Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘Rutters, yes, Sergeant,’ Raskin said

‘Good, good. We’ll ride up that way in the morning. Trust me, boy, if you have someone waiting in that scullery for my soldiers, they’ll be dead. You, too.’

He turned back to Raskin and said, ‘Send Mox and Denny back with two of the others to watch the place. I don’t want young Rodler Varn of Capehill coming and going before we can snare him. Have them go up the draw south of here. It’s faster.’

Raskin looked concerned. Are you sure? The regular path up there is-’

‘It’s cold enough. No one has seen or heard one of them creatures in the last Moon. With this snow, they’ll all be down on the plain hunting livestock. It’ll be all right.’

The sergeant pulled his hat down over his ears and tugged the knitted mittens back on his hands. ‘If we do capture your partner, boys, you’ll have the fun of a tag hanging down in the village.’

Neither Mark nor Garec replied; they hadn’t been invited to speak. Garec was feeling drowsy as the querlis began to take effect, but before allowing himself to fall asleep, he made eye contact with Mark. They had learned something useful: none of the ranking officers were alarmed about the strange happenings at the old Larion keep; they hadn’t even bothered to send out a full platoon. That was good news for the partisans: they had infiltrated Gorsk and engaged in a noisy battle with Prince Malagon’s minions without alerting the entire army.

The challenge now was not just to escape, but to make sure no one managed to spread the word that a company of partisans had breached the walls at Sandcliff.

Garec’s vision began to blur and he slipped smoothly into the darkness. His last thought was that Mark had been right: Nerak hadn’t sent anyone to Sandcliff, because he thought the almor and the acid clouds would kill them off; he hadn’t even alerted his own border patrols. Garec hoped to make it a mistake the fallen Larion sorcerer would regret.

At midmorning the following day they came upon what remained of Mox and Denny and the two soldiers dispatched to assist them at Sandcliff. Mark and Garec were riding one behind the other on a large roan which was quite comfortable carrying both men as long as it didn’t involve galloping. They were still groggy with the lingering effects of querlis, and in pain, even though the poultices had reduced the swelling and speeded the healing process. Raskin had visited several times during the night to make sure they were drinking enough water and, in the aven just before dawn, to change their dressings for the ride back to the palace. Garec didn’t believe they would have received such attention had Rodler’s name not been mentioned; he suspected transporting a few bandoliers of fennaroot was the least of the young man’s crimes north of the Gorskan border.

They had been riding for nearly an aven, the roan’s reins securely attached to Raskin’s pommel, when they heard the sergeant cry out. A flurry of activity as soldiers dismounted and ran forward preceded screams of horror. One of the guards leant over and vomited repeatedly in the snow.

Raskin remained in the saddle, her sword drawn. Neither Mark nor Garec made any move, both watching their guard carefully: it was obvious something nasty had happened to her colleagues.

Garec wanted to sympathise, for Raskin had been good to them. He had lost Mika and Jerond, Versen and Sallax – he knew what was going through Raskin’s mind as she listened to her fellow soldiers crying out to the gods of the Northern Forest. He set his jaw, determined not to feel sorry for the border guard: she, like the rest of them, was Nerak’s servant, and thus his enemy.

He gave her credit for being a steadfast soldier; maybe if she’d grown up in Estrad she might now be fighting for the Resistance.

‘It was grettans,’ Garec said.

‘Shut yourself up,’ Raskin scowled. She sat straighter, trying in vain to see what was happening ahead. After a bit, she said, ‘What makes you think it was grettans?’

‘Look at where we are,’ Garec said. ‘This is a game trail, running from the pond we passed near your encampment. Every animal in this forest probably comes down here for water and I imagine grettans hunt back and forth across the trail, waiting for the opportunity to attack downhill. They would be deadly fast downhill.’

The soldier, despite her discipline, began to shake. ‘Oh, gods, Denny-’ she whispered to herself. ‘Poor Mox-’

‘Go and see for yourself, Raskin,’ Mark said in a kindly tone. ‘We aren’t going anywhere – neither of us could even get off this horse without help, and it would be suicide for us to try and outrun you with two of us in the saddle. We’ll be here when you get back.’

Raskin pulled herself together and put her shoulders back. ‘I’m fine. Sergeant Greson will get everything in order.’

‘Raskin,’ Garec hoped using her name would soften her, ‘those were your friends. Mark and I would be crushed if we knew four of our friends were lying mutil- well, you know, just up the path. Go ahead. We will be here when you get back.’

‘He’s right,’ Mark said. ‘You know we can’t ride far.’

‘Or take us with you if you must,’ Garec went on, ignoring Mark’s hard poke in the ribs. ‘You can’t get up there with both horses; so dismount and lead ours along.’

Her eyes grew distant for a moment. ‘Maybe that will be all right – it’s not like I’m leaving you alone.’

‘We’ve both lost friends, Raskin,’ Garec said soothingly. ‘We know how difficult it is.’

‘All right,’ she said, ‘but any move and I swear I’ll run you both through.’ She untied their reins from her pommel and slid from the saddle, never taking her eyes off the two prisoners. Walking backwards through the snow, she led the big roan by the bridle. After a few paces, and nothing untoward from Garec or Mark, she relented and turned her attention to the trail ahead.

As soon as she did, Mark whispered, ‘Are you insane? She was going to leave us.’

‘I wanted to get up the ridge,’ Garec said. ‘Being down there does us no good – we could run headlong into another patrol without seeing a thing.’

‘Can you ride?’

‘It’s going to hurt. You?’

‘Same, I’m afraid.’

‘Our bows and quivers are tied to the back of the sergeant’s saddle. If they stayed in line, his horse will be second from the front, the dapple-grey mare with the braid in her mane.’

‘You get us close enough and I’ll get the bows.’

‘Can you turn and fire?’

‘Like a Parthian.’

‘Does that mean yes?’

‘It’s going to hurt.’

‘We’ll deal with that later. If they’re scattered all over this clearing, we’ll have one chance to break away. The ever-charming Sergeant Greson won’t lose control of this group for very long. If they’re on their knees or huddled together, that’ll be our only chance.’

‘I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts their discipline returns as soon as they see us.’

‘Right. So you’ll have to be quick.’

As they neared the clearing, Garec numbered off the remaining soldiers: two were bent over a fallen tree. The sergeant was pushing his way through deeper snow off to one side of the trail, pushing back branches and peering into scrubby patches of brush. At first, Garec couldn’t work out what he was doing, then he realised he was collecting the pieces of his men left by the grettan pack. The sergeant was muttering inaudibly to himself: the worst thing that could ever happen had come to pass that morning: he had lost half his squad, young people he had taught, disciplined, and most certainly loved.

Finally Mark spotted the fourth, a middle-aged man of perhaps three hundred Twinmoons who knelt in the snow clutching an unidentifiable limb resting across his lap.