by Rob Scott
His mind raced: an attack was coming, and it would come from both sides at once. He had to act fast. The woman, obviously their leader, was still taunting him, but now Steven understood why. It was a ruse: buy time. Rearm. We have seen his magic, but we have also seen he is unwilling to kill. If he is unwilling to kill, we can take him and the others. Prepare. Prepare in silence.
This band had not looked to be an organised fighting force, but Steven realised he had been horribly wrong: they were much more than that; this was a group of people who had been together long enough to be able to read one another’s thoughts. They’d come out of the lake in certain positions not by chance, but because of what would come next. Those who could read the code were in front, because any shuffling of ranks after they had all assembled on the beach would have been suspicious.
This was no ragtag band, and now they were coming for Steven and the Ronan partisans.
Looking to Mark and Garec, Steven tried his own form of nonverbal communication to get them to move in close. Brynne was still by his side, her knife drawn and held loosely in one hand. After a moment, Mark took a few steps forward, but Garec was wary, not sure he should give up his vantage point against the cavern wall, where he was in a good position to shoot into either group. Steven cried out in his mind, and sneaked quick but piercing glances at Garec, all the while trying not to give anything away to the enemy leader before him.
Come over here, Garec. Come over here. I can’t protect you if you don’t get your sorry self over here now. Steven willed the bowman to understand. His grip on the staff tightened.
Garec understood that Steven was trying to tell him something, but he had no idea what. Get ready? Shoot someone? Draw more arrows? What? Confused, Garec looked left, then right, then back at Steven, trying to work out what he was supposed to do. They had moved. The pirates, both groups, had crept forward without anyone noticing. It was only a pace or two, and it had taken them some time, but they were inexorably closing the gap between themselves and the travellers. After what felt like an eternity to Steven, Garec seemed to get the message. The bowman started to grin, then recovered himself and wiped his face clear of all expression. He hastily took stock of what he had, and what he would need to continue this fight in close quarters.
Calmly lowering his bow, he fought to slow his heart rate and breathing. They were coming. Any moment now, they were coming. He reached slowly down to retrieve the dozen arrows he had stabbed tip-first into the beach. With those firmly in hand, he suddenly took off, running across the camp. As he leaped into place beside Brynne, he cried, ‘Now, Steven, now!’ and with a wave of Steven’s outstretched hands, a great circle of molten fire burst from the ground to surround them. So fast did the flames appear that Garec’s leggings caught fire and he spent several moments patting out the blaze before he could turn his attention back to the raiders.
The explosion of fire forced the attackers in the forward ranks to fall backwards, their faces and hands seared from the sudden blast, coughing and spluttering and trying to clear their lungs of the intense heat they had inadvertently inhaled. They gaped at the fiery wall, and at their leader, now trapped on the wrong side of the flames, in shock. The tongues of fire reached halfway up the cavern, but there was very little smoke and the heat was far less intense than Mark had expected.
Seeing Mark’s inquisitive look, Steven grinned. ‘Oh, don’t worry. It’s much hotter on their side than ours.’
‘Outstanding!’ Mark was impressed. ‘Steven, you’re getting good at this.’ He gazed around their fire chamber and, almost absentmindedly, put his arm across Brynne’s shoulders.
‘Not really.’ Steven shook his head. ‘Most of the time, I imagine what I want to happen and then try to make adjustments once I get things started.’
‘But still,’ Mark was encouraging, ‘you’ve come a long way since the Blackstone foothills.’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Steven still wasn’t so sure. ‘Except for dealing with Malagon’s wraiths, I’m not sure I’ve done much more than a bit of conjuring.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘What the hell am I saying? How can I be so blase about something that shouldn’t even be possible?’ He turned to the pirate leader, who hadn’t moved. Her jaw hung slack as she stared at the dancing flames separating her from her band of ruffians.
‘However,’ he said directly to her, ‘I am not a sorcerer.’
‘Then what are you?’ she asked quietly.
