The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  Nine hundred Twinmoons he has his slaves searching for me, and now I’m fifteen paces away and he doesn’t know it?

  He glanced at Hannah. She was obviously shaken, but unhurt. Brushing bits of glass from her tunic, she looked up at him and shook her head.

  I wish you could feel this… It’s like Sandcliff used to be. The energy is all over the place.

  Whose energy is it?

  I don’t know, but it’s enormous, more powerful than me or Fantus, or even Milla.

  Alen was shocked into stillness for a moment: nine hundred Twinmoons, and now Nerak didn’t wish to face him. It didn’t make sense. Then, watching Hannah pull herself up using the door frame, he realised what Fantus had screamed before diving to the cobblestones.

  ‘It’s not Nerak,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ Hannah said, her ears still ringing. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘It’s not him.’ He pointed discreetly at the Ronan sailor, then clasped his hands together while his mind spiralled, almost out of control. ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked finally. Larion magic swirled around him. He revelled in it for a moment, allowing it to float him effortlessly back countless Twinmoons, to Sandcliff and to Pikan and his friends. He had been waiting half his life for a chance to kill his old colleague, and in an instant, he had lost it. He could still sense vestiges of Nerak, a faint scent, occasional traces of magic employed in recent Twinmoons, but Fantus had been right: whoever that was, it wasn’t Nerak.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ he said again, still watching the South Coaster push through the crowd. ‘What is that thing?’

  ‘It’s them, Alen,’ Hannah said, ‘your friends – they’re here! That’s Fantus over there; you said so yourself… Alen, help them, now!’

  He looked around, then said, ‘You’re right; Hannah, please, get back inside!’ He raised his palms to the sky, feeling his magic marshal itself for battle. Once he was certain the dark-skinned sailor was preoccupied with Fantus, and when the crowds around the Ronan sailor were thinnest, he released an incendiary spell that sent a second shock wave blazing across the pier.

  The magic caught Redrick Shen unawares and he crashed through the front window of the Malakasian customs house. Alen started across the road, watching the wreckage and waiting for the South Coaster to reappear. With another spell at his fingertips, he ignored the warning sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It was nothing; he was just upset. There was nothing to be ‘Mark Jenkins!’

  Alen heard the shout, louder and more intense than the here-and-there cries of the injured, but he paid it no attention, preferring instead to watch and wait for the thing inside the customs house. It wouldn’t be long; it would be back. Perhaps if he pulled the whole building down, perhaps that might Arrow!

  He let go the magic before turning around; Garec’s first shot glanced up and over his shoulder, striking an invisible Larion barrier.

  ‘You there!’ he shouted Another arrow; rutters, but this boy is fast!

  With a flick of his wrist, he set Garec’s second shaft afire, sidestepped it and watched as it embedded itself in the wall of the building behind him.

  ‘Stop shooting at me!’ he cried, but another arrow was already on the way. He deflected this one too, then called a spell to stun the bowman, who had appeared out of a side street next to the tavern. The spell hit the archer in the chest, knocking him to the ground amidst a mess of fish and broken glass and wooden splinters.

  When Alen started back toward the customs house, the creature was gone.

  Thunk. The lights came on, not as before; these weren’t swamp lights, orange twilights and red dawns coloured by marsh gases and fog. Rather, these were noisy, overhead lights, the kind one would find in a cafeteria or a warehouse. They came on with an audible thunk as the breaker switched. And they didn’t brighten the room all of a sudden, like bathroom lights or lights on a stage; they took some time to warm up, and afterwards, the entire swamp would be bathed in the cold, harsh glare of shopping-mall white.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Mark asked, still hugging the column, still watching for the crippled coral snake. ‘What now?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Hey,’ Mark shouted across the basin and up through the tangled forest on the other side of the Gloriette, ‘hey, dickhead, what’s going on?’

  Again, nothing.

  As the marble coping, the marble columns and the narrow arched bridge came into focus, their haunted shadows banished, Mark realised something else: apart from the humming lights, there was no noise; there were no swampy smells. No insects buzzed and nipped at his face; no birds screamed, no frogs belched, nothing moved about in the brush. It was as if he had suddenly found himself on an elaborate sound stage, and all the dials labelled ‘Swamp Effects’ had been turned to zero.

