The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1)

by Lyndsey Harper

  As determined by the law, Princess Maegan would now succeed King Gresham as queen. A fragile and pale creature with less experience in leadership than a stable boy would lead the nation.

  The averil will surely be full of eager suitors. Not that any beyond Lieutenant Doyle should truly have a chance at her hand.

  Perhaps at one time, Leer would’ve considered himself one of those suitors. For the present moment, though, Finnigan’s death consumed his life.

  Finnigan.

  The mere thought of his name plagued his mind with horrid images of the older man’s sliced body. With a sniff, Leer reached under his straw mattress and fished around until his fingertips made contact with soft leather. He yanked the book from its hiding place and ran his hands over the hide covering it.

  Finnigan’s journal.

  When Leer sorted through Finnigan’s cottage just after Finnigan’s death, he found the journal to be the only possession Finnigan had worth keeping. The rest he sold for mere pence to fund his trip to the Fell.

  Leer brushed his fingers over the cover of the journal, tracing the odd pattern on the nimskin. A rather grotesque face with eyes that made the hairs on the back of Leer’s neck stand on end was tooled into the cover. Whether the face was human or animal, he couldn’t decide, nor why it should have ever been on the journal in the first place.

  Whatever it is, it’s certainly vile. He sighed. There must be some way to discover the truth through Finnigan’s words. Why else should he keep them if not?

  Buisines played by court musicians bellowed, interrupting him. Leer looked up, a groan rumbling in his throat. It was the call for all shift changes. With a heavy sigh, he tucked the journal back into its hiding place and stood, squaring his shoulders.

  High watch in the dead of winter awaits.

  The high tower was the least coveted guard position, usually assigned to new apprentices who had yet to earn their place in rank. As a scout for the king during his travels, Leer abhorred the idea of being trapped in a tower while less competent guards protected the site of the averil.

  Too small, he inwardly grumbled, tossing his small gwyd horn aside. Too cramped.

  Raw winds and swirls of snow sweeping up from tree branches assaulted the sparsely covered tower, which was barely large enough to accommodate a single man carrying a sword and a signal bugle made from a mountain gwyd’s crooked horn. Leer grit his teeth as he peered through the small tower opening. Honey yellow rays of the setting sun cut across the landscape. He heard the conflicting melodies of mourning and celebration in the distance, bagpipes and fiddles coming to life under skilled masters. People from all of Hiline’s regions would come to the Vale; some of the more remote groups sent small delegations to represent them. Wearing dark cloaks, they would crowd the streets to watch the driving celks escort the cart carrying the prince’s body. The celks would solemnly march his body to its final place of rest, the royal family’s crypt adjacent to the castle—the same place he found Finnigan’s discarded body after returning from a scouting excursion to the northeast upon Prince Edward’s death.

  Leer couldn’t ascertain if the overwhelming chills that prickled his body was from the weather, or from the memories that plagued his consciousness.

  He shifted his eyes to the blackening outline of the Fell. The monstrous Sortarian Mountain was rather intimidating despite the blanket of darkness washing over its two tooth-like peaks. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed back his anger.

  Had it not been for such evil, Finnigan would still be here.

  Finnigan had told Leer stories of how the Sortarians, Hiline’s northern neighbors, had mastered the art of manipulation through the Vei, the ancient practice of channeling both good and evil from within. Only an unselfish mind could protect the Vei’s finicky, unpredictable balance. It needed a skilled master with unparalleled focus on good to tame it. Conversely, those who attempted to harness its power for evil would grow in strength and become the Grimbarror.

  No one had seen any trace of the Vei’s presence for decades. Most believed it to be a long dead art; some even claimed it was a myth altogether. But not Finnigan. For whatever reason, he was convinced that not only was it real, but it was still possible to access.

  But Finnigan died before Leer could ever tell him he was right.

  Finnigan’s eyes were frozen open in shock and horror when Leer found him. Leer tied one of his scarves around the older man’s head to give him the peace he deserved.

