Lessek's Key

THE GORGE

Hannah was worried about her mother, and worried about Steven and Mark. She wished there was some way to get a message to them, to let them to know she was doing well – still lost, but no longer alone in this curious land. She was certain the two roommates were in Eldarn too, somewhere, and she was still hoping she might encounter them by pure chance – things like that happened all the time; people met longtime friends and lost relatives on beaches and at used car lots, on station platforms and in supermarkets. Well, maybe not all the time, because for all the lost friends one met in the queue at a department store, there were ten thousand who never showed up…

Still Hannah looked closely at every stranger they met on the road, and gazed about as they passed through villages. She sighed to herself, imagining the scenario: Steven and Mark would shout to her through the window of a pub and she would join them for a few drinks. She knew they would pick up where they had left off, as if nothing as improbable as this had ever happened.

She still hadn’t discovered any way of getting a message across the Fold to her mother, either. She didn’t want much, just a momentary tear in the fabric of the cosmos. She had never done well in physics; that was Steven’s forte, and she guessed that even her world’s greatest physicists would be confounded by her current situation, so she hoped for a chance discovery that might allow her to shout, as if from across an airport parking lot, that she was scared but fine, and working on a way to get home.

Hannah and her new friends were still picking their way through the Great Pragan Range, moving slowly north towards the Malakasian border. The forest of ghosts was ample deterrent for most travellers and none of her friends had been this way before; Hannah had realised that no one knew exactly where the border was. Blocking the sun with one hand and peering into the fading daylight, she tried to determine if there was a navigable pass between two hills off to their left. The hills would be considered mountains by most standards, but in comparison with the rest of the sawtoothed Pragan range, these were little more than speed bumps.

This guess-and-check orienteering without a map was really slowing their progress. Twice now they had been forced to backtrack to find a workable pass. Most of the time, though, they had been what Hannah called ‘holy fucking lucky’ – Churn found the notion hilarious, but Hoyt and Alen understood the grave implication of the foreign woman’s joke: winter was upon them and finding a low-elevation passage was critical. Not even a fool would climb the Great Pragans until the high altitude snow melted the following spring. And here they were, moving steadily north

Still squinting into the west, she asked, ‘What do you think?’

‘A pass there? It’s hard to guess,’ Hoyt said. ‘This sloping meadow cuts off too much of our view to be sure.’

Hannah sighed. ‘You’re right, I know, but just look at the rest of them. See anything more promising? If we can’t get through there, I foresee a long snowy winter right here in the centre of this frozen field.’

Hoyt shivered. ‘Let’s go.’

The periodic snow on the ground had made it easy for them to follow the route taken by the wagonloads of Seron tree cutters – the noise the carts made gave plenty of notice and they hid in the underbrush until the Malakasians had disappeared – but the previous night the group had taken a wrong turn and a thorough search of the meadow yielded no evidence that the Malakasian transports had come this way.

‘But there couldn’t have been any other way to get those wagons through here,’ Hannah said. ‘I’m sure we’ll pick up their trail between those two hills. It’s the only low-elevation pass along this ridge.’ She gestured west to east, as if Alen couldn’t see for himself that the way was blocked. ‘And I don’t know how the hell anyone in Malakasia thinks they’ll continue to make this journey, either going or coming back, for much longer.’

‘Prince Malagon will have his Seron pick up the wagons and carry them over these passes, and he won’t think twice about it if every last one of them freezes to death – he wants the bark, and it looks like he wants all of it, as much as they can harvest. Lives lost in the process will mean nothing to him.’

Hannah nodded, her lips pressed together against the cold. ‘Cheery thought, Alen. Thanks. Are you ready?’

‘Lead on.’

They moved across the open meadow and into a crowded stand of pine trees, the wind that had been brushing at their hair and tickling the backs of their necks becoming tangled in the branches. Hannah’s heart sank when they emerged and started climbing the slope, for the pines had given away to leafless deciduous tress that offered little shelter from the wind. Without speaking, they hastened on, hoping for better shelter over the rise.

