by Rob Scott
I want to kill him myself.
He’s already dead, Kantu. You can’t kill him.
I’ll find a way.
You’ll get killed, and you know it.
There was a pause, then Kantu spoke again. Where are you going?
Traver’s Notch, to meet with what’s left of the Resistance over here, and then to a valley in the Blackstones. I’m not exactly sure where it is.
Kantu didn’t reply.
Will you bring Hannah here? Will you join us? It would be good to have you here, Kantu, good for me. I have not been very effective recently, but being home has helped me hone some of my skills. It would be nice to work together again.
Kantu ignored Gilmour’s plea. Where is he?
He thinks he has us fooled, that he has hidden the spell table where we won’t find it, but we believe we know where it is. We have the key, so he won’t be far from us, of that I am convinced. He has tried on numerous occasions to get it, but so far, we’ve been lucky.
Lucky?
Absolutely. Gilmour would not take credit for any of the successes his company had experienced in the past two Twinmoons, but he added, Luck, and the hickory staff I mentioned, which has proven both powerful and effective.
First I’ve heard of something like that.
No matter. Gilmour pressed again. Will you contact me from Orindale?
Malagon’s daughter is there.
Who cares?
I care; I had a daughter, Fantus. Reia was my daughter, and I will never forgive him, not ever. I have lived a long time, and I can still feel her there, Fantus. She is as real in my heart as the day she was born, and I will not go on like this one more day. I will never go back to Middle Fork. I am through hiding. For the first time since they began speaking, Kantu’s voice rose. Gilmour was surprised that his friend was able to shout. He did not recall anyone ever being able to yell in this manner before.
Killing Bellan will do nothing to ease your suffering, my friend.
But it won’t hurt.
Don’t risk Hannah for your personal vendetta. That’s not who you are.
You don’t know me any more, Fantus.
Contact me from Orindale, please.
Afterwards, perhaps.
Please.
I may, if I… well, you know.
Thank you.
Keep well, Fantus, and sorry about the Windscroll.
It’s all right. Gilmour lied. It was not all right. He felt the world opening up to swallow him. Fine; let it take me. I need the rest, anyway.
Goodbye, Fantus.
Orindale, Kantu. Contact me from Orindale. Gilmour tumbled backwards, knees over head, into the sorrow and confusion that had welled up to take him. He would remain there for the night and much of the following day, sleeping fitfully. The third Windscroll, held open on his chamber table with two stones and an old inkwell, went unread that evening. Pikan’s thin script noted the common-phrase spell she had hoped to employ in the moments before Nerak broke into the tower that night long ago. As he tumbled away, Gilmour was reminded – from some disembodied spirit of himself lingering in the hollow well of his insecurity – that if Nerak’s weakness really did lie elsewhere, there was no one who had any notion where that might be.
‘I want to go outside with you.’ Garec came up behind him, making Steven jump.
‘Jesus, Garec, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to do that to someone about to challenge a demon to a fistfight?’
‘I want to come.’ He wore his quivers and carried the rosewood bow.
‘I thought you were finished with that thing.’
‘I don’t know when I’ll kill another animal, and I hope to live out my days without ever shooting another person, but this is different. You’re going outside into the snow, Steven, snow. Here in Eldarn, we make our snow out of water.’
Steven chuckled. ‘Yes, us too – but what can you do? Forgive me for being blunt, but you can’t fight it, Garec, and with you out there, I’ll be worried about you and if I’m not paying attention, it may come on us without warning.’
The young man Sallax had once dubbed the Bringer of Death held out his longbow. ‘Remember the cabin? Let’s try again. Maybe it’ll work a second time.’
Steven withheld the magic but reached out with the staff and touched the bow, anyway.
‘Come on,’ Garec chided, ‘do it properly.’
‘I don’t want you out there,’ Steven confessed. ‘This thing is an unholy killer. We already lost Versen to an almor and I’m not about to risk your life, just to have a back up in a one-on-one fight.’
