'So the fate of the world rests in the serendipitous discovery of a few wrinkled sheets of parchment?'

Brynne smiled. 'It sounds almost as silly as betting the future of all humankind on the propensity of a bank manager to grow curious and steal a tapestry and an innocent-looking rock.'

Steven feigned offence. 'Assistant manager you overestimate my skills and I did manager you overestimate my skills and I did not not steal them.' steal them.'

Mark rose and started towards the trapper's pantry. 'Anyone want more of this dried fruit? I like these orange ones particularly. What are they, Garec?'

'Tempine.'

'Tempine. Those are my favourites.' Mark reached for the pantry door when suddenly he collapsed to his knees with a startled cry. Clamping his hands over his ears, he shouted, 'Damnit, Gabriel, not so loud!'

The others sprang to their feet, toppling chairs and spilling wine.

'What it is?' Garec had instinctively reached for his bow. 'Mark, are you okay?'

Across the room, Lahp was awake and already crouched low to the ground, his weapons drawn. 'Sten talk Lahp!' he asked.

'I don't know yet, Lahp,' Steven said calmly, keeping his eyes fixed on Mark. His face was damp with sweat and his eyes wide. 'Mark,' Steven said, 'you have to tell us what's going on. What do you need?'

'Wraiths,' Mark whispered, and turned to Brynne. 'Hundreds of them, like Gabriel O'Reilly, only they're not on our side.' He hugged Brynne close. 'They're really really not on our side! They're hunting us. They've already killed the trapper.' not on our side! They're hunting us. They've already killed the trapper.'

'Sallax?' Brynne asked, afraid to hear the answer, but scared not to know the truth.

Mark closed his eyes and turned his thoughts inward again for a few moments before saying, 'Gabriel doesn't know. He came directly here after finding the trapper's body out near the river. He saw them moving through the trees and along a ridge downstream from here.'

Mark's words struck a chord with Garec. 'I've seen that too.'

'Seen what?' Brynne asked, adjusting sundry weapons at her belt.

'On Seer's Peak.' Now Garec understood why Gilmour had forced him to go over and over the details of his vision that morning. He would never forget those images. 'Lessek sent me a dream. I thought it was the forbidden forest near Riverend, and I saw hundreds of wraiths moving between the trees. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn't Estrad.'

'That can't be a coincidence.' Steven held the hickory staff, unaware that he had retrieved it from the corner near the hallway. Maybe it really did just appear in his hands when he needed it that would be a useful attribute, if it were true. So far he couldn't feel it giving him any direction; it felt more like he he were calling up the magic, instead of simply acting as a conduit for its power. He remembered the lodge pine in the Blackstones, the tree he had so casually brought down with one swipe, and wondered if he would be able to summon the staff's power like that again. were calling up the magic, instead of simply acting as a conduit for its power. He remembered the lodge pine in the Blackstones, the tree he had so casually brought down with one swipe, and wondered if he would be able to summon the staff's power like that again.

'Tell us about it again, quickly,' he said to Garec. 'Maybe your vision will give us inspiration on how to fight the bloody things. Do you remember how you killed them?'

'I didn't.' Garec closed his eyes in an effort to recall more clearly, but try as he might, he couldn't rid his mind of the image of Gilmour's dead body, that of an old, old man, no Larion magic left in that paper-thin, brittle bag of skin. How could they win? How could they possibly have imagined they had any chance against Nerak? He wiped a hand across his forehead and opened his eyes to find everyone staring hopefully at him.

'I can't remember anything else,' he admitted. 'The land was dying. The Estrad River ran dry and the fields were parched and cracked-' like the skin of a dead Larion sorcerer like the skin of a dead Larion sorcerer. 'I saw wraiths moving through the forbidden forest. I think they were hunting for something or someone.'

'So that's it then,' Mark said. 'It was a look into the future. They're here now and they're hunting us us.'

Brynne interrupted suddenly, 'Mark, ask Gabriel if they have a weakness. Can we kill them? There must be something something we can do.' we can do.'

Again Mark turned his thoughts inward, but when he spoke to the group again, his words cast a pall over the tiny cabin. 'No. Only Steven and Garec can battle them. The rest of us will be killed at first contact.'

'How can I I fight them?' Garec demanded in desperation. 'I have no magic.' fight them?' Garec demanded in desperation. 'I have no magic.'

'I don't know, Garec,' Mark replied. 'Gabriel's gone into the forest.' He reached for Brynne's hand. 'He will be back to warn us before the wraith army arrives.'

