Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘He’s right.’ Steven tried to stand, felt dizzy and gave up. ‘What was it? Snakes?’

‘It was Mark,’ Garec said. ‘He’s working the table. He hit you with that seizure and then set a pack of unholy snakes on Gilmour.’

‘They came out of that book,’ Kellin said.

Steven nodded. ‘That’s Mark. He knows that book scared the dog-piss out of Gilmour on the way to Traver’s Notch. He used it against him, I’m sure.’ Steven looked around the barn. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Back through the woods, about two days’ journey from here.’

Steven looked surprised. ‘You left him?’

‘There was nothing we could do,’ Brand said. ‘The serpents were all over him. Garec managed to shoot a few of them, but the others were all coiled around his arms, his neck; they were even inside his tunic!’

Steven drank; his body was aching from dehydration. He still had no memory of the seizure. ‘Has Mark gone north?’

‘Yesterday,’ Brand said. ‘He’ll be at Wellham Ridge by tomorrow. The table is intact; Mark has it loaded on a wagon. His soldiers look bad, though, beaten by the forced march.’

‘They must be,’ Kellin said. ‘Look at the ground they’ve covered in so little time. He must be pushing them day and night.’

‘Did you see him?’ Steven asked.

‘No, nor Gabriel either,’ Brand said. ‘I was well hidden and didn’t want to risk going any closer. With you unconscious, the last thing we needed was to be chased back here.’

‘Good thinking,’ Steven said, and then to Garec, ‘He must be one of the officers.’

‘Right. There’d be no other way for him to take command of such a force in so little time.’

‘So he’ll take the table back to the barracks, probably to the commanding officer’s private quarters.’

‘It’s a good guess. So… we follow them tomorrow?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Steven said. ‘I need to eat. I might be able to whip up a spell to sort myself out, but I’m certainly not up for a fight right now.’

‘That’s fine,’ Garec said. ‘Staying here will give Gilmour another night to catch up as well.’

Kellin looked sceptical, but said nothing more.

‘Where’s the farmer?’ Steven asked. ‘Who’s our host?’

‘No idea,’ Brand said. ‘There’s no one here, no one we can find, anyway.’

‘Some of these farmers work winter crops in Rona,’ Kellin said. ‘They might be on the other side of the Blackstones for the season.’

Steven wrinkled his nose again. ‘I suppose they must be somewhere else. No one would be able to live with that stench all winter.’

‘Good point,’ Garec said. ‘So we’re in no hurry. You rest. We’ll wait another day for Gilmour, and if he shows up, terrific, and if not, we’ll work our way carefully into Wellham Ridge and wait for an opportunity to steal the spell table.’

Steven was not looking forward to facing his roommate. If his seizure and Gilmour’s disappearance were any indication of what Mark was able to do with the Larion artefact, the battle would be deadly dangerous for all of them. Disheartened, he said, ‘Fine. I suppose that’s our only option right now.’

‘He’s shown a willingness to insert the key and start calling up magic from inside that thing. Those snakes he threw at Gilmour were like nothing I’ve ever seen in Eldarn,’ Garec said quietly.

‘So we don’t have the luxury of time,’ Steven finished Garec’s thought.

‘Or a lot of discretion,’ Brand added. ‘Without Gilmour to contact Gita, the Resistance attack on Capehill will be a tragic failure. It’s been too many days already.’

‘Not yet,’ Kellin assured. ‘Even the fastest riders won’t have made it north yet. There’s still a bit of time, but if Gilmour is coming back on his own, we need him to hurry.’

Brand said, ‘If you can kill Mark, Steven, you have to do it.’

Steven didn’t answer.

Two avens later, while wayward streaks of sunlight dappled the farm in orange, a Malakasian soldier approached from across a field between the barn and the woods near the river.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Garec warned, turning from the blurry, blown-glass window.

‘Is it him?’ Kellin asked.

‘Yes.’ Steven sounded certain.

‘I don’t know,’ Garec said. He nocked an arrow and moved towards the sheet of heavy canvas that hung between the storage bins and a wagon-sized loading dock. He pulled back on a corner and stepped out so the lone soldier could see that he was armed. ‘That’s far enough!’ he shouted.

The others heard the man say, ‘Garec?’

‘Who are you?’ Garec called. ‘If you know me, you know I can drop you from here. So don’t come any closer.’

‘Of course I know you, you great, blazing rutter,’ the soldier said, his hands in the air. ‘I also know you prefer trout to steak, although God knows why. I know you are one hundred and ninety-six Twinmoons old and that you think Steven’s coffee tastes like burned dirt.’

‘Gilmour?’

No one inside the barn heard his reply.

Kellin whispered, ‘What’s happening? What did he say?’

Garec pushed his head back beneath the cloth. ‘He’s showing me his wrist. It’s a mess, all bloody.’

‘He had to kill one of them,’ Steven said. ‘It’s him, Garec.’

‘How do you know? Gilmour’s never had that hole in his wrist before. Demonpiss, it’s awful-looking, even from here.’

‘It’s him,’ Steven said again, peering out the wrinkled glass window. ‘He’s only ever taken his hosts in the moment right after they’ve died; that’s why he’s been an elderly man most of the time. It looks like he found Mark’s battalion and picked off one of the soldiers.’

‘So he abandoned that other body?’ Kellin shuddered at the thought.

‘Exactly,’ Steven said. ‘That’s probably why he’s been delayed.’

Garec frowned, disappeared outside the canvas flap again, and shouted, ‘When days in Rona grow balmy-’

Gilmour’s response was faint but enthusiastic, ‘Drink Falkan wine after Twinmoon – but you, Garec, you prefer beer, because you are an uncultured heathen.’

Kellin smiled. ‘He does seem to know you, Garec.’

He poked his head back inside and muttered, ‘Wine gives me a headache.’ Then, in a shout, he added, ‘Come on inside, Gilmour.’

When the Larion sorcerer slipped past the canvas, Steven laughed. ‘You look good.’

The muscular young soldier shot him a bright grin marred by three seriously crooked teeth. Gilmour’s new body was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. He had a head of shoulder-length, pin-straight hair, bright eyes and a nose that had been broken and poorly set at least twice. The bloody wound on his wrist was the only sign that he had been killed by the spirit of a disembodied Larion Senator. It was clotted with dried blood, but it was festering.

‘Well, I’d never done this before,’ he admitted, ‘so I figured I’d use someone healthy. I found the battalion near the river and sneaked this fellow into the undergrowth two nights ago. It was dark, and the officers were pushing them north so quickly that no one really looked for me. They’re all so rutting tired, I think I could have slipped away with a squad and no one would have been any the wiser.’ He winced. ‘What is that smell anyway? Onions?’

Steven frowned.

Garec said, ‘Pepperweed. There’s a whole bin of it rotting over there.’

‘Good God, but that stinks. It smells like-’

Brighton, Steven thought.

‘It smells like the compost heap out behind the Bowman Inn. You remember that place, Garec? Rotting pepperweed. God.’

‘Well, we won’t be here long,’ Brand said.