by Rob Scott
Sallax was standing in the doorway, his rapier drawn. Mark cast his eyes about the sparsely furnished chamber for a weapon. An old wooden chair stood below the window and he rested one hand on it as he asked, ‘Why?’ His grip tightened. ‘You’re their leader; you’re a revolutionary.’
Steven rolled from the bed and managed to stand, but he dared not pick up the hickory staff for fear of driving Sallax to attack.
Tears began to form in Sallax’s eyes as he closed the door behind him. The rapier’s tip was just a few feet from Steven’s chest.
Steven started, ‘All of Rona needs you, Sallax. There are so few who bring-’
‘I am not Ronan,’ Sallax nearly shouted, then lowered his voice. ‘I am from Praga. Brynne and I are Pragan.’
Mark made an attempt to downplay this revelation. ‘I don’t care if you’re from Ontario. Isn’t Praga under Malagon’s rule as well? Are Pragans not suffering?’ He watched Steven sidle slowly towards the staff, but not pick it up. Smart, Steven, he thought. Don’t piss him off any more than he already is.
‘My parents were kind people.’ Sallax’s voice broke and he fought to control the tremor. ‘They owned a rigging shop on the wharf in Southport. Hawsers, line, cleats, brass quarterdeck bells my father let me polish.’ His gaze drifted to the window and a thin smile graced his lips as he recalled a happier time. ‘They caught the early sun off the water and turned the whole storefront to gold, rippling fluid gold. My mother mended sails; her fingers were callused from Twinmoons pushing and pulling huge needles through tears in the sheets. She always had pots of tecan brewing on the woodstove, but I can’t remember anyone ever paying for a cup. “The first cup of tecan every day should be free,” she would always say, but I never remember anyone paying for tecan at any time of day. They didn’t make much, mind you, but we were always happy and the shop was always filled with people.’
Neither Mark nor Steven had ever heard him say this much, and Mark was about to entreat the big man to put down his rapier when Sallax went on, ‘Brynne played in her crib or on the floor near the woodstove. She could barely stand when they died, and I stole milk for Twinmoons until she was old enough to eat solid food.’
Crying now, he ran a tunic sleeve across his face and it came away slick with mucus and tears. ‘Malagon had just come to power, his father dead only a few Twinmoons, when we began to feel Malakasia’s grip tighten. My parents didn’t mind because all ships – Pragan, Malakasian, even the occasional craft from Rona – they all needed rigging after fighting through the Twinmoon storms on the Ravenian Sea. Business for them was good. I learned a lot, and I was happy. I thought things would be perfect for ever. I was perhaps fifty Twinmoons at the time.’
‘What happened?’ Steven whispered, his eyes still locked on the tip of Sallax’s rapier.
‘People were starving. There were raids, civil unrest, bread lines that became full-scale riots, day after day. You would be surprised what otherwise decent people will do to feed their families.’ His eyes seemed to glaze over and his face paled as he continued in a soft monotone, ‘A raiding fleet came into Southport, probably out of Markon Isle, three of them, heavy ships, several hundred men each. My father had seen them when they were hull-up on the horizon. They flew Pragan colours. He was excited; that meant work for him and my mother that night.’
‘They were Malakasians?’ Steven asked. ‘Flying Pragan colours to allay any suspicion?’
‘No,’ he shook his head slightly, ‘they were Ronan. Searching for food and silver, and girls to work the whorehouses on the Isle. They came in like a pestilence, under full sail. My father knew something was wrong when they didn’t strike their mains but maintained flank speed much too far into shallow water. Most ships would come into port under topgallants alone. These three came on as if they planned to crash through the wharf and dock somewhere on the opposite side of the city.’ Mark leaned on the chair and Sallax, mistaking his movement for something more aggressive, broke from his reverie and barked, ‘Sit down! Both of you!’ His fist closed tightly around the rapier hilt. Although tears fell freely, his voice no longer trembled. Instead, his tone was flat, deadly.
Steven sat near the end of the bed, as far from the rapier as possible, and within an arm’s length of the staff. His left hand almost burned with the desire to reach out: it was the staff’s power calling to him, trying to protect him from Sallax. Suddenly, he thought he understood how the grettan had been killed.
