Suddenly, it made sense. Nerak was too far away to break Gilmour’s canopy spell. Nerak – the grettan – could not enter. Emboldened, Steven spoke up. ‘So what’s this news you have for me, you evil piece of shit? Speak up. If you’re hoping to trick me, it won’t work. I know you can’t enter this circle; and if you can, just bloody get on with it.’ The staff grew warmer in his hands, apparently in response to his growing anger. ‘I’ll take my chances against you with Gilmour’s toy.’
Unfazed, Nerak went on, ‘The woman Hannah Sorenson.’
Steven’s heart stopped. The gears keeping it beating stripped their cogs and ground together in a nearly audible breakdown. His mouth fell open, his eyes glazed with unshed tears. The staff, now ruby-red and throbbing with latent power, shook in his suddenly weakened hand. His knees felt like jelly and he had to force himself to stay standing.
‘I assume from your struggle to find a witty retort the woman means something.’ Once again, the grettan ran its long tongue over the dripping spikes lining its jaws. ‘Well, Steven Taylor, I thought you might be interested to know that as we speak she is making her way through Praga to meet with Kantu, my other dear Larion colleague. Trust me, Kantu is as much use as Fantus; I could shit more destructive magic than those two simpering fops could ever hope to wield against me.
‘But I lose my thread. Hannah Sorenson-’ The grettan licked his lips in a positively lascivious manner; Steven wanted to retch. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’ The voice was sibilant now, as Nerak relished the sound of her name. ‘Hannah, young Hannah. Such a pretty name. Such a pretty woman. And I will strip that prettiness from her like flaying a deer. The tortures Hannah Sorensen will suffer at my hands will be endless and nameless. She will suffer for aeons, and I assume it is your name she will scream, over and over again, as I tear her mind apart from the inside out. I will leave her her tongue for a while, so I can listen to her agonies.’
Watching Steven for a reaction, the grettan continued, ‘Of course, her suffering will only truly begin after I have destroyed her body.’
Anger and hatred exploded through Steven like the shock-wave of a subterranean volcano. It welled up inside him and any vague memories of Gilmour’s lecture on the appropriate use of magic vanished in the heat of his fury. Wild with rage, the staff in his hands responded, now exuding a searing heat. It seemed to be willing him to strike out at the creature: Be the aggressor! Kill the motherless bastard! He could feel it through his hands and wrists, and the muscles of his forearms rippled as Steven gave in.
‘No!’ he screamed and brought the staff around in a killing stroke. Steven expected to feel the magic tear through the grettan’s flesh as it had torn through the almor; he was shocked when he felt the force of his blow ripping through Gilmour’s canopy like a flaming razor through tissue paper. An instant later, he realised his mistake. He had opened a rift in the protective spell and allowed Nerak to enter their camp unchecked.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ the grettan roared, leaping over him towards his unsuspecting companions.
Steven was dumbstruck: he had been fooled, and he cursed his stupidity as he rushed towards the grettan, hoping at least to wound it so his friends could escape into the forest. But there was Gilmour, already on his feet. Somehow, the old sorcerer had detected Nerak and was waiting for the break in the canopy as his lifelong enemy attacked. The grettan was still in the air, stark and black against the firelight, when Gilmour released the force of his own magic in a bone-shattering blow. Struck in the centre of its massive chest, the beast gave a cry and flipped backwards on itself to land heavily in a confused pile of broken limbs and bloodied fur.
This time Steven did not hesitate. He brought his staff around again and, glowing bright red in the night, it held fast and slashed through flesh and bone, sending the grettan’s left forelimb spinning into the fire.
Almost immediately, the creature’s glowing amber eyes dimmed to black. The grettan, screeching in agony, retreated stumbling into the trees. Garec, who had managed to come to his knees, fired several shots after the fleeing animal. Steven could see arrows protruding from its hindquarter as the grettan disappeared up the slope, leaving a heavy blood trail and deep footprints in the otherwise undisturbed snow.
In a secluded apartment in Welstar Palace, Prince Malagon roared in pain and, rising angrily from the floor, cast a frustrated spell of such magnitude that a heavy stone wall in his chamber cracked and fell to rubble, leaving a new entry to the hallway beyond.
‘Fantus, I will eat your heart!’ he screamed. The guards who had rushed to investigate the crash were struck dead instantly by the waves of magic still coursing through the corridor. The dark prince bellowed again, his fury uncontrolled. It was not that weakling Gilmour’s blow that had driven him from the grettan: the power to dispel him from the Ronan camp had come from Steven Taylor and that pathetic wooden stick.
How powerful had Gilmour become if he could create such a weapon for an untrained and untested sorcerer? And where was Jacrys, his so-called master spy? Why had the man not made his way into their camp and stolen the cursed key? He had failed in every attempt to kill the wizard and his band; now Malagon had gown impatient waiting for Gilmour to reach Sandcliff before him.
He would send a wraith to Jacrys with a message: Succeed immediately, or die immediately.
But no, he needed to take more drastic measures. Jacrys was unreliable and Fantus had grown too resourceful. He would send a platoon of wraiths – an army – to wrench the sanity from their minds, to leave them lost and babbling, to join his invincible army of spirits – and to bring Lessek’s Key home to him.
He should have done that in the beginning.
‘I’m sorry; I’m sorry,’ Steven repeated again and again, ‘I let him into camp. I broke through your spell for him. I’m sorry.’ The news that Hannah was in Eldarn had set his mind racing; he paced back and forth, desperate for some plan, some course of action to emerge.
‘He knew Hannah’s name. He said she was going to meet Kantu. She’s in Praga. I mean, she must be. Right? How would he have known her name? Or anything about her at all if she weren’t here? Can he read my thoughts? Did he simply pull her out of my mind while I was sleeping?’ Steven raged on despite Mark and Brynne’s efforts to calm him; he could not regain his composure.
Finally Gilmour took him firmly by the upper arm and forced him to slow his urgent pacing. ‘It’s all right, Steven,’ the old sorcerer said calmly. ‘He tricked you, that’s all. He couldn’t get into camp and needed you to create a tear in the canopy. It’s fine. The blow you struck with that staff dispelled Nerak and broke his hold on the grettan. He’s back in Welstar Palace right now, probably nursing a massive headache.’
Steven would not be calmed. ‘What of Hannah? Is she here? Can you tell if she’s here? How could he know?’
Instead of responding, Gilmour ran one hand slowly over Steven’s sweaty brow. ‘Rest, Steven. I need you to rest.’ Before the elderly man could remove his hand, Steven slumped in his grasp, sleeping soundly.
Like a father bidding good night to a sleeping son, Gilmour carefully laid Steven’s comatose body near the fire and covered him with two heavy blankets.
In the sudden silence Mark asked, ‘Is it true that Hannah’s here?’
‘I’m afraid it might be,’ Gilmour answered. ‘I can’t think of any other way Nerak would know Hannah’s name would get such a strong response from Steven. He’s too far away to read our minds, unless we’re focusing our thoughts towards him directly. So I am very afraid that we must assume the worst.’
‘The worst?’
‘That Hannah is here, and the far portal in your home remains open.’
Mark mused over their last days in Colorado. ‘I don’t think Steven spoke with Hannah the night we opened the contents of the safe deposit box… unless he called her before he left the bank.’