Lessek_s Key e-2

by Rob Scott

  Bobbing up through the darkness, Mark called again, ‘I’m over here, dummy.’ He had moved further away from their camp, from Gilmour’s fire he judged the distance at about seventy-five feet, not yet enough to get the job done. He listened for sounds of the Seron’s breathing: laboured and quick. ‘Are you getting tired? That’s a lot of armour you have on. I know I’m tired, and I’m just in boots and leggings. So, you must be wearing down.’

  The Seron was starting to worry; he could tell. He swam closer to the struggling warrior. ‘I tell you what – why don’t you take off that leather vest and your chain-mail, and we can make a real contest out of this.’

  The Seron, though obviously fatigued, lashed out with a fist like a hammer.

  Mark took the glancing blow on the temple and saw stars for a moment. He let his rage numb the pain. ‘Good punch, old man. I actually saw the lights of Denver that time.’ He swam a few paces away. ‘Now go ahead. Take your time. It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere.’

  The Seron ripped and tore at the heavy leather vest, then slipped out of his chain-mail, allowing it to sink to the bottom of the great inland cleft. The Malakasian killer seemed energised by his new buoyancy and growled a warning at Mark.

  Watching him come, Mark gave his own warning, a quiet affirmation of what he was about to do. This was no parking-lot fight, throwing a few punches until someone broke it up or the police came: this was everything he had believed could never happen to him. He had never thought he would hate in this way – yet he was about to kill this thing in cold blood.

  ‘So be it, rutter. Come get me,’ he said as he slowly backstroked into even deeper water. Gilmour’s bonfire looked like a lighthouse as Mark dived deep and waited. Let the sonofabitch wonder. Once he was confident the Seron had dived after him several times – he wanted him struggling for breath – Mark moved with the fluid grace of an underwater hunter, slowly coming up beneath the creature’s legs. He grabbed one firmly with both hands and pulled hard for the bottom, releasing the creature at about twenty feet.

  He surfaced, taking deep breaths, and checked his position against Gilmour’s fire. He could hear the Seron, grunting and wheezing in dismay, begin paddling back towards shore – Mark thought how curious it was that the supposedly reckless killers would cling so ardently to life when they realised they had been beaten.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he whispered and slipped beneath the surface once more. Three times he pulled the coughing, spitting Seron warrior down, thinking of Brynne. I love you, she had said, mimicking Mark’s own clumsy admission. Now he was about to get some revenge, a sliver, anyway. ‘Three down, and I am keeping score, you bastard,’ he shouted.

  Rage at the thought of Brynne, freezing cold and sinking beneath the waves in Orindale Harbour, warmed him. Had she called out to him, treading water as long as she could in hopes he would come paddling over to rescue her? These questions tumbled through Mark’s mind as he inhaled deeply and pounced on the Seron’s back. Down and down they spiralled, the creature fighting furiously, but Mark wrapped his arms around the Seron’s neck and took the blows until he felt the Malakasian stiffen, then go entirely limp.

  Mark couldn’t see in the black depths of the fjord, but he felt the body bob towards the surface for a moment, then, trapped by the cold and pressure of nearly fifty feet of water, spiral lazily towards the bottom.

  He swam towards the shore and pulled himself onto land, his body trembling with cold as reaction set in. Blood ran from his nose, and one eye was beginning to swell. He didn’t speak as he strode across their camp, past the comforting warmth of Gilmour’s fire to the little catboat he had stolen and rigged for their trip along the Ravenian Sea. He reached beneath his pack and withdrew the double-bladed battle-axe he had found in Orindale. He crossed back to where Garec was binding the Seron’s wrists and ankles, ignoring Garec when he asked, ‘Are you all right, Mark?’

  Gilmour whispered, ‘Don’t.’

  It was too late.

  Mark hacked viciously into the first prisoner’s neck. Blood splashed from the wound, dousing him. He took the second Seron while Gilmour was reaching out at him, but the spell on the old man’s lips was a moment too late. Mark left the axe embedded in the Seron warrior’s skull.

