The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1)

by Lyndsey Harper

  “Bloody twits,” the hidden voice growled, “you’re like two milkmaids with this. Just throw down your swords.”

  Without a word, Leer tossed his sword to the ground, still hunting for the hiding men. He heard the Lieutenant groan at his choice, then the thud of the Lieutenant’s sword dropping against the snow.

  The two bowmen the man had mentioned rose from the snow-covered brush in the distance, draped in light-hued furs.

  “We wish the people of Cabryog no harm,” Leer insisted, licking his lips.

  “No harm?” Taking Leer by surprise, the man crashed through the trees and landed next to the Lieutenant. The lanky stranger’s messy, dark ponytailed hair framed his bronzed skin as it draped over his shoulder. His clothes and winter accessories bathed in the same tones as the woods around them showed his skill as an outdoorsman.

  The man smirked, swiping Leer’s sword from the ground, evaluating both the Lieutenant’s purple hued blade and Leer’s milkwood grip. “It’s difficult to believe a statement like that when you’re both bearing such unusual weapons.” The man looked up from Leer’s sword. “Tell me, who was your intended target?”

  “That doesn’t concern you at present.”

  “Actually, it does. See, we here in the north prefer to keep the riff-raff out. We also don’t do well with scouts on missions for our eastern neighbors.”

  Leer laughed. “You believe me to be a roach, is that it?”

  The man raised a brow. “I wouldn’t think any man coming from any sort of distance would be daft enough to travel alone without supplies, and in the winter, no less.”

  “They were stolen, you imbecile,” the Lieutenant growled.

  The man was unfazed. “Stolen, eh? By whom?”

  “A woman,” Leer sighed.

  The man hooted, his voice booming through the wood. “Oh, that’s rich.” He paused when he saw Leer’s unchanged face. “Oh. From the looks of it, you’re not kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Leer replied stiffly.

  Pursing his lips, the man looked back down to the sword. “Well, was she at least skilled?”

  Leer sighed. “Not that I believe it’s any of your business, but I didn’t sleep with her.”

  “Why in the hell not?”

  “I—” Leer paused. “Look, can you decide whether you’d like to trust us or kill us? I’ve no patience right now for games, and I’d like to attend to our business if you’ll pardon us.”

  The man tilted his head back. “What is your business in Cabryog?”

  “To barter the sword for another weapon and some rations for the remainder of our journey.”

  “To where?”

  Leer cleared his throat. “The Fell.” He winced when the man erupted in laughter again. “Aye, it’s all a laugh, isn’t it? Will you let us pass or not?”

  “What in bloody hell could you possibly want in Sortaria?”

  Leer drew a deep breath through his flared nostrils. “The Grimbarror.” Silence followed, each ounce of it fueling Leer’s inner fire.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Give me my sword.”

  The man examined Leer’s sword with a twist of his wrist. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. This would bring a nice purse in these parts.”

  Leer rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he growled, moving past him. “I’ll go on without it.”

  “Get back here, Boxwell,” Lieutenant Doyle snapped. “That’s an order.”

  “I’m under no one’s orders any longer.”

  “Dammit, you fitbloached habbersnitch. Return at once!”

  Leer waved him off, continuing. He made it a few more paces before he heard a thud behind him in the snow. Turning, he saw his sword on the ground, the man from the trees standing behind him with his arms crossed.

  “If you’d venture on to the Fell without a weapon, then you are mad,” the man stated, brow raised.

  “There is no question of his madness,” Lieutenant Doyle agreed.

  “Well, I’ll not have his blood on my hands.” The man nodded toward Leer. “So take the sword and at least be an armed madman.”

  Leer analyzed him. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll rob and pillage Cabryog?” he spat.

  “Nay. I’m afraid more of the guilt my mother left me than that.”

  Leer straightened after retrieving his sword and tucking it in its sheath. “Leer Boxwell.” The man’s brow raised, and he chuckled to himself. The reaction confused Leer. “Something amusing?”

  “Only if you believe in fate. Garren,” the man replied, shaking his head. “Garren Esel. This here is Beval.” Garren nodded to the shorter of the two bowmen, a stout, sharp-eyed man with rich brown skin. “And next to him stands Edgar,” he added, gesturing to the skinny young man with unkempt hair. He turned back to Leer. “They’re my right hand men, the finest of the village.” He bragged. “Welcome to Cabryog, Leer Boxwell.”