‘Try again,’ Garec insisted, ‘for real this time.’
Steven exhaled and let the magic come; it wasn’t difficult. The staff understood they were about to go into battle and was prepared for his summons. The air around the wooden shaft lit up with mystical energy.
Steven tapped it lightly against Garec’s bow and then against each of the quivers. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
Garec shook his head. ‘Not like before.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t like the idea of you going out there by yourself.’
‘I can only think of about fifteen hundred things I’d rather be doing, but we don’t have a choice. If we leave here tomorrow, it will hit one of us before we reach the top of the staircase. We haven’t been to the stables since this last snowfall. If the horses are still alive, I’d like to know they’ll survive the night as well.’ Steven smiled and said, ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Call out if you need help.’ Garec was serious.
Steven stifled a laugh. ‘Maybe I’ll just toss a few snowballs in that window Gilmour broke when he dived out of here.’
‘Whatever gets our attention.’
‘Good luck.’ Mark came in with Steven’s jacket. He didn’t try to talk Steven out of his decision to face the almor alone. ‘Just remember, you have the magic. I’ve seen it.’
‘Thanks,’ Steven said. ‘Help me with the gate, will you?’
Mark and Garec gripped the wooden handles on either side of the gate that closed the foyer off from the wintry weather, lifted their latches free and pushed, opening a crack just wide enough for Steven to slip out
As the gate slammed shut behind him, Steven took stock. He was protected under a stone archway, his feet safe on dry granite steps. It was too dark to see, never mind to do battle with an otherworldly demon, so Steven gestured with the staff, igniting a bright ball of flame above his head to illuminate the archway and much of the stone walk leading away from the portcullis. A short distance across the lawn he could see a swirling wind pick up wisps of snow, a flurry of tiny tornadoes dancing in the fireball’s light.
All at once he was uncomfortable with what he was about to do – what had seemed like a good idea a few minutes earlier was beginning to unravel in his mind. His clothes were uncomfortable; Howard’s woollen sweater scratched at his neck; it was far too big for him. Even his coat felt like it had grown too large. He thought he might take it off before calling the demon out – one didn’t get in a bar fight in baggy clothes; too much material for some drunk to grip hold of. The almor might somehow grasp the jacket in one of its opaque appendages and use it to hold him fast as it sucked life from his eyes, or maybe out his navel: that was where life first went in, wasn’t it?
He slipped the jacket off carefully, always holding onto the hickory staff, and allowed it to fall to the ground behind him, then repeated the process with the sweater until he stood there in the cotton T-shirt he had bought while racing Nerak across the Midwest. He was confident stripping off the layers had been a wise first move; now he nodded towards the staff, summoning forth the magic.
Nothing happened.
‘Ah, shit, not now,’ he said. ‘Talk about the worst possible time to get stage fright.’
And remember, you have the magic, Steven, I’ve seen it. Mark’s words came back to him, confusing him and leaving him feeling vulnerable.
&nbs
p; ‘Thanks, buddy,’ Steven said, ‘but that wasn’t at all what I needed to hear.’ He gripped the staff more tightly. ‘Come on, baby, light up for me. Let’s go. You and me. Let’s beat this creepy bastard and get in out of the cold.’
Still nothing came from the staff. Steven shivered, wondering if he ought to knock on the gate and wait for his friends to let him back inside. There would be no shame; he wouldn’t go back with his tail between his legs – it took courage even to step foot outside the palace. He had seen how fast the almor could move, and the snowfall meant it could be anywhere, right at the bottom of the steps perhaps.
Steven stood fast and thought about the landfill above Idaho Springs. It would be burned over now, after the forest fire Nerak had brought down the canyon. He had felt so confident that day, certain he understood the Fold and knew how to manipulate it – paint the damned thing yellow if we want to. Why? What about that day had made such sense? He gritted his teeth: perhaps Mark was right and he was as powerful as the staff, more powerful, even.
