Moving into the front corner of the room, Garec found he could protect his flank with the bow itself while firing arrows into the far corners. Twenty, thirty, forty arrows tore wraiths to gossamer shreds before they embedded themselves in the walls, and still Garec continued firing. He grinned broadly as one shaft dispatched three spirits before crashing through the hall window with a fourth in tow. The Bringer of Death The Bringer of Death: even to the dead, and Garec tumbled gracefully to his left, swinging the bow as he rolled to another stand of arrows.

Then it happened. Garec watched as Steven stumbled, in slow motion, his toe catching the edge of a loose floorboard. He pitched over, cursing and striking out with the staff until he managed to steady himself against the dining table but that momentary lapse in his defences left Mark and Brynne vulnerable. Two wraiths quickly entered their bodies.

Brynne collapsed immediately, her slight frame lying deathly still on the floor a few paces away. Mark rose to his feet, raised his hands to the heavens and emitted an inhuman cry of pain and suffering.

Garec hesitated a moment, uncertain what to do. He swallowed hard, realised how thirsty he was and promised himself he would make a valiant effort to drink the river dry if he survived this hellish night. Two arrows stood, fletching up, in a wooden plank beside him. Holding his breath, he nocked one, drew and fired directly at Mark's chest. Before the shaft found its target, Garec had nocked and fired the second into Brynne's ribcage. Watching the arrows pierce his friends' bodies, Garec felt the sting, the impossibly painful burn of flint tips and wooden shafts ripping through flesh. The Bringer of Death. The Bringer of Death. He screamed in response to Mark's cry, struck out with the bow at an attacking spirit and prayed his dangerous play had paid off. He screamed in response to Mark's cry, struck out with the bow at an attacking spirit and prayed his dangerous play had paid off.

He expected to see the wraiths burst from Mark and Brynne, like souls ascending to the Northern Forest, but nothing appeared to happen. Mark collapsed to the floor near Brynne and neither moved again. 'Rutting dogs,' Garec cursed and leaped to another stand of arrows, hoping to fire these as quickly as possible. He needed to create enough breathing space to cross the room into the circle of Steven's protection and see to his friends. Could he save them? He had no idea what to do now; he might even have killed them himself.

Garec tried not to think about that possibility and instead launched himself back against the spirit offensive with renewed hatred. Two wraiths emerged near the fireplace and Garec pinned both to the pantry door. It was only when he peered beneath their disintegrating, indistinct forms that he noticed two more arrows buried in the woodwork, arrows he didn't recall firing.

It must must have worked: those were the shafts; they had passed right through his friends. It have worked: those were the shafts; they had passed right through his friends. It had had to be magic; he had not drawn the bowstring back far enough to fully penetrate a body, let alone drive the shafts into the hard wooden walls. It to be magic; he had not drawn the bowstring back far enough to fully penetrate a body, let alone drive the shafts into the hard wooden walls. It had had to have worked. to have worked.

On and on the wraiths came, and the battle raged unchanging. To Steven it felt like it was half the night, but he neither slowed nor weakened, despite the near-constant actions of spinning and striking out with the staff.

Garec felt as though his arms would fall off, but still he continued to fight until his last arrow was spent. Then he backed towards Mark and Brynne, protecting them from attack along the hallway with the still-potent longbow. Standing back to back, he and Steven warded off wave after wave of ghostly assailants.

Then it ended.

The interior of the cabin bristled with arrows, each firmly embedded into the woodwork, as if the walls themselves had been the attackers. Garec dropped to his knees, rolled Brynne onto her back and began weeping when he saw she was still alive. Tearing open her tunic, he found no entry or exit wounds; he checked Mark's chest to be certain. He had not killed them.

Realising, for almost the first time, that he had gambled with his friends' lives, the Bringer of Death pitched onto his side, felt the cool floorboards against his face and sobbed aloud, unconcerned if anyone heard him break down.

Steven was not ready for the fight to end. A wild and untamed look danced in his eyes as he continued to curse Nerak. With the staff's magic still coursing through his body, he whirled about, looking for more enemies, needing someone or something to attack, thirsting for another kill, when he finally saw Lahp. The Seron lay in a heap near the front wall. His enormous hands still gripped his daggers, but Steven could see the big soldier was dead.

