Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  Hava remained motionless and continued to listen. A rhythmic groan of timbers and occasional banging led her to believe large cargo was being secured on the deck directly above where she and the other prisoners were chained. If the cargo was above them, that meant there must be three decks, and that she and the other prisoners were down in the lowest, with ballast and bilges just below. Slaves here, loot above, and then the top deck: she had accumulated some knowledge about ships since her first ocean voyage. She thought it was likely to be a well-manned vessel, probably a freight hauler, and long waisted enough to be a three-masted, deep-water ship.

  A forecastle in the bow would hold crew bunks, and aft would be where the captain and mates would sleep. Depending on the size of the vessel, there might be a galley aft, or it might be up on deck.

  Time to open her eyes.

  A quick peep showed her just one crewman nearby, turned away from her at the foot of a companionway ladder. She readied herself to feign unconsciousness should he look her way.

  She glanced about. There was scant light from a single lantern hanging on the bulkhead to her right. She immediately saw this was a large vessel, and the ladder to the upper decks was actually stairs: she did not know why they were called ladders, but a lot of things about ships made no sense to her. That lantern threw a half circle of light to a few feet beyond where Hava lay.

  She saw a dozen women opposite her with their feet toward her, all lying on mats, as she was. The ship had large vertical supports spaced about ten feet apart on each side of a slightly raised center walkway. Large iron rings had been attached at the bottom of each, and a long chain had been threaded through those loops.

  Each woman had manacles with a smaller iron loop, through which that chain had been passed, set tight enough that the women could be packed close together. For Hava to escape, she would need to get that long chain freed from where it was locked at the end, probably attached to the stern bulkhead. She glanced and couldn’t make out the end, her view blocked by the bodies that lay to her right.

  A quick glance in the other direction left her without any clue as to the size of the hold in which she lay. She had been told pirates tended to favor small, quick boats, ones that could ambush coastal luggers and deep-water vessels slowly coming into the shallows. Swarm the decks, carry off what they could, then flee and hide—that was their way. Occasionally they’d kill the crew and seize the ship for a prize, then sell it to a buyer who did not worry about provenance.

  That was how it was explained to her when she crewed for Captain Joshua under the stern tutelage of his mate Daniel. She wondered idly what the ship was called now, for as was the habit in Coaltachin, ships in service to the Council changed names as often as most men changed their shirts. But whatever it was called, it had been a smaller ship than this, and one that could sail deep waters.

  She chanced another quick glance at the guard, who was leaning back against the steps, half asleep, his face turned away. Taking advantage of his inattention, she lifted herself up and scooted slowly until her back was against the hull. Then she rose as high as the chain would permit, which was almost to a crouching position. The movement caused her head to throb more than before, but, upon examining herself, she discovered no other injuries beyond some bruises, scrapes, and one small cut on her left arm that had already scabbed over.

  The light generated by the lantern next to the companionway prevented her from seeing much. It illuminated the guard and this end of the deck, but her view ended little more than a few yards beyond where she was chained. She saw shapes: bodies of other people she assumed were also chained.

  Of those she could see, only women were chained nearby. She sought out Molly’s face, only to be frustrated by the number of bodies turned away or features cloaked in shadows. She rejected calling Molly’s name out, as caution overruled the impulse. The archer might have been killed, or have escaped, or, if captured, not even be on this ship. And while those chained up with her were moaning and crying, a shout would have gained the guard’s attention.

  Hava had no idea what lay in store on this journey, but whatever it was, she would not act rashly. The lessons she had learned in Coaltachin were predicated on a single foundation: first you survive, because dead you are of no use to anyone. After survival, escape. The last instruction was get back to Coaltachin, but given that she had no idea where she was going to end up, that might be problematic. She’d worry about that after she escaped.

  She lowered herself back down and then extended her legs, trying to squeeze out whatever comfort the damp straw mat might provide. She let her head rest against the hull, content to wait, despite every fiber within her screaming at her to do something. Patience hard learned was a harsh master, but it was certainly less harsh than slavery.

