Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  Now she wished more than ever Hatu were here, for he would remember those details, and almost as much as she missed him, she also wished she’d paid closer attention. She took a breath and calmed herself; such regrets were a waste of time.

  “We still wait?” asked Molly softly after a few minutes had passed.

  “If they think people got out of the city, they’ll be around for a while, at least until the baron’s army gets close.”

  “So, we just sit?”

  “Unless they find us.”

  “Then what?” asked Molly.

  “If we don’t get boxed in, it’s a race. If we can get ahead of them, we head east as quickly as possible. If we can reach the road where it turns south, we stand a good chance of running into the baron’s vanguard from Beran’s Hill.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t think we’re attacking them,” said Molly dryly.

  “All two of us?”

  Molly managed a half-hearted chuckle.

  A few minutes later, both horses’ heads came up, their ears perking, and they both looked to the left. Hava and Molly put hands on their muzzles again, to distract them. Horses, Hava knew, were not good at thinking of more than one thing at a time. Lightly stroking her animal’s nose, Hava whispered, “At least one rider, close.”

  Molly nodded in the gloom, saying nothing.

  As Hava had anticipated, a moment later the sound of horses slowly walking could be heard. Then two more riders came into view, both looking into the woods.

  “Damn,” Hava muttered as one locked eyes with her. Without a word, she leapt onto her horse, with Molly a second behind her. Both slammed their heels into the barrels of their mounts, and the horses crashed through the sheltering brush between two trees. Hava had her right arm extended, her long knife pointed at the nearest rider.

  A few seconds later, Hava heard the twanging of Molly’s bow and saw from the corner of her eye the other rider lifted from the saddle by her arrow. That caused the first rider’s attention to be drawn for a split second, at which point Hava flung herself from the saddle, grabbing the man’s sword arm.

  He lost his grip and hit the ground at the same time as his sword. Hava rolled over on top of him and drove the point of her blade into his throat, above the leather jerkin he wore.

  It was over in seconds.

  Hava’s horse was cantering away, and the two riders’ mounts were moving in the opposite direction. Molly rode up and extended her hand. “Get on!” she shouted.

  Hava stuck her knife back in its scabbard, grabbed the fallen rider’s sword, gripped Molly’s outstretched arm, and swung up behind her. Molly urged her mount after Hava’s horse.

  A hundred yards ahead, Hava’s mount had slowed to a walk, and Molly reined in so that Hava could dismount and get back on her own horse. Once seated, Hava said, “East!”

  Molly nodded. “Hope the baron’s close!”

  They set off at a gallop, but another fifty yards down the road both mounts went tumbling, casting the women over their necks to slam hard into the ground. Hava had been trained all her life how to fall, and even she barely managed to tuck her chin, bring up her knees, and roll as she hit the ground.

  Shaken, she managed to come to her feet, sword at the ready. Molly lay before her, stunned, unable to move.

  Hava took a step toward her companion but then heard shouts from both sides of the road. One horse lay on the ground screaming in pain from a broken leg, while the other leapt to its feet and moved off at speed, its uneven gait revealing an injury of some sort.

  Then everything happened at once. Men hurried out from both sides of the road, but rather than attack, they halted and a pair of them cast a large net over the two women.

  Hava raised her sword to catch the net, but as soon as the point was caught between the netting, a shock ran down her arm. The net was weighted, and each strand of heavy cord had been coated with something that made cutting it difficult. The weight of it forced her to her knees and the sword out of her hand.

  As two men reached to grab her, she heard a voice shout in that language she’d heard earlier, the one that was almost her native tongue, but just a bit off. “Do not harm them! We need more women!”

  Hava turned to see who spoke, only to have someone grab her through the netting and place a pungent-smelling cloth over her face. She thrashed and turned her head away, avoiding the noxious rag, frustrating her attacker’s attempt to subdue her. Suddenly, a sharp blow struck her head and she lost consciousness.

  Daylon Dumarch saw the scouts racing toward the vanguard just behind which he and Balven rode. A pair of riders galloped until the last possible moment, then reined in hard.

  Daylon shouted, “What did you find?”

  The closest scout said, “My lord, Port Colos has been sacked! The city is aflame and has been plundered!”

  Daylon signed for his castellans to advance and shouted back to Balven, riding beside the sergeant commanding the infantry, “As fast as you can!” Within seconds the baron and his personal household guards were galloping toward the city.

  When they reached the edge of the cleared land before the city gate, they saw a dead horse with a broken leg and its throat cut. It lay in the middle of the road, and they were forced to slow to go around it. As they reached the midpoint between the woodlands and the city, Daylon took in the vista.

  The sun was rising behind him, and a warm grey light, tinged with rose colors, was driving away the night, but everywhere he looked he saw more blackened ruin. Port Colos was a trading center. There were no nearby farms and only fishing villages up and down the coast. No faubourg stood outside the walls, and only short towers flanked the gate. The gate had been thrown wide and through it Daylon saw only smoking ruin.

  He slowed his company to a walk and they reached the edge of the city in minutes. There were still sporadic fires, small and burning themselves out, but producing enough smoke to choke anyone standing too near. It was clear that there was nothing of value left inside the walls.

