Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘I do, sire. This way, sire. It’s not far. Good food in there too, sire. Comfortable beds, cool beer, warm stew, sire. A wise choice you make going there, sire.’ The little man pushed passed Steven to lead them through town and as he did, Steven caught a hint of something familiar, a faint aroma, maybe lingering around the man’s clothing. It wasn’t overt, almost a memory of something. Coffee? Was he remembering the coffee, or was this something else?

‘This way, sire, this way.’

‘Right.’ Steven shook his head and flexed his fingers again. They were stiff. He needed to get out of the cold, to eat something other than old venison strips. But the coffee had been delicious.

Was it coffee?

Steven sidled up behind the man as he turned a corner into the wind. Though he inhaled deeply, he couldn’t pick up the scent; he decided that he must be really tired, or at least thirsty for another pot of Howard’s French roast. Once they were settled, they’d find a bigger pot and brew up a cauldron of the stuff… ‘Inside,’ he whispered to himself, ‘inside someplace warm.’

‘Yes, sire. Yes. Inside. Someplace warm, the Bowman, a clean place, sire. Good food, cool beer, sire. Follow me.’ The little man had heard him. Making surprisingly good time on one ruined leg, he half-hopped and half-scurried. Except for the bridges, the streets were either dirt or cobblestone, and the tree-lined boulevards, tidy dwellings and clean shops gave the place a sense of having been well cared for. In fact, there was nothing about Traver’s Notch that Steven found disagreeable – he thought it might be a pleasant place to spend a few days when he located Hannah again.

Calling back to Gilmour, he asked, ‘What kind of industry keeps this place going?’

‘Mining,’ the old man answered. ‘Look up there.’ Gilmour gestured towards an area of the valley wall that had been hidden during their descent and Steven saw the telltale sign of lode shafts dug deep into the mountains, great triangular swaths of brown dirt and rubble, tailings spilled in teardrops marking the hillsides from top to bottom.

‘Mining, sire. Yes, mining,’ the merchant turned and spoke only to Steven, as though he were passing on a secret. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘Mining, sire. It ruined my leg, sire. Can’t do it any more, sire. See?’ He dropped the saddlebag and drew up his hose to expose what remained of his lower leg.

Steven gasped at the carnage: the vivid scars looked as if they had been drawn by a child with a crayon, a roadmap of recent pain. The skin bulged in unlikely places too; Steven guessed bones had been fractured in multiple places and left to knit themselves together in whatever arrangement they saw fit. ‘Good Christ,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, sire, he is,’ the little man mumbled, dropping his leggings back into place.

‘What’s that?’ Steven asked. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing, sire,’ he said, ‘I didn’t say anything, sire.’

Steven caught the aroma again, something tangy and pleasant, but not coffee. He stopped and sniffed at the air again.

Mark looked at him quizzically. ‘What’s up?’ He clapped a hand across Steven’s shoulder.

‘Do you smell that?’

‘Nope. What is it?’

‘I can’t put my finger on it, maybe it’s just me, but I keep getting a hint of something-’ He paused, sniffing again. ‘You sure you don’t smell anything… anything from home?’

Mark tested the air again. Nope. Sorry.’

‘All right, it’s me going mad.’ Steven moved along after the crippled ex-miner. ‘I just need a couple of nights in a bed, that’s all.’

‘Yes, sire. A bed. The Bowman, they have comfortable beds, sire. Warm stew, cool beer, sire.’

‘Would you stop that?’ Steven asked as politely as he could.

‘Stop what, sire?’

‘Stop calling me sire. I’m not- well, I don’t need to- yes, just stop. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, sire,’ the man grinned and pointed towards a two-level building at the top of a short rise. ‘The Bowman, sire. There it is, sire. Come this way. It’s a shortcut, sire.’ He moved off through a small wooded area, a city park maybe, that ran along the edge of the brook and cut off the corner between the street and the inn at the top of the rise. ‘Just through the trees here, sire.’

Steven followed him in, glancing back to see Garec shrug and gesture him forward. Mark came after and Gilmour trailed behind, gazing along the street, an inquisitive look on his face, as if he had dropped something and didn’t know where to begin searching for it.

‘You all right, Gilmour?’ Steven asked.

‘Oh, yes, for a moment I thought I felt something back there, but then it was gone.’

‘This way, sire. This way,’ their guide insisted, ‘here, through the trees, sire, a shortcut.’

‘Right, right, we’re coming,’ Steven said irritably. Looking back again, he saw Gilmour hesitate. The grove of trees was small but relatively thick, and the old man appeared strangely well-lighted outside the overhanging branches.

Steven’s foot splashed through a puddle, invisible in the darkness beneath the trees. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said. ‘Look at that; now my feet are wet. I’ll be so glad to be under a roof again. Do you think they have hot and cold running water?’

‘I wouldn’t get my hopes up,’ Mark answered as he moved ahead of Garec. ‘From the look of this ground, it must have rained or snowed here recently. That doesn’t bode well for us heading into those hills. We’ll be slogging through drifts in no time.’

The crippled merchant muttered something and Steven froze. ‘What did you say?’ Shadows of dying leaves, faded dusty brown, were caught in scattered puddles marking the trail through the grove. Steven watched his own shadow pass over a puddle. Ahead, the little man had stopped, turning to wait for them. Steven moved forward and inhaled deeply again, still seeking the curiously elusive aroma he had detected earlier. He flexed his fingers.

Mark’s voice came to him, as if from far away. ‘I agree, I am so owed a hot bath. A shower would be even better, but I know that won’t happen.’ Steven heard Mark’s boots slosh through the same puddle, and waiting, holding his breath, he heard the Falkan miner’s reply.

‘Yes, sire. Yes. Hot water. They have hot water at the Bowman, my prince.’

Mark looked ahead. ‘What was that?’ He gave a startled cry when Steven whirled on their guide, swinging the hickory staff in a deadly arc. The staff, glowing with rage and ancient power, sliced through the cool air, leaving its own contrail. It didn’t appear to slow as it passed through the man’s body and tore through clothing, sinew, flesh and brittle, undernourished bone to emerge on the other side.

Mark watched in horror as the small man simply fell apart. Save for the terrible look in Steven’s eye and the heartrending scream that accompanied the attack, it was an almost comical caricature of death as the broken man split at the waist. There was no blood, though, no wet entrails. Nothing splashed up to hit Mark except for the backsplash from the puddles he danced through to get clear of the hickory staff, still aglow with rage.

Holy shit, Steven!’ Mark fell backwards into Garec, who stumbled, but managed to keep both of them upright. ‘What did you do?’

Steven was standing over the remains of their guide and staring at Gilmour. ‘You didn’t feel it?’ he asked calmly, ‘how could you not feel it?’ Neither Garec nor Mark spoke.

Gilmour stammered, ‘I thought I did – out there on the street, I thought – I don’t know.’ His neck throbbed and his ribs burned as if they had been rebroken. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’ He lowered his eyes to the ground.