Hot iron, he thought, examining the glowing bars. I can bend it.
With a quick prayer, Leer shut his eyes and raised his boot to the iron, giving it a swift kick. He yelped in pain, feeling the burn of it even through the sole. He grunted, slamming his foot into the bar again, wincing against the strike of the heat. Despite the pain, he kept kicking, crying out in agony as the iron slowly spread, producing an opening seemingly large enough to slip through.
With careful urgency, Leer inched his way out of the cell through the meager path he created. The ground rattled from a second explosion, tossing Leer forward. He scraped his left cheek and arm across the hot iron. He screamed, the searing pain gripping him as he tried to steady himself so he didn’t fall on the burning straw.
With every ounce of resolve he could muster, Leer leaped toward the stairwell exit. Limp by limp, he crawled up the steps; the terrorized screams of people above him became more pronounced toward the surface.
An agonizing pain like none he had ever felt struck his temples, and Leer cried out, clutching his head as he sank in defeat. Through the barrage of volts that belted him, an image of King Gresham and Princess Maegan flashed through his mind.
The averil.
Pushing through the strange pain, Leer shoved through the door at the top of the stairs. As quickly as he could, he ran through the castle and out onto the icy cobble walk and snowy paths, gasping for breath as frigid gusts of air blasted against him. A burst of sourceless flame surged through the open air in the courtyard; Leer barely missed it as he ducked out of its path. Ash and embers rained from the sky, the earth vibrating under him as he ran.
Close to the site of the averil, Leer tripped over his injured foot, crashing down onto the wet snow face first. With a groan, he slowly pushed his chest up, the cold snow biting through the flesh of his bare palms.
The beautiful glow of alabaster light poured down from above, washing over the fractals and casting an iridescent luminosity around him. Though he heard Bennett’s voice in his mind, he couldn’t help but gaze, hypnotized at the cleansing brightness.
“Mine,” a voice came, its pitch terrifying and twisted, breaking Leer from his reverie. “Mine. I want it, I want what’s mine.”
Still, Leer couldn’t speak; his mouth moved but words failed to form.
The voice moved away, continuing its demands through odd riddles. “To the demon born of days past, the price of power to be paid at last. The blood of the betrayer, spilt in the Fell, the debt of greed be forevermore quelled.”
With all the willpower he had, Leer shut his eyes and rolled onto his side, groaning as he pushed himself up to stand. His feet slid on the ice as he scrambled closer to the averil, praying King Gresham and Princess Maegan were in hiding.
“Mine,” he heard the voice cry again. “Mine! I want it, I want what’s mine!”
As he reached a crumbled wall, a high-pitched scream stopped him in his tracks, his heart dropping.
“Princess Maegan,” Leer whispered.
He surveyed the rubble. A quick glimpse of Princess Maegan standing still, red hair swaying, gave him a bit of comfort.
She’s alive.
“Princess!” Leer shouted.
Pained and desperate, Leer scrambled onto frozen rock, pulling himself over the top and onto the other side. One failed calculation, and Leer’s grip diminished. His body slammed against the icy broken wall as he slid violently downward.
When his body finally halted, Leer moved to stand, groaning as his burned foot made contact with the ground. Several yards ahead, he saw Princess Maegan’s curvaceous body motionless, amethyst velvet garments billowing behind her, her gaze lifted toward the dazzling orb.
“Look away, Princess,” Leer ordered, stumbling forward. “Look away!” He kept his eyes down, moving sloppily toward her as fast as he could bear.
“Mine, mine,” the voice came again from ahead, softer in tone.
Leer’s breath caught; he willed his feet to move faster. “Princess, look away! Don’t look at the light!” He shuddered as he caught a glimpse of silhouetted horn edged wings arching with eerie grace behind a cloaked upright figure.
“Mine, mine,” it snickered, the timbre eliciting gooseflesh across Leer’s skin.
Still some distance from Princess Maegan, Leer stumbled as his boot caught on a hidden rock. He cursed, snow pushing its way into his nose and mouth as he fell forward onto his stomach.
“No!” he screamed, back arching as he looked back up toward Maegan.