He turned back to Sallax as the partisan continued his story.
‘When they finally struck their mains and topsails, my father sighed. I remember that sigh, because he was relieved, you see. When he saw those sails come down, his thoughts went from worry to amusement. In his mind, those ships went from a threat to a comedy and I will never forget him smiling at me, gripping me by the shoulder and saying, “They just don’t know how to sail, Salboy.” We watched them together, waiting for them to come about and drop anchor. The sun was setting behind them and we had to strain our eyes to see. I squinted directly into the sun to catch a glimpse of one captain. He was backlit by fire, and I could see him giving orders to men in the rigging, and then, in an instant, I remember the sun going out.’
‘Was it magic?’ Mark glanced over at Steven, who nodded slightly. They needed to keep him talking.
‘No.’ Sallax looked between the two roommates without blinking. ‘It was the mainsail snapping back into the wind. It blocked the sun for a moment, but in that instant, I knew we were dead.’
‘They reset the sails,’ Steven said softly. ‘It was all a trick to get in close to the shoreline.’
‘That’s right.’ Sallax said. ‘And then it began.’ He ran a thumb along the edge of the battle-axe in his belt and Steven saw a trickle of blood cross his palm.
‘Was there no Malakasian occupation force in the port?’ Steven asked.
‘Oh yes, a huge frigate, with a crew of hundreds. That was their first target. One came from the north, the other from the south. They attacked at flank speed right there in the harbour. Those captains must have been madmen, absolutely insane, or they knew the harbour bed better than anyone in Eldarn. The two ships closed on the frigate, but before they grappled and boarded, they strafed the wharf with thousands of flaming arrows, pitch and tar arrows set alight. Within moments every building was in flames. They wanted to create as much mayhem as possible onshore, to scatter shop owners and merchants, and their plan was executed perfectly. The fires kept the townspeople busy, and many believed the arrows were a diversion to draw attention away from the naval frigate. Somehow, I knew better. I knew they were coming ashore just as soon as they finished destroying that ship.
‘My parents’ shop was one of the first hit and my father turned to hustle me inside. I imagine to this day, he planned to collect Brynne and my mother and spirit us all out the back to safety.’
‘But he was hit,’ Mark predicted under his breath.
‘Right again, Mark,’ Sallax confirmed. ‘We were two, maybe three paces from safety when a burning Ronan shaft took him right between the shoulder blades. I heard my mother wail, an inhuman cry of despair. You see, the pitch on the arrows sprayed out when they struck something hard, which spread the flames to the surrounding area. So while my mother screamed and Brynne cried in her crib, I stood and watched as my father’s body burned to a cinder, right there on the front step.’
Sallax paused a moment and Steven ventured to ask, ‘But why kill Gilmour? This was a raid, a pirate band.’
Sallax ignored the question. ‘They burned the frigate to the waterline. Archers set the rigging aflame; so the captain couldn’t order the sails set to make way. They never even hoisted the anchor. It was like watching sharks on a sleeping whale. They killed the crew and hanged the Malakasian captain from the stern rail. His legs dangled beneath the surface and I imagine he tried to find some solid purchase among the waters of Southport Harbour as his life ebbed away. There were a few Malakasian soldiers in town, but in typical
Malakasian fashion, they were out of practice.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mark asked. He could smell his tecan burning; the water hissed as it boiled over. Jesus, but Garec could sleep through anything… or maybe he was already dead ‘They hadn’t been drilling. They had grown fat and lazy. There was no army or navy to oppose them, no resistance movement in Praga at the time, so they all attacked the wharf. Two or three platoons massed out on the edge of the dock firing arrows into the pirate ships and calling curses and promises of a swift death to anyone bold enough to come ashore. Stupid horsecocks.’ He almost smiled and Steven realised Sallax truly had no love for Malakasia. At least that much was genuine. ‘They forgot the third ship, or if they didn’t forget it, they didn’t consider it a threat. Well, it was. Nearly two hundred armed mercenaries, tough bastards, came ashore from the third ship, strolled along the wharf as if they were courting some Pragan merchant’s chubby virgin daughter. They proceeded to hack and slash those platoons to ribbons, drove them right off the town docks and into the sea. Then, with a whooping holler, they came for us.’
