by Rob Scott
Colonel Pace had come as quickly as he could to Wellham Ridge. When news reached him that the major had murdered several men and then taken the battalion into the foothills without orders or any communication with any senior officers, he had mustered a company of soldiers, including one squad of the disgusting but brutally effective Seron warriors, and made the trip east in hopes of quelling the unrest.
Major Tavon had killed him with a glance. Like Captain Denne, Colonel Pace’s body was left looking as though he had been torn open by wild animals. One look from her had quelled the company commander accompanying Pace. Even the Seron seemed to know better than to mobilise against the wiry little woman. With Pace dead and Captains Hershaw and Blackford standing by, it didn’t take the colonel’s Orindale security force long to understand that if they crossed this woman, they would die.
Before leaving Wellham Ridge, Major Tavon had appointed the company commander, a captain from Averil named Regic, battalion commander, promoting him to major in an impromptu and illegal ceremony. She then ordered him to take what remained of her battered and footsore battalion along with his own platoons and march them all to Orindale’s southern wharf. When the newly appointed officer asked why, Tavon silenced him with a glare. ‘You will find out when you arrive, Major.’
‘Er, ma’am… you do understand that by taking the entire battalion to Orindale I am essentially abandoning our position in southern Falkan.’ Major Regic looked as though he would rather have been lashed to a torture-rack than be standing here before this foul-smelling, possessed woman.
‘It is of no matter any more, Regic,’ Major Tavon replied. ‘It’s time for this occupation force to move on.’ She turned to leave.
‘To move on, ma’am?’ Regic said hesitantly.
‘To move on,’ Tavon repeated, then shouted for Captain Blackford, who was never far away. ‘Come with me,’ she told him. ‘We need to get messages to Rona as quickly as possible. We’ll need riders, six of our best-’
‘We don’t have many left in any condition…’ His voice died away as he blanched and beads of sweat broke out along his hairline: he had interrupted her.
Tavon stopped, stood ramrod-straight and said, ‘I hope you realise what will happen if you ever do that to me again, Captain.’
Blackford swallowed; it seemed to take avens for his throat to open far enough to speak. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good. I don’t care what condition they’re in. I want them ready to ride for Rona. This far east it seems a shame to wait until we’re in the capital.’
‘Good point, ma’am.’
‘Now, if you and Major Regic are through second-guessing me, I would like to get our cargo loaded on the first barge ready. Bring Captain Hershaw and one platoon of our healthiest soldiers.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The captain saluted. After her dough-headed forced march into the foothills, he knew without checking that there was not a full platoon of healthy soldiers left in the battalion. No matter; he and Hershaw would scrape together the strongest of the lot and encourage the major to grant them some much-needed rest on their journey downriver.
Now, standing a post on the barge Tavon had chosen to carry her precious cargo safely into Orindale Harbour, Captain Blackford watched large clumpy snowflakes fall on the Falkan capital in one of the coastal city’s rare snowstorms. The flakes dusted Major Tavon’s head and shoulders; she didn’t bother to brush them off. Blackford marvelled at how whatever it was that had purloined his commander’s body could stand so still for so long, staring out at nothing, perhaps seeing nothing, even ignoring the snowflakes that clung to her lashes and melted into her eyes. Tavon didn’t blink.
The barge passed through the city towards the harbour. Blackford and Hershaw huddled in one of the shack-like cabins. It was clear the major did not plan to remain in the capital very long. Before dispatching riders east towards the Merchants’ Highway and the Ronan border, Blackford had sneaked a look at one of Tavon’s hastily scribbled messages: using Prince Malagon and General Oaklen’s names, she had ordered the entire occupation army in the Eastlands back to Pellia as soon as ships could be commandeered and safe passage ensured. With a northern Twinmoon coming, tides would be high in the archipelago. If the army was needed in Malakasia, there would be no better time to order them all home than now.
