by Rob Scott
‘The what?’ Brexan strained her eyes, trying to see Versen’s head come above the surface of the water. There it was. He managed a breath just then; she was certain.
‘Focus, my lovely,’ the merchant repeated, grasping her face in his hands and forcing her to look directly at him. ‘The stone. I am looking for the stone.’
Brexan’s mind raced; there was no time. Versen would surely drown. She had to act swiftly if she were to save his life, and there would be only one chance for a rescue. Trusting her instincts, she cried out, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll tell you.’
‘That’s grand, my lovely,’ and then to Karn, ‘Release her.’
As soon as the Seron relaxed his grip, Brexan reached back into his belt and drew his knife in a smooth gesture. She spun on her heels and brought the blade around in an arc that sliced across Carpello’s stomach, opening his abdomen through his frilly silk tunic. The wound was superficial, but it was enough to make him scream in terror. Brexan would have lingered over that look for the rest of the morning aven, but there was no time. Instead, she continued her circle, next slicing through the muscles in Karn’s thigh. Screaming, the Seron leader fell backwards onto the deck and the young woman saw her escape route open. Two steps to freedom. Already Rala and Haden were moving to intercept her. Using all her strength, the soldier took two running steps towards the stern rail and dived in. As she made her escape, she reached out with Karn’s knife to slash the rope: one swipe, one chance from midair to sever the cord and free the woodsman.
Her heart sank as she fell headlong into the water. She had missed.
Brexan slammed awkwardly into the water and a stinging pain lanced across her neck and back. She ignored the discomfort, kicking swiftly towards the surface. She had to cut that line. She nearly cried out for joy when she saw the taut stretch of rope rushing by overhead, a second chance. Breaking the surface, she saw Versen’s body coming up fast, not all that far from where she had emerged; she kicked hard two, three, then four times, desperate to reach the rope before he was dragged by. Too slow! She screamed inside her head: Faster! Kick harder. Swimming with her wrists bound together was nearly impossible. Bring your hands up. Reach for the rope. Cut it. Cut it now.
Brexan slashed at the thick hemp trailing Versen behind the Falkan Dancer, but the knife didn’t cut through. She needed a chance to slice twice or perhaps three times in the same place, not simply to hack away at the rope as it hurtled past her at fifteen knots.
Choking back a cry, Brexan spat out a mouthful of seawater, took a deep breath and in a last-ditch effort, leaped onto Versen as he was dragged by.
The force of the schooner’s progress nearly broke her grip, but she clung to his tunic belt. They were too heavy together and Versen sank beneath the waves, unable to surface, unable to get another breath. She inched her way up his body, careful not to drop the knife. Her limbs screamed with the effort and her lungs were bursting, but every time she thought she would have to give up, to let go, she remembered that Versen had been submerged far longer.
Then it was there, the knife against the rope. Cut! Cut faster. Hold your breath. Cut! Her eyes stung and her lungs burned for air. Gripping Versen’s wrists with her fingertips, she worked the blade back and forth as quickly as she could, but it wasn’t enough. She had to let go. She had to surface. She needed air. She had to leave him. Death first? No, she couldn’t do it. Her will to live was too strong. She would leave him to die. Slashing one last time with the tip of the knife, Brexan let go. She released her grip and felt herself slow down almost immediately as the Falkan Dancer raced north.
The sea masked her tears…
Then Versen was there with her. It had worked – that last slice had severed the twine and Brexan, empowered by a surge of adrenalin, reached for him and hauled him to the surface.
Coughing and spitting, the Ronan patriot struggled to speak.
‘Just relax,’ Brexan ordered, her arms aching with the effort to keep him afloat. ‘Relax and breathe. Just breathe.’
He coughed and managed, ‘He-’
‘Shut up, Ox. Tell me later.’ Brexan heaved him as far as she could above the waterline but she got his head and shoulders clear for only a moment before Versen sank back to chin level. ‘What could be so rutting important?’
Versen’s body was wracked by a long, wet cough, then he managed to draw several deep breaths before shouting, ‘That’s the bastard whore’s get who raped Brynne! That bleeding horsecock raped Brynne!’
