Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘Did you hear me, Sharr? Did you? I said, “what”.’ Stalwick tied a length of bailing twine about the rolled canvas tent, but Sharr stopped him, gripping him too tightly by the shoulder. ‘Ow, stop that, stop it, Sharr. That hurts, don’t you know? That hurts.’

‘Sorry, Stalwick,’ Sharr sighed. ‘It’s just that these tents have to be ready to go. We may be leaving for Capehill at any moment, and if we don’t have tents loaded into the wagons, half of us will be without shelter. Do you understand?’

Stalwick nodded excitedly; Sharr was making his point for him. ‘That’s why I’m saying you need to let me help, Sharr, you do! I can do this, watch me.’

‘No, Stalwick.’ Sharr gripped his shoulder again, less forcefully this time. ‘I’ll finish these, but why don’t you go and get us some beer, or some tecan. Someone around here must have some brewing; see if you can find us a couple of goblets.’

Stalwick beamed. ‘I will, Sharr. I can do that. I know, there was a guy… I think his name is Daran or Deren, I can’t remember, but anyway, anyway, he knows a woman from the second company – that group from the plains – who fights like an unchained nightmare, I guess, but anyway, she makes tecan for them. I don’t know why none of the rest of them can make their own, or maybe she’s just especially good at it, but anyway, anyway, she makes it, and it’s drop-dead good tecan, the best in the whole battalion. And well, you know, the second company is camped on the other side of the stream. So, it’s not far. It’s really not, I mean, I can be over there and back in a breath or two, so it won’t even get cold, and if it does, well, then I’ll make a fire. I’m good with fires. I mean, I’m good with folds, too, but you know, fires are something I am good at too.’

Sharr sighed again, a long, slow exhalation to purge the lingering feelings of homicidal rage. ‘Thank you, Stalwick,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘Some tecan would be wonderful. I could use a warming-up. I’ll be here.’

‘Good, Sharr, good. I’ll be back. I’ll get as much as I can- Well, I’ll get two goblets, anyway, but if there’s more, I’ll get more. I mean, that’ll save us a trip later. You know? I mean, the second company is close, but who wants to cross the stream, especially today, more than once if you don’t have to. You know?’

‘Go on, Stalwick, and when you get back, we’ll make a fire.’

Despite the bone-deep chill, Stalwick’s face flushed a warm red and he looked as though he might expire from pure unchecked enthusiasm. ‘I’ll start one, Sharr. If you want a fire, I’ll get a blaze going that they’ll be able to see in Pellia. We’ll be the warmest, driest squad in the whole company, maybe the whole battalion. I’ll do that, ho, ho, will I ever!’

‘Good. Thank you, Stalwick,’ Sharr repeated. ‘I’ll be here when you get back.’ He turned back to the tents until he was sure Stalwick had left. He felt the tension leave his shoulders as he relaxed into the welcome silence. He really didn’t mind the sleet; he’d had a lifetime fishing the deep trenches off the coast of Capehill. He missed the steely-grey, freezing cold days, even when it had been utterly miserable, for fishing the North Sea had been glorious in its unpredictability. Hand-lining for summer jemma-fish, the giants that had not yet begun the season’s migration; that was lucrative fishing. But it was the nets that Sharr missed; hauling them along the trenches and canyons was like reaching into a wizard’s chest and withdrawing a handful of whatever magic might be secreted inside. Sometimes it was schools of hullen, tough little fish he could sell on the wharf for a copper or two a basket. On other days, they’d haul up a shark, a fat-bodied monster, stuffed to bursting on jemma and too slow even to get out of its own way. Sharr sometimes looped a line around their tails and dragged them for half an aven – there was no reason to bring a live shark on board, stuffed full or not, and dragging them backwards drowned them. Most tried to fight it, engaging in a titanic tug-of-war while intrepid archers would take turns firing, but eventually, the sharks always succumbed. His crew loved these fights especially; Sharr found the whole ritual gruesome. He always heaved a sigh of relief when the sharks died.

He recalled another day that had begun with frigid sleet, when he and his crew had hauled up a giant tapen, its tentacles coiling and grasping as the creature fought for its life in the unforgiving sea air. They didn’t know quite what to do with it, but they weren’t willing to cut it away and lose a valuable net, so Sharr and his men had beaten it, gaffed it, shot it full of arrows, even stabbed it with a makeshift harpoon fashioned out of a fillet knife lashed to a docking pole. When finally the beast quieted, they hauled it aboard, assuming it was dead.

No sooner had the tapen struck the deck, than it found new reserves of energy, a monster dose of will. It rolled across the deck, its powerful limbs crushing or shattering anything it could grip on to – Sharr himself was injured when his feet were yanked out from under him and he went down, his head striking the starboard gunwale. He was lying there with his head bleeding, watching as the monster fought to the death, his crew battling to kill it before it tore out the transom and sent them all to the bottom, and he had smiled. He would not have traded places with anyone that day.

Now, folding tents mechanically, the erstwhile fisherman glanced down the hill only to see the tapen once again – it wasn’t a giant this time, nor was it threatening his life or his boat, but it was there just the same: lying in the mud, halfway to the stream, legs and arms flailing in the air.

‘Stalwick!’ Sharr roared, running down the slope. He slipped, tumbling out of control, then dizzily regained his feet. Others heard his cry and ran to see what had befallen the irksome soldier. Within moments, Stalwick had half the squad standing over him in the freezing rain.

‘Brand’s coming,’ Stalwick panted, his eyes rolling white and his limbs twitching in an ungainly dance, ‘March on Capehill, now. Malakasians know. Capehill now. Malakasians know. Brand is coming!’ Something wet ran from Stalwick’s nose, sticky phlegm the colour of spoiled milk, bubbling from one nostril as his convulsions subsided. He lay in the mud, his gaze focused on something half a world away.

‘Let’s get him up,’ Sharr said. ‘Get one of those tents back up and find some dry clothes or blankets.’ A few of the men hustled off. ‘And bring Gita,’ he continued, ‘quickly! Tell her to get over here now. One of you stay with me; we have to listen to everything he says. We can’t miss a word.’

Although Sharr remained by Stalwick’s side all day, he didn’t speak again until the following morning. As he stared out at nothing, he looked as though he had been kicked by a horse.

Raskin rode hard as the sun rose behind her. She was less than a day from Traver’s Notch now, and she promised herself as soon as she had found the officer in charge and reported the loss of her entire squad to a grettan pack the previous Moon, she would find a tavern – the one she’d visited before, The Bowman – and get drunk. How long she would stay drunk was yet to be determined, but it certainly wouldn’t be less than three to five comatose days.

Staying alone at the border camp had been difficult, but Raskin hadn’t wanted to abandon her position, not when she was all that remained of her squad. She didn’t patrol; that would have been pointless – the first band of border runners she stumbled upon would have flayed her and left her for the grettans. Instead, she stayed in her tent, tended her horse and periodically went in search of firewood. She had plenty of food, enough to last through the Twinmoon, but somehow being warm and dry was no real comfort. Twilight came early in Gorsk during the winter Twinmoons, and Raskin sat up most nights, listening to the sounds of the forest with her blankets clutched nervously beneath her chin. She cried frequently during the long periods of darkness.