‘I’m a bank manager,’ Steven said. ‘Actually, I’m assistant manager, and if Howard ever retires, then I will become manager. I am only an assistant manager because I lack the skill to be a professional baseball player, and I lack the will and the self-confidence to risk becoming much more than I am – or than I was six weeks ago. I appear to have been chosen by this staff to wield it in compassionate defence of myself, my friends and our cause, but other than that, I have never been able to produce, let alone understand, anything magical, mystical, or supernatural.’ He would have continued parodying his former life, but she interrupted.
‘What are you called?’
‘I am called Steven Taylor, of the Idaho Springs Taylors. You can call me Steven.’ He reached out to shake her hand, but she simply stared, unsure how to proceed. Giving up after a few seconds, Steven introduced his friends: ‘This is Mark Jenkins, a teacher of history, our history, so he finds himself with a head full of completely useless knowledge here in Eldarn.’
‘An absolute pleasure to meet you,’ Mark said. ‘Sorry it had to be behind a wall of fire, but we’re not keen on being slaughtered just at the moment.’ He grinned.
‘Mark Jenkins,’ the woman echoed faintly.
Steven introduced Garec and then Brynne. He was about to suggest the woman reciprocate, and explain why she had ordered her crew of pirate ruffians to attack them without provocation when she interrupted him once again.
‘Garec Haile, the archer. And you-’ she pointed to Brynne. ‘He said your name was-’
‘Brynne. I am Brynne Farro of Estrad. I own the Greentree Tavern in Greentree Square, if you know the place.’
Mark added, ‘We don’t, Steven and me. We tried to go one night. I wanted a tuna sandwich, but a legendary, life-draining demon chased us out of town after eating a stray dog that happened by. Garec and Sallax have assured us that it’s a nice place. Good food, and the kitchen’s open late at weekends.’ The woman wasn’t paying him any attention; she didn’t even query the English word weekend.
Instead, she stared intently at Brynne, and Steven was sure he saw a look of relief pass over her face, although it was replaced almost immediately by the grim visage he was getting familiar with.
‘Sallax,’ she said under her breath, ‘Sallax Farro of Estrad.’
‘My brother.’
‘Where is he now?’
Brynne’s jaw tensed. ‘He is making his way to Orindale.’
‘Is Gilmour Stow with him?’
Garec perked up. ‘Who are you? How do you know Gilmour?’
The woman ignored him and continued staring at Brynne. ‘You must tell me where Sallax Farro is right now. It is important.’
Steven broke in, ‘As congenial as we are trying to make this little gathering, I think it’s time to remind you that you are no longer in a position to be making demands or dealing out orders.’
Brynne ignored Steven and demanded, ‘What do you know of my brother?’
The woman grimaced as she realised blood was still dripping from her mutilated earlobes. Then, grinning, as if she alone were in complete control of all their destinies, she said, ‘When days in Rona grow balmy…’ Her voice faded. She looked expectantly at them.
Steven was getting annoyed; he thought he’d behaved remarkably decently so far, given the woman had been about to kill them all without a second thought. ‘Being cryptic will get not get us anywhere. Now, answer the question. What do you know of Sallax – and for that matter, what do you know of Gilmour?’
‘When days in Rona grow bal
my,’ she repeated.
Steven grew more angry. ‘We have tried to be nice about this, but I will suspend you and your entire band of bullies from the damned roof of this place for the next Twinmoon if you don’t-’
Garec grabbed Steven’s arm and hissed, ‘Wait. Give me a moment.’ He dropped his bow and began rubbing his temples, muttering to himself. The others caught bits of what he said, but with his head down and his eyes closed, he sounded more than a little crazy. ‘Sallax, you rutter… so pissing covert – crazy old sorcerer, drunk that night… it’s always balmy down there- I remember! I remember it now, we were drunker than demon-spawn, but I remember!’ He was shouting as a thin smile broke across the woman’s stony countenance.
Then, taking them all by surprise – the bleeding pirate included – Garec threw his arm about her shoulders and drew her firmly to him in a warm embrace. Throwing his head back, he shouted, ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon!’
‘What the hell is happening here?’ Mark was thoroughly confused.
