Lessek's Key

WELLHAM RIDGE

The road was an endless ribbon of mottled brown and white, hoof prints and wagon tracks frozen in the snow-covered mud. The Central Plain was a wasteland, sleeping away the winter, with only a few forgotten corn stalks or the occasional patch of winter wheat breaking through the monotony.

Garec had lost count of time since they had ridden out from Traver’s Notch; they’d been more than fifteen days on the road, but how many more, he had no idea. He couldn’t even recall what they’d eaten for dinner; the meals had begun to blur together. They had had no trouble finding accommodation so far; they made sure to enter any village or town from various points, not together, and the scattered occupation patrols had given them no more than a passing glance.

Townsfolk, merchants and farmers had welcomed the partisans into their barns, haylofts, cellars, offices, even the occasional guest room, as they made their way south as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. The previous night had been the first time they hadn’t reached shelter in time, and sleeping outside had been painfully cold.

Now as they cantered down the roadway, Garec felt the prickly sting of winter needles across his cheeks and forehead; he smiled, thinking of his mother, hearing her voice in his mind warning him to watch out for skin freeze – she always called it icebeard.

If that was the least of his worries, he’d be lucky. So far their trip had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. It was four days before they met their first soldiers, when, cresting a short rise, the company had overtaken a five-man patrol. Without slowing, Brand led his men straight at them: the black-and-gold-clad horsemen had no chance as the Resistance soldiers ran them down, slashed them to bloody tatters and left their broken bodies lying in a gulley.

There had been a few other small skirmishes; by Garec’s tally, Brand had lost seven of his men, but had accounted for very many more – none of the Malakasians they encountered escaped, so the occupation army had no idea that an enemy company was on the move. He worried for those people in the towns and villages where Malakasians were killed; the dark prince had never been one for leniency, especially not where guerrillas were concerned. Malakasian retaliation would be bloody, and cruel: many innocents would die for each Malakasian body they left on the roadside or behind a village tavern.

Later that morning, when Brand called a rest halt, Garec slipped from the saddle to stretch his stiff, sore back and legs; a night on the freezing ground had left most of them with painful limbs, though Garec noticed Gilmour, the oldest of the company, wasn’t even limping as he walked over.

‘Stiff?’ Gilmour asked, sympathetically.

‘Ha! Not all of us have the benefit of Larion magic to limber up our muscles each day,’ he grumbled.

‘Of course you do.’

‘I do? How?’ Garec winced as his leg cramped again.

‘Like this.’ Gilmour rubbed his hands together slowly until they glowed a dull red, then pressed his palm against Garec’s lower back; in a moment, the young man felt his joints loosen as a rush of warmth spread into his extremities. His pain subsided and then faded entirely.

‘Now that is a spell worth knowing,’ he said gratefully, ‘and you have my deepest thanks, Gilmour. It’s too bad you’re not ambitious: you could have made a fortune as a healer.’

‘Nah, too many sick people,’ he laughed.

‘So you’d rather be a soldier?’

‘Look at where we are, how lovely and refreshing it is, out in all this healthy fresh air.’

‘It’s freezing air,’ Garec corrected, ‘and speaking of where we are – where are we?’

‘You remember that fjord we navigated last Twinmoon? I think the eastern end is about three day’s ride from here, putting us two days east of Orindale.’ He filled his pipe, lit it with a spell and began smoking.

‘Morning boys,’ said Mark, riding over to join them.

‘Get out of the saddle, Mark. The air down here is fine.’ Garec offered a hand.

‘No, I’m too stiff- the only way I’m getting off is if the wind blows me down.’ He grimaced. ‘I don’t like riding these miserable animals at the best of times, and all stiff and twisted with cold makes it ten times worse, so I’m doubly cranky this morning.’ He searched along their ranks. ‘Where’s Steven?’

Garec pointed forward. ‘I saw him near the front with Brand a while ago.’

‘I’ll catch up with you later then,’ he said. ‘Gee up, Dobbin.’

Gilmour and Garec watched him ride off, feeling the animal’s hoofbeats through the frozen mud. ‘We ought to make Wellham Ridge late tonight,’ Gilmour said, ‘and if we’re up and out early tomorrow, I suspect we’ll end the day in sight of the foothills. We’re making good time.’

‘Until we reach a city,’ Garec corrected.

‘But that’s not to be helped. All the time we spend making our way into any town undetected is time well spent. Think of the alternatives.’

‘Sleeping outside?’

‘For one.’

‘No thanks. I suppose I can live-’ The vibrations began again, resonating up through his boots. ‘Do you feel that?’

Gilmour had gone white. ‘Mount up,’ he whispered, and then, shouting, ‘Mount up! In the saddle, now! Mount up!’

