the table himself. He raised an eyebrow at Hoyt and when the healer nodded, hauled the stinking figure out as if he weighed less than the sack of dirty laundry he so resembled.
Back at their own far more salubrious lodgings, they discussed what to do. Hoyt was nervous that Hannah might have been looking for them; perhaps, unable to sleep, she’d come downstairs to sit near the fire and sip tecan or try a goblet of the local wine.
‘We have to be quick and silent,’ he gestured in twists and flicks of his hands. ‘Up to our room. We’ll decide what to do with-’ he cast a sidelong glance at Alen’s cadaverous face, ‘- with him once we get there.’ He peered through a crack in the front door: they were safe, the room was empty. Throwing the door open, he and Churn carried their foetid bundle across the great room and up the stairs along the back wall. Hoyt could feel his heart rate slowing once they’d tiptoed past Hannah’s door. They were going to make it. Only a few steps further along the hall, then they would have all night to clean him up.
Creak!
Churn stepped heavily on a loose floorboard and Hoyt froze, holding his breath. He waited for what felt like a Twinmoon, then moved to their own door. He grasped the leather thong that threaded through a small hole to the latch inside the door and pulled.
Creak!
The ancient wood groaned as the door swung open slowly. Again Hoyt waited, motionless, his gaze fixed on Hannah’s door across the hall. The planks were pretty warped, he noticed. Nothing moved.
Shaking his head, he relaxed and indicated that Churn should go ahead into the narrow chamber. He closed the door as quietly as the moan of leather against wood and protesting hinges would allow and was several steps into the room before he noticed the candle.
‘Did we leave that-?’
‘No. I lit it.’ Hannah smiled enigmatically. ‘Hello boys,’ she said.
Hoyt was rooted to the floor as she stood up and stretched, then moved closer to get a better look at the grim carcase Churn had slung over one shoulder like the evening’s kill. ‘And who is this? A friend you met at a bar, or another body we need to dispose of before morning?’ Hannah was enjoying herself. ‘Oh, relax, you two! I don’t care if you went out for a drink. I just couldn’t get to sleep. So I started thinking about ways to find Alen and-’ She paused. They still hadn’t moved.
‘Are you all right?’ Hannah took a step towards them. ‘And who is this? Oh God, is he dead? Not another one. I was joking! What happened? Please tell me; don’t just stand there like frightened children. Who is he? Did he try to kill you? Is he a spy?’
Something broke and finally Hoyt was able to move. ‘Hannah,’ he began tentatively, ‘this is my dear friend, Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’
Steven woke in the night; though it was cold, he could feel the warmth of a fire somewhere nearby. Struggling to lift his arms, he realised he was tied down, lashed to pine boughs and covered with thin wool blankets. He swallowed; his parched throat felt like sandpaper. Above him he could see an interlocking mass of branches, a near-impenetrable canopy.
He abandoned the struggle to loosen the straps when the tangle of irregular green branches started spinning before his eyes and he nearly lost consciousness. Slowly he realised he was not alone.
‘Who’s there?’ he croaked, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.
No one answered. He tried to lift his head far enough to see across the campsite, but this time pain shot from his ribcage across his back. He remembered the grettan attack and his breath quickened as he recalled the image of his leg disappearing into the beast’s canine-studded jaws. Wincing, he hesitantly tried to move his feet. His left leg, although tied firmly, moved with little pain, but his right did not respond at all. Steven remembered the sickening snap of his calf bones as the grettan slammed its jaws closed above his boot. Now he could feel nothing from the knee down. Despite the cold, he started to perspire as he imagined the mutilated stump the animal might have left him. Sharp, jagged canines. Those pierce and tear flesh. It must be gone.
His ribs were broken, his shoulder was dislocated, his leg was ripped off below the knee: Steven was surprised he was not more terrified. He must be in shock. He was aware of himself and his surroundings, but his mind was protecting him from the thought that he was gravely, perhaps mortally injured. Except for the searing pain in his ribs and the dull throb in his leg, he felt little pain. His shoulder ached with every motion, but since he could still move his fingers, his arm was clearly intact.
‘How am I supposed to treat a shock victim?’ he wondered aloud, but nothing came to mind. He couldn’t remember how he’d done with first-aid training, but he was pretty sure he had not excelled. Mark would have scolded him and accused him of not paying attention. For a moment Steven stopped thinking about his own condition.
‘Mark, Garec?’ he called out over the campfire, ‘Gilmour?’ Nothing. Panic began to set in: had they been attacked as well? Were they all dead? If that were the case, how had he escaped – and more to the point, who had tied him up like this – was it for his safety, or to confine him?
All of a sudden Steven’s mind was beset with questions: where was he? With whom? Why? Using his good arm he examined the bonds that held him: several wool blankets were wrapped around him, thick leather straps and coarse hemp kept his legs, hips and torso straight. His head was held in place by a padded leather thong tied between the two pine branches that made up the skeletal frame of what he thought might be a makeshift stretcher. He couldn’t have been left to die because his – captor? saviour? – had left a fire burning.
