by Rob Scott
He tuned back into Mark’s convoluted tale of Sallax’s determination to find them a safe route into Orindale, their ensuing trip downriver, and eventually their wrong turn into the cavernous tunnel leading down to the lake.
‘That was smart of him,’ Gita spoke up. ‘You wouldn’t have made it into Orindale together, not this Twinmoon, anyway.’
‘Why?’ Steven was relieved they’d made it safely past the topic of Sallax’s disappearance. It was obvious that he was well-respected by the band, and telling them he’d turned odd and helped slay Gilmour probably wasn’t their best move right now.
‘The Malakasian Army has been dispatched along the eastern border of the city. It’s an enormous blockade, almost as though they were trying to find someone – or something – coming into town.’ Gita beamed knowingly. ‘Sallax might make it on his own, but all together, you would have been stopped, captured, and probably killed outright.’
Brynne asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. ‘Was it just soldiers, or were there… other things?’
Gita looked at the Ronans. ‘So you’ve met the enemy along your way as well, my friends.’ To Brynne, she added, ‘Yes, there were more than soldiers. There were warriors, but not men or women. It was as if they had been changed-’
‘Seron,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.
‘Seron?’ Brand asked. ‘What do you know of these creatures?’
Gita interjected yet again. ‘They fought like animals, biting and scratching, many without weapons, others with just a dagger or a knife, and it took three, sometimes four shafts to bring even the smaller ones down.’
‘They are Prince Malagon’s creation, his pets,’ Garec explained. ‘Their souls have been excised from their bodies and they have bred new generations of Seron. Apparently, they were employed in battle many Twinmoons ago, as was the almor, the, uh- the demon.’
Gita shook her head despondently.
Garec went on, ‘We believe Malagon keeps each Seron’s soul in the form of a ghost-like wraith, and these in turn are powerful creatures themselves that can kill with a touch: the wraiths are an army that battles its foe from the inside out.’ Garec’s voice was flat.
‘Well, that explains their tenacity,’ Timmon said.
‘How many did you face?’ Mark asked.
‘Only a few hundred,’ Brand said, ‘but there were probably twenty thousand encamped on the eastern edge of Orindale.’
‘Twenty thousand Seron?’ Mark thought he might pass out.
‘That’s right,’ Gita replied, ‘and that’s not counting the occupation forces already stationed at Orindale.’
‘We’ll never be able to fight our way through.’ Garec stated the obvious.
‘Fight? Ha!’ Timmon’s corpulent frame trembled as he laughed. ‘We had three thousand, boy, and we were hacked to pieces by those beasts. We were lucky to get away with the three hundred we have here. Fighting is suicide; stealth is the only way in or out.’
Brand shuffled nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘It was not just the Seron.’
‘What else?’ Steven asked.
‘There was worse,’ Gita said quietly.
‘Worse?’ Garec pursued.
‘Demon creatures, life-draining beasts, that struck without warning, deep within our ranks. It was terrifying. Many of our men bolted and ran, fleeing into the forests, but one or two of those things followed. We found bones, weapons and maybe a few bits of tattered clothing. No bodies.’
‘Jesus,’ Steven whispered, ‘I thought there was only one.’ Mark put a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder.
‘And then there is the dark mist.’ As Hall Storen finally spoke, all eyes turned towards him. ‘There were clouds, misty and insubstantial, but held together by some unseen force. They drifted above the battlefield aimlessly, until whomever – or whatever – controlled them sent them in to attack. They came during the day, they came at night, but it didn’t matter; there was no defence.’
Hall looked to be the youngest of Gita’s lieutenants. Like Timmon and Brand, he had the stone-hard look of a seasoned warrior, but there was something else about him that piqued Steven’s interest. He watched him closely as he described their encounter with the deadly mist. Even Gita remained silent while he spoke.
‘We were on the far left flank, almost to the Ravenian Sea,’ he started. ‘We had been fighting since dawn and had taken heavy losses. We were using bowmen and foot soldiers working together to punch a hole through their forward line so we could break off the flank, encircle their men and open a passageway through to the beach, and then north into the city.’
