The Fell
Lyndsey Harper
Copyright © 2017 by Lyndsey Harper
Published by Crimson Edge Press, LLC
www.crimsonedgepress.com
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2017
ISBN-10: 1-945397-90-X
ISBN-13: 978-1-945397-90-5
Cover art by The Dust Jacket.
Acknowledgement
Matt—my best friend, my patient husband, and my biggest cheerleader. He continually forgives me for my lack of a domestic side (especially when writing), listens to me blab for hours, gives great hugs, and makes a mean Mexican casserole to help keep me alive.
My Momma and Daddy—my real life superheroes. They have never failed to give me their invaluable love, wisdom, and support for my entire life, even now while they are busy kicking cancer’s butt.
My awesome siblings—Becky and Alex. They have put up with my middle child brand of crazy for this long without killing me, and they never fail to show their love to me, especially in their teasing.
My entire extended family—my loud and loving crew. You guys keep growing all the time, which means I am continually blessed.
My friends—a conglomerate of the most nerdy, snarky, and golden-hearted people from all walks of life. They aren’t related to me and still, surprisingly, haven’t blocked me on Facebook yet.
Nathan Jarmusch—the clever writer and warrior who will remain forever the Great Dragon in my heart and on these pages.
And finally, Crimson Edge Press—the wizards behind the curtain. Thanks for taking a chance on me, and for replying to my tweet years ago, even though I didn’t really know what I was doing then on Twitter (and still don’t).
Dedication
For my daughter, Chloe.
You’re the reason Mommy writes.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
About the Author
The Fell
Lyndsey Harper
-1—
Leer Boxwell cracked his worn knuckles inside the opposite hand, the skin on them dry from the chilled air that chapped it over time. A squint of a dark brown eye narrowed his focus. There was no need to rush. Despite knowing his opponent’s overwhelming eagerness for battle, he remained still, calm. He would make his move, but only in time.
A lock of blond hair drooped past his brow. He ignored it, silently pondering the vast number of choices before him. The loud vibrations in his ears pestered him. With a subtle shrug, he closed off his surroundings and honed in on the task. He could feel the growing impatience of his enemy emanating toward him. Leer drew his bottom lip inward and nipped at it, surveying his situation, effectively destroying the scab that had formed on it in response to his previous abuse.
Patience. He smirked to himself, his tongue running behind his top teeth as he rotated his left hand. It will all be over soon anyway, my friend.
He widened his lopsided grin at the gentle, firm words of advice from his mentor, Finnigan Lance, which echoed through the stillness of his mind.
Count carefully. Steady and balanced.
A rigid chill in the air ran across his shoulders despite the sweater layered over his tunic. Flickering candles crusted over with boonwax drippings dimly lit the dank, meager battle zone. The hewen-wood stool he sat on could hardly be considered comfortable. A solemn tune washed over the crowded room from the fiddler tucked in the corner. The aged yellow nim antlers mounted on the wall cast ghostly shadows over the weathered planks of the inn, while stringed banners of colorful feanet hens bound upside down by their feet seemed to peer down at him with disapproval.
Yet, Leer never felt more at home.
“Are you plannin’ to make yer move within my lifetime, Boy?”
The surly voice of Leer’s opponent sliced through Leer’s concentrated focus like a knife. His dark eyes flicked upward, taking in the man seated across from him with barely concealed disdain.
“You believe me to fail, Bilby,” Leer remarked, a dark, thick brow arching as he eyed his competitor.
“I believe you to be backed into a corner like a whelp,” Marcus Bilby replied, giving a small, dark-toothed grin. “I believe yer with no place to go but down by my boots, beggin’ for mercy.”
Waves of chuckling ensued around them, Bilby’s supporters clanking their mugs of ale together in agreement.
Leer idly stroked his stubble covered jaw with a smirk, wetting his lips. “Hmm,” he said, still holding the older man’s gaze. “Two games in, you should know me better than that by now.”
He raised his hand slightly as Bilby drew a breath he failed to hide. Leer smiled as he felt Bilby’s gray eyes lock on him, watching his every move with renewed interest. On the right side of the beautifully detailed cylas wood tafl board stood an unassuming game piece. So far, Leer had managed to prevent drawing Bilby’s attention to this strategically important, but yet unused pawn. Leer now thoughtfully thumbed this piece, planning his next move. The path he chose to shift the pawn surprised Bilby, who watched with his lips pressed together, perched on the edge of his seat.
As Leer withdrew, Bilby excitedly moved his chosen piece, sliding the pure white painted bone a block closer to his goal of reaching the board’s edge.
“Hah!” he squealed, leaning back and folding his thick arms over his plump stomach. “I can see the apprentice still has much to learn from the master.”
Leer was more than aware of his current position within the game. Two of his three remaining black pawns were on the approach to Bilby’s white king pawn. Leer hoped he could use his rogue from the right to block in the king, but there was still a distance to go. Early on in the game, Leer executed a flamboyant line of attack, knowing he could find himself in such a precarious position. He reasoned that if he were successful, his victory would taste that much sweeter.