Not even noticing his friends, he strode to the front door, kicked it open and walked out into the cold mountain night. Darkness had fallen, but Steven found he could see where he was going. His senses were alive, acute, as he made his way through the underbrush towards the river. Reaching the banks, Steven waded in, the glacial cold unfelt as the power of the staff fortified muscle and bone with the strength of a brigade of warriors. His limp was gone, his leg healed, the bones knitted together as if they had never been broken.

'Nerak!' he screamed into the night, 'I will not hide from you, Nerak, and you will pay for Gilmour. You will pay for Lahp, and even your evil master will not be able to save you if Hannah dies!'

Steven raised the staff above his head and drove it deep into the riverbed. A wall of water leaped up before him and careened through the valley, uprooting trees and wrenching boulders from their resting places along the riverbank. He waited until it disappeared from sight then listened as it roared its way between the foothills and off into the canyon beyond. He tossed the staff to the riverbank, then leaned back until the water flowed over his head and chest.

Steven remained submerged until his lungs burned with the need for air. Pushing his wet hair back from his face and gazing down the valley towards Orindale, he knew they had won a great victory.

'Now, Hannah, I am coming for you,' he announced loudly. Eldarn's twin moons flanked either end of the valley: just over halfway to the next Twinmoon. 'Thirty days? Have we only been here thirty days?' he asked the valley as he clambered back up the bank, retrieved the hickory staff and strode back towards the cabin.

Versen squinted against the bright sunlight as Karn led them to the raised quarterdeck in the Falkan Dancer Falkan Dancer's stern. The vessel moved briskly north and Versen welcomed the stiff breeze after the stale, humid air of their cell. As he breathed deeply to clear his lungs, he tried to calculate how long they had been at sea.

When his eyes adjusted he could just make out the coast in the distance, an indistinct, blurry mass that looked as though it had been sketched along the horizon. He was heartened to see land at all and for a few brief moments scanned the decks in hopes of discovering some means by which to take the ship or at least gain control of the helm long enough to run them all aground. A cursory look was enough to dash his hopes: a tally of the crew of hardened seamen, not to mention the Seron, made it quite clear they didn't stand a chance on their own. He sighed, and quietly braced himself for whatever was going to happen next.

Karn replaced their chain manacles with heavy twine, fixed a short length of rope to the bonds, then dragged the prisoners aft. Brexan, legs cramped and aching from her tenure in the hold, tripped a number of times, which brought jeers from the crew, who hurled insults at the soldier-turned-traitor. Brexan regained her feet and sneered down her nose at the sailors with unbridled contempt. Her eyes narrowed as she wished she were armed with more than just scorn. She would have enjoyed nothing more than to summarily gut one or two of the smug-looking seamen disparaging her from the safety of the rigging.

Carpello Jax was leaning against the stern rail, uncomfortable despite the near-perfect weather. Versen decided the ship's owner could not be accustomed to long sea voyages; it was probably only his fear of Malagon's wrath that had motivated him to accompany his crew of mercenaries on this journey. At his side Rala picked absentmindedly at a discoloured fingernail and Haden spat a mouthful of phlegm towards a scupper. The big Ronan grinned to himself as he told the nauseous merchant, 'I'll have mussel soup, mussels drenched in white wine and aromatic with savory, a venison stew thickened with a good Falkan red, with gobbets of meat spitting fat and juices, layered potatoes in double cream and cheese, and a goblet of the same- no, actually, come to think of it, I'll wash it down with beer, a bitter golden beer heady with the finest hops in Rona and with smooth, succulent barley from the lowlands-'

The thought of all that rich food turned Carpello's already unsettled stomach and Versen couldn't help his grin as the merchant retched over the gunwale, then wiped his mouth on the silk kerchief. He glared at his prisoner as he spat, 'Scum but I am pleased to see you have not lost your sense of humour.' He gestured at the scarred Seron. 'It will bring me that much more pleasure to watch him beat it out of you.'

Versen glared back at him, all trace of humour now gone. 'How can you ally yourself with these Seron? With Malagon? Does the idea of freedom mean so little that you would allow Malagon's pets to order you around?'

