The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘Rest on me,’ she whispered, tossing another log onto the fire. ‘I’ll stay awake and keep the fire going; you rest on me.’ Her ribs blazed; the shattered ends of her collarbone scraped against one another and a cold sweat chilled her face. She was sick, exhausted, but she had done it; she had done everything she could to save him. Whether or not he lived through the night was now up to the gods. She stroked his face, then massaged his legs and arms as well as she could with just one hand, willing his blood to start circulating into his extremities.

  Rocking him this way in her lap, she passed the night and saw dawn begin to whiten the eastern sky. Shortly before sun-up, Kellin finally fell asleep, Garec’s head resting across her thighs.

  THE WAGON TRAIN

  Brexan waved to Marrin, Sera and those members of the Morning Star’s crew she could see from the porch at the Topgallant. Captain Ford was missing; Brexan assumed he had gone into the city to make arrangements for whatever cargo he and his crew would ship back to Praga. In just a few days he had gone from being almost destitute, struggling with the uncertainty of securing any business at all, to being one of the few men left in Orindale with a seaworthy vessel. More than once in the past three days Brexan had heard Ford complain that the Morning Star, his chubby little twin-masted brig-sloop, was too small; right now he was wishing he had invested in a larger vessel: a bark, maybe, or a fat galleon. But even so, he could ship almost anything anywhere, and he had been getting offers every day to carry sundry cargoes all over Eldarn. Captain Ford could name his price; Orindale’s merchants would pay.

  Anchoring on the flats near the marsh might have been humiliating, but it had been the wisest move the captain had made since sailing north. When the mysterious power had broken, sunk or burned the rest of the merchant fleet to the waterline, the Morning Star had been safely out of sight around the northern point. With her leaks patched and tarred and her stores replenished, the Morning Star waited only for her captain to make a deal, then he and the crew would bring her south to the quay, take on whatever they were hauling and sail on the next falling tide.

  But Captain Ford wasn’t fooling himself into thinking he had a monopoly on Eldarn’s largest economic centre. Ships were coming from Pellia, Strandson, Southport, Averil and Landry; there were plenty of vessels plying the Ravenian Sea and as word spread of the recent devastation, all of them would see Orindale as a goldmine, a chance for lucrative long-term contracts for five, ten, maybe even twenty times what they would have been worth in the past.

  Captain Ford seemed to be a wise and experienced seaman; he wouldn’t drag his feet now. Brexan had enjoyed having him, Sera, even Marrin, staying at the Topgallant for the past few days, and she wondered if he and the Morning Star would be back at the boarding house in the coming Twinmoons.

  Brexan had yet to see the devastation, she’d heard plenty about it, and she got the feeling that her life was about to go back into motion; the pendulum marking the passage of her time here in Orindale had begun swinging the other way. She pulled her cloak closed as she crossed the jetty and entered the northern wharf. She felt the wind bite at her face and hands. It was always windier down here than up near the marsh. Sheltered by the city and the stubby peninsula jutting into the harbour, Nedra’s cove was rarely windy, and almost never as cold as the Falkan capital. Though winter at the Topgallant had been marked by chilly rain, periodic snow showers and plenty of fog, the frigid winds here reminded Brexan that spring was still a Twinmoon away. She sucked in a breath, felt it chill her lungs and hurried towards the city centre. Right now, shopping was the most important item on her agenda.

  Brexan had invited the entire neighbourhood, including Nella Barkson’s extended family and the crew of the Morning Star, to Nedra’s four-hundred-Twinmoon party, at least twelve people more than she had originally figured, and the way the Barksons and the sailors ate and drank, she was going to need more supplies – another barrel of beer, at least, another gansel, more bread, and more fish stew. She wouldn’t be able to carry everything on her shopping list, but she might get lucky and run into Captain Ford along the wharf and maybe she could persuade him to lug a box or two of provisions back, perhaps in exchange for free beer that night.

  She watched as three massive frigates, rigged with an impossible tangle of ropes and sheets, made their way north from the harbour. Loaded to bursting, they plunged north through the whitecaps under full sail. They all flew Malakasian colours. Heading home to Pellia, I’d wager. I wonder how they survived. Maybe the mess down here isn’t as bad as everyone claims. Things do tend to get inflated a bit by the time they reach Nedra’s cove, she thought.

  Another hundred paces south, with the frigates nearly out of sight on the northern horizon, Brexan realised that no one had exaggerated the details of the mysterious attack on Orindale’s merchant fleet. Like so many others in the past few days, Brexan stared in disbelief.