  She turned her attention to the cord around her wrists; after a moment she found an exposed ridge to her left provided by an ill-fitting joint of two deck planks and began, as quietly as possible, to start rubbing the cord against that edge.

  Declan flexed his shoulder and the sharp pain struck at the same time Bogartis said, “Leave it, lad. It’ll heal, but slowly. If you keep testing that shoulder, you may do more damage.”

  Declan winced and nodded in resignation. “I thought you said I needed to move in order to stop the scars inside from binding up.”

  The mercenary captain rode at a slow walk next to the wagon on which Declan sat. “I did, but not every moment from the first day. Let it heal a bit first. And then move it gently, not like you’re warming up for combat.”

  The sun was up and exhausted men and animals trudged toward Marquenet. Due to his injury, Declan was allowed to ride next to a wagon driver, while the more gravely injured lay in the wagon’s bed, made as comfortable as possible for the journey. Bogartis rode next to Declan’s wagon, and it was now clear to the smith that this captain of mercenaries was seriously interested in adding Declan to his company.

  Declan still felt a numb void within, tinged with a seething anger that he couldn’t quite bring to the surface. He knew that Gwen was dead, as were Jusan and Millie, and others: perhaps Molly Bowman, Hatu, and Hava as well. Yet despite what, by any measure, should be a crushing sense of loss, he felt little. It was as if he were watching someone else suffer from a distance.

  He’d seen death in Oncon, even before he fought off the slavers with Edvalt and Jusan. As a boy he’d seen a couple of the old men taken by ague in the cold season, and Beck Linderman’s son, caught up in nets and drowned before they could cut him loose and haul him back into the boat. He’d witnessed grieving but realized now he’d never truly felt it. Perhaps it was the wound, or as Edvalt would say it hadn’t “struck him yet,” but whatever the cause, Declan just felt empty.

  “Lost in thought?” said Bogartis.

  “Just wondering what the baron will have in store,” Declan said, though this had been a thought from earlier in the day. He felt no need to share his emptiness with anyone else.

  “Wondering the same,” replied Bogartis. “There’s a lot more going on than answering a raid, even one as brutal as Beran’s Hill.” He glanced around and added, “You don’t suddenly turn this column around and head for home unless more’s afoot than we’re being told.”

  Declan nodded, though his curiosity was muted, like all his feelings.

  “I don’t know,” Bogartis added quickly. “I’ve just served in too many tussles not to see what’s in front of me.”

  A shout from behind and both Declan and Bogartis turned. There came the command, “Pull to the side!”

  The driver glanced back to see the wagons behind moving to the left verge of the road and did likewise. As they came to rest as far off the baron’s highway as was possible without ensnaring the wagon in deep mud, the sound of cavalry reached them.

  A few moments later, Baron Dumarch and his company of castellans rode past at a canter. The horses were frothy and showing wide nostrils, and Declan knew that meant they were close to exhausted. As the b
aggage caravan had been turned around, Declan knew the remounts were ahead now, instead of behind, and assumed the baron and his honor guard would be changing mounts for the remaining distance to the city.

  Declan glanced at Bogartis, whose expression said, “I told you so,” without uttering a word. Declan nodded once in acknowledgment.

  Bogartis looked back again as companies of the baron’s cavalry brought up the rear at a trot, their horses also appearing to be in desperate need of rest.

  It was halfway between dawn and noon, Declan judged, and from the state of the animals, the baron had ridden hard. “Some of those horses will be good for nothing more than fertilizer,” he said quietly.

  “That’s the right of it,” Bogartis agreed. He looked forward to where soldiers were switching mounts and said, “I need to ask something.” He urged his horse forward and rode toward the head of the column, which was pulling off to the right side of the highway to rest the mounts.

  Declan sat silently next to the driver, who was obviously relieved to get a bit of rest himself.

  Bogartis pulled up next to a sergeant near the officer leading the column. They exchanged a few words, then the mercenary captain turned and rode back to where Declan waited.

