by Rob Scott
Versen shifted his weight, propped his head up on her shoulder and allowed his face to fall back against hers. This time Brexan turned and kissed him gently on the lips. He breathed in her aroma and fell asleep nestled against her, dreaming they were walking together among the rolling hills outside Estrad Village.
The first wraiths materialised inside the cabin like the beginnings of a dream. Falling like cascading water through the roof, emerging between loose planks, the ghostly figures began to take shape before their eyes. The hickory staff felt alive in Steven’s hands, charged with the fury of powerful magic. But would it have enough strength to defeat this army? He bit on his lower lip to steady his nerves. Beside him, Garec had an arrow drawn and trained, while Lahp was crouched low to the ground, weapons in both hands, and ready to spring into the morass of spectres at any moment.
Surprising himself, Steven said loudly, ‘Leave now and you may return to Malakasia.’ The facial features on several of the wraiths came slowly into focus and Steven knew they understood him. ‘Fight, and I will send you all back into the Fold.’
Would he? He hoped so. It sounded like an appropriate threat, given the circumstances. Seeing them hesitate, he went on, ‘I have already killed the almor. You do not frighten me.’
With that, the wraiths inside the cabin charged, moving as one towards Steven, their spectral mouths agape in a silent scream, like the echo of a suicidal cry from the edge of a cliff. Steven countered. He stepped forward, imagining Hannah trapped somewhere in the bowels of Welstar Palace, calling out to him in terror. ‘Come and get me,’ he challenged the wraiths, and slashed at the forward-most attacker. It had once been a woman. As the staff tore through the translucent head and shoulders, he saw a look of intense pain pass over the spirit’s shadowy face. This would work, but he had to be quick if he was going to keep them off his friends.
Steven swung the staff about his head like a broadsword, scattering scores of spirits, tearing them asunder. As before, he felt time shift slightly, and no matter where the attack originated – the walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath his feet – he found there was enough time to ready himself and to strike. Magic burst from the staff; he could smell it in the room, the ozone aftermath of a lightning strike.
Steven breathed the whole experience in like a life-giving drug. This was repayment for all the years he had let others make his decisions – because his will was weak, Slash! For all the opportunities he missed, because he would not speak up for himself, Slash! For the lifetime he had spent hiding in the shadows, Slash! Life was terrifying, but this was more terrifying. Slash! Death was in the room with him, and he screamed in its face: Slash!
‘More!’ he finally cried at the top of his lungs, ‘send me more. Send them faster, Nerak, you weak-willed fucker!’ He danced on his toes, leaping forward and back, spinning to strike at the strange spirit soldiers above and behind him. One spectre emerged from the floor at his feet and he stomped it out with the staff as if he were punctuating a declaration with a hickory cane.
This was what his whole life had been leading up to, and Steven realised he would not trade one day of his twenty-eight years to be anywhere else, to be any one else.
Periodically, one of the ghostly creatures would make an audible sound as it was ripped apart, a low-pitched groan that Mark could feel in his abdomen; he wondered whether the foundations of the cabin were about to open and drop them all into a hellish Eldarni abyss. He clutched Brynne to his chest, not just for comfort, but to ensure she stayed down, where she could be protected.
Whenever he relaxed his grip, even slightly, Brynne tried to slash at the wraiths attacking from overhead, until one passed very close to her outstretched arm and Steven barely managed to bring the staff around in time to ward the spirit off. Brynne felt the wraith’s energy bridge the narrow gap separating them and pulled her arm back to her side, shaking. She sheathed her hunting knife and cowered next to Mark. ‘That was too close,’ she whispered, still shuddering with fear. ‘You win. I’ll stay down.’
Holding Brynne’s hands for both their comfort, Mark peered over at Garec. Despite his fear that they would be overwhelmed at any moment, Mark watched the bowman in wonder. Garec was a thing of beauty, a true killing machine. He used his arrows sparingly at first as the wraiths focused their fury on Steven, but as more and more of the spirit intruders attacked, he intensified his retaliation. Concentrating his fire on the wraiths as they entered the cabin, Garec’s arrows, imbued with the power of Steven’s staff, took out scores of ghostly assailants. Howling in surprise, shocked that traditional weaponry could affect them, the ghosts flew into a rage and pressed the bowman from all sides.
