by Rob Scott
Sallax was lying absolutely still and Steven thought for sure he was dead. ‘Oh shit,’ he said as he tossed the staff on the bed, ‘I killed him. Goddamn it all to hell in a handbasket.’ Ignoring his injured leg, he limped towards the front room. Before he made it, Sallax rolled onto one side and began vomiting out the contents of his stomach.
‘Thank Christ,’ Steven exclaimed, ‘he’s alive.’
Mark was still checking his abdomen for the puncture he was certain he would find there, the blood seeping into the red wool of his sweater as Brynne burst through, a look of terror on her face. ‘Sallax!’ she cried, rushing to her brother. ‘What happened to you, to your face?’
No one answered, but Sallax pulled himself to his feet and turned to glare wild-eyed at Steven. ‘You’re cheating me,’ he shouted.
‘You’re right, Sallax. I will not kill you, not ever.’
‘Don’t make promises,’ he said and lifted his rapier towards Steven. ‘You have no idea what I might do.’
Brynne gripped his upper arm. ‘Sallax, tell me what’s wrong.’ Turning on Steven, she scolded, ‘Steven, you know he’s ill. What have you done?’
‘Tell her,’ Steven said, turning to look at Sallax. ‘Tell your sister what you told us. She needs to know – and you need to tell her. It’s what Gilmour would ask.’ Steven took a step forward. ‘You know he has already forgiven you.’
‘Forgiven him what?’ Brynne demanded, but Sallax screamed and pushed her to the floor, then turned and ran through the front door and out into the forest.
He nearly ran into Lahp, who was hauling a load of firewood that would have crippled any of them. The Seron shot him a crooked grin and greeted him warmly, ‘Ha, Sallax.’
His face changed when Sallax barked, ‘Out of my way, you half-human beast,’ and stabbed the point of his rapier deep into the Seron’s thigh. Lahp bellowed and fell to the ground, his massive paws gripping the puncture wound closed. The moment he realised it wasn’t life-threatening, he picked up a piece of firewood, lumbered to his feet and, furious, hurled it at Sallax’s back. It struck with a sickening thud, followed immediately by an audible snap, and Sallax pitched forward headlong into the dirt. His shoulder was broken.
Lahp chuckled, a deep arrhythmic bass. Sallax would live, but he would be in considerable pain for a while. Oblivious to the cacophony erupting from the cabin behind him, the Seron rechecked the wound in his leg, tied it tightly closed with a length of cloth he tore from his tunic and began picking up the firewood he had dropped along the trail.
Having recovered from his own initial shock, Mark grabbed Brynne before she could pursue her brother. ‘Don’t follow him, Brynne,’ he implored, holding her tightly, ‘not yet. He’s not thinking right. He might hurt you – kill you, even.’
‘Let go of me.’ Brynne’s voice was desperate and she fought to escape Mark’s embrace. ‘I have to catch him. He’s sick.’
‘Yes, and he’s dangerous,’ Mark pleaded. ‘He tried to stab me.’
Brynne ignored him and broke free. She pushed her way roughly past Lahp, who filled the doorway with his gargantuan frame. The Seron, his breeches stained with blood, looked after her with confusion, took several steps back into the forest and then stopped to wait for Steven to tell him what to do. Brynne disappeared along the trail.
Inside the cabin, no one spoke. The silence was unnerving. Mark watched Brynne sprint off through the trees and then looked questioningly at Steven.
‘Go,’ he said. Mark stooped to pick up Sallax’s own battle-axe before rushing through the door behind her.
It was two avens before Mark and Brynne returned. He held her tightly around the shoulder and their feet fell in perfect sync, stride for stride. Garec watched them, smiling at the comforting rhythm of their step and glad that they remained connected despite the morning’s events. Sallax wasn’t with them; Garec could see Brynne was upset and feared the worst.
Although it was only midday, the young woman looked exhausted, about to collapse. Mark escorted her into their bedroom and several moments later emerged alone. He threw himself into one of the chairs and reported, ‘We tracked him along the river a way, then he turned up into the foothills, then back into the valley.’
