Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

Bobbing up through the darkness, Mark called again, ‘I’m over here, dummy.’ He had moved further away from their camp, from Gilmour’s fire he judged the distance at about seventy-five feet, not yet enough to get the job done. He listened for sounds of the Seron’s breathing: laboured and quick. ‘Are you getting tired? That’s a lot of armour you have on. I know I’m tired, and I’m just in boots and leggings. So, you must be wearing down.’

The Seron was starting to worry; he could tell. He swam closer to the struggling warrior. ‘I tell you what – why don’t you take off that leather vest and your chain-mail, and we can make a real contest out of this.’

The Seron, though obviously fatigued, lashed out with a fist like a hammer.

Mark took the glancing blow on the temple and saw stars for a moment. He let his rage numb the pain. ‘Good punch, old man. I actually saw the lights of Denver that time.’ He swam a few paces away. ‘Now go ahead. Take your time. It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere.’

The Seron ripped and tore at the heavy leather vest, then slipped out of his chain-mail, allowing it to sink to the bottom of the great inland cleft. The Malakasian killer seemed energised by his new buoyancy and growled a warning at Mark.

Watching him come, Mark gave his own warning, a quiet affirmation of what he was about to do. This was no parking-lot fight, throwing a few punches until someone broke it up or the police came: this was everything he had believed could never happen to him. He had never thought he would hate in this way – yet he was about to kill this thing in cold blood.

‘So be it, rutter. Come get me,’ he said as he slowly backstroked into even deeper water. Gilmour’s bonfire looked like a lighthouse as Mark dived deep and waited. Let the sonofabitch wonder. Once he was confident the Seron had dived after him several times – he wanted him struggling for breath – Mark moved with the fluid grace of an underwater hunter, slowly coming up beneath the creature’s legs. He grabbed one firmly with both hands and pulled hard for the bottom, releasing the creature at about twenty feet.

He surfaced, taking deep breaths, and checked his position against Gilmour’s fire. He could hear the Seron, grunting and wheezing in dismay, begin paddling back towards shore – Mark thought how curious it was that the supposedly reckless killers would cling so ardently to life when they realised they had been beaten.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ he whispered and slipped beneath the surface once more. Three times he pulled the coughing, spitting Seron warrior down, thinking of Brynne. I love you, she had said, mimicking Mark’s own clumsy admission. Now he was about to get some revenge, a sliver, anyway. ‘Three down, and I am keeping score, you bastard,’ he shouted.

Rage at the thought of Brynne, freezing cold and sinking beneath the waves in Orindale Harbour, warmed him. Had she called out to him, treading water as long as she could in hopes he would come paddling over to rescue her? These questions tumbled through Mark’s mind as he inhaled deeply and pounced on the Seron’s back. Down and down they spiralled, the creature fighting furiously, but Mark wrapped his arms around the Seron’s neck and took the blows until he felt the Malakasian stiffen, then go entirely limp.

Mark couldn’t see in the black depths of the fjord, but he felt the body bob towards the surface for a moment, then, trapped by the cold and pressure of nearly fifty feet of water, spiral lazily towards the bottom.

He swam towards the shore and pulled himself onto land, his body trembling with cold as reaction set in. Blood ran from his nose, and one eye was beginning to swell. He didn’t speak as he strode across their camp, past the comforting warmth of Gilmour’s fire to the little catboat he had stolen and rigged for their trip along the Ravenian Sea. He reached beneath his pack and withdrew the double-bladed battle-axe he had found in Orindale. He crossed back to where Garec was binding the Seron’s wrists and ankles, ignoring Garec when he asked, ‘Are you all right, Mark?’

Gilmour whispered, ‘Don’t.’

It was too late.

Mark hacked viciously into the first prisoner’s neck. Blood splashed from the wound, dousing him. He took the second Seron while Gilmour was reaching out at him, but the spell on the old man’s lips was a moment too late. Mark left the axe embedded in the Seron warrior’s skull.

Mark barely heard his friends shouting. As he stumbled towards the fire, he was backlit by flames: a homicidal lunatic on a killing spree. Then Gilmour’s spell wrapped around him and he collapsed into the dirt beside the fire.

‘Do you like snow peas?’

‘What? I’m sorry. What?’ Jennifer jumped, startled. ‘What did you say?’ She turned to find the store manager standing beside her.

‘I asked if you like snow peas.’ He smiled. ‘You seem to be interested in the frozen peas, but I have some nice snow peas, fresh in, over in the produce section.’ He gestured towards the rear of the supermarket. ‘It’s eighty-nine cents for a half pound.’

‘Uh, no, I mean, thank you, but no – I’m just looking for some-’ Jennifer stammered to a halt. She had been replaying her conversation with Steven, and wondering where she could hide, someplace that no one would think of finding her, or even associate with her. A madman – no, a demon, worse than a demon – was looking for her, reading the thoughts and memories of people from her neighbourhood, her friends. They all knew where she went; Silverthorn certainly wasn’t safe, not for long, anyway. Eventually, he would find someone who knew Bryan and Meg had a condominium up here, and then he – it – whatever it was would be on its way.

Steven had just disappeared. He had woven an absurd tale of magic and demons and monstrous creatures hunting him and probably Hannah in some fantastic world, a night-time story to frighten adolescent boys, and then Steven had disappeared. He had earned credibility the only way he could: he had proven it, vanishing from the room like the coffee table Frisbee book she had tossed onto the tapestry only a few minutes earlier.

And with that, Jennifer had been left alone with her charge: to get away, to protect the tapestry portal, and to open it on time, every time, without fail. No one cared that she was overwhelmed; he had not given her any time. She had lived through two months of anticipation, not for news that Hannah was still alive; Jennifer had been waiting for news that her daughter was dead. You can think it now, because it’s not true. It’s not going to happen that way. Steven hadn’t given her enough time to get used to the fact that her daughter was alive, or that she might be pursued across the country by a homicidal creature bent on destruction. ‘It wasn’t enough time, Steven,’ Jennifer muttered.

‘David,’ the store manager corrected. ‘My name is David Johnson. I manage the store, and if you don’t mind me suggesting, ma’am, if you don’t think you’ve had enough time, would you please make your choice with the door closed?’

‘What?’

‘The door, ma’am, the freezer door. You’ve been holding it open for,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘for eight minutes now, ma’am.’

‘What? Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so-’ Embarrassed, Jennifer realised she was standing in the frozen foods aisle of the Silverthorn grocery store, the freezer held open in one chilly hand. Staring at the same rack of frozen peas for the past eight minutes, she blushed despite the billowing clouds of dry industrial cold wafting around her ankles. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so embarrassed, Mr Johnson. I was thinking, and I got distracted, and I – can’t believe I-’

‘David,’ he said, extending his hand.