He was too late.
The earth shook as the ground split open underneath him. Rock and dirt collapsed into itself, consuming everything in its path. Leer clawed at the snow as he tried to move to higher ground, but with a treacherous shudder, the trench swallowed him into its belly.
The last thing Leer saw as snow and ice rained down on him was Princess Maegan rising into the air, vanishing into the light.
-4—
As he woke, he heard familiar, distinct sounds: the clattering of pots, arguing, and the clank of a knife. He smelled habbersnitch stew and boiled herbs. There was no question where he was.
Leer’s dark brown eyes slowly opened, making any confirmation of seeing the interior of Jarle and Hedda’s small home unnecessary. He wasn’t expecting the set of large blue eyes that peered down at him from less than six inches away.
“Mama!” the adolescent girl so close to his face yelled; Leer jumped in surprise. “The handsome man is awake.”
Hedda rushed to the girl’s side. “Oh godzijdank!” she breathed, dipping a rag into a nearby bucket and draping it across Leer’s forehead. “Jarle! Jarle! Come quickly.”
Jarle joined Hedda’s side, panic streaked across his face. Leer blinked heavily under their gaze. “Speak to us, mijn zoon,” Jarle goaded. “Say your name.”
“I should…” Leer began in a hoarse whisper, “think my name to be…Leer Boxwell.”
“Ya, ya, and who is your king?”
“King…Calvin…Gresham.”
Jarle smiled. “Ya, that’s good.”
Memories flooded Leer with unforgiving haste. He bolted up from his cot. “The princess!” he exclaimed, grimacing under the sudden pain that struck him. “Ah, blast.” Jarle guided him back down with a gentle, stern hand. “Jarle, the princess—”
“Ya,” Jarle acknowledged. “’Tis been a while now, Leer. Be still.”
Leer winced as he breathed, his fingers reaching slowly to his ribs to feel the various tightly wound bandages. “How long?”
“Five moons, now,” Hedda murmured, gently stroking Leer’s forehead with the dampened rag.
Leer’s mouth gaped. “Five days?”
“Ya,” Jarle said with a nod. “You were still as stone when they found you. They thought you were dead. You looked dead.” He examined his friend with pursed lips. “You still do.” Jarle flinched as Hedda smacked him across his bicep. “Well, he does,” he defended, brows furrowed.
“You’re just a wee pale,” Hedda assured Leer. “Drink.” She offered Leer a cup of steaming liquid. With effort, Leer propped himself on one elbow as she guided it to his lips. “Gytha flower tea. Very powerful. It will make you strong.”
“Well, I think you’re handsome,” the girl to Hedda’s right sighed dreamily.
“Thank you, my lady,” Leer murmured, swallowing the bitter herbal brew with a twisted expression.
“Ya, well he’s old enough to be your papa, Emma,” Jarle scolded the teen.
Leer examined the blonde girl with an arched brow. “She can’t be that young. How old do you believe me to be, Jarle?”
“Old enough to know when to stop looking,” Jarle snapped with a glare.
“Aye,” Leer replied with an uncomfortable smile, averting his eyes from Jarle’s daughter.
“You took quite a spill, they figure,” Hedda said to Leer. “The snow must have protected your bones well.”
“Maybe the bones, but certainly not my head,” Leer muttered.
“What would you have had me do, Jarle? Nothing?”
“Don’t fuss,” Hedda scolded, guiding Leer back down onto the cot. “You still need rest.”
“I can take care of him, Mama,” Emma offered with a hopeful smile.
“Emma, be off with you,” Jarle snapped, shooing his daughter away. Emma reluctantly left, taking one last glimpse of Leer before disappearing into the upper loft.
Jarle glanced over at Hedda, meeting her eyes; she slipped away in silence, removing the cloth from Leer’s brow.
“Jarle,” Leer said as he lay on the cot, running a hand through his matted hair, “is the king…?”
“Alive,” Jarle confirmed, his head tilted down as he gazed at the floor. “Unlike much of his army.”
Leer’s nostrils flared. “Princess Maegan hasn’t been found, I take it?” Jarle shook his head. “How many scouts has the king sent?”