‘Did you catch him?’ Steven asked. ‘Isn’t he running with a broken arm?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s fast and he’s strong. I’ve no idea how he’s managing to keep it up – adrenalin, maybe. To be honest, I’m glad we didn’t catch him.’
‘Why?’ Garec asked.
‘What would we have done with him?’ Mark took a long swallow from an open wine bottle and looked around the room for something to eat. ‘He might have killed us both. I’m no match for him, even if he has got one useless arm.’
‘Where do you think he’ll go?’ Steven asked.
Garec said, ‘I’ve no idea how far it is to Orindale, but he’ll need to have those bones set sometime soon. I suppose he’ll stick to the river until he comes to anything that looks like a town, maybe somewhere on the outskirts of the city.’
‘But we don’t know where we, are or how long it’ll take us to get downriver,’ Mark added.
‘Unless he scales the mountains again, he doesn’t have many options.’
Steven said grimly, ‘Neither do we.’
‘I still think we ought to stay here a few more days,’ Garec said, surprising them. ‘Your leg needs to heal. Brynne needs rest. We all could use a break to deal with Gilmour’s loss and- and, well, Sallax’s disappearance.’
‘That makes sense,’ Mark agreed. ‘We don’t know what comes next. We can’t just march into Malakasia and demand the far portal. We need a plan.’
Steven and Garec shared an anxious glance. Without Gilmour, no one could operate the spell table. Even if they made it into Welstar Palace and managed to find the far portal, they had no idea how to use Lessek’s Key. All they knew was that it had to be kept from Nerak. Who else could tap its power for good? Gilmour had mentioned a colleague, Kantu, another Larion Senator, but he was in Praga and no one knew what he looked like, or where to begin searching for him. They were alone, lost in the northern Blackstones, and they had no idea how to proceed. A few days’ rest might give them a chance to come up with some options.
‘Yes,’ Steven finally agreed. ‘We ought to stay here a while.’
The day passed slowly. Brynne slept, and Mark looked in on her occasionally, watching her chest rise and fall steadily in the waning twilight. Steven and Garec busied themselves with simple tasks, stacking firewood, organising rations and fletching arrows. Steven’s leg felt stronger, and he diligently replaced the querlis with new leaves Lahp had found somewhere along the riverbank. The three men talked idly of their families, their work, and finally, sports, while Lahp listened, resting in one corner of the room with his leg straight out in front of him, his own wound bound and treated with querlis. Steven had no idea what, if anything, he understood, but it was comforting to talk of home. Garec was fascinated at the notion of golf and Mark promised to teach him to play if they could somehow fashion appropriate clubs. Garec reciprocated with an offer to teach the foreigners chainball as soon as they reached a flat stretch of land. They avoided discussing Gilmour, Sallax, Welstar Palace, or Lessek’s Key, and each was happy to bask in the illusion of normalcy for a day.
Just before dark, Garec took his bow and quivers out to the river. Mark watched as Steven redressed his leg, wrapping strips of cloth over the therapeutic leaves on his calf. For the second time that day, Mark took stock of how much his friend had changed. His hair was too long, tucked under his collar, and his trim beard made him look older. Rather than his sometimes lackadaisical attitude of old, now Steven’s motions were deliberate, with little wasted effort; he moved with the purposeful conviction of a warrior preparing for battle. Perhaps that was it, the crux of his transformation: Steven had become a warrior. Although still untested in real battle – he had fought only to protect himself and his companions – it looked
as if he had developed a willingness to risk his life for a cause he had embraced wholeheartedly.
Steven’s spirit had changed as well. He was no longer the bored assistant manager who would never complain or inconvenience anyone; now he was a powerful foe who would somehow find a way to confront Nerak, even without Gilmour along to lead them home. Mark had watched him in a Denver restaurant one night, eating roast chicken with red potatoes, asparagus and corn bread. Steven ate the entire meal, commenting on the flavour and the artful presentation – and Mark teased him for weeks afterwards, because Steven had ordered a salad. He had eaten someone else’s meal, because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone by complaining or sending food back to the kitchen.
Mark wondered how Steven would manage when they did finally return to Idaho Springs. Watching as his friend ran his hands thoughtfully along the wooden staff, inspecting every grain pattern and bloodstain, Mark was glad Steven had been forced to fight, to toughen his spirit. It might prove to be the one thing that ensured their eventual survival.
