Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Understood,” said Declan as he led the men out of the inn.

  Hatu organized his small group and went outside, turning north on Three Stars Road as a large dark-skinned man rode past him. For a moment he thought it was one of Bogartis’s men, given that he was obviously a fighter from his chain hauberk and sword. Then he noticed he wore a tabard in the same design as Catharian’s and Sabella’s. For a brief instant he was troubled by something, then he pushed that thought aside and waved for his band to follow. They hurried up the street to the intersection of what was becoming known as Three Stars Road, now that the inn had turned into a center of activity, and the western road leading to Port Colos.

  With Hava gone, Hatu was perhaps one of the top archers in the town, after Molly and her father, so he looked at the other four young men. “Molly and I will shoot, so they’ll be a good bowshot’s distance away when they come after us. If they’re on foot, make a brief show, wait a moment, then run south past the inn. Get out of sight as fast as you can. You know where to gather?”

  The four nodded, their faces showing their fear despite their attempts to look stalwart.

  “Hold fast for a moment, then run like devils were behind you,” Hatu repeated, “because they will be.”

  To Molly he said, “Two shots.”

  “I can do three while you do two,” she said with confidence.

  He couldn’t help smiling. “A contest?”

  “Some other time.”

  Hatu turned to the others. “If they’re mounted, don’t wait. The moment you see horses, run.”

  Less than five minutes went by before Hatu heard the approaching band of soldiers. At first it was a faint sound of horses over a steady thud of boots. With surprising speed, that sound grew louder by the moment—the creaking of leather, the clink of metal, and the steady tread of boots on hard ground in counterpoint to the staccato hoofbeats.

  In the dark of night the torchlight coming through shop windows and doorways gave Hatu and his companions some illumination, yet the sound seemed to come from different directions. Hatu knew it was a confusion of echoes as the sound from the approaching raiders grew louder.

  Then torchlight appeared in the distance, coming out of the gloom. For a moment that seemed suspended in time it felt as if the universe held its breath.

  Then a wall of armed men was heading straight at them. They marched at a quick pace, but the moment they caught sight of the defenders the front rank broke into a run. Hatu’s mind wrestled for clarity amid the muddle of sound and images in front of him; then he heard Molly loose her first arrow.

  Training took over and Hatu raised his own bow and also let fly. The oncoming men were packed so close together in a marching column, flanked on either side by riders, that he was certain his shaft would strike true. A horse gave a roar, a sound Hatu had heard only once before, almost a human cry of pain as it collapsed. Again, Hatu nocked a shaft and shot, but he didn’t wait to see if his target fell.

  He was the last to turn, as Molly had loosed her third shaft and was now one step ahead of him, the other four lads a half dozen paces beyond. As they had been told, the four younger fighters raced to the next street, past the Inn of the Three Stars, and instead of turning left, they turned right and to the west.

  Hatu and Molly reached the intersection, and Molly ducked to the left while Hatu stopped and turned, ensuring that the first of those behind could clearly see him as he fled. He waited as four riders came hurtling toward him, blindly shot an arrow in their general direction, then darted toward the waiting ambush.

  If all was going according to plan, the one door to his left, facing the street, leading into the back of Alice Hardy’s storeroom, would now be blocked off from the inside. Hatu saw that Molly had already reached one rope and was being hauled up to the roof while she pulled herself hand over hand, her bow slung across her back.

  Hatu slung his bow and leapt, propelling himself upward with a boot on the wall as he grabbed the remaining rope. And then he was being pulled up and he made a concerted effort to hang on. Glancing down, he realized it was a good thing he was being pulled up, as a rider had just wheeled his mount to the left and was trying to reach up and grab his boot. Missing that, he grabbed at the rope, and Hatu felt a sudden jerk that almost caused him to lose his grip. Hatu avoided the man’s wild sword blow and kicked out, grazing the top of the man’s bare head.

  An arrow sped past, missing Hatu by a scant enough margin that he felt the wind of it, and it took the rider between his neck and shoulder, knocking him backward out of the saddle. Hatu barely had time to turn his attention upward when he was yanked across the eaves of the roof.

