The Larion Senators

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  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.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ the waiter said as he disappeared behind the bar.

  ‘Thirty volumes!’ Hoyt said to himself, ‘and state-of-the-art works, too. I can’t imagine where Alen managed to get them all.’ He considered how he might transport the outlawed books back to South-port. Smuggling a bit of fennaroot or a few weapons was a challenge; this, however, would be a significant undertaking. He’d stolen a wheelbarrow, but that wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to—

  ‘Good evening.’ A woman, attractive but dangerous-looking, took the seat beside him.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Hoyt said. ‘Go and find someone else.’ He had more important things to attend to than hungry prostitutes on the prowl.

  The woman motioned to the barman. ‘I’ll have the same, and another flagon of that too, please.’

  Hoyt took a drink. ‘I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t hear me. I’m not interested. And I am not buying you dinner.’

  She tossed a worn leather pouch onto the table. It chimed with the telltale clink of silver Mareks. ‘I’m not a prostitute; so relax. I can pay my own way. I was just looking for someone interesting with whom to have dinner.’

  ‘Hoyt,’ Milla tugged his sleeve. ‘Hoyt, you need to come with me.’ She was dressed in her overnight tunic and held her straw dog by one dislocated leg.

  ‘What? Milla?’ Hoyt was confused. This wasn’t right, this was not how things had happened … had to happen. ‘Milla, what are you doing here?’

  The woman, Ramella – how do I know her name? – went on, seemingly oblivious to the little girl beside the table, ‘That looks delicious. How is it?’

  ‘The best venison I’ve eaten in Middle Fork,’ Hoyt lied.

  ‘Hoyt,’ Milla insisted, ‘the Seron are coming; they’ll find you. You can’t stay here.’

  Hoyt tore his gaze away from Ramella, the seductive thief from Landry. He whispered to Milla, ‘Why don’t you go up to bed? I’ll be up in a while, and I’ll come and say good night to you then.’

  ‘Sorry, Hoyt,’ Milla said, ‘but you need to come with me now.’ Something bit him hard on the ankle.

  ‘Holy rutting horsecocks!’ Hoyt shouted, standing suddenly, spilling the wine and upending his food. He gripped his leg, stemming the flow of blood, then remembered himself. ‘Sorry, sweetie, Hoyt said a few bad words there, huh? You won’t tell Hannah, will you?’ Who’s Hannah? he thought. I don’t know anyone named Hannah … not yet.

  ‘Of course not, silly,’ Milla laughed, ‘and sorry about the puppy, but I need you to pay attention, or you’ll die in here. You’ll get stuck for ever like the ones at the palace.’

  He nodded dumbly. He had no idea what the girl meant, but somehow he was aware that her words had significant meaning for him. Tentatively, he checked beneath the table, understanding before he did that he would find Branag’s wolfhound, the same dog that tracked them – will track us – from Southport to the Welstar docks. The wolfhound was there, his tongue lolling, in good spirits, healthy, young, well-fed, and with a shiny coat, not the tattered, trail-worn hunter that had been dying when it finally caught up with them. ‘Ramella,’ Hoyt said, ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

  The sultry woman ignored him, carrying on with their conversation as if Hoyt’s input meant nothing. ‘Do you want to know what my vices are?’ she asked.

  Hoyt shook his head. ‘This is impossible. This happened already, so long ago.’ He turned to Milla. ‘Long before you were even born, Pepperweed.’

  ‘I k
now,’ she said, stealing a chunk of bread from Ramella’s platter, then dipping it into the stranger’s gravy. ‘Can we go now?’ Ramella didn’t notice.

  ‘Yes.’ Hoyt took her hand. ‘How? Do you know how to get us back?’ He’d begun to put the pieces together.

  ‘Of course.’ Milla spoke through a mouthful of food. ‘That tastes good.’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ Hoyt agreed. ‘All right, Pepperweed, take me back – but not back to the inn, I have to get Alen.’

  ‘He’s coming back, too. I already talked to him. He’s waiting for you. He was in someplace else, Durram or somewhere. I don’t know where that is, but the lady with him was very sad. They had to leave the baby behind. Alen was sad, too.’

  ‘But the Seron, and the Malakasian guards – how can we—?’

  ‘I’ll scare them off for you,’ Milla said, stealing another piece of gravy-dipped bread. ‘But they won’t stay away for long so you two have to hurry.’

