Lessek_s Key e-2

by Rob Scott

  Rodler thanked the gods of the Northern Forest he’d stayed with them and turned back to look up at Sandcliff Palace. ‘Excellent luck meeting you, just excellent luck,’ he murmured.

  ‘That will remain to be seen, my friend,’ Steven said caustically, ‘but I wouldn’t count on it.’

  They approached cautiously, tethering their horses in the forest as Rodler had suggested. Garec and Steven checked for signs of patrols, until, finding nothing, they motioned the others forward. Gilmour hustled to the front. The stone staircase from the university to the main gate was lined on both sides by a diverse assortment of trees, now leafless, but still imposing. Steven imagined the arboreal corridor had made quite an impression, especially during the peak of autumn’s splendour, but many had grown too large; now inquisitive roots cracked the polished steps.

  Halfway up, Steven paused to look at a curious pairing: an old cottonwood had grown so huge that its trunk pressed outward against its neighbour, a birch, hung about with epiphytic clumps of mistletoe. The birch, not to be denied access to the sun, had grown around the cottonwood, like the coiling embrace of a jungle serpent. In their hundred-and-forty-year battle for survival, the trees had grown so intertwined that Steven couldn’t disentangle the upper branches.

  Garec and Mark joined him and looked on silently.

  ‘The battle of two titans,’ Steven said poetically, ‘fighting for the highest point on the hill.’

  ‘That’s where all the best sunshine falls,’ Garec said. ‘You can’t blame them.’

  ‘It certainly looks to be worth the fight,’ Mark agreed – but Steven had already left, sprinting up the remaining stairs.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Garec asked.

  ‘The fight for the top of the hill,’ Mark mused, shaking his head – then suddenly his eyes grew wide; he ran after Steven as fast as he could in his effort to reach the gates in time.

  Garec heard Steven shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour, stop!’ By the time he reached the top of the great staircase, Garec realised Mark and Steven had been too late.

  Steven had taken the stairs two at a time, struggling for breath in the altitude, then leaped from the top step to a stone walkway to the ponderous oak and steel portcullis, shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour, stop!’ Behind him, the slope led down to the relatively flat area where the Larion brotherhood had built their university, and below that, the wintry hills rolled away towards the horizon where the sea met the coast of Gorsk in a sunlit backdrop of blue, green and brown. Had Steven turned to admire the view, he would have found it one of the most beautiful he had ever seen.

  ‘It’s just up here,’ Gilmour said, leading Rodler along the walkway towards the main gate. ‘Not far now.’ He was almost giddy with excitement, distracted by rich memories and feeling better than he could remember. The old man ran the last few paces, his cloak fluttering out behind him.

  ‘The gardens are just through here,’ Rodler said, pointing. ‘I don’t think it will take me long to find that drainage ditch. If you don’t mind a tight squeeze, I can get you inside without much trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense, boy,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’re going in the front gate.’

  ‘But it’s enchanted – it won’t open for anyone but a Larion Senator, and they’re all dead, so we are out of rutting luck on that point. And all the Larion spells were lost when Prince Marek closed the schools.’ Rodler wasn’t hopeful. ‘I know you have a bit of magic, but you’re talking about getting inside the most protected edifice in the Eastlands – almost as secure as Welstar Palace.’

  ‘Come, watch this.’ Gilmour raised his hands above his head, faced the portcullis with a broad smile and chanted a simple spell, a quiet curling phrase he repeated three times before lowering his hands. ‘Not much to it really.’

  Rodler pursed his lips; still sceptical, he watched the gate, wondering if he had made the mistake of following an insane old codger all the way up this hill just to watch him play pretend sorcerer. When the portcullis slid upwards, as smoothly as if on recently oiled hinges, Rodler gasped.

  ‘Rut a monk!’ he whispered. ‘Did you see that? Gilmour, how did you-?’

  His question was cut off by Steven’s scream. The thin, wild-eyed foreigner was running towards them, the hickory staff raised as if to strike, shouting, ‘Wait! No, Gilmour. Stop!’