  The reason for his rapid ascent was made clear when he saw that four people had been hauling his rope. By the time he stood and unshouldered his bow, the archers were shooting almost blindly down into the blocked street. The attackers were packed together so tightly it was impossible not to hit someone.

  Hatu saw that those who were only just arriving at the intersection were being held up by warnings from those within the U-shaped trap. He was trying to take down the remaining half dozen riders that he could make out in the faint and flickering torchlight when a shout erupted from the other side of the street.

  The remaining mercenaries from Bogartis’s company charged from where they had hidden in the dark, the captain on his horse so he could see over their heads and give orders. Behind the fighters came the men of Beran’s Hill, armed with everything from swords to scythes and pitchforks. In an open field, they would have been slaughtered, but the advantage of surprise and close quarters made for an even fight.

  Hatu heard Molly say, “I’m out of arrows!”

  He took off his half-full quiver and tossed it to her. “Here!”

  She caught it as Hatu looked for a way down without trying to climb down the rope into the fray. He noticed the monk, Catharian, motioning him over. Hatu found him standing over a trapdoor in the roof. “Into this warehouse and around to the end door!” Catharian shouted. “You can circle around and join Bogartis from behind.”

  Hatu saw that ropes had been affixed to the roof by a spike, and he lowered himself down. At the bottom, a dim figure waited, and it wasn’t until Hatu was standing next to him that he recognized the big dark-skinned man he had seen riding past earlier, wearing the same tabard as Catharian.

  Hatu realized what had bothered him before: Catharian had said that his order forbade armed conflict, but this fellow sported a hauberk and a sword. Then the man said, “Sorry,” and Hatu barely saw the man’s fist as it struck him hard.

  For a second, lights exploded in Hatu’s vision, then he fell unconscious.

  Declan stood fast between two of Bogartis’s men, and for the third time in his life everything seemed to slow down. He took in the men opposite him, ragged mercenaries of all stripes, and by their look from many distant lands. Despite the struggle for survival, he noticed a dark-skinned man with a gem piercing the side of his nose, a tall blond man, and a bearded soldier with a two-handed sword—hampered by those pressing close around—who shouted in a language Declan did not recognize.

  He saw an attack aimed at the man on his right out of the corner of his eye and raised his sword and blocked it, while the intended target was busy with a man directly opposite him. Declan’s moves seemed normal to him, yet those around him seemed to be getting slower by the moment, and he did awful damage to those he could reach. A cut to a shoulder, followed by a jab to the ribs where a quilted jack had ridden up, and one man’s leg cut from below the knee, forcing him to the ground, and a swift killing blow.

  Time lost meaning, as it had before for Declan when he was in the grip of battle clarity. He sensed what was around him more than he saw shapes or heard sounds, and he felt focused rage, as if his mind had become a weapon as well as the sword he held in his hand. He seemed to know where to turn, how to hold his blade, when to lash out, and when to guard, not only himself but those companions standing close to him.
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  The struggle waged on for what seemed like hours, though Declan knew in truth it was mere minutes. A balance between the defenders and the invaders held, as those trapped in the street between the warehouses were unable to use their superior numbers against the less-well-trained townsmen. Still, the defenders were fighting for their homes, which gave them a fury the invaders lacked. The attackers had apparently expected little or no significant resistance as their comrades fell around them; a sense of desperation was on the rise.

  Then Declan became conscious that something was wrong. Just as he stepped back and looked toward the north end of Three Stars Road, he heard Bogartis shout, “Beware your left!”

  An instant later, Declan saw more riders charging down the street. “Everyone leave now!” Declan shouted.

  Bogartis echoed the order. “Flee! Scatter!”

  It took little to convince the townsmen to turn and run, with the mercenaries and Declan acting as a rearguard for a few moments to allow them to escape. Declan felt no panic. He heard the riders approaching and switched from aggression to defense, then without anticipating it he lashed out at a man opposite him in what looked to be a predictable attack, causing the man to leap back, and before the man had regained his balance, Declan turned and ran.

