‘No one answered him. A young man with a sling moved forward and let fly. The stone struck the old man high on the head, he staggered, then stepped back into the mist. Soldiers charged forward, but they struck the invisible wall that separated the mountains of the Eldarin from the valleys of men. The sorcerers stepped forward then, and began to chant. Behind them ten thousand soldiers waited. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and the mist that shielded the barrier disappeared. It was an astonishing moment, Tarantio. The sun shone brightly upon a barren landscape. Grey rock as far as the eye could see. No grass, no forests and woods. No city. To our right there was a river that, moments before, had flowed down through the mists to water the valleys. Eighty feet wide, and very deep. Now there was no flowing water, and we watched the last of the moisture soaking into the clay at the river bed. The Eldarin had gone. In an instant. Gone! Ahead of us the earth was scored away, and we stood on the edge of an earth wall maybe ten feet high.
‘We moved into the mountains, searching for them. There was nothing to find. Then a search party came back with the body of a single Eldarin. It was the old man. They had caught him hiding in a cave. He had with him the Pearl.’ Browyn’s eyes shone with the memory. ‘It was so beautiful, the size of a man’s fist, and swimming with colour – opal grey, dawn pink, holy white .. . You could sense its power. But I digress . . . The Demon War was over before it had begun, and our army of
ten thousand had killed one old man. Within weeks the new war had begun, the War of the Pearl. How many thousands have died since that day? Plagues, starvation, drought and famine. And we are no closer to a conclusion. Does it not make you long to change the world?’
‘I cannot change it,’ said Tarantio.
They finished their drinks in silence, then Browyn led Tarantio out of the cabin and into the sunlight. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you,’ said the old man. ‘Follow me.’ Together they walked up the hillside, along an old deer trail flanked by tall pines. At the top was a clearing, and at the centre, on a raised scaffold, stood a fishing boat, its sides sleek and beautifully crafted. There was a central cabin, and a tall mast from which hung no sail. The craft was fully forty feet long. Tarantio stood amazed for a moment, then he walked to where a ladder rested against the scaffold. Swiftly he climbed to the boat’s deck, Browyn following. ‘What do you think?’ asked Browyn.
‘She is beautiful,’ said Tarantio. ‘But we are a mile above the lake. How will you float her?’
‘I don’t intend to float her. I just wanted to build her.’
Tarantio laughed. ‘I don’t believe this,’ he said. ‘I am standing on a boat on a mountain. There is no sense in it.’
Browyn’s smile faded. ‘Sense? Why does it have to make sense? I always dreamed of building a boat. Now I have achieved it. Can you not understand that?’
‘But a boat must have water,’ argued Tarantio. ‘Only then can it fulfil its purpose.’
Browyn shook his head angrily. ‘First we speak of sense, now of purpose. You are a warrior, Tarantio. Where is the sense in war? What is the purpose of it? This boat is my dream. Mine. Therefore it is for me to say what purpose
it serves.’ Stepping forward, Browyn put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. ‘You know,’ he said, sadly, ‘you do not think like a young man. You are old before your time. A young man would understand my boat. Come, let us get back to the cabin. I have work to do. And you have a journey to make.’
Chapter Three
Browyn gave Tarantio an old cooking pot, two plates and a cup cast from pewter, a worn-out rucksack and a leather-bound water canteen. Tarantio strapped his swords to his waist. ‘I thank you,’ he told the older man. Striding out from the cabin, he approached the bay gelding owned by the dead Brys.