‘What would you have done in the city?’ Mark interrupted. ‘Attacked from the rear?’
‘No, these creatures can’t be routed. They can only be slaughtered, until the last one lies dead. If we had reached the city, we would have gone into hiding, regrouped, and prepared a series of guerrilla strikes against them and their supplies.’
‘But you never made it.’ Steven skipped ahead one chapter.
‘No, we didn’t. We were pushing through; all our energy focused on one slowly expanding break in their ranks, when someone started shaking me, tugging at my arm and screaming my name.’ He took the wineskin Timmon offered and slugged back a mouthful. ‘It’s funny: you’re so intent on one thing that you lose sight of everything else. I heard nothing. Everyone was screaming, the wounded and the dying were crying out for help, or water, or for their loved ones. Buildings were on fire, people running everywhere and yet I heard none of it.’ Gita gave him a look of knowing compassion.
Drawing a breath, he continued, ‘Then it was there, a cloud. It looked harmless enough, just a cloud, and I thought nothing of it. Half the place was on fire and it could have been smoke – but then it attacked. It hovered overhead, and I had a premonition, that it would produce not water, but stinging acidic rain. The fighting slowed almost to a stop as everyone – even those Seron creatures – looked up at it.’
‘What happened?’ Brynne whispered, gripping her tunic in both hands and clenching her fingers.
‘I was right. It dropped down. It fell from the sky like a chest-shot gansel. I was lucky; I was out on the periphery, and I closed my eyes, held my breath and ran.’ Everyone was looking at him expectantly, but Hall shook his head. ‘It was worse when it came after dark,’ he added.
A heavy, brooding silence fell over the small group. After a long moment, Gita broke it. ‘So you see the only way into Orindale is to sneak your way in. Once Sallax sees the forces awaiting you, he’ll be back.’
Steven looked at Brynne and shook his head gently, as if to say, not yet. He asked Gita, ‘Why would they be there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why would such an army be massed outside Orindale? What you’re describing doesn’t sound like an occupation force, it sounds like an army dug in and awaiting an attack. What’s coming to Orindale that merits such a force? You? Your three thousand partisans?’
Gita reached out and took Steven’s hand. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Several days after the army dug their trenches outside Orindale, the Prince Marek moored just offshore.’
Garec held his breath and tasted bitter acid in the back of his throat. Brynne groaned audibly. ‘Oh, demonpiss.’
Steven was confused. ‘What does that mean? What’s the Prince Marek when it’s at home?’
‘It’s Prince Malagon’s flagship, Steven. Malagon is in Orindale. My three thousand soldiers attacked a force of twenty thousand because this was the one chance we might ever get to take the head off the snake and allow the body to die on its own. We had to attack here because bringing our force to Malakasia, where there are hundreds of thousands of soldiers massed to protect him, would be suicide. We are back in this cavern to regroup and plan our next attack.’
‘But you’ll just get beaten back again,’ Garec muttered.
‘Most likely, b
ut if he is here, we have to keep trying, down to our very last soldier.’
A wave of nausea swept over Steven and he clung to the staff for support until his knees grew strong beneath him again. ‘Okay. Fine. So, Malagon is in Orindale. Why does he care? He is a powerful monarch, and a sorcerer. Who is coming to meet him who merits such a display of military might?’
Gita grinned broadly at him. ‘Gilmour, my dear. You four, Sallax Farro, and Gilmour Stow.’
Steven felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He closed his eyes as a river of cold sweat ran across his forehead, then tensed, about to retch. Beside him, Brynne sank to her knees.
It was Garec who summoned up the courage to speak first. He leaned heavily on his longbow and announced quietly, ‘Gilmour is dead, Gita.’ He waited for some response from her, but she stared back at him in silent disbelief.
As if to fill the silent void, he went on, ‘We were crossing the Blackstones when an assassin got him. In our camp. He’s dead. We gave him a funeral pyre.’ Garec said nothing about Sallax’s role in the plot to kill the Larion Senator.
Slowly, Gita asked, ‘What happened to the assassin?’