  Mark barely heard his friends shouting. As he stumbled towards the fire, he was backlit by flames: a homicidal lunatic on a killing spree. Then Gilmour’s spell wrapped around him and he collapsed into the dirt beside the fire.

  ‘Do you like snow peas?’

  ‘What? I’m sorry. What?’ Jennifer jumped, startled. ‘What did you say?’ She turned to find the store manager standing beside her.

  ‘I asked if you like snow peas.’ He smiled. ‘You seem to be interested in the frozen peas, but I have some nice snow peas, fresh in, over in the produce section.’ He gestured towards the rear of the supermarket. ‘It’s eighty-nine cents for a half pound.’

  ‘Uh, no, I mean, thank you, but no – I’m just looking for some-’ Jennifer stammered to a halt. She had been replaying her conversation with Steven, and wondering where she could hide, someplace that no one would think of finding her, or even associate with her. A madman – no, a demon, worse than a demon – was looking for her, reading the thoughts and memories of people from her neighbourhood, her friends. They all knew where she went; Silverthorn certainly wasn’t safe, not for long, anyway. Eventually, he would find someone who knew Bryan and Meg had a condominium up here, and then he – it – whatever it was would be on its way.

  Steven had just disappeared. He had woven an absurd tale of magic and demons and monstrous creatures hunting him and probably Hannah in some fantastic world, a night-time story to frighten adolescent boys, and then Steven had disappeared. He had earned credibility the only way he could: he had proven it, vanishing from the room like the coffee table Frisbee book she had tossed onto the tapestry only a few minutes earlier.

  And with that, Jennifer had been left alone with her charge: to get away, to protect the tapestry portal, and to open it on time, every time, without fail. No one cared that she was overwhelmed; he had not given her any time. She had lived through two months of anticipation, not for news that Hannah was still alive; Jennifer had been waiting for news that her daughter was dead. You can think it now, because it’s not true. It’s not going to happen that way. Steven hadn’t given her enough time to get used to the fact that her daughter was alive, or that she might be pursued across the country by a homicidal creature bent on destruction. ‘It wasn’t enough time, Steven,’ Jennifer muttered.

  ‘David,’ the store manager corrected. ‘My name is David Johnson. I manage the store, and if you don’t mind me suggesting, ma’am, if you don’t think you’ve had enough time, would you please make your choice with the door closed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The door, ma’am, the freezer door. You’ve been holding it open for,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘for eight minutes now, ma’am.’

  ‘What? Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so-’ Embarrassed, Jennifer realised she was standing in the frozen foods aisle of the Silverthorn grocery store, the freezer held open in one chilly hand. Staring at the same rack of frozen peas for the past eight minutes, she blushed despite the billowing clouds of dry industrial cold wafting around her ankles. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed, Mr Johnson. I was thinking, and I got distracted, and I – can’t believe I-’

  ‘David,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘David?’

  ‘Please call me David.’ He smiled again, and Jennifer felt her already red face flush anew.

  ‘Oh, and you’re being nice to me,’ she said, shaking his hand, ‘and I’m sure I look like a madwoman standing here daydreaming.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it-’ David paused.

  ‘Jennifer.’

  ‘Jennifer – really. It’s no problem. I mean just last week I had a couple from Ohio out for a ski trip, and they stood and stared at the zucchini for almost twenty minutes. I think one of t
hem lost a relative to a zucchini once, maybe back in Italy.’

  Jennifer laughed, ‘Must have been a mob hit.’

  ‘Those overcooked side dishes can be lethal!’

  They both laughed, and David asked, ‘Can I show you those peas?’

  ‘Really, Mr Johnson, we just met.’ Jennifer feigned offence, then, holding a straight face for another moment, she burst out laughing, finding the humour. It might be a long road, she thought, you ought to try and find some joy.

  Now it was David’s turn to blush. ‘Right back here,’ he said, taking her gently by the arm. ‘Are you in town long?’

  ‘No, just a few days.’ That was a lie; she had no idea how long she might be staying.

