‘It’s a rectangle,’ she cried.
‘Almost a rectangle,’ he told her, ‘but close enough for Egyptian architects to figure out the area of a circle is basically-’
‘Length times width!’ Myrna nearly came out of her chair, especially when she realised the problem was still confounding Howard Griffin.
‘Exactly,’ Steven confirmed. ‘You see? There’s no reason to make it more difficult than it needs to be.’
Howard reached for a slice of pizza, interrupting the quasi-edge of Steven’s impromptu quadrilateral. ‘There,’ he said, ‘figure that one out; I call it subtraction.’
THE RIVER CAMP
Brexan kneeled over the woodsman. He was alive, but he had not yet moved from where he had fallen after the demon’s attack. The Malakasian soldier removed her cloak, folded it into a lumpy pillow and placed it carefully under the big man’s head. Blood was coagulating around an open wound just above his neck: he had hit his head hard; he would be unconscious for some time. She counted his breaths, marking time as his broad chest moved up and down. She struggled to make out his features clearly in the half-light of evening, but she could tell he was handsome, although not necessarily in the traditional sense. This was a woodsman, a man to whom physical appearance meant little, but the unkempt, sandy hair, the wrinkled clothes and the short, scraggly beard did not detract from his striking countenance. His powerful hands rested on the ground and, acting on an impulse, Brexan folded them across his abdomen. From his belt she removed a battle-axe and a long dagger, afraid he might roll over on them and wake too soon.
Hearing a noise, she looked up as several horses wandered back into the remains of the Ronan camp. They had been frightened away by the almor, but had obviously not run far; now they sensed it was safe to return. Brexan took some comfort in that. Despite her confidence that the monster had pursued the others into the canyon, she couldn’t help but worry that it might come back at any moment. She was still surprised it hadn’t killed her on the beach that day after it had taken her old horse – maybe the almor was saving her for some later date.
She rose and walked as softly as she could, so as not to draw any undue attention to herself. Coaxing gently, Brexan corralled four of the animals, tethering them to nearby trees. She took particular care with one fiery mare, a strong animal who appeared to be looking askance at her as she looped the reins over a branch. Brexan stoked their small campfire into a blaze and rummaged through one of the abandoned saddlebags for something to eat. Finding a stash of apples, she removed two, bit into one herself and sliced the other into quarters for her horse. The beast whinnied once and took the fruit greedily from her outstretched palm.
She returned to the woodsman; he hadn’t moved, so she made herself comfortable on the ground beside him. A light breeze blew through the grove as she leaned back against a crooked scrub oak. Gnawing contentedly on the apple, Brexan took stock of her current situation. She was absent without leave from the Malakasian Army. Her stomach tightened, remembering the moment when she had stripped her uniform of its patches and epaulettes. She hadn’t wanted to be seen as deserting her platoon, but she wouldn’t live long travelling alone, in uniform, through Rona. Perhaps she would return to Estrad one day and explain everything to whomever had replaced Lieutenant Bronfio – maybe Lieutenant Riskett. He had always been more reasonable: he was willing to listen to the soldiers and actually responded to their concerns or suggestions, unlike Bronfio. Considering this option a moment longer, she laughed and shook her head.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said out loud, biting the apple as if to punctuate her thoughts. ‘You know you can’t go back there.’ Brexan could only hope Lieutenant Riskett had listed her as lost in the skirmish at Riverend Palace, although without a body to identify her, that was unlikely.
No, if she returned to Estrad, it would be in shackles, and she would be imprisoned, tortured, and hanged at the next Twin-moon as an example to all soldiers of Prince Malagon’s army.
She inhaled deeply. It was cooler here than in Estrad; she was happy to sit quietly and enjoy the evening. The road north had been challenging: Jacrys was difficult to track. She had lost his trail entirely several times, but he kept turning up and now she had no doubts that he was trailing this band of partisans on their flight north. Though she had not seen the enemy they had faced that morning at Riverend Palace, she knew this group had been involved. She was still struggling to make sense of it alclass="underline" Jacrys had ordered the platoons to take Riverend Palace because partisans had been using it for meetings, as well as storing weapons and silver. That was fine. But in the process, Jacrys had murdered Lieutenant Bronfio and the family of at least one partisan, before taking off after the fugitives. Why Bronfio? And why this particular band of freedom fighters?
Still she had no answers, nothing to explain why Jacrys had followed them into the mountains and ambushed them with a platoon of filthy Seron warriors, nor how he had managed to bring an almor along with him. He did not appear to have a sorcerer’s skills – yet the almor had appeared twice while Jacrys was near of this group of Ronans. Was he controlling it? She bit off another mouthful of apple and, finding it bruised, spat it into the underbrush. He might have some magic at his disposal, but magic enough to control a demon would have to come from elsewhere, from the north. Prince Malagon.
A strand of hair fell over her shoulder and she played with it absentmindedly. It was long, too long. She had meant to have it cut before the last Twinmoon, but hadn’t found time. She looked about the camp for something with which to tie it up. Among the putrefied remains of a dead horse, lying where the almor had tossed the husk of skin and bones after its attack, was an old saddle. Drawing a knife from her belt, she sliced off a thin leather thong tying up a tightly rolled wool blanket. As she cut it free, the blanket fell to the ground and partially unrolled across the leaves and dirt.
‘That’s better,’ she said as she tied her hair back. Night had fallen and Brexan was growing somewhat impatient. She kneeled next to the partisan and shook him gently by the shoulders.
‘Hey,’ she whispered, ‘wake up. You’re safe; wake up.’
The man groaned in response and Brexan spilled a few drops of water across his lips from a wineskin she had found.
‘Try again,’ she encouraged, ‘wake up.’
Versen opened his eyes and, grimacing, tried to sit up. ‘Rutting dogs, it’s you,’ he exclaimed as he looked at Brexan.
Brexan, taken aback, said simply, ‘Yes, it’s me,’ though she had no idea how he could know who she was.
Versen reached out and took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘I never told you… I should have told you. I love you.’ He pulled her to him and kissed her awkwardly on the lips before falling back onto her cloak and drifting back into unconsciousness.
‘Of course you do, of course you love me.’ Brexan leaned back against the twisted oak once again. ‘What else would you say, really? “Hello”, maybe. “Who are you?” perhaps. But no, not you, my brain-damaged Ronan buffoon, you open with “I love you”. Fairly direct of you, and I must give you credit for bravery.’
She drank from the wineskin and added sarcastically, ‘And I know it might be sudden of me, but I love you, too.’ Sleeping soundly, Versen did not respond.