‘He escaped.’ Garec fingered the smooth rosewood of his bow. ‘Whoever it was knew enough about us to cut my bowstring. He was gone from camp before we knew what happened.’
‘And where were you and your magic stick?’ she asked Steven coldly.
‘I was badly injured at the time,’ was the best he could offer. He cringed as he said it; he knew how it sounded.
Silence reclaimed the space between them. Neither Timmon nor Brand made a move to comfort Gita as her world began unravelling. Soon she began to speak again, but her comments were not directed at anyone.
‘My whole life- this moment represents my whole life. We attacked them. We made time for you to get here – we sent riders to Riverend last Twinmoon, but it had fallen. We assumed you were coming, watched for you in the east along the highway, but then this- The Prince Marek sailed right into the harbour. We figured if Malagon’s not at Riverend, he would be here. We can attack, keep them busy, because somehow Gilmour would know. He always knew.’
She wiped a sleeve across her eyes, then stood up straight and turned to Brand and Timmon. Gita was back and giving orders. ‘Get your soldiers ready to travel. We’ll cross in the morning and make for Orindale as soon as possible.’
‘Are we going in together? Or should we plan to break up and make our way into the city incognito?’ A frontal assault would doubtless mean certain death for everyone, but Brand appeared happy for either response from Gita.
Before answering, the Falkan leader turned to Steven. ‘Are you heading for Orindale?’
‘We were, but now that you’ve told us about the defences, I’m not sure. Our ultimate goal is to get to Praga and find a former Larion Senator named Kantu.’
‘Larion Senator?’ Gita gaped at him in disbelief. ‘Young man, there have been no Larion Senators for a thousand Twinmoons.’
‘It’s a long story. We really need to talk before you make any decisions.’
‘Fine. We can send a rider to intercept Sallax. Where had you planned to meet him?’
Steven frowned. ‘No, we really do need to talk, before we do anything.’ He motioned her towards the nearby campfire.
Later, while the others slept, Mark lay beside Brynne, listening for her breathing and marvelling at her ability to sleep in the wake of such momentous news. It still echoed in his mind; he didn’t anticipate being able to sleep before his turn to stand watch. He stared into the darkness and imagined the stone canopy far above, blanketing them from the outside world. For once he was happy to be shrouded by such a formidable coverlet; he wondered for a moment whether it was possible to stay beneath the surface for ever.
Seron, and much worse. The Seron were terrifying enough. They’d been lucky, that night in the Blackstones, but if Steven hadn’t found the staff, they all would have died, perhaps even Gilmour. And then there was Lahp. Together, Steven and Lahp had broken Malagon’s hold on him, and Lahp had protected Steven, up until the moment the warrior died – and even in that moment, he had not hesitated. It had taken four wraiths to defeat the Seron. Mark swallowed hard as he imagined the ghosts tearing Lahp apart from the inside out.
If Lahp was that emotionally and physically resilient, the Seron waiting for them outside Orindale, and in Malakasia, would be impossible to defeat. On the other hand, if Lahp had withstood that brutal attack for so long because he was less than human, the Seron would be equally impossible to defeat. Mark sighed. This was pointless; they were in a lose/lose situation. It would take real magic to defeat the army, powerful magic.
The Falkan Resistance had been routed, and unless they adopted guerrilla tactics and stuck to them, they’d be nothing but a token force, full of determination and eloquent, rousing speeches, but devoid of any real substance. ‘Like Rona’s?’ he wondered aloud, and then fell silent, unnerved at the sound of his voice in the vastness of the cavern. Sallax had talked of a resistance force in Estrad and southern Rona, but save for a cache of weapons lost in the cistern at Riverend Palace, they’d seen no evidence of it.
He turned his musings back to the task at hand, content to leave military engagements to those better qualified to organise them. Their path did not lie with the Falkan Resistance, anyway. If they were to find Kantu, they would need to employ stealth, cunning, timely retreats, and a healthy ration of luck.
