Lessek_s Key e-2

by Rob Scott

  ‘Did you hurt them?’ she asked softly.

  ‘No,’ he said with mock offence, ‘I told you I wasn’t mad at them.’

  ‘Yes, you were, I told you.’ She played with the fabric dog, not looking at him.

  ‘Pepperweed?’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘Did you send the dog to follow the girl?’

  Milla turned away; she had been caught. ‘I get so tired, and I need to sleep sometimes, so I asked the dog to follow the girl. Prince Nerak told me I had to do it, but I get so tired. The dog didn’t mind. He is the nicest dog.’

  Alen felt choked. This is why Lessek hadn’t allowed him to die; it wasn’t Hannah Sorenson at all. ‘Pepperweed?’ He coughed to clear his throat. ‘Milly, you need to be a Larion Senator.’

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, stroking her tangled hair.

  ‘Are you sad?’ she asked.

  ‘A little bit, Reia,’ he said, wiping his nose.

  ‘How many names do you have for me?’ She flapped her arms at him in frustration.

  ‘Sorry, Pepperweed, my mistake.’ He stood and reached out for her. ‘Come on, then. Time to go.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Milla took his hand.

  ‘Back to Falkan, to find your mother.’

  Milla’s eyes widened, and she leaped from the chair. ‘Really truly?’

  ‘Really truly.’

  As quickly as it had brightened, though, her mood disintegrated. ‘Prince Nerak won’t let me go.’

  Alen bit back rage. ‘You leave Prince Nerak to me, Pepperweed.’

  She held up her wrist; a silver bracelet hung there, but it was loose. Room to grow. He knew it wouldn’t fall off, though it was bigger than her hand. He held the links between two fingers, incanted the spell and watched in satisfaction as the bracelet shattered and rained silver pieces across the Persian carpet.

  ‘Wow!’ Milla exclaimed. ‘I’ve been trying to do that for such a long time.’

  ‘I’ll teach you. Come on.’

  They walked together down the hallway towards the catacomb tunnels.

  BRINGER OF DEATH

  Garec pointed his horse, a pinto mare of no more than five summers, towards the wall of pines. She was strong and quick, but she was no Renna. He missed his mare desperately, and promised himself that he would return to Rona and search for her as soon as he could.

  The day was bright and cold, and the morning sun bouncing off the snow hurt his eyes, so he had to squint to pick out the trail. He was less than a day behind now, and would catch up with Steven, Mark and Gilmour by the day’s end. If he loosened the reins and let the horse run, he might overtake them by the midday aven, but right now he was in no hurry. He was enjoying the solitude. He had found a replacement horse quickly enough, and he could have been with them the previous evening, but he was not yet prepared to face Mark, or Brand.

  Visions of the bloody skirmish on the Falkan plain haunted him; when he closed his eyes, Garec could see Mark, staring back at him in disgust. Perhaps by nightfall he would be ready to stand among them, and beg their forgiveness for his behaviour two days earlier.

  Garec knew his future with the Resistance was in question. He had refused to fight beside them, and his failure to fire even a single arrow had cost lives. It would be quite some time before Brand would forget. But they didn’t understand how easy it had always been for him: he had been the Bringer of Death; it had never taken more than his willingness to fire.

  He was also plagued by the memories of being shot himself, feeling the stone arrowhead break his skin, shatter his ribs and come to rest inside his lung, a constant reminder his days as a killer were behind him.

  To the east, the river babbled and gurgled on its roundabout path to the Ravenian Sea; from time to time Garec caught sight of it between the ranks of pin-straight pine trunks that covered this part of what Steven called Meyers’ Vale. It was virgin forest, but he wasn’t surprised: this was the bone-collectors’ hunting ground.

  ‘Not a great place for a summer cottage,’ he warned the disinterested horse. He laughed and turned up a short rise. A deer leaped across the path, and Garec held the reins firmly to keep the mare from spooking. ‘Could’ve had him,’ he said, ‘a going-away shot into his left shoulder. It would have dropped him on his face before he reached the river. What do you think?’

  The mare ignored him.