  As the portcullis disappeared up into the recesses above the granite archway, Gilmour turned. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, his eyebrows raised in consternation, ‘what’s happened?’

  His chest heaving with the effort, Steven leaned on the staff to catch his breath. Finally he pointed towards the open gate. ‘You just alerted Nerak.’

  Gilmour felt the blood rush from his face. His hopeful, nostalgic mood fled, leaving him hollow. ‘Oh dearest gods of the Northern- I can’t believe I did that…’ Dejected, the former master of this palace shuffled his way beneath the archway and into the stone foyer. Without lifting his head even to look around, he climbed the few steps to the great room and crossed to an old wooden bench beside an equally battered table and sat down, burying his face in his hands. This was not the homecoming he had imagined. His failures rushed in to haunt him: here was a third misstep, when missteps were too costly to commit at all.

  He was responsible for them; if Nerak arrived in the next aven, Gilmour would face his former friend alone.

  Alen awakened and looked about the small tavern. They had come upon the village early that morning, two mud streets crossing in a valley tucked behind the range of hills they had spent the past several days crossing. There were a handful of stone dwellings arranged around the public house, and Alen guessed the village was Malakasia’s southernmost outpost, a mountain hideaway for miners, woodsmen and seasonal trappers.

  The tavern didn’t have any rooms upstairs; the barman said so few travellers ever passed through that there was no need for guestrooms, but, looking at Hannah’s bandages, he said he could make arrangements for them to sleep in a woodshed behind a local cutter’s house. It wouldn’t cost them much, a few copper Mareks, and the shed had a stove; they would be warm for the night.

  Hoyt thanked the barman, paid for their midday meal, and cordially declined the offer. Encouraged by the realisation that they were descending into civilisation once again, however slowly, they planned on travelling as far as possible while daylight lasted.

  Alen had been dozing in a high-backed chair near the fireplace, too tired even to assist with meal preparations at their table, when his eyes juddered open and he leapt to his feet. He walked quickly to the window and gazed along the narrow street outside.

  Hannah came up behind him. ‘What is it? Did you see something?’

  ‘Someone just opened the gates at Sandcliff Palace.’ He did not turn to look at her.

  ‘What does that mean for us?’

  ‘It depends on who it was. If it was Fantus, my old friend Gilmour, I have great hope for the future. But if it was Nerak, my other old friend, then we may have reached the end of a long road, Hannah. I’m sorry you’ll be here to witness it.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat.

  ‘There is not much we can do – we’re too far away. Our only option is to press on. We need to get to Welstar Palace and to try and have you home before things begin to come apart over here.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I can try to contact Fantus, but it’s very difficult – unless he’s in a place where he is prepared, and willing to hear me, he won’t. I hesitate to try it until I know who is at Sandcliff – if it’s Nerak, he would be able to locate us.’

  ‘Why, if he’s way over there?’

  ‘He has some pretty reprehensible characters working for him over here, Hannah.’

  She shrugged. He was right; she should have thought of that. They had no choice but to push ahead and wait for Nerak to unleash a horror that would either destroy them, or enslave them for all time. ‘How will you know if Nerak is the one there?’ She wasn’t
sure she wanted to hear his answer.

  ‘If we live out the Twinmoon, I will be fairly confident that Fantus opened the gates. Otherwise, I don’t believe it will take long for Nerak to eradicate all of us here in Eldarn.’

  ‘You should come with me. You all should. It’s safe over there, absurdly safe, compared to this place. The most I do for safety each day is wear a bike helmet, and most of the time that’s just because my mother insists.’

  Alen shook his head. ‘Hoyt may go with you. He has always been a seeker of wild adventures. Churn and I have business here.’

  Hannah grabbed his arm, determined to be heard. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way, Alen. You don’t all have to die.’

  Placating her, he nodded. ‘Perhaps not.’ Then leading her back to their table, he added, ‘Let’s eat. We may all be dead tomorrow, anyway, so we might as well enjoy some decent food while we can.’

  The man was shaking with what Brexan guessed were equal parts rage and terror. ‘I want you out of here.’ He wasn’t certain if the unpredictable woman was about to draw a knife and open his throat.