Seeing them come, Garec fired twice with blinding speed then dived to the right, rolling against the wall and springing to his feet, swinging the bow like a club at his remaining attackers. He screamed thanks to Steven and the gods of the Northern Forest when he discovered he could use the bow like the determined foreigner was wielding the hickory staff, and three more wraiths fell beneath his deadly swipes.
One slow-moving spirit passed by and Garec hesitated an instant before striking it down. It looked like a man, a normal man, someone who might work for a merchant, or maybe a farmer. If Gabriel O’Reilly was right, each warrior ghost was once an Eldarni citizen, just an ordinary person who had fallen foul of Nerak, an average soul unlucky enough to join the fraternity devoured by the dark prince throughout the Twinmoons. They attacked now only because Nerak had sent them to retrieve Lessek’s Key, to kill the remaining members of their company and to ensure the eventual downfall of the world.
Garec wondered how Gabriel had managed to get free of Nerak’s grasp; he wished the wraith were with him now, inside his head as he sometimes was with Mark, to comfort him and encourage him as he dispatched these souls into the Fold.
Moving into the front corner of the room, Garec found he could protect his flank with the bow itself while firing arrows into the far corners. Twenty, thirty, forty arrows tore wraiths to gossamer shreds before they embedded themselves in the walls, and still Garec continued firing. He grinned broadly as one shaft dispatched three spirits before crashing through the hall window with a fourth in tow. The Bringer of Death: even to the dead, and Garec tumbled gracefully to his left, swinging the bow as he rolled to another stand of arrows.
Then it happened. Garec watched as Steven stumbled, in slow motion, his toe catching the edge of a loose floorboard. He pitched over, cursing and striking out with the staff until he managed to steady himself against the dining table – but that momentary lapse in his defences left Mark and Brynne vulnerable. Two wraiths quickly entered their bodies.
Brynne collapsed immediately, her slight frame lying deathly still on the floor a few paces away. Mark rose to his feet, raised his hands to the heavens and emitted an inhuman cry of pain and suffering.
Garec hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do. He swallowed hard, realised how thirsty he was and promised himself he would make a valiant effort to drink the river dry if he survived this hellish night. Two arrows stood, fletching up, in a wooden plank beside him. Holding his breath, he nocked one, drew and fired directly at Mark’s chest. Before the shaft found its target, Garec had nocked and fired the second into Brynne’s ribcage. Watching the arrows pierce his friends’ bodies, Garec felt the sting, the impossibly painful burn of flint tips and wooden shafts ripping through flesh. The Bringer of Death. He screamed in response to Mark’s cry, struck out with the bow at an attacking spirit and prayed his dangerous play had paid off.
He expected to see the wraiths burst from Mark and Brynne, like souls ascending to the Northern Forest, but nothing appeared to happen. Mark collapsed to the floor near Brynne and neither moved again. ‘Rutting dogs,’ Garec cursed and leaped to another stand of arrows, hoping to fire these as quickly as possible. He needed to create enough breathing space to cross the room into the circle of Steven’s protection and see to his friends. Could he save them? He had no idea what to do
now; he might even have killed them himself.
Garec tried not to think about that possibility and instead launched himself back against the spirit offensive with renewed hatred. Two wraiths emerged near the fireplace and Garec pinned both to the pantry door. It was only when he peered beneath their disintegrating, indistinct forms that he noticed two more arrows buried in the woodwork, arrows he didn’t recall firing.
It must have worked: those were the shafts; they had passed right through his friends. It had to be magic; he had not drawn the bowstring back far enough to fully penetrate a body, let alone drive the shafts into the hard wooden walls. It had to have worked.
On and on the wraiths came, and the battle raged unchanging. To Steven it felt like it was half the night, but he neither slowed nor weakened, despite the near-constant actions of spinning and striking out with the staff.
Garec felt as though his arms would fall off, but still he continued to fight until his last arrow was spent. Then he backed towards Mark and Brynne, protecting them from attack along the hallway with the still-potent longbow. Standing back to back, he and Steven warded off wave after wave of ghostly assailants.