The stranger smiled broadly at them, her arm now draped over Garec’s shoulders. ‘When days in Rona grow balmy-’
Garec completed the sentence, ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon.’ He laughed out loud, relief clear on his face.
The woman clapped Garec on the back, then reached out with her opposite hand to slap Steven firmly but good-naturedly across both cheeks. ‘Welcome to Falkan, Steven Taylor, Mark Jenkins. My name is Gita Kamrec, of Orindale, and I lead the southern corps of the Falkan Resistance Movement.’
Steven looked at Gita and Garec while his firewall raged around them.
She smiled again and asked, ‘Would you turn this off now, please?’
Garec nodded agreement and said, ‘It’s really okay.’
As Steven relaxed the wall of flame, Mark suddenly remembered the band of thugs assembled on the stony beach. His body tensed as the fiery shimmer dissipated, tiny flecks of fire dancing about them like orphan snowflakes after a blizzard. The pirates came slowly back into focus. Mark ground his teeth together and felt his stomach flop over. Warily, he reached for the battle-axe. Hearing Garec laugh and carry on with the stranger was not enough to make him entirely confident that they were out of harm’s way. He held his breath, waiting for an attack and hoping Steven could retrieve their defences as quickly as he had released them.
As the flames withdrew, Gita lifted her left arm to the roof and made a fist. She then opened her fingers and rotated her hand a number of times; it looked to Steven as if she were trying to make sure every single one of her soldiers could see it. Mark tensed again; he was about to reach up and wrench Gita’s hand back until her wrist snapped when he detected a sudden change come over the cavern. It felt as if the granite bedrock itself sighed with relief as the entire band of attackers breathed out – the physical exhalation was audible. The sounds of daggers being sheathed, bowstrings released and swords sliding back into scabbards echoed around the vast cavern. Intimidating grimaces were exchanged for toothy grins, some still bloody from flying stones. People started to pull out scarves and handkerchiefs and bits of rag to clean each other’s wounds and a low murmur rose, sounding like the last few moments before the curtain rises on a play.
There would be no attack. The cut-throats were chatting among themselves amiably, passing the time as if some of their number were not lying dead, scattered about the beach like bloody driftwood. Mark became less anxious as men began wrapping their fallen comrades in heavy wool blankets, then arranging the bodies in a neat row alongside the back wall.
Some of them were taking longer to recover from the shock of dealing with a magician as apparently powerful as Steven. Mark laughed to himself: how embarrassed these dangerous partisans would be if they knew the most dangerous thing Steven did most days was cross Miner Street against the lights.
He could hear laughter, and teasing, and Mark wondered at the alacrity with which this band had changed from being a deadly fighting force to a group of friends joking with one another at a beach party. Some had evidently drawn the Eldarni equivalent of a short straw and had dived into the freezing lake to retrieve those longboats that remained. Garec’s campfire was reignited and wineskins, dried meats, bread and even cheese were being produced. Mark had no idea who Gita Kamrec of Orindale was, but her command of this group was impressive. He looked nervously back at her pale hands, wondering if he would recognise the go ahead and dismember them sign. Catching him staring at her, Gita smiled and shoved both hands into her tunic.
She was a small, thin woman, and Mark was astonished such a tiny wisp could command an army. Her hair, although wet and matted now, was long and looked as if it were usually well cared for. Instead of the solid leather belt most soldiers used to carry their daggers, knives or rapiers, Gita wore a woven and embroidered wool belt. It may have been pretty, and colourfully decorated with beads, but it served its purpose well, holding sheaths for two short daggers, a curved, dangerous-looking blade like a fillet knife, and a long sword with a decorative pommel. Looking closer, Mark noticed Gita’s skin was tanned nearly to leather, as if she had spent a lifetime outdoors. Her arms, though skinny, were muscular, and Mark guessed she would be good with a knife, quick and low to the ground.
Gita’s eyes were a soft brown; they bespoke wisdom and vast experience. Mark shivered at the thought of what she must have done to earn the respect and command of the crew now making camp along the beach; he found himself unaccountably excited at the thought of watching her work.