  The ships that were moored along the quay and off the offshore buoys were gone. There was nothing left. A few naval vessels plied the waves, but there was nothing to patrol. A handful of small civilian boats scurried between the derelict ships and bits of wreckage that remained tied to offshore moorings, while scavengers and legal salvage companies picked over what remained of the massive merchant vessels, collecting bits of metal, a few salvageable lengths of rope, even some miraculously unburned planks and beams, but otherwise, the harbour was empty, devoid of its usual bustle.

  Something fluttered through Brexan’s memory; she whirled around, peering into the distance where grey water met grey sky in a perfect demarcation of the end of the world. She could just make out the last of the frigates, making way towards Pellia, as Carpello Jax’s final confession came back to her: It’s wood, processed wood, but not lumber. Bark and shavings, leaves and roots. I don’t know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask.

  ‘Is that what they’re hauling?’ she whispered to herself.

  She watched until the topmasts disappeared over the horizon. Carpello was dead; she had stood with Sallax and Nedra as his body was washed away on the outgoing tide. Could the evil merchant have something to do with those frigates? Were they carrying the last of Carpello ‘s shipments of bark and roots? It seemed unlikely, but Brexan couldn’t discount the possibility that Carpello’s fading stench was somehow all over the devastation of Orindale Harbour.

  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 al
ong 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.

  Alen, you crazy bastard! Hoyt thought, drawing his scalpel and snaking up the ditch. All right, let’s go!

  He hurried behind a burning wagon to reach one whose cargo had not yet caught fire. The driver was fighting to keep his team of horses calm, trying to lead them around the blaze blocking the roadway. As Hoyt slipped past, the driver reached for him, grabbing a handful of his scarf, and Hoyt rounded on him, slashing tendons in the man’s wrist to render his hand useless. The fight was one-sided and quick, but as Hoyt ran, he heard the driver shouting, ‘They’re here! Come back! They’re already here, you fools!’

  ‘Not long now,’ Hoyt muttered, quickening his pace. At the rear of the wagon, he tore off a piece of burning wood and tossed it into the bed, scorching the bags of wheat. Two down, Hoyt thought, and dived into the ditch to avoid being trampled by the horses pulling the third cart. The driver was dead, slumped sideways and crackling like a campfire. The horses, spooked by the conflagration, galloped wildly across the ditch and into an adjacent field. The cart, smouldering here and there with outbreaks of yellow flame, failed to negotiate the ditch, crashed over and spilled its load. The reins snapped and the team took off eastwards. Hoyt watched as what was left of the wagon caught fire, brightening the Pellia night. ‘Three down,’ he said, checking for Seron as he made his way towards the last cart in the convoy. He had still not spotted Alen but knew his friend was all right, because salvos of fireballs continued to rain down intermittently, occasionally coming close enough to Hoyt to leave him swearing. The fireballs looked and sounded like arrows as they flew overhead, a simple ruse, but convincing enough to buy Hoyt another moment or two to ensure the final wagon was well on its way to ash. Then I’m getting out of here, he told himself.

 
The Seron were coming back. Any normal guard, having found no one in the fields, might return warily until they knew what strange enchantments were upon them… but these weren’t normal soldiers. The Seron charged the wagon convoy as wildly and with the same recklessness that they had attacked the invisible enemy line. Demonpiss, out of time! Hoyt thought, and risked calling, ‘Alen!’ No one answered, and the din from the injured and the dying went on unabated.

  Hoyt dived for the last cart. One of the slat sides had caught alight, and he planned to do as before, break off a bit and chuck it into the wagon bed, then to flee as fast as he could. He pounded on the end of a burning slat, trying to keep from watching the Seron soldiers as they ran, barking and grunting, across the frozen field. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered as he pulled, ‘I’ve no time for this. I need to get going-’

  Then he saw Alen, lying in a heap, hidden by dancing, fire-lit shadows. It looked to Hoyt like he had fallen into the cart and struck his head, or maybe broken his rutting neck. There was no time to think. Hoyt climbed over the burning side, scorching himself as he dropped onto the soft canvas bags.

  ‘Alen,’ he whispered, ‘come on, Alen, wake up.’ He shook the old magician, praying his friend would open his eyes. Outside, the Seron had returned and were now searching the area for terrorists. Some shouted orders; others ran here and there, chasing down every flicker and moving shadow. One soldier climbed the cart where Hoyt and Alen were hiding and used a muscular paw to wrench the burning slats free without so much as a grimace.

  Hoyt had already moved, dragging the canvas satchels over him until he and Alen were buried. ‘We’ll sneak out when you come around,’ he whispered, ‘until then, stay low… and… and I’ll have the venison

  …’

  ‘I’ll have the venison,’ Hoyt said, ‘and a flagon of wine, something decent, not the cat’s piss you were pushing in here last night.’