It would be down to maths, because mathematics could explain anything in any world. Prince Malagon’s lock-box, his Malakasian safe-deposit box, had proved that, and once he knew enough about the Fold to understand it, he could calculate parameters to define it. There would be compassion, because anything less would mean failure; Nerak – in all his forms – would fail in the face of true compassion and mercy. And there would be magic. But which magic? Him or the hickory staff? Maybe the spell table? That question remained to be answered. It was sufficient now that he knew magic would play a role, had to play a role against the combined strength of the Larion sorcerer and his evil captor.
Maths, magic, and compassion were the variables that came to him that afternoon, and at the time it all made sense. He longed now to feel a similar level of confidence as he stood there freezing, trying to find the courage to step into the snow. The key had knocked him over twice that day, dropping him to the icy pavement until he worked out what he was being told. He wished that something would show him the way here; he needed something to reach over and take his knees out from under him. Then he knew he would be able to connect with the hickory staff and defeat the almor.
Steven watched the snow blowing back and forth across the Larion courtyard and realised his fireball was still burning brightly.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘who turned on the light? Me?’ Did it matter? He had turned the staff in his hands, imagined the size, shape and intensity of the ball, and it had appeared. He had stepped onto the speed bump, and the key had tripped him.
‘Step into the darkness, Steven,’ he smiled. ‘Is it that easy?’
He ignored the cold, took the staff and gestured out of the archway and into the air above the stone walk. The fireball complied, floating effortlessly out until it illuminated the grounds. He knew his ability to see in the dark would have nothing to do with destroying the demon, but old habits died hard; he felt more comfortable risking his life with the lights on.
‘Step into the darkness, Steven,’ he said again. ‘Get the right context, dummy, and don’t trip.’
With that, he breathed out, long and slow, lifted one foot from the safety of the dry stone and stepped into ankle-deep snow. Almost immediately, the staff flared to life and his fireball grew in intensity until he could clearly see the winding staircase, the snowy hillside to the east and the intricate stained-glass window in the huge stone wall that Gilmour had ruined nearly a thousand Twinmoons earlier.
Standing now with both feet in the snow, the glass began to blur, melting before his eyes into a gold and black backdrop, flecked here and there with snowy white. Was this his magic, or the staff’s? Did it matter?
The almor screamed a shrill greeting from somewhere out beyond the fireball’s reach, but this time the demon’s cry didn’t frighten him; instead, he heard the sound of a crying baby, the child that had died in the explosion at Charleston Airport. The young mother had been taken by Nerak before she and the child boarded the plane and the baby had cried from the time they passed down the aisle to the moment the plane exploded around them. Steven seethed with rage, remembering that sound.
‘Come down here!’ he shouted up the snowy slope. In his hands, the staff glowed and the hillside melted away, matching the window’s waxy texture and blurred colour: it would be easy to see the almor. Steven felt it coming now, but he was ready.
THE INTERROGATION
‘Is he waking up?’ Brexan’s voice came from far away. ‘I think so too. There he is.’
Carpello opened his eyes.
‘Welcome back. Did you miss us?’
Pain lanced through his lower back, his side and especially his head and face. He had been clubbed into a stupor twice in one evening and his thoughts were coming together more slowly than usual. He had difficulty clearing his mind, and he couldn’t focus properly; he was certain irreparable damage had been done to his head. Panic overtook him and he tried to scream for help, but to no avail, for his mouth had been bound with the same bandaging Sallax used to stem the flow of blood from his nose. Carpello guessed his entire head was wrapped in it, with just enough room for him to draw shallow breaths through his disfigured nose. He trembled, and he felt his bowels let loose, filling his leggings and adding to the already disagreeable smell.
‘There we go,’ Brexan said lightly. ‘I was wondering when that would happen. You are a predictable little milksop, aren’t you? Great gods, but what have you been eating?’
