by Rob Scott
Once inside the port limits, the riders drew a crowd of curious and frightened onlookers. Although few challenged them directly, Versen heard several people shouting obscenities from behind; he wondered how brave they would be if the Seron turned back to answer them. Children were hustled indoors, pedestrians scurried out of the way and some less brave merchants drew their blinds and closed up business for the day. None of the Ronans had ever seen a Seron warrior before; most had no idea what the sinister-looking creatures dressed as Malakasian soldiers could possibly want in their peaceable city.
By the time the company reached the main green, the crowd gathering about them had tripled and several burly farmers dared to confront the Seron. Forming a human barrier across the muddy road, they attempted to force the strangers to stop.
Karn, remaining calm, reined in and gestured for the others to halt as well, but neither he nor Rala made any motion to dismount, or to draw their weapons. Looking backwards, Versen could see Haden was prepared to do battle; he swallowed thickly as he pictured the Seron tearing the citizens apart and eating the flesh of the wounded.
As the throng closed in Versen heard people calling out, ‘Are you prisoners?’ and ‘Have they kidnapped you?’, interspersed between sundry rescue offers and shouts of encouragement. ‘Those two must be partisans,’ and ‘Free the prisoners,’ rang above the din as a rallying cry.
Brexan released her arms from Versen’s waist and looked nervously at the ever-tightening circle of angry citizens. Certain the crowd was too thick for them to escape with Renna, Brexan searched for an alley or a side road, or even an open building into which they might disappear. The thick mud caked about the mare’s hooves made Brexan think their progress on foot would be slow. Then her stomach sank.
Raising her arms to the crowd, the former occupation soldier screamed a warning, but as she shouted, ‘Get out of the mud! Get back! Off the street, hurry!’, it was already too late.
Some hesitated, looking to Brexan questioningly as the almor struck. Its first target was an obese woman shaking her fist angrily in Karn’s face, but unlike its attack on the scrub oak, the demon did not absorb this victim slowly. Instead, she imploded: her flabby arms, flour-sack breasts and wobbling stomach collapsed inwards. Brexan, anguished, saw the woman’s eyes widen in horror before the eyeballs, devoid of anything resembling a life force, collapsed backwards into her now-vacant skull. Within moments nothing remained of the woman except a leathery skin bag and a collection of brittle bones.
This was only the beginning.
The angry throng still hadn’t quite grasped what was happening when the second victim was taken. The opaque figure, glowing with the energy of its first kill, burst from the mud like a rogue ocean wave and enveloped a man who had been encouraging Versen to escape. The almor rained over the unsuspecting merchant like a cloudburst, each droplet of the demon leaching the vitality from the hapless businessman. His rubicund face turned as pale as the demon itself; the blood drained visibly from his limbs and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. The almor was reabsorbed by the dense Ronan mud; the merchant was gone.
The mood had changed in a heartbeat as anger gave way to curiosity and, an instant later, to terror.
Versen and Brexan were still shouting, ‘It’s an almor!’ and ‘Get off the street!’ but the ancient demon took two more victims before the onlookers managed to push their way back to the relative safety of the wooden plank sidewalks lining the road.
Calmly, Haden spurred his mount forward until it stood abreast of Renna. Though the almor appeared to have gone, Versen turned to shout another warning to the fleeing townsfolk. As he did so the Seron cuffed him hard across the mouth. The backhand swipe knocked the Ronan from his saddle and into the mud with an audible splash.
Brexan, terrified, reached for him frantically, crying, ‘Get up. Get out of the mud!’
Versen slowly regained his feet. Never removing his eyes from the Seron, he ran a hand across his mouth and wiped a stream of blood onto his cloak, then reached for the mare’s reins and began leading Renna towards the green. He stroked Brexan’s thigh reassuringly and said, ‘It’s gone. It won’t hurt me. I’m fine down here.’
