‘You’re first watch tonight,’ the indefatigable Ronan partisan said sharply. Brynne tried to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping on the exchange.
‘You trust me, Sallax?’
‘I saw you fight that Seron. You were trying to protect Brynne.’
‘Of course. I would have fought to protect any of us-’ He stood and looked Sallax in the eye. ‘Even you.’
Surprising Mark, Sallax laughed out loud, a sound like a muffled gunshot. ‘Yes, perhaps even me. Let’s hope we never have to find out.’ Reaching into his belt, he withdrew a deadly-looking axe and handed it to Mark. ‘Here, use this. That rapier doesn’t suit you.’
Accepting the menacing little weapon, Mark thanked Sallax before asking, ‘Why is this better for me?’
‘The rapier takes many Twinmoons to master, and even then it leaves too many holes in one’s defence.’ Using his hand as a makeshift axe, he demonstrated. ‘The battle-axe is much easier to wield. Just remember to make snap blows with your wrists and forearms, retracting as quickly as you strike. Don’t try to hack off limbs. It will slow you down and leave your upper body open to counterattacks.’
‘Very good,’ said Mark, swallowing hard, ‘I won’t try to hack off any limbs.’
‘Excellent!’ Sallax hugged Mark in an uncharacteristic show of camaraderie and commanded, ‘Wake Garec in an aven.’
Dawn found Gilmour awake and already brewing a large pot of tecan. He knew Steven and Mark missed their daily coffee; this was the best compromise he could come up with. Though he had racked his brain, he could not recall coffee’s flavour. He had finished his last cup on Little Round Top above Gettysburg, Pennsylvania just before Confederate artillery began shelling those heights from far below. The Larion Senator promised himself that if they succeeded in ending Nerak’s reign of terror, he would return to Pennsylvania and perhaps brew another pot there in the trees above Devil’s Den. That was for the future. Today, he would climb Seer’s Peak and, hopefully, contact Lessek. While his friends slept around him, he questioned whether his determination and magic were enough to defeat Nerak. He lacked confidence, and although he would never do so in front of the others, he wondered seriously whether they could really win against evil itself. Could it work? He knew of no force in the universe strong enough to defeat evil. The best they could hope for was to equalise it, to evenly match it with powerful magic, not to destroy it. He believed there was as much good in the universe as evil, and far more good in Eldarn than the evil Nerak represented. But Nerak was evil itself, an intact minion of evil’s essence held together by a supreme mandate from beyond the plane of the universe, the Fold.
If this were to be done, he would need Lessek’s help. Gilmour yearned for the founder of the Larion Senate to offer encouragement and to give him a strategy to save Eldarn. ‘And ourselves,’ he added quietly in a hopeful whisper, ‘to save ourselves as well.’
He needed to be more careful. He had put himself in harm’s way so frequently in the Twinmoons since the fall of the Larion Senate he never considered the potential consequences. With him dead, Nerak would come down on Mark and Steven like a firestorm. It would take only a moment, and the location of Lessek’s Key would no longer be a secret. Gilmour represented their only protection. He would use his own magic to safeguard Steven and Mark from the dark prince’s possession. He had to stay alive.
‘Nerak believes we have the key with us,’ the old sorcerer mused aloud. ‘That’s why he’s trying so diligently to kill us.’ He warmed his hands over the fire and stirred the tecan. ‘As long as he thinks we have the key and as long as I’m alive, we’ll have an advantage.’
Branag Otharo perched the tankard of beer precariously on his upturned wrist, placed a small loaf of bread atop a mountain of steaming venison stew in a wooden bowl and freed one hand to tug down on the leather strap threaded through the door to his saddlery emporium. He felt the latch inside come free, retrieved the mug and nudged the door open with his toe. The day had been warm, but with sunset, a cool wind had moved in with the rising tide.
Branag paused in the doorway and searched the street. ‘Dog!’ he shouted, then peered along the road in the opposite direction. ‘Dog! Come on now!’ The big wolfhound had been at his side all day, even as he walked to the tavern to pick up his dinner. ‘Dog!’ Branag cried again and waited several moments before adding, ‘All right then, but you’ll be out all night.’ He paused, hoping to detect the familiar sound of the great hound’s loping run along the muddy thoroughfare. Hearing nothing but the distant jangle of a ship’s bell, Branag entered the shop and allowed the door to close behind him.
BOOK III
The Blackstone Mountains
SEER’S PEAK
Seer’s Peak, flanked by towering, jagged mountains, looked like an unfinished building in a city of skyscrapers. Short, nearly flat on top, the crest looked as if it had been hacked off, truncated by some vindictive god with a scythe. The initial slope was steep, but Gilmour’s camouflaged trail, although precipitous and narrow, was easily navigable.
Steven, well used to mountain trekking, passed his sturdy length of hickory to Gilmour to use as a support.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ the old man said, leaning on the staff and breathing heavily. ‘I expect this climb will be quite easy for someone with your experience.’
‘I don’t know, Gilmour,’ Steven replied, perspiring. ‘I’m already wishing I’d had less wine yesterday.’
Garec laughed before chiming in, ‘Not to worry, Steven. It’s happened to the best of us.’
Steven’s head still felt as though it was about to crack open and spill out onto the ground, even though he had finished a full skin of water to help the pain subside.
The trio climbed in silence, accustoming themselves to the thinner air as they ascended. The game trail ran along the southern slope of the hillside and disappeared into the narrow canyon that separated Seer’s Peak from the closest of the titanic neighbours. Once within the canyon, Steven could see their trail snaking back and forth along the western hillside in a series of switchbacks until it disappeared out of sight near the end of a razor-thin ridge running westwards along the mountain’s crest.
Pausing momentarily, he voiced his thoughts aloud: ‘I fear it’s going to be a long day.’
‘I hope we’ll be there by midday,’ Gilmour said. ‘That ridge can be dangerous in the dark.’ He wiped a hand across his brow. ‘If the weather holds, we should have no trouble reaching the landing by evening.’
Garec turned from where he had been looking up the trail. ‘The landing?’
‘There’s a flat expanse of rock almost directly above us now, where we’ll camp tonight. I hope we’ll be in communication with Lessek before dawn tomorrow.’ Neither Steven nor Garec were looking forward to their first meeting with the founder of the Larion Senate; Gilmour, noticing their discomfort, changed the subject. ‘Anyway, if I’m going to drag these old bones all the way up there, we had better keep moving.’
They climbed most of the morning, admiring the majestic peaks in the distance and chatting aimlessly to keep their minds off the coming evening. Garec was impressed with Steven’s hiking boots: he had never seen anything like them before and was curious to try them out, especially after Steven showed him how tightening the laces gave more support going downhill.
As they climbed higher, Steven noted several new species of hardwood growing along the slopes. In the crisp autumn morning, the hues of the changing foliage looked like an artist’s palette against the stark grey and black of the rocky cliffs beyond.
Lunch – bread, cheese and dried fruits – was taken during a brief halt; Steven flinched when Gilmour drew a wineskin from his pack, helped himself to a hefty swig, then passed it to Garec. The bowman took a satisfying drink and motioned for Steven to join him.