Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘Well, that wasn’t exactly how I had planned it, was it?’ he whispered to the old plough horse. ‘But still, better to be in here with you then over there if the whole household woke up to see what rutting fools are driving south at this aven.’ He brushed snow and mud from his tunic, wiped his face on his cloak and peeked out the stable door. ‘Who do you suppose it is?’ Hoyt asked the horse, keeping his face in the shadows.

The wagons came slowly into focus, massive slatted wooden carts emerging from the darkness. They were covered with canvas, and hauled along by teams of horses or oxen. Wooden axles squeaked, and Hoyt flashed back to the forest of ghosts and the platoons of Seron warriors harvesting the bark. They had been driving similar wagons, hauling shipments of bark through the Great Pragan Range, north to Treven and the Welstar-bound barges.

These carts – twelve of them – looked the same. Each was guarded by a squad of Seron warriors, not like the harvesters, staring vacuously into space, but real Seron killers, snarling, angry beasts that would tear Hoyt to pieces in a heartbeat if they found him huddled in the stables.

‘Holy rutting Pragans,’ Hoyt whispered, ‘it’s more bark; it has to be. But how-? Why are they bringing it from the north? There’s nothing between here and the sea, no forests, nothing but the city.’ He ducked back inside, found a corner in an empty stall and curled up in his cloak. He had seen enough; there was no reason to risk capture, either from the road or from the farmhouse, where, he was certain, the entire family would be awake, their noses pressed against the windows by now.

With his forehead on his knees, Hoyt sat listening to the creak and clatter of the wagons fading along the road. A quarter of an aven later, cold and tired, he considered returning to the Wayfarer. He badly wanted to sneak into his room, and maybe slip into bed beside Hannah. Let her warm you up? You think she’d be willing again? Maybe just once?

In the farmhouse windows candles had appeared and Hoyt could see shadows moving about.

‘I’ll give them this much,’ he whispered to the horse, ‘they’re certainly early risers.’ He pulled his hood up, patted the old horse a final time and slipped outside, trying not to think about Hannah. As he hurried towards the stone wall, he said to himself, ‘Let’s see if the neighbours are still asleep.’

Wellham Ridge, while playing host to the largest infantry battalion along the northern Blackstones, was a comparatively small town. Mud streets, most quite narrow, intersected in a muck-and-sludge cobweb separating the residential outskirts from the commercial centre. One cobblestone street, an avenue running west from the common towards the river, delineated the town’s lone affluent district, where half-timbered stone buildings with slate roofs, flower gardens and well-pruned trees lined the thoroughfare. Most housed businesses – mining and assay offices, a textile shop, a dairy, a grain wholesaler – and there were several prosperous-looking inns catering to merchants, officers of the occupation army, and the few wealthy travellers still moving in or out of Orindale. Much of Wellham Ridge, including its one cobblestone boulevard, lay in a great flood plain spilling north from Meyers’ Vale. It was a damp region, especially here along the river, and the Twinmoons had been hard on the town, judging by the sinking, cracking and sagging foundations, even amongst the most expensive properties.

Fine horses, leather tack and livery polished despite the season, clip-clopped along the street, while pedestrians walked on wooden walkways on either side of the cobbled road. The sun was out. It hadn’t made more than a cursory appearance in days and Garec sat on the wooden sidewalk enjoying the relative warmth. Steven and Brand had gone inside to secure lodgings for the night. Garec, content to wait, turned his face to the sky, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the moment’s grace.

‘Tired?’ Kellin stepped in front of him, blocking the light.

Garec opened his eyes. ‘You’re in my sun.’

‘Sorry,’ she said and stepped aside.

‘No, I’m not too tired. I’m just enjoying the heat.’ He gestured towards the worn planks next to him. ‘There’s plenty; have a seat.’

Kellin shrugged off her cloak and folded it into a square cushion. Sitting as close as their packs allowed, she reached over, hesitated, her outstretched hand hanging in the space between them, and finally placed it gently between his shoulder blades.

Garec turned his thoughts inwards, trying to focus his mind’s eye on the place where her fingers came in contact with the heavy folds of his cloak. He found them, five tiny spots, islands of gentle pressure. The sun on his face and Kellin’s hand resting softly on his back: this was the best he had felt in Twinmoons.

‘You should do that more often,’ he said, unconcerned that he might blush in the face of the gods.

‘I’m not doing anything.’ Kellin didn’t remove her hand.

‘You have no idea.’

‘It’s been a hard road for you.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you, either.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Kellin pressed harder, wanting him to feel her touch. ‘You’re a legend in Falkan; did you know that?’

‘It’s nonsense,’ Garec said.

‘You’re the greatest bowman in Eldarn.’

‘I’m inhuman; I hate myself for it. I regret every shaft I’ve ever fired, every one.’ He leaned into her, trying to slip his shoulder under her arm.

‘Hopefully, we’ll soon see an end to all this.’ She didn’t sound convinced, but it was something to divert the conversation from Garec’s self-loathing.

‘We?’

His response surprised her. Kellin wrapped her arm around him, resting her chin on his shoulder and whispered, ‘You know what I meant… I meant we, as in we, us, Eldarn will soon see an end to this struggle.’ She nibbled his ear; it was simply too close to leave alone.

‘Oh, that “we”. That’s disappointing. I like the other “we” better.’ Garec turned his head far enough to kiss her. Her mouth was soft, moist and sweet. He might have stayed there, sitting in the sun, tasting those lips for the rest of the Twinmoon, had they not been interrupted by a throaty, guttural cough behind them.

‘Ahem.’ Brand coughed again, louder this time.

Kellin pulled back. ‘Brand,’ she said as she stood up, retrieved her cloak and cast it over one arm. ‘You have the timing of a summer snowstorm.’

The stony-faced partisan leader wasn’t amused. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a summer snowstorm, Kellin, and I might say the same about you two.’

Garec cleared his throat, and swallowed a muffled, ‘Sorry, Brand.’

Kellin was not about to back down. ‘Well if you ever took the time to-’

Garec took her hand, interrupting her, and asked, ‘Did you get rooms?’

‘Yes, Steven’s carrying more silver than a Grayslip prince. He could buy the building, never mind rent a couple of rooms.’

Garec chuckled. ‘He stole it in Estrad. It must have been someone’s life savings.’

‘We’ll live well while we’re here,’ Brand said. ‘He’s still in there, talking with the cook about dinner. I think he’s hoping for something elaborate that just isn’t going to happen in a Wellham Ridge kitchen, no matter how expensive the lodgings.’

‘Maybe he wants to celebrate,’ Garec said.

‘Celebrate?’ Kellin asked. ‘What have we got to celebrate?’

‘You don’t know how far Steven came to fight Nerak. He deserves a night off.’

‘Well, he’s not going to get one,’ Brand said. ‘Every day we drag our feet is another day that Gita and the Resistance remain an easy target outside Traver’s Notch. We need to contact Stalwick to move the battalion south and to engage the forces at Capehill. Who knows what Mark has done? He might have sent word to Orindale. Half the occupation forces in Falkan could be marching on Traver’s Notch right now.’