What was most ironic was that Steven didn’t see the change in himself; he was still convinced that if he showed compassion, everything would be all right in the end – but would it? Mark doubted Nerak could be defeated with compassion; as a historian, he believed there were times when destroying the enemy utterly and completely was the only real option. Nerak needed to be destroyed, annihilated. Did Steven’s compassion give him real strength? Mark could only guess. Garec was different. His strength was formidable: he fired arrows and killed foes. Real strength, real results and an unquestioning will to win.
That’s what Steven needed. He might be developing the spirit of a warrior, but unless he also had the tools of a warrior, the magic of a Larion Senator and the willingness to destroy Nerak, Mark worried their cause might be in jeopardy.
Feeling a little guilty for doubting Steven, Mark went to inspect his roommate’s medicinal handiwork. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Maybe we’ll get you out for a walk tomorrow. If the weather holds, it will be nice along the river.’
Steven looked puzzled. ‘What’s on your mind, Mark?’
‘Nothing much, just the fact that you’re our only hope.’ He pointed at the staff in Steven’s lap. ‘Do you think you can get us into Welstar Palace and through the portal without Gilmour?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Steven admitted, ‘but we’ve still got to try. I was hoping Gabriel would help us to find a way to get in.’
‘I hadn’t thought of him. That’s actually not a bad plan.’
‘To be honest, I have my doubts that we should be making this attempt at all.’
‘Do we have any choice? It’s our only way home.’
Steven stared into the fire. ‘We could stay and fight.’
Mark almost laughed, and then he realised his friend was serious. ‘What? Here? For ever?’
‘No, just until Nerak is defeated. Going into Welstar Palace before I really know how to use this thing is suicide.’ He adjusted the hickory shaft across his lap. ‘We ought at least to find someplace safe to research the staff, to practise with it. I can feel its power. It calls to me when trouble is coming. I do nothing; it controls everything.’
‘And it killed that grettan.’
‘Yes,’ Steven finally looked up. ‘After I passed out. At least I think it did; I can’t remember.’
‘Do you have enough power to beat him, though?’
‘I can’t say. Gilmour wasn’t much help; he had no idea how powerful the staff might be. I may be ten times stronger than Nerak, or a hundred times weaker.’
‘Then this is crazy. We’ll get in there and be dead in minutes.’
Steven remembered his mantra, and how it calmed him. He repeated it now, to explain. ‘We might not make it. You’re right, but somehow I’m certain the strength of the staff lies in my willingness to wield it.’
‘So wield it then. Crush him, if you’re convinced it’s strong enough.’
‘No.’ Steven shook his head to emphasise the point. ‘It doesn’t work that way. You saw it shatter on that Seron. It broke like a piece of kindling. I have to show compassion.’
Mark moved towards the fireplace and tossed a misshapen log into the flames. ‘I don’t know that Nerak is the kind of enemy who deserves compassion. Maybe the staff will recognise how insidious he is.’
Steven stood and hobbled awkwardly across the room to stand beside Mark. ‘We have to find the far portal. Nerak controls it. He doesn’t seem to be able to detect the staff’s magic, nor can he locate Lessek’s Key from afar. If he could, he would know we don’t have it, and God love Sallax for not sharing that information with Malagon’s spy. So, there are five things we know, and there are about seven hundred things we don’t.
‘I think we need to buy ourselves some time, work with the staff, decipher its purpose and its power and then make a decision about how to get home.’
There was something Steven hadn’t said, so Mark added it for him. ‘And we may find news of Hannah.’
‘ If Hannah arrived here,’ Steven interrupted hopefully.
‘It just doesn’t feel like a lot to go on.’
‘To me it does.’
Mark pushed his palms against the mantel and leaned there, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Garec pushed his way into the room, brandishing dinner: five large trout, each neatly skewered through the gills. ‘Fish, anyone?’
Steven grinned. ‘Fry ’em up, Garec!’
