The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1)

by Lyndsey Harper

  He heard screams of sheer terror, he saw Princess Maegan’s vacant eyes just before she fell into the earth’s opening.

  He saw the bodies in the war-torn field.

  He saw blood drip from his own hands.

  Leer swallowed, suddenly parched. He internally panicked, the unexpected impact of it all on him not making any logical sense.

  “Boy,” he heard from Gort across him, the round man snickering as he slurped his ale. “Aren’t you playing me a game this eve?”

  With a deep breath, Leer tore his eyes from the scene, facing Gort once again. “Aye,” he said, flicking a glance back to Astrid once more, seeing her eyes locked on the Lieutenant’s. “Let’s be on with it.”

  -10—

  If there was one thing in life that Leer knew beyond absolute certainty, it was that he was an astute tafl player.

  Yet, like the unforgiving snow that fell last night, negativity swirled through Leer’s mind. Doubt upon doubt compounded together with no apparent end. Still, he kept his faux exterior of poise and calm; it was all he had to cling to, a security blanket of familiarity to counter the unexplainable sensations of distraction he was experiencing.

  “Now Leer,” Finnigan had once whispered as he crouched over a battered tafl board in the same seat as Gort now sat, “why are you so angry?”

  “You have all of my pawns,” an adolescent Leer exclaimed in defeat, blonde curls falling onto his forehead as he sulked.

  “You still have your ones over there,” Finnigan reminded, pointing out a few black pegs left.

  “They won’t make it. It’s too far.”

  “Have you looked to make sure?”

  “It’s too far.”

  The weathered man smiled. “Alright, ‘tis how you wish to play, then. Giving up, are you?”

  Leer sighed, his small arms crossing over his chest. “There isn’t a point.”

  “Nay, Boy,” Finnigan corrected. “There will always be a point to everything—it’s up to you to make it, though.”

  “Your move,” Gort said, taking a long sip from his freshly refilled ale mug. Ettie then looked to Leer’s with silent questioning as she held the pitcher.

  “Nay,” Leer mumbled as he came back to the present, waving her off as he stared at the board.

  He knew he had initially been far too lax in his offense, resulting in the gap between his black pawns and Gort’s white ones. He lost many strategic moves early on. It wasn’t like him—he wasn’t as sloppy as he showed tonight. A dark brew of hate and vengeance created an evil creature of distraction inside of him.

  Leer squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t afford such dawdling. He had to be aggressive, to employ a diversion strategy. The game mattered most, the outcome providing much needed shelter and nourishment to help him continue forward to save the princess and ultimately bring justice to Finnigan.

  Count, count, then once more, Leer recited in his mind, the adage his mentor gave him steering his hands through a few turns. Leer didn’t respond to Gort’s chuckle, watching him remove the pawns he’d purposely sacrificed. Never quit a moment before. Leer flexed his fingers and kept his dark eyes focused as he shifted his back pawn, ignoring the surprised response from the crowd.

  “Yours,” he said, looking at Gort.

  “Bit of a risk, isn’t it?” Gort challenged with a grin.

  “What’s life without risk?”

  “Ah, you say that because you’re young.”

  “And now you’re too old?”

  Gort’s face changed at the implication. “If a lesson is what you insist upon, then that’s what you shall receive.”

  Leer leaned back, sipping the last of his ale. “By all means.” He closed his eyes for a brief prayer for luck. It was grasping at straws, really. He needed a miracle.

  When he opened his eyes, he watched as Gort’s irritated expression revealed hints of internal panic. On his turns, Leer made a precise move, then another after that, slowly gaining back the advantage.

  Thank you, he breathed in relief, though part of him wondered what divine intervention he had just accessed to achieve the help he got.

  The men around Gort had become quiet, taking in the turning of the tides with fascination.

  “You can always surrender,” Leer whispered a while later, seeing the way Gort clutched at the underside edge of the table with his free hand.

  “I’ll do no such thing,” Gort snapped.

  “Aye, well…s’long as you’re certain.”