He tried to beg for his life, to promise anything he could to change these madmen’s minds about killing him, but all he could do was grunt. It was dark outside, and he assumed he had not been unconscious for six full avens, so it must be the same night.
Not that long ago he’d sought out and then escorted home the floppy-breasted prostitute with the endearing little roll of flab… it must be quite late now; dawn would soon brighten the sky outside. It was difficult to dispose of a body after sunrise; so if he could stay alive long enough to see the sun crest the horizon, there was a chance he might live through the day.
Carpello checked out the room; he had no idea where he was. A bedside table matched a chest against the wall. No carpets on the floor, no tapestries on the walls: this was a guest room. An inn, maybe? He hoped there were plenty of guests that night: he would wait for dawn and then, when he heard someone moving outside, he would cry for help. It wasn’t the best strategy, but it was the best he could do right now. His head ached and he longed for sleep.
‘I want you to pay attention,’ Brexan said.
His eyes shifted to Sallax, and Brexan slashed him across one thigh.
Both his cry of pain and sobs were muffled. His pulse quickened and his breathing was laboured as he heaved back and forth in the chair he was bound to with leather straps. He stared wide-eyed back at Brexan.
‘That’s better. I want you to pay attention. When you don’t, I am going to cut you. Does that make sense? I’m keeping it simple.’
He nodded as quickly as he could, never taking his eyes off her, trying to ignore the feeling of warm blood trickling across his lap.
‘Very good.’ Brexan leaned forward until her face was close to his. Carpello thought that if he had any flesh left on the end of his nose, it would be pressing against hers. ‘I will ask you a question, and then I will loosen your bonds enough for you to reply. If you say anything that is not a direct response to my question, I will tighten them back up, and I will cut you. Make sense?’
Again Carpello nodded vigorously.
‘See? You’re doing fine.’ Still face to face with him, Brexan asked, ‘What are you shipping to Pellia?’ She reached up and loosened the bandage around his mouth, which hung limp beneath his lower lip, damp with saliva and blood.
Carpello breathed deeply for the first time since waking and took a moment to regain his composure before answering, ‘I’m not sure what it does, but it comes from Rona. There’s a forest outside Estrad Village, and another along the South C
oast, forbidden forests, closed off- they have been for almost a thousand Twinmoons.’
Brexan raised the knife. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
Carpello whimpered, ‘I am, but I don’t really know what it is. It’s wood, processed wood, but not lumber – bark and shavings, leaves, and roots and stuff. I don’t know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask.’
Sallax stood. ‘I know that forest, near the old palace. We hunt in those woods; there isn’t anyone in there harvesting any trees.’
‘I’m trying to save my life,’ Carpello said, ‘what chance do I have if I lie? I’m telling you the truth.’
Brexan pressed her lips together; she believed him. ‘My platoon used to patrol the edge of those woods. Every now and then we would hang a poacher, but most of the time, we looked the other way.’
‘Did you hear of people cutting down trees?’ Sallax’s scepticism was evident.
‘No, and it isn’t possible that wagons of timber could come out of there without us knowing. You need to do better than this, Carpello.’
The fat man spoke rapidly, filling the air with as much information as he could. ‘It doesn’t come out in wagons; then everyone in Rona would know. Prince Malagon is aware that patrols along that forest are token; it’s the end of the world out there, and anyway, no one really cares what happens in Estrad. The cargo comes via launch to my ships – my captains moor off the peninsula. The loads are ferried out. There hasn’t been a Ronan boat around that peninsula since Prince Marek closed the forest five generations ago; not even the bravest fishermen go out there, for fear they’ll be sunk immediately by the Malakasian Navy.’
Sallax shook his head. ‘Versen and Garec have hunted that forest since we were kids. It’s a competition with them, who can get the most deer. They would know if there was cutting going on.’
‘How far out do they go?’ Carpello asked, glad for the excuse to keep the two partisans talking. ‘Is it all the way to the coast? Do they go out onto the peninsula?’
