“As those ground under . . .” Daylon stopped.
“You’re thinking of Steveren, aren’t you?”
Daylon stayed silent, then nodded. “That lad from Coaltachin. That brought the memory of the Betrayal back as if it were yesterday.” His chest heaved in a silent exhalation. “Steveren was nobody’s fool, but he believed too much in people acting in good faith. He lacked the talent for treachery.”
“That he did.” Balven studied his brother for a long moment, then said, “What really troubles you?”
“You have to ask?”
“I think you need to put your thoughts out, not listen to mine, because I know you well, brother, and if I let you sit silently and brood, no good will come from it.”
With a flash of annoyance, Daylon said, “Sometimes you are too vexing, despite your intent.”
The page returned with a tray, put down a carafe of wine and two goblets, quickly served the two men, then departed.
Balven took a sip and nodded in approval. “I believe vexing you is part of my duties.”
Daylon took a deep breath and nodded. “Perhaps. My thoughts are that we prepared for years for Lodavico to move westward. I’ve spent a fair bit of gold on your agents to track Lodavico’s every move, listening to every rumor, and despite all that, our best assumption was that he wouldn’t move west for another two years, one at the least. Now this.” He swallowed a long draft of wine. “Some of the information we’ve seen for the last few years suggested that there might be another player in this murderous game we play, but it came to no more than hints and suggestions.”
Balven nodded. “And some we dismissed as ill founded, even misdirections, from Sandura and its allies.”
“So, what are our choices?” asked Daylon. Balven knew it to be a rhetorical question and stayed silent. “We retreat to our northernmost fortress at Barrier Rock—which we haven’t reinforced in my lifetime—or all the way back to Marquenet.”
“Or?”
“Or we move in force to Port Colos and sort out this betrayal with the governor and get ready to hand out some harsh retribution to whoever is behind this.”
Balven said, “And either choice could be the wrong one.”
“Do you think all this is to lure us to Colos, while someone else attacks Marquenet?”
Balven gave a slight shrug. “I’ve considered it, but you’ve left a strong enough garrison to hold the city until we return. And if someone were attacking, they would be faced with this force at their rear.” He shook his head. “I’d choose some other plan, unless our unnamed enemy has a larger army than I can imagine, and I can imagine a very big one.”
“To breach the city’s defenses . . .” Daylon shrugged. “It would take both Zindaros’s and Helosea’s navies combined to transport that big a force if they come by sea.”
“And by land we wouldn’t be talking like this but fighting for our lives.” Balven looked into his brother’s eyes. “So, we go to Port Colos?”
“Let the captains and sergeants know we break camp at first light, and I want our screeners out at dawn, the army to follow an hour later.”
Balven stood and bowed, a formality he had observed since joining his half brother’s household as a child. It was his way of reminding Daylon that no matter how close they might be as brothers, he was still a bastard commoner, and Daylon, ruler of the richest known barony.
At the door, he turned and asked, “What about that lad, Donte?”
“We take him with us. He may prove useful. If he doesn’t, maybe I’ll hand him back over to Deakin.”
“For his sake I hope he proves useful,” said Balven with a rueful smile.
Hava and Molly rode cautiously at the wood’s edge, picking their way around deadfalls, all the time checking the road they could glimpse to the southwest. There were ample signs of heavy use recently, as rubbish had been dumped at various places, but Molly estimated the troops they followed were a good half day ahead, so unless they had mounted a rearguard, the two women were probably safe from observation until the following afternoon.
“At this rate, we won’t reach the city until after sundown tomorrow,” said Molly.
“That may be a good thing,” replied Hava. “Let’s walk the horses.”
Both riders dismounted and led their mounts in single file. Doing this kept the horses fresh enough that they wouldn’t be useless after a long journey. “We should camp at sundown,” said Molly.
“The horses could use it, and so could I,” said Hava, her impatience to find Hatu tempered by fatigue and sore muscles.
Since leaving the charcoal burner’s hut, they had pushed themselves and the horses, and from Molly’s assessment they’d made up significant distance between themselves and the raiding army. Hava knew that any large body of people moved as fast as the slowest member not left behind, which meant they might come upon the raiders at any moment. She knew it likely they’d hear them before they saw them, but that still didn’t mean caution was unwarranted.
“How close to the road do you want to camp? This is as far as I’ve ever wandered from home . . .” Molly’s voice betrayed a hint of emotion when she said that last word. “I know that from here we’ve got foothills rising on this side of the road and farms somewhere ahead on the other side. So, where do we camp?”
“Let’s see where we are at sundown, then decide,” Hava said.
Molly gave a single nod and they continued their journey.
As they rode on, the woods darkened to the point at which future travel would be difficult, if not impossible. After a few minutes, Hava halted and asked, “Do you hear that?”
Molly said, “People on the road.” She kept her voice low even though they were still a good distance away and sheltered by thick tree trunks and dense shadow.
Hava handed the reins of her mount to Molly and moved toward the sound. The sun was touching the western horizon, and she and Molly were on the northern side of the high road leading northwest to Port Colos. They were still the best part of a day’s quick ride from the city and were not expecting to see many travelers, but as Hava reached the thinning woods nearest the road it appeared they were in error.
