by Rob Scott
‘I thought you were dead-’ Steven hovered over him, mouth agape.
The seaman placed one finger over his lips in an effort to silence Steven’s forthcoming accusation. ‘Don’t say that name; don’t even think it here. Simply uttering it could bring Nerak’s full wrath down on you. He may be at the far end of the city, but he could be here in a matter of moments.’
Steven was not sure he could withstand another emotional blow. His vision blurred and for a moment he felt as though he might faint. ‘You don’t- you don’t look like yourself.’
‘Well of course not!’ The old man was suddenly indignant. ‘Garec, the bloody fool, burned my body to ash there in the Blackstones. I liked that body. That one suited me well.’ He grimaced. ‘I am glad he’s going to be all right, but did he have to burn me on a bloody pyre?’
Steven was speechless.
‘And what a fire. You missed it. He nearly took down the whole side of the mountain. Flames were leaping from treetop to treetop-’ He took a long draw on his pipe and the ashes glowed a warm red, like an old man’s last memory.
‘So you’re like him?’ Steven gestured over his shoulder in the general direction of the former royal residence.
‘There are aspects of my skills that are similar to Nerak’s, but he can live without a physical form, a host, if you will. I cannot.’
‘This body? Did you-?’
‘Absolutely not.’ He looked stern. ‘Never do that. Natural causes. I was on hand when this gentleman died. That’s why there’s no wound on my… his wrist, no forced entry.’
‘Has this happened before?’
He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. ‘Just once, long ago when I became-’ He paused. ‘When I became the man you met in Rona and abandoned my old body. Lessek helped me then, and thankfully, he made the decision to assist me in the Blackstones. One of these days, he won’t be there to patch me back together.’
‘What will happen then?’
‘Then I imagine my work here will be finished.’ He smirked.
‘So Lessek keeps you alive?’
‘Lessek – with some help from the spell table, I suppose.’
‘But I thought the table wouldn’t work without the key.’
‘It won’t, but that doesn’t preclude its power from continuing to affect us.’ He tapped his pipe ashes into the sand. ‘The spells keeping me alive – me and Kantu – were cast so long ago, I don’t even remember who chanted them. He chortled ironically. ‘It was probably Nerak.’
Steven forced a smirk himself, but he still felt as though he might be sick.
‘Anyway, I’m glad you’ve been working so diligently with the staff’s magic. When you return from Idaho Springs, I would be happy to help you hone your skills.’
‘You know I plan to come back?’
‘I know many things.’
‘I have to sit down.’ Steven slumped heavily in the sand beside the old sorcerer. ‘Well, it is good to see you.’
‘It’s good to be here – but come now, we have a great deal to do tonight.’
THE PRINCE MAREK
Brynne reached out to take hold of the stern line hooked fast to a deepwater mooring; it kept the great ship from turning with the tides and crushing unsuspecting smaller vessels in the harbour.
‘Tie it to this,’ Steven whispered, handing her a length of rope affixed to their bow, short enough to keep them in place; they just had to hope the gentle rise and fall of the waves would not run the skiff into the Prince Marek.
Steven, Brynne and the old fisherman prepared to climb up the line and ease themselves over the stern rail and onto the quarterdeck. Mark positioned himself against the narrow transom, a borrowed longbow and full quiver at his feet.
The trip through the harbour had been marked by several disagreements, the worst of which was between Mark and Brynne.
‘I don’t want you going aboard,’ he said firmly.
‘Garec can’t make it. I have to go.’ Brynne was equally adamant. ‘I’m much better at hand-to-hand fighting than you, Mark. Steven might need my help.’
Brynne bristled with knives, daggers, even Mark’s battle-axe. The light of the Twinmoon glinted on the arsenal of razor-sharp edges. Mark, still unhappy about her decision, insisted he accompany them in the skiff to offer covering fire should a Malakasian sentry approach while they were boarding.
Brynne stifled a laugh. ‘I’ve seen you shoot, Mark, remember? Trying to kill fish, you missed the river three times.’
Mark was not amused. ‘Funny haha. And you’re right; maybe I’m not a great shot, but their soldiers don’t know that.’ He wished he’d paid more attention to Versen’s lessons, but it was too late now.
