Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Jacrys didn’t hear him; he was already lost in the brilliant dreams that followed closely on the heels of querlis leaves and wine. Brexan Carderic and he were on the narrow strip of sand that passed for a beach outside Pellia during the summer Twinmoon. Across the inlet from the city, the beach could be accessed via private ferries, usually little more than floating flotsam manned by entrepreneurial vagrants. Jacrys had paddled across the river in his father’s rowboat, dodging genuine barges, Malakasian naval ships and fishing trawlers to reach the ribbon of sand. Even now, two hundred Twinmoons and an almost-mortal wound later, Jacrys still dreamed of the beach, where a hundred million tiny seashells lay upon the sand in a jumbled, glittering mosaic of beige, white and black. It was the most beautiful place that Jacrys Marseth had ever seen, and he was there now, back home with Brexan. She had won his respect, proving herself a talented spy, even if not quite a killer. He dreamed of breathing deeply again, of smelling the salt, the tide and the sea air. Breathing with the lungs of his childhood, he quietly inhaled the very essence of Brexan, touching her, feeling her body respond to his gentle caresses, and then cutting her open and watching as her lovely face twisted itself into a mask of terror.

Garec was hungry. Dinner was still half an aven away, but though his stomach growled like distant thunder, he didn’t bother complaining: he knew Steven and Gilmour would ignore him. The two sorcerers had been guiding, pushing, pulling, heaving and periodically casting all manner of creative spells to move the Larion spell table north through the forest beside the river. They were three hundred paces off the path, far enough east to hunker down and hide while any Malakasian scouts passed along the riverbank, he hoped. Truth be told, Garec would have been more comfortable if they were another two hundred paces into the forest, but progress would be slower and they would risk having the cart tumble over and having to excavate the granite artefact from yet another shallow grave.

Tuning his ears to the forest, Garec ignored the magicians’ banter and listened for riders approaching. Kellin and Brand had been gone since dawn and he was growing anxious. He was especially hoping to hear Kellin galloping back to find them.

His stomach growled again.

‘Are you keeping something from us, Garec?’ Steven guided the carthorses around a crowded patch of saplings. His own horse was tethered to the rear slats.

‘Me?’ Garec’s face reddened. He was too hungry to be teased about his attraction to Kellin and decided not to take it gracefully. ‘Why?’

‘Your stomach,’ Steven said. ‘Has some woodland creature snack disagreed with you? Or are you just hungry?’

Garec smiled, relieved. ‘I could eat a woodland creature, if that’s what you’re wondering. I swear I’ll kill the first edible thing I see.’

‘We’ll take a break soon,’ Gilmour said. ‘This has been much more difficult than I’d guessed. I for one could use a cup of tecan.’

‘Beer for me,’ Garec said.

‘Oh, sure,’ Steven joked, ‘I’ll just pop into the nearest pub.’

Garec said, ‘I’ll get a fire going.’

‘In the lee of that boulder over there, please,’ Gilmour warned, ‘and a small one at that. Mark has had plenty of time to get to Wellham Ridge and begin making his way back here.’

Garec looped his reins around a low branch. ‘How do you know he’s gone to Wellham Ridge?’

‘I think we would have seen him by now if he hadn’t. He has the key; he’ll want the table. My guess is that he’s marshalling some local ruffians, mercenaries perhaps, interested in a few pieces of silver. He’ll bring them along either to kill us, to distract us while he kills everyone – them included – or to help him excavate and transport the table if we have failed to do so already.’

‘That’s a grim list of options,’ Garec said.

‘He’s not coming alone,’ Steven said. ‘He knows us too well. He knows what we can do. Together, Gilmour and I would be too formidable. While one of us locked horns with him, the other might blast the spell table into rubble; Mark’s too smart to risk that.’ He considered the wooden cart. ‘My bet is that he’s coming with a huge force, enough to overwhelm us all, even you and me, Gilmour.’

‘Because he knows you won’t engage in wholesale slaughter,’ Garec finished.

‘Right,’ Steven said.

Gilmour dismounted and rummaged through his pack for the tecan leaves. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to face him then.’

Garec looked hopeful at that, an option he had forgotten existed. ‘I’ll get the fire going.’

‘A small one, Garec,’ Gilmour repeated, ‘just enough to heat the water, and no smoke.’

‘We don’t need a fire; I’ll heat the water,’ Steven said. ‘You two take a break.’

‘Wait,’ Garec warned.

‘If you want to warm up a bit, go-’

‘Quiet,’ he said harshly, then, ‘listen.’

‘I hear them,’ Gilmour said. ‘Steven, cloak the cart.’

‘Got it. Mom’s old blanket.’ Steven closed his eyes in concentration. Time slowed. The air thickened to a paste and the forest of green and brown melted into a waxy curtain. Draping the small company, their horses and Brand’s stolen cart, Steven said, ‘Done. We’re hidden.’

‘Excellent,’ Gilmour whispered, dropping to one knee and peering back towards the river. ‘They’ll be along in a moment.’

Garec crossed to Gilmour’s side and considered nocking an arrow. He placed his hand palm-down in a frozen footprint the old man had left in the snow. Nothing, not the slightest vibration; the riders were close now, but not making much noise, no pounding the earth in great numbers. He wouldn’t need his bow… not yet, anyway.

‘There aren’t many,’ Gilmour whispered.

‘No,’ Garec agreed, ‘a handful at the most.’

‘Let’s hope it’s Brand and Kellin.’

When the Falkan partisans came into view, Garec was both relieved and alarmed. Seeing Kellin safe, obviously uninjured, lifted a stony weight from his chest; he was glad to see her and wondered briefly if it would be inappropriate to hug her when she slipped from the saddle.

Garec’s amorous musings faded quickly, as he saw how hard Kellin and Brand were riding. The Falkan soldiers had loosed their reins and were frantically galloping, guiding the horses south. Chasing one another along the winding path would have been dangerous at half their speed; Garec looked away, afraid he might see one of the mounts slip on an icy patch or even shatter a limb on an exposed root or a snow-covered rock.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Gilmour said, and cupping his hands over his mouth, he murmured a spell and whispered, ‘Brand, Kellin,’ across three hundred paces of empty forest.

As if they had been struck, Kellin and Brand reined in and searched the woods, patting the frothing animals gently, thanking them for what had obviously been a harrowing flight.

Their voices came in garbled snatches of adrenalin-charged conversation:

‘Hear that?’

‘… over there?’

‘Don’t see -’

‘… keep going…’

‘…just the wind.’

Gilmour cupped his hands and whispered again, ‘Brand, Kellin.’

Garec barely heard his raspy whisper from less than two paces away. How they heard him from the riverbank was astonishing.

‘Here,’ Gilmour said into his cupped hands, ‘east of you, three hundred paces.’

The Falkans turned as one, peering through the late-day shadows; even from this distance, Garec could see them looking perplexed.

‘Let them see me, Steven,’ Gilmour said.