The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  Garec, still shouldering his disguised weapons, felt like he was looking pretty suspicious, hurrying back and forth with a rolled length of sailcloth over his shoulder. ‘What does she look like?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘like a little girl, maybe forty, fifty Twinmoons, not much more.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Garec said. ‘How many little—’

  ‘Fantus!’ someone shouted from the tavern, ‘Fantus, get down!’

  Gilmour turned to see a strange young man waving frantically and charging into the road. The stranger was obscured for an instant while a cart laden with headless jemmafish passed between them. When the explosion shattered the morning, the cart flipped end over end, spilling its cargo and splintering on the cobblestones.

  With the instant’s warning, Gilmour shouted something unintelligible to his friends and dived for the gutter, but it wasn’t enough. Mark’s spell struck him solidly, casting him up and through the thin wooden walls of a workers’ hut. He fell through the stove, burning his back and arms, and crashed into the block-and-tackle crane next to the Falkan frigate.

  Garec couldn’t make out what the stranger had shouted, but he watched as Gilmour wheeled, shouted as well, then threw himself face-first onto the street.

  Acting on instinct, Garec tightened his grip on the sailcloth roll and grasped a fistful of Brexan’s sleeve. He heaved himself backwards, hauling Brexan with him, and slammed into Captain Ford. The three of them tumbled into the street beside the tavern as the dockside windows burst outwards in a cloud of flying glass. Several shards ripped through Garec’s tunic, tearing open his back.

  The street was unforgiving; Garec felt more skin scrape from his hip. Beside him, Ford cursed, and rolled over with a moan.

  Brexan lay still, unnervingly silent.

  ‘See to her!’ Garec shouted, slipping an arm through one of his quivers, but the captain didn’t move. ‘Captain Ford!’ Garec kicked him hard in the lower leg.

  ‘What? What was that? Garec, what was that?’ Shaking, obviously in shock, he covered his face with his hands.

  ‘See to Brexan,’ Garec repeated and strung his bow. ‘I’ll be back.’ He watched long enough to see the seaman push himself onto all fours. Good enough, he thought, trying not to worry that he’d seen no sign of life from Brexan. There’d be time for that later.

  He hesitated at the corner, ignoring the screams of the injured, the headless jemmafish strewn about and the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. He felt blood trickling down his back and soaking into his clothes. His side ached and his hip blazed where he had scraped it raw. Not much time, he thought. The waterfront guards will be here in two breaths. There was another explosion, this one further away, somewhere east of the tavern, but like the blood, the fish, the screams and the broken glass, the Bringer of Death ignored it. He’d have one shot, maybe two, before Mark Jenkins found and killed him.

  ‘The whoreson was in the tavern the whole time,’ he murmured.

  Jacrys was a few steps from the tiny foyer when the first explosion rocked the tavern and his upstairs safehouse. Without a banister, his tenuous grip on the cracked wooden walls failed and he tumbled to the lower floor. As the last step creaked beneath his weight, Jacrys took stock of his broken body. His chin dripped blood and a collarbone was broken – painful but not alarming; he needed only one good arm for what he was about to do. One ankle had been wrenched and he recognised the unpleasant tingling sensation that meant he’d torn ligaments. This too was inconvenient, but no real deterrent. The biggest problem was that something had finally broken – irreparably this time – inside his lung. He realised it was filling with blood, and quickly too; he’d drown soon.

  So there was precious little time left. Jacrys fumbled for Thadrake’s knife, set his jaw and pushed himself to his feet with a groan, screaming involuntarily when the broken ends of his collarbone rubbed together, and again when his ankle thunked against the wall. The sound was horrific, a penultimate death-rattle.

  He barely registered the second explosion, nor did he hear the cries of the injured. With blood smeared over his face and bubbling on his lips, Jacrys Marseth staggered into the street.

  Alen – Kantu – had been outside the tavern for just a moment when he felt the seeking spell. He didn’t know why Fantus had failed to detect it, but he would have to act quickly, on faith that he had truly found his old friend. Someone close by was trying to kill him.

  He cast a shield to protect himself and Hannah, a spell he hadn’t called in over a thousand Twinmoons. Then he screamed, ‘Fantus! Fantus, get down!’ and pushed Hannah beneath the doorway, hoping the solid construction around the entryway might offer some slight protection. He had an instant’s eye contact with Fantus before a wagon loaded with malodorous fish rattled past, then the blast crashed and rolled along the road. There hadn’t been time to cast a protection spell over Fantus. His ears ringing, his magic boiling in his blood, Alen sprang to his feet and turned to face their attacker.

  It was Nerak, it had to be, and whether he was in the guise of Prince Malagon, Princess Bellan, or a dockside shopkeeper, he didn’t care. He had waited half his life for this chance; it was time for vengeance. From the east a muscular South Coaster, a sailor, strode into the carnage, rather than fleeing like most. The sailor stared straight ahead, through the crowds and across the wharf to where Fantus’ body lay crumpled against the base of the wooden crane. He didn’t turn aside, nor did he appear to flinch, or even to notice Alen at all.

  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 nothi
ng 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?’

&nb
sp; ‘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.