  ‘What a negative outlook on human emotion,’ Ramella went on, now staring into the space left empty when Hoyt rose to follow the little girl back to reality.

  ‘How are you doing this?’ Hoyt asked. ‘How is this possible?’

  ‘Some things I can just do,’ Milla said. With that, Hoyt felt a band wrap around his chest. It tightened, hardening to iron and threatening to suffocate him.

  ‘Not too tight, Pepperweed,’ he warned.

  ‘Sorry,’ Milla grinned, her hair an endearing scribble.

  ‘Is this how you kept Gilmour from falling?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ the little magician said smugly, proud of her work.

  ‘Good job.’ Hoyt stroked her curls, and said, ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘One moment, I have to chase the Seron away first.’

  On the highway south of Pellia, with three wagons in flames, most of their cargo lost and more than a few of their number dead or dying in the fire, Prince Malagon’s Seron warriors were undeterred; no one fled, no one wept and no one dallied over the bodies of fallen comrades. They formed ranks around the final wagon, salvaged what they could from the burning carts and resumed their journey towards Welstar Palace. When the aerial firestorm slowed, they conducted a search of the fields, but they found no sign of terrorist archers, no Resistance army, and no reason to dig in or to return to Pellia.

  Their lieutenant, a big female with a grisly burn on her forearm, climbed to the driver’s bench and barked orders at what remained of her platoon. The others fell in step and the wagon rolled on, quickly leaving the fiery devastation behind. Soon the burning wagons – and bodies – were little more than flickering lights in the distance.

  The woman checked the perimeter, checked the sentry lines, checked the squad assigned to the wagon itself, and then settled on the bench beside the driver. ‘Welstar,’ she growled.

  The driver, shook out the reins and the team started off while the last of the Seron took up their positions. He shouted at those Malakasians in his way; they had emerged from their homes, still in their nightclothes, to view the carnage. This bunch ought to get back inside, he thought, they don’t know what these Seron might do. ‘Go on now!’ he cried, ‘back to bed with you all!’

  A few complied, but others, possibly unaware they were risking death, continued to watch the Seron monsters, some snarling with smouldering rage, as they marched towards Malagon’s legendary keep.

  When the first of the dogs howled, he squinted into the darkness. ‘Now that’s a big dog,’ he said. ‘A herder, that one, and with a bull’s set of pipes on him, too.’

  The Seron lieutenant ignored him as she bound the wound on her arm with a strip of cloth torn from a blanket beneath the bench.

  ‘You know, you ought to—’ the driver began.

  ‘Welstar!’ the Seron repeated, cutting him off.

  ‘All right, all right. I’ll shut up, but you’re going to get some kind of nasty infec—’

  Another dog howled, this one from across the highway, a lingering wail, an unnatural sound sustained too long in a shrill, threatening cry. It was answered almost immediately by a macabre echo, this from the south, somewhere ahead of the wagon team.

  ‘Now that’s not something you hear every day,’ he said shakily, but a withering glance from the lieutenant silenced him again.

  She stood and shouted a quick string of orders to her platoon: Stand fast! Don’t be drawn into the fields.

  The howls and barks came from all around them now. Some were low and resonant, rumbling deep in broad, powerful chests; others were like screams, pitched high and wailing, dangerous even from far away. ‘I don’t like this,’ the driver said, trying unsuccessfully to quieten the horses. He peered left and right, trying to move only his eyes, as if sitting still might keep danger from spotting him.

  Something moved, low and fast, just out of sight, crunching through frost and brittle cornstalks.

  ‘Oi! What’s that then?’ He jumped, and cried out, ‘Rutting whores, there must be fifty of them – gods, but I wish they’d stop yelping so. What could have them so fired—?’

  ‘Shutap!’ The lieutenant cuffed him on the temple, nearly knocking him from the bench. She grunted more orders to her platoon: Look sharp! Be ready!

  A dog appeared in the highway, its eyes glowing red, even in the dim light of the torches carried by the Malakasian guards. It was a wolfhound, the biggest the driver had ever seen. Its mane bristled as it growled through clenched teeth, its jowls dripping froth.