Garec dived for his horse as with each moment the vibrations beneath his feet grew stronger. Behind him, Gilmour ran back to where he had left his own horse, still shouting, but many of Brand’s men were slow to realise what he was saying.

Garec, now mounted, started urging them into action. ‘Let’s go. It’s riders, coming fast. Get up! Let’s go!’ Instinctively checking for his friends, he saw Mark near the front, one of the only riders still in the saddle. He watched as Mark reached into his quiver and nocked an arrow.

Hundreds of riders were coming hard at them across the plain; they were close.

Garec rode forward to join Steven and Mark; Gilmour would not be far from Steven and Lessek’s key. As he closed the distance, he saw Mark draw his bow full, aim and release an arrow into the wintry sky. Garec tried to keep his eye on it, but Mark’s angle was too high for any accuracy; Garec hoped that meant the approaching forces were still some distance off, but as he came alongside Mark’s horse, he saw what they were facing for the first time.

A battalion of Malakasian soldiers, some five hundred men, were closing on them at a gallop, thundering across the plain with standards flapping.

‘This is very bad,’ Mark groaned. ‘There are too many; we can’t fight that many.’

‘Maybe Steven will-’

‘He won’t, that would be mass murder. He’d never do that.’

‘Maybe he can slow them down.’

How? They’re a tidal wave.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Over there with Brand and that squad of scared-looking icicles we’re calling the Resistance Army.’ Mark drew another shaft, aimed to the heavens and released with a twang. They couldn’t see if it hit anyone in the blurry cloud of black, brown and gold.

‘Steven!’ Garec cried, pressing forward. ‘Steven, we have to get you and the key out of here.’

‘I agree.’ Gilmour appeared beside him. ‘We have to ride south as fast as we can; the Malakasians have big Falkan stallions and they’ll run us to ground. Let’s go.’

‘He’s right,’ Brand agreed. ‘We’ll cover you, and hope they don’t see you.’

Steven shook his head resolutely. ‘We can’t leave you here alone.’

‘Yes, you can,’ Brand said firmly, ‘and you must – don’t think we’ll dig in here and fight to the death; no one can stand against a cavalry charge, not even you and that staff. Prince Malagon isn’t with them and this is no suicide mission: we’ll draw them away and try to keep them distracted long enough for you to disappear.’

Uncertainty was clear in Steven’s face. There was another thrum as Mark loosed another arrow; Garec thought he might have seen a rider go down.

All right, fine,’ Steven said, ‘let’s go.’ He rode off a few paces then reined in. ‘Brand, you’re not digging in?’

Brand shook his head. ‘I will see you again, Steven Taylor, and if I can find you in the next several days, I will. But go now, because the longer you wait, the longer we have to wait.’

‘Thanks,’ Steven said, and without another word, he thundered off, with Garec, Mark, and Gilmour hot on his heels.

Brand watched until the four riders had crossed into the next field, then nodded to one of his lieutenants. ‘Take the company north. Make a lot of noise doing it. I want that whole battalion following you. Don’t stop. Pass the word for everyone to retreat by squads. Find villages, towns, farms, caves, I don’t care where, to hide out, but break up and make your way back to Traver’s Notch. Send our fastest rider – Greves or Mallac – ahead to inform Gita. Understand?’

The man nodded agreement and Brand continued, ‘I’m taking one squad with me. I’m following them.’ Brand gestured the way the four had ridden. ‘Stay here long enough for us to get clear, then ride like all the gods of the Northern Forest were after you. Understand?’

‘Yes sir – and good luck.’

‘Squad!’ Brand shouted, ‘We can’t take the risk that Gilmour and the others were seen, so we’ll cover their flanks, give them as much time and room to run as possible.’

The rag-tag band of hardened partisan riders nodded, grim understanding on their faces. They would be the sorcerers’ last line of defence.

Brand clapped his lieutenant on the shoulder and pulled his horse round, then took off, but he and his squad had barely crossed into the next field when a group of cavalrymen broke off from the main charge, angled across the plain, and took up the pursuit.

The lieutenant shook his head; there was nothing he could do for them. The brunt of the day’s unpleasant responsibilities now rested on his shoulders. He rode back along the lines, shouting, ‘Retreat to the north! Retreat by squads! Retreat to the north!’

Gilmour rode hard down the dry streambed that was providing some cover. They had been galloping for a quarter of an aven now and he was worried that the horses would not be able to keep up this breakneck pace for much longer. They had no spare mounts, and losing an animal this far outside Wellham Ridge would be a disaster. They would have to stop soon.

He used a rudimentary spell – nothing that would resonate enough for Nerak to locate them – to confirm that they were being followed, but he had some vague sense that their pursuers were friendly. He guessed Brand had sent a handful of riders after them, and that bothered him; he hated that Gita had demanded they use Brand and his company as a live shield. He supposed he ought to harden his heart to such sacrifices, but it hadn’t been easy to look them in the eye; they all knew why they had been sent on this mission.