Then it ended.
The interior of the cabin bristled with arrows, each firmly embedded into the woodwork, as if the walls themselves had been the attackers. Garec dropped to his knees, rolled Brynne onto her back and began weeping when he saw she was still alive. Tearing open her tunic, he found no entry or exit wounds; he checked Mark’s chest to be certain. He had not killed them.
Realising, for almost the first time, that he had gambled with his friends’ lives, the Bringer of Death pitched onto his side, felt the cool floorboards against his face and sobbed aloud, unconcerned if anyone heard him break down.
Steven was not ready for the fight to end. A wild and untamed look danced in his eyes as he continued to curse Nerak. With the staff’s magic still coursing through his body, he whirled about, looking for more enemies, needing someone or something to attack, thirsting for another kill, when he finally saw Lahp. The Seron lay in a heap near the front wall. His enormous hands still gripped his daggers, but Steven could see the big soldier was dead.
Not even noticing his friends, he strode to the front door, kicked it open and walked out into the cold mountain night. Darkness had fallen, but Steven found he could see where he was going. His senses were alive, acute, as he made his way through the underbrush towards the river. Reaching the banks, Steven waded in, the glacial cold unfelt as the power of the staff fortified muscle and bone with the strength of a brigade of warriors. His limp was gone, his leg healed, the bones knitted together as if they had never been broken.
‘Nerak!’ he screamed into the night, ‘I will not hide from you, Nerak, and you will pay for Gilmour. You will pay for Lahp, and even your evil master will not be able to save you if Hannah dies!’
Steven raised the staff above his head and drove it deep into the riverbed. A wall of water leaped up before him and careened through the valley, uprooting trees and wrenching boulders from their resting places along the riverbank. He waited until it disappeared from sight then listened as it roared its way between the foothills and off into the canyon beyond. He tossed the staff to the riverbank, then leaned back until the water flowed over his head and chest.
Steven remained submerged until his lungs burned with the need for air. Pushing his wet hair back from his face and gazing down the valley towards Orindale, he knew they had won a great victory.
‘Now, Hannah, I am coming for you,’ he announced loudly. Eldarn’s twin moons flanked either end of the valley: just over halfway to the next Twinmoon. ‘Thirty days? Have we only been here thirty days?’ he asked the valley as he clambered back up the bank, retrieved the hickory staff and strode back towards the cabin.
Versen squinted against the bright sunlight as Karn led them to the raised quarterdeck in the Falkan Dancer ’s stern. The vessel moved briskly north and Versen welcomed the stiff breeze after the stale, humid air of their cell. As he breathed deeply to clear his lungs, he tried to calculate how long they had been at sea.
When his eyes adjusted he could just make out the coast in the distance, an indistinct, blurry mass that looked as though it had been sketched along the horizon. He was heartened to see land at all and for a few brief moments scanned the decks in hopes of discovering some means by which to take the ship – or at least gain control of the helm long enough to run them all aground. A cursory look was enough to dash his hopes: a tally of the crew of hardened seamen, not to mention the Seron, made it quite clear they didn’t stand a chance on their own. He sighed, and quietly braced himself for whatever was going to happen next.
Karn replaced their chain manacles with heavy twine, fixed a short length of rope to the bonds, then dragged the prisoners aft. Brexan, legs cramped and aching from her tenure in the hold, tripped a number of times, which brought jeers from the crew, who hurled insults at the soldier-turned-traitor. Brexan regained her feet and sneered down her nose at the sailors with unbridled contempt. Her eyes narrowed as she wished she were armed with more than just scorn. She would have enjoyed nothing more than to summarily gut one or two of the smug-looking seamen disparaging her from the safety of the rigging.
