Paul Finch - Dark North

Lucan’s lip curled. “You think, in destroying Emperor Lucius, we missed a chance to improve our world?”

“You missed a chance to learn from the mistakes of others, my lord. And I fear that you, and more like you, will miss that opportunity again and again… until the end of your days.” Maximion sighed. “Though I concede that time will not come along soon.” Fresh thunder rumbled overhead; once again rain began to fall. “Bah! More wretched precipitation! I take it you wish me to ride on top with the dead men?”

“No,” Lucan said. “I will ride on top.”

Maximion looked surprised, and even a little grateful.

“Don’t get me wrong, tribune… it’s merely that I doubt your foppish Roman constitution can endure much more, and you’re the only item of value I’m taking home.”

If Trelawna heard this, she didn’t glance up. She didn’t even flinch as the icy droplets struck her uncovered head.

While Maximion climbed inside the coach, Lucan took hold of her bridle.

Her empty eyes raked over him. “If I’m no longer your prize, why not leave me here?”

“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “There’s a place for you inside the coach.”

The rain hardened, sweeping over them. The wind strengthened.

“Erm… my lord?” Malvolio wondered. “Am I to ride inside the coach too?”

“Don’t be absurd, boy.”

“No, no. Of course not.” Malvolio smiled at his own foolishness as he climbed up to the bench, ensuring to leave a place from which his master could take the reins. He pulled up his coif, though it did nothing to stop the rain. “How, erm, how far are we going?”

“Home to Penharrow,” Lucan replied. He glanced back at Trelawna, who had now climbed from her horse. “Though in your case,” he told her, “home to Camelot.”

She didn’t react, so he took her by the hand, and led her to the open coach door.

“You can live in the comfort of the palace,” he muttered. “It’s the best I can do for you. Though many would die for such an honour.”

“Oh, my love,” she said as she climbed aboard, “so many have.”