Steven desperately needed the Larion Senator’s help if he were to master the quixotic magic of the staff and bring its full potential to bear against Nerak. Mark hoped his friend was up to the task; he was worried that Steven’s dogged determination to preserve life, no matter how badly they were being threatened, would cost them all dearly in the end. It had been dreadful, watching him kneel over the body of the dead soldier while an enemy force surrounded them on the beach. Mark had wanted to scream, ‘Steven, pay attention, you idiot! He’s dead. Leave him and see to us, before we are too.’
Mark sighed. He was pretty sure Steven had only just begun to tap the staff’s inherent strength: if he’d wanted to, he could have incinerated the entire band of assailants in one sweeping gesture. Once he knew how to employ the magic properly, he might use the staff to level a mountain range, to summon fire from the sky, or to bring Welstar Palace down about Nerak’s neck and bury the murdering bastard in a pile of rubble.
He’d watched Steven battle the wraith army; it had been like watching a ballet, graceful and perfectly coordinated. That was the magic Steven needed at his fingertips, not rock clouds and glowing balls of light.
Mark grimaced: this was pointless; he was speculating on things he knew nothing about. Steven would do his best to save them all, to save Eldarn, and to find them a way back to Colorado. He rolled onto his side and hoped once again to fall asleep.
It was a long while before he did.
THE CROSSING
In the avens before dawn, Mark dreamed of the beach in Estrad and the night he slipped and fell through the open portal stretched out across the living room floor at 147 Tenth Street. He looked to the twin moons hanging in the night sky, and the ten thousand visible stars, thick in the air like a cloud of luminous insects, illuminating a pale sandy ribbon stretching off and disappearing into the darkness in either direction. It was humid. Mark removed his sweater and boots and strode into the water, basking in the familiar caress of the waves that gently tugged about his ankles as if to drag him out to sea.
His father was there. It was Jones Beach in New York, and his father had just sat heavily on a folding aluminum lawn chair. The family’s large yellow umbrella cast a circle of dim shade on the sand, and Mark heard the snap of a beer can being opened. But his father didn’t face the water, nor go in swimming, nor did he stretch his bare toes towards the foam as the tide ambled in that afternoon. Rather, he faced the city, turning his chair and squinting into the distance as if to catch a glimpse of the sun flashing off the silvery j
ets taking off and lumbering into the sky above Jamaica Bay, huge flying fish captured for an instant in a photographer’s flash. By the end of the day, his father would have finished six beers, two ham sandwiches and an ice cream cone, the latter purchased on his one trip to the public restrooms out along the boardwalk. Mark held his hand as they walked and his father regaled him with tales of Karl Yazstremski’s late-inning heroics the previous night and how tiny the ball had looked as it bounced off Fenway’s Green Monster for a game-winning double.
Then the almor was with them, pressing through the hot afternoon sand like an animated puddle of mucus. It came closer and closer, and Mark could smell it there, putrid and rank in the humid New York heat. He tugged his father’s hand, pulling with all the strength he could muster, but for some reason the older man was oblivious to the demon lying in wait at his feet. ‘Chocolate today, slugger, or vanilla?’ he asked, and Mark watched in horror as his father’s ankle disappeared into several inches of the almor’s milky, insubstantial essence. Nothing happened. ‘Or maybe we’ll have a scoop of each, what do you think?’ Mark could smell the faint odour of stale beer, and as his father grinned, he caught a brief glimpse of one gold filling gripping an incisor like a long-ago misplaced piece of costume jewellery.
Careful to step over the almor’s puddle, Mark released his father’s hand and peered down into the sand. The demon’s fluid form swirled about in a tumult of anguish and loathing. Mark’s heart seized and he nearly fell backwards onto the beach when he saw several forms begin to take shape within the ivory puddle. Seron. There were hundreds of Seron, twisting in and out of focus, trapped within the almor’s gelatinous flesh. The Seron were crying out, trying to communicate something. To him? No. They were speaking, or screaming in anger. Some were gesturing at something Mark could not make out. Then they stopped. Staring ahead, each of the warriors began to melt away, half-human soldiers disintegrating into colourless, lifeless imperfections, stark against the almor’s cadaverous, pale backdrop.