  “We’re resting here for a while,” Bogartis said to Declan. “My company and two others are guarding the baggage while the rest of the garrison is heading back to Marquenet.” He glanced toward where the horses were being changed and said, “We’ll need to lie up an hour or two for those animals to catch their wind a bit, and then it’s a slow walk back to the city.” He looked at Declan. “There’s something I want you to consider, lad. If what’s coming is as bad as I think it will be, the baron’s going to decide he needs every armorer in the barony in his service. You won’t be given a choice, and depending on how things fall out, you may be in service for years, and you won’t be able to negotiate pay.” He indulged himself in a bitter laugh. “Hell, you might even get killed in the process.

  “If you seriously think you’d like to ride with me and my lads, once you’re a member of my company the baron can’t touch you. If he were to violate the rights of a captain’s sworn man by, say, pressing him into his personal service . . .” He shook his head. “Word would spread and no other company would be willing to fight for him.” Another glance toward the increasingly hurried swapping of horses, and the distant tread of infantry coming up the highway at a swift pace, emphasized the need for a quick decision.

  “What do I do?” asked Declan.

  “Simply swear to serve. Usually I take a man on for a year, unless I discharge him or have to kill him. Most of my boys have been with me four, five years. Sad to say the two youngsters who died up at Beran’s were my two newest. It was a hard place to train for sword craft.”

  “So,” said Declan slowly, “you seek to protect me?”

  Bogartis laughed. “Hardly! I seek to take advantage of you before the baron does. If you’re as gifted with hammer and anvil as you are with a sword, you’re good as gold. You think on it for a bit. Now I’m off to spread the word to the other captains. Let me know what you decide when I return.”

  He rode toward the rear of the baggage train, and Declan glanced at the driver, who seemed to have been entertained by the exchange. He gave Declan a slight tilt of his head, as if indicating that he approved.

  Declan surprised himself with a chuckle, which in turn caused his shoulder to twinge. At least he could still feel something, even if it was only mild amusement.

  He turned his attention to the head of the baggage train, where he could just make out the baron speaking with his brother, Balven, beside the first wagon. He experienced a passing curiosity as to what they might be discussing, then turned his attention back to considering Bogartis’s offer.

  “It’s not Sandura,” repeated Balven. “You’re certain?”

  “This is beyond Lodavico’s ability,” said a clearly fatigued but agitated Baron Dumarch. “Rodrigo sends word he’s fled his city while Port Colos is being obliterated. As soon as we change mounts, we’re pressing on to ready our city for assault.”

  Balven shook his head in disbelief. Lowering his voice, he said, “Father spoke enough about our position and not needing to build new defenses . . .”

  Daylon’s face was a dust-caked mask of concern. “We can defend a third of the city if an attack comes. The rest is beyond the walls, with no defensive positions between the harbor and the castle walls. If those ships anchored off Port Colos set off now . . .” He closed his eyes for a brief moment, calculating. “. . . we’ll have three, perhaps four days at most to ready a defense.”

  “Should we evacuate the city?” asked Balven.

  Daylon was silent for a moment. Then he looked at his half brother and said, “If we get word of ships coming in number from the north, and we open the eastern gate and pass word for people to flee to Ilcomen, we’ll have panic. If they do not come for us next, people will die for no good reason.”

  “And if we do nothing,” added Balven, “and they come, more people will die.”

  “There is no good outcome,” said Daylon as his horse was brought over to him. Mounting, he turned to look down at Balven and asked, “Any advice?”

  Balven said, “There’s a rumormonger named Blifen, at the Inn of the Purple Hen. I’ll have him suggest to some people a plague—”

  Daylon interrupted. “If you have a plan, save it. Then do it as soon as you’re able.” He shouted to a soldier who was about to mount, “Bring that horse over here!”

  The soldier hurried to do his lord’s bidding, and Daylon said to Balven, “You’re coming with me.” To the soldier he said, “Find a mercenary captain named Bogartis.” He glanced at his brother who nodded his agreement: Bogartis was the most competent of the mercenaries. “Tell him he’s in charge and get these wagons home as quickly as possible.”