The young woman turned on Haden, set her jaw and used Renna’s stirrups to spring between the horses into the soldier’s lap. Surprised by the sudden attack, the Seron did not get his hands up in time to ward off her blows. Cursing wildly, Brexan was able to land several solid punches to the Seron’s already marred face before he managed to grasp her by the tunic belt and heave her into the mud. Brexan landed solidly on her back. She didn’t notice Karn and Rala, who had turned in the saddle and were laughing out loud.
Despite his rage, Versen was too tired and in too much pain to join in the fray. Instead, he moved to Brexan’s side and half-helped her to her feet, while half restraining her from another attack.
She screamed angrily up at Haden, ‘It is not over between us, you ugly, motherless horsecock.’
The scarred one spat a mouthful of blood at her feet and Brexan tried to charge him anew. Versen held her tightly, but she continued to berate the soldier, screaming at him like a fishwife.
Versen was surprised once again at the fiery, resilient soldier masquerading as a small, pretty woman. Even in her furious state he found her alluring.
‘I’d go into battle with you anytime,’ he said as he gave her a playful squeeze, then brushed several large clumps of mud from her back.
‘I am going to kill that one,’ she seethed as her injured eye wept a steady stream down her lacerated, still swollen cheek. ‘That one,’ she pointed again, ‘and the soulless horsecock who broke my face. By the lords, Versen, I am going to gut those two and eat their hearts.’
She paused to catch her breath then added, ‘And I want you there with me when I do it.’
Versen smiled and picked some dried mud from her hair. ‘Well, that may just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’
Brexan laughed, wincing at the pain in her cheek, then reached for Renna’s bridle. The mare whinnied once in approval before following Brexan through the mud towards the wharf beyond the green.
Versen hesitated for a moment to take in their surroundings properly. There was not a person in sight on Strandson’s main thoroughfare except for the gruesome remains of the almor’s four victims, lying haphazardly like pockmarks in the earth. Versen shuddered. Each of the mummified husks was like an open sore on the land, sores that might never close or scab over. He was careful to avoid stepping near any of the demon’s victims for fear that the world might open and swallow him and Brexan into a glowing, pearly-white Eldarni hell.
*
Beyond the green lay Strandson Harbour. Normally a hive of activity, the docks now were silent. Word of the almor attack had spread throughout the small port and save for a pair of drunks sleeping soundly beside an empty wooden crate, Versen was unable to find a stevedore, sailor or merchant, or even a prostitute, out among the abandoned cargoes and shipments. It felt as if they were riding through the inside of a sea god’s tomb, complete with ships, channel markers, trawlers and mooring buoys. Versen and Brexan whispered together, loath to break the silence that blanketed the city. A squabble of seagulls padded contentedly along the wooden docks, searching for food and Brexan shuddered at the thought that even these most clamorous of seabirds remained silent in the wake of the almor’s carnage.
Strandson had five docks stretching out into the harbour. The longest of these, an improbable structure balanced precariously on oak pylons and reaching out into the deeper water, accommodated a twin-masted topsail schooner. Drafting deep in the water, the ship was stocked and ready to sail with the morning tide.
Despite her size, the Falkan Dancer was a sleek vessel with a narrow beam and fluid lines; to Versen it looked like she was already in motion, even though he could clearly see she was tied securely to enormous stanchions. Squinting in an effort to improve his vision, he detected motion on the schooner’s deck
s. He had a horrible thought that he and Brexan were bound for the open sea.
Almost in answer to Versen’s silent query, Karn and Rala shepherded their charges across the wide plank boardwalk, between stacks of wooden crates bound for unknown Eldarni ports and onto the dock where the Falkan Dancer was moored. Versen caught sight of the Malakasian colours, hanging limply from the stern rail. There wasn’t enough wind to lift it into life, but he didn’t think many needed the flag to know this was a vessel of Prince Malagon’s Imperial Navy.
Turning slightly, he whispered, ‘What do you know about ships?’