  ‘Hey, stinky!’ he tried again. ‘You still up there?’

  The warehouse lights brightened the forest enough for him to see where someone had been working. The view, obscured thus far by vines, clouds of fog and shadows, was now relatively clear, and Mark couldn’t spot anyone moving on the side of the hill.

  ‘Must’ve gone out, got hungry,’ he murmured.

  But the real lights, the natural lights that he had been trying to reach, those were still on.

  Mark gnawed on his lower lip, took a last look around, and said, ‘Screw it. Let’s go.’ If the person on the hill, the one responsible for summoning all those gruesome and disfigured creatures, was truly gone, even for a minute or two, it gave Mark the chance to be there when he got back. ‘Then I can kick your head in for you, motherfucker,’ he murmured as he sneaked along the coping towards the next column in the row.

  He was across the bridge and partially up the slope before the warehouse lights went out with a second noisy thunk. A few seconds later, the swamp sprang back to life. Insects buzzed, and nibbled at his ears. The humidity went up as the perpetually fading twilight returned, and Mark could hear animals – snakes, rodents and small birds – moving amongst the branches.

  Did you miss me?

  Mark was huddled in the folding roots of a banyan tree; he kept silent.

  Oh Mark, my friend, where are you?

  He couldn’t see anything from his hiding place, but he could hear someone shuffling around. Whoever it was had found his way back inside the swamp, or the Fold, or wherever this place was.

  I’m sorry, old friend, but I was- what’s the phrase? – out of it for a while. I ran into your companions, and we had a bit of a disagreement, but everything’s fine now.

  No, it’s not, Mark thought. You’re moving around too much. Something’s wrong. Did Steven beat the shit out of you? Got some nasty bruises, have you? He had to bite his lip to keep from answering.

  Don’t feel like chatting? I’ll see if anyone down there can find you for me.

  Mark searched for the coral snake. It would be coming; it could smell him, taste him, whatever it does with that nasty little tongue. He’d have to move soon.

  Just a few seconds, Mark thought, just give me a few seconds to figure out what’s going on, and I’ll come to you, dickhead. I’ll be right there.

  ‘Blackford!’ Redrick screamed as he stalked up the gangplank, and when he failed to appear, the enraged Ronan shouted for Kem. ‘Is that thing ready to ship?’ He pointed at the crate, trussed up with double and triple safety ropes, just in case.

  ‘Yes, sir, ah, Redrick, sir. Sorry,’ Kem stammered. ‘It’s all secured and ready to go, sir.’

  ‘Load it onto the ketch and do it quick, but if you so much as scratch the planks on that crate, I’ll gut the lot of you; understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Kem said, trying not to let the monster see how much he was shaking. His companions nodded agreement. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, sir, but are you all right? I mean, we all heard the commotion over that way; it nearly knocked the whole crane down on us, sir.’

  ‘Don’t waste my fucking time!’ Redrick cried, and stormed
off, still screaming for Captain Blackford.

  ‘All right, boys, you heard him,’ Kem said. ‘Let’s get this done right, and we might just live to see tomorrow.’ Despite the intricate system of double-block pulleys and winches, the crate was heavy; two of his mates hurried to help him as he manned the main line.

  ‘Haul her away lightly, boys,’ Kem sang out, ‘just up over the side, and then we’ll ease her down gently. That’s the way.’ They guided the crate over the starboard rail and slowly let the main line relax back through the pulleys. The crate descended into the ketch’s hold. Kem watched the little boat’s first mate, waited for the correct hand signal, then said, ‘And… that does it, quick and easy. Nice job, boys. First round’s on-’

  Kem was thrown to the deck; his assistants were tossed over the side. One fell onto the rail of the ketch; shocked onlookers heard bones snap before he slipped between the two vessels and sank beneath the deep-water pier. The other crashed into the ketch’s hold, striking the edge of the crate they had just transferred with such care. By the angle of his head, it looked like his neck was broken cleanly.