The old fisherman came along as well – neither Mark nor Brynne knew why, but Steven insisted, and when the seaman offered the use of his skiff, they were happy to accept.
They couldn’t bear to leave Garec alone on the beach, in case whoever had shot him came back to finish the job, so he slept in the bow of the sailboat, wrapped comfortably in their collective blankets. He was definitely alive: his heart thumped, strong and steady, and his breathing, though slow, was deep.
Mark’s stolen vessel made the trip without incident, coursing across the harbour on a swirling southern breeze, the skiff skipping along in their wake. The raiders dropped anchor and reefed sail some thousand paces west of the sleeping giant. Darkness surrounded them, and with the old fisherman at the oars, their approach to the Prince Marek was as silent as a piece of buoyant flotsam on an incoming tide.
‘So far, so good,’ Mark whispered as he watched Brynne reach for the stern rail. She had gone up first, insisting – and even he had to agree – that if anyone saw her come over the transom, no one would be able to silence them as quickly and efficiently as she. Mark held his breath. It was a long climb, thirty feet of hand-over-hand ascent, but it was just a few moments later that she was there, draping one arm over the rail and drawing a slender hunting knife from her tunic belt with the other.
‘Damn, damn, damn,’ Mark cursed: in his concern for Brynne he had forgotten the bow. He quickly nocked an arrow and pointed it aloft, waiting for someone to appear. ‘Please God, don’t let me pierce one of my friends,’ he prayed quietly, but thankfully, none of the Prince Marek ’s crew seemed to have heard them. Brynne motioned for Steven and the fisherman to join her. Mark watched intently as she peered around, then hefted her lithe form over the aft rail and disappeared from sight.
Steven went up next, with the staff tied in a makeshift harness, nimbly pulling himself hand-over-hand until he reached the stern cabin. Mark and the fisherman exchanged a worried glance as Steven slowed his climb to a stop, dangling precariously above the water.
He had paused to look through the cabin window, into an enormous chamber, so opulently decorated that it must be Prince Malagon’s. Tapers burned around the main room, and through the dim, shimmering light he could see gilded artwork on the bulkheads, delicately woven rugs in a thousand hues on the floor, ornate tapestries hanging above a huge bed draped in rich brocaded silk and velvet, and a bookshelf lined with several hundred silver-embossed books – the first books he’d seen in Eldarn.
‘Silver,’ Steven muttered, ‘you bastard. I wonder where you developed a love for silver.’ The staff responded to his anger and flickered to life, its energy lancing though Steven’s jacket. He forced himself to continue climbing.
On the water, the fisherman grabbed the rope and prepared to follow.
‘You need a hand, my friend?’ Mark asked, dubious that the old man would make it all the way up.
‘No, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I learned to climb long ago, in another life. My history teacher was quite a mountaineer.’ He flashed Mark a boyish smile and scrambled up the stern line with the agility of someone less than half his age.
Mark allowed the bowstring to relax slowly and stared after the old man in wonder. ‘It can’t be,’ he whispered, and sat down clumsily on one of the
skiff’s wooden benches.
Brynne couldn’t see any crew from where she crouched behind a stack of tarpaulin-covered crates. As Steven and the fisherman joined her, she motioned for them to get down. The raised deck stretched out in front of them: a barren expanse of oak planking. Several watch fires burned in large sconces mounted above the gunwales and a warm golden light cast dull, flickering shadows across the ship’s broad beam. Their most difficult move would be from their current position down the starboard stairs to the main deck, and then through the cabin door to get to Prince Malagon’s chambers below. Wisps of Brynne’s flaxen hair blew lazily in the cold evening wind. Thankfully, it had not yet begun to rain.
She drew a second blade from her belt. ‘I will go first-’ it was not a request, ‘and you two come on quickly behind me. I’ll position myself behind the aft mast there on the main deck while Steven makes his way inside. You-’ she gestured towards the fisherman, ‘stay with me.’ She sounded fiercely determined. Reaching into her belt, she withdrew a thin-bladed knife and a small axe. ‘Do you know how to use these?’
The seaman shook his head. ‘I never use such weapons, my dear.’
