At first light, Mark rose carefully, trying to avoid waking Brynne. Covering her with his blanket, he joined Steven and Garec as they stared out over the Blackstones from the ridge above.
Garec had saved enough wood to heat water for tecan. He handed Mark a steaming mug.
‘Thanks,’ Mark said.
‘I wish I hadn’t left those pens in Estrad,’ Steven said. ‘We could really use one to sketch out these passes.’
‘Pens?’ Garec asked curiously.
‘Writing instruments,’ Steven clarified. ‘I felt guilty robbing someone’s home and I left him two pens from my bank. I thought he might find them fascinating.’
‘Of course, he was probably illiterate,’ Mark added dryly. ‘So right now he’s probably using them to pick his teeth, or perhaps to scratch his backside.’
‘Great,’ Steven said dejectedly. ‘Although they wouldn’t do us much good without any paper.’
Mark perked up. ‘I have some paper.’ He reached into his jacket, then checked his jeans. Finding nothing, he groaned. ‘I must have lost it. I found it at Riverend, tucked behind a rock in the fireplace. Remember?’
‘I do. You had it at the river when you washed your clothes.’
‘I guess I left it there. Sorry.’
‘Well, we still don’t have a pen. I suppose we’ll just have to commit as much to memory as possible.’ Steven sipped the tecan, exhaled loudly and added, ‘I don’t like the idea of going through there without a map. It could take all winter.’
‘I have a leather saddlebag,’ Garec suggested. ‘We could scratch a map on it with a stone.’
‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ Steven agreed and turned to follow him back to camp.
STRANDSON
Brexan lost count of the days they had been riding. Always south and west, towards the sea. Karn did not drive them hard and they rarely pushed their horses faster than a gentle canter, but save for a short break during the midday meal, the Seron escort did not allow the prisoners to dismount. From time to time Versen toyed with the idea of spurring Renna into a full gallop and taking their chances with the almor… but without knowing where it was, he was afraid he would just drive Garec’s beloved mare straight into the demon’s waiting maw. Periodically, he or Brexan would catch a glimpse of a nearby tree or bush withering to dust; the knowledge that such a terrifying adversary flanked them day and night made them both feel sick to the stomach.
On they rode. Sometimes Brexan sat behind him and other times she rode in front. The Seron paid them little heed, so at least they were able to talk freely during the interminable avens in the saddle. They were fatigued to the point of imminent collapse and their bodies ached cruelly, until the steady rhythm of Renna’s stride numbed feeling. It wasn’t long before emotional exhaustion exacerbated their physical pain and began to sap their strength and, worse, their hope.
Versen no longer looked forward to their evening break. Gathering firewood took too long; often he could carry only a branch or two at a time for fear the pain in his back would overwhelm him. He was in constant fear of being struck down on the spot. Brexan, on water duty, struggled to fill a pot and several wineskins, then she would open a bag of the crushed oat and herb mix they had eaten every night since their capture, mix it with hot water and serve it in wooden trenchers.
After dinner, the two prisoners would collapse onto their blankets, no longer even bothering to remove their boots and cloaks, but exhausted though they were, cramping in their backs and thighs combined with hard, uneven ground robbed them of sleep.
And the following day the nightmare began all over again.
Late one day, as the shadows lengthened in front of them like folds in a landscape painting, Brexan dozed against Versen’s back. He in turn allowed his head to slump forward on his chest, shifting slightly every twenty paces to break up the monotony and alleviate the pain. They had moved south of the Blackstones and back into the Ronan lowlands. Despite the coming winter both captives found the heat and humidity oppressive. Versen sweat openly beneath his cloak; he thought he might never be dry again, and the rivulets of perspiration that soaked him attracted no end of biting insects. He spent much of the day fruitlessly swatting at tiny stinging invaders.
Brexan didn’t appear to be bothered by Versen’s flailing, but she did chide him about his aroma. Without lifting her head from its place between his shoulder blades, she said ‘You smell like grettan flatulence.’
‘You have such a special way of putting things,’ he replied. ‘You really must have to beat the men away with a stick.’
‘This isn’t about me, Ox. You smell bad.’ She winced as Renna stepped over a fallen log. Maybe a bit of playful banter would lift Versen’s spirits.
‘Well, okay, I suppose I have no excuse – but look at it this way, you’ve definitely seen me at my worst. Imagine how attractive I’ll be after a day-long bath.’ As if to emphasise his point, Versen crushed a gargantuan fly, leaving a trail of blood and insect gore down his cheek. ‘Yuck.’
Brexan licked the fleshy part of her thumb and scraped the carnage from his face. ‘Make it two days and you have a deal.’
But Versen was not listening. Instead, he sat sharply upright, forcing Brexan’s head back and sending sharp bolts of pain down her already stiff neck.
Angry at first, she scolded, ‘Hey, that hurt!’ Then, worried her jesting might have injured his feelings, she added, ‘You know I was just kidding before.’
‘Do you smell that?’ Versen craned his neck forward.
‘What? Karn?’ Brexan laughed. ‘Oh yeah, he smells much worse than you. Good point. I take it all back.’
‘No, no.’ Versen was serious. ‘The breeze. Can you smell that breeze?’
Brexan inhaled deeply – then distant but clearly evident through the scents of trees and pounded mud, she caught it: the ocean.
Adrenalin coursed through Versen’s body as he sniffed the air: an onshore breeze, there was no mistaking it. Now his ears were attuned, he could hear, faintly, seabirds cawing boisterously to one another. He imagined them diving along a town wharf, battling for scraps as the fishermen cleaned and filleted their day’s catch.
‘We must be near the end of the line,’ he announced quietly.
‘That could be good or bad news; I suppose.’ Brexan, her pain momentarily forgotten, sat tall in the saddle. She looked nervously about for Haden.
‘It may be an opportunity for us,’ Versen pointed out. ‘If they wanted us dead, they would have killed us long ago. If we get near a town, we might be able to lose the almor, confuse it in a crowd-’ although even as he said it, Versen doubted it could be done. The almor would not be shaken off like a half-drunk pickpocket. Their only hope would be to escape to someplace dry, a rooftop or a tall building maybe.
Strandson had thrived since the Malakasian Navy closed down most commerce in the southern and eastern cities five generations earlier. The northernmost port on the Ravenian Sea, Strandson was the closest Ronan trade centre to Eldarn’s central markets and commercial emporia in Orindale. Although Prince Malagon’s navy kept a tight customs blockade outside the harbour, vessels carrying all manner of consumables – textiles, lumber, grain, Falkan wines and even livestock – were granted passage to the docks, where the army controlled the waterfront traffic.
There were strict rules for vessels hoping to use Strandson Harbour: blockade-ship captains ensured safe passage for legitimate trading fleets, but were quick to prevent illegal or smuggled goods docking. Smugglers’ transports were burned to the waterline; the flames could be seen as far away as the heights above the city.
This public display of Prince Malagon’s control in the Eastlands was intended to quell Ronan traders’ complaints at the consistently heavy tariffs on imported goods. Citizens of Strandson were well aware that they were better off than most other Ronan, Pragan and Falkan ports. Limited paperwork, easily bribed customs officials and well-policed roads leading east through the Ronan countryside made for prosperous businesses. Trade had expanded over the Twinmoons and merchants were used to the unwritten rules that kept the city turning like a well-oiled wheel. Agreements had been established between Strandson and Malakasia and many of the port’s businessmen had grown wealthy thanks to their symbiotic relationship with the occupation force.