  Gort made his move, infuriated. “Blast,” Gort growled, seeing the last move he was forced to make, the only choice he had left—one that would cost him the game. “What kinds of tricks be up your sleeve, Boy?” the stout man asked, bursting from his seat. Another man passed Gort a sword, and Gort pointed the tip at Leer’s throat.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Leer saw how the sudden ruckus got Astrid’s attention; he heard her gasp as she stood from the seat she had taken in the corner.

  “No tricks,” Leer replied, a bit offended, his hands up at his sides in surrender. “Search me if you’d like. I’ve played nothing but fair.”

  “That he has,” one of the men murmured, receiving unsure throaty agreements from the others.

  “Never have seen a victory like it in all my days,” a second man commented.

  “The boy’s a natural,” another by him agreed.

  Furiously, Gort shifted his attention and the blade of his sword. “It’s that blasted woman,” he continued, shaking his free hand toward Astrid. “She’s a brewstress. She’s cursed me!”

  “A brewstress?” some of the others asked with anger, horrified at the possibility.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not a brewstress,” Astrid protested.

  “You be wearing the cloak of one,” Gort argued.

  “This is a typical cloak of Hiline.”

  “For a man.” Gort shifted his weight toward her. “Tell us, did you bewitch and kill him to steal his cloak, whoever he was?”

  She scoffed, her mouth agape. “This is madness. You’re a bunch of drunken beasts who haven’t a bit of sense left in you.”

  “Oh, I’ve got enough sense to know a brewstress when I’ve seen one,” Gort yelled, charging forward. “There’s evil about you, wench.”

  “Stand down,” Leer growled, coming between Gort’s blade and Astrid with his own drawn sword, his blade crossing stiffly against the other. He kept his eyes locked on Gort. “Lay down your sword,” he warned.

  “You shan’t tell me what to do, Boy,” Gort snapped.

  A loud clatter on the counter next to them startled Gort and Leer from their face-off.

  “Enough,” Jon-Jon yelled as he folded his large arms across his chest. “Now, put your blades away, lest I toss you both out into the snow for a desperate tragurn to eat.” Jon-Jon’s brow wrinkled when he saw Gort’s hesitation. “Gort, the boy won fair, however arrogant of an arse he might be. There be no sorcery here tonight.”

  The room remained quiet as Gort tucked his sword away first, the anger still quite visible on his face as he eyed Leer, who shifted his weight as he followed suit and put his sword back in its sheath.

  “So, the people here believe in sorcery, then?” Leer asked, intrigued by the development.

  “We’ve seen a few things,” Jon-Jon replied.

  “Such as what?”

  The surrounding group shared unsure glances as their eyes shifted. “Strange things have been witnessed in the northernmost Eyne Wood near Cabryog by hunters,” Jon-Jon said after a pause. “White hot fires burning despite sheets of rain, men with good heads losing all sense and killing each other over nothing. A groaning from deep within the belly of the earth. Darkness.”

  Leer watched Gort return to his table, the other patrons peeling off to follow.

  “You’ve got the last three rooms on the far right wing. Now,” Jon-Jon said, his tone cool, “I suggest you three eat and be off before you wear out your welcome.” He draped a cloth over his l
arge shoulder and walked away, leaving Leer standing in the middle of the room, Astrid and Lieutenant Doyle behind on either side of him.

  Eventually, the fiddler resurrected the music, the first few songs he played more solemn than those previously. Ettie skirted around, depositing bowls of stew in front of the Lieutenant and Astrid, who had returned to their previous locations.

  Leer groaned. His ribs ached with pain and hunger. The burns on his foot, arm, and face desperately needed the yeran bark ointment from his pack near the Lieutenant’s table, but he didn’t have the strength to move. With a sigh, he sank onto a stool in front of the abandoned counter, staring ahead at the numerous colorful carved dalecarlians, textured pots, and painted crocks on the shelves across from it.

  Ettie set a bowl of steaming stew down, seeing Leer’s preoccupied look. “Well, you did win fair,” she noted. She came a bit closer. “Tell me, how did you do it?”

  “I just know how to play,” Leer wearily responded, grateful for the bland stew.

