Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘… Denne’s rutting bastards get the easy path -’

‘Denne’s dead.’

‘Tavon’s gone mad.’

‘Shut your mouth about her; I’m warning you.’

‘…no one out here -’

‘Forced marches -’

‘… all too sick, anyway -’

The voices faded and the sounds of crunching snow and snapping branches were soon lost as well. Garec lifted his head and watched the last of the line pick their uncomfortable way through the drifts and tangled brush. He glanced at Steven and whispered, ‘That should do it.’

Steven gestured with one hand and Garec felt the old blanket dissipate, leaving the winter chill to move back in almost immediately, reminding them all that despite the sun’s momentary appearance, the day was damp and cold.

‘That was too close for me,’ Kellin said, wishing they had been another thousand paces west. ‘What if one of the horses had whinnied?’

‘They wouldn’t have.’ Gilmour sounded certain. ‘Steven’s refined that spell.’

‘I guess he did,’ Garec said. ‘I almost fell asleep.’

‘I did a bit,’ Steven admitted. ‘I was worried about the horses too, so I intensified it some. If you almost dozed off, that means it was working.’

‘You didn’t make the sun come out, did you?’ Kellin took a wary step backwards.

‘No,’ Steven laughed, ‘that was just good timing.’

‘Where to now?’ Brand was already back in the saddle; his horse was pawing nervously at the snow, ready, like its master, to get moving again.

‘The first farm we come across,’ Gilmour said. ‘Something else: I’m worried that we came upon these fellows with no warning from Gabriel O’Reilly.’

‘Probably not good news,’ Steven agreed.

‘We’ll post a sentry near the river,’ Gilmour went on, ‘and wait for Mark to bring the battalion back into Wellham Ridge. When he does, Steven and I will return for the spell table. We’ll have five days to retrieve it so we can join Mrs Sorenson right on schedule.’

‘And if Mark doesn’t come back by then?’ Brand asked.

‘Then we’ll take the far portal to the table,’ Steven said. ‘At the right time, we’ll open the port there and push the table through to Colorado.’ He scratched at his whiskers and added, ‘or wherever she is these days.’

‘That’s assuming Mark leaves the artefact in the forest,’ Kellin reminded them.

‘Let’s try not to think about that possibility.’ Garec mounted up.

‘Good idea,’ Steven agreed and started north along the ridge.

‘Captain Hershaw! Captain Hershaw!’ the soldiers milling around the broken pieces of the Larion spell table called.

Hershaw, freezing cold and nearly dropping from the saddle with fatigue, rode through the trees. He winced when a sapling slapped him across the cheek. His eyes filled with tears and he cursed, a string of incendiary obscenity that he hoped would reach all the way to Welstar Palace to Prince Malagon’s own ear. ‘What is it?’ he finally managed through clenched teeth.

‘Sir!’ A flushed and trembling private with damp, matted hair snapped to attention. The others with him mimicked the gesture. ‘Sir, we found something, sir.’

Hershaw felt a nauseating wave of fear as he looked down on the shattered remains of the spell table. He sucked up several deep breaths and waited for his stomach to calm. Finally, he said, ‘Good work, boys. Have Sergeant Vanner find Lieutenant- excuse me, Captain Blackford. He’ll be out near the river. Ask him to join me here immediately.’

‘Yes sir!’ The private saluted and hurried off.

‘The rest of you-’

‘Sir!’ they answered in unison.

‘-bring Sergeant Bota to me, and get your squad prepared. I want you to make a fire, prepare some tecan and eat what stores you can find.’ Hershaw checked the trail of broken snow leading west into the foothills. ‘They’re riding, but from the looks of those tracks, they aren’t moving very quickly. Be ready to travel in a quarter-aven; Bota will accompany you.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The soldiers moved away, gathering what dry wood they could find.

Hershaw watched Major Tavon and Captain Blackford approach from the river. The major was grinning unpleasantly. Alone beside the fractured spell table, Hershaw flashed back to Denne, his colleague, his friend, and the massive injuries dealt him by their frail-looking commander.

Major Tavon drew alongside. Ignoring both men, she growled, a frustrated sigh that rattled disconcertingly at the back of her throat.

‘Steven,’ she whispered, ‘I am going to gut you, Steven!’

Neither Hershaw nor Blackford dared to breathe; both awaited imminent death.

‘Blackford!’ Major Tavon’s voice was like a demon’s, an otherworldly rumble that seeped into Captain Hershaw’s bones. He was glad the major had chosen Blackford first, but he didn’t fool himself into believing he was at all safe in the woman’s company.

‘Ma’am?’ It was all Blackford could manage to squeak out.

‘Make camp near the river, rope up those pieces and drag them over there. I will examine them after the dinner aven.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Given a reprieve, Blackford scrambled to dismount, rooted in his saddlebags and withdrew a coil of slim but strong rope.

Major Tavon turned to Hershaw. ‘Captain, you’ve ordered them followed?’

Hershaw swallowed hard. ‘Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Bota’s squad will be ready to march in a quarter-aven.’

‘Excellent. Be certain Bota knows not to engage them. I simply wish to know where they are.’

‘Understood, ma’am.’ Captain Hershaw looked forward to escaping back to the relative protection of his company, but as he wrenched his horse’s head around, he saw Blackford, hurrying to affix the looped end of his rope to one of the granite shards, slip in the snow.

Blackford reached out with his free hand to break his fall, embarrassed to have tripped so clumsily in front of his fellow officers, Major Tavon especially, but before his outstretched hand came to rest on the ground, he struck something hard and sharp that wrenched his head back and left a bloody gash on his forehead.

‘Rutting horsecocks!’ Captain Blackford shouted, pressing a hand to his forehead. ‘What in the Northern Forest was that? I broke my whoring-’

‘Silence!’ Major Tavon roared as Blackford moaned, blood pouring freely through the fingers he held pressed to the wound. ‘Captain Hershaw?’ Major Tavon’s tone was suddenly pleasant, the most pleasant it had been since Wellham Ridge. She appeared to be positively amused at Blackford’s unfortunate accident. ‘Captain Hershaw, reach over carefully and touch that section of the table.’

He didn’t understand the order, but he complied immediately, regardless.

‘It’s not there,’ Blackford moaned.

‘Shut up!’ Tavon barked again without looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Captain Hershaw as he reached for the fractured stone – but he couldn’t touch it.

Instead, his hand came to rest on something cold, flat, polished, almost, but curiously hidden from view. ‘I can’t reach it, ma’am,’ he said, desperately hoping this wouldn’t infuriate the major once again.

Tavon laughed, an inane, maniacal giggle. ‘Of course you can’t, Captain, of course you can’t!’ She waved a hand over the broken pieces and watched as they righted themselves, pulled themselves together and healed their own wounds. ‘Nice try, Steven,’ she shouted to the forest, ‘that was a nice try!’

Hershaw assisted Captain Blackford, whose face was covered with blood. He pinched the gash closed, shouting for a battalion healer: the wound would need stitches.

Beside them, Major Tavon ran her hands lovingly over the polished stone. Mumbling to herself, she withdrew what appeared to be a small rock, a little piece of granite that might have come from the same quarry as the table itself. She reached towards the centre of the table and the only place that had not healed itself, an irregular slot that was not polished as smooth as opaline glass.