When they reached the rounded hilltop they realised why Prince Malagon’s wagons had taken a different path: below, a river rushed its winding course towards the Ravenian Sea. The pass they had seen from the meadow looked to be a viable alternative to freezing to death, but reaching the base of those hills from their current position would be challenging. The little river cut a canyon two hundred paces beneath their feet, running in a southwesterly direction. At the base of the hill, it curved back on itself, carving a deep gorge into the hillside, and disappeared into the trees. They could clearly see the pass, and given an early start the following morning, they could be well on their way down the opposite side by the midday aven.

Now they had to decide whether to cross the river, at the risk of soaking everything they wore or carried, or backtrack to pick up the Malakasian trail. Crossing the river ran a real danger of hypothermia, and building a large enough fire to dry themselves was another risky proposal – with Seron moving so freely through the country, they would likely be dead by morning. But Hannah didn’t like the idea of going back either; losing another day of travel meant one day closer to real winter setting in.

There was a third option: they could move northwest beneath the hollow edge of the gorge’s lip, hanging on to anything they could to ensure no one slipped down the incline and into the eddy swirling below. It would be difficult for their horses, and Hannah feared that if they lost even one, the remaining animals wouldn’t be strong enough to get them through the mountains and over the border.

With daylight fading, the scene before her took on a grey aspect, presaging a long fall and an icy swim through the turbulent water.

‘We can’t do this,’ she said finally.

‘Actually, I think we can,’ Hoyt said, who had been silently staring across the gorge. ‘Look up there at that slope: it’s gradual all the way around. We shouldn’t organise any dances up there, but if we hold fast to that lip, it’s a good two or three paces wide, and it’s actually fairly level’

‘What about over there?’ Alen pointed to a place along the curved hollow of the gorge where a lone pine with broad branches effectively blocked their way.

‘We’ll have to go above it,’ Hoyt smiled, the reckless smile of a young man who still believed himself invincible.

‘You’re going to get us all killed,’ Hannah said.

‘No,’ Hoyt answered, ‘and look, if it gets too bad, less than halfway around, we can climb up the slope and over the lip.’

‘To find what on the other side, exactly?’ Hannah asked, ‘a good Pragan restaurant? Hoyt, what if we get out there and decide we have to climb over and the other side is worse than this?’

Hoyt smiled again. ‘Hannah, what could be worse than this? I know you don’t want to go all the way back trying to find a wagon track in the dark.’

That much was true, but falling over exposed rocks to land in a freezing mountain river as the sun punched its time card was not the most appetising suggestion either. She turned to look at Alen, her eyes pleading for help.

The old man threw up his hands. ‘It would save time.’

‘Churn?’ For the first time since the argument had begun, Hannah looked at the big mute. He looked as though he might pass out right there and Hannah felt a moment’s guilt: they hadn’t even considered Churn’s fear of heights.

He was still uncomfortable sitting in the saddle all day; right now he was pretty certain he’d be safer walking back and single-handedly grappling with an entire wagonload of Seron, rather than walk around beneath the lip of this gorge. He tried to swallow, and failed; his throat was too dry.

He looked at Hannah and tried to grin. He had survived the forest of ghosts; he had survived being beaten and hanged from the highest branches of his family’s cottonwood tree. He hated high places, but he had survived… and this gorge had a slope and a thin path so there wasn’t a straight fall. There would be places to grab on to, should he slip, and he’d have to slide far through the mud, and then over the rocks, before getting to the edge and falling into the river. This would be a grim few moments – but it wouldn’t be as bad as the forest of ghosts. Nothing could be that bad.

Churn straightened his shoulders and grinned again, a proper smile this time. He took out a length of rope from his saddlebag, tied one end about his waist and handed the other to Hannah, motioning for her to do the same.

‘Yeah, Churn, great idea,’ Hannah said, ‘unless, of course, you fall – then I’m going down like the stern colours on the Andrea Doria.’

Churn grunted. He didn’t understand.

