Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘Malagon won’t be there. Of that I am confident.’

Well, anyone, anything, then. Churn has his own ideas for disturbing Prince Malagon’s happy existence,’ Hoyt said.

‘Good. Then he will be welcome to come along – and Hoyt, should you decide to join us, I promise I will keep a clear head and I will use whatever power still remains in this disintegrating old body to see Hannah home, and to see you and Churn safe out again.’

‘Thanks,’ Hoyt said, genuinely relieved. He could ask nothing more. He had the option of abandoning this quest, so it would be his decision, and whatever he decided, Alen would not judge him.

‘Regardless,’ Alen added, ‘we might not make it that far.’

‘Hey, don’t joke. That’s not funny,’ Hoyt said.

‘But it is true.’ Alen pulled a thin scroll from his saddlebag and unrolled a parchment map of northern Praga and the Great Range bordering Malakasia. ‘We have to get through the forest of ghosts, and apart from you leading us, I don’t know how we’ll make it.’

‘Me?’ Hoyt was dubious. ‘Why me?’

‘Because the rest of us have something at stake in this journey. Granted, you hate Prince Malagon and Nerak as much as any freedom fighter, but you participate as you see fit, or as your fortunes guide you. You are a thief, my boy, and I am fiercely proud of you for that. You fight when it’s convenient and sometimes you run. You don’t have to come to Welstar Palace, and perhaps you will decide in the next Twinmoon – or the next aven – that you don’t want to go on, and you won’t. You have no stake in this.’ Alen’s eyes reflecting the firelight gave Hoyt a disconcerting feeling.

‘What does that have to do with the forest of ghosts?’

‘Maybe nothing.’

‘Grand,’ the young healer sighed. ‘Alen, please try to make some sense. If I have to do this and I don’t know how or what to expect, I might lose all of you in there-’

The older man interrupted, And maybe everything.’

‘Go on.’

‘If the forest of ghosts actually works as legends claim, then Hannah, Churn and I will all experience visions. We all have a critical emotional stake in this journey. If the forest targets those who traverse the northern wilderness pursuing their heartfelt dreams, the three of us will be set upon as soon as we breach the first row of trees.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You aren’t on your life’s journey, Hoyt. You are out for a stroll, accompanying friends north to Malakasia. And why? Because there’s nothing more appetising on the Hoyt agenda this Twinmoon. Churn and I are dead set on revenge. We might actually fight each other over who gets to suck the marrow from Malagon’s bones. And Hannah has to get home. If the forest actually assails us – and given the number of travellers who have never made it through those foothills, I believe it will – then Churn, Hannah and I will need you to guide us through.’

‘I don’t know how.’ Hoyt picked up the wineskin again. He wanted something to occupy his hands. ‘I don’t have any magic.’

‘I’m going to try and give you some.’

Hoyt drank deeply and coughed as the bitter tang of a cheap Pragan burned the back of his throat. His mind raced for an alternative to bringing helpless friends into a haunted forest. ‘Maybe we can take one of the western roads. Won’t there be something out that way with a light patrol, something we can handle in a straight fight?’

‘If there was, I would be the first to suggest we go in that direction.’ Alen reached over and took the skin. Corking it, he added, ‘But if even one of those sentries managed to escape, every soldier in southern Malakasia would know in an aven.’

Hoyt nodded disconsolately. ‘You’re right. At least this way, we have an honest shot.’ He sighed. ‘How much time do I have?’

‘At the rate Churn is letting us ride – five or six days before we get there.’

‘All right,’ Hoyt said, determination in his voice overcoming the trepidation, ‘what do I have to do?’

‘Ms Sorenson,’ Steven said, ‘I need your help.’

Jennifer Sorenson’s washing machine churned away downstairs as she browsed the entertainment pages of one of the dozen or more newspapers that had piled up on the steps and lawn in front of her house. She never read headlines since the one had noted, in a good bold font, that the search for her daughter had been postponed until spring due to prohibitively heavy snow in the mountains. So now Jennifer scanned for book and film reviews or even a recipe for those periodic nights when she felt like cooking for one.

When the doorbell rang, she noted her place and went to the door, expecting a mailman burdened with two weeks of letters, bills and junk mail. ‘Just a minute,’ she called and, not bothering to check through the peep hole, she slid the bolt back and opened the door – and there he was, standing face to face with her, the monster who had taken her daughter. It had taken her a moment to recognise him: he had lost weight, and his last shower wasn’t recent – but it was him, Steven Taylor.

‘Ms Sorenson,’ he looked at her expectantly, ‘I need your help.’

Rage flooded through her, warming her skin and numbing her senses, a mother’s fury: she would beat this man to death, ravage him as every mother who had ever lost a child to a kidnapper or a paedophile dreamed of doing.

Jennifer leaped at him with a growl as adrenalin-fuelled hatred flooded into her bloodstream. She kicked, bit and punched all at once, a wild woman with flailing fists, fingernails, booted feet and teeth. She had dreamed of ripping this man apart and painting her face with his blood, of chaining him in her basement and keeping him there, barely alive, for the next thirty years. She had dreamed of beating him to death with a metal pipe until his body was reduced to bone shards and jelly – but each of those scenarios had required some planning. She had never expected him to come to her; yet here he was, Steven Taylor in person, and all the rage she could summon, all the hatred and fear she had felt from the first time she had ever watched Hannah get into a car and drive off with a young man – Edward Coopersmith, in high school – was focused on him now.

‘I am going to kill you,’ she screamed and managed to get a handful of his hair and the Gore-tex collar of his coat.

‘No – wait – Ms Sorenson, please,’ Steven cried, backing away and bringing his hands up in self defence, ‘I can take-’

Jennifer held onto Steven’s hair as if it were her only link to Hannah, a greasy, wiry hank that would somehow bring her daughter home if only she pulled hard enough. ‘I knew you weren’t on that hill, you fucker. Where did you take her?’ Not waiting for an answer, Jennifer spun around; Steven fell to his right as she, her hand still entangled in his hair, stumbled to her left and brought her elbow around in a wide arc that took the young kidnapper squarely beneath the chin, snapping his head back. Stunned, Steven fell down the concrete steps. Jennifer leaped down beside him and landed several brutal kicks to his ribs and stomach, hoping to hear his last breath, his death rattle – until she suddenly realised what he had been trying to say. She’s alive…

The last kick was little more than a token, then she crouched down beside him.

‘She’s alive, she’s okay… I know where-’ Steven’s voice was a rattle, wet and hoarse, she could barely hear it above the noise of the traffic.

But Jennifer had been listening for him to beg, to cry out that he was dying. ‘Where is she? Where? Did you bury her body, you bastard?’ She forced down the glimmer of hope; rage would comfort her until Hannah was home or until Steven Taylor was dead. She bounced the back of his head off the concrete and watched as his eyes rolled back. ‘Speak up, young man – where is she?’