Finally, admitting to himself that his companions were not about to arrive right away, Steven allowed his thoughts to wander back to Lahp, and his immense good fortune at having been rescued by the Seron. Lahp was nothing like Gilmour had described: although the soul of a man may have been torn from the Seron’s body long ago, Lahp was as caring and compassionate as anyone Steven had ever met. He could not imagine Howard Griffin, for example, going out of his way to build a stretcher and then drag him for mile after mile across the Rocky Mountains.
He thanked God that he’d not just walked away and left Sallax to murder the injured Malakasian warrior. Lahp had repaid that moment of compassion in full. He wondered if other Seron might behave differently if they, like Lahp, could escape the iron grip of Prince Malagon. Though the Seron attack had become a little hazy in his memory, he knew they had been fierce, eager fighters. He had a sudden pang of guilt when he remembered how easily he – well, the staff, really – had dispatched the other Seron. Mark and Garec had tried to convince him that he had not killed people; it was more akin to putting an injured animal out of its misery, but perhaps they too could have become friends if Gilmour had been able to help them free themselves from Malagon.
He had made a promise to himself the morning after the Seron attack. Sitting astride his horse, there in the foothills, he had smelled burning flesh from the twin funeral pyres. One represented last rites for a friend; the other was little more than basic sanitation, but the aroma was the same.
He knew, intellectually, that he had had no choice; if he had not killed the Seron, then he and his friends would likely all be long dead by now. But emotionally, he could not justify the killing, and the promise he made that morning was this: he would be compassionate and merciful. Regardless of what happened, he would show kindness, because kindness itself was a powerful weapon.
Now he had proved it: Lahp was an ally, one who knew the roads and trailheads that would provide him, Mark and the Ronan freedom fighters a safer passage to Welstar Palace. Steven let his chin fall forward onto his chest. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders, stared at the snow and waited for Lahp to return. Before long, Steven fell back asleep.
*
When he awakened, it was to the sound of Lahp moving about under the lean-to, searching inside his pack for something. Darkness had fallen and two grettan steaks grilled near the fire. Steven felt warm, dry and quite comfortable cocooned in blankets. He wiggled his toes, hesitantly at first, but there was little pain, so he tried moving his injured leg. This time, when he bent his leg at the knee, it moved with greater ease and far less agony.
‘It feels better, Lahp,’ Steven called, patting his knee firmly. ‘I think I might be able to walk some once the others get here.’ He looked about the lean-to and added almost to himself, ‘Although it might be tough in this snow, so I will probably need to use my staff for support.’ Hearing no response, Steven looked over at the Seron, who continued to root around inside his pack. ‘Lahp, what’s wrong?’
Lahp turned, and once again Steven was awed by the soldier’s massive arms and shoulders. ‘A one comes,’ he said, pointing back along the trail.
Steven immediately reached for the hickory staff, and listened carefully, but he heard nothing. Twisting the staff in his hands, he asked, ‘How do you know, Lahp? I can’t hear anything.’
‘Na, na.’ Lahp shook his head then inhaled deeply, sniffing the air. He pointed again, along the river. ‘A one comes.’
‘You smell them coming?’ Steven was incredulous. ‘I can’t smell anything except the smoke and those steaks.’
‘A one comes.’
‘If you say so, Lahp.’ He tried to see outside the circle of firelight. Beside him, Lahp gave a grunt of satisfaction and pulled a long hunting knife from his pack. He drew a second from a sheath at his belt, and as he turned back to face the river, Steven gave a jolt. Lahp’s face had changed: the gentle giant who had saved his life and nursed him back to health was no more; in his place was a Seron warrior, a deadly efficient soldier. At that moment Steven realised his companion was a killer.
Crouched near the ground, his lower jaw set firm and slightly forward, Lahp looked as if he could fight an entire platoon of soldiers without breaking into a sweat. Steven was almost afraid to ask what was happening.
‘Lahp, what should I do?’ Steven whispered, struggling to stand. He leaned heavily on the wooden staff; he was not going to be much help in a fight.
‘Na. Sten stay,’ Lahp commanded quietly, and motioned for Steven to sit back down beneath the lean-to.
‘How far away is he?’
There was no answer. Lahp crouched lower, his enormous legs like those of a pouncing jaguar, motionless except for the movement of his eyes as he strained to see into the darkness and the flaring of his nostrils as he sniffed the breeze.
Steven backed up but planted the hickory staff firmly in the ground and clung to it rather than retaking his seat beneath the lean-to. Lahp’s concentration was unnerving and Steven too began to share the Seron’s concern that whoever was approaching was not a friend.
Still unable to detect movement outside the camp’s periphery, Lahp closed his eyes and listened. Steven was about to whisper another question when a low humming broke the silence an instant before an arrow ripped through their camp and embedded itself in a tree just over Lahp’s right shoulder.
Before Steven could move, the Seron had taken cover behind a narrow pine trunk and was gesturing furiously for him to get out of the line of fire while ordering, ‘Sten, dahn, dahn!’
The only way to move quickly was to fall. As he did, a second arrow, its thin shaft illuminated by the firelight, hurtled through the night and found its mark scant inches from the first, deep in the bark of the nearby pine. They were warning shots, carefully placed warning shots.
A weak voice, raspy with weariness, called from the forest in as threatening a tone as it could muster, ‘Get away from him, you monster, or the next one will find your throat.’
It was Garec.
Steven wrestled his body from the icy ground and managed to reach his knees. He was not going to stand by and witness the inevitable outcome of a duel between the seemingly indestructible Seron warrior and the exhausted bowman.
‘Garec,’ he shouted, ‘don’t shoot! I’m fine! He’s a friend!’ Lahp looked at him questioningly, his broad forehead furrowed in consternation. ‘It’s all right, Lahp,’ he said more quietly. ‘It’s Garec, my friend.’
Lahp went from battle-readiness to calm right away. He tossed the second dagger down and helped Steven regain his feet, tapping at his leg questioningly.
‘No, Lahp. I am fine,’ Steven said, ‘no more damage – but thank you.’
Nodding, Lahp busied himself building up their campfire, apparently completely uninterested in Garec’s approach. Steven scratched his beard and considered how extraordinary it was to have earned Lahp’s confidence. He trusts me, Steven mused. He could not care less who comes down that path right now.
With that thought, Steven heard footsteps crunching through the snow and he began hobbling out to meet his companion, the pain in his leg forgotten momentarily.
Garec looked gaunt and completely worn-out, but he hugged Steven fiercely. ‘We thought you dead, Steven Taylor,’ he said as he removed two packs and placed his bow on the ground between them. He glanced over at Lahp and added, ‘I see you have a tale to tell us. I am very glad you are all right-’ He looked at Steven’s carefully bound lower leg. ‘ Are you all right?’
But Steven had not heard him; he was staring at the satchel on the ground beside the longbow. He swallowed hard before raising his eyes to meet Garec’s. ‘Why are you carrying Gilmour’s pack?’