  ‘I paid you well.’ She kept her voice low, not wanting Sallax to overhear their discussion. His sister’s death had plunged him back inside himself, closing Brexan out and refusing to speak about it. She worried whatever progress they had made together had been completely lost; she was horribly afraid the mumbling, violent creature she had encountered in the streets would return without warning; she didn’t need the tavern keeper’s intransigence as well.

  Worrying about Sallax had worn her down; waiting each night for the raiding parties had not helped either. Her back ached; her neck hurt, and she fought off a huge yawn as she deliberated with the old man.

  ‘I’ll give you that silver back,’ he stammered, ‘or what’s left of it, but you two can’t stay another night.’ He looked as though throwing them out was the hardest thing he had ever done – he must have kicked out hundreds of drunk, poor or violent customers in the past two hundred Twinmoons, so why he was so scared of her was a mystery.

  Brexan glanced past him to where the staff were eavesdropping near the scullery door. Although many had grown angry when they realised she and Sallax were the reason the Redstone had been searched again and again, they stared at the floor, embarrassed at their own cowardice – even the young waiter who had helped keep up Brexan’s cover. She frowned at them. She was pretty sure it was they who had pressed the owner to evict the fugitives.

  ‘Are you having trouble hearing me? I said I want you out now,’ he repeated, as he cowered beneath the bar, his hands raised to ward her off.

  Brexan knew she couldn’t blame them for being wary: no one wanted to draw the attention of the Malakasian forces, and neither she nor Sallax were one of them, after all. Having Seron warriors kicking doors down every night would invariably mean some of them would be hanging from the rafters, tags marking them out as traitors looped around their necks.

  ‘Fine,’ she said finally. ‘I want the silver back, at least what you have left of it. We’ll be gone before midday.’

  ‘You need to understand that-’

  ‘I don’t need to understand anything,’ she snapped and he shut up, backing away from her. ‘I will get our things together and we’ll go. You just find your purse – and keep your rutting mouth shut.’ She flushed. Before the last Twinmoon, she would never have even imagined herself speaking this way to an elderly person, regardless of how reprehensible or irritating he might be. She didn’t recognise herself any more, not emotionally, not physically: she was too thin and her hair was crooked. Her body ached all over – and worst of all, she was a fugitive, a traitor playing nursemaid to an enemy of Malakasia. Suddenly she wanted to apologise, to say she understood he was just protecting his business and his people – but he was already gone.

  Keep the coins. I stole the silver, anyway, she thought to herself sadly.

  In the front room, she leaned over Sallax and whispered, ‘Stay here. Try to eat something. I’ll be right back.’ She took some bread and a chunk of cheese from his plate and went up to their room.

  It didn’t take long for her to pack; she had stolen what they could carry from Carpello’s office, but that didn’t amount to much more than a few items of clean clothing for Sallax. Brexan stuffed everything into the bag she had lifted on her first morning in the city, donned her cloak and threw Sallax’s over her arm. She had seen a quiet place on the outskirts of the city, the day she discovered Brynne’s body on the salt marsh. They would go there.

  Sallax needed time, and Brexan had to provide it; without him, her only option would be to start making enquiries about the Resistance, and she didn’t fancy her chances there. So Brexan would steal all the silver they needed to stay on in Orindale until Sallax recovered and they found Garec and the partisans from Estrad, and until both Carpello and Jacrys lay dead.

  She slipped through the doorway into the upstairs hall. She had become talented at moving through the city undetected; if she could discover what Carpello and Jacrys were shipping to Pellia, that information might earn her a position with the Eastern Resistance. She would torture Carpello until he told her everything – but Jacrys would never break under interrogation; Brexan had read that in his eyes. She wouldn’t bother trying to question him; she would just kill him.

  She was nearing the top of the stairs leading down to the front room when she heard the tavern door crash in. Sallax! Without thinking, she hurried down a few steps and bent to get a clear view of the front room.

