The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1)

by Lyndsey Harper

  “Release him,” Leer heard a man bellow behind him. He ignored him, his heart thumping against his ribs, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  “Tell me!” Leer shouted, saliva flinging from his mouth through his rage. He heard the heavy thudding of boots filling the space behind him as the horrified crowd shifted to make room.

  “Release him, Boy,” the man demanded again; Leer heard the distinct ring of a sword being unsheathed.

  The guards ripped Leer upward from Bilby. Leer growled and shrugged against them in protest, which resulted in his neck pulled taut by a hand gripping his thick blond hair.

  “He owes me information,” Leer protested, wincing as the guard braced him.

  Leer felt the slick blade of a sword against the right side of his throat.

  “This arse brought it on himself,” Leer argued. “I want my information,” he snarled, struggling against the guard who held him as he watched Bilby brush off his sweater in disgust.

  “You will show the proper respect,” the guard warned.

  “And you’ll let me be to settle my own business.”

  The guard holding Leer kneed him in the back. With a groan, Leer crashed to the ground on his shins.

  “Show the proper respect, you rind,” the guard who held him snapped.

  Freed from the blade to his neck, Leer countered the attack of his captor by pulling and flipping the guard over his own body. The guard landed with a thud in front of him. As Leer stood, the second guard, seemingly more important in rank, seized him, pressing his sword against Leer’s jugular. From the quick glimpse he saw of the man’s tunic and sashes, Leer knew exactly who was clamping his fingers around him.

  “Citizens,” the guard began. “My name is Lieutenant James Shelton Doyle. If anyone has any objection to this man’s arrest, or information to support his innocence, speak now.”

  The thick wall of patrons remained silent.

  “Know that King Gresham does not condone such unwarranted violence,” Lieutenant Doyle continued. “This…mongrel…will be dealt with according to the law. As you were.”

  “Damn near broke my ribs, he did,” Bilby whined, his gray eyes squinted as he glared at Leer.

  “I can assure you, Sir, that he will be dealt with. As you were,” the Lieutenant barked.

  Hummed conversation rose from the onlookers as Lieutenant Doyle yanked Leer to his feet. Leer’s worn boots scraped against the floor planks as he fought his forced exit.

  “This isn’t over, Bilby,” Leer warned, fighting to look back at Bilby. “You will pay your debt to Finnigan.”

  The bitter winter air assaulted Leer’s face as Lieutenant Doyle shoved him outside. With a grunt, the Lieutenant threw him forward into a waiting wall of bodies. Snarling like a wild animal, Leer twisted and thrashed, trying to release himself from the guards’ iron grip.

  “Your name,” Lieutenant Doyle demanded.

  One of the guards to the Lieutenant’s rear threw Leer’s coat and scarf at him. Leer turned his cheek, the clothing slapping against his face before it dropped to the ground by his boots. “Screwley of Ewe,” Leer replied curtly.

  Lieutenant Doyle’s eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, examining Leer like a specimen. He nodded once to one of the men who held him, who then punched Leer in the stomach. Leer coughed, spit flying from his mouth in bursts as his abdomen clenched against the assault.

  “What’s your business with Marcus Bilby?” the Lieutenant asked.

  Leer’s jaw clenched; he remained silent.

  “I would choose to answer, Boy,” Lieutenant Doyle warned. “It might be the only thing to save you from box time.”

  “I wanted to chat,” Leer stated. He growled after receiving another punch to his side.

  “Show respect, rind,” one of the guards who held him ordered.

  “I wanted to chat, Sir,” Leer spat.

  “About what?”

  Leer’s nostrils flared through his silence.

  “About what?” Lieutenant Doyle repeated, stepping closer.

  “The Fell,” Leer snapped.

  The Lieutenant laughed, the suddenness of it catching Leer off-guard. “Oh for the love of Hiline, you’re Private Boxwell, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “Yes, you must be Boxwell.” Lieutenant Doyle smirked. “I suppose your time as a scout on the western borders has left you with too much time to think. Although displays of defiance and brazen idiocy in the King’s guards aren’t rewarded, you’ve some gall, I’ll grant you that much.”

  “For what, Sir? Not heeling as a dog?” Leer asked.

