Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

She pressed on, taking in the rest of the city’s scars. Not all the destruction had been directed at the shipping industry; the wharf had fallen victim as well, and the bridge, Orindale’s signature edifice, had collapsed, blocking the river and leaving barges stacked up behind like logs in a jam. Even the abandoned barrels Sallax had hidden in, stacked behind the down-at-heel waterfront alehouse, had been washed away.

‘Great rutting lords,’ Brexan murmured. ‘What could have done this?’

She asked the question of no one, but she feared that she had a good idea what might have wreaked such havoc: Nerak.

‘They’re here,’ she said, and felt something inside her shift and click back into place. She ignored the guilt, forcing thoughts of Nedra from her mind. She had been fooling herself, thinking she might live out her days as a scullery-maid; this was what she needed to do. If Steven and Garec were nearby, then that horsecock Jacrys wouldn’t be far away. They were here; Brexan could feel them on the breeze, that same breeze that somehow never reached the Topgallant Boarding House. ‘It’s just a matter of time now,’ she said, lowering her shoulder into the wind and heading for the fish market.

Two avens later, Orindale slipped from day into night. For a few moments, the entire city was caught on that narrow horizon between shadow and light. Everything was the same colour, a monochromatic grey, the colour of winter. Brexan had bought some things for Nedra’s celebration, but she’d deliberately left a few items off her list: she needed an excuse to come back the following day. Sitting in a tavern, she sipped at her wine and nibbled a pastry. She watched the traffic move along the quay, searching for anyone with a longbow – so few people did; it was begging for trouble in the capital to tote weapons around – or carrying a wooden staff. As darkness enveloped the seaport, Brexan gave in, shouldered her canvas satchels and made her way back to the Topgallant to help Nedra with the evening meals.

She would be back.

Brexan found them the following day; she knew she would. She almost stumbled over Garec Haile before recognising him. He was standing amongst a crowd waiting to cross the makeshift bridge across the Medera, a pontoon of wooden barges lashed together. While the remains of the great stone span dammed the river, the barge captains were unloading their cargoes beside the barracks at the old imperial palace. The floating bridge was open to foot and wagon traffic, but the river was essentially closed, empty downstream barges were tied up to anything left standing on the north and south banks, and commerce in the capital city was at a virtual standstill.

Today, with northerly winds raking the coastline again, pedestrian traffic was slow. The crowds of cloaked and hooded travellers waited impatiently for their turn to cross, and in the press of people moving back and forth, several had already fallen in and had to be fished out by unemployed stevedores on temporary assignment as lifeguards.

Brexan looked at the man for a long time, making sure she was right before finally approaching. Excited, she ignored the woman on his arm, and said ‘Are you Garec Haile?’

‘No,’ the man replied in a whisper, clearly ill, ‘you’re mistaking me for someone else.’

Brexan’s sudden enthusiasm vanished; she had been so sure she was about to fulfil a promise to Versen, and to be within shouting distance of another to Sallax. She sighed deeply and, crestfallen, was about to turn away when she looked at him again. That’s Garec; it has to be. As he started over the first barge, she caught up with him and said, ‘Please – Versen wanted me to find you. I promised I would.’

The man turned quickly; his hood fell back. He had been gravely injured and looked mere moments from collapsing. His head was wrapped in cloth bandages, the remnants of a querlis poultice poking out from beneath. His skin was sickly-white and his face was deeply lined: too little food; too many Twinmoons running, hiding and fighting.

‘Who are you?’ He stared into her face. It was unsettling: unarmed, obviously injured and weak, yet he left her feeling as though he could kill her with a glance. The Bringer of Death, that’s what Versen and Sallax had called him; from the look in his eyes, Brexan could see they hadn’t been exaggerating.

‘My name is Brexan Carderic,’ she said, ‘and I’m a friend-’

‘Brexan,’ Garec interrupted, his features softening. ‘Gabriel O’Reilly mentioned you. You know of Versen?’

‘I do,’ she said, ‘and Sallax Farro of Estrad.’

‘Sallax?’ Garec shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Take me to them, then. Where are they?’

‘I can’t. I wish-’ Brexan stepped out of the line of people crossing the pontoon barges. ‘I can’t take you to them, but I can tell you what happened.’

Garec noticed the sudden strain on her face. ‘Both dead?’ he said softly. When she nodded, he asked, ‘Were you with them?’

‘Yes, I was.’ Brexan’s eyes fill with tears; she hardly noticed when Garec took her arm.

He looked around the wharf, then gestured at a makeshift tavern, its windows shattered and door hanging by a leather hinge, near the pontoon. ‘Let’s go. I want to know everything.’

The first of the wagons rumbled south, an unexpected Seron escort in tow. There were three others following, each filled to the slats with canvas bags, sewn shut and stamped with a Ronan customs seal. A schooner had arrived from Orindale two days prior, and for a flagon of wine and a few slivers of fennaroot, two of her crew – merchant seamen, not navy sailors – were willing to describe her cargo in detail: winter wheat, four hundred crates of it, already ground to flour and en route to Welstar Palace.

Hoyt closed his eyes and thought of Churn; he’d have enjoyed this. Face-down in a frozen ditch by the side of a Malakasian highway in the middle of the night, Churn would have found it impossible to keep still. Hoyt imagined him signing, Is it cold over there? It’s cold over here! or perhaps, Tell me again why we didn’t become farmers, and giggling under his breath. Hannah had told him that Churn spoke in his final moments astride the flying buttress, but Hoyt would always remember his friend signing with nimble fingers.

His own fingers were stiff with cold and his face was numb. He’d left his cloak at the Wayfarer, foregoing the bulky wrap for a second wool tunic and a neck muffler that made him look like an elderly woman with a chest cold. He hadn’t anticipated Seron; neither had Alen, wherever he was now. It’s just wheat, Hoyt thought, so why the escort? It doesn’t make sense, unless they’re starving and they need the wheat as much as they need armour, enchanted tree bark and weapons. With the second wagon passing, Hoyt stopped thinking about why there was a Seron platoon less than ten paces away and instead tried to focus on becoming as invisible as possible. We’ll hit the next shipment, he thought. There’ll be another, something less protected. The traffic in the harbour never stops; another schooner will dock soon enough. Huddling in the frozen mud in the ditch, Hoyt willed Alen to read his thoughts and stand down.

Then the fire arrows struck.

Hoyt didn’t see the first barrage of flaming shafts as they arched through the night; he was hiding his face and hoping his body would be mistaken for a particularly dark shadow, or maybe a piece of rotting wood. But he did risk a glance at the second salvo, and in the moment before panic took hold, Hoyt was proud of Alen. The old Larion magician did not disappoint. Seemingly scores of flaming arrows streamed through the darkness. Some embedded themselves in the wagons or the stacks of canvas satchels; others struck Seron soldiers, wagon drivers and Malakasian guards, igniting their cloaks and sending them screaming into the surrounding fields. From where Hoyt crouched, it looked like a whole company of bowmen had attacked the wagon train, and those Seron warriors not running burning into the night drew their blades and charged what they imagined to be the firing line. The wagon train was, at least for the moment, unprotected.