Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

But though different memories had them ensnared, they all trod through the breakers, this wall of indefatigable warriors, following the same orders: deliver the milled bark; enslave the populace and await the master’s arrival. A second rank followed the first and before the front line had reached the beach, a third emerged from the depths.

Gilmour was sitting cross-legged in the sand, his eyes closed in concentration. He didn’t see the first of the warriors as they splashed up the beach.

For Mark, there was nothing like swimming, nothing that made such intense physical demands of him. While he was a New York state champion on the surface – the butterfly, the crawl, the backstroke – he lived for those days when he could dive into the inhospitable waters off the Long Island coast. He had grown up training in a pool, but he and his friends learned early that the real test came after their competitive meets, when they would gather on this very beach to discover who was truly the island’s strongest swimmer. The race, from Point Lookout across the bay to Rockaway and back, was the unsaddling of many swimmers; Mark had seen too many brazen students, some foolishly emboldened by alcohol, setting out boldly, only to find themselves giving up the fight and being hauled into the trailing rescue boat for the ultimate row of shame.

Today, as he made for the drowning girl, Mark anticipated his body’s responses, his muscle memory reminding him why he so loved these waters… But nothing happened. Instead of the sleek, economic gestures he expected, Mark found himself kicking and thrashing clumsily: Redrick Shen had obviously not been a swimmer. Christ, I just hope I don’t drown, he thought. This guy’s times in the 200 metres would be shit. I’ll be fish food inside an hour.

On the surface, he sucked in a massive breath and found the little girl, twenty yards out and in serious trouble, flailing and slapping at the water. A wave broke over her head and Mark watched her go down mid-scream. Damn it, that’s not good, he thought, she got a mouthful on that one. The current was dragging her along, so he picked a point to her left, where he guessed she would be after the next wave. She must be scared shitless – she’ll never get in the water again. Frigging parents’ fault, wherever the hell they are.

The wave passed and the girl sank. When she didn’t resurface, Mark dived after her. Hang on, kiddo. I’ll be there in five seconds.

Below, the ocean was peaceful. The child’s yellow bathing suit was easy to spot in the summer sun. She was drifting listlessly towards Jamaica Bay, no longer struggling, her arms and legs moving with the current, her hair a mass of stringy curls. Mark reached for her, snagging her wrist, and hauled her towards the surface, all the time praying that he could keep both of them afloat long enough to start her breathing again.

Less than five feet from safety, he felt something grip him about the chest, as if he had been taken from below. He thought he’d been grasped by a tentacled creature bent on crushing him beneath a rock, tenderising him for dinner. Iron bands squeezed until his ribs felt ready to snap. He tried to break free, but his hands simply slid uselessly across Redrick’s muscular chest and abdomen.

He was being pulled towards the bottom.

What in Christ’s name -? Mark, in his own body, would have fought the panic; panic meant exhaustion and death, and all good swimmers understood that there was no panic quite as terrifying as drowning. But trapped inside Redrick Shen, Mark realised he was lost. The Ronan sailor couldn’t hold his breath and he couldn’t kick free, and still the bands around his chest constricted as he sank towards the sandy bottom. When panic struck, Mark was helpless against it; he grasped at anything, the little girl included, as he fought for the surface. Finally his hands closed around something, her ankle, and he tugged, willing to climb her like a lifeline if it meant escape from the deadly ocean.

To Mark’s horror, the girl looked down at him; eyes wide and curls bedraggled. She was smiling.

Gilmour wanted to help Jennifer as she dragged Hannah up the beach. The water had numbed his feet through his boots; he couldn’t imagine how cold Hannah was. He assumed that Milla and Kantu had both drowned – he hadn’t seen Milla sink, but he had watched in horror as his old colleague, still swimming after the little girl, simply disappeared. One moment he was there and, with the next wave, Kantu was gone. Now Hannah lay on the beach sobbing, her mother’s and Steven’s coats draped over her shivering body. To Garec, Gilmour shouted, ‘See to her; I’ll watch for that South Coaster to come back. I can’t figure where he’s gone.’

Garec pulled off his own cloak and added it to the layers covering Hannah.

Gilmour, staring at the sea and hoping for Alen and Milla to reappear, saw the elderly beachcomber come up beside Steven. The two were talking, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He took a couple of tentative steps towards them, still watching the ocean as it hammered ceaselessly at the beach… then the soldiers arrived.

They came through the shallows and foam, moving with the steady rhythm of a fugue. There were too many to attack with fire or explosions, and Gilmour knew he would be alone if he sneaked inside their collective nightmare. He sat in the sand, felt the cold caress of the ocean and closed his eyes. If only he had read Lessek’s spell book earlier; if only he had made the connection between the ash dream and Lessek’s other seminal works. If only he had returned to Sandcliff Palace, retrieved the spell book and kept it from Nerak all those Twinmoons ago. If only, if only, if only…

Gilmour narrowed his thoughts to a point and felt in the wintry air for the legions of warriors closing down on him. He could smell their breath, and the stink of their injuries and infections. Here we go, he thought, and slipped inside their memories. It wasn’t as difficult as he had expected, but once inside, Gilmour knew he would not succeed in time.

Steven retreated up the beach. Mrs Winter tagged along. To his right, Garec and Jennifer were half-carrying, half-dragging Hannah away from the macabre warriors emerging from the water.

He screamed as Gilmour was swallowed up, his body trampled and torn to pieces by the few soldiers who paused long enough to pay the old magician any heed. The sea foam about their ankles bubbled crimson, staining the sand.

‘No! Jesus Christ, no!’ Steven fell to his knees. He cast a wild blast into the forward ranks, devastating the creatures nearest Gilmour’s remains. Their shattered bodies flew up and out, like organic shrapnel, into the ranks behind. The amphibious landing slowed for a second or two, then resumed as before.

‘What is magic, Steven?’ Mrs Winter prompted. ‘Remember what Fantus taught you.’

‘Do you not see them?’ Steven cried. ‘Can you not see that I’m busy?’ He blasted another spell into the soldiers closing on Garec and Hannah, which bought them a few seconds to escape.

‘This is not the answer.’ Mrs Winter was calm, as complacent as ever, an old woman who swept the step in front of her shop every morning. ‘Think about the clock. Why did Fantus have you restart that clock? And I’m sorry, but I can’t give you the answer; I simply cannot. You must decipher this yourself.’

‘What?’

‘The clock.’

The clock. It was a test. Restart time in Eldarn. Why? Why restart time? Because time and the ability to keep time are essential for any culture to evolve. Appointments need to be kept, timelines established, calendars drafted and adopted. They continued their retreat up the beach. Could Gilmour have done it? No. He didn’t have the magic. What is magic? Magic is power and knowledge. He didn’t have the knowledge to start the clock. Magic is useless without knowledge – that’s the fundamental premise of the Larion Brotherhood.