  The blast had been close, on deck somewhere, and when Kem came to a moment later and saw Redrick Shen bursting from the aft companionway, leaving the door in pieces and planks in the quarterdeck splintered and jutting upwards up like so many broken teeth, he recognised the cause.

  ‘Blackford!’ Redrick shouted, ‘where’s my fucking stone, Blackford?’

  Kem tried to feign unconsciousness, figuring it might save his life, but he was too late; his movement had been noticed.

  Redrick bounded across the deck, crouched down and asked, ‘Did you transfer my cargo?’

  ‘We did, sir,’ Kem whispered. ‘It’s safely aboard the ketch.’

  ‘Excellent. Join them, and have their captain set sail for Welstar Palace immediately. I will catch up to you before the midday aven. Remain within hailing distance of the west bank. Understand?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Kern’s head felt as though it had cracked. He raised his hand to check his scalp for blood, but stopped when he saw Redrick’s face.

  ‘Now!’ Redrick said; his voice alone was enough to terrify the veteran seaman. ‘Where is Captain Blackford?’

  Garec crawled towards Captain Ford. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s a bit banged about, but she’ll live. How about you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Garec lied. His head was ringing. ‘We need to get out of here. I’m going for Gilmour. You two, get ready to move, and watch for that young-looking prick in the sloppy tunic – that’s Mark Jenkins. He clobbered me, could’ve killed me; I don’t know why he didn’t.’

  ‘Where’s Gilmour?’ Brexan asked, rubbing her temples.

  ‘The last I saw him, he had crashed through that hut, over near the pier. Keep my bow; I’ll be back.’ Garec stood with a groan. ‘Be ready to run back to the Morning Star.’

  ‘Wait,’ Ford said, and pointed towards the wharf. ‘Look!’

  The wharf and the road that fronted it were filling with Malakasian soldiers, their black and gold finery bright in the early sunlight.

  ‘Whoring rutters!’ Garec shouted, ‘we’ll never reach him now.’ He searched the street. ‘I should’ve known better,’ he muttered. ‘I should’ve known the bow would be useless – but I’ve no choice, no rutting choice at all.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve just got to try.’

  ‘Garec, look at that,’ the captain interrupted. He was staring at a wooden crate suspended above the Bellan’s main deck. As they watched, it was hoisted carefully over the rail and down into the hold of the small boat lashed to the frigate. ‘Look at the way those sailors are handling that thing; it’s got two extra lines for rutting sake, and it’s bound up tighter than a whore’s purse. You’d think it had Captain’s Mother stencilled on the side.’

  ‘Then we’re too late.’ Brexan finally spoke. ‘We’ll have to follow them upriver. Can we catch that boat?’

  ‘If we don’t waste any more time around here,’ Ford replied. ‘That’s a ketch, and they can’t get much sail on her at all. If we can get out into the tide, we’ll run up on her with no trouble. But Mark will see us coming. There won’t be any hiding a brig-sloop under full sail running up his backside.’

  There was another explosion, a crushing blast, this time from the Bellan herself.

  ‘Whoring mothers!’ Brexan shouted, ‘what now?’ She held fast to the captain’s arm as she watched the soldiers along the waterfront deploy. It was clear that no one knew what was happening. Officers and sergeants shouted orders, but were largely ignored. Men helped injured comrades to safety, several choosing to make their own escape at the same time.

  Then, through the confusion, they noticed a strange little man with messy hair hurrying towards them. He was carrying a plump young man, an unconscious victim of the morning’s battle, over his shoulder, and was followed by a lithe woman with pale skin, high cheekbones and wispy hair.

  ‘That’s him, the rutter! And he’s got Gilmour,’ Garec shouted. ‘My bow, Captain, give me my bow!’

  ‘No,’ Brexan said, teetering as she stood, ‘wait!’

  ‘Stay right where you are!’ Garec cried, wrestling the bow from Captain Ford. He nocked an arrow and shouted again, ‘I said stop, right now!’