The burn in Steven’s hand intensified: the staff was warning him Sallax was about to come at them, there would be no subduing him. This would be quick, bloody and to the death.
Sallax went on in matter-of-fact tones, ‘My mother was taken. They dragged her right over my father’s burning body and I watched as the hem of her dress caught fire on his back, a small flame that connected them one last time. It soon went out. I held Brynne tightly to my chest and waited to die, but they ignored us. They took what valuables they could find, including the brass bells I had polished so lovingly, and left the shop to burn. I carried Brynne outside, not out back but out front, out past my father and onto the cold cobblestones of the street. Behind us, the waterfront was in flames, but I couldn’t put Brynne down on the chilly stones because she might catch a cold. So we stood there and waited. That’s when I saw him up close for the first time.’
‘Prince Malagon?’ Steven was confused.
‘No, Gilmour.’
‘Gilmour was there?’ Mark interjected.
‘Gilmour was the captain I had seen giving orders to reset the main and top sails. He then ordered his archers to set fire to the town. When his ship slammed into the naval frigate, he ordered his men to fix grappling hooks and board her, to kill every Malakasian aboard and to burn her to the waterline. With that done, he ordered a launch to carry him ashore where he strode along the waterfront surveying the damage as his men pillaged and raped their way through town. Any who resisted him were murdered. It was simple, beautiful in its efficiency.’
‘I can’t believe it, not Gilmour. ’ Steven realised he had made a mistake as soon as he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t stop the words.
Nor could he stop Sallax from reacting: the man took a step towards him and screamed, ‘It was Gilmour, you rutting foreigner! No one rutting asked you into this!’
Then the staff was there, in his hand, and he felt its power course through him. Compassion. He heard himself say it and looked at Mark to see if he had said it aloud. Compassion.
‘Sallax, don’t do this. I don’t want to kill you.’
‘Kill me, you whoring dog?’ His rapier was inches from Steven’s throat. ‘I’ll run you clean through before you draw another breath. So sit there and shut up! I am not yet finished!’
‘Right. Yes. Okay.’ Steven felt it grow stronger. Compassion. This was a sick man, not a murderer. Sallax did not want to kill them. He was suffering, and Steven had to find a way to help him. He dropped the staff to his side and apologised.
‘Sorry, I interrupted,’ he said quietly.
Sallax glared, but continued, ‘I carried Brynne for days, begging for milk and buying what I could with the few coins my mother had kept inside an iron pot near the fireplace. Brynne cried so much, I thought she would die, but I kept her clean and managed to feed her, stealing when I had to.’
‘How did you get to Estrad?’ Mark asked.
‘We heard a rumour that Malagon was sending a brigade of soldiers down to reclaim the town. The pirates were long gone and no one wanted to be around when a vengeful army showed up with no one to fight. So, many of us piled into anything that would float and made for Rona. We found a husband and wife travelling together who made certain we had food and water during the journey. I have tried for two hundred Twinmoons to find them, but I can’t even remember their names. They saved our lives.’
‘And she doesn’t know any of this?’ Mark asked, trying to keep him talking. He doubted he could get the chair around in time to defend himself against Sallax’s rapier.
‘She believes our parents died in Rona.’
‘But still,’ Steven entreated calmly, ‘how could you fight for Ronan freedom while planning to betray Gilmour?’
Sallax had the look of one already lost, a tragic hero with no escape from the reality of his own weakness. ‘I did not betray Gilmour and I did not betray Rona. I avenged my parents. I never told Jacrys that Lessek’s Key was waiting for Nerak on your writing table, Steven Taylor, and I never passed along secrets of the Ronan Resistance. I avenged my parents; that’s all.’
‘But you have known Gilmour for-’
‘For fifty Twinmoons, yes, but it wasn’t until about twenty-five Twinmoons ago that I realised he was the same man who had ordered the attack on Southport.’
‘How is that possible?’ Mark needed clarification.