  Two Malakasian officers, one the captain who had led the last raid, appeared in the door, trailed by five Seron warriors, who immediately fanned out and began moving patrons to the back of the room. One customer, a middle-aged man sitting alone, hesitated, apparently too frightened to move. One Seron punched the man across the temple and he toppled backwards over his chair and fell to the floor, where he lay quivering in a gathering puddle of blood. This was more than a raid; someone had made the connection between the inn and the two fugitives. Brexan couldn’t see Sallax, so turning as quietly as she could, she moved back up the steps to the landing.

  A guttural shout from below told her that she was too late; an instant later, she heard the heavy clumping of Seron boots as one of the monsters charged up the stairs after her. As Brexan ran for the back stairwell he was close behind; she could almost feel his foul breath on her neck. She glanced back for an instant: the half-human animal had wild eyes, flaring nostrils and huge, crooked yellow teeth. It – maybe a he – was gaining ground fast. Brexan threw the bag at its feet, hoping it might trip and give her an instant more to escape, but the ploy didn’t work.

  The Seron was reaching for her with large hairy hands that looked so human it was unnerving, though the nails were gnawed down to the cuticle, and they were filthy, as if the warrior had spent all morning digging in pig-shit. Brexan froze, remembering the horrible moment when Lahp, the big Seron at Seer’s Peak, had punched her hard enough to crack her cheek and leave her senseless. This Seron was not interested in punching her, though, so clutching Sallax’s cloak like a lifeline, she leaped out over the stairs, throwing herself down to the lower landing behind the kitchen.

  Brexan landed with a bone-jarring thud and tumbled into a stack of wooden crates. She felt something go in her ankle, but whatever she had injured, it held together long enough for her to crash through the back door and out into the alley behind the Redstone.

  She had gone just three or four paces when she heard the Seron burst through the door and start down the alley after her. She was not going to get away; it would catch her and probably kill her before realising it… she hoped the Malakasian captain punished the creature for bringing back a corpse; even through her fear she grinned at the thought that the Seron’s penchant for brutality might mean its own execution.

  As she rounded the corner, rough hands reached out and seized her, pulling her violently into a dead-end corner.

  ‘No!’ she cried, flinging back h
er arms in a futile effort to break free. Whoever it was let go, and tossed her back into the alcove between two buildings.

  It was Sallax.

  ‘Demonpiss, Sallax! He’s right behind-’

  The Seron, still running at full speed, turned the corner, saw them and skidded to an awkward stop, blocking their only escape route.

  As Brexan bent to catch her breath, her mind flashed to the morning she and Versen had charged Haden, the scarred creature who had beaten her and torn out Versen’s throat. Drawing her knife, she sliced the leather strap holding her cloak closed and it fell to the dirt.

  Sallax had slipped out of his bandages and she guessed his shoulder must have been blazing with pain. He backed towards her until she was pressed up against the wall then, never taking his eyes off the Seron, he felt around for Brexan’s arm. He followed it down to her hand and took the knife. He brandished it and walked back towards their assailant.

  ‘Come on, motherhumper,’ Sallax rasped. ‘I’m just one man. Take me.’

  The Seron growled a warning and sprang.

  Sallax stood his ground, his hair falling in greasy strands about his face, his shoulders drooping. With his eyes focused on the Seron’s waist, he looked as though he was waiting for a pretty woman to turn him down at a harvest festival dance.

  Brexan was certain he had taken the knife from her to ensure the Seron attacked and killed him first – suicide at the hands of an enemy. She screamed when the creature leaped out at him.

  A few moments later, Brexan was thanking the forest gods she hadn’t been with her platoon the day Lieutenant Bronfio led the attack on Riverend Palace to flush out the Ronan partisans. Had she remained inside with her fellow soldiers, she might have come face to face with Sallax Farro, one of the most dangerous men in Eldarn, and Sallax would have killed her in an instant.

  The big Ronan kept her knife extended towards the Seron, the most rudimentary mistake all fencing students made: extending themselves too far and opening themselves up to an opponent’s counterthrust. Sallax looked like an instructor’s demonstration on how to get killed in the first moments of any battle.