The Fell (The Naetan Lance Saga Book 1)

by Lyndsey Harper

  How many have made it this far from the other side?

  Leer jumped when the gate slammed itself shut and resounded with power against the lock. The sound startled a small flock of nearby blue-footed grupes from their resting place among the branches of a wispy, naked hewen tree. The grupes ascended into the heavens with protesting shrieks, cawing as they accusingly cast their red eyes at Leer.

  “Stupid grupes,” Leer growled, fixating on one particular bird before training his eyes to the north. He wet his lips, feeling their smoothness with the tip of his tongue.

  He swallowed, realizing the significance of his healed physical pain and scarring:

  This was who he now was —a man able to heal. A man with power, a man who wielded magic.

  A man with Vei blood.

  Leer squinted as spied a path he saw cutting through the coppice directly toward the Fell. Instinctively, he crossed his right arm across his waist, pausing midway as he realized he was without his sword.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, as his arm flopped to his side. He pursed his lips in disgust, striding through the thicket, his boots crunching through the crusted snow as he wracked his mind for a plan.

  No sword, no backup weapons.

  Leer wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighing as he remembered the softness of Astrid’s skin under his lips and fingers.

  No one to trust myself with ever again.

  The earth suddenly gave way under Leer’s left foot, his right kicking out behind him as he fell into a sinkhole.

  Leer gasped in surprise, yelling in pain as his hips and limbs twisted as he sank into the hallowed ground. The snow collapsed into the hole, revealing the mouth of the pit. It grew larger by the second, sucking brush and leaves down with him into the dark belly of the earth. He groaned, his backside scraped along the snow and ice on the chute, propelling him toward the seemingly endless black bottom of the pit.

  Leer tried to brace himself, his arms outstretched to pin himself inside the tunnel, but the pathway was far too large. He only succeeded at gaining more speed, tumbling half onto his side before knocking his head into the opposite wall, bouncing backward onto his back.

  Still sliding downward, Leer’s eyes fluttered against the blast to his head, his fingers desperately clawing at his sides, his heels kicking inward to try to control his descent. Before he could stop himself, he landed onto the ground at the base of the chute with a violent thud, his already tender head banging again onto more rock.

  Leer moaned in pain, rolling slowly onto his right side in the cavern. He panted, his eyes squeezed shut as he curled up into the fetal position; he could feel the heat of the blood that ran down his forehead.

  “Dammit,” he cursed as he flattened his palms, pushing himself upward onto his knees as his body re-energized.

  Enter the gates, but don’t fall. Right. Failed that one.

  The cavern’s clearing was easily as tall as any normal cottage he had been in. The space was open and round, a pathway adjacent to him illuminated with soft, yellow light that flickered and spilled out around the edge of the tunnel and filtered over the rest of the area.

  Torchlight. Has someone been down here?

  Leer cautiously felt his forehead. He had lost his cap somewhere along the way, and was only half surprised at the lack of presence of any wounds on his skin. He withdrew his hand, glancing at his bloodied fingertips before stepping toward the pathway ahead of him.

  He momentarily paused, his breath hitching in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, attention torn between the oddly diagonal chute he’d fallen down, and the wavering glow of the torchlight.

  With a deep breath, Leer crossed the space and snagged the knotted wooden torch from its holder on the stone wall, the flame swaying as he dragged it down to eye level. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the sight. The earthy pathway wove through on a sharp eastern curve, narrow with imposing stalactites punctuating the route. Moistening his lips, he set his jaw.

  Only one way to find out.

  Water sloshed up on his boots from the many puddles he trekked through in the tunnel. He was mindful of the dripping limestone overhead, sharp points protruding from the underground pathway he was now deep inside of like the knives he had once inserted into a habbersnitch trap for fun as a boy.

  Leer froze as his right eye was nearly impaled by a peak he somehow failed to see; sudden empathy filled him for the little rodents he had tortured so many years ago as a child. He carefully sidestepped to the left with a white-knuckled grip on the torch. The tip of his boot knocked into an object below him, rattling as it clattered against the opposite wall.