Angry, she snapped, ‘Well, what in all Eldarn did you come-’ She paused and pushed the unruly strands from her face. Hidden behind the relative protection of the crates, her stoicism suddenly vanished. ‘Is it you?’ Her voice broke. ‘Is it?’
He grinned and kissed her on the temple. ‘It is. No names, mind.’
Unable to contain herself, Brynne dropped the weapons and threw her arms around the old man’s neck, squeezing him to her as if to never lose him again. ‘You don’t- you don’t look like-’
‘No names,’ the old sorcerer repeated. ‘Our plan, my dear?’
Brynne was suddenly serious. ‘Right,’ she said as she wiped away an errant tear with a tunic sleeve. ‘No one’s appeared yet, but this ship is huge and the watch might take their time getting from one end to the other.’
‘Should we wait one cycle to see?’ Steven whispered.
‘No,’ the fisherman answered, ‘if there is a watch, and on a ship this size there must be, even if just to remain vigilant for other vessels, he probably isn’t patrolling.’ He retrieved Brynne’s weapons and handed them back to her. ‘If he does come aft, Brynne can take care of him.’
‘You sound confident.’
‘Only because I’m certain the critical chambers of this vessel are magically warded. No ship is going to run into this one, so there is no real need for an attentive watch.’
‘Magically warded?’ Steven felt a lump develop in his throat.
‘Of course,’ the fisherman said, as if magical traps were commonplace, ‘if you were he, would you leave the far portal in your cabin unprotected?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then how do I get in?’
‘Delicately, if you don’t wish to be detected.’
‘Or?’ Brynne said.
‘Or crudely, if you don’t care about Nerak hurrying back to destroy us.’
For the first time all evening, Steven laughed. ‘Okay. I opt for delicately.’
Overcome once again, Brynne reached over and squeezed the old man affectionately. ‘It is nice to have you back, even if you are a bit thin. I’ve missed your skill at pinpointing situational danger!’
The old man smiled back at her and went on, ‘So if Brynne is on hand to dispatch any wandering sentries, and you can use the staff to open the door to Nerak’s cabin, we ought to be able to get in and get out before he arrives.’
‘I thought you said if I were delicate, he wouldn’t know.’
‘Perhaps – that’s the one real risk we have to take. I am confident that he has no notion of the true power in that staff.’
‘So how will he know I’m here? As long as you don’t employ any magic, he’ll have no idea we’ve broken in, right? That’s why I had to be the one to save Garec and not you?’ Steven’s voice started to rise in anxiety, and he forced himself to speak softly.
‘True to a point, Steven. He cannot detect the staff’s magic, but I worry he will know when his safeguards have been breached.’
‘Well, hell, why should I be delicate if he’s coming regardless?’
‘That’s a great question, my boy.’ The old man pondered the idea for a moment, then shook his head. ‘You’re right. Let’s go for crude and fast.’
‘So there really is no way we’ll get out of here without a fight?’ Brynne was afraid she knew the answer to that one.
‘We – Steven and I – will probably find ourselves in a fight to the death with Nerak tonight.’ The old man rubbed a finger beneath his crooked nose.
Brynne tossed her head. ‘Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?’
His voice darkened and his face lost any hint of boyish charm as he said slowly, ‘If Steven can get through the portal quickly, I will face the dark prince alone.’
No one spoke. Brynne set her jaw and moved silently along the quarterdeck towards the starboard steps. A moment later, she disappeared.
Steven took a deep breath, gripped the staff like a lifeline and followed Brynne’s lead.
Nerak’s cabin was locked, but Steven could see and smell the wax tapers burning through the louvred doors. ‘This is it,’ he whispered. ‘I saw inside while climbing up the stern line.’
The old man gently placed the flat of his palm against the door and nodded. ‘I was right. It is locked with a spell.’
‘How do I open it?’
‘You follow the magical threads and untangle them, one by one.’
‘I’m not that good. I still don’t know how I saved Garec.’ Steven felt his chest tighten and a thin line of sweat ran down his spine. ‘You do it.’
‘The moment I employ my magic on this door, he will know.’
