The Liar's Key

by Mark Lawrence

  “Who are your guests . . . Gorgoth?” I heard the hesitation as he fought to give the monster some honorific, but failed.

  My unease returned. The man looked to be young, of medium build. His golden mane spread across his shoulders. That struck a sour chord.

  In my moment of hesitation Snorri came to the fore, grinning, showing his teeth in that way of his that mysteriously turns strangers into friends in such short order.

  “I’m Snorri ver Snagason, of the clan Undoreth from the shores of the Uulisk fjord. This is my kinsman Olaf Arnsson, called Tuttugu.” He spread a hand toward Tuttugu who stepped from behind Gorgoth, picking twigs from his beard.

  Kara came forward, as ignorant of protocol as the rest of them. A prince should take precedent and be introduced before commoners. I’d thought even commoners knew that!

  “Kara ver Huran, of Reckja in the Land of Ice and Fire.”

  That was new! I’d assumed she came from one of the Norseheim jarldoms. I’d met the occasional sailor in Trond who’d been to the Land of Ice and Fire, but very few. They called the crossing treacherous, and when a Viking says treacherous you know it means suicidal. Little wonder she seemed so at home living in caves on volcanoes.

  I cleared my throat and stepped forward, wishing that I could make my introduction from horseback and at least look the fellow in the eyes, or better still look down at him.

  “Prince Jalan Kendeth of Red March at your service. Grandson to the Red Queen.” I normally don’t mention Grandmother, but having seen how she took her name I thought it might add a little weight to my own.

  The slightest nod of the head and the duke’s nephew reached up to remove his helm. He shook out his hair, sitting the helm upon the pommel of his saddle and turning to fix me with his blue-eyed stare. “We’ve met before, prince. My name is Hakon, Duke Alaric of Maladon is my uncle.”

  Shit. I forced myself not to say it out loud. I’d met him at the Three Axes on my first day in Trond. In the space of ten minutes I’d managed to slam a door in his face, break his nose, and have him harried from the tavern as a charlatan.

  “Delighted,” I said, hoping that my role in his disgrace still remained vague in his mind. I’d shown him up for a liar seeking to make himself out the hero. At the time I’d been very pleased with myself, using Baraqel’s power to heal Hakon’s injured hand and give the lie to his claim of being bitten by a dog whilst saving a baby. After all, he was showing off. Any fool can get bitten by a dog. Besides, it had looked as if he might steal Astrid and Edda away from me before my charms had had a chance to work.

  Hakon narrowed his eyes at me, two furrows appearing amid his brow, but he said nothing more and turned his horse away, and off we set, following the Danes down to the road.

  “Handsome fellow,” said Kara as she stepped after Gorgoth.

  Snorri and I swapped a glance at that. Mine said, “See, this is why I had to mess with him in the first place.”

  • • •

  We didn’t see much of Maladon beyond what lay illuminated by torchlight during our journey or the isolated moorland where we made camp by day. I counted it no great loss. I’d seen all I wanted to of the Danelands on our flight north the previous year. A dour land full of dour people, all wishing they were proper Vikings. The Thurtans weren’t any better. Worse if possible. My Nobles’ Guide to the Broken Empire entry for East Thurtan would be “Similar to Maladon but flatter.” And for West Thurtan, “See entry for East Thurtan. Boggy.”

  Aslaug did not return though I waited for her appearance each sunset. Twice I heard a faint knocking as if far off someone were pounding on a heavy door, but it seemed that somehow our flight from Osheim had finally broken the bond the Silent Sister had forged between us. Perhaps Aslaug and Baraqel emerging like that to battle the Hardassa had torn them from me and Snorri, both of us emptied, or free, depending how you viewed it.

  In truth I missed her. She’d been the only one of them to see my true worth. On our second night out from the forests of Maladon I lay huddled beneath my cloak, plagued by a thin rain, and imagined what Aslaug would say if she found me there.

  “Prince Jalan, sleeping on the ground among these men of the north. Don’t they realize that a man of your worth should be hosted in the finest halls this land has to offer?”