‘I had a vision – call it a dream, or a message from my parents. I saw him there, as clearly as if I were standing there, and in that moment, I knew it was he who had led the raiding fleet against my home. The memory of his face had been lost to me for so long; getting it back was like being reborn. I planned Gilmour’s death while fighting alongside him in raids on the Merchants’ Highway. I planned his death while drinking with him at Greentree Tavern. I planned his death while watching him walk with my sister, his arm around her shoulder like the father she never knew.’ Sallax’s voice rose as he spoke and he stood tall, towering over Steven and Mark.
This is it, Mark thought and prepared to dive at Sallax, hoping to distract the man long enough for Steven to call forth the staff’s magic.
He was tensing for his leap when Steven interrupted. ‘So, you succeeded,’ he said quietly. ‘You avenged your parents. Any of us would have done the same thing, but now you are conflicted. You are wrestling with demons over this decision, Sallax. Why? Will you tell us? We’re here, at your mercy. We can’t get the jump on you, you’ve got us at sword-point. Why are you struggling now?’
Sallax exhaled, a long sigh. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly, the wraith.’
‘What did he do?’ Steven asked.
Sallax’s tears came again. He broke down and buried his face in his hands. Mark looked over at Steven, thinking hard, Now! Let’s go now! – but before he could spring forward, Sallax lifted his head and pointed his rapier at Mark’s chest. ‘The spirit, O’Reilly, showed me the captain’s face. My vision, my memory of Gilmour as the captain of that dreadful ship was not real. It was planted in my mind by Prince Malagon. I worked for Malagon for twenty-five Twinmoons planning Gilmour’s death.
‘I killed him, my mentor, my leader. He was my friend and I prepared his death. The captain was not Gilmour.’
‘Why didn’t you say something? If you’d told us the killer was coming, we could have saved him.’ Steven was frustrated.
‘I couldn’t,’ Sallax admitted. ‘I wanted him dead. It sounds stupid, but I couldn’t let go of my desire. It was as though the truth wasn’t strong enough to clear Malagon’s false image from my mind.
‘So I ruined our chances for survival, for Eldarn’s freedom. We are going to die at Nerak’s hand, and it is my fault. I didn’t have the courage to kill myself – I was afraid of what I would find in death. Instead, I watched Gilmour die. I watched his body burn away, my second father, burning like a shadowy image of my first, and all I could think to do was to take care of Brynne again, to get
her safely off that mountain. It was Brynne’s heartbreak that pulled me from O’Reilly’s spell. I couldn’t let her fail, because it was the only good thing I had ever done. I saved her life then and I had to save it now.’
‘But it didn’t work,’ Steven said.
Sallax chuckled ironically. ‘No, it didn’t. Instead, it became more difficult to control my thoughts. I hallucinated as guilt warred with magic. I have been lost.’
‘You sound pretty lucid now,’ Mark observed. ‘What’s different?’
Sallax broke down again and Mark took advantage of the opportunity to stand up slowly.
‘Now, this morning, I am lucid. Call it a moment’s respite from myself, but I know why.’ Sallax sliced the rapier’s point through the air with a thin whoosh. ‘Because now it is time for me to die. Steven? Will you do the honours?’
‘No, Sallax,’ Steven replied firmly. ‘I will not kill you.’
‘Then, my friend, you will watch as Mark dies.’ With that, Sallax lunged towards Mark.
‘No!’ Mark cried; there was no time to move, other than to draw his arms in against the sides of his body, his elbows firmly tucked against his ribs. But the fiery pain never came; though it was just a couple of feet, Sallax didn’t land the simple thrust that would have ended Mark’s life in an instant.
As Sallax lunged, Steven opened his mind to the power of the staff and, like the night he killed the Seron warriors, time slowed down for him. He had ample time to reach for the staff, to deflect Sallax’s thrust and to bring the shaft about and take him solidly across the chest. Steven felt the staff’s power: it would kill Sallax as readily as it had killed the Seron, as brutally as it had dismembered the grettan.
But he did not want Sallax dead; he wanted to help. Compassion. He reached out to take control of the magic. ‘I will not kill you, Sallax,’ he heard himself shout. As the staff hit him in the ribs, Sallax was lifted from his feet and thrown with a resounding crash through the door and into the front room.
Garec finally awakened with a start. ‘Rutters!’ he cried, ‘what’s happening?’
