Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

She was nearing the top of the stairs leading down to the front room when she heard the tavern door crash in. Sallax! Without thinking, she hurried down a few steps and bent to get a clear view of the front room.

Two Malakasian officers, one the captain who had led the last raid, appeared in the door, trailed by five Seron warriors, who immediately fanned out and began moving patrons to the back of the room. One customer, a middle-aged man sitting alone, hesitated, apparently too frightened to move. One Seron punched the man across the temple and he toppled backwards over his chair and fell to the floor, where he lay quivering in a gathering puddle of blood. This was more than a raid; someone had made the connection between the inn and the two fugitives. Brexan couldn’t see Sallax, so turning as quietly as she could, she moved back up the steps to the landing.

A guttural shout from below told her that she was too late; an instant later, she heard the heavy clumping of Seron boots as one of the monsters charged up the stairs after her. As Brexan ran for the back stairwell he was close behind; she could almost feel his foul breath on her neck. She glanced back for an instant: the half-human animal had wild eyes, flaring nostrils and huge, crooked yellow teeth. It – maybe a he – was gaining ground fast. Brexan threw the bag at its feet, hoping it might trip and give her an instant more to escape, but the ploy didn’t work.

The Seron was reaching for her with large hairy hands that looked so human it was unnerving, though the nails were gnawed down to the cuticle, and they were filthy, as if the warrior had spent all morning digging in pig-shit. Brexan froze, remembering the horrible moment when Lahp, the big Seron at Seer’s Peak, had punched her hard enough to crack her cheek and leave her senseless. This Seron was not interested in punching her, though, so clutching Sallax’s cloak like a lifeline, she leaped out over the stairs, throwing herself down to the lower landing behind the kitchen.

Brexan landed with a bone-jarring thud and tumbled into a stack of wooden crates. She felt something go in her ankle, but whatever she had injured, it held together long enough for her to crash through the back door and out into the alley behind the Redstone.

She had gone just three or four paces when she heard the Seron burst through the door and start down the alley after her. She was not going to get away; it would catch her and probably kill her before realising it… she hoped the Malakasian captain punished the creature for bringing back a corpse; even through her fear she grinned at the thought that the Seron’s penchant for brutality might mean its own execution.

As she rounded the corner, rough hands reached out and seized her, pulling her violently into a dead-end corner.

‘No!’ she cried, flinging back her arms in a futile effort to break free. Whoever it was let go, and tossed her back into the alcove between two buildings.

It was Sallax.

‘Demonpiss, Sallax! He’s right behind-’

The Seron, still running at full speed, turned the corner, saw them and skidded to an awkward stop, blocking their only escape route.

As Brexan bent to catch her breath, her mind flashed to the morning she and Versen had charged Haden, the scarred creature who had beaten her and torn out Versen’s throat. Drawing her knife, she sliced the leather strap holding her cloak closed and it fell to the dirt.

Sallax had slipped out of his bandages and she guessed his shoulder must have been blazing with pain. He backed towards her until she was pressed up against the wall then, never taking his eyes off the Seron, he felt around for Brexan’s arm. He followed it down to her hand and took the knife. He brandished it and walked back towards their assailant.

‘Come on, motherhumper,’ Sallax rasped. ‘I’m just one man. Take me.’

The Seron growled a warning and sprang.

Sallax stood his ground, his hair falling in greasy strands about his face, his shoulders drooping. With his eyes focused on the Seron’s waist, he looked as though he was waiting for a pretty woman to turn him down at a harvest festival dance.

Brexan was certain he had taken the knife from her to ensure the Seron attacked and killed him first – suicide at the hands of an enemy. She screamed when the creature leaped out at him.

A few moments later, Brexan was thanking the forest gods she hadn’t been with her platoon the day Lieutenant Bronfio led the attack on Riverend Palace to flush out the Ronan partisans. Had she remained inside with her fellow soldiers, she might have come face to face with Sallax Farro, one of the most dangerous men in Eldarn, and Sallax would have killed her in an instant.

The big Ronan kept her knife extended towards the Seron, the most rudimentary mistake all fencing students made: extending themselves too far and opening themselves up to an opponent’s counterthrust. Sallax looked like an instructor’s demonstration on how to get killed in the first moments of any battle.

But when the Seron flew at him, it leaped for the knife. In a blur, Sallax turned and removed his own blade from the back of his belt. As the creature lunged towards him, grabbing at Brexan’s knife, Sallax brought his own up and into the creature’s ribs with a slash that opened a ragged gash across the Seron’s ribcage before burying itself to the hilt in the monster’s back. The Seron screamed as it rolled away, releasing Sallax’s arm and tumbling to the dirt.

As it rolled back to its feet, barking insults, the Seron grabbed for the knife, but it couldn’t reach it. Brexan watched the soldier struggle, turning in circles like a dog chasing its tail, while its gurgling complaints became ever more choked.

Sallax watched without expression; he could see frothy red bubbles between the warrior’s lips, then he lunged, using Brexan’s knife to stab the monster in the throat. He opened the carotid artery and they watched the Seron bleed to death in a matter of moments.

Brexan stared in mute horror, the pounding of her heart almost deafening her.

Sallax wiped both blades on the Seron’s tunic, sheathed one and handed the other back to Brexan. ‘Come on,’ he said, and led her out of the alley into the street.

Brexan followed in stupefied silence, following Sallax’s lead as he ducked behind wagons and into shop doors to avoid Malakasian soldiers. She lost all sense of direction, but she couldn’t summon the strength to argue.

Left then right, another right and then left again, they moved stealthily, quickly, across wide boulevards, through alleys and down side-streets. They crossed a bridge and followed the shoreline of a river until the path climbed up an embankment and ended beside a run-down waterfront business; Brexan guessed it might be an alehouse – but before she had a moment to take in her surroundings, Sallax shoved her roughly inside a huge cask, one of a number of enormous barrels someone had rolled out onto the quay above the river and obviously forgotten. The only light came through a tiny crack in one of the slats.

Brexan realised she had been crying and dried her tears on a corner of Sallax’s tunic; she had forgotten her cloak where it had fallen in the dirt. Sallax reached over to place a hand gently on her shoulder. She reached up with her own to take his. It felt good, strong and warm in the darkness.

‘Carpello,’ Sallax said.

Brexan nodded, though he couldn’t see it. ‘You’re right. Next is Carpello.’

‘Soldiers will be looking.’

‘After your little demo of short-blade combat, I bet they will, lots of them.’

‘But we will find Carpello?’

‘Yes, after we find someplace to stay for a few days, maybe a Moon, while that shoulder of yours heals. Fighting can’t have been very good for it. That’ll give things a chance to quieten down – and after that, we’ll find Carpello.’