  • • •

  As much as I missed Aslaug it was good that Baraqel had been banished from Snorri. “Watch him, Jalan,” Aslaug had said. “Watch the light-sworn. Baraqel knows that key will open more doors than just the one Snorri seeks. Kelem’s mines hold many doors. Behind one such door Baraqel and a host just like him, just as righteous and quick to judge, wait their chance. Come dawn he’ll be whispering again in Snorri’s ear, slowly turning him, until he sets Loki’s key in that lock and Baraqel’s kind come pouring out—not offering advice any more, but issuing sentence and execution.”

  I eyed the largest of the sleeping lumps. Aslaug had made it all sound very convincing but Snorri was a difficult man to steer along any path other than his own—I knew that from personal experience. Still—it pleased me that Baraqel was gone.

  Somewhere the sun set and the distant knocking faded to nothing. I looked over at Kara and found Hennan looking back at me, snuggled up against the völva in her bedroll. He watched me with his unreadable stare and after a while I shrugged and went off to water a tree.

  • • •

  Night by night we crossed first Maladon and then the Thurtans. Duke Alaric’s close alliance with the Thurtan lords meant he considered himself responsible for the safe passage of Gorgoth and his brethren through those lands—a matter of honour and one that Lord Hakon repeated to Gorgoth on more than one occasion.

  “If so much as a goat or sheep goes missing from a herdsman’s flock it would be as if Duke Alaric himself had stolen it,” Hakon said.

  Gorgoth had simply inclined his great head and assured him that there would be order. “Trolls were bred for war, Lord Hakon, not theft.”

  Hennan came into his own on the march, uncomplaining about the miles, still with enough energy to run around camp come dawn, badgering the Norsemen for stories. He spent time with Gorgoth too. At first the monster’s interest sparked my suspicions but it seemed he just liked the boy, telling him tales of his own, of the mysteries and wonders to be found in the dark places beneath mountains.

  • • •

  As the march continued I concentrated my resources on seducing Kara. Even though she made not the slightest effort to make herself alluring, still she managed to torment me. Even though she was as grubby and unkempt as the rest of us, lean, hard-muscled, shrewd eyed, I still found myself wanting her.

  Despite the obvious negatives—being scary clever, knowing far too many things, seeing through me on almost every occasion, and being more than happy to skewer straying hands—I found her excellent company. This proved to be a new and rather confusing experience for me. Having Kara entertain twenty Danes with bawdy tales around the fire felt rather as if on a boar hunt in the Kings Wood outside Vermillion our quarry stopped running, sat down, and, pulling out a pipe, proceeded to discuss the merits of veal over venison with us, opining about the best wine to serve with swan.

  Snorri, who until Hakon’s arrival I had counted my rival in Kara’s affections, seemed strangely guarded around the woman. I wondered if he were still bound by Freja’s memory, faithful to a dead wife. He slept apart from us, and often his hand strayed to pat his chest where the key hung beneath his jerkin. On the rare occasions I rose before Snorri I sometimes saw him wince, stretching his side as if the poisoned wound that Baraqel had diminished in Osheim were returning to plague him.

  • • •

  The nights of marching passed slowly. East Thurtan turned into West with only an increase in dampness to mark the change. We walked, my feet grew sore, and more and more I wanted a horse to carry me.

  We’d spent ou
r first night crossing West Thurtan and had little to show for it save for muddy boots. I’d had about as much of Lord Hakon’s antics for Kara’s benefit as I could stomach—he was holding forth on classic literature now as if he were some shrivelled dame let out for the day from her book tower—so I sought distraction with the only one of our monsters that could speak.

  “What waits for you and your subjects in the Highlands, King Gorgoth? I don’t recall hearing that the Count Renar has a reputation for hospitality . . .”

  “I’m no king, Prince Jalan. It’s just a word that proves useful for the moment.” Gorgoth held his hand out to the fire, so close it seemed impossible the skin wasn’t bubbling off his fingers. The three digits, stark against the blaze, made something alien of him. “It’s King Jorg who rules in the Highlands now. He has offered us sanctuary.”

  “Trolls need sanctuary? I— Wait, Jorg? Surely not that Ancrath boy?”

  Gorgoth inclined his head. “He took the throne from his uncle by force. I came north with him to the Heimrift.”