The merchant came forward slowly and lashed out, slapping Versen hard across the face. 'You'll watch your mouth on my ship, traitor!' he screamed, spitting into Versen's face. 'I take orders from no one but my prince your your prince, you rutting son of a whore.' prince, you rutting son of a whore.'

Versen didn't react; his gaze was locked on Carpello's right hand.

Calmly he asked, 'That scar on your hand, have you had it long?'

Carpello Jax flexed his hand. 'Believe me, scumbag, I have had it my whole life and it will not hold me back when it comes to meting out just punishment.'

'And the mole, that mole alongside your cavernous nose? Have you had that long as well?'

With a malevolent smile, Carpello turned to Brexan, ignoring Versen's attempts to bait him. 'I must ask you some questions, my lovely.' Versen imagined he could smell days-old garlic on the man's breath. 'Depending on how you respond will determine whether the scum lives.' The merchant was clearly enjoying himself despite his discomfort. 'Since you seem so little inclined to share what you know, I doubt your woodsman will see another day. I can assure you that our little chat will not prolong your life through the end of this I would say, under other circumstances glorious morning.'

'A very good friend of mine looks forward to meeting you,' Versen chuckled. 'If I were you, I would take my own life rather than ever run into her again.'

'A woman? I shall be enchanted, I'm sure.'

'You'll be dead,' Versen said flatly. 'And she will make it last for Twinmoons. You will be amazed at how much pain you can feel before you lose consciousness.'

Brexan was confused by the interchange, but said nothing.

'Are you trying to frighten me, woodsman? I am not the one standing here in bonds and about to have a most unpleasant day.'

'No,' Versen replied, 'not frighten you. I just wanted to make quite sure you understand that a grisly death is on its way to Orindale right now. You should run far, run fast maybe sail on to Gorsk and hide out in the mountains. It might take her a little longer to find you that way.'

'Well, I appreciate your concern,' the merchant said as he dismissed the warning with a wave of his oddly scarred hand, 'but I feel my own needs are the greater.'

While the two men spoke, the Seron had moved behind the prisoners; now, without warning, Haden picked up the merchant's cane and struck Versen across the back of his legs. The woodsman roared and fell to his knees. Karn wrapped his arms tightly about Brexan's torso, pinning her hands down; although she kicked and screamed curses, Karn was unmoved. She froze as Rala and Haden hefted Versen towards the stern rail and dumped him overboard. Slowly, as if he had all morning, the scarred warrior found the other end of the rope attached to the twine manacles Versen's lifeline and tied it to a stanchion. It pulled tight as the woodsman's body was dragged through the water behind the ship. Brexan wailed and kicked wildly at her captors. The crew cheered from the decks and up in the rigging: this was certainly better entertainment than a usual morning at sea afforded them.

Carpello watched, smiling, as Versen bobbed along in the schooner's wake, then turned to the young Malakasian. 'He does not have much time, my lovely, so I would encourage you to focus.' Brexan could see his crooked yellow teeth behind cracked and bleeding lips. 'Who has the key?'

'The what?' Brexan strained her eyes, trying to see Versen's head come above the surface of the water. There it was. He managed a breath just then; she was certain.

'Focus, my lovely,' the merchant repeated, grasping her face in his hands and forcing her to look directly at him. 'The stone. I am looking for the stone.'

Brexan's mind raced; there was no time. Versen would surely drown. She had to act swiftly if she were to save his life, and there would be only one chance for a rescue. Trusting her instincts, she cried out, 'Yes, all right, I'll tell you.'

'That's grand, my lovely,' and then to Karn, 'Release her.'

As soon as the Seron relaxed his grip, Brexan reached back into his belt and drew his knife in a smooth gesture. She spun on her heels and brought the blade around in an arc that sliced across Carpello's stomach, opening his abdomen through his frilly silk tunic. The wound was superficial, but it was enough to make him scream in terror. Brexan would have lingered over that look for the rest of the morning aven, but there was no time. Instead, she continued her circle, next slicing through the muscles in Karn's thigh. Screaming, the Seron leader fell backwards onto the deck and the young woman saw her escape route open. Two steps to freedom. Already Rala and Haden were moving to intercept her. Using all her strength, the soldier took two running steps towards the stern rail and dived in. As she made her escape, she reached out with Karn's knife to slash the rope: one swipe, one chance from midair to sever the cord and free the woodsman.