  One of his captains said, “Who is that, my lord?” He pointed to a man who had been nailed to the leftmost gate, apparently while still alive, given the amount of blood that had washed down the wall. Huge spikes had been driven through his wrists and ankles, leaving him spread-eagled.

  Daylon rode closer, then recoiled. “That is the governor of Port Colos. I should say was.”

  A fifth spike had been driven through the governor’s stomach to keep him secure to the gate. It had been a nasty death.

  “What does it mean, my lord?” asked the captain.

  “It means you send a rider to Balven and order the infantry turned around. We’ll find no justice here. Whoever sacked Beran’s Hill was not aided by the governor. Port Colos is no more.” Tearing his eyes away from the murder before him, he looked at the captain and said, “Send a squad in to see if there’s anything alive or intact in the city—I doubt it, but I need to be sure. Then have the men tend the horses and rest them before we follow the infantry. I doubt there’s forage within a day or two from here now, so whatever grain we carry give to the mounts. We rest for a half day and leave at noon.” The last thing Daylon expected was that the raiders would have abandoned the city. A chill hit the pit of his stomach as he feared that he and his army were in the wrong place.

  The captain wheeled his horse and shouted orders, and Daylon calculated. If they left at noon, they would reach a clearing he knew of a little before sunset. They could make camp there and the horses would be fresh the next morning. That would put them back at Beran’s Hill at midday tomorrow. Daylon dismounted and loosened the girth of his mount’s saddle. He removed a bag from behind the cantle and unrolled it. He always carried an apple in it, which he fed to his horse.

  There must be an unnamed player involved here, as he and Balven had speculated, for what he saw here at Port Colos, in addition to the destruction of Beran’s Hill, heralded a threat from someone worse than Sandura. Lodavico, with all his allies, could not have
sailed from his nation to Port Colos—certainly not through the Narrows—without Balven and his agents knowing, so taking Port Colos this way would be impossible. The governor had been Daylon’s ally and apparently had stayed true to that alliance, and paid dearly for it.

  This had been an assault from the sea, so this invading army had not come from anywhere to the east in North Tembria. But it was a massive force, powerful enough to claim the city, hold it while dispatching a major force to obliterate Beran’s Hill, retreat, and completely raze the port. Daylon had no hint who might be able to pull off such a military exercise.

  He stood silently, wishing by some magic he could be back in the security of his castle. Though he was uncertain just how much longer that castle would be secure.

  Declan winced as he stepped down from the baggage wagon, and Bogartis said, “You all right?”

  Biting down against the pain, Declan said, “No, but I’ll live.”

  The old fighter got off his horse and handed the reins to a baggage boy. Without asking he moved the sling on Declan’s shoulder aside and opened the collar of Declan’s tunic to take a look at the bandage. He let go of the cloth and said, “You didn’t tear anything, but there’s still some seepage from the wound.” His expression conveyed his opinion that Declan was an idiot to risk further injury by riding with Bogartis’s company, but he had made that point before departure and apparently felt no need to repeat himself. “Someone needs to change that dressing.”

  Declan studied the old fighter’s face for a moment, then said, “I’ll live.”

  The baggage train had pulled over to rest the horses and change a few of the most weary with remounts. The baron’s men were tired but fit. The mercenary bands that rode escort were a different matter. Some, like Bogartis’s men, were equal to the forced march, but others looked out of it. Declan said, “You run a stout company. What about these others?”

  “Sword for hire is a risky business. You get all sorts, and I am very particular about who I’ll have at my back in a fight. Some of the other captains are less particular.” Bogartis nodded toward a small knot of fighters who seemed to be arguing over something. “Some are not much more than scavengers, and some captains can’t maintain discipline.”

  “I met a few of those,” said Declan, thinking of the time he had had to fight to save Gwen. Then he shut that memory away. “Killed a few as well.”

  Bogartis frowned. “I saw how you fought and, as I said, I’d jump any wall with you at my side, but if you were with a band—”

  “I wasn’t,” said Declan. “A small company caused some trouble at Beran’s Hill some time ago and I sorted it out.”

  Bogartis’s brow furrowed even more. “Which company?”

  “A man named Misener, who was killed by a . . . I won’t call him a man, an animal named Tyree. He . . . wronged people I loved, so I chased him down and, as I said, I sorted it out.”

  Bogartis nodded approval. “So, you’re the one who killed the man who killed Misener.” He reached out and gripped Declan by his good shoulder. “Misener was a legend of sorts. In his prime he was one of the best captains around. I never served under him, but when I was young I fought alongside his lads on more than one occasion, and I’m glad I never had to face him in battle. You eat the same dirt as the man beside you, you learn who he is. Anyway, Misener stayed too long, thought he could tame any man under him, tame him or kill him.

  “Age will do that if you’re not careful. It’s why I’m thinking about turning this ragged lot over to someone new, so I can settle down before someone decides to take the company from me.” He looked Declan in the eye. “If you’ve a mind to, you could be that lad. Stay with me a while and learn the ways of being a captain, then I’ll take my leave and find a nice town to settle down in.” He looked around at the resting soldiers. “Assuming this new war doesn’t get us all killed.”

