‘Fine,’ Gilmour said, ‘and we’ll ride west, so mount up, quickly now.’
Kellin asked, ‘How will we know if Mark starts using the table?’
‘We’ll know,’ Gilmour said.
SNAKES
A line of Malakasian soldiers appeared in the distance, spread thin and picking their way between the trees, over fallen trunks, and around mounds of blown snow. The line looked ragged and undisciplined, like hunters driving deer. Some were only a few hundred paces off; others, those with an especially unforgiving path through the underbrush, were further away, but there was no mistaking them. However weary they appeared, they were Malakasian soldiers, and they represented an insurmountable barrier, blocking the road north and closing quickly.
Garec was first to spot them. Motioning for the others to dismount and quiet their horses, he whispered, ‘Steven, can you-?’
‘Done.’
‘It’s a company, sixty, seventy-five men,’ Garec said. ‘The line reaches all the way to the river.’
‘Where the rest of them are coming south in a rank,’ Kellin added.
‘Stay down,’ Gilmour said. ‘We want them to pass by.’
‘Should we move off the back slope of this hill?’ Brand whispered.
‘Too late now,’ Gilmour replied. ‘Just stay down; they’ll pass. We’re well hidden.’
Beneath the protection of Steven’s magical blanket, the forested foothills were a quiet haven. Garec was anxious that he might be called upon to kill again, but in the shimmering embrace of the spell he barely heard the soldiers as they closed to within a few paces. He rested his head on folded forearms. The diagonal pressure of his rosewood bow was comforting. The sun streamed through a momentary break in the clouds, colouring the forest gold and brightening the ridged wrinkles in Garec’s cloak. He watched the shadows as he listened for the telltale sounds of the soldiers moving away.
‘… Denne’s rutting bastards get the easy path -’
‘Denne’s dead.’
‘Tavon’s gone mad.’
‘Shut your mouth about her; I’m warning you.’
‘…no one out here -’
‘Forced marches -’
‘… all too sick, anyway -’
The voices faded and the sounds of crunching snow and snapping branches were soon lost as well. Garec lifted his head and watched the last of the line pick their uncomfortable way through the drifts and tangled brush. He glanced at Steven and whispered, ‘That should do it.’
Steven gestured with one hand and Garec felt the old blanket dissipate, leaving the winter chill to move back in almost immediately, reminding them all that despite the sun’s momentary appearance, the day was damp and cold.
‘That was too close for me,’ Kellin said, wishing they had been another thousand paces west. ‘What if one of the horses had whinnied?’
‘They wouldn’t have.’ Gilmour sounded certain. ‘Steven’s refined that spell.’
‘I guess he did,’ Garec said. ‘I almost fell asleep.’
‘I did a bit,’ Steven admitted. ‘I was worried about the horses too, so I intensified it some. If you almost dozed off, that means it was working.’
‘You didn’t make the sun come out, did you?’ Kellin took a wary step backwards.
‘No,’ Steven laughed, ‘that was just good timing.’
‘Where to now?’ Brand was already back in the saddle; his horse was pawing nervously at the snow, ready, like its master, to get moving again.
‘The first farm we come across,’ Gilmour said. ‘Something else: I’m worried that we came upon these fellows with no warning from Gabriel O’Reilly.’
‘Probably not good news,’ Steven agreed.
‘We’ll post a sentry near the river,’ Gilmour went on, ‘and wait for Mark to bring the battalion back into Wellham Ridge. When he does, Steven and I will return for the spell table. We’ll have five days to retrieve it so we can join Mrs Sorenson right on schedule.’
‘And if Mark doesn’t come back by then?’ Brand asked.
‘Then we’ll take the far portal to the table,’ Steven said. ‘At the right time, we’ll open the port there and push the table through to Colorado.’ He scratched at his whiskers and added, ‘or wherever she is these days.’
‘That’s assuming Mark leaves the artefact in the forest,’ Kellin reminded them.
‘Let’s try not to think about that possibility.’ Garec mounted up.
‘Good idea,’ Steven agreed and started north along the ridge.
‘Captain Hershaw! Captain Hershaw!’ the soldiers milling around the broken pieces of the Larion spell table called.
Hershaw, freezing cold and nearly dropping from the saddle with fatigue, rode through the trees. He winced when a sapling slapped him across the cheek. His eyes filled with tears and he cursed, a string of incendiary obscenity that he hoped would reach all the way to Welstar Palace to Prince Malagon’s own ear. ‘What is it?’ he finally managed through clenched teeth.
‘Sir!’ A flushed and trembling private with damp, matted hair snapped to attention. The others with him mimicked the gesture. ‘Sir, we found something, sir.’
Hershaw felt a nauseating wave of fear as he looked down on the shattered remains of the spell table. He sucked up several deep breaths and waited for his stomach to calm. Finally, he said, ‘Good work, boys. Have Sergeant Vanner find Lieutenant- excuse me, Captain Blackford. He’ll be out near the river. Ask him to join me here immediately.’
‘Yes sir!’ The private saluted and hurried off.
‘The rest of you-’
‘Sir!’ they answered in unison.
‘-bring Sergeant Bota to me, and get your squad prepared. I want you to make a fire, prepare some tecan and eat what stores you can find.’ Hershaw checked the trail of broken snow leading west into the foothills. ‘They’re riding, but from the looks of those tracks, they aren’t moving very quickly. Be ready to travel in a quarter-aven; Bota will accompany you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The soldiers moved away, gathering what dry wood they could find.
Hershaw watched Major Tavon and Captain Blackford approach from the river. The major was grinning unpleasantly. Alone beside the fractured spell table, Hershaw flashed back to Denne, his colleague, his friend, and the massive injuries dealt him by their frail-looking commander.
Major Tavon drew alongside. Ignoring both men, she growled, a frustrated sigh that rattled disconcertingly at the back of her throat.
‘Steven,’ she whispered, ‘I am going to gut you, Steven!’
Neither Hershaw nor Blackford dared to breathe; both awaited imminent death.
‘Blackford!’ Major Tavon’s voice was like a demon’s, an otherworldly rumble that seeped into Captain Hershaw’s bones. He was glad the major had chosen Blackford first, but he didn’t fool himself into believing he was at all safe in the woman’s company.
‘Ma’am?’ It was all Blackford could manage to squeak out.
‘Make camp near the river, rope up those pieces and drag them over there. I will examine them after the dinner aven.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Given a reprieve, Blackford scrambled to dismount, rooted in his saddlebags and withdrew a coil of slim but strong rope.
Major Tavon turned to Hershaw. ‘Captain, you’ve ordered them followed?’
Hershaw swallowed hard. ‘Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Bota’s squad will be ready to march in a quarter-aven.’
‘Excellent. Be certain Bota knows not to engage them. I simply wish to know where they are.’
‘Understood, ma’am.’ Captain Hershaw looked forward to escaping back to the relative protection of his company, but as he wrenched his horse’s head around, he saw Blackford, hurrying to affix the looped end of his rope to one of the granite shards, slip in the snow.
Blackford reached out with his free hand to break his fall, embarrassed to have tripped so clumsily in front of his fellow officers, Major Tavon especially, but before his outstretched hand came to rest on the ground, he struck something hard and sharp that wrenched his head back and left a bloody gash on his forehead.
‘Rutting horsecocks!’ Captain Blackford shouted, pressing a hand to his forehead. ‘What in the Northern Forest was that? I broke my whoring-’