He was back in his tweed jacket. It had been washed, and covered a trimly cut tunic he assumed had come from the partisans. He felt clean and presentable for the first time in months. Garec’s quivers were filled and even Mark’s red sweater had scrubbed up nicely. Their packs were stuffed with dried fruit, smoked meat, bread and cheese and each skin was filled to bursting with a sweet Falkan wine that reminded Steven of a vintage Tokaji. Mark had a pouch of tecan leaves. Steven smiled: were it not for the thousands of enemy warriors encamped several hundred paces away, they might have been on an autumn camping trip.
They had approached the shore carefully: Garec and Mark had been wary of mounted patrols, while Steven could not help scanning the skies for the clouds of deadly mist Hall had described so vividly. Just before sundown they had spotted several of the deadly clouds massed over the Malakasian fortifications, quiet sentries hovering threateningly overhead like an Old Testament nightmare. Steven shuddered at the thought of battling the nebulous enemy.
There were two major roads running into the city from the east, both heavily guarded, with regular checkpoints. They had no chance of getting into Orindale that way.
Gita had told them about the large park in the centre of the city, once the private garden of the Falkan royal family, with the imperial palace, now a Malakasian military outpost, on the eastern edge. The former palace was a grand edifice, a three-storey building flanked by servants’ quarters, stables, gardeners’ sheds and livery, each painted the same pale beige. The doors were made of mahogany and opulently gilded bas-reliefs marked the keystones and window lintels. Since the collapse of Falkan’s government beneath the heel of Prince Marek’s dictatorial boot, the imperial complex had been allowed to fall into disrepair and now, like Riverend Palace in Estrad, there was only the vaguest resemblance to the majestic compound it had once been.
The river that had been both their lifeline and nearly their death disappeared between two enormous sentry fires some thousand paces north of their hiding place, cutting a watery path through the imperial garden and on into the Ravenian Sea. It was much wider and deeper here than in Meyers’ Vale, when it had so thoroughly battered the Capina Fair and her unhappy passengers.
As tempted as Steven had been to risk a night-time approach along the river, he realised that was too foolhardy. He was quite sure the Malakasians had been as thorough in closing down the river as they had been with the roads: they might not be able to see from here, but there would be barges lined with archers, and a series of sunken obstacles to inhibit the progress of enemy ships. And apart from staying very low in the water and hoping they would not be seen, Steven was not plagued by creative ideas as to how they would use the river for safe passage, anyway.
Mark’s suggestion, to stow away on one of the merchant vessels that appeared to move largely unaccosted through the checkpoints, was shouted down too: if their vessel were searched, they’d be cornered. In the end, with the surf pounding away endlessly, a cacophonous backdrop to their plotting, they agreed the beach would have to be their way in.
With this decision made, Garec insisted everyone study the roads and the river, in case they had to make a hasty retreat out of the city.
‘Good point, Garec,’ Steven agreed, ‘but we need somewhere to meet up if we get separated.’
‘Get back to the partisan cave and wait there,’ the bowman replied.
‘That won’t work for me.’ Steven shook his head. ‘I didn’t see enough of it to know where it is.’
‘But you remember our camp,’ Mark suggested. ‘Let’s at least get back there.’
Brynne pulled a wool blanket about her shoulders. ‘We should try to find a safe place in the city.’ Her breath formed small clouds that faded quickly on the breeze. ‘It’s a long way back to our camp.’
‘She’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘Let’s hope Gita’s safe havens are still safe. She was pretty convinced those that had escaped the gaze of the Malakasian occupation were foolproof. ‘‘Hide in plain view’’, she said.’
‘Her hideouts make me nervous,’ Mark admitted. ‘I’m not convinced that woman is entirely committed to her own self-preservation.’
‘Chicken,’ Steven teased.
‘Well, think about it,’ Mark argued, ‘a Malakasian warehouse?’
‘She said the merchant was at sea,’ Garec replied, ‘which is why the place is empty.’
Brynne joined in. ‘And he moors his ship right offshore, so we’d have a good three avens’ warning if he came back.’
Mark suggested Hall’s cobbler’s shop. ‘We could hole up there, be warm, eat real food and sleep someplace dry.’
‘That’s the one that makes me nervous,’ Brynne said. ‘A Malakasian sympathiser as a landlord? At least we know the merchant is gone until the ship appears on the horizon. Hall’s landlord would be right next door, underfoot all day. I don’t know.’
Mark shrugged. ‘It’s certainly hiding in plain view.’
‘And it appears to have worked just fine for Hall,’ Garec agreed.
Brynne was unimpressed. ‘I still think the warehouse is our best bet.’ She looked pleadingly at the others. ‘And who knows what supplies or weapons might be there for the taking.’
‘True enough,’ said Steven.
‘We’d have to keep watch round the clock,’ Mark said, working through his strategy. ‘That way we’d be sure to see them if they come into harbour.’
‘And we’d hear anyone coming into the warehouse from the city.’ Garec added.
‘All right then.’ Brynne finally smiled. ‘That’s where we’ll go.’
‘And assuming it’s not breached, that’s where we’ll rendezvous if we get separated.’
‘Done.’ Garec adjusted his quivers with a sense of finality. ‘It’s dark enough now. Let’s go.’
The dunes rolled away, ranks of rogue waves frozen in place. The two moons illuminated the ghostly no-man’s land through which the killer moved stealthily, inching his way north on his stomach towards the distant city. It was difficult to discern where the stalker ended and the surrounding darkness began. Patience was one of his weapons. The Falkan partisans had come against these Malakasian lines with a force of thousands and had been routed easily, but could they do so with just one man? The few sentries standing guard this far west had no idea he was there; he would make that their fatal mistake.
Garec slid another few paces forward through the sand.
Gilmour had been positive that Nerak couldn’t detect the magic of Steven’s hickory staff, but this close, no one was willing to take that risk. Steven would refrain from using magic until it became absolutely necessary – hopefully, not before they were aboard the Prince Marek. Garec wasn’t sure how far behind him they were now; he tried not to worry. He had told them to wait two full avens before following.
‘Besides, we won’t need magic tonight,’ Garec whispered silently to himself. He slithered to the top of a shallow gully between two dunes and stopped to check the wind’s direction. Approaching from downwind had saved his life that morning in the forbidden forest so long ago, when he and Renna had fled from the grettan pack. He smiled at the thought of Renna; he hoped she had survived the attack on Seer’s Peak.
Around him the misty ocean spray blanketed him in a damp shroud. The length and breadth of his world fell in about him and shrank to the few paces separating him from the Malakasian soldiers guarding the beach behind three large picket fires. The Bringer of Death felt neither hunger, nor thirst, nor fatigue as he crawled forward, unseen. His senses were sharp, his heart rate quick but strong. His hands were steady. From where he lay, he could see six or seven Malakasian guards idling about the fires, drinking wine, while what smelled like steaks were cooking over the coals.
They would all be dead in a few moments. Garec knew he would regret killing them later, but he had to see his friends safely into Orindale, and this was the only way to do that. He must be quick: he had just a breath or two to silence every soldier on the beach. Arrows through the neck would be the only way to keep them from raising the alarm, but six of them? Seven? He had never attempted anything that difficult. As he lay there, feeling the salty spray of the ocean on his face, he considered summoning Steven forward to wipe them all out with one sweep of the staff – but no. He could do it. He could make the shots.