‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ the older man said, ‘I do enjoy a bit on my tongue now and again. It does help keep my energy up.’
‘You could market that stuff for a hefty profit.’
‘I suppose so, but I’ve never been much for material things,’ Gilmour said, then changed the subject. ‘How’s your horse?’
‘I’ve chosen a name for him,’ Mark answered.
‘Really? What’s that?’ He sounded genuinely interested.
‘Wretch.’
The riders didn’t go straight to Garec’s family home; Gilmour insisted they make camp in a far corner of the property, in case Malakasian spies had been sent to report their arrival. The farm consisted of several large fields and Steven and Mark could see a number of people harvesting vegetables; one drove a one-horse cart through the field while a team of pickers pulled ears of corn from tall stalks and tossed them into the back of the wagon. From a distance, it was almost impossible to see the workers walking beneath the stalks and Steven smiled as he watched hundreds of ears of corn flying of their own volition into the harvest wagon, like so many salmon leaping and tumbling their way upstream.
‘You two should sleep,’ Garec suggested as he dismounted and tethered Renna to a thin dogwood tree. ‘We’ll stay here tonight and be on our way again before dawn tomorrow.’
‘He’s right,’ Steven agreed. ‘You sleep first. I’ll stay awake.’
‘Why you?’
‘I slept while we were tied to the wall. You’ve been up for almost two full days.’ He watched as Garec made his way into the field. The corn stalks masked his movements and the Ronan revolutionary soon disappeared from view.
Brynne hustled forward to the edge of the field. ‘Garec,’ she called into the corn, ‘bring me some wool hose and a pair of your sister’s boots, please.’
Garec’s disembodied reply came back to them in a sharp whisper: ‘All right.’
‘You both should sleep.’ Gilmour joined the foreigners. ‘Nothing will happen to you. Sleep as long as you like. We have much to do tomorrow.’
Mark had no idea whether he would even be able to get down from his horse, let alone protect himself or Steven should an attack come while they slept. Despite Gilmour’s equestrian coaching, he was contemplating running alongside the animal rather than ever getting in the saddle again. Feeling a spasm of pain shoot across his lower back, Mark finally gave in.
‘Fine,’ he said to Steven, ‘let’s both sleep. If they wanted to kill us, they’d have done it by now.’
‘Good point,’ Steven dismounted smoothly, ‘but I think I’ll take a watch just in case. I want to be able to get you up if that almor thing appears again.’ Mark spread his bedroll on the ground under what looked like a large beech tree and in a matter of moments was sleeping soundly. Steven leaned against the trunk, determined to stay awake. He watched the others bustle about camp, organising supplies, gathering firewood and tending the horses. The quiet rhythm of their movements coupled with his extreme fatigue soon lulled him to sleep as well and he sank down until he was lying beside Mark on the soft earth beneath the sheltering branches.
It was dark when Steven opened his eyes. He woke with a start, but found himself so cramped from sleeping on the uneven ground that he made no effort to get up. Instead, he lay back and observed as his new companions continued working in and around their campsite. Light from a small fire threw huge shadows against the forest backdrop; for a while Steven’s gaze moved back and forth between the Ronan partisans and their shadows looming above in the tree branches. Brynne stacked logs near the fire while Garec mended a tear in a leather pack. Their familiar movements were magnified tenfold when projected on the forest canopy; the comforting motions of people keeping busy with common tasks became ominous when performed by forty-foot-tall obsidian wraiths.
Fear of the unknown and anxiety about how they would ever return home, welled up in Steven again and he closed his eyes to shut out the surreal theatre playing above his head. Shifting his position beneath the beech tree, he soon fell back into a fitful slumber.
Steven woke to find Mark tugging at his ankle. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Steven rose hastily to join him. Their small camp was abuzz with activity; Versen, Garec and Brynne surrounded a newcomer, a man Steven thought he’d seen at Riverend Palace. Gilmour sat near the fire, quietly smoking his pipe. Sallax was nowhere to be found.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked Mark.
‘Apparently, this is Mika, one of their reb-, er, freedom fighters. Someone named Jerond was supposed to be here as well, but he hasn’t shown up.’ Mark knelt alongside his blanket and began folding it into a tight bedroll. ‘Brynne looks worried. I think they think something rotten has happened to him.’
‘Where’s Sallax?’
‘Standing watch in the forest somewhere.’ Mark paused and contemplated Mika’s arrival. ‘It’s a bit odd that he didn’t warn us at all when Mika came through the woods.’
‘Maybe he fell asleep out there,’ Steven said.
‘That doesn’t seem like him.’ Mark was curious now; Steven began to worry that his friend might create more trouble in an already strained relationship with the partisan leader.
When Sallax did return, he immediately wrapped an arm around Mika’s shoulder in relief. When he was told of Jerond’s delay, he suggested they pack up and begin riding north as soon as possible.
‘Great. I have to get back on that reprehensible beast,’ Mark groaned. He stood and began stretching his back. Even fatigued and near collapse, Mark still moved with the economic, angular motion of an athlete.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Steven asked. ‘He looks like a fine animal to me.’
‘I think he has a thought disorder,’ Mark said dryly. ‘And his gait is so uneven, one of his legs must be a good fifteen inches shorter than the others.’ He began collecting their few possessions, rolling them into his bedroll.
‘Come, my friends,’ Gilmour ordered, ‘it’s less than an aven till dawn. We need to get under way.’
Mark caught Brynne staring at him across the fire. She didn’t turn away immediately, and Mark struggled to read her facial expression, but it had grown too dark. All he could be sure of was that she was watching him pack his bedroll while the others made hasty preparations to leave Garec’s farm.
No one spoke as the company made its way through the darkness. Mark’s still-aching back protested from the moment he mounted Wretch, but in the conspicuous silence he elected not to complain out loud. They moved along a narrow trail snaking through the southern forest. Periodically, Mark believed he could hear the muted roar of the Estrad River in the distance. The two moons were now well apart in the pre-dawn sky and both foreigners marvelled at their beauty. One looked smaller, and somehow closer, while the second was a behemoth completing its own stately dance through the heavens, much further away.
Steven noticed Garec’s mare was loaded down with blankets, clothing, additional food and a large saddlebag that looked as if it were filled entirely with colourfully fletched arrows. He had made it safely into his parents’ farmhouse, warned them of the potential danger coming from Estrad, and collected an array of items he considered essential; seeing Renna so heavily burdened with supplies, Steven realised they were facing a long journey to Welstar Palace.
As the sun broke the horizon’s plane, Garec reached into one of the two quivers strapped across his back and withdrew an arrow. He carried a longbow across his lap and appeared ready to fire at any moment. Steven, who now trusted Garec almost as much as he did Gilmour, started to worry: were they being shadowed by Malakasians?
Then Garec drew and fired. A plump rabbit tumbled out of the undergrowth onto the path in front of them.
‘Excellent, Garec, breakfast,’ Gilmour complimented him. ‘I’d love some grouse or perhaps a gansel, a nice chubby male with a soft, tasty breast, if you happen to see one.’