Garec paced back and forth across the cabin floor, sweating freely, until he stripped off his quivers and pulled his wool tunic over his head, tossing it into the corner. 'I won't be needing this again,' he said, a note of finality in his voice. Standing before them in his thin cotton shirt, he looked vulnerable, already lost. Mark tried to say something to build the younger man's confidence, but nothing came to mind. Garec would fight to the best of his ability, and that meant firing arrows. Sallax had nicknamed him the Bringer of Death, but now, death was coming for him. It was time to atone.

'How ironic,' Garec announced, as if reading Mark's mind, 'I will fight my last battle against an enemy who can't be turned by the one weapon I bring to the field.' He thought again of Gilmour, and how much he had admired the Larion Senator, even before he knew his true history. Garec had aspired to do great things for Rona, but would not have time; the best he could hope for would be to die well, protecting his friends from the coming evil. He expected to be joining Gilmour in the next few avens.

Lahp, still crouching near his bedroll, watched Garec with great interest, before demanding, 'Sten talk Lahp.' He pounded a hairy fist against the plank floor to encourage Steven to respond.

'Lahp, I need you to stay here with Mark and Brynne.' Steven motioned towards the centre of the room. 'I need you to stay low and keep your head down until the fight is done.'

Lahp looked at Steven as if he had just asked him to build a suspension bridge over the Danube River. 'Lahp hep Sten.' He nodded vigorously. 'Lahp na floor.'

'You can't fight these wraiths, Lahp,' Steven tried to explain. He still had no real idea how much the Seron understood. 'They are ghosts. They can pass right through you, and kill you from the inside.'

'Malagon.'

'Yes, Malagon sent them. They are here for the same talisman you were sent to find.'

'Lessek's.'

'Yes, Lessek's Key. We don't have it.'

'Ha!' Lahp laughed, and Steven did too, surprised the Seron understood the concept of irony.

'But I do need you to be here on the floor, where I may be able to keep them from getting to you.'

'Na, na.' Lahp shook his head and smiled a toothy wet grin. 'Lahp hep Sten.'

'You will die die, Lahp, if you fight these creatures on your own.'

The Seron warrior stood slowly, crossed the floor and slapped a fist against his breast. He didn't need to say anything. They all understood that Lahp was ready to die there, on that oak and pine plank battlefield.

'Lahp hep Sten.'

Steven nodded. He had no idea what he had done to earn the Seron's loyalty. He turned the staff over, feeling its wood warm against his palms, and looked up to find Mark gazing at him.

In English, his friend said, 'This is it. This will be the test of your compassion.'

Forcing a grin, Steven replied, 'Thanks for the vote of confidence.'

'Hey, I'm not joking! I've no bloody idea how you fight these things, with compassion or with swords ...' His voice faltered as he felt their final minutes ticking by. 'Tell me you know what you're doing.'

'I don't.' Steven reached for the wine and took a long swallow, but his mouth still felt dry. Switching back to Ronan, he urged Mark and Brynne to move to the floor at his feet. 'If I can keep them off you, I will.'

'I know,' Mark said quietly.

Steven watched as Lahp drew an array of weapons from his pack: daggers, a battle-axe, a short sword and several hunting knives, all weapons that required their wielder to look each victim in the eye. Despite the Seron's confidence, Steven knew Lahp would fall quickly to the wraiths and he couldn't risk Mark or Brynne to save Lahp. The Seron had made his choice and Steven would honour it, however much he might wish to stop him.

If he lost his concentration they might all perish. It wasn't going to be easy, watching Lahp die, but he had to remain focused on the task at hand. How brave of the warrior to share this battle, because he would not allow him and Garec to fight alone.

Then an idea began forming in Steven's mind. Sharing. They had to share the fight. Could they share the magic? The power of the staff would dispatch Malagon's wraiths, of that, Steven was confident. But could the power be shared?

'They're coming,' Mark interrupted his thoughts. He crouched on the floor at Steven's feet. 'They're just outside the cabin on the hill, but moving this way.'

'No, wait; I need more time,' Steven protested. 'I think I've got it, but I just need more time.'

'We don't have any time.' Garec was pale and his face ran with sweat, but his hands were steady as he drew two arrows from each quiver and stabbed them into the wood floor for quicker access.

'Yes we do, Garec.' Steven had put the pieces together quickly; now he had to see if it would work. 'Turn around,' he ordered, 'quickly now.' Garec gave him a curious look, but turned his back. Steven concentrated his will into the staff. He felt Garec's fear and insecurity and called upon his own determination to help the bowman succeed in the coming fight. The staff flared to life and Steven felt its familiar heat burning through his fingers. With one end of the shaft, Steven brushed the quivers Garec wore high on his back.

