by Rob Scott
‘It will be enough time,’ Gilmour said. ‘Do you have anyone under your command who can work magic, even simple festival tricks? Anyone at all?’
Gita glanced at Brand; something passed between them.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ Brand finally said.
‘Can we get him here in the next Twinmoon?’
‘I can send a rider, but Gita, he’s a mess. He can’t-’
Gilmour interrupted. ‘He won’t need to work any spells. He’ll simply need to receive a message from me.’
‘You’ll talk to him?’ Brand asked sceptically, ‘from the Blackstones?’ Gilmour laughed, ‘No; it’ll seem like he’s been belted by an invisible fist – unless he’s very talented, he won’t know what hit him, but it will at least confirm that we’ve been successful.’
‘So we bring him here and watch him until you clobber him senseless from somewhere south of Orindale?’
‘Exactly.’
And all he has to do is…’
‘Have a thimbleful of magic in his bones and take a solid, unexpected punch to the head.’
Now Brand laughed. ‘That, I would like to see.’
‘Send the rider,’ Gita directed.
‘Very well.’
‘Who is this man?’ Gilmour asked.
‘His name is Stalwick,’ Gita said. ‘He rode with us for a time but then he…’ She searched for the right description.
He’s a blazing idiot,’ Brand finished for her. ‘But if all you need him to do is be around here until you kick his head in, he can handle that.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Capehill.’
‘Good,’ Gita clapped her hands together. ‘It’s decided then. Brand’s company will ride south with you. We’ll bring Stalwick here and continue to build up our forces. We have many friends and supporters in the Notch, and the local mining industry provides us with an excellent cover. When Stalwick collapses, I will assume that you have done whatever it is you plan to do with this table you seek and that we should begin our march to Capehill.’
‘And we’ll meet you there,’ Gilmour finished.
‘After we go to Orindale,’ Steven interjected.
‘Orindale?’
‘Hannah and Kantu,’ he reminded.
Gilmour nodded, ‘That’s right – unless, of course, they join us along the way.’
They stayed in the cottage that night. Mark woke in the pre-dawn aven and slipped out to pile logs onto the fire. He was not surprised to find Gilmour awake and pouring over Gita’s maps.
‘Looking for an overland route to the West Indies?’ Mark asked.
‘How’d you know?’ Gilmour said.
‘I’ll give you a hint. They’re islands; you need a boat.’
‘How’s your leg?’
‘Getting better.’
‘You need more querlis?’
‘No. That stuff just makes me sleep.’
‘Come and sit down.’
Mark did. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Nothing particularly; I just don’t sleep all that often.’
‘You’d do well in corporate America.’
‘Not me,’ Gilmour said. ‘I never had a head for business.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I heard what you said before.’ The Larion sorcerer changed the subject.
‘About what?’
‘About Nerak and his minions.’
‘Oh, that.’ Mark examined a map of Estrad and southern Rona. ‘I’ve been thinking about him, and all the creatures he’s sent to find us. They all fall along the same continuum, from real to unreal, or whole to less-than-whole, so they might have common weaknesses as well.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Gilmour admitted.
‘If Nerak only creates or summons creatures that fit a certain profile, it may tell us something about his weaknesses. He has sent ravenous beasts, wild animals, half-humans and wraiths, and all of them are similar in certain respects: they hunt, use some mystical energy either to search or to exist and they all fall beneath the power of the staff. It makes me think that might be the place to look for weak spots in his armour.’
‘That’s quite an array of nasty creatures, Mark; I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Gilmour said.
‘Why didn’t he create a plague? Why didn’t he open the earth and swallow Sandcliff Palace with us in it? Why didn’t he have the water in Orindale Harbour swell up and drown us that night? I’m betting it’s because he can’t. There are tremendously powerful things he can do, and all of Eldarn has been living in fear of him for almost a thousand Twinmoons, but let’s think about the things he can’t do.’
Gilmour nodded, beginning to understand. ‘He can’t sense the hickory staff.’
