Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘You still don’t get it,’ Steven said. ‘You can’t beat me.’ He dropped the hickory staff at Bellan’s feet. ‘You can’t beat me, and I won’t fight these wraiths, my friends.’

‘Steven, what are you doing?’ Gilmour whispered.

To the wraiths, Steven said, ‘Gabriel, Lahp, and you, ma’am – I’m sorry I don’t know your name – I won’t fight you. I am so sorry for what has happened to you, especially to you, ma’am, because your death was partly my fault, but I won’t fight you. I won’t send you into the Fold. I won’t do it.’

‘Then you will die, Steven Taylor.’ Nerak gestured to the wraiths, who turned together towards Steven, rage sweeping over their features. They swirled about Bellan’s head, then swooped down on Steven in a wave of homicidal fury.

Hannah reached the atrium and stopped, watching Hoyt and then Alen climb out onto the slanted stone buttress. She didn’t want to step through the window until at least one of them had successfully made the jump to the courtyard on the opposite wing of Welstar Palace. She turned back to look for Churn and watched as he slammed the soldier’s head into the stone wall.

Why do that now, Churn? she wondered. Is killing one of them going to make a difference when there are hundreds of thousands of them just outside?

Behind him, the first soldiers reached the landing and started down the hallway after them. She hoped her uniform would give her an extra few seconds of misdirection, and perhaps it would be enough for her to make the jump to the north wing.

The atrium was a grand chamber; thousands of glass panes were carefully fitted into a sphere-shaped leaded framework; the rounded ceiling, which must have weighed tons, was supported by tall stone buttresses, flying up from the greensward below like a Gothic cathedral. This marvel of Eldarni architecture was like a great glass lens upheld by a circle of stony bones.

Hannah turned back to the window. Alen tossed Milla over to Hoyt.

Foster, Geronimo, Griffey.

The cold wind coupled with the sheer drop stole her breath for a few seconds. She considered stepping back to face whatever awaited her in the prison wing: at least there it was warm half the time, but then she saw Churn come down the hall at a sprint, countless soldiers in pursuit and she climbed quickly onto the buttress and slid carefully down towards a decorative stack of raised stones she hoped would keep her from slipping off the end.

It was much steeper than it had looked from the window, and out here, the wind felt strong enough to knock her off. I can do this, she thought. Just don’t look down. It’s not far across. It’s like a gymnastics competition in Hell.

A powerful gust blew her clumsy bun undone and she let go with one hand to stuff her hair down inside her collar – and lost her balance…

Shrieking, she tried to tighten her thighs around the buttress, but she had slipped too far round. Reaching wildly, the fingers of her left hand found a strong handhold, but her right slipped across the smooth surface, finding nothing to slow her inexorable slide into the darkness.

Pull yourself up. You have to pull yourself up, because no one is coming to save you. Haul yourself back onto the beam. There are no other options.

Heaving with all her might, Hannah reached for the edge of the buttress, stretching as far up and out as she could without jeopardising the death-like grip she maintained with her left hand. If she could only catch that edge, she knew she could pull herself up far enough to swing a leg onto the lower slant of the beam; it wasn’t that far… but it was so cold and so dark. She was out here by herself, and somehow Hannah Sorenson knew she wasn’t strong enough to do it.

I can’t do it, oh God, I’m going to fall. Geronimo. Geronimo. Cesar Geronimo, played centre field for the ’75 Cincinnati Reds. I’m going to fall ‘Up here!’ The voice was gruff, impatient and angry.

Ohthankyouthankyouthankyou… The prison, yes, the prison will be fine. Please help me -

‘Take my hand.’

‘I can’t see you,’ she shouted, ‘I’m going to fall! I can’t reach you.’

‘I can’t come out there.’

‘Churn?’ Hannah tried to pull herself up, but her arms were failing. ‘Is that you, Churn? Did you just-?’

‘Hannah, reach up here for me.’

‘I can’t see you, I can’t move – this is all I can- come and get me, Churn, please; I can’t hang on here much longer.’

There was an agonising pause, until she heard, ‘All right. I’m coming.’

A few seconds later, she felt Churn reach down for her. His hand, dripping something, clamped like a vice around her forearm. He lifted her back onto the buttress with ease.

She hugged him and cried, ‘Thank you, oh, thank you, Churn. I know this must be terrible for-’ Her hands came to rest against three arrows protruding from his back. ‘You’re shot. Oh God, Churn, they shot you!’

‘Yes. I’m fine though,’ he lied. Hannah could see he was so stricken with vertigo he wouldn’t be able to move. She didn’t know if he even felt the arrows, because his fear of high places had completely overwhelmed him.

‘All right, we’ll do this together. Slide with me down-’

A muted thud cut her off; Churn winced and barked, a guttural cry that sent blood spewing from his mouth onto Hannah’s tunic. He had taken another arrow in the back, this one at point-blank range from an archer at the window. The Malakasians were firing down on them through the broken panes in the atrium.

‘Slide!’ she screamed, but Churn, even with four arrows in him, was quicker. He grabbed the small dagger she wore at her waist, turned halfway and threw it back through the window. Hannah watched as the knife buried itself to the hilt in the bowman’s chest.

It’s light and well-balanced, almost a throwing knife.

It bought them a handful of seconds to get down the buttress and leap to safety.

‘Here we go, Churn,’ she said calmly, ‘slide down, grip the stones and jump. Don’t think about it. Just do it. You and me, come on.’

‘Hannah, I can’t do it.’

‘I’m not leaving you up here alone, so let’s go.’

A dagger flew past her head in a poor imitation of Churn’s killing throw; another followed quickly behind the first. She didn’t know if the soldiers were trying to hit them or just to knock them off, but it was clear none of them wanted to step out onto the buttress. They shouted insults and threw more knives; they even made crude jokes while they waited for another archer to push through the crowded ranks.

Hannah took Churn’s hands in hers. ‘We have to try.’ A short sword glanced off her shoulder, slicing a gouge out of her flesh, but she barely noticed it. Behind them, Hoyt and Alen were shouting. Above, the soldiers were crying out and throwing anything they could find. To her right, Hannah heard more glass shatter; that would be the second archer. Their time had run out.

The world diminished in size. The cold dissipated. The wind died and the shouts faded. She and Churn stared into one another’s eyes and time slowed. Hannah whispered, ‘Please Churn. Please come with me.’

His eyes danced, as if in the glow of ten thousand campfires, and blood dripped from his chin. Hannah could see that at least one of the arrows had pierced his lung: he needed help right away. She wondered what Hoyt would be able to do for his best friend while they tried to make their escape. He would have to decide whether he was a healer or a thief. The irony of it made Hannah smile. ‘Come with me, Churn. Let’s go.’

He held out his fist. ‘One more time.’

‘Please Churn.’

‘One more time.’