Gita said, ‘You are pretty skilled with that stick, Steven Taylor; I am surprised Gilmour didn’t bring you into this undertaking fifty Twinmoons ago.’
‘We were not exactly brought in,’ Steven started to explain, but she had already moved on.
‘And you?’ she asked Mark, ‘what’s your skill? Good with that axe, are you?’
Mark looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see he was still holding the weapon at the ready.
She went on, ‘You look a bit dark for a South Coaster, but I know many of that territory are deadly skilled with an axe.’
Mark tensed, feeling a dormant but familiar sense of rage flood his system. They do it here, too, the racist bastards.
When he didn’t answer right away, Gita asked, ‘You good with that axe, Mark? It was Mark, right?’ She checked with Garec, who nodded.
He decided to let it pass. There had been nothing acrimonious in her voice.
‘I am-’ he shot Brynne a look and felt better, ‘I’m a horseman.’
Recalling Mark’s equestrian ineptitude, Brynne stifled a laugh, and added, ‘He has taught us all a great deal about how to handle our mounts.’
‘Good.’ Gita failed to pick up the joke. ‘Idaho Springs. I have never been there – wherever it is; Rona? – but Gilmour knows more than I ever will, and if he wants you two along, I am sure you must bring some powerful resources to the fight.’
‘Gita,’ Steven began, ‘I think we need to explain-’
The Falkan leader continued to ignore everything any of them said, asking, ‘Where is Gilmour, anyway? Why did he send you all down here on your own? This is a dangerous place to be if you’ve never been through here before.’
‘He didn’t send us down-’ Brynne tried this time, but got no further than anyone else: this woman could apparently talk both hind legs off a donkey, let alone one.
‘Anyway, there is plenty of time for us to catch up with your progress down there in Rona. I sent a rider out your way before the last Twinmoon. He just returned. I hope you managed to get your weapons and silver out of the old palace before it fell. Still, when that old mule Gilmour gets here, we’ll have a few drinks. I’ll buy – just as soon as he coughs up the five silver pieces he owes me.’ She slapped her hand against Garec’s chest and added, ‘Garec remembers that night, don’t you?’
Garec forced a smile. ‘Gita, Gilmour is not-’
She waved three of her men forward, cutting Garec off in midsentence. ‘This is Hall S
toren, Brand Krug, and Timmon Blackrun. They each have a command within our resistance force. Hall’s from Orindale, Brand hails from the Blackstone Forest, and Timmon’s soldiers come to us all the way from the east, along the coast near Merchants’ Highway.’
Steven nodded to the three, all of whom were eyeing him with suspicion. These were obviously battle-tested fighters; they had most likely faced Seron and an array of otherworldly creatures, compliments of Prince Malagon, over God knew how many Twinmoons. The fact that Steven had stood against them on his own, and could have readily dispatched the entire company with just his wooden stick, had obviously made them wary. He had no doubt they would have preferred a straightforward hand-to-hand brawl rather than grappling with flying stones and rogue waves. He smiled anyway. ‘Nice to meet you all,’ he said.
Timmon and Hall nodded, and Brand asked, ‘What news of Sallax? Where is he?’ Brand Krug was a small, wiry man, with narrow eyes and a pinched nose; he wore a brace of throwing knives and a short sword strapped across his back. When no one answered immediately, he repeated his question.
Brynne began, ‘Sallax has-’
‘Gone on ahead to Orindale,’ Mark interrupted, ‘he’s travelling on foot, and we’re not sure how far he’s got.’
‘Why did you not go with him?’ Timmon spoke up. He was a large man, tough-looking, despite a little softness about the midsection. While Brand had long hair, drawn back tightly into a ponytail, Timmon Blackrun’s short curly hair looked as if it were gripping the top of his head so it didn’t blow off. Although the cavern was cool, the man was sweating profusely, and Steven started to worry that Timmon was just a few minutes away from a massive heart attack. He still carried his weapons, an enormous war cudgel – like a hammer with a nasty allergy – and a short dagger. Steven could only conclude the big Easterner wanted to be ready in case it became necessary to bludgeon someone to death at a moment’s notice.
