Then the fire arrows struck.
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.