‘When? What are you talking about?’
‘Seventy, maybe eighty Twinmoons ago, in Estrad.’ Versen coughed again and rolled onto his back to allow Brexan to finish cutting the bonds holding his wrists. ‘He raped her all night – she was young, just a kid. She’s been giving that scar to every ass-grabbing drunk in Greentree Tavern ever since. She doesn’t talk about it, but that’s him. We have to find him again.’
They were lost at sea. The Ronan coast was at least an aven east under full sail. There was no way they were going to survive – and all Versen could think of was avenging one of his friends. She could have kissed him at that moment, but instead agreed, ‘All right. We will. We’ll find him again.’
Then Versen was suddenly lucid. Treading water awkwardly in his tunic and boots, his face turned the colour of parchment.
‘The almor’s in the water,’ he said.
Carpello cursed. How was he going to tell Prince Malagon they had lost the prisoners? Please, by all the fustinating gods of the Northern Forest, let them reach Orindale first, before that black-hearted horsecock and his gargantuan floating palace. Carpello would pass the bad news on to someone else – an admiral, maybe, or one of the generals. They died at sea. It was simple. They committed suicide, jumped overboard to their deaths. That’s what it was, after all, suicide: they had no hope of surviving, leaping into the ocean this far from shore. They were probably dead already.
‘Come about, Captain Yarry!’ he shouted urgently, ‘come about! We need to find the bodies.’
Ignoring the blood running from his thigh, Karn grunted agreement.
‘Sir?’ the captain asked, ‘come about, sir? On this tack, sir, and with this wind it will be a half-aven before we’ll be back at the spot where they went in.’ Captain Yarry looked around at his crew, who were all nodding. ‘They’re dead, sir. It’s too far to swim to shore, sir, and that foul demon following us will have had them by now, even if the water hasn’t killed them. They are dead, sir.’
‘Come about, Captain, or I will have you executed for mutiny.’ Carpello held a folded piece of sailcloth against his bloody midsection. ‘You may be captain, but this is my ship, and we will come about this instant!’
Yarry ran one hand through his unruly hair and gave the order. The cry echoed along the deck and up into the rigging and the Falkan Dancer slowly lumbered to port, her bow coming around gradually until it cut through the swells, a knife’s edge leading them back towards Strandson.
Three avens later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Carpello resigned himself to the fact that he – they – had failed. The Seron had been particularly vigilant in their efforts, as if they knew it would be worse for them if they returned to Orindale without the prisoners or the key. Seron were assumed to be soulless and without minds of their own, but these three appeared to understand quite coherently that losing the Ronan partisans would mean death for them. Even as the sun faded in the west, they maintained their watch, squinting to improve their vision through the waning twilight.
Carpello shuddered as he imagined his own meeting with the dark prince. He had been praying for avens that Lahp and his platoon had managed to find Gilmour and retrieve the wretched stone. Although the bleeding had stopped, his abdomen burned; he spat into the waves and hoped out loud that Brexan had died slowly and unpleasantly, knowing she had failed.
‘Captain Yarry,’ he called softly, ‘back to Orindale.’
The Seron shared a look, as if they could not believe the merchant
would call off the search, then secured their weapons, pulled off their boots and dived headfirst into the sea.
‘Rutting dogs,’ Carpello Jax shouted: there behind the ship, the three Seron warriors bobbed in the waves for a moment before beginning to swim towards the Ronan coast. ‘They’ll succeed or they’ll die,’ the fat trader mused. ‘It’s that simple.’ He watched them disappear into the half-light then called, ‘Full sail to Orindale, Captain Yarry.’
BOOK IV
The River
MEYERS’ VALE
When Mark and Brynne awakened from their coma they were both delirious. Garec was worried that the wraith intrusion had done them irreparable harm – it had affected Sallax so badly – but their bodies showed no signs of injury, either from Garec’s arrows or from the spirit army attack. They were both drained, exhausted, and went without murmur when Garec suggested they lie down for a bit; when he checked on them at midday, he found them sleeping comfortably, unperturbed by nightmares or subconscious visions of prowling spectres.