  He swallowed with dread, pausing mid step.

  Slowly moving the torchlight, he cast the glow to the ground, examining the graveled dirt below. It didn’t take long before he spotted what he suspected was the source of the noise:

  A partially shattered human skeleton complete with skull was slumped against the moist interior, the bones unnaturally splayed from his disruption. Leer felt his jaw go slack, the back of his throat drying up as he moved the light forward.

  His stomach felt sick as he recalled Looney Luke’s tale in Junivar a few nights ago, the details resurfacing into his subconscious.

  “Ishma and Tyne,” Leer breathed, his eyes fixed on the skeleton highlighted by flickering flame light.

  Princess Maegan’s high-pitched scream rattled Leer from his thoughts. His eyes shot toward the stretch of darkness that waited ahead of him. Her voice was faint, but near.

  She was overhead.

  With renewed determination, Leer darted through the tunnel, the torchlight wavering wildly. He couldn’t let the Grimbarror kill her. She was an innocent woman—she didn’t deserve a fate like this, a fate he felt he had somehow sealed for her.

  Her second scream made Leer’s stomach growl with primal appetite.

  So long as I am not her undoing.

  His heart thudded erratically in his chest as he sprinted, the orange-yellow flame spreading shadows that danced along the rock as his feet pounded into the dirt below. The musty stench of the atmosphere caught in his throat as he breathed, sucking in hurried gulps of air as the hot fire teased at his hairline for a taste of his locks.

  Leer skidded to a stop when he saw the outline of a second skeleton ahead. The victim, gruesomely appropriate for how Leer imagined it must have perished, was sprawled on the ground on its back, right arm outstretched toward the wall next to it.

  Not an ounce of flesh was left on the bones, or a shred of material in sight.

  Burned at high heat, Leer grimly concluded.

  Fighting his instinct to move on, Leer’s eyes followed the path the victim’s arm made toward the cave wall. He blinked, sniffing the air.

  He smelled something that didn’t belong there.

  A light, woody scent pierced his nostrils. He distinguished notes of creamy spice assaulting his senses as he took a step closer to the skeleton’s hand.

  The same scent that lingered in Astrid’s thick mane.

  His heart racing, Leer crouched down after switching the torch to his left hand, his right hovering with trepidation above the skeleton. He ran it up the length of the victim’s outstretched limb, his palm colliding with the wall.

  He rocked forward on his toes, his fingertips pushing into the wall for support; the peppered fragrance filled his nose, stone giving way with a gentle gliding motion under the pressure.

  Leer’s eyes widened in awe as he moved the torch closer, examining the sliver of vault he revealed. He applied more pressure, eagerly exposing the hiding place to discover it held a finely crafted bow, next to it a quiver stocked with arrows. In the dim light, the heads of the arrows glinted with an odd purple hue.

  Leer snagged the weapons, silently praying that doing so wouldn’t cause his death. As he slung it over his free shoulder, he took note of a small pouch that remained. He glanced back at the skeleton for a moment—its hand outstretched, desperation evident in its grot
esque form—then snatched it, securing it to his belt and replacing the vault wall. Princess Maegan’s whimpered voice above him coupled with the Grimbarror’s indecipherable speech churned his stomach in dread and excitement. He didn’t have time to examine the contents.

  Whatever it was, at one time, possessing it was worth the risk. Maybe it would be worth it again.

  Leer soon came to the end of what he assumed was the escape route of the Keeper’s Hold. Using a last puddle, he doused the torchlight and tossed the stick aside.

  With a heavy breath, Leer loaded an arrow. He kept his aim taunt as he climbed the winding staircase that led toward the surface. He took the narrow stairs two at a time, pausing when he reached the top. Pressing his back against the wall, he listened, waiting for what he knew would be his opportune moment to strike.

  His enemy was just on the other side. Leer was ready to destroy the beast once and for all.

  Steady and balanced, he coached himself with a deep, practiced breath.

  This was the moment he had waited for.

  He would not fail Finnigan.