  The stranger ignored the warnings and crossed the road to join them in the alley beside the tavern. Glaring at Garec, he said, ‘Put that away, you fool! Do you want to spend the rest of what will be a very short life in a Malakasian prison? What are you thinking? Didn’t Fantus teach you anything?’ He pushed past the startled bowman and rested Gilmour gingerly against the tavern wall. ‘And I would appreciate it if, next time, you check with me before trying to punch me full of holes. I was quite busy just then, I can assure you.’

  Stunned, Garec looked to his friends for an answer, and when they shrugged, he wheeled on the presumptuous stranger. ‘Who the-’

  Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’ He prised open one of Gilmour’s eyelids and checked the pupil. ‘He knows me as Kantu.’

  ‘Kantu,’ Garec whispered, ‘then you’re-’

  The woman kneeling beside Gilmour reached out a hand, just as Steven Taylor had done, all those Twinmoons ago, in the orchard outside Estrad. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’

  Garec smiled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Hannah Sorenson. I know someone who’s been looking for you.’

  Gilmour gave a low moan and rocked his head from side to side. Alen, supporting his old colleague, said, ‘He’ll be all right in a moment. Hide that bloody bow and let’s get going.’

  ‘I’m Doren Ford, Captain Ford, and I suggest we get back to my ship.’

  ‘Yes,’ the strange little man – Alen – agreed. ‘For the moment that will be safer than our rooms.’

  Hannah, who had been looking terrified a moment earlier, now all but beamed. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On my ship,’ Ford answered, ‘which is where we all need to be if we’re to catch up with that table.’

  Alen froze. ‘Well, that bloody explains it!’

  ‘What?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘The magic around here this morning. It’s the spell table, isn’t it?’

  Garec nodded.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘They just finished loading it onto that ketch lying alongside the frigate.’

  Hannah blanched, knitting her fingers together nervously. ‘We can’t let them get it to Welstar Palace, not with that army there, those things…’

  ‘What things?’ Garec asked, then interrupted himself. ‘Never mind, you can tell us along the way.’

  ‘Hoyt and Milla!’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll go get them.’

  ‘I’m Brexan Carderic. I’ll come with you.’ To Garec, she said, ‘Do you remember the way back to the Morning Star?’

  ‘We do,’ he said, ‘but-’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Brexan assured him. ‘I am, really. We’ll be along in a moment. When you get back, you’ll find plenty of healers in Nardic Street, nea
r the marina where we moored. It was out of the way this morning, but you’ll be able to find someone there now.’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Alen said. ‘The Larion spell table should never have come within a Moon’s travel of Welstar Palace. The fact that it’s within shouting distance is a dreadful sign for all of us. As luck would have it, we already have a healer with us.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘Alen…’

  ‘What? You said you can have him on his feet in a day, two at the most.’

  She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I can, but we need the far portals.’

  ‘We’ve got them,’ Garec said, ‘well, one anyway.’

  ‘Where’s the other?’ Hannah asked anxiously.

  ‘Your mother has it.’

  ‘My mother! How in all hells did she get into this?’

  ‘Ask Steven.’

  Hannah’s brow furrowed. ‘I can see we’ve a lot of catching up to do, but this is fine, better even – she can help us.’

  ‘Good then,’ Garec said. ‘See you two on the ship, and be careful; don’t stop until you reach the inn, and then don’t stop until you get back to the marina.’ He helped Alen get Gilmour shakily to his feet, then led them away from the devastation.

  ‘The only time Steven ever quiets down about you is when he’s busy defending the lot of us from some demon or a mad sorcerer with a case of constipation,’ Brexan said cheerfully as the two women made their way carefully through the disordered crowds.

  ‘Steven?’ Hannah repeated, ‘my Steven? Defending the lot of you? I truly don’t understand!’

  ‘We do have a lot to talk about,’ Brexan said, ‘and actually, I think I’ll let him tell you about it.’

  ‘And Mark? Is he here as well?’

  Brexan started to nod, then shook her head. ‘Yes- No, well, not right now.’ She watched the soldiers slowly bringing order back to the wharf. ‘Um, you should discuss this with Steven.’

  Hannah, not appreciating being put off for no apparent reason, pressed for a proper answer. ‘What? Mark’s either here or he isn’t. I don’t – holy shit, look at this guy!’