  “For not hiding your miserably paranoid fixations in front of me,” Lieutenant Doyle corrected in a sharply edged tone. “You’ve recently developed quite the reputation among your peers.” He paused. “I won’t lie and say it’s been a pleasure squaring off with you.”

  “It seemed like you took great pleasure in showing your superiority in front of the peasants, Sir.”

  The guard struck Leer again in the ribs. Leer grimaced, clenching his jaw.

  “My great pleasure would be in ending your miserable, paranoid life,” the Lieutenant replied.

  Leer drew a sharp breath through his nose, clamping his molars together in heated silence.

  “Tell me, Boy,” Lieutenant Doyle asked, “what is it that makes you an expert on the Grimbarror? Is it personal experience?”

  “…Yes.”

  Lieutenant Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of experience?”

  Leer ground his molars as he delayed his reply, analyzing the Lieutenant. Why should you care, if you say they are merely tales?

  “Answer your Lieutenant,” one of the other guards holding him snarled.

  “My mentor, Finnigan Lance, died by it,” Leer yelled, nostrils flared.

  “Finnigan Lance,” Lieutenant Doyle repeated.

  “Aye.”

  “The same Finnigan Lance who served as a furrier to King Gresham?”

  “Aye.”

  “…The same Finnigan Lance who had a reputation for closing a tavern nearly every night of the week?”

  Leer remained silent.

  “So, you say you know this beast killed him. How?”

  “His body was mauled. No decent man could’ve done what was done to him.”

  Lieutenant Doyle pursed his lips, eying Leer. “Couldn’t it have been a wild beast other than your creature?”

  Silence enveloped them, the cold winter air punctuating the stiffness.

  “So, you believe your mentor, as it were, was mauled by a fantasy creature?” Lieutenant Doyle’s brows arched, his lips curving to a small grin. “And why would the creature feel it necessary to travel the distance to Hiline solely to kill a single drunken man?”

  Leer chewed on his bottom lip, looking away as he stewed.

  “Tell me,” the Lieutenant continued, “what could have been so important about a furrier to the king? Did Finnigan slay more than the beast’s allotted amount of tragurns?”

  “I know what I saw,” Leer argued, his gaze returning to Lieutenant Doyle, who laughed, shaking his head.

  “Then you deserve the high watch for the rest of your pathetic existence.” The Lieutenant’s eyes flicked to the men holding Leer. “Let him go,” he ordered.

  Leer felt the men shift their weight behind him, their hesitance obvious. “Sir,” one of them said, “he’s outright flitbloached. Shouldn’t we bring him to the box?”

  “No,” Lieutenant Doyle replied. “Surely this little boy has learned his lesson. He’s no doubt worn out his welcome in Enton, anyway. See to it that he’s posted in the west tower this eve.”

  “But, Sir—” another began.

  “That’s an order,” the Lieutenant warned. “I’ve bigger shads to braise. The princess’s averil is this eve, and I don’t wish to waste any more breath on this fool. The solitude of high watch should be enough to knock some sense into him.”

  Leer yanked his arms free the instant he felt the guards loosen their grip. He swept
his coat and scarf from the ground, glaring at them in disgust as he moved away.

  “Private,” the Lieutenant said, halting Leer in his tracks. “I’d advise you to refrain from any more shenanigans that reflect badly on the King’s army.” Leer’s chin dipped back toward his shoulder as he listened. “The next time, I won’t be so generous.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Leer hissed, stalking toward the narrow cobblestone street.

  -2—

  The cobbled walk marked the beginning of where Leer felt more comfortable. The usually soft and muddy road leading out of Enton—the largest city within the Royal Vale—was hard under his boots. The mud had solidified in the freezing air, now slick from the chipped ice covering it. Peddlers with stocked carts and tents filled most of the precarious paths carved, the rest of the area laden with untouched ice and snow. People navigated it themselves at their own risk. Although in Hiline, if one didn’t know how to manage in the snow in winter, he wasn’t expected to last long, anyway.

  Leer weaved through the pathways, avoiding pushy sales pitches from humble peasant salesmen who lined the street. He shoved his gloved hands deep within his coat pockets, expertly bracing himself against both the cold and the guilt of his inability to help them.