  The sun’s rays burst through a break in the trees and Garec idled in the light for a few moments, looking at a wide clearing, in summer probably painted bright with wildflowers. He figured he could ride across the meadow, enjoying the sunshine, then rejoin the snowy path beneath the pines at the far end of the clearing.

  He led the horse off into deeper snow. ‘Come on, Paint,’ he said cheerily. ‘Let’s go and get sunburned.’ The mare broke a trail out towards the meadow while the sun marked their passage between the twin ranks of shadowy pines. A crust of ice broke easily beneath them, making their approach noisy, and Garec hummed a song Brynne had been fond of, until the sound of a rising commotion interrupted him. He reached for his bow, praying to the gods of the Northern Forest he wouldn’t be forced to use it again. Three deer bounded through a thicket next to the clearing, leaping over fallen logs and snowy drifts; the animals barely slowed when they reached the deeper snow along the path

  ‘I wonder what scared them,’ Garec said. ‘Our big feet crunching all this ice, maybe? What do you think, Paint?’ A few moments of silence passed, and he added, ‘You aren’t much of a conversationalist, are you? All right, we’ll hurry. Maybe Steven or Mark’s horse will have something more interesting to say.’

  They were only a few steps into the frozen meadow when Garec realised what had spooked the deer: a squad of soldiers, looking like ghosts of those Mark killed outside Wellham Ridge, galloped across the meadow towards the pine forest and the river. They were well ahead of him and would pick up his friends’ trail as soon as they reached the trees.

  ‘Grettan shit,’ Garec swore, looking around and hoping some solution might present itself. ‘They’ll beat us to the path. There’s no way to get ahead of them.’

  Instinctively, he reached for an arrow. ‘Steven will stop them,’ he told the mare. ‘Steven and Gilmour together, they could handle anything, right?’ The riders crossed his field of view; he watched them go, oblivious to the fact that if they turned around, they would see him sitting there, gaping, in the corner of the meadow. ‘Not again, please, not again,’ he begged silently.

  No one can stand against a cavalry charge, not even you and that staff.

  He was their only protection; Steven and Gilmour, Mark, Brand and Kellin – they were exposed because they knew Garec was following them. They would be caught unawares, by cavalry riding hard and armed for close combat.

  ‘Steven and Gilmour-’ Garec looked down at the painted mare, closed his eyes and gripped the bridge of his nose between two fingers. ‘Please, don’t make me do this. Please.’

  The Malakasians were nearly across the meadow now, their black-and-gold uniforms blurring together in the morning sunlight. Garec cursed his luck. ‘They must be part of the battalion we evaded the other day,’ he said, watching as flying hooves tore through the brilliantly white snow, leaving it churned up in their wake. ‘Please,’ he begged again to no one, ‘please, I don’t want to do this.’

  His hands shook as he drew the first shaft from his quiver, but they were as still as stone as he nocked the arrow and peered across the meadow. Perhaps if he waited too long, it would be too late, they would be out of range, or into the trees. ‘No,’ he muttered finally, ‘not today. You’re not attacking my friends today.’

  No one can stand against a cavalry charge, not even you and that staff.

  Ignoring the churning sensation in his stomach and the beads of cold sweat on his forehead, Garec drew the rosewood longbow and held his breath.

  There was no need for him to watch the shot; he had released two more shafts be
fore the first struck the lead horseman. The rider collapsed to the ground and rolled from his saddle; others ran over their fallen leader and one of the horses lost its footing, audibly snapping a leg as it tumbled into the snow. Garec tasted something unpleasant at the back of his throat; grimacing, he swallowed it down and reached for another arrow.

  He could hear them now as shouts of surprise and rage filled the air. Two more arrows, two more men down, and the entire squad, disrupted for a moment, regained its collective composure and turned towards him, as he had hoped. He fired again and a man slipped from the saddle, the colourful fletching jutting from his chest.

  How many are there?

  Get under cover, under cover, now.

  Only one!

  There’s only one?

  He’s there. In the clearing!