‘But if I try-’
‘He might not detect it.’ The old sorcerer shot Steven a dubious look. ‘It’s our only chance to gain time.’
‘Right.’ Steven felt the magic burst from his body like a thunderclap as he released it on the doorframe. The door exploded from its hinges and fell to the floor in a shower of oak splinters. ‘How was that?’ He smiled proudly.
The old man was dazed. ‘A bit noisy, but not to worry: it’s done. You find the portal. I’ll help Brynne.’
‘Brynne?’ Steven was a bit slow. ‘Does she need our help already?’
‘After your little demonstration here, my boy, she’ll probably need considerably more than just me.’
‘Damnit,’ Steven spat, and cursed his haste. He’d been so focused on Nerak that he’d been oblivious to the obvious: blowing up the door would bring everyone on board the Prince Marek rushing to see what the noise was. ‘Go! Help her!’
The old man took Steven by the shoulders. ‘Find the portal, Steven. That’s all you need worry about now. Just find the portal.’ Then he was gone.
Steven hefted the staff and collected his thoughts. ‘Find the portal. That’s all I have to worry about.’ But as he crossed the threshold, he heard a low roar, a distant explosion that careened across time and distance to reach him, rolling through his chest and leaving him reeling. He braced himself against the bulkhead.
‘Shit,’ Steven said. ‘He’s coming.’
Hidden behind the aft mast on the main deck, Brynne watched and waited, but there was absolutely no activity of any sort. Although she was beginning to wonder if there was anyone on board, she kept her eyes focused through the torchlight. Suddenly a loud explosion reached her ears: this was it: they’d done it! Her body tensed and she gripped her knives with renewed determination. Waiting for the enemy to arrive, she wondered what she would do if Nerak were to appear on deck, materialising before her in a brilliant flash. Would she run, dive over the side? Or would she attack him, slashing and cutting her way through his robes to the vulnerable flesh beneath? Was there vulnerable flesh beneath?
There was no time to answer her rhetorical q
uestions: there was someone on board after all. Below decks she could feel the resonant thumping of people running: enemy sailors making for an open hatch twenty or thirty paces in front of her. She cursed herself for being such an idiot: any moment now a great crowd of sailors would spill from that hatch onto the deck and she would be overrun. Close the hatch, lock it down, then find and secure the others – that would buy some time.
Now she could hear voices, crying out in warning, or shouting orders. She was right on top of them. An arm reached out – too late. She slashed with her hunting knife, slicing the man’s arm across the wrist in her trademark half moon. A muffled cry echoed out of the small rectangular opening as she slammed the hatch closed and set its bolt.
She sprang to her feet and assessed the main deck as the men below pounded on the locked hatch. She could see six more open, and she was pretty sure there’d be others further forward. There was no hope. She’d never get to all of them in time.
‘But I might get to some. I might delay them for a moment or two,’ she cried and sprinted towards the next hatch, trying not to think that this might be the last thing she would ever do.
Mark was so startled by the prolonged rumble of distant thunder that he nearly fell overboard. He nocked his arrow again and braced himself against the transom. It would be a pretty one-sided fight, but he would make a memorable stand.
A cacophonous roar bellowed out from the city. ‘That has to be Nerak,’ he groaned. ‘Okay, I’ll stand my post. I am not leaving without them,’ he said aloud, as if to convince himself.
Brynne got four more hatches closed before the first sailors emerged from below, spilling out of the narrow opening like a roiling mass of insects. She was greatly outnumbered, but they hadn’t spotted her yet: if she took up a defensive position outside Malagon’s cabin she’d have a better chance. And if they hadn’t seen her, they might not come all at once; for all they knew, the Prince Marek was being attacked by a large force of Falkans, not just one woman with a few knives. She waited for them to come.
As she reached her chosen position she was about to huddle down, to hide for as long as possible, when she spotted the lone sailor above on the quarterdeck, armed with a bow: the sentry. How had they missed him? Where had he been – and how had had he managed to get behind her? He was working his way towards the stern rail; she guessed he had no idea they were on board. He probably thought the muffled explosion was enemies trying to break through the stern bulkhead. She had surprise on her side, but he had a bow. Then she remembered Mark.
