Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘Probably not,’ Garec said, ‘but I’m sure we can find someone with polished stones.’

‘Stone tips?’ Mark was unconvinced. ‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Oh, you’ll get used to them. I have a whole quiver full of stone tips, most of them polished myself – they can be deadly effective.’ He swallowed hard at his choice of words.

Mark didn’t comment, but as he tied down the last of Steven’s belongings with a half hitch and hefted both sacks over his shoulder, asked, ‘Ready?’

‘Yes. Should we see if Gilmour is awake?’

‘No,’ Mark shook his head; ‘let them sleep. Who knows what kind of night Gilmour had? They deserve an extra aven; we can get the horses ready and be on our way just after midday.’

‘After you,’ Garec said.

Outside a strong wind blew the dry snow into flurries. The day was slate-grey, the sun a white ball shrouded in layers of clouds, dimly visible, and the cold was intensified somehow by the lack of colour. Garec hesitated beneath the stone archway, where his feet were still dry. Several steps down, the ankle-deep snow – disturbed here and there by Steven’s boot prints – waited for them. He looked over at Mark, chuckled nervously, and stepped onto the stone walk.

‘Well, that was harder than I thought it would be.’

‘For me too,’ Mark said. ‘I’m glad we took the plunge together. Still alive?’

‘Still alive.’

The duo covered the distance to the top of the staircase quickly, as if hustling would keep the memory of the almor from detecting them outside the palace, then hurried down the steps, past the anomalous cottonwood-birch trees, to the narrow defile where the Larion Senators had kept their horses. A wooden stable, one box wide, but several hundred paces long, ran against the south wall of the gorge. The Larion Senators had been famous for their frugal lifestyle, but from the look of their stables, they had invested plenty of time, energy and resources in their horses.

The thin, craggy passage ran back into the hills away from the university campus until it opened onto a hidden meadow in a shallow box-canyon. The two men secured saddlebags and packs, tied down blanket rolls and bridled their horses in preparation for what they assumed would be a brief, late-day trip down the draw and into the village.

Baggage stashed, they wandered along the enormous stables, hoping to find a bale of hay, maybe left by Rodler or other border runners, for the animals were also suffering from too little food and looked barely capable of carrying the packs, let alone riders too. In the picturesque meadow at the far end of the stables, Garec and Mark found the remains of a dilapidated fence and an old corral.

‘Would you look at that?’ Mark said. ‘They stabled the horses in that crevice and brought them out here for exercise and training.’

‘Ingenious,’ Garec agreed, ‘look at this place. It’s perfect for it.’ He peered back through the narrow gorge. ‘I wouldn’t want to have been a stable hand, though.’

‘No way,’ Mark agreed. ‘You’d walk ten miles a day just feeding and watering them.’

‘If that means a long distance, then I agree,’ Garec said. ‘You-’

The first arrow missed Garec, passing over his shoulder with an audible pffft! to bury itself in the flesh above Mark’s right knee.

Mark cursed in shock and fell, his hands wrapped around the colourful fletching; blood bloomed across his leg and seeped between his fingers. It was a deep wound.

Garec reacted in an instant, diving on his friend and shouting, ‘Don’t pull it out! You’ll make it worse!’ He dragged Mark towards a clump of aspen trees growing between a stand of rocks that had fallen from the gorge. He didn’t bother to look back; he knew where their assailants were, on the forested hillside to the east. The hunters had a clear shot at them until they reached the rocks. Blood oozed from Mark’s leg, leaving a dark crimson trail.

‘Come on,’ Garec said, his voice charged with fear, ‘we’re dead if we don’t get out of here.’

An arrow zinged past his head; another stabbed into the ground beside his hand. A third struck him in the calf, and he heard a fourth hit Mark with a dull thud. They had to keep moving. Ignoring the pain, Garec clawed and scraped his way through the snow to dive behind the rocks.

Mark continued screaming.

‘Let me see it,’ Garec shouted over him, ‘let me see where you’re hit.’

‘Just here,’ Mark groaned, ‘just in my knee.’

‘There was a second,’ he gasped, needing to catch his breath. It wouldn’t be long before whoever was firing at them came down to finish the job. ‘I heard it. The second one, where did it hit you?’

Mark pointed with a bloody finger, indicating Garec’s side. As if seeing another person’s body, he stared down at the second shaft, buried halfway into his hip. Garec had heard the thud, but he hadn’t felt anything.

‘Rutting whores,’ he cursed.

Mark pulled himself up behind the rock, his knee ignored for the moment. ‘How many are there?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t have time to look – if we’d stayed out there, it wouldn’t matter how many, we’d be dead.’

‘Good point,’ Mark said, drawing an arrow from his quiver. ‘Get ready,’ he directed, his hands trembling as he tried to fix it on the string.

Garec’s stomach turned; he made no move towards his bow.

Mark took aim along a Larion Golf-battered arrow and fired into the trees on the opposite side of the corral. The arrow flew up and away from his target. ‘Missed him,’ Mark growled, and fired again, this time at a shadow that passed beneath the outstretched limb of a clumsy oak tree. Again, the imperfect shaft flew high and wide. ‘Mother-!’ He turned on Garec, ignoring the blood-stained snow beneath his knee. ‘Give me some of your arrows; these are rubbish – I can’t even hit the bloody hillside.’ He checked his friend’s hip again. ‘Are you all right? Can you shoot?’

Garec groaned, stammered something, then fell silent.

‘Garec!’ Mark shouted, worried he might pass out. ‘Garec, I need you. We’re in a bad spot here, buddy. You’ve got to keep it together.’ Angrily he continued to draw and release, aiming at anything that moved. After a minute or two of wild shooting, he realised there was no return fire.

Crouched beside Garec, Mark put the bow down and waited.

A squad of Malakasian archers, border guards from the look of their uniforms, stepped from the trees on the opposite side of the meadow and began marching down, obviously a well-disciplined group. Garec peered over the rocks to count them: nine. He shook his head. He could have dropped all nine of them before they reached the near side of the corral. The errant shots had lulled them into thinking they were in little danger. Mark was skilled, but he had no experience in battle and his injuries and his excitement had caused the shafts to fly all over the place. The squad obviously assumed Mark was the only one capable of mounting any kind of defence.

Little did they realise that in two breaths they could all be dead – if Garec decided to stand and fight. Dropping his forehead to the cold stone, he closed his eyes. He wouldn’t do it.

‘We’re dead now,’ Mark whispered.

‘Throw out your bow,’ Garec said, ‘throw them both out. At least let them see we won’t be fighting back. They know they’ve hit us. Maybe they’ll take us prisoner.’

‘Terrific.’

‘It’s better than any alternative we have,’ he said. ‘Throw out the bows.’

Mark did, and Garec watched as the squad slowed. Several of the men nocked arrows, aiming at the rocks, taking no chances.

Garec shouted loudly, ‘We are injured and unarmed!’