  Then Daylon noticed Donte, sitting silently in the back of the wagon his brother had ridden in on. “And bring that man a horse. He’s coming with us.”

  Balven nodded and went to take the reins from the waiting soldier.

  A third horse was fetched while Daylon had Donte’s bindings cut from his wrists. With a nod of his head, he indicated that the young man from Coaltachin should mount. Donte looked around and both Balven and Daylon assumed he was judging his odds of a safe escape, but seeing that the baron was accompanied by more than a hundred armed and well-trained men, his expression revealed he concluded it would be a useless undertaking.

  Without another word, Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, rode to the head of the column and signaled for his elite troop to move on up the road.

  Bernardo Delnocio looked up from his reading as the hidden doorway between the bookcases opened. His agent, Marco Belli—known as “Piccolo”—entered, obviously in distress. He was covered in dirt, clearly nearing exhaustion, and barely able to stay on his feet.

  Ignoring rank and protocol, Delnocio quickly rose, took Piccolo’s arm, and guided him to a chair. “Water?”

  “Wine if you don’t mind, Your Eminence. I’ve had nothing to eat for three days.”

  The episkopos said nothing as he went to a side table and poured a cup of wine from a large flagon, returning to hand it to Piccolo, then sitting opposite him. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, Master. Captain Stennis reached Beran’s Hill a few days before me, and I already had other agents in the area. Stennis and I were in Port Colos, looking for the child. And suddenly the city was filling with outlanders and people who were strange to me; their fashion of dress and languages were like nothing . . .” He waved away his own words. “I’m rambling.” He took a long drink of wine, then continued. “Port Colos was used to stage a raid on Beran’s Hill.”

  Delnocio’s brow furrowed as he asked, “By whom? After more than twenty years of depending on my counsel, Lodavico could not mount such an undertaking without me.”

  Marco Belli agreed with a nod. “He’s not that clever and he n
eeds our agents.” He took another drink. “Stennis poked around in Beran’s Hill before I got there, then together we questioned the locals about the Firemane child in an obvious enough way to draw out anyone who might be sheltering the boy . . . or girl.”

  “We think it’s a son,” interjected the prelate.

  Piccolo shrugged. “Boy then.”

  “Young man by now.”

  “As it may be, master.” Piccolo paused, collecting his thoughts. “The raiding party was massive, over two hundred men on horse, and it was done quickly, less than a day and night. From all reports, the townsfolk put up a stout fight, but except for a few who fled, the rest were put to the sword or given to slavers. The town was then fired and burned to the ground.”

  “Someone is sending Baron Dumarch a message, but who?” Bernardo waved his hand at Belli. “Continue.”

  “More raiders appeared, as more ships anchored off the shore, and started occupying every room in Port Colos, and when all the inns and lodging houses were full, they camped in the streets. My best guess is more than two thousand men were inside the city when the fighting started.” He took another drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took a deep breath. “I’m trying to sort through the confusion, Your Eminence. Stennis died: that I saw, and I barely found a way out of the fighting myself. My other agents?” He shrugged. “I stayed in the woods and kept away from the roads. For the longest time I could hear the sounds of the city being sacked and all night the skies above it were alight with the flames.”

  Bernardo rose, picked up the carafe, and refilled Piccolo’s cup without a word. Belli nodded his thanks.

  “I found a horse without a rider after dawn and kept moving east. I imagined with Beran’s Hill finished, all the invaders would be behind me.”

  “Invaders?”

  Piccolo nodded. “I skirted Beran’s Hill by some miles, as I assumed by then Baron Dumarch’s garrison from Esterly would be there. I needed to get here as soon as I could, so I took the safest route. On the road, I encountered men and women from Copper Hills. It also has been sacked, and Baron Rodrigo and his family have fled the city and are either dead or in hiding.” He took a deep breath. “Copper Hills, Port Colos, and Beran’s Hill, all taken within days?”