But some fifty paces outside the firelight, Versen realised something was wrong. He heard a faint rustle coming from a twisted scrub oak along the trail. He reined Renna to a stop.
‘What’s the matter?’ Brexan whispered. ‘We have to keep moving.’
‘Quiet just a moment,’ Versen whispered, then asked, ‘Do you hear that?’
‘It’s just the wind.’
‘There is no wind.’
He could feel the young woman tense behind him. ‘Again, the soldier,’ he whispered to himself. ‘She’s freed her arms, ready to fight.’ He grinned, despite the tension. ‘And she thinks she’s a coward.’
Versen squinted into the darkness, struggling to see what was making the tiny oak shrub quake before them.
‘Maybe it’s just a bird,’ Brexan suggested, but as she spoke the faint moonlight broke through the confounding tangle of pine branches overhead and lit the tree, which appeared to shrink. It grew smaller, then withered.
‘Rutters,’ Versen spat. ‘They have an almor. No wonder they didn’t care if we wandered about.’
‘I thought it went after the others.’ Brexan trembled; watching the scrub oak wither to a husk, she thought better of their plans to escape.
‘Maybe there’s more than one,’ Versen speculated. ‘Who knows what demons Malagon can summon?’
‘Should we run for it, run the other way?’
‘We’d never make it. They’re too fast. It would have Renna in an instant and then we’d be left on foot.’
As if reading their minds, the almor extended one fluid appendage above the ground. Glowing palely white, starkly contrasted against the darkness of the forest, it was a ghostly warning: ‘Turn back.’
Bringing Renna about, they covered the short distance back into camp, tethered the mare to the same oak branch and returned to their bedrolls. Karn and Rala still slept soundly, Rala snoring loudly through her nose while Karn lay on his back, his arms thrown above his head in a gesture of mock surrender.
Brexan adjusted her cloak, folding it into an uneven pillow. She was about to close her eyes against the night, against their captivity and against her fear when she saw Haden peering at her through the firelight. He grinned, hideously.
Brexan did not sleep until exhaustion overtook her an aven before dawn.
THE SOUTHERN SLOPES
Morning in the Blackstones brought rain, a cold drizzle that soaked through cloaks and tunics, leaving everyone chilled to the bone. Garec’s knee was seizing up in the damp; although the injury was healing despite his refusal to rest, much of this sort of weather might damage it permanently. He remembered twisting his knee falling from a cliff above Danae’s Eddy into the Estrad River, escaping from the largest grettan he could ever have imagined. It felt so long ago.
Garec blinked: he had just realised that day had been the beginning of this whole ordeal. He’d got home to find soldiers interrogating everyone. They had beaten Jerond that morning. Now the young partisan was missing; Garec feared he was dead. Namont and Mika were dead and Versen was gone; they had found no sign of him.
Garec wanted to believe that Versen had escaped on Renna and maybe ridden west to find another route through the Blackstones, but he thought it was a bit of a vain hope.
Now searching for a passable route through the southernmost peaks, the small group fought their way up the muddy slope. Despite its gradual incline, the narrow draw was a natural runoff and the travellers found themselves ankle-deep in freezing water and covered with heavy, wet filth.
Garec, the last in line, struggled to make his injured leg move. To take his mind off the pain he replayed images from his dream, trying to work out what Lessek might be communicating to him. Gilmour kept saying Lessek’s message would become clear in time, but Garec was afraid he was letting his companions down by his lack of insight.
Climbing, slipping, cursing, sliding, pointlessly scraping mud from his clothes, pushing on… the Ronan bowman missed his family’s farm. He missed nights sitting around the fire after stuffing himself with roasted meat, mounds of potatoes and succulent fresh vegetables. His father baked bread above the hearth, its aroma permeating the house, maybe even the entire countryside. It was the near-perfect scent of ‘everyone is welcome here’.
He and his sisters would drink red wine and cool ale from casks stored in the family cellar and chat and laugh together for avens on end. Was there any better place in Eldarn? Were there ever better times than those? Garec was clinging to the side of the mountain, yet another mountain, pushing ever forward to battle an unbeatable foe and every part of him wanted nothing more than to turn back, to go home and to fall into the comfort of predictable, familiar, safe routines of life on the farm.
Then they were upon him again, the visions of a beautiful young woman, naked, her body exposed: he was embarrassed to look at her; did she know he was there watching, peering at her longingly in his mind? Her insane partner was there as well, screaming and cajoling unseen demons that scudded across the ceiling, visible to no one but him.
Had they succeeded in creating Eldarn’s king or queen?
If the Estrad River ran dry, if the land cracked and burned, he would never again enjoy a day at the farm. If Rona itself died, there would be no family feasts, no all-day preparation capped by long nights eating, drinking and dancing together.
That was why he continued north. That was why he was cold and wet and miserable. He was looking for answers. Would he be forced to kill Malagon to save Rona? Would he have to die himself?
Garec did not discuss his feelings as easily as the two foreigners did, but like Steven, he was uncomfortable killing. He was skilled; his arrows almost always found their mark. But too often he imagined the pain his enemies experienced, the intense and terrible fire burning from inside out. Garec reflected upon and regretted every arrow, while at the same time knowing he had to sublimate his regrets if he were to survive himself.
‘Just until this is over,’ he promised, ‘just until Eldarn is free.’ With the battle won, he vowed he would find some way to reconcile his actions. Garec imagined how disappointed his sisters would be if they knew their baby brother had become such a finely honed instrument of death. Steven had found great courage and killed with efficiency, but the foreigner killed with a discovered magic, a powerful talisman. Garec had no mystical excuse. He faced his enemies on equal footing and still emerged without a scratch. He was perhaps the most dangerous weapon the Ronans had, because he represented what anyone could become when oppressed or tortured long enough. He was just such a man; he hated killing, yet he killed more often than anyone he knew.
Perhaps, Garec thought, that was why he found himself haunted by visions of ghostly wraiths. Perhaps the souls of those he killed would stay with him for ever, taking up residence in his woods, crowding him out of his most beloved hunting grounds. He saw them again, drifting through his mind’s eye, flitting from tree to tree, their faces hidden from him.
He hoped time would bring him answers; now he struggled to force the images from his mind as he clawed his way uphill.
One particularly resilient ghost remained. Garec closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side before peering into the trees just off the pathway. It was still there, a disembodied spirit, hovering inside a stand of young evergreens. Garec stopped.
From up ahead, Brynne noticed and called over the din of the rainfall, ‘What is it?’ The others, curious, stopped to watch him.
Garec pointed towards the wraith and whispered, ‘It’s one of the spirit creatures I saw in my dream.’
‘Great rutting Pragans! So it is,’ Gilmour exclaimed and started towards the trees. ‘You there,’ he ordered the spirit onlooker. ‘Stay where you are.’
Steven and Mark exchanged a surprised glance and Steven moved quickly to accompany the older man.