  His mind raged despite his outward silence. Bilby had slipped through the cracks. It had taken days to locate him. Leer knew Finnigan must have shared something with him. After all, Finnigan spoke about Bilby a few times. Surely Finnigan must have confided in him.

  Then there was the strange occurrence of defeating an armed man with a piece of cloth. How? How had he managed to think to overpower a man with a knife using a timber sling?

  Luck, Leer thought with a scowl. Not that I’ve much of it other than with that.

  “Boxwell!”

  He froze, his dark eyes scanning his surroundings. With his mossy brown scarf wrapped around his head, covering his ears, Leer had a hard time pinning down the location of the voice calling his name.

  “Boxwell!” the voice came again ahead of him.

  Leer squinted, blinded from the sun’s glare off the crisp white snow covering everything around him.

  “What should you need now, you oaf? Have you lost your vice again?” Leer called back, spotting the owner of the voice—a stout middle-aged man with russet hair and a blacksmith’s apron. With a grin, he crossed toward him.

  “Fine,” the man said with a shrug, wearing a wrinkled scowl surrounded by a thick red beard. “I shan’t care a bit if you freeze to death before the averil this eve.”

  “If you began to care, Jarle, I’d worry you had taken ill,” Leer teased, closing in on his friend.

  Jarle cracked a small, gap-toothed grin, tilting his round head to the rickety blacksmith’s shop door behind himself. “Get your ezel inside. I’ve got a bit of Hedda’s surprise stew left in my tin.”

  Leer kicked the excess snow off his boots before ducking into the dank space. He moved to the fire, which glowed with controlled rage in the center of the room, simultaneously stripping off layers of outerwear and weaving through piles of tools and scrap iron to reach it.

  “I am afraid to know what the surprise is this time,” Leer joked, rubbing his palms together with relief. The fire popped as Jarle fed it another log.

  Jarle tried to hide the small grin at the corners of his bearded mouth. “Careful, lad. It ain’t be Hedda’s fault you can’t stomach a bit of habbersnitch.”

  “It isn’t the habbersnitches I take issue with, but rather their little pokey bones when I sip my broth.”

  “Ya,” Jarle said with an honest nod of agreement. “It be true Hedda’s eyes have dimmed a bit.”

  Leer’s lips curled upward. “A bit? She married a lump like you. I’d say the woman is outright blind.” Jarle’s eyes narrowed; Leer laughed. “Oh, come on, now. Don’t be a lass about it.”

  “’Least I have myself a wife,” Jarle replied indignantly.

  “Aye, well I’d rather not be responsible for anyone but myself.”

  Jarle snatched a large mallet from his workbench in one hand, while using a grip in the other to withdraw a red hot piece of iron from the forge, bringing it to his work surface. He began working the metal, the steady ping and clink of it oddly soothing to Leer.

  “You can’t keep gallivanting around with courtesans forever, pretending you like empty canoodles.” Jarle paused, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ll go broke, besides. A fire is nice, but there’s nothing like the warmth of a wife, ya?”

  Leer sipped the vermin stew broth, relishing how the thick, salty liquid coated his insides with heat.

  “Perhaps,” he mumbled.

  “What ever happened to that one lass?” Jarle paused, his hammer hand gesturing toward his chest. “The one with the straw colored hair and the large bobbingar?”

  Leer’s nose wrinkled. “She…” He sighed. “When she heard what I think, she thought me mad.”

  Jarle grunted, giving a small nod. “I’m sorry, mijn zoon. It’s true her teeth resembled my cart mare’s, but she still would have made a fair wife.”

  “You barely knew her.”

  “Well, she was an unpaid woman and she was with you. It’s better than nothing.”

  Leer rolled his eyes. “I’ve got more important things to accomplish before I seek out a wife.”

  Jarle sighed, shaking his head, the red curls poking out from under his navy blue knitted cap. “You have to give it up, Boxwell,” he advised with a huff, slamming the mallet onto the metal as he shaped it. “Soon there won’t be a soul who will think you right, if you don’t.”

  “I haven’t got reason to give anything up.”

  “Isn’t your reputation reason enough?”

  Leer gave a small belch. “Nay, Jarle. My reputation is a cause long since lost.”

