Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

A squad this tight-knit was closer than family, and with four men lost, and so gruesomely, the Malakasians had forgotten – just for the moment – that they were soldiers, with prisoners. If they were to escape, Mark and Garec had one brief window of opportunity.

Raskin’s boots crunched through the snow as she approached the scene. Shaking noticeably, she brought her hands to her face, still holding the roan’s bridle, and covered her eyes. Mark hadn’t known the dead men; he’d used a whole quiver of arrows trying to kill them… but he winced when he saw the carnage left by the grettan pack.

The trail was awash with blood, staining the trampled snow, pooling in beastly footprints, coating trees and bushes – drops had even frozen into jewel-like icicles. And strewn about were sundry pieces of men and horse and bits of accoutrements: a hunk of shoulder, arm partly attached, still sporting epaulettes and the insignia of the Malakasian border guard; half a hand adorned by a flattened ring with huge tooth marks in the metal; a horse’s head, intact save for a torn ear, rearing up out of the ground, the bridle bit gripped between bloody teeth: a war horse even in death.

They understood now why supposedly hardened soldiers were shaking and throwing up like novices.

‘Dear Mother of Christ,’ Mark whispered in English.

Garec didn’t need a translation. ‘Rutting dogs, what these people must have gone through-’

‘Either way,’ Mark caught hold of himself, ‘we need to mourn them later. Right now you have to get me close to that grey mare.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Garec said confidently, ‘we’ll be long gone before any of them, least of all our dear Sergeant Greson, has any idea we’ve run.’ The guards would certainly give chase, but he was gambling on their current confusion, coupled with their state of mind, to provide a significant head-start. He hoped Mark would give good enough account of himself with the bow – at the risk of incurring yet more deaths – to turn their pursuers back.

He surreptitiously checked the trail ahead: the path itself was clear of major obstacles, and they wouldn’t have far to go before they were under cover of the forest. As long as he could guide the roan by the mane initially, they’d be all right; he didn’t want to reach for the reins until they were out of sight. He peered down at the tracks and froze.

‘Oh, Versen,’ Garec whispered.

‘What?’

‘I wish Versen were here.’

‘Me too,’ Mark said. ‘He’s a much better shot than I am.’

‘No,’ Garec gestured into the clearing, ‘that’s not what I meant. Look at those tracks.’

‘Well, of course there are tracks,’ Mark said dismissively. ‘There was an ungodly fight – by my count it was grettans four, Malakasians zero.’

‘The grettans would have been hunting this valley; they would have gone downhill for water overnight.’

‘Good. I’m glad they’re behind us. What’s your point?’

‘They’re not.’ Garec peered into the trees. ‘That’s my point. They didn’t move downhill.’

‘What?’ Mark’s voice rose. ‘Are you saying they’re still hunting?’

‘Ssssh, don’t attract attention. They’re still up here, somewhere.’

‘Oh, shit,’ Mark whispered. ‘All right. All right. Breathe. We still have to get the bows.’

‘Yes,’ Garec said, ‘get ready.’

Behind them, one of the horses whinnied; their roan nickered in response, shaking its mane irritably in Garec’s face. ‘Easy, easy,’ Garec said in a normal tone, smiling down at Raskin when she looked back at them.

‘They’re nervous,’ she said.

‘They’re spooked by the smell of blood, and the lingering scent of the grettans,’ Garec whispered, in mock deference to the soldiers’ suffering. ‘But they’re war horses. They’ll be all right.’

The roan’s ears pricked back and Garec closed his eyes, listening as closely as he could to the sounds of the forest: the background rustle of the light wind through the leafless branches. Somewhere off to his left he could hear a small animal moving, a squirrel or a rabbit, maybe.

There it was: a rumble, like that of a wooden cart over a log bridge. Garec tensed.

‘What is it?’ Mark whispered, afraid for his friend’s answer.

‘They’re here.’ Garec nodded off to his left. ‘West of us, maybe a hundred paces.’

Behind them, one of the horses cried out, a terrified whinny, and bolted. Another followed.

‘This is it,’ Garec said, and then cried loudly, ‘Grettans!’ He manoeuvred their horse next to the dapple-grey and pulled the reins from Raskin’s loose grip. The young woman wheeled on them, terror in her eyes. Her sword was hanging limply at her side.

Mark needed a moment to wrestle with the knots securing their weapons; he nudged Garec to keep her attention focused away from his hands.

‘They’re over there,’ Garec said, pointing into the forest. ‘Raskin, move! Get your horse before it bolts – take it by the reins, don’t try to get in the saddle. They’re too skittish now.’

Raskin stared dumbly at him, shaking visibly.

‘Get your horse, now!’ Garec’s cry slapped her back to reality and she hurried back along the path, not even looking at them.

‘Sergeant,’ she screamed, ‘they’re coming! We’re got to get out of here!’

To Mark, Garec said, ‘You have about half a breath to get those untied, my friend, because things are about to get very bad around here.’

‘Got ’em,’ Mark shouted, ‘go!’

Garec jabbed his heels hard into the roan’s side, kicking it into a gallop, ignoring Sergeant Greson, who was reaching out a mittened hand to grab their reins. Mark reached over and slugged the man, tumbling him into the horse’s severed head. ‘Grettans are coming,’ he shouted at the soldiers, ‘and if you don’t move, you’ll be as dead as them!’

‘Come on,’ Garec urged their horse, ‘come on. You can do it – let’s go, Roan, let’s go!’ Awkwardly at first, and then gradually faster as the big horse eased into its stride, they climbed the slope at a run.

You’ll kill him if you keep up this pace,’ Mark said.

‘Just a bit further,’ Garec replied, ‘we have to make the ridge before we can ease off. Anyone behind?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Mark said.

As if in response, a horse screamed and the unmistakable sounds of a grettan attack reached them through the trees. Both men shuddered as they visualised the beasts falling on the small party. Human cries came now, a shrill call for help that was cut off so suddenly their minds were filled with images of throats being torn out mid-plea.

‘Maybe Raskin will escape,’ Mark said quietly, knowing it was a forlorn hope.

The horse missed its footing for a moment, jouncing its riders badly, reminding them both that they had been shot the previous day.

‘Sonofabitch,’ Mark shouted, ‘watch the road, will you?’

‘Sorry,’ Garec said, ‘I have to get the reins. We won’t make it far steering with a handful of hair.’

‘Well, slow down and grab them,’ Mark said. ‘We can spare a moment.’ He grimaced and muttered to himself, ‘I do hate riding these things.’

Garec eased the roan to a trot while he leaned forward and slipped the reins effortlessly over the horse’s head. Garec grinned. ‘Easy,’ he announced.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mark groaned, ‘just watch the potholes.’

Garec heard a rumble, an echo of the growl he had caught back in the clearing. This was not the scream of a grettan attacking, this was a grettan stalking. It was coming for them.

‘Gods of the Northern Forest,’ Garec said. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Shit, Garec. Is there another?’