‘Who knows? Maybe it’s grettan,’ Mark said, echoing the villager who happened by them earlier.
In the distance, two figures entered the side street and turned towards them. One carried a small torch and Steven could see they were shadowed by a large, mangy dog. Even in the dark it looked undernourished. ‘Oh, no,’ he groaned.
‘It should be all right,’ Mark assured him. ‘We’re dressed the part. We can speak the language. We’ll wish them a good evening and continue on our way.’
‘You’re right, I guess.’ Steven was afraid. He had the hunting knife, but he already knew he would never be able to stab anyone. Firing a bow from a distance into a group of attackers, perhaps he could manage that, but just straight-out stabbing someone would be a more difficult undertaking. His life would have to be in immediate danger for him to use a knife in his own defence.
As the two Ronans approached, Mark slowed his own stride noticeably.
‘What’s wrong?’ Steven asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Mark answered, staring into the evening wind. ‘Something seems strangely familiar.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing about this place that’s familiar to me at all.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s the sea breeze. It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled a sea breeze.’
Steven sniffed the air as well, stopped and sniffed again. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there is something.’
The strangers were almost upon them when Mark turned suddenly and whispered, ‘The old man’s tobacco.’ He looked anxiously down the street to where the slowly advancing figures had begun to take on a more definite shape. ‘Shit, it’s Sallax and Gilmour.’
Steven started twitching in fright. For a moment he thought of turning to flee, but Mark gripped his upper arm, holding him fast.
‘It’s okay, Steven. We needed to find them.’
Sallax and Gilmour were about twenty paces away when Mark cried, ‘Wait right there!’
Sallax drew his rapier in a fluid motion and was about to charge when Gilmour put a hand firmly on his chest, holding him back.
‘No, Sallax, put that away,’ he said calmly. The tall Ronan thought for a moment about defying the old man, then returned the blade to its scabbard.
‘We mean you no harm,’ Gilmour offered in near-perfect English. ‘Actually, as I started to mention this morning, I have been waiting for you for some time now.’
‘You speak their language?’ Sallax was in shock.
‘Of course,’ Gilmour answered, ‘although it is a difficult language to master: too many odd rules one must break too frequently.’ He turned back to the foreigners. ‘Please, let us approach,’ he asked in English.
‘Come on slowly,’ Mark called back, ‘but remember, we have Brynne.’
‘Of course, of course, my friends,’ Gilmour said genially, ‘I’m certain she’s fine. Please, let’s find a place where we can talk. I will explain as much as I can for you.’
‘Can you get us home?’ Steven asked, feeling more confident.
‘I can help you get started, but the path back home for you will be long.’ As the Ronans drew close, Gilmour reached out one hand.
‘I believe this is how you do it,’ he said, a little uncertain. Steven shook his hand. ‘That’s right… I’m Steven Taylor and this is Mark Jenkins.’
‘I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.’ The old man shook hands with Mark as well. ‘I am Gilmour Stow and this is Sallax Farro.’ Sallax made no move until Steven reached out to him, then he grudgingly copied Gilmour.
‘Where did you learn our language?’ Mark asked, ‘Not that we’re not grateful.’
‘I have learned many languages, over many Twinmoons,’ Gilmour said, ‘but we are being rude.’ He placed a comforting hand on Sallax’s shoulder and switched back to Ronan. ‘We should speak Common.’
‘That’s better, Gilmour,’ Sallax growled.
The dog following them up the street appeared to be a stray out looking for food. It sniffed at the cloth pack Steven carried and, obligingly, Steven gave the scrawny animal a piece of the unidentified dried meat. The dog devoured the morsel in a second and nudged Steven again with its nose.
‘Go on, now,’ Steven told him quietly, ‘go home.’
‘You shouldn’t feed him,’ Sallax spoke up. ‘He will follow you for days.’
‘Too late,’ Steven replied. ‘Well, he can have this meat. We weren’t certain whether it was safe to eat, anyway.’ Steven offered another piece to the dog, but surprisingly, the hungry beast didn’t take it. Steven offered again, pushing the meat towards the dog’s nose, but still the animal ignored him. Suddenly Steven detected a foul odour, a sweetish sickly smell emanating from the animal at his heels. He knelt down and found the dog frozen into immobility.
‘What the hell is this?’ Steven asked, and leapt backwards as the stray began to decompose rapidly, rotting before his eyes.
‘It’s an almor!’ Gilmour cried in alarm. ‘Quick, you must run!’ He grabbed Sallax by the sleeve and shoved him roughly down the street. Neither Steven nor Mark waited around to discover what an almor was: they took off at a full sprint after the fleeing partisans.
Steven had no idea what had just happened, but he was deeply unnerved. He ran as fast as he was able, and soon overtook both Sallax and Gilmour. Mud from the street splattered up his legs. He heard the old man calling, ‘Stay out of the water! It can catch you if you run in the water!’
Steven’s mind raced and he muttered to himself, ‘Is he kidding? The whole goddamned street is mud. There is nowhere to avoid running through water. And what the hell is the “it” he’s referring to?’ He took a vital second to look back: Sallax and Mark were immediately behind him, but Gilmour, although still running, was lagging badly behind.
‘Turn left here!’ Sallax yelled and Steven obliged, running into a drier side street. He risked another look but didn’t see the elderly man make the turn. He started to slow, until he heard Sallax scold harshly, ‘Don’t worry about Gilmour. He’ll be along.’
Steven was beginning to run badly out of breath when he was drawn up short by a blinding flash of light that illuminated the street around them. The brilliance was accompanied by a deafening explosion, the force of which slammed into him and nearly knocked him headlong into the dirt.
‘What the hell was that?’ Mark cried, slowing to a jog.
‘I don’t know,’ Steven answered. ‘It’s as though a bomb went off back there.’
‘Hold on, my friends,’ Gilmour said as he emerged from the darkness. Steven was surprised at how much ground he had made up. ‘We need not run any more, but we ought to get away from this place as soon as possible. The entire Malakasian occupation force will be here shortly and we must be well on our way before they arrive.’
He reached into his tunic and withdrew a pipe. Steven had seen Gilmour drop his pipe before beginning to run – he wondered how many the old man had inside his shirt. It was a little odd that Gilmour did not appear in the least bit winded, while he, Mark and Sallax were breathing heavily and sweating through their clothes.
‘What was that?’ Steven asked through painful breaths.
‘That was an ancient creature we call an almor,’ the older man told him matter-of-factly. He might have reading a feature in National Geographic for all the emotion he showed. ‘It is a demon that travels through a fluid medium and feeds by draining the life force from any living thing. Why it is here, I’m not certain. However, I do know it did not arrive of its own volition. It was brought here by a powerful force, an evil force, and it hunts someone in particular.’ He took a moment to light the pipe with a taper he drew from his riding cloak. A torch hanging from a wall sconce provided the flame. ‘I’m assuming it has been sent here to kill me,’ he finished then, thinking twice, he returned to the torch, pulled it from its sconce on the wall and used it to light their way along the street.