Jarle sighed, delaying his response as his lips formed a thin line. “Nearly as many as he has.”
“To where?”
“The Cursed Waste.”
Leer leaned his head back with a groan. “Senseless twit, he’s sent them the wrong way.”
Jarle’s brow wrinkled. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than we know.”
“He’s looking in the wrong place,” Leer argued, meeting Jarle’s eyes.
“The insurgents have waged war. They’ve made camps there before. How else should they know where they are keeping the princess?”
“Don’t you see, Jarle? It’s not insurgents at all.”
“My boy, tell me you’re not saying it’s—”
Leer pushed himself up despite the pain, cringing as he sat upright to face Jarle. “I saw what it can do to a man,” he snapped, his voice low. “I heard it speak. It spoke of a debt owed and—”
Jarle’s hand covered his face as he rubbed it. “I can’t listen to your madness, Leer,” he exclaimed, his hands falling to his sides. “I can’t. You’re gone, Leer. Gone! There is no Grimbarror and there is no debt owed. There is a real army of insurgents from Sortaria who have taken the princess in order to gain control of Hiline.” Jarle stood. “But there is no monster.”
Leer followed suit. Getting to his feet was harder than he imagined it would be but he showed as little weakness as possible to Jarle. “You will deny the possibility when all that has happened is beyond the capability of men?”
“I will tell what I know to be true, and the Grimbarror is not such,” Jarle retorted.
The two men eyed each other for a moment. Leer’s stomach sank though his anger rose. “Tell me, Leer,” Jarle asked, his voice softening, “when will you realize that Finnigan passed from a mere accident?”
“Do not speak to me of Finnigan,” Leer snapped, taking a step closer to Jarle.
“You know as well as I that Finnigan wasn’t murdered that night,” Jarle continued despite Leer’s rage. “When will you accept that?”
Without a word, Leer turned and snatched his shirt from a chair back near the fireplace. He yanked the tattered and torn tunic on over his head.
“Where shall you go, Leer?” Jarle asked with a sigh. When Leer didn’t respond, he rubbed his eyes. “The army camp was destroyed when the earth split. There isn’t much left standing.” Leer paused in horror, his back still to Jarle. “I’m truly sorry, mijn zoon. The Vale is nothing but a shred of what she once was.”
In pain, Leer sat on the edge of the bed, readying himself to put on his half burnt boots. He had to leave. He had to go to his cottage in the barracks.
Finnigan’s journal. It has to be there.
The journal couldn’t have been damaged. He didn’t know what he would do if it were. It was all he had left of his mentor. It was the only material thing Leer cared about.
“Stop, will ya? For a moment,” Jarle begged, grabbing Leer’s arm as he sat next to him. “Look, I may not understand why you believe it all so, but the least I can do is give you things to wear before you chase after it. Wait here.”
Jarle left, and a few minutes later returned with an armful of clothes, a pack, and another pair of boots. He handed Leer a soft, warm cream tunic and evergreen wool sweater.
“Hedda is vexed that I can’t fit those anymore,” Jarle murmured, watching Leer put the garments on. “At least you’ll save me another scolding.” He dropped the boots in front of the cot. “Not from the Hiline army, but these should do to keep frost from claiming all of your toes.” He then laid a heavy dark brown overcoat, mittens, an embroidered cap and a wide blue scarf in a pile with reluctance, still clinging to the dark bag. “I guess I can’t stop you, can I?”
“Nay, Jarle,” Leer replied, finishing lacing the tall boots, “but you’ve kept me going, and that’s more than most have done for me.”
“Ya, well you’ve got a few sores you’ll need to mind,” Jarle grumbled, snagging a small jar near the bedside. “Otherwise, you won’t be going far.” Tossing it into the sack, he went to the opposite side of the cabin. “See to it you put the yeran bark ointment on your face, arm, and foot every day until it’s used up,” he instructed.
Leer blinked as he focused on his reflection in the looking glass near the cot. He traced his fingers along the long, red burn that striped his left cheek, swallowing back the memories of the cell. His face was sure to scar, but it would eventually heal. The two men that died weren’t as fortunate.