The sky to the west was still illuminated in iridescent orange and vibrant pinks, throwing the figures before Hava into stark relief, but she saw enough.
She slipped back into the woods and said to Molly, “Slow wagons, the last of the raiding army.”
“Baggage? Followers?”
“No . . . or maybe some baggage wagons, but not the usual followers. In the fading light it was hard to tell, but I did see prisoners.”
“So they didn’t kill everyone?” Molly sighed heavily. “How many do you think?”
“A couple dozen, at least.”
“Make out any faces?”
“No,” said Hava. “Too far away and too dark.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Molly.
Hava was silent for a bit as she considered her choices. “If Hatu is among the prisoners . . .”
Molly nodded. “You have to get close to the prisoners to know.”
“Let’s follow and see if they camp.”
Molly put her hand on Hava’s arm. “Wait. If they were going to camp, they would have stopped by now and made fires.”
“Unless they don’t want to be seen. Perhaps a cold camp?”
“All right. We get close, and if they stop, maybe we can get a look at who’s in those wagons.”
“I can get close,” said Hava.
“What if they don’t stop?” asked Molly. “What if they get to Port Colos and enter the city?”
“I can still get close,” said Hava.
Molly’s face was barely visible in the gloom of evening, but Hava could read the dubious expression that crossed her features.
“What you can do in these woods, moving without startling your prey, I can do in a city. Cities are my hunting ground.”
Molly still looked skeptical but didn’t seem inclined to argue.
They led the horses along the edge of the tree line.
Hava could hear the wheels grinding along on the hard-packed road and the rare distant voice. Occasionally the breeze carried the sound of a whimper or crying.
Hatushaly felt nauseated, a dull anticipation of the need to vomit, yet no spasm came and no bitter saliva gathered in his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but his lids seemed heavy. It required a focused act of will to open them.
He smelled . . . old salt . . . and fish. He felt rocking. He knew that meant something, but he couldn’t quite piece together the puzzle. Sounds tickled the edge of his awareness . . . a lapping sound of . . . water?
For a lingering instant he remembered the cave in which he had been held by . . . The images faded: he felt unable to hold on to any thought.
A distant voice said, “He’s stirring.” He thought it might be Hava. It was a woman . . . It wasn’t Hava. Hava . . . ? He fought to open his eyes and failed. Thoughts brushed against his awareness but fled as though a feather floating on a gust. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.
10
Captives and Mysteries
Hava watched as the last wagons rolled through the city gates of Port Colos. It was midafternoon, and both she and Molly were watching just behind the first line of trees.
The soil beneath their boots was rocky, and a ridge covered with enough trees to screen movement rose to the northwest. Hava said, “Let’s follow that ridge and see if we can get a better view, though from this distance it’s going to look like an anthill, at best.”
They climbed and the trees gave way to low scrub and, finally, to bare rocks. To the north there was a dip down to a wide bowl where grass grew and a small pond offered welcome refreshment for the horses. Leading the fatigued mounts, Hava showed Molly how to stake them out so they could graze and drink, but not wander off. When they had finished, Molly said, “I hope we don’t need rope any time soon. That was all of it.”
The sky was darkening and shadows lengthening by the time they moved up the spine of the rock to a small promontory. Two massive ridges extended from below where they stood. One ridge ran to the north, into a bluff overlooking rocks preventing any boats from landing close to the city; the other dropped steeply down to the southwest, ending at the edge of the city wall. Hava eyed the one that led down to the city and said, “If I could get down to that spine of rock . . .”
“You’d have to be half mountain goat or bighorn sheep, if you could survive the drop from here to the top of that ridge,” Molly said. “And we used all the rope. Besides, should you have to get out of there in a hurry, climbing back up that way looks like a problem.”
Hava let out an exasperated sound, half sigh, half throaty growl. “I hate to agree.”
They studied the scene below. As the sun sank below the horizon, Molly asked, “What’s that?” She pointed to the sea just beyond the city, where a haze of white obscured the water.
“Haze. Not quite fog,” said Hava. “I’ve seen it all my life. Some places it rolls in with the morning tide and hangs along the coastline. Sometimes it burns off with the heat of the day, sometimes not. I’ve ridden into a port city where it’s bright and sunny all day and then a mile or so from the city, gloom.” She shrugged. “I take it for granted.”
Molly said, “I’ve never seen its like before.”
“You’re noticing now because of the sun shining through it.” Hava looked at Molly. “You haven’t got around much, have you?”
“Da took me down to Marquenet once.”
After a few moments of silence, they heard a sound from below in the city, a low jumble of noise that at first was unrecognizable. Then, abruptly, Hava knew what it was. “There’s fighting in the city!”
The cacophony resolved itself into a clang of weapons, screams, shouts, dogs barking, and hoofbeats. “Who’s fighting?” Molly asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Hava. “Mercenaries and . . . whoever they were working for?”