  And that’s when he saw a figure in the distance, in the tree line not far from Finnigan’s abandoned body—a man, larger than he had ever seen. A glow around him permeated the thick darkness of the night, highlighting the scales he bore on his face and the claws that ended his fingertips. The rims of his eyes were yellow, like the bile that crept up Leer’s throat, threatening to escape.

  He was the power no one believed in.

  As quickly as it seemed to appear, the beast vanished in a ball of white light so bright, Leer’s eyes watered instantly.

  Leer fished some jerky out from his waist pouch and tore at it with his teeth, his chest tightening as he fought his anger.

  Only tales. It’s much more than mere tales, Hiline.

  Time crept by, while ounces of Leer’s patience faded with each passing moment. The sun was nearly shrouded by the Fell on its journey to the rim of the earth when a distant steady, white glow in the sky made Leer’s heart stop. It drew closer with each breath, and his stomach sank with familiar dread. He had seen that powerful energy only once before:

  The night Finnigan died.

  “Shit,” he breathed, dropping forward to his knees to have a better look. There was no mistaking what he saw. He knew what the odd light signaled, whether anyone decided to take him seriously or not.

  He fumbled about, panicking as he sought the gwyd horn he had rendered useless. When he finally pawed the horn, he licked his lips and brought it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving the haunting white light.

  He froze.

  He held his breath in preparation to sound the alarm, but he couldn’t release it. He was stunned, transfixed by the light as it grew. An orb of pure light, like a dim miniature sun or a vast lit snowflake.

  Leer drew another full breath, blowing into the gwyd’s horn with power, shuddering as he heard the eerie bellow of the call. Again he sounded the horn, then three times more following in short, panicked bursts until he heard another soldier calling out to him from the ladder on the outside of the tower.

  “Private, what is it? Is it insurgents?”

  “Nay,” Leer replied, squeezing his sword hilt. He turned and left the tower, facing the fellow soldier who had scaled the ladder to the small platform outside of it. “Notify the king’s guard. Get the Lieutenant. All of the commanding officers. Immediately!”

  “Who are you to—” the soldier began to interject.

  “Listen to me,” Leer urged, gripping the man’s cobalt vest. “Just do as I say should you wish to live this night.”

  The soldier brushed Leer’s hand off himself. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Just—”

  “Private!”

  Leer cringed when he heard Lieutenant Doyle’s voice from below. He bypassed the guard on the platform and took hold of the long, thick rope hanging on the side of the tower, sliding to the ground to the Lieutenant’s side. The Lieutenant wore his finest tunic, each knob of brass polished, his detailed sword strapped tightly to his side.

  “Private, what is the meaning of the alarm?” Lieutenant Doyle demanded, seriousness in his eyes.

  “You need to go to the king, the princess,” Leer said, his words tripping over each other. “You need to get them to safety. I’ll gather the other guards and—”

  “Boxwell,” Lieutenant Doyle interrupted, grabbing his arm. “I don’t take orders from you. Now, tell me what you saw.”

  Leer chewed the inside of his cheek briefly as he considered his options.

  Blast, he inwa
rdly groaned.

  With a deep breath, he eyed the Lieutenant. “The Grimbarror,” he replied with darkness in his voice.

  The delay before Lieutenant Doyle’s laughter made it sting Leer that much more.

  “I’ll be damned,” Lieutenant Doyle said with a shake of his head, “you really are insane.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Leer insisted, turning toward the direction of the averil. “If you won’t protect our king and princess, then I will.”

  Lieutenant Doyle snatched Leer’s arm, clamping down on his wrist. “How dare you, you scoundrel.” He bent it backward as Leer tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “If you think you’re setting a single foot near that averil, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “Watch me.”

  Freed by a swift elbow to Lieutenant Doyle’s gut, Leer lurched forward, scrambling toward the rising bonfires in the distance. Still, the Lieutenant tackled and pinned him to the ground, pressing his face mercilessly against the cold cobblestone with his knee.

  “Guard,” Lieutenant Doyle yelled above Leer, keeping him braced against the walk. As Leer fought, he saw a stampede of boots rush toward them. “Seize this man. Shackle him and put him in a cell immediately.”

  “Yes, Sir,” a guard replied.