  He knew he had only seconds to get off the street, or riders would be running him down from behind, so he bore to his left, knowing the bulk of those trapped in the alley who still survived would be spilling out into the street, giving him seconds more to avoid the horses, as they would have to slow down and circle around their comrades. He was going to need every instant he could squeeze from this fight if he was going to survive.

  Declan knew he couldn’t outrun a horse, but he could dodge where it couldn’t follow, and he leapt over a stack of crates at the corner of the last alley in Beran’s Hill. He chanced a glance behind him and saw that the riders were slowing as they dealt death to any citizen of the town they could find. The sky was lightening with a yellow glow, and he realized the raiders were putting the town to the torch.

  For a brief moment, hot anger flashed through him, and he felt a rising bitterness in his mouth, as if he was going to vomit, but he choked it down. This was the baron’s fault. He’d been told the town was at risk, but his concern over costs in gold had resulted in a horrific cost in blood.

  Declan pushed aside his sudden anger at Daylon Dumarch and took a breath, pausing for a moment to gather his wits. This tiny respite allowed him to see a path beyond the end of the alley, where a building built on the south side of the alley narrowed the passage. He could run through it, but no horse could. Beyond were farms and orchards, places he might shelter until his next choice presented itself.

  He hurried toward his goal, the chance of escape giving him new energy. He was less than two strides from his objective when a searing pain erupted in his right shoulder, as an arrow struck with enough force to spin him completely around. He fell facedown into damp soil, his body in agony and the wind knocked out of his lungs. He forced himself to breathe and found the effort caused more pain, and then his vision went foggy.

  In a half-numb state, he barely understood what was happening when hands grabbed him, the movement causing more pain in his shoulder and back. He heard the twang of a bowstring’s release, and agony erupted as someone fell on top of him, and then there was nothing but darkness.

  Declan lay in a world of hurt. When he concentrated on it, he could feel it in his right shoulder, running down the right side of his body to his hip. He could barely breathe for it, and for a time—seconds, minutes perhaps—he lay motionless, forcing his wits to work out what was happening.

  He forced his eyes to open, despite a demand coming from somewhere inside urging him to stay motionless. Above him he saw open sky and the faint grey of a coming dawn, perhaps a half hour before sunrise. But something about it didn’t look right.

  “So, back with us?” came the deep rumble of Bogartis’s voice.

  “Where am I?” asked Declan, his voice a faint, dry croak.

  Hands gripped Declan and helped him sit up. Pain shot through him, and his vision swam as he fought off losing consciousness. Someone held a waterskin to his mouth and he took a drink.

  “Slowly,” urged Bogartis. “It won’t do you any good to spit it back up.”

  Declan sipped and, after a few swallows, grunted that he had had enough.

  “Where—” he began, but the pain came again.

  “You’re a mess, lad, and lucky to be alive.”

  Declan nodded and even that hurt.

  “We’re hiding behind a wall a short walk from the town, waiting for those bastards to leave. They won’t linger much longer, as they know the garrison from Esterly and the baron’s army from the south will show up around midday, I should think.”

  “When’s the sun rising?” Declan croaked.

  Bogartis’s face came into his field of vision as the mercenary captain shifted his position and looked into Declan’s eyes. “Can you see?”

  “It’s hazy,” said Declan. “Sunrise soon?”

  “Sun’s been up for a few hours, lad,” said Bogartis. “It’s dark from the smoke.”

  “Smoke . . .” Declan sighed, ignoring the pain in his back.

  Bogartis moved out of Declan’s field of vision so that the young smith could see the smoking ruins of a small farmhouse. “You had the right of it, son. This was no raid; this was a declaration of war. They’ve burned everything.”

  “Everything?” Declan croaked.

  “If it wouldn’t burn, they pulled it down. Never seen anything like it. Your smithy resisted the fire, but even that is nothing more than a charred husk now.”