  “How bad is it, do you think?”

  “Bad” was all the answer Bogartis gave. He was quiet for a while and then said, “Let’s stretch our legs a bit. At my age, in the saddle isn’t the best way to spend the night.”

  They walked past the lined-up wagons, while some horses were swapped out of traces for fresh animals. In the second wagon in line sat a young man, his face covered in bruises and cuts, leaning back against sacks of supplies, his eyes closed as he rested. His hands were bound, and a tether tied his wrists to a steel ring normally used to tie down canvas covers on the wagon.

  After they passed, Declan said, “What was that about?”

  Bogartis shrugged. “Apparently someone got very cross with the lad, and from where he’s tied, I’d guess someone of rank wishes to talk to him about it.”

  At the head of the first wagon, two men stood next to their mounts. Declan caught Balven’s eye and was waved over. Bogartis followed.

  “Declan,” said the baron’s chief adviser. “It’s good to see you’ve survived. Last time I saw you, you were unconscious on the ground.” He neither acknowledged nor greeted Bogartis.

  “I had to come, sir,” said the young smith.

  A shift of expression on Balven’s face indicated that he understood. “Everything?” he asked.

  Declan nodded. “Everyone.”

  Balven gave a sigh of regret, then said, “I’m sorry.”

  Declan gave a slight nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  “When you’re recovered, I suspect we will need your skills.”

  The way he said it didn’t reassure Declan that he might get any choice in the matter, and while he understood the need for good weapons if war was coming, he also wanted to find whoever was responsible for the destruction of his home and Gwen’s murder and visit justice upon them personally.

  A voice from the rear shouted, “Rider coming!”

  Everyone turned as the sound of hooves reached them, and in a moment a rider came into view. His horse was lathered, laboring for breath, and he reined in before Balven. “Message for the baron.”

  Balven held out his hand and the soldier gave him a folded, tattered piece of paper. Balven unfolded it and read. Then he turned to the captain next to him and said, “As soon as we’re done changing out the horses, we turn the baggage around. Give the men one more hour of rest, then we start back.”

  “Sir?”

  “Copper Hills has fallen.”

  “Sir?” repeated the captain as if he didn’t understand.

  “The baron will no doubt be along this way shortly, and I’ll wager he’s already sent orders for us to turn around.” He motioned to Bogartis. “Pass word to the other captains that I want them ready to ride.” He gave the old mercenary a cursory inspection and said, “You’re in charge. I want flankers on both sides of the road and scouts a half hour ahead.”

  Bogartis glanced at Declan, shrugged slightly, then replied, “As you wish, my lord.”

  Declan stood there dumbfounded. “Copper Hills is gone?”

  “Apparently Baron Rodrigo managed to get out of the city with some of his family. He’s holed up somewhere in the mountains and managed to get this out.” Balven clenched the message. “He sends a plea for aid.”

  “What does all this mean?” asked Declan.

  “It means this isn’t a raid. It’s an invasion.”

  Balven turned from Declan, walked to where a boy held the reins of his horse, and mounted. Without another word, he rode past and began personally overseeing every requirement of taking a large force of soldiers bordering on exhaustion and pushing them to their limit.

  Declan was left alone. Invasion. It seemed too big an idea to comprehend. He hurried back toward the wagon in which he had been riding, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder.

  12

  Changes on Fate’s Tides

  Hava’s wits returned slowly. Her head throbbed and her mouth was dry, with a bitter metallic taste. She tried to listen to voices and sounds, but they faded as she drifted slowly in and out of unconsciousness.

  Sometime later she came fully awake, agai
n keeping still and her eyes shut as she attempted to focus on her situation. She remembered that she had been captured, though the details of her capture were unclear. Her head still hurt, but what had been a hot, sharp pain was now an insistent, dull throb; however, she resisted the impulse to reach up and touch what she already knew was there: a massive knot raised by a blow. While struggling in the net, someone had hit her with a cudgel or truncheon, rendering her senseless. Fortunately, she conceded ruefully, it had been a glancing blow, or she would have been permanently injured, or even dead.

  She took a measured breath and silently tested her limbs, wiggling her fingers and toes, tensing and releasing her arms and legs to see if anything was broken. Everything appeared to work, so unless some undiscovered injury manifested itself later, she should be able to fight. And she knew she’d have to fight, just not when.

  Hava weighed the meaning of the sounds around her. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but at least enough time had passed for her to have been transported to a ship. The gentle side-to-side rocking of the vessel and the creaking of timbers and faint rattle of gear told her they were not yet under way, so most likely still at anchor outside the burning city.

  The chill bite of metal on her ankles meant she was shackled, and the air reeked of shit, piss, vomit, and the miasma of fear. From the lack of breeze and the closeness of the air, she reckoned she was in the hold. Her wrists were tied with a simple cord, from which she knew, given time, she could escape.

  Around her she heard breathing, weeping, moans, and bodies stirring as men and women tried to find some relief in their bondage. She realized she must be on a slave ship.