Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

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 before 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-’