‘I’ll get Brynne,’ Mark said. As he made his way through to the bedroom, he thought about Steven’s desire to study the staff’s power and use its magic to help the Eldarni people win back their freedom. He obviously had no intention of going back to Idaho Springs before the evil controlling Nerak was banished into the Fold.
Stopping before the door to their bedroom, Mark’s thoughts moved to Brynne. Could he leave her here alone with an unholy fight looming before her? No, of course not. She could return to Colorado with him – they all could. But now he sounded like the coward, a sensible coward, but a coward just the same. Despite his friend’s confidence, Mark believed Nerak would kill them all.
Steeling himself against the wellspring of emotion he felt whenever he saw Brynne, Mark entered the room quietly, hoping not to disturb her right away. They would remain in Eldarn until this business was finished.
Garec pulled hard until the resistant plug popped from the bottle with a satisfying report. ‘Whoever this trapper is, he has great taste in wine,’ he said as he poured for each of the friends, topping his own glass to the brim before handing the unfinished portion to Lahp, who proceeded to drink directly from the flask. The bottle looked like a toy in the Seron’s hand and Garec laughed as Lahp finished the contents in one enormous swallow.
‘Remind me not to get into a drinking contest with you,’ he said, crossing to the fireplace to removing his trout fillets. ‘Sorry it’s fish again tonight,’ he told the company, ‘but tomorrow I’ll see if I can’t get a deer or something.’
‘This is fine, Garec,’ Brynne replied. She looked much better for having slept most of the day. ‘Without you we’d be reduced to roots and berries.’
‘She’s right,’ Mark agreed, sipping noisily. ‘You missed my archery display at Seer’s Peak: thirty-two shots and not one fish.’
They all laughed at Mark’s admission except for Brynne, who continued to watch the front window anxiously. She was cross that she’d slept the day away and promised herself that dawn would find her scouting the riverbank to find some sign that Sallax was all right.
Mark gripped her hand beneath the table. ‘I’ll come with you tomorrow,’ he whispered.
At that moment she loved him, for knowing what she had been thinking, and for saying what she needed him to say.
Garec finished the last of his dinner, examined the bottom of his wooden trencher and chucked it into the fire. ‘These bowls are too old,’ he observed. ‘We’ll have sore
s in our mouths if we keep eating from these.’ He watched as the wood burst into flames. Rising from his seat, he crossed the room to retrieve the worn canvas pack. ‘I think Gilmour had a few fresh trenchers in here,’ he said, unfastening twin leather straps.
No one spoke as Garec started absentmindedly pulling out items, placing things on the wooden table like exhibits at a trial: a hat, one glove, a pair of wool socks, some tobacco in a leather pouch, a small book written in Pragan. Then Garec’s hand came to rest on a carved wooden pipe and he stopped short, appalled.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered, almost crying, ‘I’m really sorry.’ He began returning the old man’s possessions to the bag. Brynne crossed and took him in her arms.
‘It’s all right, Garec,’ she said. ‘You’re doing the right thing. There’s no sense in you carrying two packs. Combine what you need in your bag and leave the rest here.’
Garec hesitated, as if waiting for something to happen. His forehead began perspiring and he released the pipe, now moist from his grip, to fall into the bottom of the satchel.
‘Garec,’ Steven said, ‘his memory doesn’t live in those things.’
Garec nodded, without looking at anyone, and, unable to reopen the pack, handed it to Steven. The young bowman picked up his quivers and started mending fletching.
Steven looked quickly at Brynne before reopening Gilmour’s bag. Garec was right. The old sorcerer did have three fresh trenchers, and Steven stacked them neatly in the centre of the table. Not knowing whether to continue, Steven reached gingerly back into the pack and withdrew three pipes, two more packs of tobacco, a short knife, some lengths of twine, several articles of clothing and a small bar of clean-smelling soap. Mark grabbed one of the trenchers and began turning it over in his hands, ostensibly inspecting the wood for worms, termites or rot. The vestiges of Gilmour’s life looked like a pile of junk: his socks had holes in them, his knife was bent and its leather sheath was torn and useless. These were not the final possessions of a powerful educator and magician; they were more like secondhand items distributed at the reading of a homeless person’s will. Mark drank deeply from his goblet and hoped the unnerving ritual would end soon.