  Salvia filled Leer’s mouth as the scent of skimmers roasting on spits wafted toward him. The town bustled with activity. The people of Cabryog proved to be far different than those of Enton, not only physically, but also socially. Instead of the usual washing of pale skin and fairer features, they boasted rich skin tones in varying shades of clay and umber, and hair of all shades. And they were friendly.

  “I must confess, I feel out of place,” Leer noted as he walked beside Garren, the Lieutenant on Garren’s other side.

  “It’s because you are,” Garren explained with a shrug.

  “They won’t question our arrival?” Lieutenant Doyle asked.

  “Unlike the Vale, we believe in hospitality.”

  “As does the Vale,” the Lieutenant replied with an edge to his voice. “Except we prefer to be a bit more selective.”

  “As in, you’d rather have guards and clergy?” Garren countered.

  Leer’s hand flexed beside him, feeling the weight of his sword as he walked. “I suppose those outside the Vale regard it with a bit of disdain?”

  “Disdain is a rather harsh word. We prefer to see the Vale and those in it as…crotchety.”

  Leer gave a small nod. “You wouldn’t be wrong.”

  “Garren!”

  All three men stopped, looking ahead at the sound of the feminine voice calling his name.

  “Tana,” Garren acknowledged with a nod, her smile bright. He waved her over with his bare hand.

  Tana was taller than average for a woman with faint lines around her hazel eyes and robust curves that showed even under the furs she wore. “You’ve taken up more company now, have ya?” she asked when she stopped in front of them.

  “Nay. They’re travelers. Mother’s guilt made me see them to town,” Garren replied with a grin.

  “May her soul rest in peace,” Tana replied, eying her brother. “So you’ve been gone for over a fortnight, yet ya refuse to greet me with an embrace? Ya remind me of your nephews.”

  Garren laughed, stepping forward and wrapping Tana in a hug. “Ah, dear sister. I just wanted to save you from the stench.”

  Tana laughed, wrinkling her nose. “Did ya wrestle tragurns all the way to the Cursed Waste, then?”

  “Something like that,” Garren replied with a wink. He sighed. “But where are my manners?” He looked back to Lieutenant Doyle. “Meet…” Garren’s lips pursed. “Funny. I never got your name.”

  “Lieutenant James Shelton Doyle,” the Lieutenant replied with annoyance.

  “Man of the Vale, eh?” Tana asked.

  “Yes I am.”

  “With no sense to pack for a trip this far north?”

  Lieutenant Doyle scoffed. “Have you no sense of propriety?”

  Tana shrugged. “Only for those who earn it.”

  Leer couldn’t help but smile at Lieutenant Doyle’s expression. “Madame, I can arrange to have you arrested.”

  She scrutinized both of them. “Doesn’t look like you’re in much of a position to arrange anything at the moment.”

  “And,” Garren said, loudly interrupting his s
ister with a hinting glare, “this here is Leer Boxwell.”

  Tana paused, but recovered with a quick smile. “It’s a mighty fine sword you’ve got, Leer Boxwell,” Tana acknowledged, eying Leer’s weapon. “Double weighted steel, the hilt inset with polished caratrim of milkwood, yes?”

  Leer’s brow furrowed. “Aye, it is. You’re well versed with weapons, ma’am.”

  Tana laughed; it mimicked her brother’s laugh Leer heard earlier. “Tana, please. And I should be. I’m the local blacksmith in these parts.”

  Leer spluttered. “My apologies, I—”

  “Ah, save it,” Tana interrupted, giving him a wink. “My guess is you’re used to your women in silk and slippers, yes?” She shrugged, not giving him a moment to respond. “We here up north divide labor a bit differently.”

  “Doesn’t mean she won’t fix a rather delicious skimmer roast, though,” Garren smirked.

  Tana put her hands on her hips. She looked first to Lieutenant Doyle, then to Leer. “Maybe for him,” she said as she looked at Leer, “but certainly not for you. Not until ya wash.”

  Leer shook his head. “We certainly couldn’t impose.”