Her heart sank as she fell headlong into the water. She had missed.

Brexan slammed awkwardly into the water and a stinging pain lanced across her neck and back. She ignored the discomfort, kicking swiftly towards the surface. She had had to cut that line. She nearly cried out for joy when she saw the taut stretch of rope rushing by overhead, a second chance. Breaking the surface, she saw Versen's body coming up fast, not all that far from where she had emerged; she kicked hard two, three, then four times, desperate to reach the rope before he was dragged by. to cut that line. She nearly cried out for joy when she saw the taut stretch of rope rushing by overhead, a second chance. Breaking the surface, she saw Versen's body coming up fast, not all that far from where she had emerged; she kicked hard two, three, then four times, desperate to reach the rope before he was dragged by. Too slow! Too slow! She screamed inside her head: She screamed inside her head: Faster! Kick harder Faster! Kick harder. Swimming with her wrists bound together was nearly impossible. Bring your hands up. Reach for the rope. Cut it. Cut it now Bring your hands up. Reach for the rope. Cut it. Cut it now.

Brexan slashed at the thick hemp trailing Versen behind the Falkan Dancer Falkan Dancer, but the knife didn't cut through. She needed a chance to slice twice or perhaps three times in the same place, not simply to hack away at the rope as it hurtled past her at fifteen knots.

Choking back a cry, Brexan spat out a mouthful of seawater, took a deep breath and in a last-ditch effort, leaped onto Versen as he was dragged by.

The force of the schooner's progress nearly broke her grip, but she clung to his tunic belt. They were too heavy together and Versen sank beneath the waves, unable to surface, unable to get another breath. She inched her way up his body, careful not to drop the knife. Her limbs screamed with the effort and her lungs were bursting, but every time she thought she would have to give up, to let go, she remembered that Versen had been submerged far longer.

Then it was there, the knife against the rope. Cut! Cut faster. Hold your breath. Cut! Cut! Cut faster. Hold your breath. Cut! Her eyes stung and her lungs burned for air. Gripping Versen's wrists with her fingertips, she worked the blade back and forth as quickly as she could, but it wasn't enough. She had to let go. She had to surface. She needed air. She had to leave him. Death first? No, she couldn't do it. Her will to live was too strong. She would leave him to die. Slashing one last time with the tip of the knife, Brexan let go. She released her grip and felt herself slow down almost immediately as the Her eyes stung and her lungs burned for air. Gripping Versen's wrists with her fingertips, she worked the blade back and forth as quickly as she could, but it wasn't enough. She had to let go. She had to surface. She needed air. She had to leave him. Death first? No, she couldn't do it. Her will to live was too strong. She would leave him to die. Slashing one last time with the tip of the knife, Brexan let go. She released her grip and felt herself slow down almost immediately as the Falkan Dancer Falkan Dancer raced north. raced north.

The sea masked her tears ...

Then Versen was there with her. It had worked that last slice had severed the twine and Brexan, empowered by a surge of adrenalin, reached for him and hauled him to the surface.

Coughing and spitting, the Ronan patriot struggled to speak.

'Just relax,' Brexan ordered, her arms aching with the effort to keep him afloat. 'Relax and breathe. Just breathe.'

He coughed and managed, 'He-'

'Shut up, Ox. Tell me later.' Brexan heaved him as far as she could above the waterline but she got his head and shoulders clear for only a moment before Versen sank back to chin level. 'What could be so rutting important?'

Versen's body was wracked by a long, wet cough, then he managed to draw several deep breaths before shouting, 'That's the bastard whore's get who raped Brynne! That bleeding horsecock raped Brynne!'

'When? What are you talking about?'

'Seventy, maybe eighty Twinmoons ago, in Estrad.' Versen coughed again and rolled onto his back to allow Brexan to finish cutting the bonds holding his wrists. 'He raped her all night she was young, just a kid. She's been giving that scar to every ass-grabbing drunk in Greentree Tavern ever since. She doesn't talk about it, but that's him. We have to find him again.'