  “No,” Ettie insisted, “I’ve seen many a men fail to beat Gort. He’s good.” She smiled. “But you…you’re something else.”

  “If you only knew,” he replied cheekily, sipping his ale. “Tell me more about the dark magic witnessed in the north.”

  “Why would a solid man like you care about such tales?” Ettie asked, pouring more golden brew into his mug after he set it back down.

  “I’ve a curious side, I suppose.”

  “Well, if you ask me, those tales are nothing more than campfire stories about the Vei spun together by frightened and drunken men.”

  “So no one has ever actually produced evidence?”

  Ettie paused. “There’s been a few things,” she replied, eying Leer.

  “Please, do tell,” Leer said with a charming smile.

  She exhaled in defeat. “There were a few deaths, but it isn’t unusual for men of these parts to get a bit hotheaded, as you now know. And there was the talk of spotting Emelda.”

  Leer’s eyes met Ettie’s. “Emelda?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “You do know who Emelda is, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Ettie laughed. “‘Course you don’t, strapping man like you not one for mixing with such nonsense.”

  “Please,” Leer urged, “do go on. Who is Emelda?”

  “She’s the daughter of Balane,” Ettie explained. “Any one of these dimwits in here will tell you she’s real, but the sensible folks know better, don’t we?”

  Leer forced a soft laugh. “Right, of course.” He leaned in a little. “But, say I was curious about her. Where might I find information?”

  Ettie cackled. “The village crier says he saw her once, so who knows if it’s true.” She leaned in with a hushed voice, “Let’s say that Looney Luke’s word has never been of a reliable nature.”

  “I can hear ya from over here, Ettie,” croaked an old man tucked in a nearby corner. Leer shifted his focus onto him, observing his wrinkled skin and beady eyes with curiosity. He watched as the man tipped back his mug, somehow never breaking the gaze he held on Leer.

  “Oh hush, Luke,” Ettie scolded, her hands finding her plump hips. “You know no one believes the waste you spew.”

  “Luke?” Leer asked, eyes widening. “Luke Foreman, aye?”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed as he lowered his mug. His crooked finger scratched his predominant nose, his gaping mouth exposing the holes of his missing teeth. “What’s it to ya?” he asked.

  “Sir, if you’re the man I’ve read of, then surely you remember the name Finnigan Lance.”

  Looney Luke stared Leer down. “I may know the name.”

  Leer’s pulse quickened. “Sir, I would like to ask you some questions.”

  “‘Bout what?”

  “The Vei.”

  Luke rose from his seat with an unhurried stretch. “You’d leak your breeches, Boy.”

  Leer matched Luke’s visible smirk with his own. “I’ll consider myself forewarned.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Ettie challenged Leer in shock.

  “It’s imperative to heed the advice of our elders, aye?” Leer asked her back with a smile.

  As he watched Ettie leave with a groan of disgust, Leer stirred his stew, listening to the clopping of Looney Luke’s gait intermixed with the crooning of the fiddle across from him as the old man approached and filled the stool next to his with little grace.

  “I would think you know of the Grimbarror then, yeah?” the old man asked with a thin smile.

  “Aye. I’ve heard the tales from Finnigan.”

  With dirt-caked fingernails, the old man scratched his stubbled face. He leaned in with a grin; as a result of their new proximity, Leer caught the sudden infiltration of unpleasant odors from him. “So,” Luke said, “what have you heard about the Grimbarror?”

  “It’s a vile beast made from dark Vei magic for the purpose of killing.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Aye,” Leer replied in truth.

  Luke’s grin widened significantly. “You poor reew,” he said with pity. “You shan’t be any wiser than anyone else in Hiline.”

  Leer tilted his head back as he examined the man next to him. “Perhaps you could enlighten me, then,” he offered. He watched as Luke grasped his mug’s handle, bringing it to his lips.

  As he finished drinking, the old man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Before you were born, Sortaria was a far more fruitful land than it is today,” he began. Leer saw a distinct sparkle in Luke’s eyes. “All was well for both countries, the trade bounty plentiful.”

  “Yes, I know this,” Leer sighed.

