As the flames withdrew, Gita lifted her left arm to the roof and made a fist. She then opened her fingers and rotated her hand a number of times; it looked to Steven as if she were trying to make sure every single one of her soldiers could see it. Mark tensed again; he was about to reach up and wrench Gita’s hand back until her wrist snapped when he detected a sudden change come over the cavern. It felt as if the granite bedrock itself sighed with relief as the entire band of attackers breathed out – the physical exhalation was audible. The sounds of daggers being sheathed, bowstrings released and swords sliding back into scabbards echoed around the vast cavern. Intimidating grimaces were exchanged for toothy grins, some still bloody from flying stones. People started to pull out scarves and handkerchiefs and bits of rag to clean each other’s wounds and a low murmur rose, sounding like the last few moments before the curtain rises on a play.
There would be no attack. The cut-throats were chatting among themselves amiably, passing the time as if some of their number were not lying dead, scattered about the beach like bloody driftwood. Mark became less anxious as men began wrapping their fallen comrades in heavy wool blankets, then arranging the bodies in a neat row alongside the back wall.
Some of them were taking longer to recover from the shock of dealing with a magician as apparently powerful as Steven. Mark laughed to himself: how embarrassed these dangerous partisans would be if they knew the most dangerous thing Steven did most days was cross Miner Street against the lights.
He could hear laughter, and teasing, and Mark wondered at the alacrity with which this band had changed from being a deadly fighting force to a group of friends joking with one another at a beach party. Some had evidently drawn the Eldarni equivalent of a short straw and had dived into the freezing lake to retrieve those longboats that remained. Garec’s campfire was reignited and wineskins, dried meats, bread and even cheese were being produced. Mark had no idea who Gita Kamrec of Orindale was, but her command of this group was impressive. He looked nervously back at her pale hands, wondering if he would recognise the go ahead and dismember them sign. Catching him staring at her, Gita smiled and shoved both hands into her tunic.
She was a small, thin woman, and Mark was astonished such a tiny wisp could command an army. Her hair, although wet and matted now, was long and looked as if it were usually well cared for. Instead of the solid leather belt most soldiers used to carry their daggers, knives or rapiers, Gita wore a woven and embroidered wool belt. It may have been pretty, and colourfully decorated with beads, but it served its purpose well, holding sheaths for two short daggers, a curved, dangerous-looking blade like a fillet knife, and a long sword with a decorative pommel. Looking closer, Mark noticed Gita’s skin was tanned nearly to leather, as if she had spent a lifetime outdoors. Her arms, though skinny, were muscular, and Mark guessed she would be good with a knife, quick and low to the ground.
Gita’s eyes were a soft brown; they bespoke wisdom and vast experience. Mark shivered at the thought of what she must have done to earn the respect and command of the crew now making camp along the beach; he found himself unaccountably excited at the thought of watching her work.
Gita said, ‘You are pretty skilled with that stick, Steven Taylor; I am surprised Gilmour didn’t bring you into this undertaking fifty Twinmoons ago.’
‘We were not exactly brought in,’ Steven started to explain, but she had already moved on.
‘And you?’ she asked Mark, ‘what’s your skill? Good with that axe, are you?’
Mark looked down at his hands, a little surprised to see he was still holding the weapon at the ready.
She went on, ‘You look a bit dark for a South Coaster, but I know many of that territory are deadly skilled with an axe.’
Mark tensed, feeling a dormant but familiar sense of rage flood his system. They do it here, too, the racist bastards.
When he didn’t answer right away, Gita asked, ‘You good with that axe, Mark? It was Mark, right?’ She checked with Garec, who nodded.
He decided to let it pass. There had been nothing acrimonious in her voice.
‘I am-’ he shot Brynne a look and felt better, ‘I’m a horseman.’
Recalling Mark’s equestrian ineptitude, Brynne stifled a laugh, and added, ‘He has taught us all a great deal about how to handle our mounts.’
‘Good.’ Gita failed to pick up the joke. ‘Idaho Springs. I have never been there – wherever it is; Rona? – but Gilmour knows more than I ever will, and if he wants you two along, I am sure you must bring some powerful resources to the fight.’
‘Gita,’ Steven began, ‘I think we need to explain-’
The Falkan leader continued to ignore everything any of them said, asking, ‘Where is Gilmour, anyway? Why did he send you all down here on your own? This is a dangerous place to be if you’ve never been through here before.’
‘He didn’t send us down-’ Brynne tried this time, but got no further than anyone else: this woman could apparently talk both hind legs off a donkey, let alone one.
‘Anyway, there is plenty of time for us to catch up with your progress down there in Rona. I sent a rider out your way before the last Twinmoon. He just returned. I hope you managed to get your weapons and silver out of the old palace before it fell. Still, when that old mule Gilmour gets here, we’ll have a few drinks. I’ll buy – just as soon as he coughs up the five silver pieces he owes me.’ She slapped her hand against Garec’s chest and added, ‘Garec remembers that night, don’t you?’
Garec forced a smile. ‘Gita, Gilmour is not-’
She waved three of her men forward, cutting Garec off in midsentence. ‘This is Hall Storen, Brand Krug, and Timmon Blackrun. They each have a command within our resistance force. Hall’s from Orindale, Brand hails from the Blackstone Forest, and Timmon’s soldiers come to us all the way from the east, along the coast near Merchants’ Highway.’
Steven nodded to the three, all of whom were eyeing him with suspicion. These were obviously battle-tested fighters; they had most likely faced Seron and an array of otherworldly creatures, compliments of Prince Malagon, over God knew how many Twinmoons. The fact that Steven had stood against them on his own, and could have readily dispatched the entire company with just his wooden stick, had obviously made them wary. He had no doubt they would have preferred a straightforward hand-to-hand brawl rather than grappling with flying stones and rogue waves. He smiled anyway. ‘Nice to meet you all,’ he said.
Timmon and Hall nodded, and Brand asked, ‘What news of Sallax? Where is he?’ Brand Krug was a small, wiry man, with narrow eyes and a pinched nose; he wore a brace of throwing knives and a short sword strapped across his back. When no one answered immediately, he repeated his question.
Brynne began, ‘Sallax has-’
‘Gone on ahead to Orindale,’ Mark interrupted, ‘he’s travelling on foot, and we’re not sure how far he’s got.’
‘Why did you not go with him?’ Timmon spoke up. He was a large man, tough-looking, despite a little softness about the midsection. While Brand had long hair, drawn back tightly into a ponytail, Timmon Blackrun’s short curly hair looked as if it were gripping the top of his head so it didn’t blow off. Although the cavern was cool, the man was sweating profusely, and Steven started to worry that Timmon was just a few minutes away from a massive heart attack. He still carried his weapons, an enormous war cudgel – like a hammer with a nasty allergy – and a short dagger. Steven could only conclude the big Easterner wanted to be ready in case it became necessary to bludgeon someone to death at a moment’s notice.