  -21-

  “Leave her be!” Leer shouted as he darted around the wall. His thick fingers held sure around his draw, his aim precise and his stance clean. He simultaneously pleaded a silent prayer to the heavens, but he couldn’t help but feel it was hypocritical with the evil that flowed so willingly through his veins.

  Leer knew he was the rogue pawn from the right side of the game board, the one who had crept up on the king. He saw that reflected in the Grimbarror’s eyes when the beast turned to face him.

  Princess Maegan stood in a far off corner of the room. Next to her was an elegant, large fireplace that was lit by a roaring fire. Leer’s nostrils flared, evaluating her condition. She was obviously frightened, given her tight grip on the fire poker she held. Beyond that, though, she looked perfectly put together, her dress clean and flowing. She appeared unharmed.

  “I said, leave her be,” Leer commanded with emphasis. He sidestepped, matching the Grimbarror’s deliberate pace, circling in the opposite direction.

  “Interesting,” the Grimbarror said with a growing smile, the thinly veiled initial shock washing away, replaced by ever-growing golden rims on the outer edge of its dark irises. “I saw things happening differently.”

  “Let her go,” Leer growled, his knuckles tightening ever so slightly against the bowstring.

  “What, exactly, do you intend to do with that toy?”

  “I intend to use it to send you back to the hell you came from.”

  The beast laughed. “Then I suppose it’s the same hell you now descend from,” the Grimbarror replied with a cool smile forming across its thin mouth. He noted that the Grimbarror didn’t have a visible weapon.

  It didn’t matter. The beast was the weapon.

  “Tell me, Private Boxwell, aren’t you the least bit curious about it all?” the Grimbarror asked, its tone dripping with arrogance. “About anything I’ve said?”

  “I don’t listen to liars,” Leer spat, lifting his bow a little higher.

  The beast’s grin widened with satisfaction. “You are. You’re barely concealing your desperate interest behind this charade of heroism you’ve adopted.”

  “Then enlighten me,” Leer challenged as he took a bold step forward, “since you deem yourself so ‘wise’ to my thoughts.”

  It chuckled. “Yes…Well, then—allow me the utter privilege of tearing apart everything you think you know.”

  The Grimbarror’s slowly arching wings blew a puff of cold air over Leer’s face. Its expression changed as it examined Leer. “All he ever wanted was power. We believed in his rule, in truth and justice, in honesty and good natured people.” Its eyes glanced at Princess Maegan. “We believed in blood.”

  Leer swallowed, his reaction barely visible; he knew the Grimbarror caught it, though.

  Steady and balanced. Steady and—

  “He suffered greatly, your mentor,” the Grimbarror noted, its expression surprisingly solemn. “He suffered for what he knew.”

  “You killed him,” Leer snarled.

  The beast smirked. “Is that what you believe?”

  “I saw you there.”

  Its laugh was cool and rich. “Why do you think I’ve been fighting? Protecting what little I have left? You’re governed under a regime of lies.”

  Leer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the only liar I see here.”

  He saw the shift in the beast’s demeanor, how its face changed as it continued. “He wanted power. He was willing to do whatever it took to keep it. And even if in the end he denied the piper its price, he still made the deal.” The beast’s nostrils flared. “Now, his power—all of their power—is mine.” It smiled. “Ours. Yours. It’s ours to exact the revenge we deserve. To pay the penance for what you’ve lost.”

  “I’m nothing like you,” Leer objected darkly. “You’ve killed in cold blood.”

  It laughed. “And you haven’t killed men?” it asked. “Tell me, Leer—what do you think makes you so different than me?”

  “I’ve killed for the good of others,” Leer defended.

  “As have I,” the Grimbarror countered.

  Leer’s pulse rose as he sidestepped, his heart racing as he saw the gap closing. It made him ill that his appetite peaked as he caught Princess Maegan’s sweet scent.

  “I know why you kill,” Leer continued, ignoring the feelings as best as he could. “You kill because of the thirst that courses through your veins. You kill because you can’t resist killing.”

  It smirked at Leer. “Are you speaking from experience?” it teased.

