Casting him a bright smile, Hannah replied, ‘When I have children, Branag, I will remember that, I promise.’
‘A good journey to you, Hannah Sorenson,’ he said, then turned to the Pragans. ‘Hoyt, Churn, good luck.’
Before dawn the following morning, Hannah Sorenson made her way silently out of Branag’s saddlery shop, crouching low behind Hoyt as she moved into the dark street beyond.
Steven Taylor was up and in the saddle, awaiting his companions, before dawn. He felt no hunger or thirst, just an urgent desire to move away from this place. Maybe time and distance between himself and his violence would mitigate the anguish he felt every time he pictured the Seron, dying with a broken length of hickory jutting clumsily from his neck.
He had not been able to participate in Mika’s funeral rites. He had no right to be there. The stench of burning flesh when Sallax ignited the pine boughs beneath the body made him vomit. But he did feel a sense of closure, if not happiness, when Versen and Garec tossed the Seron dead onto their own fire. Even from a distance, Mika’s funeral had been touching. The young Ronan looked as if he were sleeping soundly on a bed of soft, scented pine needles; disposing of the Seron was its antithesis, a makeshift common grave for the animal-like warriors. Soulless and perhaps godless, they burned away in an anonymous pile of broken and dismembered bodies. Garec and Versen tossed the dead into the flames of the pyre, then paid them no further attention.
Now Steven sat astride his mount and waited for the coming dawn. In his hands he held the hickory staff he had used to save his friends’ lives. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over the bloodstain that discoloured the wood: how could Gilmour have reconstructed it so perfectly? Steven could detect no scars where the fragments had broken apart. This morning, as it rested across his lap, he began to grow more comfortable with it there, if no less terrified of what he had done with it.
Steven thought of the magic that had glowed between Gilmour’s fingers; he hoped the old man had enough sorcery left to reconstruct him, to help him forget his experiences in Eldarn and return to Idaho Springs as the timid, scholarly, assistant bank manager he had been only two weeks earlier. He had lived his life as a coward and a pacifist. Although he had discovered bravery in recent days, bravery he had never imagined finding inside himself, he could not accept that he had become violent too. He was deeply uncomfortable with the fact that he had killed two Seron warriors in hand-to-hand combat, even though it had undoubtedly been necessary to save his friends’ lives, but it was the third man who would haunt him for ever.
He had won the fight, disabled the enemy, and then shown no mercy.
Ignoring the sharp chill that sent cramps rippling through his legs, Steven realised he had never known how important mercy was to him. He had often been shocked and horrified at newspaper or television reports of the brutal behaviour of terrorists, or soldiers battling for a cause. His mental tally included kidnappers who killed victims even after collecting ransom money and gunmen who fired on bystanders even though their escape routes lay open. He had hated those people, he abhorred anyone who chose to be merciless: they were the cruellest and most deplorable examples of humankind.
He had become one of them.
He and Gilmour had murdered Seron in blind rage even though, ironically, they were the only members of the Ronan company who had not been attacked when the assault began.
Steven looked down at the hickory staff. It would never happen again. He would never again forget to show mercy. There was no cause worth fighting for if victory meant he was devoid of compassion. He ran his hands along the smooth wooden grain and raised the stained end to sniff at the vestiges of dried blood that clung to the shaft. He had learned bravery and violence in the last weeks. He was strong and athletic, with a sharp mind; Steven was afraid he had only begun to uncover the potential he had for warfare. Death would surround him on this journey; to live through it, he had to remember his true values. He had been a coward and pacifist, and his life had been empty. He could not afford to be a coward or a pacifist here in Eldarn. Somehow he had to tread the thin line between being a killer and killing to preserve love, compassion and peace for the people of Eldarn.
‘Ah, you’re lying to yourself to soften the blow,’ he chided. ‘That’s a bullshit excuse, and you know it.’ He wanted it to be true, though. He wanted to be the one who would fight for something good, something meaningful for those around him. His grandparents talked of the Second World War, and a common unity in the resolve to prevail against evil. He and Mark faced evil now. Why then could he not achieve that righteous vision, a vision his grandparents had realised in the 1940s?
Perhaps, Steven thought, it’s because we have the illusion of happiness. Perhaps we all live with fear or regret, and that is a tragic reality we face but never discuss. He glanced at the remains of Mika’s funeral pyre. Perhaps my inability to differentiate between killing and killing for a cause is the reality that will crack the foundation of my illusion of contentment.
With resolve and time, maybe his conscience would settle. For today, he would use Garec’s dry Ronan wine to soften his guilt.
‘Again the coward,’ he said, and forced a laugh.
‘What’s that?’ Mark approached carrying two brass goblets filled with the hot tecan Garec had brewed over their small campfire. He handed one up to Steven. ‘Good morning to you too. How long have you been sitting up there?’
Steven pulled a tunic sleeve down far enough to protect his fingers and took the cup gratefully. ‘I don’t know, a couple hours, an aven, a lifetime.’
Mark drank as well. ‘I think I have this tecan figured. When Garec strains it twice and adds an extra pinch of the darkest leaves, it tastes almost like a French roast.’
‘You’re right,’ Steven agreed, ‘it is good.’
‘Now if we could only get some decent coffee cups…’ He grinned, before turning serious. ‘How are you doing this morning?’
‘I’ve stopped shaking, if that’s what you mean.’ He inhaled the aroma, then gestured at Mark’s scratched face and bandaged shoulder. ‘You?’
‘I’m alive, thanks to you.’ He patted Steven’s horse gently on the neck. ‘I know you’re sitting up there analysing yourself to a standstill, but that Seron would have killed us. You saved my life, and Brynne’s too: we couldn’t handle him on our own. You didn’t start this.’
‘How is she this morning?’
‘I haven’t talked with her, but I’m sure she’s fine,’ Mark replied. ‘She’s tough, tougher than any woman I’ve ever known. She didn’t hesitate to pull her knife. Sallax was right; she is skilled with that thing. I can’t believe how she moved in on that big bastard, stabbed him right in the chest, and it barely slowed the motherhumper down.’
‘I hope she’s okay,’ Steven moved to dismount, ‘and I’ll be all right, too. I just never imagined I would kill anyone, never mind three people in fifteen seconds.’ He handed the hickory staff and goblet down to Mark. ‘Hang onto these for a second.’
Mark ran his hand along the smooth wooden staff. ‘It’s remarkable. I can’t see where it was broken.’
‘I can’t either, and it seems stronger than it was last night, almost as though Gilmour’s magic has imbued it with some impenetrable strength.’ He laughed at himself. ‘Listen to me: I sound like I believe all this voodoo magic shit.’ He shuddered slightly, then added, ‘I wonder why he insisted on repairing it anyway. It’s just a piece of hickory.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that too,’ Mark said.
‘And?’
‘Do you see any hickory trees in this ravine?’ Mark gestured towards the hillside. It was true. There were no hardwoods in sight save the twisted scrub oaks growing beneath the evergreens. ‘The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it was no accident you picked up this piece of wood.’