‘Just don’t fall, all right?’ she said, and checked the rope was tied tightly. ‘Okay, guys, Churn has spoken – let’s get going. It’s already getting dark.’ Alen and Hoyt led their horses out onto the narrow sloping ledge encircling the half-moon gorge while Hannah, distracted thinking of the number of ways disaster could find them in the next twenty minutes, didn’t notice Churn facing her, one hand on his hip and one behind his back. She suddenly realised the others were nearly out of sight while she and Churn had yet to leave and, a little irritated, asked, ‘What is it, Churn? We need to move.’

Churn motioned towards his hidden fist.

‘What? Oh, not now – you want to play now? To see who goes first? Are we really going to do this, Churn?’

He didn’t budge.

‘All right, all right,’ Hannah acquiesced. ‘On my count… one, two, three!’ Simultaneously, they both extended their hands, Hannah’s in a fist and Churn’s with two fingers extended. ‘Rock breaks scissors. I won!’ she crowed, exultant, ‘hey, I won, I really won! So what’s the total score at this point – 673 to one?’ She thought on it a moment longer, then asked, ‘But does that mean I have to go first or that I get to choose?’

Churn gestured slowly enough for her to understand. ‘You choose.’

‘Then you go first, my friend, and I will follow along and watch your footing.’

‘Very good,’ Churn signed.

She knew that one. ‘And remember, don’t fall.’

‘I won’t.’

‘And try to keep solid footing in case I fall.’

‘I will.’

‘All right, go ahead. Get going.’

‘I’m trying. You just keep-’ Churn checked his own knot a final time, then sighed and led his horse out onto the slope.

Leading her own horse by the bridle, she followed. ‘Thanks Churn,’ Hannah whispered.

Halfway through the gorge, Hannah was seriously regretting letting Hoyt talk her into coming this way and angry at Alen for not backing her. The footing was difficult, and the mud that lined the gorge wall was like hardening paste, making decent handholds rare. She and Churn stopped to watch as Hoyt and Alen led their horses past the lone pine blocking the path. Her heart was in her throat as one of the horses slipped, but it was momentarily and they were soon out of danger. As they headed for the top of the gorge, the two men looked like children racing to be crowned King of the Mountain. Finally Hoyt stood on firm ground and waved back at them. ‘It’s easier going up here,’ he shouted down. ‘Still narrow, but better than along the slope. Come around as far as the tree and then climb out.’

Churn, moving ahead of her, hummed an off-key melody in time to his careful footsteps. He kept a tight grip on his horse’s reins with one hand and used the other to hang on to whatever purchase he could find on the gorge wall. He concentrated on keeping his weight into the wall and pressed his feet firmly into the dirt, ready in an instant to support his weight, and Hannah’s, if necessary – he was quite strong enough to lift her entire body with one arm, should she slide down the slope, but he didn’t want to risk a weak foothold and end up following her into the river.

As he got closer to the tree in the path he began to feel better. He was still afraid of heights – the memory of the cottonwood tree and the carnage below was still too vivid – but helping Hannah had stopped him being paralysed by terror; concentrating on her had distracted him enough to make it through.

He didn’t even notice the ice that crusted the mud as his foot slid – Hannah had a moment to wonder if he might regain his footing – then he and his horse spilled over the edge, an inarticulate scream echoing back.

In her own mind, Hannah was screaming for Churn to find a foothold while she struggled to unfasten the knot holding the two of them together, but there wasn’t enough time. She watched as the burly Pragan tumbled down the slope and the line stretched taut, caught for a moment on a jagged outcrop, then came free and dragged her down behind him.

Hannah felt her hand close around a root, and for an instant she thought they were saved – but no sooner did she feel a wave of relief wash over her than she was torn bodily away from the gorge wall, a broken end of muddy root in one hand, to continue freefalling through the air towards the river. Just below her, Churn hit the water like a boulder, followed closely by his horse, which crashed through the surface with a resounding splash and was swallowed whole by the grey water.

Disoriented by the frigid cold, Churn flailed wildly in the current, then came to his senses: he needed to swim for the opposite shore and kindle a fire as quickly as possible if he were to survive this bone-numbing chill.

When his horse struck the water, it landed on the rope – which in turn yanked Hannah from her trajectory towards the centre of the river and sent her crashing into the muddy slope, where she slid gracelessly to a flat rock protruding into the eddy. Hannah slipped in and out of consciousness, fleetingly aware of the sound of the river hurrying by.