‘Why won’t you answer me?’ he called in as calm a voice as he could muster. ‘I know you’re there; I can feel you.’
Straining to bend his neck, Steven watched smoke from the fire leaving a ghostly white trail. The ethereal tendrils danced slowly in the soft evening breeze. Steven watched, transfixed, as several pieces of lighter-than-air ash drifted upwards from the crackling fire. Then the smoke trail began to take on a more definite shape.
‘Gabriel O’Reilly,’ Steven said softly when he realised what was happening, ‘Gabriel, please come down here.’
The dead bank teller floated slowly down from the treetops to join Steven near the fire. He thought he could see genuine concern and compassion in the spirit’s features as he gazed on his broken form.
‘Is it that bad?’ he asked.
The spirit shook his head, as if to say, ‘I have seen much worse.’
‘Are both my legs intact?’
Again the wraith paused a few seconds, but this time he nodded.
‘Thank Christ,’ Steven sighed. His lower leg must be broken and numb, perhaps from the cold, or maybe because of a more serious infection.
‘Did you rescue me from the grettan?’
The spirit shook his head.
‘Who did?’ Steven felt anxiety begin to well up in him once again. This method of communication was so slow.
The wraith pointed towards the forest. Maybe he – or they – were off gathering food, water or firewood.
‘Are my friends nearby? Can you bring them to me? Can you find them?’
Gabriel O’Reilly’s spirit shook his head again, then extended a translucent finger into the air.
‘One of them is searching for me? Who?’
The wraith rubbed the back of one smoky white hand across his cheek.
‘The one with the dark skin, Mark? Yes! Will you guide him, Gabriel? I know you don’t owe me anything, but please, will you bring Mark here?’
The spirit stared down at Steven for several seconds before nodding slightly.
Then, hesitantly, as if his abandonment of his friends and his failure to defeat the grettan somehow made him unworthy to wield it, Steven asked, ‘Is my wooden staff here?’
Gabriel nodded again.
Steven asked, ‘Do you know from where it gets its power?’ When the wraith shrugged, he went on, ‘But Malagon fears it?’
The spirit shrugged again and Steven said quickly, ‘Right. How would you know? Sorry.’ He felt out of sorts, awkward and vulnerable without the staff. Now that he was alone and incapacitated here in the forest, he was deeply embarrassed at his behaviour. He hoped his friends would forgive his impulsive – stupid – decision to rush off in search of Hannah. As if one man, even with a magic stick, could face down Nerak… Steven’s face flushed as he imagined himself admitting that he had been attacked and nearly killed by a grettan less than a day later.
Steven turned his attention back to the wraith: he needed more information. ‘There is a woman; she is special to me… Lessek sent a dream, a vision, to me – at least, I think he did. Anyway, I think the dream may be his way of telling me she is here.’ Steven was waffling; he started again, ‘I need to know if she is really here, in Eldarn.’
Again, Gabriel O’Reilly shrugged.
‘That’s all right. I had to try. I am just so – so stuck here, so lost.’ Exhausted now, his voice trailed off. His head began to swim and he felt his vision fading. He tried to steel himself for more questions, but he lacked the strength. He made a final effort, croaking, ‘Please, Gabriel, bring Mark Jenkins here.’
This time the wraith nodded emphatically. He brought his facial features into focus, as he had on previous visits, and Steven realised O’Reilly was trying again to tell him something important.
‘There is one-’ He mouthed the words, but Steven did not understand.
‘What?’ Steven was drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘Say it again.’
‘There is one-’ O’Reilly tried a second time, but Steven’s eyes glazed over as his breathing steadied. Gabriel O’Reilly extended a nebulous hand, rested it on Steven’s forehead for a moment, then slid through the trees towards the mountain pass behind them.
Garec stood up and backed slowly away from the body. ‘He’s dead,’ he murmured to Brynne. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’ He filled his hands with snow and tried to wash off Gilmour’s blood.
‘He’s not dead,’ Brynne sobbed, ‘he’s going to be fine. He just needs some time.’ Supporting Gilmour’s head in her lap, Brynne looked as though she had been dipped in blood. Her face was streaked with tears and she coughed violently as she tried to regain her breath. She rolled up her sleeves and bared her forearms, then awkwardly pushed Gilmour’s flesh around the knife, hoping to stem the flow of blood from the wound. Though her arms were stained red to the elbows, it appeared her efforts had been successful, because no additional blood was seeping out.
But Garec knew otherwise.
‘He’s dead, Brynne,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘That’s why the bleeding has stopped. His heart isn’t beating.’
Brynne’s gaze dropped and she looked at the old man’s drawn, grey visage. In a sudden burst of revulsion, she pushed the Larion Senator’s body away and scrambled a backwards retreat across their camp to where her brother was still standing his silent vigil. Gilmour’s ancient body looked smaller, thinner than it had earlier that day. Garec reached down to close an errant flap of tunic that had torn away to reveal ashen skin.