  Their shouts washed over him as he sat tall in the saddle. Six had fallen; nine faced him, watching to see if the bowman was truly alone – he would have to be mad to stand alone against a heavy cavalry unit geared for battle. They waited, watching the trees that encircled the meadow, hoping to detect a branch moving out of turn or a clump of thicket rustling too nosily for the morning wind. But nothing stirred: there was no one in the forest except for the archer who sat deathly still in the saddle, almost as if inviting them to cut him down. He didn’t fire on them, didn’t rant or shout, but he didn’t try to escape, either. It had to be a bold suicide attempt; there was no other explanation.

  Then Garec convinced the Malakasians he was insane, and alone: this fool, skilled, but a madman, nevertheless, dismounted and slapped the painted horse hard on the flank, sending it trotting into the forest. Armed with only his bow, he faced the Malakasian cavalry squad and shouted, ‘I’m truly sorry. Please believe me.’

  As one, they drew their swords and spurred their mounts into a gallop, to ride him down and grind his bones into the snow until he was little more than a muddy red patch in the once-pristine winter meadow.

  Garec stood still, his arms at his sides, unfazed.

  Corporal Wellin, from southern Malakasia, pushed himself up painfully, his whole body jarred. His horse had broken its foreleg tripping over the sergeant’s body. Wellin had a bloody cut on his forehead, a mass of bruises on his legs and back and a broken finger; he was lucky. He shouted to Gransen and Tory that he was all right, but that they should get under cover; there were bowmen in the trees, and five of their comrades lay dead or dying in the snow. Neither of his friends seemed to hear so Wellin craned higher, trying to see what was going on.

  One man sat astride a mottled horse at the far end of the meadow. He looked quite young, and the corporal guessed he was either a partisan assigned to lure the entire squad into an ambush, or he was a woodsman, maybe a hunter, but whatever he was, he’d obviously gone dribbling mad, attacking a cavalry squad alone. Either way, Wellin wanted to see him dead. His horse was screaming, sending rolling waves of pain through the corporal’s already aching head.

  ‘Shut up,’ he cried, ‘I’m coming.’ As he stood up, wobbling a little, he saw the lone man had dismounted and sent his own animal into the trees. ‘Ah now, don’t do that, you fool,’ he shouted, ‘I need a horse.’ He sat down next to his own horse and stroked the big head sadly, then sliced the horse’s throat, leaning back to avoid the fierce spurt of blood. ‘Look at what you did to mine, you rutter.’ The animal shuddered for a moment and then went still. ‘Sorry, old man,’ Corporal Wellin said, a note of genuine regret in his voice, and turned back to his comrades.

  Someone gave the order and the remaining men spurred their big chargers into a mad gallop, thundering across the meadow, snow flying up from their hooves in a white spray.

  ‘Go, boys! Go get him,’ Wellin shouted, falling to the ground again as the pain in his legs and back hit. He watched the charge from beside his dead horse, and found himself witness to one of the most incredible displays of archery he had ever seen. The archer was Death; the corporal was certain his squad had been visited by an angry god as one man fell after another. It should not have been possible, but not one of the nine men reached the other side of the meadow alive.

  ‘No one man can stand against a cavalry charge,’ Wellin whispered, aghast at the devastation. He dragged a sleeve over his face to wipe the blood from his forehead, and then pulled his broken finger back into place. He shuddered at the faintly audible crunch.

  ‘Motherless whores,’ he cried, and fell to his knees.

  The bowman was still there, standing stock-still. Perhaps his feet were numb as well.

  ‘What do you want?’ Wellin murmured. ‘There’s none of us left.’ He knew the man couldn’t hear him from this distance, but he gave an exaggerated shrug.

  The bowman stared back at him; it wasn’t over yet.

  Wellin didn’t see the final arrow as it came for him through the air. One moment he was shrugging in the bowman’s direction; the next, he was on his back, his hands clasped around the smooth wooden shaft he found buried in his chest. As he died, he whispered, ‘What god are you that would do this?’

  No one heard him. The far corner of the meadow was already empty.

  *

  Hoyt checked over the short sword: good steel, but it had been clumsily honed, probably by a smith’s apprentice, leaving an uneven edge. Still, better than nothing; he sheathed it and tossed it to Churn. ‘This one’s good.’