  ‘Are you a skier?’

  ‘No. I come up from Denver to spend time with my brother and his wife. They’re the skiers.’

  ‘So what do you do during the day?’

  I worry. That’s what I do most. I worry, and I miss my daughter, and I pray that she’s all right, and I sometimes plan ways to kill or at least dismember whoever has her or anyone who might have hurt her. I have all sorts of sordid thoughts about torture and death. Just recently I learned that she’s been transported somewhere, somewhere I can’t go, and so I sometimes stand around with the freezer door open staring at the frozen foods for eight, ten, whatever, even twelve minutes at a time. ‘Oh, I cook and read and write letters to friends. I love walking here. Some of the trails are gorgeous in the winter,’ she said.

  ‘The ones we plough anyway,’ David was running out of things to interest her, and the produce section was coming up fast.

  Jennifer stole a glance at the store manager. In her embarrassment, she had not realised that he was actually quite attractive. No wedding ring, fifty, maybe, with salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, a lean, honest face, and a small paunch engaged in a friendly wrestling competition with his belt, just the softening midsection of a middle-aged man who appeared to have been active for most of his life.

  ‘I do, by the way,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I do like snow peas. I cook them all the time. My daughter loves them.’ Jennifer picked through a handful, discarding several and dropping the rest in a clear plastic bag.

  ‘Oh.’ David was surprised. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not a skier either?’

  ‘Not this season, no.’ Jennifer crammed two more handfuls of peas into the bag and tied a knot in it, suddenly in a hurry again.

  David didn’t notice her sudden haste. ‘My kids either. They’re in school now.’

  Jennifer was silent. She wanted to get back to Bryan and Meg’s condo, to consider her options and plan where she might go next. Tossing the bag of snow peas into the shopping cart, she said, ‘Well, thank you, David. I appreciate the help, and I’m really sorry about-you know, with the freezer.’

  ‘Please don’t worry about it, and come back anytime. I’m here every day.’

  ‘I will. Thanks,’ Jennifer murmured the normal courtesies, then looked into David’s eyes: he was gazing at her with calm, confident honesty. He was a nice man, and if he was attracted to her, he had picked just about the worst possible time in her life.

  ‘Or if you need a walking partner,’ he tried one last time.

  ‘That sounds nice.’ She wanted him to know that on any other occasion she would have been willing to stand here for the rest of the night, ice cream melting into a puddle of vanilla-soaked chocolate chips around her feet, to continue talking with him – but not tonight, and now perhaps not ever.

  He smiled goodbye as she paid for her groceries, and watched as she pushed the trolley into the parking lot.

  Outside, the afternoon had turned a muted ash-grey. Snow was falling above ten thousand feet; it would be in Silverthorn in a few minutes. Jennifer pushed the cart towards her car. She had bought enough groceries to last her at Bryan and Meg’s for a few days, long enough to figure out where to flee next, but not so long that the thing she had passed on Broadway and Lincoln might guess where she had taken the portal tapestry. Wind from the river carried the distinct smell of woodsmoke, and Jennifer promised herself a fire when she arrived.

  She had not slept well the night before; the events of the previous day had been too fresh in her mind, the thought of finding Hannah too prickly and hot to put down. With two months to wait before opening the portal, she had to find a way to get some sleep, to enjoy some semblance of normalcy, to find some joy. Jennifer glanced back at the grocery store and was surprised to see David Johnson watching her through the plate-glass windows. Standing between a red-and-white placard advertising Paper Towels, $1.19 for 200 and a brightly coloured display hawking Frozen Pizzas, 2 for $9, she could see his smile across the parking lot. He waved, and turned back into the store.

  Jennifer tilted her head slightly and furrowed her brow. ‘A sense of normalcy?’ she asked of the parking lot. ‘That would be anything but normal.’

  By the time she’d unpacked her groceries it was snowing; she got a warm, comforting blaze burning as quickly as she could, then poured a glass of wine – never too early, particularly not these days – and opened an atlas she had thrown into her car. She ran a fingertip over the state map of Colorado.

