Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Hannah was striking, standing in her underclothes, those little pants she refused to discard for the bigger, more comfortable Eldarni underclothes. Her firm, rounded breasts were rosy, even in the dim light. The hard buttons of her nipples were like twin copper Mareks. The skin of her back, disappearing beneath that thin band of clinging material, was smooth, perfect. Her stomach was flat, too flat, for she was so thin now after long days walking, riding and eating whatever they could forage along the trail…

Hoyt had seen her strip to those little shorts countless times before, but it hadn’t meant anything – they’d lived, travelled and worked together for two Twinmoons, and trapped in one another’s company, it was unavoidable.

This morning, it was different. Hoyt wanted her. This morning he needed her.

He felt his stomach knot itself up and he came out in a cold sweat. He feared he might be sick right there in the bed as the candlelight shone on the firmly delineated muscles of Hannah’s legs that shifted when she bent to wash her feet. Gods take me, Hoyt thought, just take me now. He coughed, and stifled it, and closed his eyes. Then, sliding one hand below the waist of his own underclothes, Hoyt let grief take him, and as he gave in to his need, he wept as he stroked himself, slowly at first, and then quicker. He watched Hannah wash herself, an intimate act he would have turned away from a Moon ago. She thinks you’re asleep, you rutting horsecock, he thought. Turn your back; this isn’t your private show.

But he didn’t; he couldn’t. Like a voyeur, he was unable to tear his gaze away from the supple perfection of her candlelit body.

Now Hannah heard something and whirled around, grabbing up her tunic and clutching it close about her body. She strained to see him through the gloom. ‘Hoyt? Are you all right?’ she asked, trying to decipher the strange noises.

He didn’t answer as he sobbed in despair, embarrassment and lust. He couldn’t stop watching her and wishing that she might somehow forgive him; he couldn’t stop weeping for Churn, for leaving his friend there at the mercy of those diseased creatures, and he couldn’t stop himself as he brought himself to fever pitch, pulling faster and faster beneath the blankets.

Hannah crossed to the bed, becoming indistinct as her body blocked out the grey streaks of dawn slipping between the drapes. He couldn’t make out the look on her face. It had been surprise when she caught him watching; was it anger now? Probably.

‘Hey.’ Her voice was soft, an unnecessary whisper. She reached for his shoulder, felt it moving, saw him crying in the darkness. ‘Oh, Hoyt, I’m so sorry.’

‘Please,’ Hoyt said, burying his face in the pillow.

Hannah dropped her tunic and stepped out of her underwear. ‘Hoyt,’ she whispered, drawing back his blankets.

‘No,’ he wept, ‘please, don’t.’

‘Yes,’ Hannah said quietly, ‘it’s all right.’

He pushed his fingertips through her hair and down the ridges of her back. She tugged down his underclothes as his hands stroked her back. He felt the smooth, muscular curve of her backside and gripped her, guiding her onto him. He held his breath…

Hannah took him in one hand, firm but gentle, and drew him into her, engulfing him in her moist, warm embrace.

Hoyt thrust his hips up in desperation as, still sobbing, he came with a shriek, a cry that was lost somewhere in the gulf between despair and joy. Hannah ground her hips down into him, over him, thrusting for him until Hoyt was through.

Later, their arms and legs entwined beneath the blankets, Hoyt finally whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘We’ve been to Hell and back, Hoyt. If we can take comfort from strangers, we ought to be able to take it from friends.’

‘I hate thinking about what those creatures might have done to him.’

Hannah felt her own tears well behind her eyes. ‘Then let’s not think about it.’

‘Can we… stay here a bit longer?’ He swallowed dryly. He was embarrassed to ask but he would have been happy to have the world come to an end at that moment.

‘Hold me now,’ Hannah whispered in his ear. ‘Go back to sleep. Later, we’ll eat too much and try to forget where we are.’

‘I don’t want to forget.’

‘Hush now. Go to sleep.’

To his surprise, Hoyt did, drifting off into peaceful slumber for the first time since Churn fell.

Hannah held him, lying awake as morning crept into their chamber and the candle burned itself out on the bedside table.

It was difficult for Steven to overcome his natural buoyancy to maintain his position in the current. He’d been trapped down here once before, and he didn’t relish the idea of another wrestling match with Nerak’s watchdog spell. To make their excavation even more difficult, Steven found that he couldn’t stop himself from continually checking over his shoulder in case one of the bone-collecting creatures might be coming upriver to tear him and Gilmour to bloody tatters. He appreciated what Gilmour had done for his underwater vision. Being able to see clearly, despite the turbid clouds of silt they were kicking up, helped him feel slightly more confident: at least if one of the cthulhoid monsters did materialise, he or Gilmour would spot it coming.

Steven circled the rock formation until he found the jagged cavelike opening he and Garec had nearly been dragged into the previous autumn. He waved at Gilmour to get his attention, then indicated this was the place.

He felt an ominous sense of foreboding as he hovered before the inky-black crevice. With a thought he increased the water temperature around them, but even that did little to mitigate the cold emptiness of the cave. There were no fish swimming past, not even the ungainly, crippled creatures that had been lurking about last time. A glance across the riverbed confirmed that there were no plants either; nothing grew within eyeshot of the crooked pile of rocks and fallen trees. The moraine was powerful, so compelling that Steven had once knelt before it, awed by its perfectly random majesty. He realised now that it was something more than just a glorious piece of sculpture. There was evil here, and the closer the two magicians swam to the obsidian breach in the rocky wall, the more Steven understood that they needed to be extremely careful or they would die.

Then Gilmour swam about twenty yards out from the cave and plunged one of his hands into the riverbed, startling Steven so badly that he nearly lost control of the spells protecting them. In a moment the old sorcerer was trapped.

Steven nearly inhaled a lungful of water as he shouted, ‘Gilmour!’ What came out was a garbled mouthful of bubbles and vowels.

Gilmour was gesturing. Steven watched him tug fruitlessly against the riverbed a time or two, then he grinned, a sinister smile, as if everything was working out according to some maniacal plan.

Steven shrugged as if to say, I have no idea what you’re doing.

Gilmour pointed to himself, made a twirling motion in front of his face and then pointed at Steven, who looked blank. He repeated the gesture: pointed to himself, twirled two fingers near his mouth and then pointed to Steven.

You’re telling me. You’re telling me what? You’re telling… you’re teaching me! You’re teaching me? What are you teaching me? How can this be teaching me anything other than how to commit suicide? Christ, what timing…

Reading his mind, Gilmour gestured again: motioning downwards with his free palm – calm down – and pointing to his head – and think.

Okay. Okay. All right. I must know what to do. He wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t know how to get him out of here. I must know… I must have done this already. Okay, I get it; I’ve done this before. When? Where?