‘What’s that?’ Mark said.
‘What?’ Garec stammered, ‘nothing- well, it’s just that I wish you would reconsider this decision.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It doesn’t make anything better. You realise that.’ This last was a statement.
‘I have to learn my own lessons, Garec – I always have. I don’t want you to feel badly for me. We’re friends, and I appreciate you helping, but this is something I have to do.’
Garec couldn’t stand it any longer; he needed Mark to move, to see the shavings piled around Mark’s ankles were not going to solidify and drink him bodily back into some wooden womb.
He blurted out the first thing that came to mind: ‘Why don’t you set that aside for now and we’ll go and find a deer?’
‘You’re going to help me kill a deer?’ Mark raised an eyebrow, his knife stilled in his lap.
‘Sure.’ Garec started to sweat, but he knew what had to be done. ‘Someone has to teach you, or gods rest us, we’ll all end up with arrows in our backsides.’
Mark stood up, his boots breaking free of the pile of wood off-cuts; Garec inwardly sighed in relief and gathered up his quivers.
Steven, sitting nearby mending a tear in his leggings, called after them, ‘I like mine medium-well, with onions, tomatoes, mayo and pickles.’
‘Pickles?’ Mark called back. ‘Yuk! Would you like fries with that, too?’
‘And a beer!’ Steven laughed and tossed a log on their fire as Mark and Garec disappeared into the trees. He looked around for Gilmour, who was making his way towards the camp; he’d been scouting ahead, trying to work out how far they’d travelled since leaving the fjord. Steven had a sense it was a good long way. Gilmour insisted that they ride at night. They had left the fjord the night Mark killed the Seron warriors – Steven thought of it as murder, but every time he tried to broach the topic, Mark shot him a withering glance that said, you have no idea how I have suffered or how I still suffer, so back off. And Steven had. While Mark slept, comforted by Gilmour’s spell, the others packed hastily, needing to be away before any other Seron arrived. Then they’d awakened Mark and climbed out of the fjord, an easier journey than Steven had expected, even in the darkness.
They needed horses, and luck or fate had provided: a farmer who had a small homestead nestled in the hills had directed the travellers to a much larger farm less than a day’s march away, where Garec bartered with a singularly disagreeable woman for four sturdy horses and saddlery. They paid too much, but with all of Central Falkan to cross, they were not in much of a position to complain.
At Gilmour’s insistence, they were back in the saddle after nightfall. The old man galloped in front of the others, his cloak billowing out behind, and as he passed, Steven felt the hickory staff’s magic, first as a faint prickle, then there in full force, wrapping him in a protective layer, as if it sensed something about to happen. But nothing attacked them, and Gilmour didn’t lead them headlong over a cliff or into a lurking rank of homicidal wraiths. Steven, ready to shout out a warning at any moment, waited, wondering why the magic had suddenly sparked into life Then he noticed the plain… There was nothing special about the ground beneath his horse’s hoofs, nor did they seem to be moving unnaturally fast, but out beyond his field of view, the earth and sky had melted into one to form a blurry black backdrop: the world was moving past them faster than Steven had at first realised. He was glad Gilmour had ordered the night ride across Falkan, for it was very disconcerting, but at least the trip to the border between Falkan and Gorsk wouldn’t take long.
He was disappointed they wouldn’t see more of the vast and fertile Falkan Plain, for this huge area of rich arable soil provided fruit and vegetables for most of the Eastlands, as well as fine grazing for a wide variety of livestock. Farms abounded, and every town, no matter how small, had its daily market filled with local farmers selling or trading the autumn harvest. Winter was on its way and everyone was busy storing food for the leaner times ahead.
Steven didn’t fool himself into thinking he had discovered a Utopian corner of Eldarn: it was plain the farmers here were not exactly revelling in lives of excess, any more than the dockers and townsfolk in Orindale. There was food as far as he could see, and the people of central Falkan ought to have looked much healthier, but most were thin, many to the point of gauntness, and clothes, though usually neat, were patched and mended. He didn’t have to ask Garec to confirm that much of what had been harvested was earmarked for Malagon’s occupation forces. This picturesque village, set amongst fertile fields and grassy meadows and heavy with the mouth-watering aromas of grilled meat, tecan and rich cheeses, was filled with sorrow and want.
These people needed someone to organise them: they needed to be educated about what could be possible if they only cut the head off the serpent – in this case, Nerak. Steven couldn’t believe they hadn’t already risen up together in defiance – everything here in Eldarn cried out for just that: revolution.
He started thinking about Garec’s vision – Garec was certain he had witnessed a last-moment attempt to carry on the Ronan line, a grim coupling of a servant girl and a madman. Was that what they were supposed to do? Find that offspring and ensure he or she ascended to power and restored peace and prosperity to Eldarn? The breadth of what needed to be done overwhelmed him and he threw up his hands in frustration.
‘First things first, Steven,’ he told himself firmly, ‘save the world now. Fix it later.’ He tried not to be disheartened by what he was seeing: rich, dark soil tilled by starving people who no longer cared, for their crops were going to the enemy.
As Gilmour approached through the trees, Steven wondered how the old man was planning to bring prosperity to Eldarn – always assuming they survived the coming battle with Nerak, of course.
‘You look deep in thought.’ Gilmour sat down.
‘There is so much to do.’
The old man chuckled. ‘Just realising that now, are you?’
‘You know what I mean,’ Steven said.
‘I do. I’ve been telling myself that for thousands of Twinmoons. I guess I know as well as anyone what has to happen for these lands to prosper.’
‘But we have to save them first.’ Steven fought an almost overwhelming feeling of despondency. He decided to change the subject. ‘I’m worried about Mark.’
‘Mark will be fine.’
‘He’s going to get himself killed.’
‘Mark needs time – perhaps more time than we can give him – but there’s nothing else that will ease his suffering right now. When you have lived as long and seen as much as I have, Steven, there are a few things you know, and one of them is that time can heal a wagonload of pain and suffering.’
Steven nodded. There was a long comfortable silence between them. Eventually, he gestured towards Gilmour’s hands, lean and strong now, no longer the gnarled, arthritic hands of the old fisherman. ‘You’ve made some improvements, I see.’
Gilmour turned his hands over and flexed his fingers. ‘You noticed. I tightened a few cords, improved some muscle tone and-’ he pointed two fingers at his eyes, ‘-sharpened my eyesight a notch or two.’
‘It’s amazing. I still can’t get used to the fact that you can work such wonders.’
‘You’ve done some wondrous things yourself, Steven,’ Gilmour countered. ‘You staved off an almor. No one has done that in thousands of Twinmoons. You fought a wraith army, saved Garec – twice – and saved the rest of us from the Seron that night in the foothills, and from what I understand you did quite a decent job of blowing up that bone-collector there in the cavern.’