‘So, the Port Denis spell was-’ She was fascinated and horrified at the same time.
‘Like getting hit in the stomach with a log.’ He considered this analogy for a moment, then added, ‘I felt it in my bone marrow, like a disease that strikes in an instant, every symptom, every pain, all condensed into one blast, and then passes just as quickly as it came. You might live for a long time afterwards, but those few moments will stay with you for ever.
‘But now the sun is coming up. We need to get away from here before the locals discover that they can’t quite remember what my house used to look like.’ And with that, Alen of Middle Fork hiked his pack higher on his back and left his home of over nine hundred Twinmoons without a second glance.
Hannah followed, oblivious to the large dog, a wolfhound, maybe, that slipped out of the shadows and kept pace behind her as she trudged through the Middle Fork mud.
Hannah was about to lose her temper. Alen was still inside the store, and it was beginning to look as if Hoyt and Churn were going to sort out Churn’s phobia in an unpleasantly physical fashion.
She started to pound Hoyt’s back, shouting ‘Shut up, shut upl’ until, in surprise, the two men fell silent.
‘Thank you,’ she said grimly. ‘You’re worse than bloody children! Now, listen: I’ve had an idea.’
‘That we club him over the head and strap him to the saddle like a late-autumn deer?’ Hoyt muttered. ‘Excellent notion, Hannah, very creative. I agree wholeheartedly.’ Hoyt grinned then, and winked at Churn, who signed something he obviously didn’t feel comfortable translating.
‘I said shut up and listen,’ Hannah said firmly. ‘Hand me that axe.’
Ah, even better,’ Hoyt said as he tugged the weapon from Churn’s saddlebag and passed it over. ‘Let’s just cut his head off. And you need not worry about getting messy. I’ll carry it in my bag.’
Churn cuffed Hoyt on the back of his head, nearly knocking him to the ground.
‘Rutting lords,’ Hoyt protested, ‘not so hard.’
Hannah glared and the two of them looked chastened. ‘Sadly, it’s nothing that grisly – although I could always change my mind. I’ll be right back.’
As she walked off into the woods behind the mercantile, Alen came out carrying several bulky canvas bags. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘divide this lot between the horses. If we run out of room, let me know and I’ll take care of it.’
‘Right,’ Churn signed and moved off towards the tree they had been using as a hitching post.
Hoyt turned to Alen. ‘You know we can’t travel north along the road; we’ll have to go through the forest.’
‘Have you used that route before?’ Alen asked.
Hoyt had travelled to many places, and had seen more strange and wonderful things than most people imagined existed. Work and study had taken him to the distant corners of Eldarn: he had run, crawled, or fought his way out of trouble in as many cities in the Eastlands as any Ronan or Falkan partisan – but he had never travelled through the forest of ghosts. He had always believed that he would have to be fleeing for his life before he entered those enchanted woods. He sighed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t. I hear it’s terrible. I guess I’m about to find out?’
‘It can be,’ Alen said unhelpfully, ‘but there are some who pass through with no trouble at all.’ He didn’t sound convinced that their passage would be easy. He looked around and shrugged. ‘You’re right, of course, we can’t use this road, and if we try any of the mountain routes we’ll certainly encounter border guards.’
And I would just as soon not have to fight our way into Malakasia – bad enough we’ll most likely have to fight our way out once we get there.’
And if we do get away, we will need to find a place to-’
Hoyt interrupted, ‘If we do get away, we will need to come up with a good story as to why we went in at all, because we both know creeping around under cover of darkness is something people do to get out of Welstar Palace, not in. If we get back to Southport alive, Branag and the boys’ll never let me forget this one. A bad idea, my old friend, this is a very bad idea.’
‘You’ll be fine; I’m certain of it.’
And you? And Hannah and Churn?’ Hoyt asked.
‘If we do things right, we’ll all get what we need from this journey,’ Alen said reassuringly.
‘That’s cryptic. Am I supposed to be just fine with the idea that you want to kill yourself?’ Hoyt asked. ‘Still thinking you lived too long?’
‘I have lived too long, Hoyt, let there be no mistake about that, and I will welcome death when it comes looking for me. But if Nerak is gone from Welstar Palace and his magicians have stopped their search for me, I would like a chance to get in there and – while sending Hannah home – disturb things a bit.’
‘ Disturb? Odd choice of words.’
‘It’s the best I can come up with.’ Though he sounded lighthearted, Hoyt recognised that he was deadly serious. ‘Nerak has a team of magicians in there, powerful magicians, who would – should – have been Larion Senators. I want them dead. They have been serving evil for so long, and if I have a chance to break down their operation, I will.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘There was something else after that, wasn’t there? Something you left out?’
‘He has a daughter too.’ Anger washed over Alen’s face, masking for a moment his pain, loneliness and loss. ‘I have waited my whole life for this.’
‘Have you?’ Hoyt pressed. ‘I thought you never killed yourself because Lessek wouldn’t let you.’
‘Perhaps. And your point?’
‘You think this is why he forced you to keep living all this time – to go to Welstar Palace and kill Malagon’s daughter?’
‘No-’ Alen started, but stopped as Hannah appeared with a solid length of wood in one hand and Churn’s axe in the other.
She smiled at them. ‘My idea: If Churn sits in the saddle and uses this stick to keep in contact with the ground… well, maybe he won’t struggle so much with the height.’ Neither man answered; worry creased Hannah’s forehead. ‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously.
Alen looked at Hoyt, his countenance grim, and finished his sentence. No. There is something else.’
‘What was that?’ Hannah joined them ‘Is something wrong?’
Hoyt smiled at her. No, no. Things are fine and I bet you’re right. If we can get that hulking tree-trunk in the saddle without killing him or his horse, I bet this stick idea will work.’
CHICAGO CREEK ROAD
‘Nerak, you sonofabitch!’ Steven shouted at the empty lot, ‘did you have to flatten my house?’ He was turning in circles, one way and the other, trying to take in the enormity of what had happened to 147 Tenth Street.
To the right, Dave and Cindy Siegfried’s yellow-sided, split-level place sat quietly against the hillside as usual. Their cars were missing from the driveway; Steven assumed they were already at work, unharmed and completely unaware of the Eldarni dictator’s foul presence in the Rocky Mountain foothills.
The morning sun reflected off the recent snow, almost blinding Steven as he paced furiously. His gaze fell on the winter-thin hedgerow that separated 147 Tenth from the corner of Tenth and Virginia and his attention shifted: without the end wall of the front room, here was a completely different view of Idaho Springs. Down there were Abe’s Liquor Store, the 24-hour convenience place, and the ten-minute Oil amp; Lube he ignored until his car was four or five thousand miles late for a change.
He shuddered, an involuntary response to the chilly air against the layer of sweat that had broken out on his face and neck, then realised it was something more. He felt the familiar crackle of magic, the hickory staff’s magic, as it rippled across his shoulders, between his ribs and down his thighs into his very bones.