Brexan leaned against the woodsman’s back, her arms wrapped about his torso: a position she found most comforting. ‘Well, that appears to be a ship over there.’ Every word made her face hurt and she would have given ten Twinmoons off her life for a handful of querlis. ‘Why? Don’t you know anything about ships?’
‘I’m a woodsman,’ he said, a touch of sarcasm colouring his quiet voice. ‘That’s wood: as in trees. This is the closest I have ever been to a ship. I don’t particularly want to get closer.’
Brexan squeezed him more tightly. ‘I can’t say I blame you. I do know that if we board that one, we’re probably bound for Malakasia.’
Versen grimaced. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’
As they approached the end of the wharf, Versen could see the schooner’s crew was made up entirely of Malakasian soldiers and sailors dressed in a motley collection of rags. Surprised, he said, ‘It’s not a naval vessel. Those are merchant seamen.’
Brexan watched as the horde of sailors and stevedores busied themselves about the ship and up aloft in the rigging. Despite her concern for their future, she was almost excited at the prospect of a journey across the Ravenian Sea. ‘From the looks of those crates they’re loading, we might be a late addition to this cargo,’ she said. ‘Judging by the response we got back there, I don’t believe too many people were expecting us.’
As if on cue, a squat, pig-faced merchant, puffy about the eyes, balding and sweating profusely, approached the gangplank. The man dragged a sodden handkerchief over his shining pate again and again, as if polishing it. He wore a highly unsuitable silk suit over a delicate, frilly tunic; Brexan guessed that he was the Falkan Dancer ’s owner as he looked absurdly out of place; he was too well-dressed to be a captain. When he turned to look directly at her, Brexan was hard-put not to react to the sight of a large, misshapen mole growing from the side of his nose.
The merchant struggled for several moments to communicate with Karn, then glanced over at the two prisoners with disappointment. His voice rattled, as if his larynx were coated with phlegm. ‘This will be easier on both of you if you tell me where I can find the talisman.’
‘We don’t have it,’ Versen answered.
‘Where is it, then?’
‘It was left at home.’ Versen glared down at the merchant in disgust. ‘What are you doing working with this bunch? Where’s your honour? Your sense of decency?’
‘I have no decency. I am a businessman and this is business. The prince is interested in-’ The fleshy merchant hesitated a moment, as if confounded by the idea that Malagon would be searching for so dishevelled and disagreeable a quarry, then continued, ‘The prince is interested in you two and I am here to deliver you – for a handsome fee.’ Rolls of flab wobbled about his abdomen as he chortled. Brexan shuddered with distaste.
‘If you tell me where I can find the stone, I will see to it that you are well cared for: good food, comfortable accommodation, a change of clothes and perhaps-’ he glanced at Brexan as if imagining her after a hot bath ‘-perhaps even some querlis for that face, young lady.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘Now tell me where it is.’
Unimpressed, Versen glared down at the merchant, which sent the man retreating slightly across the pier. ‘Not ever, and you, especially you, should pray to the gods of the Northern Forest I do not get my hands on you.’
The merchant laughed at Versen from a safe distance. ‘Not to worry, my malodorous friend, I have special quarters arranged for you for our journey to Orindale.’
Orindale. Versen forced himself to remain calm. Smiling contemptuously on the sweaty merchant, he drew a long, slow breath and said, ‘Well then, let’s get to sea.’
Hannah Sorenson slogged through ankle-deep mud. For the first time since her unexpected arrival in Eldarn she was happier to be wearing boots than her running shoes. Their progress along the road to Middle Fork had speeded up since they had moved north of what she guessed was the greater Southport area. Although the local Malakasians had identified and hanged a number of Pragans, ostensibly for murdering the soldier who attacked Hannah along the coastal highway, everyone knew those hanged were not the guilty parties. Searches continued for the killers, as well as for that small group – or perhaps even one exceedingly brave (or exceedingly addle-pated) member – of the Resistance who had burned a Malakasian cargo ship to the waterline. No one died in the fire, but an enormous supply of weapons, silver, food and clothing was destroyed by the blaze. The only clues to the arsonist’s identity came from one witness, who claimed to have seen a man fleeing the quay. The man must have been injured because his limp was clearly visible, even from a distance, as he hurried into the night.