  ‘Great whoring—’ The driver drew his sword and twisted the reins around his free wrist as the wolfhound charged the horses, snarling and biting at their forelegs. The lieutenant gestured to a Seron guard, urging him forward to kill the animal, but before he could comply, the roiling din of barking, growling, yelping and shrieking choked to a sudden, unnerving silence. Only the dog attacking the horse team continued to bark.

  The lieutenant shouted down at the soldier, ‘Ahat dog! Ahat!’ Her voice carried over the snowy field like a thunderclap.

  The Seron came abreast of the rearing horses. The driver tried to calm the animals, keeping a steady grip on the reins, as the Seron moved in for the kill, raising his knife and then leaping for the dog.

  As if the Seron’s action was a cue, wolfhounds similar to their leader attacked from all sides, materialising out of the darkness. One sprang onto the attacking Seron’s back, biting first at his neck and then at the hand holding the knife. Another, an ebony copy of the first two, used the struggling Seron as a springboard, leaping from his back onto the first horse in the wagon team. It snarled at the driver, then sank its fangs into the horse’s neck. The animal screamed, reared in terror, kicked the Seron warrior in the head and then bolted, dragging its teammates and the cart through the ditch into the cornfield.

  ‘Whoring mothers!’ the driver shouted, slashing at a dog trying to climb the side of the wagon. The animal fell away, its jaws snapping audibly, and the frightened driver hauled back on the reins until the wagon crashed through a plough rut and he was jounced from the bench, landing with a bone-jarring thud in the frozen soil. He dropped his sword but kept a grip on the reins, which was a mistake, for no amount of tugging slowed the horses and he was dragged halfway across the field until he finally let go and fell face-down in the snow.

  Back on the road, what remained of the Seron platoon was engaged in an epic battle with a seemingly endless number of inky-black wolfhounds. For every dog they slashed, stabbed or clubbed to death, another appeared, hurtling out of the darkness like a phantom. They stood their ground, hacking and stabbing to all points of the compass; any that fell were soon covered with snarling beasts; three and four at a time climbed onto the fallen warriors, snapping at arms, necks, ankles and faces, until the Seron, exhausted or dead, finally lay still.

  As the wagon thundered across the cornfield Hoyt pushed his way through the canvas bags, then cleared several more for Alen.

  ‘What just happened?’ he shouted. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Milla,�
� Alen said, checking his forearm.

  ‘You hurt?’

  ‘Her dog, that cursed hound bit me.’

  ‘Me too.’ Hoyt pulled his boot halfway off, exposing his lower leg. ‘It hurt like a motherhumper, but look: no blood. None on you either.’

  ‘We’ll worry about it later. For now, let’s get the blazes out of here.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ Hoyt said and started up the side of the cart, climbing the slats. ‘We’re going to have to jump. It’ll hurt.’

  ‘No worse than staying around to see what the Seron plan to do with us.’

  ‘Good point,’ Hoyt said. ‘I think most of them are back there. Milla’s sent some kind of— Ah!’ he screamed as the Seron lieutenant stabbed him in the shoulder. She had been aiming for his neck, but a lucky jolt as the cart bounced over uneven ground sent her blow wide of the mark. Alen shouted as Hoyt tumbled backwards and fell beside him, neither in any position to defend themselves. Alen fired a spell, a wild blast, hoping to get lucky and kill the angry warrior, but he missed, and blew out the upper slats instead.

  ‘Rutters, that hurts!’ Hoyt tried to roll away from the knife-wielding soldier. ‘Look out, Alen! Get back!’

  ‘Over here!‘ Alen tugged Hoyt’s good arm, looking for a safe corner, but there wasn’t space enough in the wagon bed. The Seron woman adjusted her grip and sprang towards them.

  The wolfhound hit her in mid-air, driving into her from the abandoned driver’s bench. It clamped its jaws around her forearm, the bones snapping with a sickening crack, and the two creatures slammed into the side of the cart, each more furious than the other.

  It was a fight to the death, but neither Alen nor Hoyt planned on staying around to see the end. ‘This way,’ Alen said, raising his hands at the wooden tailgate. An explosion rocked the night and the end of the cart was blown away, scattered across the cornfield in splinters. ‘Now, jump!’ he cried, grabbed Hoyt by the elbow and shoved.

  When he landed, Hoyt tore the wound in his shoulder more deeply. Whose idea was this? he thought, lying on the freezing ground, resilient stalks poking him in the back. Nearby, he heard Alen groan. ‘You all right?’ he wheezed.