At dawn the next day Garec and Steven gave Lahp his funeral rites, burning the body on a pyre alongside the riverbank. Watching the flames lick at the dead soldier’s body, Garec knew Gilmour had been wrong about the Seron. They were not animals. Malagon had attempted to create an army of mindless killers, tearing their very souls away to leave them empty and his to command – but he had not entirely succeeded. Lahp was the proof. His kindness, and his desire to help them, even giving his life for them: this showed unquestionably that Malagon’s Seron warriors were more capable of compassion than anyone had known.
Garec had drawn strength from Steven’s iron-willed refusal to give up the fight during their battle with the wraiths. Their tandem engagement with the spirit attackers had been like an elaborate dance, and Garec, empowered by Steven’s shared magic, had brought death to the dead with fluid grace. He doubted he would ever achieve that level of perfection again. Garec had often wondered what made a sorcerer different. The control he had whilst battling the wraith army verged on sorcery; the walls, the floorboards, even the air itself had seemed to obey his every command. He had worked magic.
The Ronan bowman wiped a smear of mud from his boots – Steven’s boots – and shook his head. He wasn’t that skilled; the magic had worked him.
Magic. Garec stared at the staff in Steven’s hands. That simple stick had saved their lives several times now, and still none of them had the faintest idea where its power came from; not even Gilmour had been able to explain. Would it be enough to save Eldarn? Watching the thin, pale-skinned foreigner kick a smouldering branch back into the pyre, Garec thought their cause might not be lost, even though Gilmour was gone. Perhaps Steven wielded enough magic to protect them from Nerak, to ensure their safe passage into Welstar Palace, and to secure the far portal and retrieve Lessek’s Key.
He sighed: wishful thinking. There was more to it than just bringing the stone back to Gorsk. They had no choice but to go in search of the missing Larion Senator, Kantu. They had to go to Praga.
As if reading his mind, Steven flashed the Ronan a sad smile, tossed his mysterious staff onto the ground and asked, ‘Well, shall we build a boat?’
It didn’t take long for their crude but sturdy vessel to take shape. Thanking God for the trapper’s well-kept tools, Steven directed Garec to start hewing down a number of the huge pines that surrounded the cabin. They stripped each trunk of its branches and sawed them into sections five paces long. By evening the two men had assembled forty-five logs and started lashing the heaviest of these together to form their raft. The amateur shipwrights alternated sections, end-to-end, by thickness, to account for the gradual taper in each section’s girth: the result was a relatively flat and surprisingly strong base for their journey downstream to Orindale.
By the time they got back to the cabin, they were exhausted but well satisfied with their day’s work, and much of their aches and pains faded at the scent of a spicy stew: their companions had finally awakened and busied themselves at the cooking fire.
The following morning, Mark and Brynne joined them outside. Garec watched the pair closely, and after a couple of avens he decided they were back to normal. He sighed with relief: his gamble had indeed paid off. The decision to fire on his friends had been made in an instant. It had been his only moment of hesitation in that battle, but the anguished wait to ensure he’d done the right thing felt like it had lasted a lifetime. Steven hadn’t seen what he’d done, and his friends didn’t remember. He thanked the gods of the Northern Forest profusely, then returned to work hauling and lashing logs together.
‘You and Garec were quite something against those ghosts,’ Mark told Steven quietly.
‘We owe our lives to Gabriel O’Reilly. Without his warning we’d have been stuffed. I had time to prepare Garec; without him we had no chance.’
‘So how did that work?’
‘I don’t know. It just came to me, the idea that we might be able to share the staff’s strength.’ He looked into the forest where Garec was attaching a length of twine to a fallen pine. ‘Thank God it worked. We’d be wraiths ourselves now if it hadn’t. By the way, have you heard from Gabriel since?’
‘No.’ Mark didn’t appear surprised. ‘Not a word since he warned us the spirits were coming down the hill.’
‘I wonder if he’ll be back.’
