‘Malagon’s,’ Garec corrected.
‘What do we call him, Gilmour – or should he be it?’ Mark was looking a little confused.
‘Nerak and Malagon: right now, they’re essentially interchangeable,’ Gilmour said.
‘Great,’ Mark grinned, ‘so we’ll agree on shithead, shall we?’
‘Works for me,’ Steven agreed.
‘I’m not sure what a shithead is,’ Brynne pronounced the English word awkwardly, ‘but there are more important things to worry about right now.’ She turned to Versen. ‘How far is it to Seer’s Peak?’
‘I don’t know,’ the tall woodsman answered. ‘I’ve never been there myself. We have about three days of rolling foothills to traverse before we come in view of the Blackstones.’
‘That’s correct,’ Gilmour confirmed, ‘and making good time, we will clear the range and be on the down slope into Falkan before winter hits with all her fury. But now my friends, let’s get to bed. We have far to travel tomorrow.’ He dropped several small logs on the fire before announcing, ‘I will take the first watch tonight. Mika, I will wake you in an aven.’
Late that night, Steven stirred in his sleep. He rolled over and pulled his blanket tight around his shoulders, trapping a loose corner between his knees. Still half-asleep, he hoped being bound as tightly as possible, with nothing exposed to the night air, would help warm the relatively small spaces between the contours of his body and the unruly wool blanket. Adjusting his position on the uneven ground, Steven knocked his jacket off the stone he had been using for a pillow. The cold rock against his face slapped him fully awake.
The night was silent, and except for a dull glow from the last embers in the fire-pit, he could see nothing. Nearby, Mark’s even breathing lent a stately rhythm to the darkness. Slowly Steven’s eyes grew accustomed to the night. Versen stood watch near the fire, sitting up with his back propped against a large stone, but Steven could see the woodsman’s head had fallen forward on his chest. He slept soundly.
Footsteps… coming through the forest behind him, Steven could tell that whoever approached was trying to come unnoticed. He thought about crying out, but he was afraid an arrow hurtling unseen through the Ronan darkness would silence him for ever. His stomach tightened in fear and, almost without thinking, he curled his legs up under him, preparing to leap to safety. He reached for the hunting knife still secure in his belt but it was awkward in his hand; he knew he would be ineffective against any would-be attacker. Without breathing, he craned his neck to peer across their camp.
The footsteps were closer now, just beyond the rock where Versen slept. Straining his eyes, Steven saw a bulky form emerge from the darkness, stow something in a saddlebag, pull back the blanket of an abandoned bedroll and lie down in the fire’s dying light. It was Sallax.
Steven breathed easier, assuming the big man had sneaked away to relieve himself outside the periphery of their camp. Half-awake, he didn’t think to wonder what Sallax had placed in his saddlebag. Soon sleep reclaimed Steven for the night.
For the next three days, the company made their way further into the Blackstone foothills. Scrub oak and evergreen trees grew in abundance; Steven noticed that with the ever-increasing altitude, the hardwoods that had been common in Rona’s southern region were scarce. The scrub oaks were clumsy trees, growing close to the ground in a confusion of twisted branches and oddly placed leaves.
The temperature had dropped significantly as well and for the first time since their arrival, Steven was glad he had worn a tweed jacket to the bank that Thursday. The coat fit tightly over his Ronan tunic, giving him an ungainly appearance, but he didn’t care about Mark’s ribbing that he looked like a university professor visiting a Renaissance festivaclass="underline" it kept him warm.
Though chilly, the weather was clear, and periodically there was a break in the trees that allowed them to see far into the distance. It was late on their third day in the foothills when Versen pointed towards the horizon and, squinting into the slowly setting sun, they could finally make out the distant peaks of the Blackstone Mountains. Ominous, even from this distance, Steven thought. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
The Blackstones were much taller than the Rocky Mountains surrounding his home, and their jagged ridges and deep valleys promised a hard, treacherous journey ahead. Steven loved looking up at the Rockies from the Colorado prairie: you could see the Front Range stretching from north to south in a picturesque combination of green foothills, red stone cliffs and snowy granite peaks. For anyone driving west, the Rockies were a welcome sight, a majestic end to a long journey across the endless flat fields of wheat and corn. Steven cherished that view; he could never tire of looking at the mountains back home.
But the Blackstones were different. Nothing about them made Steven feel welcome. They rose from the foothills at a steep angle, as if the gods themselves had thrown up a sheer granite wall to keep travellers out of Falkan.
‘Have you ever been through this way?’ Mark asked Versen, who was still peering into the distance.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I’ve crossed over the eastern peaks, but never this far west. These mountains are very different to those out near the Merchants’ Highway.’ He looked at Gilmour as he added, ‘This isn’t going to be easy.’
‘Which one is Seer’s Peak?’ Steven asked, still shielding his eyes against the setting sun.
Versen shrugged. All eyes turned to Gilmour who pointed towards the tallest mountain in the range. ‘You see that tall peak there in the middle?’
‘Is that it?’ Mark asked, ‘the big one with glacier snow on top?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘instead, look immediately east of there. It’s difficult to see, because it’s not a very tall peak, but if you look really hard you can spot it. It’s a much shorter mountain, with a long narrow ridge opening out onto a nearly flat surface at its west end.’
‘I see it,’ Brynne exclaimed. ‘It doesn’t look like much, Gilmour.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t,’ he answered, ‘but there is something powerful about it, something that makes it possible for Lessek to visit us in that place.’
Sallax, as ever, was all business. ‘Well, let’s get there. We still have a good half-aven of light left. We might be able to clear the next hill if we push on now.’
Without answering, Versen spurred his horse forward and led them down the north slope of the hill, picking his way through the trees, careful in the fading daylight.
Near the bottom of the shallow valley, the woodsman noticed what looked like a game trail winding around the base of the next foothill. Turning in the saddle, he called to Sallax, ‘We ought to follow this. It may lead to fresh water.’
‘I don’t like the idea of being on trails,’ Sallax said tersely.
‘There are no signs that any riders have been through here in a long time,’ Versen countered. ‘I think we’ll be fine.’
‘All right, let’s keep moving,’ Sallax agreed grudgingly, adding, ‘Garec, stay alert through here, we might find something for dinner.’
As the sun’s last rays gleamed through the evergreen boughs high above, Garec imagined the forest atop the hill in flames. For a moment he felt unaccountably glad that Versen had elected to seek refuge here on the sheltered valley floor. Turning his eyes from the luminous orange rays he allowed them to readjust in the semi-darkness, then began scanning the forest for wildlife: rabbits, game birds, there might even be deer. The quiet rhythm of the horses’ hooves on the pine needle carpet was the only sound he could hear. Hunting in a pine glade was more challenging; with no telltale autumn leaves on the ground his quarry were able to move about in near-silence. He tuned his ears to the forest.
Then he heard it: a faint rustle. Craning his neck to pinpoint its direction, he heard it again: scratching, like the sound of a boot crushing a few shards of broken glass. Garec didn’t recognise the sound; he thought it strange any animal would make such a noise, calling attention to itself and then moving again before freezing to scan for predators.