  THE FOREST OF GHOSTS

  Hannah Sorenson reined in to a dusty stop as Hoyt, Churn, and Alen rode ahead, unaware she had paused behind them. It had been six days since she had heard the legend of the forest of ghosts and Hannah was pretty sure that despite the others’ silence on the subject, their small company was drawing near. Anxiety chilled her as images chased through her mind: running away, fleeing south – even just dismounting and refusing to go any further – until thoughts of Steven and home, her mother and the Rocky Mountains gave her a little strength.

  The chill lifted a bit and Hannah urged her horse on again. If the forest of ghosts was the only way, then that was that; she would just have to fight to maintain her composure in front of the three men. She would go where they went, face what they faced and come through the forest ready for Welstar Palace. It was not a comforting thought: out of the frying pan and directly into Hell, but the displaced law student forced thoughts of Welstar Palace and all its nightmares from her mind: that was for another day.

  The sun rising caressed her face and she squinted into the early rays to make out the lengthening foothills stretching towards the Ravenian Sea. The hard, flat farming land they had passed through had softened into green and brown folds, bending the landscape into ridges and smooth swells as it climbed towards the still invisible Pragan peaks. It was morning, and Hannah thought that ought to mean something significant; she had survived another night. On the run in a foreign world, she had made it to another dawn.

  Hannah was embarrassed at how much she had taken for granted, like sleeping beneath a down comforter, an expensive one, in her own bed, the most comfortable place in the world to sleep – certainly better than the stacked logs and overturned rocks she had been using for the past several months. And she had pillows, glorious pillows, three of them. Imagine that; three pillows for one person, what luxury. Would she get back and be able to fall asleep in her own bed again? And would she wake with the opportunity to ignore the dawn or, better yet, to sleep right through it and welcome the day a few hours later?

  As the sun exorcised the stubborn chill that had sneaked into her body, Hannah knew they would reach the forest of ghosts before the sun had passed overhead, and she would find the answers.

  Alen suddenly tugged on his own reins, then dismounted with the agility of a man many Twinmoons his junior. If alcohol had ever impaired his physical, cognitive and mystical abilities, there had been no sign. He rode tall in the saddle and didn’t appear to be suffering any back pain; he didn’t complain of saddle soreness, of cramps, or any of the long list of ailments that had been irritating Hannah since she agreed to tackle this journey. He hadn’t been drinking much, either – a few swallows around the fire each eveni
ng, a morning mouthful or two to wash out the overnight bitterness: that was it.

  Hannah was proud of Alen and confident – more confident, anyway – that he might actually succeed in sending her back to Denver. His face had regained some colour, and she thought the former Larion Senator was feeling a renewed sense of mystical strength as long-untapped reserves of magic bubbled to life.

  Alen had loosened his reins as Hoyt had dismounted, and indicated Churn and Hannah should do the same. He got some long leather straps from his saddlebag.

  ‘What now?’ she asked.

  ‘Take one of these and thread it through your reins, then form a loop, like this.’ Alen demonstrated by turning the leather strip back on itself and knotting it tightly several times. ‘Then we’ll clip yours to Churn’s, his to Hoyt’s, and Hoyt’s to mine.’

  Through the loop in his own reins, Alen drew a length of heavy twine which he knotted to the back of Hoyt’s tunic belt, tugging on it sharply several times to ensure it would not come loose.

  ‘There we are,’ he said. ‘Now, run your hand through the loop in your reins.’

  Hannah did so, feeling the leather slide up her forearm and expose pale flesh beneath her tunic. ‘What if it’s not-’ she began.

  ‘Tight enough?’ The old magician read her mind. ‘Then unhook it, tighten the loop and try again, or use another strap to fix it to the wrist of your tunic. The horses shouldn’t spook in the forest, and assuming Hoyt manages to lead them, they can drag the rest of us along until we clear the far edge.’

  Hoyt asked, ‘How will I know when we get there?’

  ‘I imagine it will be when we stop raving,’ Alen replied, cheerily.