Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘It’s me, Alen.’

‘No-’ She toppled over and allowed her head to rest against the stone floor.

The man squatted down beside her and took her hand. ‘Hannah, you grew up in Colorado,’ he said in English. ‘You’re American. I’m Alen; I’ve found you-’

‘How-?’ She was almost convinced. She pulled herself upright again.

‘This?’ Alen looked down at the young man’s body. ‘I broke a hundred and thirty-nine Larion Senate rules, but we’re in a bit of a spot and I needed to do something to free us.’

‘But your body, your old body, where is it?’ Her head was still spinning, but she began to hope.

‘In the cell, burned by now. I assume they think I’m dead.’

‘But where have you been all this time?’

‘I was looking for you, and this morning, I finally tracked you all down – this place is enormous. You’re the only one on this floor – well, the only one still with a mind, I should say-’

He broke off as Hannah groaned in anguish.

‘Hannah, listen, I’m getting you out now, so just hang on in. The day after I took the guard – well, I got posted to the docks; it took me eight days to get back and assigned to the prison wing yesterday.’

‘How many days?’ Hannah asked.

‘Too many, my dear; I had to make a good show of it until I located you all; like this I’m able to move freely about the palace – well, at least until they discover I’m gone. You need proper food, and querlis.’ He looked about the tiny cell. ‘Let’s get you some air first. I’ve found a place where you’ll be safe.’ He stood up and pulled her to her feet, then put one of her arms over his shoulder, his arm around her waist.

Hannah concentrated on walking, trying not to look at the thick oak doors that lined the hallway. She shuddered at the idea that such a prison had been constructed before Nerak destroyed the Larion Senate – what could they have needed with such a facility?

‘Where are we going?’ she whispered.

‘To the servants’ quarters, there’s an empty hall, maybe housing for seasonal workers, but it’s all locked up and ignored; it’s the perfect place for you to recover. I’ll settle you in, then go find Hoyt and Churn.’

‘You’ve been out all this time?’

‘I’ve been doing some research while searching for you all; I’ve learned a great deal.’

‘Is Nerak here?’ She shuddered at the thought.

Alen shook his head. ‘No. People believe he was lost in an explosion in Orindale, or that he went down with his ship, the Prince Marek. I felt the magicians – well, most of them – give up their search for me; I suppose that was the night he disappeared.’

‘Most of them?’

At least one has continued looking for me, probably at Nerak’s insistence.’

How do you know that?’

‘Branag’s dog,’ Alen held the torch out in front of them, illuminating a section of uneven flagstones. ‘Careful here. Nerak must have detected you coming through the portal, but Steven and Mark were already here and I think he knew they had Lessek’s key, so he concentrated on finding them. But he wasn’t going to just leave you to wander about, so he had one of his slaves watching you. When Nerak disappeared, this one hunter must have kept working, tracking you with Branag’s wolfhound. He must have soiled himself when you arrived in Middle Fork and found me.’

A two-for-one special,’ she murmured.

‘Just that. They’ve been trying to find me for a thousand Twinmoons, the bastards,’ Alen said. ‘Whoever this is, he ran that poor dog into the ground – that was a mercy killing on my part.’

‘But you spoke with the magician before killing the dog.’

‘I know.’ Alen frowned. ‘Rutting stupid of me – but as long as he thinks I’m dead down here, I’ll have surprise on my side when I finally locate him.’

‘You haven’t yet?’ Hannah asked.

‘Not yet. I’ve scoured those levels of the palace I can get into without raising suspicion, but Malagon and Bellan’s apartments are on the top three floors, and no one but Malagon’s personal guard can get up there. I’m not – this man – wasn’t cleared for it.’

‘Maybe the magician is up there too.’

‘That’s my guess.’ They reached the end of the corridor; Alen said, ‘No talking now. If we run into anyone out there, start coughing; I’ll convince them the prince wants you alive and that I’m taking you to a palace healer.’

Hannah nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to fake.’

She fell onto the mattress, little more than a canvas covering over a thick pad of hay, but to Hannah, it was bliss. Her breath was rasping in her chest and she hoped it was just a cold, not anything more worrying, like pneumonia. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that flooded the room and Hannah watched them as they settled back to the floor; before the last one fell she was asleep.

She woke to the sound of the door creaking open and watched as the young man claiming to be Alen entered, followed by Hoyt and Churn. Hoyt staggered over to her; his clothes, like hers, were torn and dirty, and he had open sores on his face and blood drying on his lips. His hands were stained with blood, and most of the nails on his fingers had been torn away. He stank, but Hannah didn’t mind – she probably looked and smelled much the same.

‘Move over,’ Hoyt whispered, obviously barely able to stand by himself.

‘What, no hello?’ She tried to make a joke.

‘Later,’ he said and collapsed onto the bed beside her.

Hannah tried to make as much room as possible; even in her dazed state she was amused at the thought that sharing a bed with someone for the first time was never easy, even when both were suffering from malnutrition and crippling fatigue. She tried to think of something witty to say, but Hoyt was already asleep.

Hannah looked at Churn, about to offer him her place on the mattress as she had slept a while, although she didn’t know for how long. It was still daylight, but the angle of the sun had changed; night would be upon them soon. ‘Churn,’ she whispered, ‘do you want-?’

But it was too late: the big man had walked to the nearest patch of sun and collapsed. Now, lying on the floor with the light on his face, he slept, a fallen Goliath. Hannah watched him for a moment, making certain his chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, then she drifted off again herself.

The road was an endless ribbon of mottled brown and white, hoof prints and wagon tracks frozen in the snow-covered mud. The Central Plain was a wasteland, sleeping away the winter, with only a few forgotten corn stalks or the occasional patch of winter wheat breaking through the monotony.

Garec had lost count of time since they had ridden out from Traver’s Notch; they’d been more than fifteen days on the road, but how many more, he had no idea. He couldn’t even recall what they’d eaten for dinner; the meals had begun to blur together. They had had no trouble finding accommodation so far; they made sure to enter any village or town from various points, not together, and the scattered occupation patrols had given them no more than a passing glance.

Townsfolk, merchants and farmers had welcomed the partisans into their barns, haylofts, cellars, offices, even the occasional guest room, as they made their way south as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. The previous night had been the first time they hadn’t reached shelter in time, and sleeping outside had been painfully cold.

Now as they cantered down the roadway, Garec felt the prickly sting of winter needles across his cheeks and forehead; he smiled, thinking of his mother, hearing her voice in his mind warning him to watch out for skin freeze – she always called it icebeard.