“Steady, Bilby,” Leer advised.
Leer watched the older man’s wiry brow lift in doubt. “Yer blinder than my papa if you think you’ve room for escape.”
“Aye, that’s true for two of my men at present.”
“You mean to tell me that you put yer hope in one piece on the wrong side of the board?”
“I don’t have hope. I’m sure of it.”
The thick stench of hops and musky sweat enveloped Leer as Bilby leaned in; Leer’s nose wrinkled. “It’s impossible,” Bilby challenged. “There isn’t a hope under the sun for yer rogue piece to catch my king before he reaches the corner.”
“Are you certain?” Leer countered in an even tone.
The candlelight flickered as the surrounding patrons of the inn shifted their positions. A murmured hum of questioning rose from the crowd, buzzing with curiosity.
Bilby squared his shoulders, his fat knuckle brushing ag
ainst his right nostril with a quick swipe. “Of course I am.”
Leer gestured to the board as he pushed up his sleeves. “Then shall we continue the game so I might rightfully congratulate you?”
“As certain as Hiline is the greatest nation, he’ll lose,” a man snorted in the back, raising his ale mug victoriously.
“Gentlemen,” Leer said, keeping his eyes on Bilby, “what’s life without risk?”
“Show him, Marcus,” another smaller man encouraged. “Let the daft boy have his lesson.”
“Mop the floor with him, at’s what you’ll do,” another agreed.
“Stupid whelp is askin’ for a loss.”
Enthusiastic cheers in Bilby’s favor erupted from the crowd. Leer gripped the twisted silver handle of his ale mug and took a casual sip.
“Alright,” Bilby shouted, raising his hand to silence the audience. His tongue ran over a chapped bottom lip surrounded by dirt-streaked gray whiskers. “Yer move.”
Leer set his cup down with a growing smile. “Aye,” he agreed, clearing his throat. “But you should know, I’m a man who simply hates to lose.”
“Then yer also an idiot, because losin’ is all you’ll do now, Boy.”
Leer shrugged. “I’d just hate for you to be disappointed.”
“Disappointed how?”
“Disappointed by me breaking your clean record in this inn.”
Bilby laughed throatily. “Boy, I’ll lay three extra coins on yer failure,” he declared, fishing the worn currency from his waist pouch and slapping it on the table, the game board rattling in response.
Leer glanced down at the money. “It’s not your coins I want as my prize.”
“My wench, then?”
“Nay.”
“Go on, then—what will you ‘require’ should you win?” Bilby asked with a chuckle.
Leer swallowed, keeping his eyes locked on the older man’s in front of him. “Everything you know about the Grimbarror.”
A hush fell over the inn; the fiddle music screeched to an abrupt halt.
Bilby’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I said,” Leer repeated, “I wish to know everything you know about the Grimbarror.”
Callous laughter exploded through the men and few barmaids present, ripples of mockery piercing Leer’s ears.
“You well-washed loon,” Bilby cackled, slapping his knee through his amusement. “You wish to hear fairy tales, is that it?”
Leer’s jaw flexed as he clamped his molars together. “I seek the truth.”
“Hah!” Bilby screeched. “Would you like a cup of warm milk to go with your bedtime story, Boy?”
Leer squeezed his eyes shut briefly, trying to push away the reverberating voices around him. “Are you, or are you not, the Marcus Bilby that Finnigan Lance spoke of?” he demanded. “The one whose life he saved?”
Another wave of eerie silence fell over the inn. Bilby leaned in, gripping the table with white knuckles. “What name did you say?” he asked.
“Finnigan Lance,” Leer enunciated.
“Curse you for speaking that name,” Bilby snarled, spitting on the ground.
“Cheating scoundrel, he was,” a man bellowed from the rear of the crowd.
“Nothin’ but a drink bloated habbersnitch.” another agreed.
“You’d better have good reason for speaking that name in this place, Boy,” Bilby warned, leaning forward.
“He wasn’t a cheat,” Leer snapped. “You peddled furs with him. You worked with him, and he saved your life from insurgents. And I do believe you owe him a favor.”
A murmur trickled through the crowd, sending Bilby into visible panic as his peers reacted to the revelation.
“And what?” Bilby retorted with a scoff. “Lance has come back from the dead to claim it?”
Leer’s jaw flexed. Finnigan’s death was still fresh in his mind; it had not been long since he found his bloodied, mauled corpse. “Nay. You’ll pay your debt to him through answering my questions.”
Bilby’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you to lay claim to any favors?”
Leer held his gaze. “His son.”
“Liar!” Bilby screeched, smacking the table. “He never had a child, you daft boy.” He took up his mug and knocked back a long swig of ale. “Whoever you are, yer sorry arse needs to make yer move,” he encouraged with his chin after setting the mug down. “I shan’t be owin’ you a single bit once this game is through. Instead, you’ll be muckin’ my stalls for free for the rest of the winter.”