Carpello Jax was leaning against the stern rail, uncomfortable despite the near-perfect weather. Versen decided the ship’s owner could not be accustomed to long sea voyages; it was probably only his fear of Malagon’s wrath that had motivated him to accompany his crew of mercenaries on this journey. At his side Rala picked absentmindedly at a discoloured fingernail and Haden spat a mouthful of phlegm towards a scupper. The big Ronan grinned to himself as he told the nauseous merchant, ‘I’ll have mussel soup, mussels drenched in white wine and aromatic with savory, a venison stew thickened with a good Falkan red, with gobbets of meat spitting fat and juices, layered potatoes in double cream and cheese, and a goblet of the same- no, actually, come to think of it, I’ll wash it down with beer, a bitter golden beer heady with the finest hops in Rona and with smooth, succulent barley from the lowlands-’
The thought of all that rich food turned Carpello’s already unsettled stomach and Versen couldn’t help his grin as the merchant retched over the gunwale, then wiped his mouth on the silk kerchief. He glared at his prisoner as he spat, ‘Scum – but I am pleased to see you have not lost your sense of humour.’ He gestured at the scarred Seron. ‘It will bring me that much more pleasure to watch him beat it out of you.’
Versen glared back at him, all trace of humour now gone. ‘How can you ally yourself with these Seron? With Malagon? Does the idea of freedom mean so little that you would allow Malagon’s pets to order you around?’
The merchant came forward slowly and lashed out, slapping Versen hard across the face. ‘You’ll watch your mouth on my ship, traitor!’ he screamed, spitting into Versen’s face. ‘I take orders from no one but my prince – your prince, you rutting son of a whore.’
Versen didn’t react; his gaze was locked on Carpello’s right hand.
Calmly he asked, ‘That scar on your hand, have you had it long?’
Carpello Jax flexed his hand. ‘Believe me, scumbag, I have had it my whole life and it will not hold me back when it comes to meting out just punishment.’
‘And the mole, that mole alongside your cavernous nose? Have you had that long as well?’
With a malevolent smile, Carpello turned to Brexan, ignoring Versen’s attempts to bait him. ‘I must ask you some questions, my lovely.’ Versen imagined he could smell days-old garlic on the man’s breath. ‘Depending on how you respond will determine whether the scum lives.’ The merchant was clearly enjoying himself despite his discomfort. ‘Since you seem so little inclined to share what you know, I doubt your woodsman will see another day. I can assure you that our little chat will not prolong your life through the end of this – I would say, under other circumstances – glorious morning.’
‘A very good friend of mine looks forward to meeting you,’ Ve
rsen chuckled. ‘If I were you, I would take my own life rather than ever run into her again.’
‘A woman? I shall be enchanted, I’m sure.’
‘You’ll be dead,’ Versen said flatly. ‘And she will make it last for Twinmoons. You will be amazed at how much pain you can feel before you lose consciousness.’
Brexan was confused by the interchange, but said nothing.
‘Are you trying to frighten me, woodsman? I am not the one standing here in bonds and about to have a most unpleasant day.’
‘No,’ Versen replied, ‘not frighten you. I just wanted to make quite sure you understand that a grisly death is on its way to Orindale right now. You should run far, run fast – maybe sail on to Gorsk and hide out in the mountains. It might take her a little longer to find you that way.’
‘Well, I appreciate your concern,’ the merchant said as he dismissed the warning with a wave of his oddly scarred hand, ‘but I feel my own needs are the greater.’
While the two men spoke, the Seron had moved behind the prisoners; now, without warning, Haden picked up the merchant’s cane and struck Versen across the back of his legs. The woodsman roared and fell to his knees. Karn wrapped his arms tightly about Brexan’s torso, pinning her hands down; although she kicked and screamed curses, Karn was unmoved. She froze as Rala and Haden hefted Versen towards the stern rail and dumped him overboard. Slowly, as if he had all morning, the scarred warrior found the other end of the rope attached to the twine manacles – Versen’s lifeline – and tied it to a stanchion. It pulled tight as the woodsman’s body was dragged through the water behind the ship. Brexan wailed and kicked wildly at her captors. The crew cheered from the decks and up in the rigging: this was certainly better entertainment than a usual morning at sea afforded them.
Carpello watched, smiling, as Versen bobbed along in the schooner’s wake, then turned to the young Malakasian. ‘He does not have much time, my lovely, so I would encourage you to focus.’ Brexan could see his crooked yellow teeth behind cracked and bleeding lips. ‘Who has the key?’