  “The people?”

  “Those bastards chased down a lot of them, sorry to tell you,” said Bogartis, waving one of his men over. “Two of my boys fell, and three—” He held out his hand, palm down, and made a rocking motion. “Might be down to twelve of us by the time the baron gets here.”

  Declan let the news sink in. Everything he had worked for since arriving in Beran’s Hill was gone. The gold hidden in the forge was almost certain to have been found, and only the anvil, some of the tools, and fittings for the bellows were likely to have survived the fire, unless the heat of the flames robbed them of their temper. “Gwen?” he asked.

  “Your girl?”

  “My wife,” said Declan.

  “Don’t know, lad. Some of those heading south might have made it before the bastards took after them. I doubt they ventured too far to the south, fearing the baron’s patrols.” He tried to sound reassuring but failed.

  “What about Hatu? Last I saw he was climbing to the roof.”

  One of the mercenaries said, “A wounded boy, don’t know his name, said the lad who played fox to the raiders’ hounds was carried off.”

  “Carried?” said Declan, trying not to cough. He accepted another sip of water. “He was wounded?”

  “Maybe. The boy told me he was slung over the shoulder of a big black man wearing the same tabard as those robes the priest and his girl wore.”

  Declan didn’t know if he could make sense of that. “The priest . . . You mean monk. Brother Catharian and his beggar girl.”

  “And a big fellow wearing armor. Looked like a soldier, the boy said. Then he died.”

  “Hatu?”

  “No, the boy who told me,” said the mercenary.

  “When the baron’s men turn up, we can sort all this out,” said Bogartis. “Hope he has a healer with him. We stopped your bleeding and put a rough patch on the wound, but you need proper tending.”

  Declan had no argument with that. As desperate as he was to know that Gwen was safe, and almost as concerned about Jusan, Millie, Hatu, and Hava, he was as weak as a newborn kitten. Fatigue was causing his eyes to go unfocused and his lids were getting heavy.

  Soon he was asleep.

  7

  Loss and Determination

  Hava tried to rein in her impatience along with
her horse; the horse responded, but the desperate anxiety within did not. The baron’s man Balven had recognized her at once and heeded her warning. It had been barely more than an hour before she rode out of the city on a fresh horse with a vanguard of soldiers, a single squad of only thirty men, but they were castellans, the baron’s very best personal company. A full company of garrison soldiers with two recruited squads of mercenaries would follow within half a day.

  Her body ached from exhaustion and stress, for she had ridden two horses into the ground and had eaten only a few bites fetched from the kitchen for her while the cavalry mustered to ride to Beran’s Hill. While it usually took more than a full day by slow wagon, she had made the journey in less than half that time, leaving at sunset and arriving before dawn the next morning.

  As they crested a hill in the late afternoon, they saw the first signs of the conflict. Birds circled above the town. Bodies lay in the road some distance ahead. Even before Hava could react, the two point riders had urged their horses to a gallop, and by the time Hava caught up they were already circling among the dead, their approach driving off the carrion eaters.

  One of the riders told the other, “Let the captain know,” and to Hava he said, “Looks like they were cut down while fleeing.”

  Hava’s stomach tightened and for an instant her head swam. Bodies lay sprawled in the dirt, most facedown with wounds to the head, shoulders, or neck, having been struck from behind by riders wielding swords or maces. A few had turned to face their attackers, perhaps begging for mercy at the last moment; now their eyes stared blankly up at the afternoon sky, if they still had eyes. She recognized some of the closest, not by name, but she was sure she’d seen them around town.

  Hava forced down a fear that had been inside her ever since she had started her race to Marquenet, but something else lingered: a revulsion that was new to her. She’d seen death before, had even killed an attacker with her own hands, but this was a slaughter of people who had done no harm, who were merely living in the wrong place. She started to look for Hatu among the bodies, then immediately scolded herself, for she was sure he would not have run away but would have remained to the last. She wondered if anyone had survived this attack. Who had pursued these poor souls so far from the battle?