While Gilmour felt responsible for having led Brand’s company into the Malakasians’ path, he didn’t wish to make a stand against a cavalry charge, certainly not with his magic alone. He wondered for a moment if Steven would be able to help without losing the camouflage spell he had cast when they left Sandcliff Palace, but the old Larion Senator decided that risk was too great: any spell powerful enough to divert a cavalry charge would tell Nerak exactly where they were.

The gulley rounded a lazy bend and turned southeast; if this stream had once spilled into the Medera River and run through Orindale to the Ravenian Sea, then their current path would take them too far east. They had to leave the streambed. Gilmour looked around: if they were forced to expose themselves, they might as well seek whatever high ground they could find and use it to their advantage.

A thousand paces further on, he saw what he had been looking for: a tight bend in the riverbed had left an era’s worth of dirt and rocks accumulated above the turn, a little hillock. Given the paucity of heights in the Falkan landscape, this would have to do. At the bend, Gilmour slowed and urged his horse up the rise.

‘Where are you going?’ Steven shouted. ‘We have cover down here.’

‘This stream will run into Orindale. It’s the wrong way. Besides, we’re being followed and I don’t think it’s the Malakasians.’ He crested the hill; reluctantly, the others followed.

‘Who is it?’ Steven asked.

Gilmour peered back along their trail, and was surprised to see no one approaching across the plain. ‘They must be in the streambed,’ he said, scanning the area until he detected a faint cloud of dust and dirt billowing up from the twisting crevasse they had been using to mask their movements. ‘There,’ he pointed, ‘past that stone wall on this side of the far field.’

Steven, Mark and Garec all strained to see where Gilmour was pointing, but none of them had improved their vision with Larion magic; they saw only the barren expanse of fallow fields.

Garec rode back down into the gulley and dismounted, then patted his frothing horse gently on the neck. ‘Not much further,’ he said encouragingly, then sprawled on the ground and pressed his cheek against the frozen dirt. The sound was unmistakable. Rising to his knees, he called, ‘They’re not far, but nowhere near as many as earlier.’

‘Well, that’s good news,’ Mark said. ‘I think.’

‘It’s Brand,’ Gilmour said.

‘How do you know?’ Steven asked.

‘I checked – nothing that will alert Nerak – and I can feel that it isn’t Malakasians.’

‘That may be,’ Garec said, ‘but we should keep riding, nevertheless.’

‘My horse can’t keep it up much longer.’ Mark ran a hand through the animal’s mane.

‘Mine either,’ Steven added.

Garec said, ‘We’ll slow the pace. Mark and I will hang back and just trot for a while. They’ll see our trail run up the side of this gulley. When they get to the top, we’ll know who’s back there. If it’s Brand, we have nothing to worry about. If it isn’t, we’ll ride up behind you. You’ll hear us coming like rutting thunder.’

Garec looked at Mark, who pressed his lips together and nodded. ‘Give your horses a rest, but canter just the same. Get as much distance out from us as you can. If we get separated, we’ll find you in Wellham Ridge tonight.’

‘You understand that we can’t-’ Gilmour started, ‘that Nerak would-’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Mark said. ‘I don’t want that motherless bastard knowing where we are either. I just hope Steven’s blanket still covers us when you two are gone.’

‘I don’t know,’ Steven said, apologetically.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Garec said. ‘It’s not us he wants, anyway. We could stand naked out here singing bawdy songs and he wouldn’t look twice at us.’

Steven laughed. ‘Well, can you blame him?’

‘Go.’

Garec and Mark watched them lope off southwest. Garec asked, ‘How many arrows do you have?’

‘Maybe twenty. You?’

‘About the same.’

‘We can’t stop them with a couple of bows and a handful of arrows.’

‘I know,’ Garec said, thankful that Mark hadn’t suggested they make a stand there on the riverbank.

‘This is not good.’

‘We can’t run the horses any longer. We have to hope theirs are in a similar condition.’

‘We’ve been riding hard for more than fifteen days now. If they’re coming from Orindale, they’ve been in the saddle for two, maybe three. They’ll catch us, Garec.’

The bowman didn’t reply, but turned back towards the knoll above the stream and watched as it gradually shrank to a lump. Still, no one emerged from the winding riverbed. ‘I suppose all we can hope to do is delay them long enough for Gilmour and Steven to get free.’

‘Or pray it’s just Brand coming up to cover our backs.’

‘That too.’

When Brand and what remained of his squad burst from the streambed, it was like watching cavalry emerging from an underworld kingdom. His horse was swathed in froth, its nostrils flaring and bloody, as he led five men and women Garec recognised from their journey south.