‘Nope, and he can’t open the Fold and allow his evil master to just step outside – if he could have opened the Fold without the spell table, he would have done it by now and all of us would have been obliterated, or enslaved for an eternity.’
‘But he crossed the Fold when I opened the spell book.’
‘Sure, crossed it, but he can’t open the Fold with that book. There is nothing in there to allow his master to emerge into Eldarn.’
‘Fine, I agree – but what’s the point of what Nerak might or might not be able to do with his power?’ Gilmour rolled up the map and placed it to one side.
‘We have seen real evidence of things that can be done that Nerak has not been able to do.’ Mark was speaking quickly in his excitement.
‘Such as-’
‘Such as keeping you and Kantu alive for two thousand Twinmoons, such as sending visions of things we need to understand, such as intercepting Regona and sending her through the portal to raise Eldarn’s heir in my world.’
‘Lessek?’
‘Lessek.’
‘And you truly believe you are somehow related to Regona? I know Nerak called you prince, but I don’t know how he would have known Regona at all.’
‘Doctor Tenner.’ Mark reached for a flagon of wine and uncorked it. He poured two goblets.
Gilmour stood and walked towards the fireplace. Crouching before it, he reached out to warm his hands. ‘Tenner’s letter.’
‘Or Tenner himself. Suppose Nerak took Tenner the night he burned Riverend Palace. He would have known all that Tenner knew at the time.’
‘But all Nerak would have known was that Regona went to Randel to live with Weslox.’
‘Sure, so Nerak goes to Randel – he had all the time in the world – and learns-’
‘That Regona never arrived,’ Gilmour finished.
‘Lessek took her through the far portal, or at least he showed her the way through.’
The Larion Senator rubbed his palms together. ‘She wouldn’t have been able to touch him, but he would have looked real enough.’
Mark sipped the wine. ‘It’s evidence of yet another skill Lessek perfected that Nerak did not. If the evil minion that took Nerak only inherited Nerak’s power, then it doesn’t know the extent of what’s possible; what a great sorcerer can accomplish. Eldarn has been measuring sorcery by Nerak’s benchmark for a thousand Twinmoons when you should have been measuring Nerak against Lessek, the true master.’
‘But how could Nerak have hidden his weaknesses from the evil minion? Nerak knew his own weaknesses; we all do – he wouldn’t have been able to mask them inside his own mind. What came through the Fold hit him like a rogue wave; he had no time to cry out for his own mother, let alone hide any thoughts in his head.’
‘And thus we come to the place where all my best deductions fall apart: I just can’t get past that. But I am confident there are plenty of magical possibilities to defeat Nerak, and I bet you a case of beer the place to start is with Steven’s staff. There’s something he just doesn’t understand, and it will be his weakness; I know it.’
‘“Nerak’s weakness lies elsewhere”,’ Gilmour quoted.
‘Could that be the place?’
‘I do
n’t know, but you give me hope, and gods know I need plenty of that these days.’ His knees creaked as he stood up from the fire and swallowed the rest of his wine in one gulp.
Two days later, rested and well provisioned, they left Traver’s Notch with Brand’s company.
BOOK IV
THE PRISON WING
Hannah woke to the sound of the underground pistons, popping and churning, popping and churning. She didn’t know if that’s what they actually were; she imagined furnaces boiling water to build steam that spun cranks, pushed pistons and blew warm air up through the palace vents, or perhaps heated air that expanded inside great balloons then exhaled through ducts servicing the keep above. All her imagined machines were gangly-limbed monsters that sputtered and farted great belches of humid air up through the palace. Were an attack ever to come on the ancient castle, all Prince Malagon had to do was loose his heating system on the enemy lines.
As she lay there on the floor, she felt the heat begin seeping into her cell until she was sweating freely; later, when the massive creature was chained back in its place, the heat would wane and she would wrap herself in the cloak and await the onset of another frigid night.