They were lost at sea. The Ronan coast was at least an aven east under full sail. There was no way they were going to survive and all Versen could think of was avenging one of his friends. She could have kissed him at that moment, but instead agreed, 'All right. We will. We'll find him again.'

Then Versen was suddenly lucid. Treading water awkwardly in his tunic and boots, his face turned the colour of parchment.

'The almor's in the water,' he said.

Carpello cursed. How was he going to tell Prince Malagon they had lost the prisoners? Please, by all the fustinating gods of the Northern Forest, let them reach Orindale first, before that black-hearted horsecock and his gargantuan floating palace. Carpello would pass the bad news on to someone else an admiral, maybe, or one of the generals. They died at sea. It was simple. They committed suicide, jumped overboard to their deaths. That's what it was, after all, suicide: they had no hope of surviving, leaping into the ocean this far from shore. They were probably dead already.

'Come about, Captain Yarry!' he shouted urgently, 'come about! We need to find the bodies.'

Ignoring the blood running from his thigh, Karn grunted agreement.

'Sir?' the captain asked, 'come about, sir? On this tack, sir, and with this wind it will be a half-aven before we'll be back at the spot where they went in.' Captain Yarry looked around at his crew, who were all nodding. 'They're dead, sir. It's too far to swim to shore, sir, and that foul demon following us will have had them by now, even if the water hasn't killed them. They are are dead, sir.' dead, sir.'

'Come about, Captain, or I will have you executed for mutiny.' Carpello held a folded piece of sailcloth against his bloody midsection. 'You may be captain, but this is my ship, and we will come about this instant!'

Yarry ran one hand through his unruly hair and gave the order. The cry echoed along the deck and up into the rigging and the Falkan Dancer Falkan Dancer slowly lumbered to port, her bow coming around gradually until it cut through the swells, a knife's edge leading them back towards Strandson. slowly lumbered to port, her bow coming around gradually until it cut through the swells, a knife's edge leading them back towards Strandson.

Three avens later, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Carpello resigned himself to the fact that he they they had failed. The Seron had been particularly vigilant in their efforts, as if they knew it would be worse for them if they returned to Orindale without the prisoners or the key. Seron were assumed to be soulless and without minds of their own, but these three appeared to understand quite coherently that losing the Ronan partisans would mean death for them. Even as the sun faded in the west, they maintained their watch, squinting to improve their vision through the waning twilight. had failed. The Seron had been particularly vigilant in their efforts, as if they knew it would be worse for them if they returned to Orindale without the prisoners or the key. Seron were assumed to be soulless and without minds of their own, but these three appeared to understand quite coherently that losing the Ronan partisans would mean death for them. Even as the sun faded in the west, they maintained their watch, squinting to improve their vision through the waning twilight.

Carpello shuddered as he imagined his own meeting with the dark prince. He had been praying for avens that Lahp and his platoon had managed to find Gilmour and retrieve the wretched stone. Although the bleeding had stopped, his abdomen burned; he spat into the waves and hoped out loud that Brexan had died slowly and unpleasantly, knowing she had failed.

'Captain Yarry,' he called softly, 'back to Orindale.'

The Seron shared a look, as if they could not believe the merchant would call off the search, then secured their weapons, pulled off their boots and dived headfirst into the sea.

'Rutting dogs,' Carpello Jax shouted: there behind the ship, the three Seron warriors bobbed in the waves for a moment before beginning to swim towards the Ronan coast. 'They'll succeed or they'll die,' the fat trader mused. 'It's that simple.' He watched them disappear into the half-light then called, 'Full sail to Orindale, Captain Yarry.'

BOOK IV.

The River

MEYERS' VALE

When Mark and Brynne awakened from their coma they were both delirious. Garec was worried that the wraith intrusion had done them irreparable harm it had affected Sallax so badly but their bodies showed no signs of injury, either from Garec's arrows or from the spirit army attack. They were both drained, exhausted, and went without murmur when Garec suggested they lie down for a bit; when he checked on them at midday, he found them sleeping comfortably, unperturbed by nightmares or subconscious visions of prowling spectres.