  “What, and leave ya in the cold?” Tana asked, shaking her head. “I doubt your Vale bones could take such a thing.”

  “Skimmer roast would be lovely,” the Lieutenant said, flashing Tana a brief smile.

  “I agreed to seeing them to town,” Garren corrected, his expression sobering. “Not to bringing them to the house with my nephews.”

  “They’re harmless travelers,” Tana interrupted. “Ya needn’t puff your chest out like a surly grupe, Garren.”

  Garren scoffed in response. “You don’t even know what they’re after. This one,” he gestured to Leer, “fancies himself a trip to The Fell. He’s as drunk as your loon of a father in law.”

  “Aldred Lance has earned his right to believe in fae and merfolk if he’d like to,” Tana said, eying her brother. “Ya know right well of that.”

  “Being old doesn’t justify fantasy, Tana.”

  “Being there to see it, does,” she snapped. She turned, flashing Leer a quick smile that faded as she glanced at the Lieutenant. “Well, come on, then. You’ll need some food to keep your bones warm, wherever you two might go.”

  Leer’s lips parted. “You…your surname is Lance, aye?” he asked her.

  “Indeed it ‘tis. But my husband is gone now. Caught a dirty roach arrow too deep.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Leer cleared his throat. “Would ‘Lance’ be a relation to Finnigan Lance?”

  Tana’s face changed. “Where do ya know that name from, Boy?”

  Leer’s pulse quickened, his palms growing clammy. “Finnigan was my mentor. He…he was a father to me.”

  Tana glanced at Garren, then back to Leer, giving him a small nod as she tucked a wayward strand of black hair behind her ear. “Come,” she commanded, drawing a deep breath. “I can imagine Aldred will have much to discuss with you.”

  -15—

  Garren slid the bolt of the cottage door in place as Leer and the Lieutenant watched Beval and Edgar strip their coats and move toward the fire, slinging them over the backs of nearby chairs before disappearing into the back of the cottage.

  “Well, well,” a man’s gravelly voice came from the opposite corner of the main room.

  Leer saw a weathered man, who he assumed was Aldred Lance, seated in an equally weathered chair. His wiry silver hair was drawn to the side, much the same as Garren’s. Aldred’s eyes could have been Finnigan’s with their resemblance, small green pebbles surrounded by wrinkles. Only, they held a film of white over them, clouding the grassy hue.

  “Decided to finally come back, have ya?” Aldred sneered, standing with the aid of a notched walking stick.

  “Senseless grupe. You make it sound like I’ve been eating tarts in a spring meadow,” Garren said, hanging his coat on a nearby hook with more force than necessary.

  Aldred huffed. “Might as well have been, with how long you were gone.”

  “Father, please,” Tana soothed, unlacing her fur vest with a small sigh.

  “He left you and his nephews for over a fortnight!”

  “And I’m right capable of taking care of myself.” Tana eyed him. “Garren was kind enough to take us in. Ya needn’t test his generosity with your tongue.”

  Aldred grumbled, shuffling toward the table Leer stood on the other side of. He paused, sniffing the air. “Who be that with you, Boy?” he asked; Leer was amazed at how Aldred looked right at him despite his obvious blindness.

  “Travelers in need of food,” Garren replied.

  “And you brought them to your sister and nephews without knowing them?”

  “I was hoping one of them would run you through with his sword.”

  Tana glared at Garren, then turned to Aldred. “They’re my guests as well, Father. There is no need for rudeness. Now, if ya men can attempt to be more civil than jeet-stung tragurns, I’ll get to making the roast.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a wash bucket, yeah?” Lieutenant Doyle asked.

  Tana nodded. “Garren’ll take ya.”

  As she disappeared into the adjacent section of the cottage, Garren sighed and left, the Lieutenant following behind him with an equally displeased look. When Leer heard Tana fussing with a pot, his stomach growled. The idea of a skimmer roast made him realize just how hungry he was.

  Aldred took another step, keeping his clouded eyes on Leer. “Name?”

  “Leer Boxwell,” Leer responded, with trembling hands. “Sir, are you—”

  “Boxwell…” Aldred’s lips curved a bit. “Ah, yes. The towhead tafl boy. Well, no longer a boy from the sound of it.” He chuckled. “No wonder they brought you here.”