The tempo of the battle and the volume of sound increased, and after a few minutes, Hava said, “This isn’t some falling out between companies. It’s much bigger: someone is fighting the locals! The governor’s army or whatever they’re called!”
A fire had broken out in the southernmost quarter of the city, and as evening descended it provided a brilliant illumination. The air was replete with shrieks and cries, men shouting in concern, women and children screaming.
“They’re sacking the city!” Hava said. She gripped Molly’s arm, digging her fingers in as if clinging to her companion for support.
Molly looked at her friend’s face, outlined against the fading sunset and the flickering distant fire. Hava’s eyes welled with tears, though she remained silent. Her stoic nature was being tested, Molly knew. She didn’t need to read minds to know that Hava was terrified of what might happen to Hatu if he were indeed among the prisoners taken into the city.
Hatu felt a strange return to coherent thought, as if he were awakening from a fevered illness. His body ached and his chest hurt. He was thirsty and his throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He tried to open his eyes and found them crusted with dried tears and mucus.
He was lying in some type of hammock. It swayed gently and he realized he must be aboard a vessel.
A woman’s voice said, “Don’t move or you’ll hurt yourself.”
A wet cloth was applied to his face, cleaning away the crystallized mess on his eyes, and at last he could open them.
A young woman stood next to him, but when he tried to move he discovered he was tied to the hammock, a rope wrapped around him half a dozen times, confining his arms and legs. He tested the bonds slightly, and she said, “We had rough weather and didn’t want you to fall out.” She began to untie the rope.
“I know you,” Hatu said, his voice a scratchy whisper.
“Wait.” She stopped untying the rope for a moment, held a waterskin to his mouth, and let him drink. Then she returned to freeing him and, when the rope was removed, helped him get into a sitting position in the middle of the hammock, his legs dangling a few feet above the floor. “Don’t try to stand yet. You’re very weak.”
Sitting up made his head swim, and Hatu found himself blinking to force his eyes to focus. “You’re that . . . girl with Catharian.”
“Sabella,” she said, nodding. “We’ve been caring for you . . . for quite a while.”
Still groggy, Hatu said, “My head . . . it’s . . . it really hurts.”
“We had to drug you for longer than I would have liked,” said the young woman. She regarded Hatu in a way he found unsettling, though he couldn’t say why.
“Drug me?”
“Catharian will explain. He’s up on deck. I’ll go and get him.”
“No,” said Hatu. “I need to move. Everything hurts, but I know my own body well enough to know lying around any longer will not help.”
“Very well,” she said, and put out her arm to provide support.
Hatu’s legs were wobbly and he could barely navigate his way through the small forecastle and into the cargo hold, which smelled strongly of fish.
“Can you get up this?” asked Sabella, pointing to a ladder leading to a hatch above them.
“I’ll try,” he said, and he planted himself on it with slow, purposeful movements, reached up and grabbed the highest rung he could reach, then slowly pulled and pushed with his feet at the same time. His leg trembled a little but his arms felt adequate, and after pausing for a moment he repeated the movement and made it up another rung. It took a full minute to negotiate a ladder that should have taken mere seconds, but he finally stuck his head through the hatch.
Strong hands grabbed him under the armpits and he was half lifted over the edge of the hatch and sat on the deck.
Hatu looked up at a dark face set in a half smile. After studying that face for a second, he said, “I know you! You hit me!” Whatever flash of anger that woke in him was muted and distant.
“I should hate you,” said Hatu, “for making me leave my wife and friends . . .” He paused. “Why don’t I?”
From behind him a voice said, “It’s the drugs, I wager. The effects will linger for a while, and given the nature of your temper, that is probably a good thing.”
Hatu looked over his shoulder to see Catharian standing near the mainmast. The false monk motioned for Denbe to help Hatu to his feet.
He looked around. They were on a boat, a decent-sized fishing boat, a lugger. It was a two-masted ketch with twin lugsails and a bowsprit to which a headsail was lashed and not in use.
Hatu felt strength slowly returning to his legs. “Hava?” he asked.
“Alive to the best of our knowledge,” said Catharian. “All of Beran’s Hill was razed, but she was with the baron, so she may be one of the only survivors of that battle.”
“Not properly a battle,” said Denbe. “Slaughter would be the right word.”
Hatu’s expression was a mix of disbelief and outrage. “Slaughter?”
“Too many to count,” said Denbe.
Hatu wondered about Declan, Gwen, and the others he’d left behind, then gave silent thanks to any deity listening that Hava had been out of the town when this happened. He lowered his head a moment and just breathed.
Catharian asked, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Hatu shook his head. “My stomach is . . . numb.”
“Drugs,” said the false monk.
“All of them are dead?”
“Not all,” said Catharian. “The morning after we dragged you off, I scouted and saw a few people moving in the rubble. Some soldiers had put up a shelter of sorts with a kitchen. I knew the baron’s men from Esterly would be there shortly, so I headed back to the hut we had you in. We waited until sundown and then took you away.”
“Why?”
“That’s a long tale. First, we need to get your strength back, so again I’ll ask, can you eat?”
Queen of Storms Page 19