  Churn discarded the rapier he had been examining. ‘This one isn’t.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Hoyt signed, ‘we’ve plenty here. I’m sure we’ll find enough decent blades.’ He looked at Hannah who had just rolled from bed. ‘You want one?’

  ‘So that I can stab myself during our little suicide mission?’ Hannah stretched until her back cracked. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I like to think of it as a prison break rather than a suicide mission.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Hannah said. ‘I still think there has to be a better way than this. Alen says there are guards all over the keep.’

  ‘Exactly the reason we’ll walk right out – who would be so stupid to try such a thing?’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘No one. Exactly.’ He tossed another short sword to Churn. No one would try it; so no one will expect it. And as long as Alen can find us three uniforms, we’ll be out before anyone notices we’re even missing.’ The thief in Hoyt was enjoying the challenge of seeing the four of them safely through the palace and back to the river. While he hoped they could find a barge to take them to Pellia, he was quite prepared to steal something and make a run for shallow water, where they couldn’t be run down by the navy.

  Hannah stuffed some cheese into a chunk of bread and poured herself a mug of cold tecan. ‘The being outside here is the part that worries me almost as much as parading through the palace. Do you remember what was out there?’

  Hoyt nodded. ‘It was bad. And we never saw what was on the northeast side of the palace either; if there are more of them – well, I don’t like to think about what will happen to the Resistance-’

  ‘You don’t have a Resistance Army big enough to stand against them?’

  ‘Hannah, I don’t believe Eldarn has ever had an army that could stand against them, not even when King Remond was in charge. It was as if those Seron monsters were- I don’t know, as if their brains had been scrambled by something nightmarish, but their bodies were still programmed to fight.’

  Hannah shuddered, unsure which challenge she feared most: getting out of the palace or crossing the monsters’ encampment.

  ‘So no sword?’ Hoyt asked.

  ‘No, I’ll stay behind Churn.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Churn agreed.

  ‘You should wear this’ Hoyt said. He belted a dagger around her waist. ‘It’s light and well balanced, almost a throwing knife.’

  ‘Good, because I won’t do anything but throw it away at the first sign of trouble, anyway.’

  ‘I don’t care; it will help with your disguise, and it might just save your life if we get in
to a fight.’ He stepped back and looked at her. ‘Try to relax; you’re too stiff. It’s not going to stab you in the leg.’

  ‘It just might.’ She held the leather scabbard as if it were a live snake. ‘I’ll be some NRA statistic, another hunter shot by a shitfaced brother-in-law with a rifle.’

  Hoyt looked to Churn.

  ‘No idea,’ the big man signed.

  ‘Let’s say we reach the river.’ Hannah gave up arguing; she wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘What then?’

  ‘Either we hop a barge, or we steal a boat. We ought to get out of here before dawn, because we’ll need at least an aven to get downriver and find some shallow water.’

  ‘Assuming Alen has the far portal.’

  ‘That’s where he said he was going.’

  ‘You think he’ll get it?’

  ‘I think he wants to kill Bellan. If the portal is in her chamber or a nearby chamber, I think he’ll get it. If not, then our suicide mission will have to wait until tomorrow night.’

  ‘I like the sound of prison break better,’ Hannah said.

  The door opened and Alen stepped inside, talking to someone. ‘In here, Pepperweed. Don’t be afraid. They’re nice, too.’

  Just before it faded for the night the sun invariably brightened, a final swell of light before slipping off to bed, Hannah thought. I’ll be back, it might have shouted, don’t forget me, even as Eldarn’s twin moons shouldered it out of the sky for another lap around the heavens.

  ‘We have to get it,’ she heard Hoyt say.

  ‘No, we don’t. We have to get Milla and all of you out of here.’ Alen was adamant.

  He hadn’t found the far portal. Although Hannah was as enchanted with the little girl as any of them, she worried that the old man had forgotten why they were in Malakasia at all. She watched the last rays of sunlight and tried not to cry as she asked, ‘How will I get home, Alen?’