Rob Scott - The Larion Senators

Brand and Kellin laughed at that.

Garec, lightening the mood in the cold grey of another sunless winter morning, looked around and asked, ‘Where? In a box under your bed? Because from where we’re standing, it doesn’t look like that old fisherman left you with much – or is that just a wrinkle that won’t iron out?’

‘And what would I do with more than a handful, Garec?’

Preparing for an equally hearty dose of ribbing himself, Steven pulled off his jacket and started concentrating on a spell to warm air and water. ‘So, size is an issue here, too, huh? Christ. A guy falls through a magic portal into a mystical world, and it still comes down to the size of the packet under the godforsaken Christmas tree.’

Garec roared with laughter, nearly slipping on an icy rock and tumbling into the shallows. Brand and Kellin joined in as Gilmour struck several ridiculous poses, his leggings sagging over his bony backside.

Steven focused his will; his skin tautened into gooseflesh, and he felt the familiar sensation of something charged moving through his body. The air began to thicken; the pines, the Blackstones and the snowy riverbank all blurred into a distant, waxy backdrop.

Gilmour stopped his posturing and moved to stand beside him. ‘Is it working?’ he asked softly.

As Steven nodded, the others quieted as well and Gilmour asked, ‘How close do you need me?’

‘Until I get it right, stay here beside me, please.’

‘Get it right?’ Gilmour put a hand on Steven’s shoulder. ‘My boy, if I don’t get in that water soon, the heat out here is going to leave me senseless.’

‘You can feel it?’ Steven wished he had thought to bring along the hickory staff. Somehow having it in his hands gave him confidence; it helped him to feel that magic was tangible. His battle with Nerak had taught him he didn’t need it, but for the first time since defeating the fallen sorcerer, Steven missed the wooden staff.

‘You’re doing fine. Let’s go.’ Gilmour waded in, gave a quick wave to the others and dived beneath the surface.

Steven stripped off his own tunic and jeans. Standing in his boxers, he turned to Garec and said, ‘I don’t know how long this will take.’

‘We’re not going anywhere. Take your time. Give a shout if you need anything.’

‘I will. Watch out for bone-collectors. There were one or two we didn’t kill back there, and this spell might alert them.’

Kellin’s face was grim. Steven wished she would smile again; it had been good to hear her laughing with Garec.

‘We’ll be back,’ he said, his voice deep and accented. Even though he knew they wouldn’t get the joke, he smiled.

‘Good luck,’ Kellin, Garec and Brand called.

Steven let the spell burgeon and as it enveloped him, stronger now, almost malleable, he cast it out. It found Gilmour paddling in the shallows and wrapped the old man in its embrace. One down. Get it started and it will go on for ever, like the Twinmoons, the fountains at Sandcliff. One down.

He dived into the steely-grey, forbidding water, ignoring the chunks of ice from somewhere upstream. The river was as warm as a summer pond. Beneath the surface, it was clear and clean, untainted by industrial pollution, soil erosion or acid rain. Like the forests high in the Blackstone Mountains, this river was perfect to American eyes. Steven and Mark would have had to trek deep into the national forest above Estes Park to find anything similarly unspoiled; Clear Creek, the crystal stream dancing its roundabout way through Idaho Springs, was oily and foul by comparison.

Steven held his breath while he called up the magic; it was ready now, waiting at his fingertips. He reached out for Gilmour, whose toothy grin assured him it was working fine. At first the air that filled his lungs was cold, a painful shock after the torrid folds of their mystical blanket. A quick adjustment, and the air filling and refilling his chest was positively balmy.

That’s better, he thought, then gestured, let’s swim.

Gilmour grabbed his forearm. Wait a moment.

Steven raised his shoulders dramatically, asking why, then his vision, blurry despite the flawless clarity of the mountain water, sharpened itself little by little until he could see as clearly as if he were wearing a scuba mask.

Holy shit, he thought, that’s an impressive bit of sorcery. He grinned and gave Gilmour the thumbs-up. An inquisitive look from Gilmour meant he had no idea what that meant, so he patted him enthusiastically on the back instead and swam towards the centre of the river, careful not to touch the muddy bed.

It wasn’t long before he spotted it, in the distance. He had been right; halfway between the fiery maples and the granite cliff face above the opposite bank was the rocky moraine. The pagan altar seemed larger than it had on Steven’s last visit, and he wondered if somehow Nerak’s spell included a bit of fine print, a clause ensuring increased fortification of the spell table’s fortress over time.

Hoyt wept. Outside, dawn was unfurling a grey flag over Pellia. It would be another day without sunshine, another icy day spent ducking the Palace Guard, and quietly mourning Churn. His breathing was laboured but soft, his sobs muffled by his woollen blanket.

Hoyt didn’t want Hannah to see him like this. For five days he had managed not to fall apart, weeping and raging that his best friend had been left, dead, outside Prince Malagon’s haunted keep, but this morning, Hoyt broke down. Every night he had been tormented by dreams of Churn playing that absurd rock-paper-scissors game with Hannah, then slipping off the buttress. Last night had been the worst yet. Churn had tried to tell him something, and in his nightmare, he couldn’t understand. Just before he fell, the Pragan giant had looked over Hannah’s shoulder – had he really done that? – and mouthed something to Hoyt, standing safe on the snowy balcony. And try as he might, Hoyt couldn’t make out what Churn was trying to say.

Now the reality of Churn being fired upon, all those arrows piercing his back, falling, the big man falling to the greensward below and being left for those Malakasian monsters to rip apart – rutting whores, those things probably ate him – was more than Hoyt could bear. And he wept for his friend.

Hannah Sorenson, oblivious to Hoyt’s suffering, stripped to her underwear and washed using the basin of tepid water in the corner of the room. While Hoyt still slept she planned to dress and find breakfast for both of them. Alen and Milla were in a smaller room across the hall, the little girl sleeping on the mattress while Alen curled up in a nest of blankets on the wooden floor. All through their flight from Welstar Palace, their journey using the small boat they ‘borrowed’ and subsequent passage north on a civilian barge they encountered, Alen had not left Milla’s side. There was no sound from their chamber now, and Hannah assumed they were both still asleep.

She would find breakfast: tecan, warm bread, cheese, fruit, maybe even some meat. Hoyt needed nourishment. He hadn’t been well since they had arrived in the capital city and Hannah was worried. The young thief was as taut as a piece of piano wire, tightening a bit each day. He looked drawn and haggard, worn to the nub, stretched near to breaking-point, Hannah thought. She hoped sleep and a good breakfast might help him find some peace.

Hoyt watched Hannah in the half-light, stifling his tears. She didn’t know he was awake, hadn’t heard him crying. For the past two Twinmoons they had spent many nights together, elbowing one another playfully out of the way as they shared rooms, blankets, wine and food and firelight. They had been on a mission, working their way north: Hoyt working for the Resistance, Hannah seeking a way home. For all he liked the foreign girl, Hoyt hadn’t really noticed her before now. She certainly hadn’t noticed him.