  “Oh.” For a moment words escaped me. I’d imagined Gorgoth born among the trolls, though I’d given no thought to how he came to language among them, nor to his knowing the ways of men sufficient to negotiate with dukes and lords.

  “And yes, trolls need sanctuary. Men are many and take strength as a challenge, difference as a crime. They say there were once dragons in the world. Now they are gone.”

  “Hmmm.” I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry for the plight of the persecuted troll. Maybe if they were more fluffy . . . “This Jorg of yours, I’ve heard tales of him. Queen Sareth wanted me to put the scamp over my knee and tan his hide. I would have too—very persuasive woman, Queen Sareth.” I raised my voice, just a notch, nice and subtle, so Kara wouldn’t miss my talk of queens and princes. “Beautiful with it. Have you ever . . . well maybe not.” I remembered Gorgoth wasn’t the type to be getting invitations to court, unless perhaps it was in a cage, as the entertainment. “I would have taught the boy a lesson but I had more urgent business in the north. Necromancers and unborn to put in their place, don’t you know.” My adventures may have been an unrelenting misery but at least I could now pull “necromancers” out to trump my opposition in any story of daring and adversity. Gorgoth might be a monstrous king of trolls, but what would a cave-dweller like him know of necromancers!

  Gorgoth rumbled, deep in his chest. “Jorg Ancrath is wild, unprincipled and dangerous. My advice would be to steer well clear of him.”

  “Jorg Ancrath?” Hakon, catching the name, broke off from his discussion of the finer points of some tedious verse from the Iliad. “My uncle says the same of him, Gorgoth. I think he likes him! Cousin Sindri was impressed with the man too. I’ll have to take his measure myself one of these days.” The Dane stepped over from the fire—all golden hair, square chin, and shadows. “And you thought to put him over your knee, Prince Jalan?” I heard Snorri snort in the background, probably remembering the truth of the matter and our hasty exit from Crath City. “That might be difficult. The man put an end to Ferrakind . . .”

  “Ferrakind?”

  Kara answered. “The fire-mage who ruled in the Heimrift, Jal. The volcanoes fell silent at his death.” She watched me from the shadows, just the lines of her face caught in firelight. I could see her smile echoed on the faces of many of the Danes.

  “Ah.” Damn them all. I stood up, blustered about needing a stretch and stalked off, leaving them with a defiant, “Well, Queen Sareth didn’t seem to think much of the boy.”

  • • •

  As the nights stacked up one upon the next and we drew ever closer to the Gelleth border I seemed to be making slow progress on my other journey—the one toward Kara’s furs—though unsettlingly I had the feeling of being the one steadily reeled in rather than having hooked my prey with the old Jalan charm and being the one to draw her to me.

  To add to my vexation, whilst Kara mysteriously began to look my way and offer me the kind of smiles that warm a man right through . . . she also seemed to see right past my normal patter, laughing off my lies concerning devotion and honour. Often she would ask me about Snorri and the key: the circumstances by which we acquired it, the ill-advised nature of his quest, and my thoughts on how he might be deflected from it. As much as it irked to be talking about Snorri with a woman yet again, I enjoyed the fact that she was seeking my opinions and advice on the matter of Loki’s key.

  “A thing like that can’t be taken by force,” she said. “Not without great risk.”

  “Well of course not—this is Snorri we’re talking about . . .”

  “More than that.” She moved closer, lowering her voice to a delicious husk beside my ear. Memories of Aslaug stirred somewhere low down. “This is Loki’s work. The trickster. The liar. The thief. Such a one would not let his work fall to the strongest.”

  “Well, to be fair, we weren’t exactly gentle when we took it!” I puffed out my chest and tried to look nonchalant.

  “The unborn captain attacked you though, Jalan. Snorri merely took the key from his ruin. It wasn’t his purpose—he didn’t attack the unborn for the key.”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Trickery or theft. Those are the only two safe options.” She held my gaze.

  “If you think those are safe,” I said, “you don’t know Snorri.”