Given the inanity of Tavon’s dispatches, Captain Blackford was determined to be as far from the major as luck and determination could get him before word of her exploits reached the officers in Orindale. General Oaklen, wherever he was this Twinmoon, would not appreciate any field commander using his name to direct entire divisions home to Pellia. Blackford guessed that the general had made his way back into Orindale; he might even be staying at the old imperial palace just off the river. He certainly wasn’t within screaming range of any of the messages Major Tavon had sent to Rona. She had run rampant over the battalion while they trudged through the snowy drifts south of Wellham Ridge. Here in the capital, with an entire palace full of Malakasian officers hunkered down for the winter Twinmoon, circumstances would be different; surely she wouldn’t be able to engage in random murders without drawing attention? He couldn’t guess what Tavon had planned for the barge or the stone table, but he was pretty sure that things were about to get much worse.
Puffy snowflakes fell about his face as he stood in silence, waiting for his commanding officer to direct him once again. He watched the city snowscape roll by. The barge was passing through rows and rows of trenches dug hastily two Twinmoons earlier, a blockade of the entire city by every available soldier in the southern divisions. Blackford’s own trench had been several hundred paces north of the Medera, hidden now by the snow.
Then came the imperial palace, a grand old edifice with its sprawling gardens – lying fallow under trampled snow – stretching out towards the wharf and the commercial districts. One wing had been destroyed recently in a freak explosion; Blackford had heard the blast from his trench. Now he could see boarded-up windows and one collapsed wall, the stones of which had been piled into a heap. On through a well-to-do neighbourhood; he wondered what people did to afford such homes, especially in an occupied nation. On his lieutenant’s wages – Blackford didn’t expect ever to see one Marek of a captain’s pay – he would not have been able to purchase even a quarter of such a home. Slate roofs, stone walls, multiple chimneys; who were these people? Business owners? Ship captains? They certainly weren’t soldiers. Most of them had probably worked out some kind of lucrative, symbiotic agreement with the occupation Tavon was gone.
Captain Blackford rushed aft and knocked on one of the dilapidated doors. ‘Hershaw,’ he hissed, ‘wake up, get out here.’
He ran to a corporal standing watch. ‘You there,’ he said to the startled soldier who’d jumped to rigid attention, ‘where is the major?’
‘Sorry, sir. If she’s not back there, where she’s been for the past two days, sir, I don’t know, sir.’
‘Rutting whores,’ Blackford muttered, leaving the corporal looking confused. He went back to rapping on Hershaw’s cabin. ‘Captain, I need you out here right away,’ he called again.
Nervous, uncertain, needing an outlet for his anxiety, Blackford started pacing and swearing. Wringing his hands, he mumbled to himself, ‘Rutting demonpissing… opening the whoring thing again… dead out here… godswhoring cold-’
On the riverbank above him, a heap of large barrels stood in haphazard arrangement outside a waterfront alehouse, a big wooden place with a sloping roof, and plenty of raucous noise coming from within. It looked, sounded and smelled like a lonely soldier’s spiritual redemption, and Blackford found himself longing for a tankard of ale, maybe two. That would set him right. He watched a boy, probably no more than seventy-five Twinmoons, hurrying out of a side-door to scoop a bucketful of what looked to be sawdust from the closest of the wooden containers. That’s for the floor, gods love ‘em, to soak up the blood and piss. He looked again for Hershaw, although for what, other than helping
him calm down, he couldn’t say. There’ll be blood on this floor soon enough, he thought to himself. No sawdust here to soak it up, though.
They were about to pass under the massive arched bridge separating Orindale’s northern wharf and its fine taverns, expensive apartments and fancy businesses from the southern wharf, where the many tarred and scarred wooden fingers of the town pier reached out into deep water. Compared with the northern wharf it was a dingy, colourless place, yet this was where Orindale’s heart beat the strongest.
When Hershaw finally emerged, Blackford nearly ran him down. ‘She’s gone,’ he barked.
Hershaw blanched. ‘Gone? What do you mean she’s gone?’
‘I think she’s in there.’ Blackford nodded towards the ramshackle cabin that housed the mysterious stone table.
