Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

‘Milla,’ Alen said, checking his forearm.

‘You hurt?’

‘Her dog, that cursed hound bit me.’

‘Me too.’ Hoyt pulled his boot halfway off, exposing his lower leg. ‘It hurt like a motherhumper, but look: no blood. None on you either.’

‘We’ll worry about it later. For now, let’s get the blazes out of here.’

‘Fine by me,’ Hoyt said and started up the side of the cart, climbing the slats. ‘We’re going to have to jump. It’ll hurt.’

‘No worse than staying around to see what the Seron plan to do with us.’

‘Good point,’ Hoyt said. ‘I think most of them are back there. Milla’s sent some kind of- Ah!’ he screamed as the Seron lieutenant stabbed him in the shoulder. She had been aiming for his neck, but a lucky jolt as the cart bounced over uneven ground sent her blow wide of the mark. Alen shouted as Hoyt tumbled backwards and fell beside him, neither in any position to defend themselves. Alen fired a spell, a wild blast, hoping to get lucky and kill the angry warrior, but he missed, and blew out the upper slats instead.

‘Rutters, that hurts!’ Hoyt tried to roll away from the knife-wielding soldier. ‘Look out, Alen! Get back!’

‘Over here!‘ Alen tugged Hoyt’s good arm, looking for a safe corner, but there wasn’t space enough in the wagon bed. The Seron woman adjusted her grip and sprang towards them.

The wolfhound hit her in mid-air, driving into her from the abandoned driver’s bench. It clamped its jaws around her forearm, the bones snapping with a sickening crack, and the two creatures slammed into the side of the cart, each more furious than the other.

It was a fight to the death, but neither Alen nor Hoyt planned on staying around to see the end. ‘This way,’ Alen said, raising his hands at the wooden tailgate. An explosion rocked the night and the end of the cart was blown away, scattered across the cornfield in splinters. ‘Now, jump!’ he cried, grabbed Hoyt by the elbow and shoved.

When he landed, Hoyt tore the wound in his shoulder more deeply. Whose idea was this? he thought, lying on the freezing ground, resilient stalks poking him in the back. Nearby, he heard Alen groan. ‘You all right?’ he wheezed.

‘Fine,’ Alen chuckled. ‘Never better, really. I’m actually thinking I would like a bit of corn about now.’

‘Stop it.’ Hoyt hugged his sides. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

Alen knelt beside him. ‘Whoring virgins, you’re a mess. That shoulder’s going to need some stitching.’

‘I’ll be all right.’ Hoyt sat up. ‘Let’s get out of here. Those dogs were a nice trick, but they won’t keep the Seron away all night.’

‘You think they were real?’

‘They seemed real enough to me,’ Hoyt said. ‘Remind me to take Milla shopping tomorrow for whatever her little heart desires.’

‘I hope they were apparitions, you know, fighting the Seron from within, figments of our collective imagination,’ Alen said, helping Hoyt to his feet. ‘If they weren’t, the city is going to be a tough place to live.’

‘A highway full of dead soldiers?’

‘Not exactly how we had things planned.’

‘It was bark.’

‘I know.’

‘But it was different this time.’

‘I know.’

The southern edge of the Falkan plain rolled beneath them as Gilmour and Steven, riding in tandem, encouraged the horse just a bit further before stopping to camp for the night. They were in no hurry to reach the fjord; they had eight days yet to arrive at their rendezvous point – if Garec and Kellin even survived the flood tide – and there was ample time to locate Mark’s boat, sail west and, on the appointed day, make for open water. Gilmour had assisted the stolen skiff with a Larion tailwind when he, Garec and Mark had navigated the twists and turns of the great granite cleft the previous Twinmoon, so he was sure he and Steven would be able to do the same on the return journey. A hearty northerly wind freshening behind them made him wonder if he could come up with a spell to turn periodic gusts westwards behind the skiff; it would be a tricky manoeuvre, but with nine days to reach the open sea, they would have time to experiment.

‘I think this poor horse has had just about as much of us as he can take for one day,’ Gilmour said. ‘There’s a place not far from here where we can tuck ourselves in for a couple of days, always assuming we don’t run into any occupation soldiers in there.’

‘A popular vacation spot, is it?’ Steven asked wryly.

‘Not really, but you never can tell where those rutters’ll turn up.’

‘I wonder why we haven’t seen any since the Medera did her thing,’ Steven mused.

‘I’ve been thinking that as well, and I don’t know.’ Gilmour patted the horse, whispering, ‘Not much further, my friend. We’ll rest soon.’ They had found the animal wandering along a hillside north of the river, Lessek’s spell book and the far portal still tied safely to the saddle. Though battered and bruised, the animal had come through the devastation without serious injury, and after walking beside them for a day, it finally permitted the two sorcerers to ride.

‘Don’t the Malakasians patrol this area?’ Stephen asked as they moved from a field lying fallow into a thick patch of cottonwoods lining a draw at the base of a gully. The gully separated the field and a rolling meadow that looked like it had been left for spring hay. There was a row of mature trees lining the draw-end of the meadow and Steven watched for the shallow stream he was sure they would cross before climbing into the dry, waist-high grass.

‘Of course they patrol. We haven’t used any major roads, but we also haven’t been too deliberate about hiding ourselves either. I can’t understand it, but if we get where we’re going without running into an entire brigade of soldiers there enjoying a professional lecture on the finer points of sword sharpening, I’ll be content to call it a great mountain of very good fortune.’

‘Drunks’ and children’s luck,’ Steven said.

‘I’ll drink to that.’ The horse broke through the thin ice of the stream and they began their climb into the meadow.

‘Do you think Mark’s boat will still be there?’ Gilmour didn’t sound as confident as he had when he initially presented this course of action to the others.

‘I don’t see why not,’ Steven said. ‘It was well hidden, and any snowfall would only add to its camouflage. Who on earth would be sailing for pleasure during this Twinmoon, anyway?’

‘Only fools,’ Gilmour laughed.

‘You and me, cousin,’ Steven said, then asked, ‘what if Kellin and Garec don’t make it?’ They had found no sign of the others after the flood waters receded.

‘Then we attempt the crossing on our own.’

‘You’ve been in the fennaroot again, haven’t you, old man?’

‘Not me, though there’s no doubt my horse and I both could use a bit of root right now.’

‘Your relationship with your horse is your own business, but I’ll reiterate, in case you didn’t hear me: cross the wide ocean, on our own, in that catboat?’

‘Any other suggestions?’

‘How about finding a clean, comfortable inn with a big fireplace, a well stocked bar and a squad of randy coeds next door?’

‘A lovely thought, Steven, truly.’ Gilmour sighed. ‘If only we had that kind of time…’

‘Yeah, I know, but it’s nice to dream,’ Steven acquiesced. ‘Fine, then, I’m going to figure on Garec and Kellin having survived the wave.’

‘You and me both, cousin.’

‘There’s the spirit,’ Steven laughed. ‘I am worried, though – I saw the water swallow them, and then I never saw them again. Of course, I was preoccupied at the time.’