'Lords,' Garec exclaimed, 'what was that?'

Steven didn't answer, but as Garec turned back towards him, it was clear he understood.

'Yes,' Garec whispered. 'I can feel it.' He hesitated, then asked, 'Should you do the bow as well?'

'I don't know, but let's be safe, anyway.' As Steven brushed the staff along the rosewood longbow the younger man's countenance slowly changed from despair to determination.

The Bringer of Death. Garec's eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. He began drawing arrows by the score and jamming them, fletching up, in between cracks in the plank floor: ten by the window, ten in the corner, ten near the fireplace. It was close quarters, almost too close, but with a short draw he could still send shafts out quickly and accurately. Garec's eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened. He began drawing arrows by the score and jamming them, fletching up, in between cracks in the plank floor: ten by the window, ten in the corner, ten near the fireplace. It was close quarters, almost too close, but with a short draw he could still send shafts out quickly and accurately.

'Let them come,' he said stabbing the last of his arrows into a wide wooden plank near the hallway. 'This is going to work. This is what Lessek wanted me to know. It isn't that I I was atop Seer's Peak; it's that was atop Seer's Peak; it's that we we were there together.' were there together.'

'Yes,' Steven felt his confidence rise. 'Bring 'em on.' He was surprised that he was not more afraid. He had expected to find his limbs stiff with fear and his mind unable to focus, but he had channelled that fear, sublimated it into his determination to win, to fight with grace and speed, and to kill with compassion but without hesitation. He remembered sneaking out through the back window of Owen's Pub one night to avoid a fight with a drunk, a lifetime ago. Now he was up against an army of homicidal wraiths; any one might kill him with a touch, but he was not afraid.

'I will see you again, Nerak,' he whispered. 'If you harm Hannah, Mark, Brynne, Garec or Lahp, I will make sure you pay, a thousand times over.' He caught the young bowman's eye and said more loudly, 'Good luck.'

'To you, too,' Garec replied.

Then the wraiths were upon them.

THE WRAITHS.

Eldarn's twin moons rose at nearly opposite poles, north to south, and the result was a calm sea with minimal tides. A light southwesterly wind blew the Malakasian schooner, the Falkan Dancer Falkan Dancer north along the Ronan coast; the sheets snapped taut with each intermittent gust that bounced out-of-phase off Pragan cliffs far to the west. In the dim light of the southern moon, Carpello Jax, the corpulent merchant with the bulbous mole on his face, argued with Karn and Rala about the fate of the two captives chained securely below. Carpello had no wish to arrive in Orindale without Prince Malagon's talisman and was endeavouring to convince the Seron to kill their prisoners before reaching port. He believed the dark prince would be more forgiving if the prisoners died trying to escape. Arriving with two living captives who simply refused to disclose the whereabouts of the key would make them all look weak, and the Falkan businessman had no wish to appear weak before his prince. north along the Ronan coast; the sheets snapped taut with each intermittent gust that bounced out-of-phase off Pragan cliffs far to the west. In the dim light of the southern moon, Carpello Jax, the corpulent merchant with the bulbous mole on his face, argued with Karn and Rala about the fate of the two captives chained securely below. Carpello had no wish to arrive in Orindale without Prince Malagon's talisman and was endeavouring to convince the Seron to kill their prisoners before reaching port. He believed the dark prince would be more forgiving if the prisoners died trying to escape. Arriving with two living captives who simply refused to disclose the whereabouts of the key would make them all look weak, and the Falkan businessman had no wish to appear weak before his prince.

Karn and Rala disagreed. If Lahp and the rest of their platoon had failed to find the key, and had killed the remaining members of Gilmour's company, these two would be their only hope. The prisoners would be kept alive until Prince Malagon decided what to do with them.

'You have an excuse,' Carpello argued coldly. 'He already possesses your souls.' The puffy-faced ship owner held an ornate silk handkerchief beneath his nose and prayed for a stronger breeze to blow the rancid stench of the Seron out to sea. 'My soul is another story, and I do not intend to forfeit it to your master.' soul is another story, and I do not intend to forfeit it to your master.'

'Na.' Rala was firm. 'Two live Orindale.'

Karn nodded in agreement.

'Then I suggest we step up our interrogation efforts, my disgusting friends. We have plenty of time between here and Orindale to convince them to talk.'

Karn nodded again. He was in favour of that, at least.