  More hands apprehended Leer, snapping him up from the ground to stand. Cold irons slapped across his wrists, heavy chains laced around his arms.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Leer growled, pulling against his bonds as the guards led him. “Do you hear me? You’ll be sorry.”

  “The only thing I’m sorry about is not doing this sooner,” Lieutenant Doyle replied through Leer’s angry screams.

  Golden dusk light filtered through the single window in Leer’s musty cell; the slivers washed onto Leer’s face as he tried to stretch himself high enough to peer out of the barred narrow rectangle in the outside wall high above him. He jumped, lunging toward the opening with outstretched arms, his fingers shy of making contact with the bars. He almost tumbled onto the ground before catching his footing, cursing under his breath as he kicked the straw underneath him in rage.

  This is madness. I need to get out of here.

  A man’s voice in the blackened cell next to him disturbed Leer’s fit. “I’ve seen a lot of you guard boys come in here to cool off. For as long as I’ve been in here, I can’t say I’ve seen the likes of you.”

  Leer drew a deep breath through his nostrils, sighing. “I’ve surprised myself with how long I’ve stayed out of the box, too,” he replied, his back still turned, shoulders slumped in defeat. “How long have you been in here?”

  “Just about six months, I figure.”

  “Blast,” Leer muttered, his breath visible in the cold air. “Well, you certainly ruffled enough feathers, I gather.”

  “I suppose being in the Vale will do that to a man,” the man offered nonchalantly.

  Leer’s eyebrow rose. He turned toward the cell next to his, peering into the darkness. “What do you mean by that?”

  He got his answer when the man stepped into the light next to the bars that divided the cells.

  “You didn’t figure I’d be one of your own, did you?” The sandy brown haired man laughed, propping his elbow on the bars that divided them; Leer saw a deep red half moon and triple slash tattoo on the fair skin of the man’s left forearm. He gave Leer a small bow. “Bennett Falstad, from the insurgence…though from the look on your face, I’m guessing you already knew that.”

  Leer’s skin crawled, his lips pursing in disgust. “It’s not hard to see a roach on the straw.”

  Bennett sighed, rolling his eyes. “Ah yes, the ol’ ‘roach’ compliment. Lovely. Like I haven’t heard that one before. ‘Suppose now you won’t be telling me your name, hmm?”

  “Leave me be,” Leer growled.

  “Tell me, Blue,” Bennett continued, leaning on the bars with a grin as Leer turned away, “what has you stuck in the box this fine evening? You certainly don’t smell of drink, though you’re acting a bit of a fool.” Leer heard Bennett laugh in response to his silence. “Well, I’ll share a secret with you—one doesn’t sit in a dank place like this for nearly six months without learning a few things about observing people.”

  “I don’t care to hear anything from the likes of you,” Leer snapped over his shoulder, spitting on the ground for emphasis.

  “I figured,” Bennett said. “Ah, well. ‘Tis a shame, really. Might have been able to at least give you a bit of comfort to know you’re not alone.”

  Leer shifted his weight, his chin dipping down as he tried to avoid listening to Bennett.

  “In fact,” Bennett continued, “I’d say it’s a true shame Hiline didn’t have more faith in you. Had she had trust instead of doubt, she might have only owed you a grand debt after this eve was over rather than experiencing much worse.”

  With wide eyes, Leer spun around and charged toward the dividing bars. He managed to be quick enough to reach through them and grab at Bennett’s tunic, clamping down on the deep hued fabric.

  “What do you know of it?” he demanded, shaking with fury. When Bennett refused to answer, Leer slammed his shoulder and side against the rails. “Tell me what you know,” he growled.

  Bennett’s laugh haunted Leer’s mind. “You already know, my friend.”

  “Tell me!” Leer demanded. “Tell me what the insurgents have planned.”

  “It’s not insurgents, and you know it, Blue.”

  Leer froze, still gripping Bennett’s tunic. “then what—”

  “The Grimbarror,” Bennett interrupted with a smile, snickering as he watched Leer’s face change. “Ah, yes. You are a believer. I told you I learned a few things down here.”

  “What do you know of the Grimbarror?”