Now sobbing uncontrollably, Brynne collapsed at Sallax’s feet. He reached down and placed one hand gently on his sister’s shoulder, the first show of emotion since his encounter with Gabriel O’Reilly’s spirit.
Garec looked around at the stoic lodge pines, tall and stately, ignoring the pitiful human drama being played out at their feet. This clearing, here in the Blackstone Mountains, was as close to a Larion Senate sanctuary as they would ever find outside Sandcliff Palace.
‘We have to give him his rites,’ he said softly. ‘We have to burn his body.’
Dawn was breaking when Garec finished amassing enough tinder for Gilmour’s pyre. Brynne had insisted on an enormous pile of prickly, dry tinder, to be certain their friend’s body would burn entirely away, even in that cold, snowy wilderness. Sallax helped, and despite his sadness, Garec was heartened at his improvement.
Garec hacked away at the exposed limbs of several fallen trees, then trimmed off the lowest hanging branches from a circle of lodge pines ringing the clearing. He felt a wave of fear and loneliness pass over him, turning his stomach and causing a moment of dizziness. The clearing seemed to brighten as his pupils dilated and his head swam. Angrily, he fought off the urge to cry. They were too far from home, in too much danger from freezing to death, being killed by grettans, Seron, an almor, let alone whatever other monstrosities Malagon was saving up for them. He had to keep himself under control.
Sallax methodically gathered branches; save for the gentle touch he offered his sister, he showed no other emotion, and said nothing. Brynne knelt near Gilmour, her bloodstained hands wrapping the body tightly into his cloak and brushing hair away from his cold forehead. Garec knew he would have to keep them moving, to keep them busy, or they would lose hope. Perhaps even he would lose hope.
A thick branch, still green, snapped back and struck Garec in the face. The stinging sensation across his already cold cheek was painful and he felt tears welling up behind his eyes. He choked back an almost inaudible, ‘No,’ and began chopping furiously. His vision blurred, but he continued hacking with all his might, cutting and chipping away at the majestic pine as if it had murdered Gilmour. The branch fell away, but Garec continued to chop at the tree trunk. He was guilty. He had fallen asleep, drifting off while standing watch. He had been awake a moment later, but it was a moment too late. Visions of the killer’s knife sticking out of Gilmour’s chest flashed through Garec’s mind and his rage grew.
Brynne and Sallax turned when they heard his scream, but neither made a move to comfort him. They watched, nearly motionless, as the young man’s anger played itself out. Then his arms, weak from effort, slowed, and his determination to bring down the entire Blackstone forest was thwarted before even one of the proud, disinterested trees fell.
Despite the thick wool cloak, Gilmour’s body looked tiny on the pyre of freshly cut branches. Brynne thought perhaps the magic of the Larion Senate had kept him robust despite his age. Now, with his magic gone, only a hollow shell of the great leader remained, like Riverend Palace: a broken monument to a fallen era of strength and prosperity.
Brynne watched as Garec drew a burning branch from the fire. She felt the urge to say something. There they were, the three of them, responsible for the funeral rites of one of the most powerful, the most influential heroes in Eldarn. It would be wrong just to set fire to his body without offering a eulogy or pr
ayer of some sort.
‘We ought to say a few words.’
Garec hesitated, then returned the branch to the fire, kneeled in the snow and told her, ‘Absolutely. You’re right. Say what you think
…’ Behind him the sun crested above the distant peaks; to the north a storm was brewing.
Brynne looked at the billowy, slate-grey clouds, searching for the words, but nothing came. A feeling of abject despair crept up on her once again, and she muttered, ‘Someone else should be doing this. Someone eloquent. Someone powerful. We were just his friends. For most of our lives we never even knew who he really was.’
‘Maybe that’s enough.’ Sallax spoke for the first time in days. Garec looked up in surprise.
Seemingly unaware of her brother’s comment, Brynne steeled herself and went on, ‘His goal was to save Eldarn, to bring peace and hope back to the people of the world.’ She paused, thinking of the hopelessness of their situation. They probably wouldn’t make it to Orindale alive, never mind find a way to retrieve Lessek’s Key and return Steven and Mark to Colorado.
‘What can we do now, Gilmour?’ she asked rhetorically, her voice dropping to a whisper as she turned and nodded at Garec.
The flames began as a flicker at the base of the entangled branches and Garec thought he would have to ignite the tinder a second time to make sure it took. Just as he was reaching to light another branch from their little fire, a great cloud of smoke blew through the camp and the pyre burst into flame with an audible roar. Thousands of pine needles crackled and caught and fire danced around Gilmour, an ancient volta of spiralling scarlet and orange and vermilion and yellow…
Garec’s secret hope, that the old man might wake suddenly and spring to safety before his flesh burned away, disappeared with the pine boughs. The Larion Senator lay impossibly still as his cloak and then his hair caught fire. Garec turned towards the trees, unable to watch any longer.
‘Come on,’ he said as he hefted his and then Gilmour’s pack. ‘We have a long way to go today if we’re going to catch up with Mark and Steven.’