As they moved north Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were stopped several times a day and questioned about their destination and their business. They stuck to the same story: they were migrant workers who had finished the autumn tempine harvest outside Southport; now they were heading to Middle Fork to find scullery work for the winter season. Hoyt always gestured towards Churn and added, ‘Except for him, of course. We’re just hoping he’ll bring a few copper Mareks for hauling some firewood or shovelling snow.’ Frequently the Malakasian platoon sergeant would cast him and Hannah an understanding nod after taking in Churn’s vacuous expression.
So far the trio had been permitted to proceed without additional delay. They were obviously law-abiding, hard-working Pragans, already burdened with caring for the simple-minded giant, hardly the sort to be out there killing armed soldiers with their fists, or burning Malagon’s galleons in late-night raids.
Hannah remained silent during the interrogations, allowing Hoyt to work his special magic and gain them safe passage for the next leg of their journey. Every time they were stopped, she was conscious that she could get them captured, or even killed almost instantly: her underwear and her socks were a dead giveaway that she was not a local peasant. Hannah had initially made the decision to keep her bra, her panties and her socks because she had no idea what women in Eldarn wore beneath their clothing. She couldn’t face making a trip on foot without socks, and there was no way she was going to hike for untold miles in scratchy homespun wool without underwear. She decided that as long as she never disrobed where anyone could see her, there would be no problem.
Now she was regretting choosing comfort over caution. Every time they were stopped her heart missed a beat: what if they were searched? What if some randy soldier decided to have a tug at her tunic? Whilst her underwear was not especially racy or provocative, it was certainly not from Eldarn. There would be no hiding it – especially not if it rained; Hannah was terrified that her breasts would give them away more than any verbal slip she might make as a wet tunic plastered against her body would display the unnatural ability of her breasts to defy gravity. They might not be especially large or cumbersome, especially not by American standards, but they did benefit from the support of her bra.
Hannah, guessing Malakasian men were no different in that regard to any man in her world, began to hunch over and tug at the front of her tunic every time soldiers approached and as they moved through the checkpoints.
‘What in all the rutting world is wrong with you?’ Hoyt asked in a harsh whisper as a mounted platoon trotted slowly southwards. ‘Appearing to have one intellectually challenged individual is enough for us. We don’t need you playing at loopy as well.’
‘It’s my-’ Hannah s
truggled for the word as her boots made strangled sucking noises. ‘It’s my – my figure.’
Trying not to laugh as the soldiers cantered by, Hoyt asked, ‘What’s wrong with your figure?’
‘What do you mean, what’s wrong with my figure?’ Hannah hadn’t intended to sound quite so indignant.
‘ Nothing ’s wrong with your figure; that’s not what I meant. Bleeding whores! Do you see those soldiers? Are we having this conversation now?’ There was a slightly frantic tone in Hoyt’s voice. ‘I didn’t mean there was anything wrong with your figure. Your figure is fine… nice even… Demonpiss! What’s it got to do with you acting like a halfwit?’ He turned as the platoon lieutenant rode past and said, ‘Morning sir.’
‘It’s coming up now because, if you haven’t noticed, my figure has a way of presenting itself, especially in the rain, for any man’s enjoyment. Any soldier ’s enjoyment. For God’s sake, Hoyt, look at my breasts!’
Hoyt chuckled. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but that is something of a neat trick. I know a few women in Southport I’d like you to teach it to.’ The last of the horsemen passed, their mounts churning the roadway into mud. ‘What is it, some kind of corset or something?’
‘Or something, yes, but it appears to work… better. I don’t know how, but it supports more completely than whatever Pragan women wear.’ Hannah was hideously embarrassed, fighting the flush rising in her cheeks.
Churn grunted his amusement at the absurd way his friends were carrying on.