As he closed on Garec and Mark, he started shouting, but his incomprehensible cries became obvious as a rank of Malakasian riders rose up from the streambed and began pursuing the Falkans across the plain. They fanned out like unfurling wings on a low-flying demon, narrowing the gap as the nearly spent freedom fighters struggled to get away.

‘Stupid bastard,’ Mark spat, ‘he’s led them right here. What in hell is he thinking?’

‘He must have decided to cover our flank, and then was seen riding off.’

‘With five soldiers?’

‘I don’t know,’ Garec said, ‘maybe there were others; maybe they led some of them away.’

‘Shit and shit and shit, this is bad,’ Mark spat. He nocked an arrow and waited. ‘How long until they’re in range?’

Garec’s hands began to tremble. ‘Let’s ride, Mark. We can’t stop them. There are – what? Fifteen or twenty of them? We can’t… let’s run for it. Come on.’ He was scared.

Mark shot him a withering look. ‘How long until they’re in range, Garec?’ He was ready to die; this was his moment. Brynne was watching; his final stand would make her proud.

Garec gripped his pommel with both hands until they stopped shaking. He focused on the advancing line and shook his head. ‘Not yet. Not yet.’

Mark held the bow ready as Brand’s voice came to them across the field, shouting ‘Pick them off! As many as you can!’

‘Now?’ Mark’s voice was urgent. ‘Garec?’

‘What?’ He shivered. Please don’t make me do this.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now, now!’ He felt the air go out of his lungs. He couldn’t fire. He hung his head.

Brand’s voice came again. ‘Garec! Garec, kill them, Garec!’

Mark loosed his first shot and shouted victoriously when one of the Malakasians fell. He nocked another arrow, aimed over Brand’s head and fired into the Malakasian line. This one took a horse in the chest, and the animal tumbled headlong across the frozen plain. As he fired over and over again, nocking, drawing and loosing like an automaton, he paused only once to look at Garec with a mixture of pity and disgust. There was no time to talk, so he carried on trying to wound or kill as many of the soldiers as possible before they closed for the hand-to-hand fight.

Garec wouldn’t fight; it was up to him, Brand and five exhausted soldiers, to defeat an entire squad of Malakasian cavalry.

Three dead. Four dead. Five injured. Six dead. Mark kept a mental tally. Seven injured, maybe dead. Eight injured. Nine dead.

And then Brand was with him.

‘What the holy hell is the matter with you, bastard?’ Mark screamed in English, too fired up with adrenalin to remember to speak Common.

‘What?’ Brand shouted despite the fact that they were side by side. Two of his soldiers had drawn their bows and had joined Mark, firing into the charging line.

‘You led them here,’ Mark screamed, ‘what were you thinking?’ He fired again. Ten injured. Eleven dead.

‘I lost men leading them away from here,’ Brand said, drawing his short sword and charging into what was left of the Malakasians.

Mark tossed his bow aside, shrugged out of his quiver and drew his battle-axe. Throwing his head back, he screamed, then dug his heels into his horse’s sides and galloped into the fray.

Garec never moved, and those few moments were the longest, hardest of his life. He didn’t have the strength to watch, but focused on his horse’s trailing mane, gripping the pommel of his saddle tightly. His stomach clenched at the screaming, and he winced when his face was splashed with someone’s blood. The noise of battle was gruesome, terrifying, unbearable: the sounds of suffering, pain and death.

Someone threw a sword and it slashed across his horse’s rump, opening a deep gash. With a furious whinny the animal reared and Garec fell to the ground, where he lay, immobile, waiting to be trampled to death.

Then it was over.

Only Mark, Brand, and a woman named Kellin remained in the saddle; everyone else lay dead or wounded. Brand dismounted to see to his injured soldiers, trying to keep his face immobile as he realised none would survive to see the midday aven; Garec rolled onto his side, his back to the carnage, and rested his head on the icy field.

Later, when the pyres were lit and the dead had been given their rites, the four remaining partisans mounted and rode slowly towards Wellham Ridge. Garec, without a horse, rode in silence behind Kellin. He was too ashamed to look at anyone; he couldn’t stand the thought of what he might see in Mark’s face: disappointment, regret, anger, hatred. Instead he watched Kellin’s light brown hair moving against the heavy weave of her cloak.

It was dark when they arrived in the village, but Steven and Gilmour were not difficult to find; they were sitting together in the front room of a tavern called the Twinmoon. The ever-shrinking group was reunited, but Garec, dejected and embarrassed, excused himself. He would go in search of a new horse in the morning; he told the others to leave without him and neither Mark nor Brand argued.

Steven looked closely at Garec, and agreed.

‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll catch up with you tomorrow or the following night at the latest.’ As long as they rode south and followed the river into Meyers’ Vale, he wouldn’t have any trouble finding their trail. He needed the space to think; if being alone meant he was captured, interrogated and killed by Malakasians, well, that would be fine too.