The view from his perch was beautiful. There was not a peak, a tree or boulder out of place, and Mark wished he could stay awake longer to appreciate the natural perfection of the valley they had fought so hard to reach. He tried to focus his thoughts on Brynne, but it wasn’t long before his eyes closed of their own accord and he drifted away.
‘Jacrys.’
The Malakasian spy woke with a start. Rolling over quickly, he reached out to brace himself and realised he had planted his hand firmly in the burned-down coals of his campfire. ‘Blast and rutting dogs!’ he cried, driving his scorched palm into the snow beside his bedroll.
‘Who’s there?’ He reached stealthily for the knife he kept tucked inside his blankets.
‘Jacrys,’ the voice repeated, and the spy watched carefully as a small deer emerged slowly from a nearby thicket. Its eyes burned amber: Prince Malagon was in residence.
Moving quickly to one knee, he replied, ‘My lord.’
‘You have done well, Jacrys.’ The deer’s mouth did not move; Jacrys was hearing the dark prince in his mind. ‘You took your time, but in the end, I am pleased with your efforts.’
‘Thank you, sire. Gilmour was a powerful man, difficult to trap.’
‘I would expect nothing less of him.’ The deer shot him a disinterested look. ‘Meet me in Orindale.’
Jacrys’s mind raced. Orindale. Why? What would Malagon be doing in Falkan? And why would he want to see his most effective field agent outside the confines of his palace? If anyone saw them together, Jacrys’s cover would be jeopardised for ever. He stopped. That was it then; Malagon was calling him in.
He tried to calm his racing thoughts; who knew how much Malagon could read at this distance? ‘Yes, sire. Will you require me to bring the foreigner to you? I am certain now that he is the one who bears the stone.’
‘I will take care of him. You get to Orindale.’ Malagon’s voice echoed in his head.
What did Malagon mean, he would take care of Steven Taylor? And retrieving Lessek’s Key had been his charge. How exactly did Malagon plan to see this through from so far away? Even from Orindale, Steven Taylor was too well protected to be an easy target for one of the prince’s black spells. Was he sending another almor? More Seron warriors? Too many unanswered questions, and Malagon brooked neither curiosity nor delay, so Jacrys replied only, ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘For your own safety, move west for three days. Then turn north to the valley and follow the river into Orindale.’ The deer paused for a moment, as if ruminating, then added, ‘I will meet you there.’
So Malagon was sending more of his pets. Grand. More bloodthirsty demons wandering about Eldarn killing without warning, hesitation or remorse. Now, more than ever, Jacrys knew he had to find a way to escape to some place where he could live out his days free from the threat of the dark prince’s minions. And why was Malagon bothering with the Ronan partisans now? Gilmour was dead; the rest were scattered throughout the mountain range with virtually no chance of survival. What did they have that Malagon feared enough to dispatch another killer… and, more importantly, why not him? He was right there on the scene already – surely he could find the young man, retrieve whatever it was the prince desired so ardently and be on his way to Orindale without losing more than a day or two.
Jacrys grimaced. It was obvious: Malagon was using his pets for this task because he no longer trusted his field agent. Jacrys was being summoned back to his execution.
He started suddenly: while he had been kneeling here trying to understand the inner workings of his prince’s decidedly unusual mind, Malagon himself, in the person of the deer, was standing there watching him. He hurriedly looked up. Was it too late?
‘Yes, sire,’ he said. ‘Your word is my command.’
‘Of course.’
Jacrys didn’t think a deer could look sardonic, but this one made a good try.
‘Here is sustenance enough to reach Orindale.’
The deer collapsed dead at his feet.
Jacrys tried not to flinch as the voice in his mind continued a moment longer, ‘Remember, Jacrys, three days west before turning north into the valley.’
Whatever Malagon was using to dispatch the remaining Ronan travellers, he was sending it soon. And unlike the Seron, or even the grettan packs, this threat was dangerous enough for Jacrys to be removed from the area. Now he was scared.
Not wanting to waste another moment, Jacrys rubbed another handful of snow across his blistered palm and began gutting the deer.
By sunrise, he knew he needed more time. He needed to work out why the foreigners and the stone talisman so threatened Prince Malagon, and the only way to do that was to mask his arrival in Orindale. At least he was just the man for the job. He would wait, observe, and then do whatever was necessary to retrieve that stone, even if it meant killing Steven and rifling through his clothing on a busy Falkan thoroughfare.
Steven was cold. He had fallen into a deep sleep after his encounter with the spirit Gabriel and had been awakened by the periodic jolts as his pine-bough gurney bumped its way over fallen trees and rocks only half-submerged by the snow. The sharp pain that burned across his shoulder and ribcage had subsided; Steven wondered how long he had been drifting in and out of consciousness. The piercing agony in his lower leg had eased too. It had been replaced by a rhythmic throb, and for a moment Steven thought he might be able to escape under his own power if he could get free.
He tested his theory by wiggling his toes, but in the end he couldn’t be sure he felt them rubbing back and forth inside Garec’s boots, or if he was imagining their movement because he so desperately wanted them to be all right. He was still at the mercy of whomever was dragging him backwards through the forest.
There was no sign of Mark. Steven wondered whether the mysterious wraith had failed to locate him, or if they had fallen upon some misfortune of their own. It was a bit dumb of him to assume his friends were following along behind, warm and dry and happily chatting back and forth about Falkan cuisine. They’d be facing their own share of hardship and delays as well.
The warmth of last night’s roaring fire was a dim memory now as Steven, unable to move his limbs and increase blood flow to his extremities, was struggling to stay warm. He was beginning to wonder if he were freezing to death; was this how it felt?
Their path had levelled out sometime earlier in the day, and Steven could hear the sound of a river nearby: they had finally reached the valley floor. Although he still had no idea who held him captive, or how one person could drag him along so effortlessly, he was a little consoled by the thought that they were traversing the same route he and Mark had mapped out. Maybe their paths would cross and his companions would be able to spirit him away from his anonymous guard.
His heart sank when, between breaks in the trees, he caught sight of heavy clouds presaging more severe weather. He had to do something . As loud as his still-sore throat could manage, he shouted, ‘Hey, you big bastard-’ he wasn’t sure if that was derogatory in Ronan, but what the hell, ‘-you bastard! Show yourself, you jackass!’ That word definitely didn’t have a Ronan translation so Steven used English and hoped his tone would make his point. He struggled to free his hands once again, and as before he felt pain blaze across his shoulder and ribcage. This time he ignored it and twisted violently, but found that not only were his arms and legs secured, but his head was lashed firmly in place as well. He had overlooked the thick leather strap across his forehead.