“Aye, well, just in case, my winnings will be all he told you about the Vei.”
Bilby chuckled. “Sure, Boy. Go ahead. Make yer move.”
Leer shifted his focus back down to the board. With much less hesitance, he slid his last rogue pawn toward Bilby’s unguarded king, only pausing as Bilby took his rightful turns to expectantly move his king further toward Leer’s far left corner of the board. Leer could hear Bilby’s breath quicken in anticipation.
I tried to warn you.
His careful calculations had not betrayed him. Leer saw Bilby’s eyes grow round as their game pieces met. Through his haste to reach the border, Leer had pinned Bilby’s king between two of his already trapped pawns and his rogue from the right, automatically winning the game.
“Ahhh!” Bilby shrieked in disgust, throwing his arms up as he stood abruptly from the table.
“Careful,” Leer warned with a smug grin, crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “We shouldn’t want the entirety of Enton to know of your defeat.”
“You whoreson,” Bilby snapped, raising a bowed knife he retrieved from his belt toward him. “You cheated.”
Leer sprung back, his hands in the air as he stood and moved away from his stool. “I did no such thing,” he insisted, eyes narrowed. “It’s not my fault you weren’t focused.”
“You should think this is quite amusing, shouldn’t you?” Bilby sneered, coming around the table, knife outstretched toward Leer. “Stickin’ around, makin’ a fool of me, just like that habbersnitch, Lance…”
“Actually, all I had in mind was collecting my information and being on my way.”
“The only thing you’ll be collectin’ is yer guts from the floor, you dillyburt.”
Bilby slashed the knife in the direction of Leer’s abdomen with a shrill battle cry. Leer jumped away from the swing, cursing under his breath. No sword, he reminded himself with a grimace. He quickly calculated the distance he’d need to cover before reaching the door: Too many bodies. They’ll never let me pass.
A swirl of panic began to build in his mind. How? How do I get out?
To his right, he heard the fireplace crackle and pop behind him as the raging flames ate through the dried timber. A stream of collected thoughts coalesced, giving him startling clarity. Well, if this loon wants a challenge, then a challenge he shall get.
“Steady now, Bilby,” Leer taunted with a grin. “I’m but a single unarmed man. Surely, as favored as you are here, you needn’t worry so.” Leer sidestepped to his right, noting the expression on Bilby’s face. “Unless, of course, you consider me superior. Then I suppose there would be cause for worry.” He chuckled. “And judging from the scowl you’re wearing, I assume you don’t.”
Leer reached behind himself, his hands brushing against the cold stone of the fireplace edge. Steady and balanced, he reminded himself, the pads of his fingers digging into the textured surface. Where is it? Maybe just a bit further…
He continued to shift right until his shoulder collided with the edge of the fireplace wall, his fingers brushing against a piece of rope. There you are.
He had arrived.
“Well then,” Leer said with a grin as he clamped down on the rope behind himself, “I do believe that this is where we part ways.”
“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, habbersnitch,” Bilby growled.
Just as I expected, Leer thought as he watched Bilby charge at him. He dove low between
Bilby’s thick legs, entangling him using the timber sling he yanked from the hook on the wall behind him. Leer grunted from the sheer effort it took to bring the much larger man down to his knees. Bilby groaned as Leer pulled him down flat on his stomach. Leer kept his left knee pressed on Bilby’s back, bracing against the bigger man’s grunted straining.
“Sorry,” Leer apologized curtly, snatching Bilby’s knife from his sweaty palm.
“You cod-boiled snitch,” Bilby screamed. “I’ll skin you like the dillyburt you are.”
“Aye, I’m sure you’d like to,” Leer agreed as he caught his breath. “You do surprise me, Bilby. I wouldn’t have taken you to be such a spry fellow, but rather one more fond of meals than combat practice.”
Leer could feel the eyes of the patrons on him. “I won fairly,” he stated with resonance, sensing their hesitance at challenging him. “And by the agreement we made, I require my winnings, and then I’ll be on my way.”
“As sure as the sun sets to the left of the Fell, Boy,” Bilby seethed under his breath, “I’ll have yer—”
“You know,” Leer interrupted, gritting his teeth against the struggling man he kept bound, “let’s discuss that. Let’s discuss the Fell, shall we?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you a mite.”
Leer grimaced, annoyed at the phlegm Bilby spat onto his right boot. “You will tell me what I wish to know,” Leer reminded him in a low tone, bending closer to Bilby’s ear. “Otherwise, it’ll be your hide skinned.”
“Be damned to the underworld.”
“Tell me what you know about the Grimbarror.”
A gust of winter wind ripped through the inn as the front door swung open. Leer kept his focus on Bilby, even though the skin on his hands burned from squeezing the ropes.
“Tell me,” he demanded, pressing his knee into Bilby’s back.
The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1) Page 1