While the question of their continued survival was being discussed above deck, Versen and Brexan discussed their own options. Brexan guessed they were in line for a brutal interrogation. 'They can't go back to Malakasia empty-handed,' she said. 'And I'm quite sure that if your friends managed to escape from that horsecock Lahp, we've a tough time ahead of us.' They had no idea that a half aven after they had been escorted from the base of Seer's Peak, a grettan herd had torn through Lahp's platoon, scattering or killing the last of that group in a maelstrom of deadly claws and teeth.

Versen sighed. 'I'm afraid you're right. Apart from using an almor to stop us escaping, our treatment has been pretty fair, really. We're still a long way from Orindale, but sooner or later they'll decide they're bored with our silence.'

They were chained by their wrists to support beams and sat across from one another, their lower legs touching in the middle of the narrow cabin. There was no natural light and the perpetual dark weighed heavily on them. Versen had never properly appreciated the power of another's touch; now he ached for more prolonged contact with the young woman seated so near and yet so far from him. Being able to feel each other's feet was the only comfort they had, and neither commented on it. Instead, it became an understanding between them: do not pull back. This is about us, and we will get through this together. Now, we have touch do not pull back. This is about us, and we will get through this together. Now, we have touch.

They sat for days. Sometimes Brexan cried, weeping almost silently into the sleeve of her tunic. When Versen heard her trying to choke back sobs, he racked his memory for off-colour jokes in an effort to raise her spirits. When the woodsman's hope waned, Brexan regaled him with only slightly embellished tales of her training. Together, they kept each other sane.

The only light in the cabin came when one of the three Seron appeared in the doorway to hand over bowls of the oat and herb mush and to empty their shared chamber pot. With that done, the door would close again almost immediately. In those few moments, Brexan and Versen would squint across at each other, each starving for a clear glimpse, each knowing it would be avens before they saw one another again. Versen's mind raced every time light flooded the room: was she getting thinner? Did she look sick? Was her face still swollen? As the door swung closed, Versen invariably reached the same conclusion: despite the dirt and grime, she was lovely, a sight to preserve his will to live and his determination to fight back. Her image was indelibly etched in his mind's eye.

Despite the extreme discomfort, it took several days for Versen to work out that he could reposition himself. He found the chains holding him fast to the ship's hull were just long enough to allow him to turn over onto his back. Squatting low against the wall, he stepped over the length of chain holding his left wrist in place. With that accomplished, he pivoted his weight around, crossed his arms and lay backwards on the deck with his feet pressed against the bulkhead.

When his head came in contact with Brexan's feet, she yelped, 'Rutters! What is is that?' and lashed out, catching him a glancing blow on his temple. that?' and lashed out, catching him a glancing blow on his temple.

'Stop it, Brexan,' he pleaded quietly, 'it's just me. I've managed to turn around.' He talked her through the same steps and when her head fell gently alongside his, he took a moment to bury his face in her hair. 'Glad you could join me,' he said, trying for glib but instead sounding almost boyish in his nervousness.

'Never mind that,' she interrupted urgently, 'just get over here.'

His heart thumped beneath his ribcage as he sidled awkwardly across the floor on his back and shoulders.

Their faces met in the darkness, and when he rested his cheek against hers, Versen realised it was the greatest comfort he had ever known. Later, drifting into unconsciousness, his head tilted away from Brexan's slightly, and the Malakasian soldier commanded, 'Get back here.' Her voice breaking, she added, 'Back here with me, please.'

Versen shifted his weight, propped his head up on her shoulder and allowed his face to fall back against hers. This time Brexan turned and kissed him gently on the lips. He breathed in her aroma and fell asleep nestled against her, dreaming they were walking together among the rolling hills outside Estrad Village.

The first wraiths materialised inside the cabin like the beginnings of a dream. Falling like cascading water through the roof, emerging between loose planks, the ghostly figures began to take shape before their eyes. The hickory staff felt alive in Steven's hands, charged with the fury of powerful magic. But would it have enough strength to defeat this army? He bit on his lower lip to steady his nerves. Beside him, Garec had an arrow drawn and trained, while Lahp was crouched low to the ground, weapons in both hands, and ready to spring into the morass of spectres at any moment.

Surprising himself, Steven said loudly, 'Leave now and you may return to Malakasia.' The facial features on several of the wraiths came slowly into focus and Steven knew they understood him. 'Fight, and I will send you all back into the Fold.'

Would he? He hoped so. It sounded like an appropriate threat, given the circumstances. Seeing them hesitate, he went on, 'I have already killed the almor. You do not frighten me.'