‘Oh, gods-rut-a-whore.’ Hershaw ran his fingers through sleep-tousled hair and started straightening his crumpled uniform. ‘What do we do?’
‘I don’t know. Wait? Take cover? Swim for shore?’
The corporal Blackford had startled remained at his post, but he was staring at the two nervous officers, obviously straining to hear what was being said. His superiors were not instilling him with much confidence.
The barge passed beneath the stone bridge and, moving quickly with the current, slipped out the inlet and into the harbour.
With the corporal watching, Hershaw tried to project an air of quiet confidence and leadership; instead, he looked like someone with bad stomach cramps, trying his best to stand upright.
Blackford said, ‘Let’s send him.’
‘Who?’
‘Him.’ He nodded towards the anxious sentry.
‘Send him where?’
‘The imperial palace, the old Barstag place. It’s not far from here. He could sound the alarm, rally the whole division, tell the whole story, General Oaklen’s dispatches, Pace’s murder, all of it. But we need to act quickly-’
The barge moved towards a group of mooring buoys several hundred paces offshore; it would be too far to swim in this weather. They had either to convince the corporal to slip over the side right away, or one of them would have to go themselves.
Hershaw pressed his lips together in a tight smile, made eye-contact with the soldier and waved him over It was too late. A low resonating humming sound began behind them, coming from the major’s quarters. Blackford and Hershaw braced themselves for something terrible, but even so, they both jumped when the first ship, a Malakasian schooner moored nearby, began to break apart.
Mark slogged through the muck, stepping over exposed roots and fallen trees, all the while trying to get to the centre of the marble trough, to the bridge. He hadn’t noticed the bridge last time; he had been distracted by the tadpoles with their tumours, and the snakes chasing them down. But the bridge was there, lit by the glow coming from the top of the shallow rise. It spanned the marble trough, a short arch also made of marble, a miniature version of something he might have seen in Venice, the Ponte de Rialto… but Mark decided to cross there, nevertheless. He didn’t want to be back in that water again.
Why have a bridge if I don’t need to use it? Mark thought, and wasn’t surprised when someone answered; it sounded like him.
Now you’re thinking. Why don’t you come up here with me?
He stopped near the edge of the nightmarish koi pond. It was longer than he remembered and lined on both sides by rows of marble columns. Shaker, baker, candlestick-maker columns? Neo-classical. That’s it. Neo-classical columns, the ones like they have in front of the Capitol Building in DC, hell, they’re all over DC, marble bones holding the place up.
That’s not the right place, Mark.
Blow me; I’m busy.
The bridge was a trap; it had to be. He could jump this trough. It wasn’t more than four or five feet across. Hell, he could step over it, step through it. He’d already been elbow-deep in the thing, and as long as there were none of those snakes – he was fairly sure the crippled tadpole sperm were no threat – he’d be fine.
I didn’t put the bridge there, Mark. You did.
I did?
I don’t give a shit if you get across. I’m fine over here by myself.
You sound like me. Why do you sound like me?
Blow me; I’m busy.
‘Fucker,’ Mark said aloud. ‘Where are you? Why don’t you leave the lights on in here, and I’ll come kick the shit out of you, just for fun. Huh?’
The lights dimmed and Mark heard something slither through the slime. Panic gripped him; his voice changed and he begged, ‘No! No, leave them on.’
It does get friendly in here when it’s dark, doesn’t it?
Something crawled from his boot onto the skin of his lower leg; it had too many of its own legs to count. Mark swatted it away and felt it crunch beneath his palm. ‘Screw it,’ he said, ‘I’ll take the bridge.’
Good choice.
He pushed on until he reached the marble trough then hugging the perimeter, he walked on the stone coping. It was solid and clean, free of marshy debris, and it made for faster going. He just had to be careful he didn’t step off and slip into that putrid water. He shivered at thought of it.
The tadpoles were there, not fleeing this time but lazing in the pool. Fat bulbous tumours still disfigured them. There mustn’t be any snakes around, Mark thought.
You want snakes?
No.
The others had a job to do for you.
For me?
For me.
They’re gone?