  Jarle frowned; he paused over his work. “It’s a tale, Leer,” he said gently, looking up at the young man across from him, seriousness in his eyes. “Those northerners have no special abilities to conjure. It’s rubbish told by Hiline’s greatest enemy to scare our armies.”

  “You deny the possibility, then?”

  “Of a scaled beast-man who harnesses powerful magic?” Jarle scoffed. “Mijn zoon, I know your heart is heavy. But it shan’t be a beast you should pine for. If you want an enemy to hunt, then hunt nature herself.”

  “Nature.” Leer wet his lips. “So nature, then, made a man with eyes that glow yellow?”

  “Listen to me,” Jarle warned, turning to Leer. “You walk a dangerous path with your beliefs. Not all tales are true, mijn zoon.”

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Leer set the emptied tin down on a shelf behind him. “This one is,” he assured, his eyes fixed on the shorter man in front of him.

  “Leer—”

  “I saw it, Jarle.”

  “I’m just asking you to consider—”

  Leer’s abrupt, angry shove away from the shelf he leaned against caused several of the materials it housed to rattle to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, turning away from Jarle as he drew some sharp breaths.

  “I saw it,” Leer repeated through gritted teeth. “I saw the beast and it saw me.”

  “You saw a tragurn that eve,” Jarle argued. “Finnigan died by a wild animal, not a monster.”

  “I know what I saw.”

  “Leer—”

  “I know what I saw,” Leer spat. “It wasn’t at all natural, and it killed the only real family I ever had.” His fingers flexed beside him. “All I care about in life is destroying that creature while making it suffer as much as I have. I won’t rest until its dead.” He smiled ruefully. “Then all of Hiline will know of the power that makes the Grimbarror.” He met Jarle’s eyes once again. “Perhaps after that, I won’t be the madman they think me to be.”

  With a quick tug, Leer slipped on his mittens and wrapped his woolen scarf around his neck. As he headed for the door, Jarle intercepted him.

  “Boxwell,” Jarle said, taking Leer’s elbow wi
th a firm grip, “I don’t think you crazy, ya?”

  Leer allowed his face to soften a bit, knowing Jarle spoke the truth. “For now.”

  -3—

  Leer closed his cottage door behind himself, shutting out the bellowing winter air. He sucked a long breath through his nostrils as he shut his eyes. Frenzied thoughts he left Jarle’s shop with continued to swim around in his head, and he couldn’t seem to rid himself of them, no matter how hard he tried.

  With resignation, Leer removed his mittens and snatched a candle and flint from the nearby ledge, expertly drawing out a spark and lighting the wick to see his surroundings. Holding it in his hand, he crossed to his cot, eying the dark tunic that laid over it. His assigned living quarters were meager to say the least; within three strides, he reached the straw mattress. With the candle seated on a shelf, he tossed his mittens, scarf and coat on his bed and swept up the heavy tunic, drawing it over his undershirt. He smoothed it down, the thick cobalt wool feeling unusually oppressive. His guard issued long sword glimmered in the filtered sunlight streaming through the cabin’s window slats.

  Leer sighed and picked up the sword that rested in its sheath. He noticed how his mind began to clear as he secured the belt over his shoulder and around his waist—the welcomed weight of the weapon on his hip distracted him.

  Perhaps I should be concerned that I enjoy carrying a sword as much as I do.

  He smirked, straightening up to view his reflection in the splintered looking glass that hung on the wall near his wash bucket.

  Or perhaps not.

  Nearby shouting distracted Leer from his thoughts, the frenzied voices of castle servants and guards barely muffled through his cottage walls as they passed. The averil to celebrate the memory of Prince Edward Gresham, and welcome Princess Maegan Gresham into her new station as throne heir, was this eve.

  Leer sighed, sitting on the straw mattress. Prince Edward had indeed died a terrible death—murdered at the hands of insurgents, a growing ragtag group of mercenaries who had long since fled Hiline to the Cursed Waste of Sortaria in an effort to establish their own kingdom. The ongoing battle between the royal kingdom and the insurgents was seen as a quarrel among brothers, since the insurgents didn’t have any true power against the mass of trained army guards. However, in light of Edward’s death, the quarrel had become war.