Mark was trying inexpertly to catch fish from the river using Versen’s bow and arrows. Spotting what looked like a small trout shading itself beneath a rock outcropping, Mark took careful aim and let fly, far-fetched hopes of skewering dinner running through his mind. When he missed, which was always, he would leap into the river to retrieve his arrow before the current carried it away, in the process effectively frightening off any fish for several hundred paces along the river. He found himself waiting ever-longer intervals for his quarry to return.
Brynne teased him from the grove. ‘You’ll never hit one, Mark. Give it up.’
‘I’m sure I will, if I can just get the angle correct. I’m going too high,’ he motioned with one arm; ‘I need to aim lower.’
‘Perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with the angle,’ Versen said, joining their conversation. ‘Perhaps you just don’t have any skill.’
Feigning indignation, Mark retorted, ‘I resent that. I’ve come quite close several times.’
‘How many times have you tried?’ Brynne asked.
‘Um. That one makes thirty-two.’
They all laughed and Versen joined him at the water’s edge and retrieved his bow. Shading his eyes, he squinted into the shadows along the far bank. ‘Watch this,’ he said, drawing three arrows from the quiver, jamming two in the ground at his feet and nocking one on his bowstring. ‘It’s really very simple.’ He took aim and fired three shots in rapid succession at different targets under water. Three large trout bobbed to the surface, each pierced cleanly.
Handing the longbow back to Mark, Versen said, ‘Keep practising.’
Dumbstruck, Mark accepted the weapon and stared out at the fish as they disappeared around a lazy bend, the arrows sticking up like little masts on toy boats. Versen clapped a hand on his shoulder and added in a sympathetic tone, ‘Our dinner is floating away. You might want to hurry along after it.’
Sallax returned before nightfall; he licked his lips at the smell of fresh fish grilling over their campfire. ‘Who caught these?’ he asked, accepting a wineskin from Versen.
‘I pulled these from the river myself,’ Mark told him proudly.
Brynne chuckled and Sallax understood. ‘Versen?’
‘Of course, Mark did fetch them from the water before they floated all the way to the Ravenian Sea,’ Brynne clarified. Sallax gave a rare grin and joined them around the fire.
Shrugging, Mark admitted grudgingly, ‘I’ll grant you my skills with a longbow aren’t quite honed to perfection. I think the person who coined the phrase “shooting fish in a barrel” must have been using a machine-gun.’
Sallax tossed him the wineskin. ‘You stick with the battle-axe and you’ll be fine.’
‘So will the fish, I’m sure,’ Versen commented dryly and everyone laughed again at Mark’s expense.
Like Garec, Steven and Gilmour far above them in the night, the Ronan freedom fighters ate bread, dried fruit and cheese as they huddled close to the fire. Passing the wineskin around frequently, they avoided discussing Welstar Palace, Nerak and the journey ahead, talking instead of their families and homes. Mark was saddened to hear that Sallax and Brynne’s parents had died so long ago, even though Brynne said she had been too young to remember them, but Sallax looked so grim that Mark did not pursue it further.
Versen reflected on growing up in a large family of hunters and woodsmen; he smiled proudly as he talked of learning to shoot better than his older brothers. ‘I still can’t shoot as well as Garec, though
… but never tell him I said that out loud!’
Brynne changed the subject again. ‘How far did you get through the canyon today, Sallax?’
Motioning towards the narrow breach in the rock, her brother replied, ‘I managed to get about halfway up the slope of that big mountain behind Seer’s Peak. There’s a pass between it and that crooked fellow to the east, I think, but I couldn’t see beyond those two.’ He broke off a piece of dry bread and scooped up the last piece of trout. ‘I found the Seer’s Peak trailhead as well. It’s about two hundred paces into the canyon, but it’s well hidden behind a stand of pines.’
Versen said, more as an affirmation than a question, ‘So the horses stay here.’