With that, the wraiths inside the cabin charged, moving as one towards Steven, their spectral mouths agape in a silent scream, like the echo of a suicidal cry from the edge of a cliff. Steven countered. He stepped forward, imagining Hannah trapped somewhere in the bowels of Welstar Palace, calling out to him in terror. 'Come and get me,' he challenged the wraiths, and slashed at the forward-most attacker. It had once been a woman. As the staff tore through the translucent head and shoulders, he saw a look of intense pain pass over the spirit's shadowy face. This would would work, but he had to be quick if he was going to keep them off his friends. work, but he had to be quick if he was going to keep them off his friends.

Steven swung the staff about his head like a broadsword, scattering scores of spirits, tearing them asunder. As before, he felt time shift slightly, and no matter where the attack originated the walls, the ceiling, even the floor beneath his feet he found there was enough time to ready himself and to strike. Magic burst from the staff; he could smell it in the room, the ozone aftermath of a lightning strike.

Steven breathed the whole experience in like a life-giving drug. This was repayment for all the years he had let others make his decisions because his will was weak, Slash! Slash! For all the opportunities he missed, because he would not speak up for himself, For all the opportunities he missed, because he would not speak up for himself, Slash! Slash! For the lifetime he had spent hiding in the shadows, For the lifetime he had spent hiding in the shadows, Slash! Slash! Life was terrifying, but this was more terrifying. Life was terrifying, but this was more terrifying. Slash! Slash! Death was in the room with him, and he screamed in its face: Death was in the room with him, and he screamed in its face: Slash! Slash!

'More!' he finally cried at the top of his lungs, 'send me more. Send them faster, Nerak, you weak-willed fucker!' He danced on his toes, leaping forward and back, spinning to strike at the strange spirit soldiers above and behind him. One spectre emerged from the floor at his feet and he stomped it out with the staff as if he were punctuating a declaration with a hickory cane.

This was what his whole life had been leading up to, and Steven realised he would not trade one day of his twenty-eight years to be anywhere else, to be anyone else. else.

Periodically, one of the ghostly creatures would make an audible sound as it was ripped apart, a low-pitched groan that Mark could feel in his abdomen; he wondered whether the foundations of the cabin were about to open and drop them all into a hellish Eldarni abyss. He clutched Brynne to his chest, not just for comfort, but to ensure she stayed down, where she could be protected.

Whenever he relaxed his grip, even slightly, Brynne tried to slash at the wraiths attacking from overhead, until one passed very close to her outstretched arm and Steven barely managed to bring the staff around in time to ward the spirit off. Brynne felt the wraith's energy bridge the narrow gap separating them and pulled her arm back to her side, shaking. She sheathed her hunting knife and cowered next to Mark. 'That was too close,' she whispered, still shuddering with fear. 'You win. I'll stay down.'

Holding Brynne's hands for both their comfort, Mark peered over at Garec. Despite his fear that they would be overwhelmed at any moment, Mark watched the bowman in wonder. Garec was a thing of beauty, a true killing machine. He used his arrows sparingly at first as the wraiths focused their fury on Steven, but as more and more of the spirit intruders attacked, he intensified his retaliation. Concentrating his fire on the wraiths as they entered the cabin, Garec's arrows, imbued with the power of Steven's staff, took out scores of ghostly assailants. Howling in surprise, shocked that traditional weaponry could affect them, the ghosts flew into a rage and pressed the bowman from all sides.

Seeing them come, Garec fired twice with blinding speed then dived to the right, rolling against the wall and springing to his feet, swinging the bow like a club at his remaining attackers. He screamed thanks to Steven and the gods of the Northern Forest when he discovered he could use the bow like the determined foreigner was wielding the hickory staff, and three more wraiths fell beneath his deadly swipes.

One slow-moving spirit passed by and Garec hesitated an instant before striking it down. It looked like a man, a normal man, someone who might work for a merchant, or maybe a farmer. If Gabriel O'Reilly was right, each warrior ghost was once an Eldarni citizen, just an ordinary person who had fallen foul of Nerak, an average soul unlucky enough to join the fraternity devoured by the dark prince throughout the Twinmoons. They attacked now only because Nerak had sent them to retrieve Lessek's Key, to kill the remaining members of their company and to ensure the eventual downfall of the world.

Garec wondered how Gabriel had managed to get free of Nerak's grasp; he wished the wraith were with him now, inside his his head as he sometimes was with Mark, to comfort him and encourage him as he dispatched these souls into the Fold. head as he sometimes was with Mark, to comfort him and encourage him as he dispatched these souls into the Fold.