How many more had been claimed by the monster from Sortaria?
He shifted his attention to Jarle, watching him open a few crocks that lined the knotted shelves above the small table in the dining area.
“I won’t be giving you more than normal rations,” Jarle said over his shoulder. “Perhaps it’ll force you to return home to your senses. Where is it you’ll be going, anyway?”
Leer shut his eyes for a moment, remembering the haunting riddle spoken by the frightening voice. He rubbed his still sore head. “The Fell,” he finally said, yanking on his mittens.
Jarle’s eyes widened as he looked back at Leer. “You are mad.”
“Jarle—”
“Going to the blasted Fell, and in the dead of winter, no less? Have you fallen off the rim of the earth?”
“It’s where she is, Jarle. Where it’s keeping her.”
“But—”
“It’s where I must go,” Leer interrupted, gritting his teeth as he stood once more. Fully dressed, he sighed deeply as he looked toward the front door of the home that sat on the outskirts of Enton.
“Idiot,” Jarle said under his breath with a sigh. “Well, don’t be completely crazy and forego a sword. Take the one with the white grip. I know she’s the one you favor.”
“I can’t,” Leer protested. The sword was a beautifully crafted masterpiece made with the finest cylas milkwood. Jarle could sell it to any pompous fool in the Vale to feed his family for the entire winter.
“It’s been in my home too long,” Jarle argued, taking the sword from the wood pegs it rested on above the fireplace. “Besides, if you’re going to go on a failed mission, at least I know your death won’t be from carrying a poorly made weapon.”
Leer wrapped his fingers around the hilt, giving it a gentle squeeze; the milkwood shimmered in the light from the fireplace. He adjusted the leather sling it lived in across his broad back and over his hips. “You don’t hold hope for me, then?” he asked Jarle quietly.
“I trust what I see,” Jarle replied, not making eye contact with the younger man. “I thought you were a man of sense, of logic.”
“I am.”
“Nah, only for board games. What you are is a man who just took a blow to his skull that failed to knock any type of sense in him. A man with no room for anything but his own stubborn self.”
Leer stepped toward Jarle. “You’re angry, Jarle. Afraid for me.”
“Ya,” Jarle said with a
nod. “That we can agree on.”
Silence passed between them, thick and lingering as it ate away at Leer’s comfort. “Go,” Jarle whispered, his eyes fixed on the white grip of the sword Leer held in his mittened hand. “Go before I kill you myself to spare you the trouble of going to the Fell to die.”
Leer saw the concern below the surface of Jarle’s anger. “Aye,” Leer replied, tucking the sword away. “I should hope you’d thank Hedda for me.”
“Ya, ya.”
“Jarle—”
“Go, Leer,” Jarle interrupted, opening the door. The sun still shone, the rays bouncing off the crystals of the surrounding white snow. It wouldn’t be long until nightfall, though. “Fortune be with you.”
“And you, my brother,” Leer replied, looking Jarle in the eyes for a lingering moment before slipping out of his door.
The moon hung over the hewens by the time Leer reached the edge of the Vale, where he witnessed what Jarle had warned him of. Pools of frozen water surrounded the charred barracks he once called home. Hiline’s crested flag that had proudly sailed above hung with shame, torn in an unusual way. To Leer, it looked like from the claw of a giant tragurn. He knew, though, that a tragurn couldn’t scale the slim pole the flag hung on—certainly not without leaving as much as a trace of its presence in the wood.
For all of the destruction, the Vale was eerily calm, few people daring to make eye contact as he passed them down the cobbled walk. They quietly sifted through the rubble of the village with sullen faces, trying to make sense of its existence. The crisp wind blew whispers of secrets through the trees. Nature had been the closest witness to what had transpired five days prior, and she remained as silent as the people she housed. She, too, refused to confess belief in something as horrific as the Grimbarror.
Leer reached his cottage, and not a moment too soon for his liking. The desolation of the town in the dark of night made him sick with dread for the morning. What else might he see when the sun rose? Leer promised himself he wouldn’t be in the Vale to know. He only needed the journal from under his cot, and then he would be on his way.
The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1) Page 4