She had seen no light – except for guards passing who carried torches – since the soldiers wrestled her, kicking and scratching, into her cell. She had no real idea whether it was day or night; she charted time by the heat, or lack of it; soon after the furnace started up, the door would open just enough for one of the guards to slip a bowl of brown mush inside. She counted that as morning.
At first, she had refused to eat it, her stomach in knots as anger and fear warred for control, until Hannah’s indignant stand – I’m an American, damnit – gave way to terror and she curled up in the corner and cried herself to sleep.
After a few days, the hunger pangs grew too painful to ignore and Hannah forced herself to eat the tasteless gloop; now its arrival represented the highlight of her day. She always thanked the soldier, but so far no one had said a word to her.
She tried to mark the days, but was it fifteen now, or twenty? She couldn’t find anything sharp enough to mark the walls of her cell, giving up after tearing two fingernails to the quick. Besides, there was only ever light for the few moments it took to shove her gloop through the door, so scratching lines in the rock seemed pointless.
Instead, she named the days: her father was fanatical about baseball, and obsessed with the 1975-76 Cincinnati Reds; he claimed it was the greatest baseball team ever assembled on one field. Now Hannah tallied her stay in the Malakasian prison: ‘Gullett, because you have to start with Gullett, Bench, Perez, Morgan, Rose, Concepcion, Foster, Geronimo, Griffey, Senior not Junior, although the kid can get it done when he needs to; then, Plummer, Armbrister, a lucky call there in game three, Eddie; and Rawlins Jackson Eastwick, the Third. That’s just a name you have to say out loud. Okay, so what’s that, twelve days, plus a few before I started the count, so that’s – fifteen days? Right, fifteen. Tomorrow, we’ll go back to the utility infielders.’
When she ran out of Cincinnati Reds, she moved on to the New York Yankee squad from the ’76 World Series, but it was hard to remember all the players. Then she tried making up song lyrics, which amused her for a day or two. It seemed important for her to occupy her mind, because otherwise she’d start thinking of her arrival in Welstar Palace…
They had been bound and gagged, and dragged from the Welstar docks, through the encampment to the palace, and Hannah had her first up-close encounter with Seron, the creatures she had seen in the distance outside the forest of ghosts. Nothing her friends had said had prepared her for these huge monsters, staring vacuously, apparently oblivious to the open sores, boils and pox marks that covered their bodies. Even now the memory of the stench made Hannah retch: the stink of death and decaying, foetid flesh… part of her hoped that she would die there, rather than having to cross that field of pestilence again. What kind of soldier stood staring without a care while his flesh rotted from his body? These people – if they were people – would be the grimmest fighting force ever assembled – what good would it do to shoot one of them with an arrow? Or even with a rifle?
Hannah blinked away the tears and started again. ‘Gullett, Bench, Perez, Morgan, what a strange swing you had, Joe; Rose, Concepcion…’
One morning Hannah missed a meal. She had waited all night for her brown gloop; when it arrived, she forgot it. The following morning a soldier picked up the untouched trencher and swapped it for a fresh serving of mush. Hannah started to shake: things were getting worse. She filled her mind with batting averages, prices of antiques stacked in her grandfather’s store, the names of all the peaks she had climbed in Colorado, the keys and key signatures of all twelve tones in the chromatic scale. She decided she must be on the threshold of madness because one night, battling the particularly insidious chill, she managed to recall a quadratic formula she had no memory of ever learning, let alone what it was supposed to do.
For water, Hannah had a trickle running down the back wall. She awakened each day apparently free of dysentery, so she drank as much as she could, reminding herself, especially during the blazingly hot days, to stay hydrated. At night, the trickle sang as it ran down the wall and dripped down between the flagstones. When she couldn’t sleep, she made up songs to the rhythm of the rill.
The key of C, C, C.
It has no sharps.
The key of C, C, C.
It’s the hairy smelly key of C.
The key of G, G, G.
It has F sharp.
The key of G, G, G.
It’s the filthy rotten key of G.
The key of D, D, D.
It has F and C sharp.