‘I hope so,’ Mark replied. ‘He’s saved my neck twice now – and he gave us the heads-up about Sallax.’ He glanced over at Brynne and asked, ‘Any sign of him yesterday?’
Again Steven shook his head. ‘I don’t know if he made it far enough downriver to avoid the wraiths.’
‘Let’s hope,’ Mark said. ‘He’s got a score to settle with Nerak, if he can just get beyond the guilt. Imagine working for your greatest enemy all that time.’
‘Nerak has a lot to answer for.’
‘You realise he might kill us all.’
‘Maybe not. If we can get to Praga, we might be able to find Gilmour’s-’
‘Kantu,’ Mark interrupted. ‘The other Larion guy. He can help us, but how will we know who he is, or where to find him?’
‘I don’t have a clue.’ Steven gave his friend a hopeful look. ‘Let’s get there first.’
By the end of the day, two more levels had been added to the base. The final step was completed standing calf-deep in the frigid water, and Mark was glad they’d had the foresight to cut enough logs to build upper levels on the raft. ‘At least this way we might stay a bit drier,’ he commented with a shiver. ‘With only one layer of logs, we’d be soaking wet from the moment we started out.’
‘And by running the inner section at right angles to the lower and upper decks, we’ll hopefully cut down on water splashing up between the logs as well,’ Steven explained. ‘I’m not just a pretty face, you know!’
Garec and Brynne grinned at the unfamiliar expression, but Mark groaned as Steven started to explain the engineering principles he’d used. Steven was missing his weekly mathematics challenges; now he wondered what other engineering problems he might be able to solve using his maths knowledge as they navigated their way along the next leg of their journey.
With the last length of the trapper’s rope, Garec tied short loops at each corner of the square-bottomed vessel and two larger loops at its centre. ‘Handholds.’ He smiled at Brynne as she looked at him questioningly. ‘We don’t want anyone falling in.’
‘Make mine especially tight,’ she ordered, smiling back at him.
It warmed Garec’s heart to see Brynne’s smile. She was desperately worried about Sallax, and it was hard to believe her brother could have survived the army of murderous wraiths scouring the foothills for them two days earlier.
Without thinking, the young man added in a whisper, ‘He’s tough, Brynne, the toughest person I know. He found a way to make it through alive; I know he did.’ Garec’s heart sank as he watched Brynne’s smile fade.
‘He’s scared, Garec – scared, and suffering unb
earable guilt. It’s not his fault. We have to find him.’
‘We will, I promise.’
Steven, unaware of their conversation, broke in by abruptly tossing the raft’s anchor line to Garec. He was in contagiously good spirits as he looked over their collective handiwork. ‘Tie this off to that tree. We don’t want her floating away overnight.’
Garec moved to fasten the line to a low-hanging branch.
Steven stood beside Mark as the last of their daylight faded behind the Blackstones to the west, limning everything in dim orange. Their raft looked a little like a proper boat that had struggled for a lifetime to mask a disability, and then simply given up. But Steven loved it. It was something tangible, it represented existential evidence, proof of their lives and their continued free will, and he beamed as he wrapped an arm around Mark’s shoulder and asked, ‘Well, what shall we call her?’
‘This crooked, not-entirely-seaworthy raft?’ Mark teased.
‘Nope,’ Steven declared, ‘that’s not her. And it’s too long to paint along her bow.’
‘Does she have a bow?’ Mark asked.
‘Don’t be so bloody negative; this fine vessel – this sturdy craft-’ Steven emphasised the words as he gestured towards the floating wooden barge, ‘-this transport of delight will take us in style and safety all the way to Orindale, in a tenth of the time it would take for us to walk.’
For a moment the two men were back drinking beer and joking over fast food in the front room of 147 Tenth Street. Mark felt them fall quickly back into stride, back into the comforting, rhythmic banter that had been a staple of their lives back home.
‘How about the Capina Fair?’ Garec asked, joining the fray.
‘Your girlfriend?’ Mark asked.
‘Former girlfriend,’ Brynne answered for him. ‘It ended messy.’