At dawn the next day Garec and Steven gave Lahp his funeral rites, burning the body on a pyre alongside the riverbank. Watching the flames lick at the dead soldier's body, Garec knew Gilmour had been wrong about the Seron. They were not animals. Malagon had attempted to create an army of mindless killers, tearing their very souls away to leave them empty and his to command but he had not entirely succeeded. Lahp was the proof. His kindness, and his desire to help them, even giving his life for them: this showed unquestionably that Malagon's Seron warriors were more capable of compassion than anyone had known.

Garec had drawn strength from Steven's iron-willed refusal to give up the fight during their battle with the wraiths. Their tandem engagement with the spirit attackers had been like an elaborate dance, and Garec, empowered by Steven's shared magic, had brought death to the dead with fluid grace. He doubted he would ever achieve that level of perfection again. Garec had often wondered what made a sorcerer different. The control he had whilst battling the wraith army verged on sorcery; the walls, the floorboards, even the air itself had seemed to obey his every command. He had worked magic.

The Ronan bowman wiped a smear of mud from his boots Steven's boots and shook his head. He wasn't that skilled; the magic had worked him him.

Magic. Garec stared at the staff in Steven's hands. That simple stick had saved their lives several times now, and still none of them had the faintest idea where its power came from; not even Gilmour had been able to explain. Would it be enough to save Eldarn? Watching the thin, pale-skinned foreigner kick a smouldering branch back into the pyre, Garec thought their cause might not be lost, even though Gilmour was gone. Perhaps Steven wielded enough magic to protect them from Nerak, to ensure their safe passage into Welstar Palace, and to secure the far portal and retrieve Lessek's Key.

He sighed: wishful thinking. There was more to it than just bringing the stone back to Gorsk. They had no choice but to go in search of the missing Larion Senator, Kantu. They had to go to Praga.

As if reading his mind, Steven flashed the Ronan a sad smile, tossed his mysterious staff onto the ground and asked, 'Well, shall we build a boat?'

It didn't take long for their crude but sturdy vessel to take shape. Thanking God for the trapper's well-kept tools, Steven directed Garec to start hewing down a number of the huge pines that surrounded the cabin. They stripped each trunk of its branches and sawed them into sections five paces long. By evening the two men had assembled forty-five logs and started lashing the heaviest of these together to form their raft. The amateur shipwrights alternated sections, end-to-end, by thickness, to account for the gradual taper in each section's girth: the result was a relatively flat and surprisingly strong base for their journey downstream to Orindale.

By the time they got back to the cabin, they were exhausted but well satisfied with their day's work, and much of their aches and pains faded at the scent of a spicy stew: their companions had finally awakened and busied themselves at the cooking fire.

The following morning, Mark and Brynne joined them outside. Garec watched the pair closely, and after a couple of avens he decided they were back to normal. He sighed with relief: his gamble had indeed paid off. The decision to fire on his friends had been made in an instant. It had been his only moment of hesitation in that battle, but the anguished wait to ensure he'd done the right thing felt like it had lasted a lifetime. Steven hadn't seen what he'd done, and his friends didn't remember. He thanked the gods of the Northern Forest profusely, then returned to work hauling and lashing logs together.

'You and Garec were quite something against those ghosts,' Mark told Steven quietly.

'We owe our lives to Gabriel O'Reilly. Without his warning we'd have been stuffed. I had time to prepare Garec; without him we had no chance.'

'So how did that work?'

'I don't know. It just came to me, the idea that we might be able to share the staff's strength.' He looked into the forest where Garec was attaching a length of twine to a fallen pine. 'Thank God it worked. We'd be wraiths ourselves now if it hadn't. By the way, have you heard from Gabriel since?'

'No.' Mark didn't appear surprised. 'Not a word since he warned us the spirits were coming down the hill.'

'I wonder if he'll be back.'

'I hope so,' Mark replied. 'He's saved my neck twice now and he gave us the heads-up about Sallax.' He glanced over at Brynne and asked, 'Any sign of him yesterday?'

Again Steven shook his head. 'I don't know if he made it far enough downriver to avoid the wraiths.'

'Let's hope,' Mark said. 'He's got a score to settle with Nerak, if he can just get beyond the guilt. Imagine working for your greatest enemy all that time.'

'Nerak has a lot to answer for.'