The key of D, D, D.
It’s the tired wrinkled key of -.
A loud click emanated from somewhere along the hallway outside her cell; Hannah quieted, listening intently, and heard a second click and footsteps approaching along the hall. She peered through the cracks between the wooden door, expecting to see the flicker of torchlight, but the hall remained dark. She whispered more nonsense under her breath.
The key of F sharp, F sharp, F sharp.
It has F, C, G, D, A and E sharp.
The key of F sharp, F sharp, F sharp.
It’s the crippled beggar key of F#.
The key of C sharp -
The footsteps paused, then came towards her cell.
‘Hannah?’
‘Steven?’ She was embarrassed at the hoarse rattle in her throat. ‘Steven, is that you?’
‘Where are you?’
Adrenalin flooded through her and she stood and stumbled across the chamber, shouting, ‘I’m in here, Steven. I’m in this one, right down here.’ She banged her fist against the door, hearing the echo resonate along the cavernous hallway. He had to hear her; she was making enough noise to wake the dead.
‘Hannah?’ the voice called back, ‘where are you?’
Something slimy slithered across her foot. She screamed, twisting away so violently she felt something in her back snap, a tendon or a ligament stretched too far. She ignored the throbbing pain as she huddled in her corner and screamed, ‘Steven! Can you hear me, Steven? I’m in here, Steven! Please let me out! Steven, please!’
The voice didn’t answer and Hannah strained her ears, keeping her eyes tightly closed. Her breath was too loud; she was panting in fear of whatever had slipped over her feet- She felt around for her boots and pulled them on: she needed to get a hold of herself, control her breathing if she was going to hear him. She forced herself to take several long, deep breaths.
‘Steven?’ Hannah whispered, and tiptoed back towards the door. There was no answer. She pressed hard against the wooden frame, until her skin came away marked with the grain pattern. ‘Steven?’
For a time – Hannah lost track – she stood and called into the darkness; after a while some part of her mind took charge and told her she had been hearing things; there was no way Steven Taylor could have
been in the hallway outside her cell.
When the less-than-entirely sane part of her mind finally accepted that, Hannah fell apart. She trundled back to her corner, wrapped herself in her cloak and cried until she fell asleep. She didn’t wake when the guard brought her morning gloop, nor did she wake when he arrived the following day to replace that trencher with a fresh one.
Eventually, Hannah’s cell door opened and torchlight flooded in, blinding her. She buried her face in her cloak as a young soldier stepped inside. She squinted up at him: he wore the Malakasian crest emblazoned in gold across a leather vest, and his muscular arm was marked with sergeant’s stripes. His sandy-brown hair was tousled; his skin was pale, and he wore heavy boots and leather gloves, which Hannah found a curious choice given the heat.
He wasn’t carrying the disgusting mush.
‘So?’ she said, her voice hoarse, her lips cracking and bleeding as they moved. She pushed her matted hair from her eyes with bruised fingers, revealing the sores that had opened on her skin.
‘Hannah, oh gods… I’ve been looking for days.’
Confused, she tried to make a joke. ‘Oh, that’s nice. Is there a dance or something?’
‘Hannah, it’s me. Alen.’
Hannah tried to stand, but as she struggled to her feet, her vision tunnelled and she slumped back onto her knees. The soldier, whoever he was, moved to assist her.
‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘you’re weak.’
Hannah barely heard him as nausea gripped her and the tiny cell spun around her; she couldn’t make sense of what the soldier was saying.
‘-lost so much weight; look at you!’
Finally she struggled to a sitting position and swallowed hard, trying to keep her stomach calm. ‘Say what you said before,’ she croaked.
‘It’s me, Alen.’
‘No-’ She toppled over and allowed her head to rest against the stone floor.
The man squatted down beside her and took her hand. ‘Hannah, you grew up in Colorado,’ he said in English. ‘You’re American. I’m Alen; I’ve found you-’
‘How-?’ She was almost convinced. She pulled herself upright again.