  “Not everyone refuses to believe, Blue.”

  Leer took a deep pausing breath as he searched Bennett’s eyes. “You’ve taken our prince. Should you wish to take the entire royal family?”

  “Stop denying what you know,” Bennett snapped. “You know insurgents aren’t to blame for what should come this eve.” He paused, his glance flicking toward the small window. “It’s drawing nearer. I can feel the shift.”

  The shift?

  Bennett’s brows furrowed as he looked back to Leer. “Don’t you feel it?” he asked.

  “What’s feeling got to do with anything?” Leer snapped.

  “Why do you think I’m down here?” Bennett asked. “Do you think they’d keep me locked away underground for six months for robbing carriages?” He laughed. “It’s not merely anything. It’s everything, Blue. Can’t you feel it?”

  Nay, Leer thought. Aye. I don’t know.

  Leer loosened his grip on Bennett slightly, trying to quench his dry throat with a swallow. “I saw the orb,” he murmured, avoiding the answer.

  Bennett’s expression grew more serious. “It won’t be long, then.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  Leer released Bennett and combed through his cell for a possible way out, kicking aside the stale straw and running his hands over the cold iron that held him in. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he breathed. Heart racing as he realized there was no escape, he pounded on the bars. “Hey!” he shouted. “Let me out. We need to protect the king.”

  Nothing.

  Leer slammed his hands against the bars even harder. “Hey! Now!” He paused when he heard a Hilinian guard who clutched a large club grumble as he came down the stairs and into view.

  “Silence,” the guard yelled, whacking the club on the rails. “I’ll arrange a beating for you if that’s what it takes.”

  “You’ve got to get the king and princess to safety,” Leer begged.

  “Whatever for?”

  “There’s to be an attack—”

  “Oh right,” the guard interrupted with a growl. “You’re the mad one.”

  “No, wait! Please listen,” Leer pleaded, reaching for
the guard as he turned to leave.

  A deafening crash resounded above them. Stone crumbled against iron and cascaded down with thunderous blasts that shook the ground the three men stood on. Each of them tumbled and fell, cast into darkness as stones doused the guard’s torch when it toppled from his hand. Dust and debris shattered inward through the slotted window, while razor sharp pieces of iron and rock cut through the air.

  The ground ceased shaking with unnatural suddenness. Both Leer and the guard rose to their feet, coughing as the dirt choked their lungs.

  “It’s here,” Bennett whispered, slumped against the divisional bars.

  An intense milky light, as peculiar as the sudden pause, poured into the cell through the window, blinding and painful to Leer’s eyes.

  “Bloody hell,” the guard exclaimed, mouth gaped. “What is that?”

  “Don’t,” Bennett managed between wheezes. “Don’t…Don’t look at it.”

  The guard didn’t heed Bennett’s advice, the man’s gaze still trained on the blazing light piercing the dark cells.

  “Blue!” Bennett called; Leer turned, watching him pull himself up to stand. “Don’t be like your daft guard. See what it does to a man?”

  Leer saw Bennett holding a hand over his torso, bright red blood oozing between his fingers from a noticeable wound in his chest. “The debris,” Leer murmured, dumbstruck. “You’re hurt…”

  “Listen to me, Blue,” Bennett snapped, knuckles white as he clutched at his torso. “Whatever…you do, do not…look at…the beast’s light. It’s a…trick. It wishes to…soothe you…before…it kills you.” Bennett pressed his head against the iron bars, sliding down the cell wall to his knees onto the straw. Crimson fluid sputtered from his mouth as his hand fell limp from his wound, his eyes fluttering shut in defeat as he slumped over.

  Leer’s focus shifted to the guard’s sudden wail. Leer’s eyes widened as he watched raging white hot flames engulf the screaming guard and consume him alive. The guard’s flailing hands slid down the bars of Leer’s cell door as he collapsed, writhing in pain.

  The silenced voices mixed with the smell of odd ash that followed sickened Leer. He swallowed back the bile that pushed up his throat for escape, hands shaking as the moldy straw ignited, fervent blazes licking a path across the block of cells. If he didn’t escape soon, he would burn like the guard.