Then Churn, ghostly-white and shivering, was with her, holding fast to her rock while his legs trailed in the current. In the distance, a horse whinnied loudly, and Churn managed a wry grin as the animal climbed from the shallows on the opposite bank and turned to shake its head at them impatiently.

Churn tried to lift his head when Hannah groaned. Blood matted her hair and painted her face red; the heavy homespun tunic was soaked in mud and blood.

‘Shit, Churn, I’m hurt,’ she whispered, trying to roll onto her side. A sharp pain flared in her shoulder and her left arm tingled with pins and needles, then went numb. She tried to move her arm, but it lay useless at her side. ‘I broke my arm, Churn,’ Hannah said plaintively, reaching for him, ‘and my head is bleeding.’ Her vision blurred. ‘I hit it hard, Churn. I think I’m going to pass out. We need to get away from here before I do…’ She inched her way across the rock, trying to ignore the pain as she dragged herself on one hip. She focused on Churn, whose head rested on his folded arms while the bulk of his body was still submerged in the water.

‘Come on, Churn,’ she encouraged, her voice breaking, ‘let’s get you up here too.’ She grasped one of his hands as firmly as she could with her own good hand, gritting her teeth to ignore the jags of pain that radiated from her shoulder to her fingers. Even healthy, she didn’t have the strength to heave Churn onto the rock, but she hoped the power of her touch would motivate him.

‘Come on, buddy,’ she said, her vision tunnelling now. She knew she wouldn’t be conscious for much longer. ‘A little help, my friend,’ Hannah groaned.

He finally lifted his head, and as she succumbed to the encroaching darkness, she thought, he will be all right. Churn took a deep breath and pulled himself painfully out of the water. The cold bit hard; his arms and legs had begun to tingle numbly and he struggled to remain lucid as he looked Hannah over more closely. As well as the head wound, which was still bleeding, one collarbone was almost protruding through her skin and the arm looked pretty nasty as well. Hoyt would have to set and bind that one. Her knees and elbows were bleeding, but none of her other limbs appeared to have snapped. He ran his fingers over her ribs, but his own hands were so cramped with cold, he was unable to feel if any of them had broken.

Rutting mess, Churn thought, this will slow us down. We should have gone back and circled around. He made a solemn promise to himself: if he were able to carry Hannah back up the slope, he would never again return to another high place – not a ledge, nor a building, and certainly not another icy mud slope above a swirling, freezing mountain river – no matter who might be chasing him.

Churn shook his head to keep his thoughts clear: he had to move Hannah, before she lapsed into a coma. He searched the hillside, waiting for Hoyt and Alen to pass down a rope: he could climb the embankment with Hannah over one shoulder, if they pulled from the top. His main concern was to give the injured woman as gentle a ride as possible.

First things first: he needed to immobilise Hannah’s shoulder. Keeping it from moving would be critical if they were to make a safe ascent, and Churn thought it best that she remain unconscious until he had her safely out of the gorge. Jouncing the broken collarbone might wake the girl (she had looked like a sea nymph that day in Southport) and then she might jerk away and cause them both to tumble back down. Ignoring the fact that he was freezing himself, Churn started to unhook his cloak; he needed it for bandages – but as he did so, something glinted in the sun.

He crawled painfully over to the shining object – a cloak pin, holding closed a thick woollen wrap being worn by what was undoubtedly a dead man. It looked as if he had fallen, like they had, but he hadn’t been as lucky: a pace or two further and the mud would have cushioned his fall, as it had Hannah’s.

Churn peered closely at the body; he reckoned the man, a forester, maybe, judging by his clothes, had been dead for several days, though the chill air had stopped the corpse from rotting. The body rested half on and half off the rocky ledge. It looked like the man had cracked his skull, killing him on impact. Churn warmed somewhat at the notion of another dead Malakasian, then got to work pillaging the corpse for anything he might use to make safer his and Hannah’s potentially dangerous journey up the muddy embankment. The man had a knife and a small wood axe, nothing appropriate for battle, tucked in his belt. He tore the man’s cloak into strips which he used to bind up Hannah’s injured shoulder, being especially thorough, then he attended to her head, using another makeshift bandage to tie around her forehead, stopping the flow of blood from her wound. He dipped a bit of cloth into the river and used it to clean her face.