We have a few snakes left in here if you need one.
Mark squinted through the gloom. Whoever was talking to him – thinking to me – had to be the one working on top of the rise. If he could just get over the bridge, he could run up there, hit him, just a couple of quick cathartic shots to the head, and then make for the clearing. That sky meant safety; somehow he knew it did.
He slipped and fell, hitting his head on one of the columns. The marble was wet in places, and treacherous. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Rolling over, he used the column to regain his feet, but something gripped his right ankle, a whorl of snarled root protruding through the muck. Mark tugged his lower leg, trying to extricate himself. It was hot here, and humid, hard to breathe. His clothes were soaked through with sweat and clung to his flesh like a peelable second skin. He was covered head to toe in marsh muck and shit… and he reached for the root, pulled hard and slipped his boot free.
A coral snake – those are poisonous! – slipped from behind the root and up onto the back of his hand. Mark, covered almost entirely in goose pimples, screeched and jerked back reflexively. The rainbow-coloured serpent went on its way, slipping over the root, across the marble ledge and into the trough.
Told you we had a few more.
Fuck you.
I’m not the one doing this to you, Mark. I was happy with you in the dark. I have what I need, and I’ll call you when I need you again.
The lights began to dim. Before they faded all the way to black, Mark checked the length of the rectangular koi pond. It was marble, narrow, shallow, and lined as far as he could see with neo-classical columns. Where had he seen these columns before? The Capitol Building. Those were the ones that flared up in his memory, anyway.
Wrong again. The voice was fading with the lights. That’s not the right place, Mark, it said, echoing its earlier admonition.
Well, where then?
The column was cold. Real marble had a way of staying cold, no matter where you put it. The marble columns of Hell would be nice and cool, a good place to rest while enjoying a cold drink, whatever they’re serving down there. He tried to memorise the lie of the land between himself and the bridge. If I can follow the columns, I’ll get there. I’ll cross in the dark. That’ll surprise him, the bastard. I’ll cross in the dark and the next time he turns on the lights, I’ll be there.
There were eight or nine columns between Mark and the bridge. They were each about twen
ty feet apart. One hundred and sixty feet. I can make that. Just stay on the edge, I can make it.
He remembered the coral snake. That one’ll bite you. The others wouldn’t, but that one will. That’s the one I have to watch. Mark used the dying light to check for the colourful serpent. It was there, keeping pace with him in the water. It would know if he moved. He hugged the column; it felt good against his face. He had to stay put. The snake would bite him – more than once, too. It’ll go on for a while – if he tried to reach the bridge in the darkness.
Night closed in.
Where had he seen these columns?
The Capitol? New Orleans? Europe? They were all over Europe. The Gloriette. What the hell is a Gloriette?
Now you’re thinking.
It was dark again; the coral snake slithered onto the edge of the marble trough and waited between Mark’s boots.
‘Over the side! Over the side!’ Gilmour shouted, shoving Garec and Kellin towards the rail where the barge’s first mate had tethered their horses. ‘Just cut the reins, cut them!’ he yelled, checking to be sure the spell book and far portal were safely lashed to his saddle.
‘What is it?’ Steven followed the others. The magic was bubbling over, preparing for battle.
Gilmour ignored him. ‘Lead the horses to that shore. We’ll go north, find cover and dry out. But be quick now, quick. You have to get as far into the shallows as possible. Don’t look; just head for shore.’ The riverbank was no more than sixty or seventy paces off, but to Gilmour the relative safety of dry land seemed a Moon’s travel away.
‘Gilmour!’ Steven shouted, ‘what is it? What’s he doing? What’s coming for us?’
‘I was too tired, too rutting tired from yesterday, from chatting too long with Milla,’ he lamented. ‘I didn’t feel it – I should have, when those waves rolled past.’
‘The waves?’
Gilmour tried to untie his horse’s reins, then, frustrated, cast a noisy blast that blast through the starboard gunwale. ‘Just ride off the deck and into the water. But stay with your horse. They’ll be able to move through the shallows and up the riverbank faster than we will.’
