Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Garec shrugged. He didn’t want to seem callous, but there was little they could do without Gilmour. Steven could attempt to contact Stalwick, but there was no telling the foreign sorcerer would be successful. ‘How much time do you figure we have?’

‘Riding day and night, a tough cavalry messenger could be in the Notch in fifteen days, even less to Capehill.’

‘That leaves us… what, six? Seven?’

‘About that,’ Brand said, ‘but that assumes Gita can get her men moving at a moment’s notice. It takes a while to get an infantry battalion going, especially during this Twinmoon. And they’ll be vulnerable on their way into Capehill. If it’s snowing up there, it could take them another five, maybe six days to get that far southeast.’

‘That’s a long time to be exposed.’ Kellin licked her lip absentmindedly, hoping to taste Garec’s memory. ‘Can Steven do it?’

‘Who knows?’ Brand said with a shrug, ‘but he’s agreed to try tonight, once things have quieted down. He’ll need to concentrate, but he doesn’t really know what he’s looking for.’

‘Sometimes the magic seems to show him what to do.’ Garec tried to sound reassuring.

‘Let’s hope.’

A Malakasian soldier, walking alone, paused to look them over, then he turned and hurried towards the centre of town and the grassy common. He stopped several times to look back. The soldier’s odd behaviour and sudden haste worried Garec.

‘Demonpiss, we shouldn’t have stood around out here,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘We should have kept our wits- it’s this rutting sunshine.’

‘Why?’ Kellin said. ‘Who knows us? None of these soldiers have ever seen us before.’

‘We don’t know that,’ Garec said, ‘and we don’t know what Mark is capable of. Maybe he implanted our images in the minds of every soldier from here to Pellia.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Brand said.

‘We’ll all go,’ Garec said. ‘Brand, take the north side of the street. Kellin, you stroll down the other side. I’ll go behind those buildings on the south side. He’s got to be heading for the barracks, but if he realises we’re following him he’ll turn south and try to find the rest of his company.’ Garec looked towards the inn, hoping Steven would appear, but there was no time to waste. They’d have to trust that he would wait in the front room. ‘Everyone armed?’

Kellin felt unobtrusively beneath her cloak and nodded. ‘Where’s your bow?’ she asked.

‘In the stable with the horses.’

‘Why, for rutting sake? You can carry it here; this isn’t Orindale.’

‘I didn’t want to be recognised,’ Garec replied. ‘I’ve got my knife, though.’

‘All right, let’s go. Try to get him cornered someplace out of sight. If you can’t, and you have to hit him in the open, make it quick and deadly. Keep moving; don’t stop to admire your work. Use the crowds to get away. We’ll meet back here in half an aven.’ Brand started towards the common.

Kellin and Garec exchanged a glance before following. They agreed – without needing to speak – to retrieve what they had momentarily lost after the day’s business had been completed.

The soldier they followed was short, a little on the chubby side, and slow. He hurried to the end of the cobblestoned street and turned south towards the barracks. He checked several times, hoping to find one of the partisan criminals trailing him, but even with no one in sight he didn’t slow down; these partisans were famous for their cunning, especially the Ronan bowman – the Bringer of Death. He smirked at the stories of Garec Haile actually disappearing, before reappearing in a blinding flash and firing arrows more quickly than anyone in the five lands. Garec was a ghost.

Still, the Malakasian smiled, enjoying the first sun Wellham Ridge had seen in days. He crossed a muddy street, his boots making comical slurping sounds in the muck, stepped onto the opposite walkway, slipped between two buildings and down an alley behind a row of businesses near the encampment. He ignored the handful of soldiers he passed… they might have saved his life; even against the Bringer of Death there would be some safety in sheer numbers.

Kellin followed, using the crowds as cover. She watched the pudgy soldier cross a dirt street and disappear into an alley. Rutting stupid bastard, she thought. Maybe he’ll pull a knife and stab himself too.

She was curious about why he’d ignored a group of fellow soldiers. She pulled her hood up and looked down at her boots as she hurried past them. Several of the men watched her go by, but there was nothing suspicious in their glances; they were young soldiers with an aven or two of free time and they’d watch any attractive woman.

In the alley, Kellin saw the solider exit the opposite end and turn west, right to Garec. She didn’t want Garec to have another murder on his conscience if it was at all possible, so she speeded up a little, hoping to catch the Malakasian – she thought he might see Garec, understand that he had been cornered and flee back towards the alley.

Kellin looked back only once; she didn’t know where Brand had gone but assumed he was nearby, perhaps one alleyway further east.

As she turned the corner, she drew her knife, just in case the chubby fellow attacked suddenly. Several paces further on, Kellin knew something had gone wrong.

Garec walked towards her. There was no way the soldier could have slipped past him. He looked at Kellin and shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘He was here, coming this way. I didn’t lose sight of him for more than two breaths. You didn’t see him?’

‘No.’ Garec searched the street in the opposite direction, worried that perhaps the stout little fellow had somehow secreted himself inside a building, or maybe behind a stack of crates. ‘I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure he came this way?’

Kellin nodded. As she turned, Brand was there, his knife drawn as he came at a slow jog around a muddy bend.

‘What is this?’ Brand said, too loudly, unconcerned that he might be overheard. ‘Kellin, didn’t you have him?’

‘I did,’ she said.

‘It appears you didn’t.’

‘Brand, I am telling you, he was right in front of me-’

‘Maybe if you’d have had your heads on straight, the two of you, you wouldn’t have lost him.’

Kellin’s face reddened. ‘You know, Brand, you can keep your-’

Garec interrupted the fight. ‘We didn’t lose anyone, Brand; he’s right here. He must have some magic, a cloaking spell or something. Maybe he slipped by me, but he can’t have simply disappeared.’

‘Mark could.’ Kellin’s words stopped them dead. For a moment, nothing happened; no one moved.

Finally, Garec drew his knife and motioned for the others to come closer. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘stay together, watch your wrists. Cry out, even if you get an itch on your wrist.’

They moved together, standing back to back, knives drawn, waiting. They all leaped noticeably when the soldier cried from above, ‘"Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame.” ‘Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. As You Like It. That was always my favourite; the dramas were so god-rutting serious, everyone dying all over the stage. The comedies really were his best works.’ The Malakasian soldier was leaning out of an upper-level window, his cherubic face flushed with amusement.

‘Mark, you dog-rutter, you’re not going to fool us this time.’ Brand’s voice was a growl; he couldn’t care less whether Steven’s friend lived or not. ‘Why don’t you come down and I’ll gut you right here in the street?’

‘Wrong guess, Brand. It’s me.’ The soldier held out his hands. With his sleeves rolled up, he turned his arms over, exposing his wrists. There were no wounds on them.