Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Hershaw strained to hear what Major Tavon was saying, wishing Blackford would shut up; he caught only a snippet: ‘-see where you are, Steven-’ but it meant nothing. Who Steven was, he had not the faintest idea.

The lights came on and Mark cried out, ‘Christ, thank fucking Christ!’ He was elbow-deep in lukewarm water, still dry, but propped up on his hands in some lunatic drill sergeant’s idea of a push-up. His chest, stomach and legs rested on marshy ground and he tried to pull himself backwards far enough to extricate himself from the water before his arms gave out and he fell face-down. He could see vines, clumps of cordgrass and thick patches of brown bulrushes, shadowed black beneath the tangled canopy. He could hear the distant rustle of animals moving about, things at home in place like this.

Somewhere in front of him he could see sky the colour of aquamarine. It was noisy there, but clear, not humid and dank like here around the pond. Between him and that flawless sky the ground rose. Up the hill to his left was where the brightest of the light came from – not the sunlight, not the light from the perfect blue sky, but the other light, the light reaching him now. Someone was there, working; Mark couldn’t see who.

His hands brushed against something solid and familiar, something manmade, with right angles. This was no pond, though it was solid and filled with water – a marble pond in a swamp? He slid back on his stomach until he could feel the edge. It was stone as well, a rectangular bit of thin stone edging a trough with a shallow draft and a short beam. He pushed himself out of the water, his sleeves shedding rotting algae and decaying bulrushes, and saw the first of the creatures struggle by. They were like great tadpoles, brownish-green, but elongated, as if stuck in metamorphosis. Most of them didn’t look comfortable in the water, and many were crippled by bulbous tumours on their narrow heads and slimy necks, yet on they swam, muscular tails slogging back and forth through the muck like giant mutant sperm. One peered at him blindly through a ruined eyeball. A tumour had taken root behind it and Mark could smell the stench of death and decomposition as the tumours grew and rotted at the same time.

He slid further away from the marble trough, afraid the eyeball might burst like a bubble and splatter him with oozing tadpole slime.

A moment later, he understood why the tumour-riddled black-eyed tadpole sperm things had been swimming so ardently: they were trying to escape.

The first of the snakes slithered past, a scaled coil of diamond-patterned mercury. This was more than just a snake, even more than a prehistoric reptile: this monster was aware, a creature of cunning, capable of inflicting pain and suffering purely for pain and suffering’s sake. It paused long enough to look at Mark, its forked tongue flicking in and out, then resumed its leisurely pursuit of the tadpoles, followed by the rest of the snakes. Some swam like the first; others slithered along the marble edge of the stone trough. One, with a body as thick as Mark’s forearm, slid soundlessly over his outstretched legs, which were paralysed with fear. None of them bit him. They were going somewhere, together.

Then the lights went out again.

Steven, can you hear me?

Steven reined in and shook his head as if to clear it. He looked around for Gilmour. ‘I just thought I heard something,’ he said.

Garec grinned. ‘Hearing things? You know what that’s a sign of?’

‘What?’ Steven smirked.

‘You can’t keep playing with that thing,’ Garec laughed. ‘The urges will pass; you just need to concentrate on something else.’

Brand and Kellin chuckled, but Gilmour tensed suddenly.

‘What is it?’ Steven asked.

Steven?

‘Who is that?’ He looked behind him, unnerved.

‘It’s him,’ Gilmour said suddenly.

Not out there, Steven… in here.

Mark?

Hello! I was impressed with your bit of trickery; the table looked such a mess. You almost fooled me.

Mark, he pleaded, you’ve got to fight this thing; you’ve got to -

Shut up! said the phantom voice in his head and Steven felt an icy hand grip his throat. It squeezed with inhuman strength for a moment – and then was gone.

Steven?

He rubbed the feeling back into his neck, and cast his thoughts back inside his mind. What do you want?

Do you know where the phrase ‘Stygian darkness’ comes from?

Of course, Mark… He used his friend’s name, hoping to reach his roommate across whatever layers of evil and hatred held him captive. It comes from the absolute darkness associated with the rivers Acheron and Styx, the legendary waters flowing through Hades.

Of course you know, Mark whispered. I knew you would.

Where are you?

I’ve been there. Did you know that?

No one has been there, Mark. Please, meet me; I want to talk to you.

I’ve been there. It’s – There was a sense of anticipation in Steven’s mind, but it wasn’t his. It’s unpleasant.

Where are you, Mark? Let’s meet; I need to talk -

Touching, Mark interrupted him, but you have other plans, Steven.

I do?

Yes. You’re going to spend some time in the Stygian darkness.

Mark, please, I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to -

Goodbye, Steven.

Garec shouted out as Steven fell, landing with a crunching thud on the unbroken snow. His eyes rolled back into his head; his breathing shallowed to raspy gulps and his arms and legs jerked in twitching, catatonic spasms.

‘Pissing demons!’ Garec yelled. ‘Gilmour, get down here!’

‘He’s having some kind of attack,’ Kellin said, wringing her hands in fear.

‘It’s a seizure,’ Brand said.

‘It’s Mark,’ Gilmour spat, ‘the horsecock’s hit him somehow.’

‘Somehow?’ Garec knelt beside Steven, but he, like Kellin, had no idea what to do.

‘It’s the table,’ Gilmour whispered. ‘Nerak couldn’t have done this unaided.’

‘Rutters!’ Kellin swore. ‘So the illusion didn’t work.’

‘What can we do for him?’ Garec said. ‘He could die – he’s barely breathing!’

‘Make him comfortable,’ Gilmour ordered, trying to unlash a blanket from his saddle. ‘I’ll think of something.’ He searched his memory, sorting through files of common-phrase spells memorised over hundreds of Twinmoons: healing spells, deception spells, distraction spells – anything that might break Steven’s connection with Mark and the spell table. One knot must have got wet; it was frozen solid, and Gilmour, frustrated, drew his knife and slashed at the ropes, crying, ‘I can’t rutting think!’

That’s too bad.

Mark! Gilmour hustled his consciousness into a hastily constructed, well-lighted cordoned-off section of his mind and hoped Mark wouldn’t be able to follow.

See how they run, see how they run! Mark sang like an insane five-year-old. You can’t hide in here, Gilmour.

What have you done to him, Mark? You know he didn’t want to kill you. You know what kind of man he is…

Kill me? Mark was incredulous.

I might not show you as much compassion, however.

Oh please, old man, don’t make threats. Mark lowered his voice to a whisper and added ominously, I already know what frightens you, Gilmour.

Gilmour’s second blanket began to move, twitching in time to Steven’s spastic jerks as the book wrapped within the blanket writhed furiously. Clenching his teeth, the old sorcerer focused on the layers of wool folded over the leatherbound tome. Not wanting to touch it yet, he used his knife to slash the remaining bits of rope and nudged the book into the snow.

It lay still.

Gilmour tossed the first blanket to Garec and said, ‘Make him comfortable.’ Then he leaned over, took one end of the blanket between two fingers and tugged. The first snake bit him through his boots. It was a long, heavy-bodied creature, a mythic serpent not of this world, with fangs full of a toxin powerful enough to kill a grettan. It encircled Gilmour’s calf, biting him again and again.