Kellanved's Reach

Gregar waved him off. ‘Sorry, but I can’t break that chain.’

The lad lifted his chin, revealing his collar. ‘What of this?’

It was a plain length of leather riveted about the boy’s neck. Gregar thought even this fellow ought to be able to break it. ‘That’s our deal then, is it? I release you and you get us out?’

The young lad nodded, very sombrely. ‘Oh yes. And we join the Crimson Guard.’

Despite himself, Gregar laughed his disbelief. ‘Really? I was just boasting.’

The slave edged his head from side to side in all seriousness. ‘You break this collar and we will join the Crimson Guard.’

‘Really? Just like that?’

The young slave nodded. ‘Just like that.’

Gregar laughed. ‘You sell a good line, whoever you are. But I’ll give it a try.’ He reached out to the poor fellow’s neck. A yank and the leather band parted. He handed the broken length to the lad. ‘There you are. Don’t know why you couldn’t have done that yourself.’

The slave stared for a time at the leather band in his pale, long-fingered hands. Then his gaze rose in wonder to Gregar. ‘My master ensorcelled these bonds so that I couldn’t break them. Only a certain sort of person could.’

At the word ‘ensorcelled’ a cold sickness took hold of Gregar’s stomach. ‘Your master?’ he breathed.

The skinny lad nodded. ‘The sorcerer Ap-Athlan. High Mage of Gris.’

Gregar resisted the urge to cuff the youth across his head. ‘Why didn’t you say so, dammit! I thought your master was just the cook or something!’ Realizing he was shouting, he lowered his voice, hissing, ‘I don’t want any attention, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

The lad – in truth, perhaps no older than himself for all he knew – raised his eerily long-fingered hands in reassurance. ‘I know, I know. And I can get us out. Guaranteed. Then we’ll join the Crimson Guard.’

Gregar rubbed the back of his neck while the lad limped about the kitchen, digging out a cured ham, a wedge of cheese, a skin of wine, and throwing all into a burlap sack. ‘Ah, about that joining up thing … I was drunk. It was just a damned boast … I really don’t think that’s gonna happen …’

The lad raised a hand once again. ‘Don’t worry. It will. They’ll take both of us. I’m sure.’

Gregar laughed, shaking his head. ‘Well, kid. As I said: you talk a good line – I’ll give you that. What’s your name, anyway?’

He raised his hands to study them once more. ‘Dog, he called me. My master. I did … things for him. Things I do not want to think of. But now that I am free – I can forget him. So, I will use my old name, Haraj. And you?’

‘Gregar Bluenth.’

The lad pulled a face. ‘Gregar Bluenth? Really. Have to do something about that …’ He limped to a heavily bound door that Gregar knew must lead closer to the rear chambers, and possible freedom.

‘That’s locked,’ he warned. ‘No point trying that.’

The lad pressed his hands to the door. He brushed and rubbed his long fingers over the iron lock. Then, with one extended finger, he gave the door a push and it creaked open. He flashed an evil boyish grin to Gregar. ‘No it’s not.’ He crooked a finger, inviting him onward. ‘Let’s go.’

Chapter 2

The day after he, Surly, and Kellanved had their strategy talk, Dancer was in the upper chambers of Mock’s Hold when Kellanved entered and carefully shut the door behind him. The mage, now permanently appearing as a wrinkled, black-skinned Dal Hon elder, beckoned Dancer close and whispered, hushed, ‘Are we alone?’

Dancer shrugged, a touch mystified. ‘Well, yes. I imagine so.’

‘Good. Then let’s go.’

‘Go? Go where?’

The grey-haired ancient raised his eyes to the ceiling in frustration. ‘Our research. The stone! We follow the stone!’

For the last month Dancer had heard nothing but this and so he pulled a hand down his face, exhausted by it. Their first trip chasing up a lead regarding ancient weapons from the Fenn mountains had been an utter disaster and they’d barely escaped with their lives – yet again. He’d hoped that would’ve been enough to quell the lad’s ambitions, but apparently no setback, no matter how dire, could in any manner rein in this one’s plans. ‘Right. The spear-point. You mean this very moment?’

‘Of course!’ The mage drew himself up straight and pronounced, ‘If not now, then what? If not where, then who?’

Dancer stared at him, his brows crimping. ‘What?’

The mage threw a finger in the air for a pause. ‘Wait!’ He stroked his chin, thinking furiously. ‘If not where … then why … no, that’s not it. If not what, then who?’ He shook his head. ‘No. Wait …’

Dancer waved that aside. ‘Not now. We have to prepare. Water, food, the proper gear.’

‘Fine!’ Kellanved pointed to a candle inscribed with lines. ‘One segment – an hour.’

Dancer nodded his agreement. ‘Okay. One hour.’ He headed to the door. ‘We’ll meet here.’

Downstairs, in the main hall of the Hold, he found Surly. She was leaning up against a long feasting-table, her arms crossed, the usual sceptical and disapproving scowl on her hard face. ‘You’re off disappearing now, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, we’re leaving.’