  Leer shook his head slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh, but it does,” the Grimbarror objected. “I sense the change in you.” It smiled with unmistakable pride. “You’re a strong man, a true warrior. You’ve done what others have never dared to. I’ve chosen you, Leer. You will be the leader of my army. Together, we will take Hiline back from the liars who betrayed us.”

  “My choice is to fight for the truth,” Leer corrected. With a waver in his fingers, he loosened his grip on the bow, the color returning to his knuckles with the relieved tension. Keeping his focus on the Grimbarror’s eyes, Leer relaxed his arm, his impromptu decision of slow surrender making his stomach queasy with doubt. “It’s all I wish to fight for.”

  “What truth?” it asked, its voice turning soft. “There is no such thing as ‘truth.’”

  “There is,” Leer insisted, his bow halfway lowered. “And I won’t rest until truth and justice both reign.”

  The Grimbarror fell silent for a few uncomfortable heartbeats. It wore a rueful smile, still preoccupied. “You think you know what is true. You think you understand. You see much, but nothing at all.” Its haunting yellowed eyes met his; they sliced through Leer’s facade of resolve. It was nearly like gazing at himself in a looking glass. “Soon, when you are able to listen to the hearts of men, you will then know as well as I do that ‘truth’ does not exist. Only revenge.”

  “And what have you to avenge?” Leer challenged mockingly. “What could you possibly know about loss?”

  Silence spread between them, the Grimbarror’s eyes locked on Leer’s. “Go, sister,” he murmured to Princess Maegan. “I don’t wish to harm you.”

  Leer relaxed as he digested the words. “Sister?” he breathed, staring at the beast in confusion. Off to his side, he saw the princess drop the hot iron to the stone floor, her eyes wide in horror as she considered the Grimbarror for a moment before scurrying out.

  “We do what we must to protect our blood,” the beast replied, drawing Leer’s attention back, a solemn smile tugging at its mouth. “The blood that deserves it.”

  The voices swirled in his ears, this time without any pain.

  “The truth awaits you.”

  Prince Edward.

  “It can’t be,” Leer whispered, his bow arm relaxing with the revelation. The air heated and thickened around him.
“You’re…You’re dead.”

  “And who told you that?” The beast grinned. “My father?” He narrowed his eyes. “His accomplice?”

  “Your body was taken to the crypt by cart. The king…”

  “My father is a liar!” The Grimbarror snapped its wings, the sound echoing off the stone floor. “I was expendable for his gain.” It stalked away a few paces, snarling under its breath. “How can you be so intelligent, yet still not see?” It glared at him. “They are all afraid of you, you know. They fear what you’re capable of. Why do you think you trained since you were a lad? Why do you think you were accompanied on your quest?” It stepped back toward him. “Do you believe all you’ve experienced thus far is pure coincidence?”

  “The truth awaits you,” the voice reminded Leer.

  Leer shook his head. “What could you know of what I’ve experienced?”

  The beast lifted its chin, its expression softening, warming to something close to empathy. “Because I can hear the drum of your heartbeat; I can see the secrets of your mind.” It laughed to itself. “Whether I’d care to or not. I’ve no choice in the matter.” It squared its shoulders. “But I made my choice, Leer. I took the power for myself. They might have made me into a beast, but they…they are the real monsters. Never forget that.”

  A door to Leer’s right swung open, and Leer whirled toward it. His chest constricted when he saw Lieutenant Doyle brandishing a weapon—a shoddy and crude looking knife; it looked like it was made in desperation. Hardly imposing enough to challenge such a creature.

  “You,” the beast growled, stalking toward the Lieutenant. Its eyes fixed, wings arching, it bellowed, “You’re the lowest monster of them all.”

  The Lieutenant merely smiled, retracting his arm and throwing the knife squarely toward the beast’s heart.

  “No!” Leer yelled as time slowed.

  The beast seemed unaffected at the Lieutenant’s move, sure of itself to the point of letting the purple-hued blade lodge into its flesh. Its expression soon changed, though, confidence draining from its features.

  “How?” it breathed, its clawed hand clenching around the hilt of the knife. It shuddered, its grip lessening.