  Luke continued with a huff, “For centuries, people of divine Sortarian birthright, known as the Keepers, were charged by the Vei Master with keeping rule over the Amulet of Orr.”

  “What—”

  “Shush,” the old man interrupted with narrowed eyes. “Just listen, Boy.” He shifted in his seat, a slight scowl threatening to dull the excitement in him. “Every twenty years on the Eve of Listra, those who possess Vei magic in their blood are tested under the Keepers before them. If a person is determined to be of divine right, they sequester themselves to live in the underground caverns of the Fell. There, they learn the ways of the Keepers before them to ensure the continuation of proper Vei usage, as well as to ensure safety of the Vei from darkness.”

  “How do they ensure it?” Leer asked.

  “By protecting the amulet,” Luke replied, wetting his lips. “See, those who are found to possess the Vei magic, but have darkness of heart instead of light, they are…” He paused. “They are sacrificed.”

  Leer’s eyes widened. “Killed, you mean?”

  Luke gave a heavy sigh. “It’s for the greater good.”

  “How can that possibly be for good?” Leer scoffed. “They are killed in cold blood, aye? What would be fair about that?”

  The old man’s wiry brow raised. “Suppose, then, that you had livestock, and you saw in the wood a sick willet. Probably a boney, scraggly thing that hadn’t yet done the evil, but you could see the foam on its lips. Should you leave it to poison your reews or your celks with a bite of its jaws?”

  Leer’s jaw flexed. “Sick willets shan’t be any comparison to human life.”

  Luke clucked his tongue. “You daft boy, that’s a child’s reasoning. It must be nice to afford such a luxury as your thoughts.”

  “But—”

  “Hush,” Luke warned, waving Ettie over to pour him more ale, to which she obliged. “I need to find some patience for the likes of you. ‘Tweren’t for Finnigan, I might not even try.”

  The older man sipped his drink, the lines on his face taut as he stared ahead at the wall, muttering unintelligibly to himself. For a moment, Leer turned back to his stew, now thicker from growing cold as he listened to Luke. He pushed his spoon around in it, nostrils flared as he considered the grim reality of Vei preservation. Was undue death t
ruly necessary? Was the life of one less important than the lives of many, even if the one was innocent?

  Finnigan believed in the sovereignty of the Vei.

  He realized that his boyhood idol believed in murder.

  Nay. Finnigan wouldn’t have supported it. I know he mustn’t.

  “The amulet,” Luke finally murmured a bit later.

  “Aye, as you said,” Leer replied.

  “The Keepers guard of the Amulet of Orr, because it has vast power. Only those pure of heart should have possession of such a thing because of the magic it holds.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Strength, foresight. Infinite wisdom.”

  Leer swallowed. “So the amulet can be used for darkness as well as good?” Luke nodded. “Who is Emelda, then?”

  Leer caught the subtle shift in Luke’s demeanor. “In the time before Finnigan was birthed, no doubt, Emelda was a very powerful wielder of Vei magic. She was the daughter of Balane, the Vei Master of that time. However, she was far from pure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Balane had two children, twins: Ishma, a son, and Emelda, a daughter. Each were gifted with the Vei, and while they were both favored to be masters, only Ishma was granted the right before their father died.

  “On the Eve of Listra’s birth, when they both competed for their birthright, Ishma succeeded, but Emelda failed her test. She became jealous, darkness entering her and tainting the Vei within. Knowing her envy would mean her death, she fled, hiding for years in the mountains, disguised as a simple brewstress, waiting for the right opportunity to exact her revenge.

  “For several years, Emelda was alone, until she took a lover and became pregnant with her daughter, Lana. Lana was born with the Vei in her blood, as were Ishma’s sons, Tyne and Naetan. Still, Lana did not share the same darkness of heart as her mother, and when Lana reached the age of maturity, she fled her mother’s home before her mother could convert her.

  “Lana sought out her cousin, Tyne, for protection, to which he obliged. See, Tyne was next in line to be Master after Ishma, and because of this, Naetan was jealous. So, Naetan sought out his aunt so he could be granted power. Thus, the first Son of Night was created.”