The Larion Senators

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Lessek paused long enough to cough up a mouthful of viscous phlegm; he spat into the mud beside the tower wall and wiped his face dry. They were coming; he could feel them close behind him now. His side burned with a runner’s stitch, a pain he hadn’t felt in almost a thousand Twinmoons. The Larion brother mumbled a spell, coughed again and waited – it’s taking too long – for the sting to fade. His feet were bleeding, his boots forgotten in his bedchamber; his hands and face were marked with a cobweb of glass and bramble scratches, and his fever had returned.

Flu. Influenza. That’s what Francesco Antonelli had called it, an infection: a sinister and calculating virus, and to date the Larion Senate’s most reprehensible – if inadvertent – contribution to Eldarni culture. He didn’t know which of them had contracted it, or who had brought it back, but that was irrelevant. It was here.

And thousands had died.

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