Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Six, seven, eight of the creatures, ancient, and utterly alien to Eldarn, appeared now, slithering from the pages of the leather spell book. Their taste for human blood, denied for Ages, was maddening, and insatiable. They hissed wildly as they slipped into Gilmour’s boots, up his leggings and beneath his tunic, sliding their fangs into his tender flesh wherever they could, biting, and biting again.

Gilmour’s vision blurred; he thought he heard Kellin shriek in terror, but his friends were far away, insubstantial, fading into the night. One of the snakes lost purchase on his shoulder and tumbled off the snowy ridge; it had been pierced through with an arrow. Garec, the old man thought as his consciousness folded in, only Garec could have made that shot.

Then Gilmour fell backwards into the snow.

‘Whoring rutters!’ Brexan Carderic cursed as she examined the fresh burn across her palm. ‘How anyone can survive working in a kitchen is a gods-rutting mystery to me.’ The erstwhile Malakasian soldier shoved chunks of wood into the belly of Nedra Daubert’s old stove, then kicked the cast-iron door shut with a noisy clang. ‘Demonpiss,’ she swore, ‘that’ll bring her running.’

It was still early, before dawn, and Brexan had hoped that Nedra would sleep another half an aven at least, but her crashing about the kitchen was bound to have Nedra investigating what drunken louts had invaded the Topgallant Boarding House.

After her failed attempt to kill Jacrys, Brexan had limped back to the Topgallant, cold, wet with blood, and utterly distraught over the death of Sallax Farro. She had cried herself to sleep in her old room, that same room in which she and Sallax had interrogated the traitor Carpello Jax, the same man who had raped Sallax’s sister Brynne… until Nedra had clubbed him with a piece of this very same firewood.

Brexan had slept the sleep of the truly exhausted, out cold all that night and the whole of the following day. When she finally came to, she had remained in her bed, staring hopelessly up at the smoke-stained ceiling. She had no idea what to do next. With Sallax gone, Brexan had expected vivid visions of her dead lover Versen to return – those near-tangible memories had kept her company during her time alone in Orindale, but they had vanished when she found Sallax and they began planning their revenge on Carpello and the spy Jacrys.

Lying in bed, she had waited for Versen, attractively dishevelled and smelling of woodsmoke and wild herbs, to appear in her mind’s eye

… but he never returned. Instead, Nedra Daubert came to her. She had not needed to ask where Sallax had gone. The bloodstains on Brexan’s tunic and cloak and the clanging alarm bells were evidence enough that their foray into the Malakasian fortress had not been successful.

Nedra had sat on the edge of Brexan’s bed, stared out across the salt marsh, and said, ‘You ought to stay on here a while.’

Brexan rolled over to face the wall. She didn’t want Nedra to see her come apart. ‘They’ll be looking for me,’ she whispered.

‘You’ve been on the marsh?’ Brexan had nodded slightly and Nedra patted her on the shoulder and said, ‘You’ll slip out there when they come; no one would look for you out there.’

‘But they-’

‘We’ll know when they’re coming.’ Nedra rubbed a hand gently over Brexan’s back. ‘There’s nothing happens in this area that goes unnoticed. You’ve seen how quickly the board fills when word gets out that we’re planning a bisque aven. We’ll know when they’re coming, so don’t you worry about that.’

‘I’ll be worried about you.’

‘Nonsense,’ Nedra had said with a little laugh. ‘I’m three hundred and ninety-nine Twinmoons old, give or take a Twinmoon… I’ve been around longer than the mud in the marsh. I don’t need anyone worrying about me. Besides, I could use some help around here.’

Brexan had rolled over, wiped her eyes and said, ‘You don’t need any help.’

‘Well then, maybe I need the company.’

Brexan had felt her throat close, and she had pressed her lips together hard to keep the tears at bay. Finally, she had whispered, ‘I need it too.’ And that was sorted.

Now Brexan grabbed a potholder and lifted the lid off a bubbling pan of seafood stew – her own recipe. Sadly, it smelled like something left outside to die. Grimacing, she scattered a large pinch of dried herbs into the mixture. She sniffed again and, still not satisfied, dumped in a great spoonful of seasoning and stirred the contents hopefully. There was no noticeable improvement and Brexan wondered if perhaps she had been sold bad fish. Granted, she’d seen it pulled from the sea, but as she wrinkled her nose, she wondered if it were possible for fish to contract some sort of pernicious infection that made them stink mercilessly when cooked up with winter vegetables.

Her efforts to cast blame on anything other than her own ineptitude were interrupted by the smell of something burning. She had forgotten the pastry. Nedra’s desserts were as pleasant on the eye as they were on the palate. Brexan’s vision for her own sweetmeats had included a highly polished serving tray, a stately procession from the kitchen into the dining room, a smattering of applause as she unveiled her creation and a chorus of congratulations from patrons witnessing the advent of her career as a culinary master. Now Brexan was afraid to open the stove, from which smoke was seeping, in case the air caused what was left of her melt-in-the-mouth masterpiece to burst into flames. That would surely awaken Nedra, if not the entire neighbourhood.

Brexan sighed, then jumped as a voice behind her said, ‘Mmm! What smells so good?’

She whirled around, using her body to hide as much of the disaster area as possible. ‘You’re not supposed to be awake yet.’

‘I might have slept a little later, but with all the shattering and banging, I thought for certain we were under attack,’ Nedra said merrily.

‘I’m… cooking.’ Brexan looked at the stinky stew on the stovetop, the smoking remains of her tart in the oven and the butcher’s block, littered with flour, fish-blood and the remnants of what appeared to be an entire basket of winter vegetables. She smiled nervously and added, ‘A few things.’

‘I see,’ Nedra said dryly. ‘Do you need any help?’

No, no,’ she said as she clumsily tried to move the iron pot, burning her hand once again. ‘I’m fine, I’ve got it.’

‘Are you sure? Because from the subtle aroma creeping through the rest of the house, it smells more like a serious case of something very nasty indeed!’ Nedra grinned.

Brexan gave up. ‘I’m just no good at this! I was trying to work out a few things that I could make for your four-hundredth Twinmoon party.’

Nedra looked surprised. ‘Am I having a four-hundredth Twinmoon party?’

‘You weren’t supposed to know,’ Brexan confessed. ‘Some of the regulars are helping me plan it, but I figured I had to get some practice in, otherwise I might ruin everything, and we’d be stuck eating-’ she cast the stove a look of disgust, ‘-well, something foul.’

Nedra laughed. ‘I have an idea. For the next Twinmoon, which I might, grudgingly, admit might possibly be my four-hundredth, gods-rut-a-whore, if you collect the ingredients, I will take care of the cooking.’

‘But Nedra-’

She went on, ignoring Brexan’s protest, ‘I’ll get everything started and you can spend all day in here stirring the pot. Come the dinner aven, I will be genuinely surprised that you have cooked, that I have friends in this city, and especially, that I have lived this long. Deal?’

Brexan frowned. Given the smoke-filled room and the increasingly smelly pot, she would most likely not get a better offer in the next few days. ‘All right,’ she said, plainly dejected, ‘but I’m choosing the wine, and I’ll not hear another word on the subject.’