‘There are some high meadows with plenty of grass for cropping, but I can’t imagine we’ll get much further than this pass with the horses.’
Brynne inhaled sharply. ‘Garec will be crushed if he has to leave Renna behind.’
Versen nodded. ‘He’ll want to leave her down here where he knows she can get to water.’
‘I’m quite sure we’ll come home this way to look for her if he has anything to say about it,’ Sallax muttered.
Mark felt for Garec as well. He had only known his own horse, Wretch, for a few days and despite all the pain and agony, he wasn’t happy about leaving the beast to survive on its own in the wilderness. ‘Is there anything else we can do?’ He half-hoped the would come up with some creative means to bring the animals along.
Versen shook his head. ‘Not without doubling back to the nearest farm and paying to stable them there.’
‘But that puts us at risk of more Seron interference,’ Brynne added.
‘Or worse,’ Sallax confirmed. ‘They’ll be all right here. There is shelter in the canyon and plenty of water.’
Versen stood. ‘I’ll bury our saddles beneath that birch tree near the water.’ Motioning to Mark, he said, ‘C’mon, help me with this.’
The horses were tethered in a stand of trees just upstream from their campsite. Mark, enjoying the friendly conversation, hadn’t noticed the sunlight fading behind the Blackstone peaks in the west. He absentmindedly checked for his watch: the sudden onset of darkness was a striking contrast to the relative daylight near the fire. He wished, absurdly, that he knew what time it was in Colorado.
Unbuckling Renna’s saddle, he let it fall to the ground, pulled the soft wool blanket from the mare’s back and gave the horse a slap on the hindquarter. ‘Good luck, Renna. Garec will be down to say good-bye in the morning.’
Moving to Wretch, he grimaced. ‘You, on the other hand – I have half a mind to leave you tied to this tree.’ He glanced over at Versen before adding, ‘No, I’m just kidding. Maybe your next owner will be a true equestrian.’ Wretch gave him a dispassionate look, then bent to continue cropping the undergrowth.
Mark was still stroking the ungrateful animal when he noticed a strange tree across the grove, a large pine; he had not seen it there before. It captured his attention now because it looked dead, as if it had been ravaged by an extremely selective wildfire. He froze. Moving his hand as slowly as possible from Wretch’s neck, he tried frantically to get Versen’s attention without shouting or moving. He was not certain how an almor detected its prey.
The burly woodsman saw Mark waving over at him and called, ‘What’s the matter with you? Get that saddle off and let’s get busy. We have a hole to dig.’
It was too late to warn him. The demon exploded from the ground between them and Mark heard Versen scream as he fell backwards into the underbrush. For what felt like a lifetime, Mark watched as the almor reached out with one shapeless, glowing white arm to grab Brynne’s horse bodily from the ground. The animal gave a terrified scream, shrill, like a tortured child, before choking to a sickening silence as the creature sucked its life force dry. It took just seconds, Mark realised dully. The almor tossed the husk of skin and bones to the side; it glanced off a tree before shattering into pieces on the soft needle carpet.
Mark sprinted back through camp. ‘Run!’ he screamed. ‘The almor!’ For two or three heartbeats, Brynne looked confused, until she saw Sallax grab his saddlebag and begin running towards the canyon. She reached for Mark’s outstretched hand and sprinted off behind her brother. Mark did not look back. He leaped over their campfire, half-dragging Brynne along behind.
Sallax paused once to check they were following. He couldn’t see Versen, or hear him either, but there wasn’t time to search. ‘Hurry!’ he called. ‘It can move very fast – and get away from the river!’ Then he was gone, disappearing up the narrow path towards the Seer’s Peak trailhead. Mark and Brynne followed on his heels. Mark didn’t want to run faster than Brynne for fear the beast might suddenly appear and take her, but she speeded up markedly when the demon gave an unholy cry from the canyon entrance behind them. It echoed about the rock walls of the narrow crevasse, sounding like the collective pain and suffering of generations of oppressed souls screaming at once.