  • • •

  At the same time that I felt my connection with Kara strengthening, she seemed more charmed each passing day by the annoyingly handsome Lord Hakon. Every night the bastard would demonstrate some new virtue, with consummate skill, and make it seem a natural revelation rather than showing off. One evening it would be his deep tenor, perfect pitch, and command of all the great songs of the north. The next it would be defeating everyone but Snorri, and some ogre of a man called Hurn, in an arm-wrestling contest that he had to be coaxed into joining. Another night he treated us to a great show of concern for a man of his who fell prey to sudden head pains—debating herb-lore with Kara as if he were an old-wife called to treat the invalid. And tonight Hakon prepared a venison stew for us which I choked down and forced myself to call “passable” whilst only iron will prevented me demanding a third helping . . . the best damn venison I ever ate.

  For the duration of our penultimate night of escort Kara walked at the head of the column with Lord Hakon who came off his high horse to stroll beside her. The night proved warm, the going easy, nightingales serenaded us, and before long the pair of them were arm in arm, laughing and joking. I did my best to break up their little head to head of course, but there’s a kind of cold shoulder that a couple can offer a fellow that’s hard to get around, particularly with twenty mounted Danes staring at the back of your head.

  On our final day we rose in the late afternoon, our camp a meadow beside a stream, the day warm and sunny, new blossom on the trees. Less than ten miles lay before us to the Gelleth border where Lord Hakon and his Danes would take their leave, and I was going to be heartily glad to see the back of them. Snorri and Tuttugu no doubt would happily have walked to Florence with the heathens, having spent the whole journey so far swapping battle tales. The Danes had a great love of sea stories and the old sagas. Snorri provided the former from personal experience and Kara the latter from her vast store of such trivia. I half thought some of the duke’s men would volunteer to join the Undoreth and travel with the Vikings, such was the level of worship on display . . . Even Tuttugu got made out to be some kind of hero, beaching on the shores of the Drowned Isles one season, battling dead men on the Bitter Ice the next, making his last stand against the Hardassa by the Wheel of Osheim . . .

  I yawned, stretched, yawned again. The Danes lay around the ashes of the morning’s fire, horses tethered to stakes a little higher up the gentle slope, the trolls mostly hidden, sprawled in the long grass closer to the water. The day had been almost hot compared to those before it—a first t
ouch of summer, albeit a pallid northern excuse for one.

  An evening “breakfast” was prepared at leisurely pace, with nobody seeming in a hurry to depart. Tuttugu brought me over a bowl of porridge from the communal cauldron and a fellow named Argurh led his horse across from the herd for me to look at. That was the one thing the men of Maladon conceded I might know something about—horseflesh.

  “Favouring his left he is, Jalan.” The man manoeuvred his grey around me, bending to tap the suspect fetlock. I suppressed the urge to say “Prince Jalan.” The further south we got the more the tolerance for such failings fell away from me. In the Three Axes I’d suffered the Norsemen’s “Jal”s just as I’d suffered the winter, a natural phenomenon that nothing could be done about. But now . . . now we were closing on Red March and the summer had found us. Things would change.

  “See? There, did it again,” Argurh said. The horse took a half step.

  From the corner of my eye I spotted Kara on the move, the bedroll she’d been given tucked under one arm, walking off into the long grass down toward the stream, wildflowers all about her, butterflies rising—

  “And he’s somewhat windy in his bowels.” Argurh, in my face again, wittering on about his nag and closing off my view.

  “Well.” With a sigh I turned my attention to the horse—better to get a look before the light failed. “Walk him around over there. Let’s see him move.”

  Argurh led him off. It looked as though the gelding might have a thorn just above the hoof or taken some knock that had left it tender. I motioned him back. I could sense the sun lowering behind me and needed to get the horse sorted before it set. Although Aslaug had not returned, and even the knocking had ceased, I always felt a hint of her presence as the sun fell and any animals around me became skittish.

  “Hold him.” I kneeled down to check the foot. From under the beast’s belly I spied Hakon brushing himself down. He’d tied back his hair and washed his face. Highly suspicious in my view. When a man out in the wilds bothers to wash his face he’s clearly up to something. I manipulated the joint, muttering the sort of nothings that calm a horse, fingers gentle. A moment later I found the end of the spine just below the skin. A scrape of my nail, a quick pinch and I had the thing out. A vicious thing, over an inch long and slick with blood.