  Leer’s throat felt dry. “Are you Finnigan’s brother?”

  “Yes, yes.” Aldred rapped his walking stick against the bench in front of him. “Sit. We’ve much to discuss.”

  Sitting with hesitation, Leer kept his eyes on Aldred, who shuffled toward the bench and took a seat with surprising fluidity.

  “Well,” Aldred said, exhaling, “I suppose you’re as full of questions, as am I.”

  “I am,” Leer replied. “Finnigan never mentioned he had a brother.”

  Aldred nodded. “I see. More than likely because I was less than good to him in our younger years.”

  “How so?”

  “Ah, well…I nary believed the things he claimed. Surely he taught you of his ways, yes?”

  “Aye,” Leer nodded. “’Tis the reason for my travels now.”

  “As I thought,” Aldred muttered as he lifted a shaking hand. “Pour me some ale.”

  Leer spied a jug and a few mugs at the end of the table. He retrieved them, pouring two out, placing one in front of Aldred.

  “I’ll keep a lengthy tale short,” Aldred said after taking a sip. “Finnigan and I were nearly inseparable as boys, but later became insufferable to each other as men. Much to my embarrassment, he believed quite longer than I did. We stopped speaking after he made his claims of the beast’s existence. And later, I could never admit my fault.”

  “So you know of his passing?” Leer asked. Coldness churned in his stomach as he saw Aldred’s lips part in shock. “I—”

  “When?”

  “…Just a few weeks ago.”

  “Where?” Aldred demanded.

  Goose flesh prickled Leer’s arms under his coat. “The Vale.”

  “How?”

  “…The beast, Sir.”

  Aldred set his mug down and leaned back. “It must have sought him for some reason.”

  “Nay,” Leer murmured. “He gave it no reason for its madness.”

  The following silence killed Leer, the icy chill in his gut spreading through his veins. “I’ve not given up my path,” he assured. “I’ve vowed to see the beast to its end. For Finnigan.”

  Aldred’s hand curled into a white knuckled fist. His vacant eyes told Leer more
than a sighted man’s could. “Alas, I’m too late,” he whispered.

  “Surely your bond wasn’t broken.”

  “The damage is done.”

  “But—”

  Aldred pounded his fist on the table with a growl. Leer fell silent. “Your eyes…” Aldred shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You see much through tunnels, through narrow paths, but you ignore the abundant fields that surround you. And when you finally do see them, you’ll be as helpless as I am.”

  Before Leer could respond, Beval and Edgar reappeared from the rear of the cottage, taking seats at the table as Tana brought out a slab of hewen with a dark loaf of bread on it. Beval and Edgar didn’t hesitate, unwilling to wait for the others to begin eating.

  “Eat, Leer,” Tana encouraged with a small smile. “You must be famished.”

  “Thank you,” Leer replied, taking a piece. He held it, distracted in thought, running his fingers over the nutty texture of it.

  The cottage door flew open, two nearly identical sinewy boys stampeded in, slamming the door behind them.

  “Maw,” one yelled, his small bronze hand gripping a feanet upside down by its feet. “Loo’ at wha’ I caught.”

  “I caugh’ it,” the other insisted, shaking out a mass of black curls after taking off his cap.

  The first boy used his free hand to swipe under his nose. “No, ya didn’t.”

  “Did too!”

  “Ya couldn’t catch a bebbet with broken legs.”

  “And you couldn’t sling a stone withou’ a bough to steady yer arm.”

  “Boys!” Tana hollered; both children stopped, rolling their plump bottom lips between their teeth. “If I hear nary another word against each other, I’ll give your uncle permission to whoop you both.” The boys stopped, and one boldly stared at Leer. “You hear?” Tana asked, her eyes narrowing. They nodded, giving the feanet to her. “Now, you did good finding the bird. Take yourselves to the basin to clean up.”

  They scurried off, Tana watching them as they disappeared in the same direction as Garren and Lieutenant Doyle had. “The one still with the cap is Malin. His twin is Ricker. They’ve been feisty ever since they came from my womb ten years ago.” She smirked, looking down at Leer as she set out more mugs and another jug of ale. “Ya haven’t touched your bread. If you’re not fast in this house, you’ll lose your meal.”