From somewhere above, Churn heard Hoyt and Alen calling, but he couldn’t call back; he could just hope they found him soon. He returned to the corpse and reached for a leather pouch, small but bulging with what he hoped was silver. It was tied tightly at the top with a wet leather thong. Churn fumbled with the tie for a moment, the cold making his fingers cramp, and then gave up and drew his own knife to slice through the leather and open the pouch.

Almost immediately, he was gone. It wasn’t cold and he wasn’t wet. The snow was falling again, warm weather snow, tickling his face and catching in his hair. His shoulders ached, but he was happy to be free from the frigid waters. He tried and failed to free one of his hands to brush the snow from his face.

He was back in the cottonwood tree, but this time he didn’t look down. Instead, he forced himself to keep his gaze focused on the perfect azure sky, Gods of the forest, but it was a beautiful sky. Churn wouldn’t pull his gaze away from the cloudless expanse of Pragan blue perfection, despite the heavy aroma of smoke and ash. He was back, but it wasn’t real. It was a dream. The smells made him want to look down, but he wouldn’t; he would look up at that sky for the rest of his life if necessary.

Then he heard them: there were at least two, above him someplace, hiding in the Pragan sky, but they called him and he didn’t answer – he couldn’t answer. There was no shouting left in him, certainly not from the top of this rutting tree where he had shouted and cried for so long. Instead, he shook his head, a gesture he had perfected in those few moments after climbing from the river, and he would use it again now. It helped him ward off the cold. It was cold now, even there in the cottonwood tree. Perhaps it was winter snow. Churn knew, without looking down from the branches, that Hannah Sorenson was not down there on the ground outside his family farmhouse; she was somewhere else – he tried to remember where she had fallen, but the vast Pragan sky called him back and he forgot the woman for a moment, just long enough to smell the ashes burning below…

Churn dropped the leather pouch. Demonpiss! It’s more of that cursed bark, he screamed in his mind. He dipped his hands in the river and wiped them repeatedly across his leggings, hoping to wipe any vestiges away. Adrenalin surged through his body, warming him for what he needed to do. He picked up the pouch and secured it with the leather thongs, then tied it safely onto his belt. Then he stood for the first time since crawling from the river and looked up the embankment. The curve of the hillside blocked his view, but he could hear Hoyt and Alen right above him, shouting his name

Cry out to them, he thought, yell up to them now. Churn threw his head back, rounded his shoulders and drew a deep breath – but nothing emerged, not a squeak. He couldn’t make himself shout, and as he couldn’t see them, he guessed that they couldn’t see him or Hannah either – and still he couldn’t make himself shout up to his companions. Why would you not call out to them? What is the matter with you? he asked himself, shuffling from foot to foot. Do it now – they need to know where you are! Call up to them, you great stupid rutter!

A length of rope, tied in clumsy knots to three sets of leather reins, landed in the river some distance off to his right and swirled there for a moment before it began moving downriver towards him: Hoyt and Alen had thrown down a lifeline and were dragging it the length of the gorge, hoping he or Hannah would grab hold and offer them a reassuring tug.

Hoyt.

Gods keep Hoyt for a thousand Twinmoons. His old friend had come up with this strategy; Churn swore he would crush the little thief in a bear-hug if he made it back to the top. He watched as the rope came ever closer, then bent to lift Hannah gently over his shoulder. As soon as he moved her, she awakened briefly, screamed what he guessed was a string of obscenities in her own language, and then passed out again. When the line reached the flat stone, he grabbed it, wrapped it several times around his free wrist, tugged twice to let Hoyt and Alen know he was ready and then worked his way up the slope, digging in with the toes of his boots and allowing the two men to haul him and Hannah back to the upper edge of the gorge.

Churn was careful not to look down until well after they had reached the safety of the forested hilltop.