Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  “I do care,” she repeated, “and I know what comes next will be difficult, perhaps even painful, but I also know it is necessary. There are things about who you are—what you are—that require you to master yourself in ways you haven’t even imagined. It just makes me a little sad, is all.”

  Feeling that this conversation was becoming more awkward by the moment, Hatu said, “Thank you for worrying about me, but I’m sure I’ll be all right.” He knew that the first chance he got to escape and seek out Hava, he’d take it, which made Sabella’s concerns for his future suffering moot.

  “I need to see to the sails,” he said to her, though they needed no attention.

  Hurrying away, he wondered if this journey would ever make sense to him.

  Declan sat back against a wall, his legs outstretched, resting as the day’s heat took its toll on the workers. The baron had begun a rapid fortification, pressing any fit man who hadn’t fled the city before he had returned into a labor force, and that included every mercenary under contract. Bogartis had been given a semiofficial position, a temporary captaincy, over all such companies and was away seeing to their deployment.

  So far no word had come of any large movement of ships down the coast, but everyone felt certain it was only a matter of time before the invaders who had savaged Port Colos, Copper Hills, and Beran’s Hill would arrive. The tension in the city rose each day. It was now the third day since they had returned, and apart from the work gangs, and a few women who had remained with their men in the city, Marquenet was empty. What Declan found most unexpected was the quiet, especially the lack of any children’s voices. There must still be a few around—children of nobles, sons and daughters of merchants, urchins running around the streets—just not enough to be noticed. He suspected they were all staying, or being kept, indoors out of fear.

  Declan was angry with himself. Bogartis had been right: he had tried to do too much too soon. He’d tried using a sword on a pell post, and his right shoulder had torn. Now his right arm was useless. He had grudgingly agreed to keep it in a sling, giving it a chance to heal properly. He could do little by way of heavy work, so except for helping haul some small sacks into the kitchen with his other hand, and herding chickens in the marshaling yard, which was now a makeshift barnyard, there was little for him to do but rest.

  He looked up and saw a familiar figure approaching, a young mercenary named Sixto, one of Bogartis’s company. Declan didn’t know him well, but he seemed an affable enough fellow, though he tended to keep to himself. He was carrying a scabbard in his left hand.

  “Declan!” The young smith still hadn’t quite placed his accent.

  “Hello, Sixto,” Declan replied.

  “Bogartis said I should find you.”

  “Well, now you’ve found me.”

  The fighter gave a small smile. He wore his hair long, to the shoulders, and had a thin mustache and an odd little patch of chin whiskers below the center of his mouth but was otherwise clean-shaven. This was a fashion Declan had never seen before. As much as it was possible for a fighter who spent so much of his time on horseback, Sixto paid attention to his grooming, to the point where Declan thought him rather vain.

  “Bogartis said I should train you.”

  Rising slowly to his feet, Declan said, “Train me in what?”

  “The sword.”

  Declan glanced toward his sling. “It was Bogartis who scolded me for using my sword arm too soon.”

  Sixto tossed the scabbarded sword to Declan’s left hand. Reacting slowly, Declan fumbled it and it fell to the ground.

  Sixto said, “You’re going to train using the other arm.”

  Declan retrieved the scabbard. “My left hand?”

  “Makes you a better fighter and stops you from getting fat.”

  Declan clamped the scabbard under his right arm, then drew the sword with his left. It felt odd. Although the smith used his left hand a great deal in his craft, using tongs to turn blades and tools while forging them and pumping the bellows to keep the coals at the proper heat, holding a sword this way just felt wrong.

  “I’ve seen you fight, and you’re deadly, quick, and strong,” said Sixto. “But if anyone were to study you long enough, they would see patterns, your instinctive reactions. That is a weakness.”

  Declan kept moving the sword around, trying to gain some sense of the familiar. Even with his shoulder restitched and his right arm in a sling, he felt an almost overwhelming desire to switch the blade to his other hand.

  “I want you to block an overhand blow,” said Sixto, and then he made a looping attack from above, not too fast, but not slow either.

  Declan barely got the blade up in time and felt the shock of the blow run up his arm and his elbow bend with it.

  “You want to fight as if you had your sword in your other hand,” said Sixto. “You move as if it still was. But you can’t do that. You must forget all you know and learn as a baby learns, by watching and repeating over and over. Now look at your wrist.”

  Declan did as instructed and saw that his wrist was exposed as his blade turned to his left. He nodded. “It’s wrong.”

  “Yes, you turned the blade as you would in your right hand, but now you must point the blade to your right, so that the strong muscles in your arm can take the blow. Imagine you’re in front of a mirror and then be the mirror. Again!”

  This time Declan turned his blade so it pointed right and raised his arm to take the blow. Their blades clashed, and he felt the shock again, but this time he found he could turn his body and let the blow slide off his blade, thus exposing Sixto’s shoulder and neck. He attempted to thrust that way, but the other man easily turned the blade aside.

  “Good,” said Sixto. “Your feel for the fight is sound. That’s the right move, but you need a lot of practice because you’re too slow and you had to think about it rather than just do it. Again!”

  For nearly half an hour they repeated the same move and countermove until Declan didn’t have to think about it, just react. His left arm started to ache, which surprised him. A powerful man by dint of nature and his work, he still felt some discomfort from his muscles being used in a new fashion.

  Finally, Sixto stepped away and said, “That’s enough for today. Tomorrow we will try other attacks and ripostes. You learn quickly, my friend.” He smiled. “Perhaps when your right shoulder is sound I shall teach you how to fight with two blades. It’s a dangerous style of combat. If done badly it will get you killed; but if done well, it’s deadly for the other fellow.”

  Declan grinned. “I look forward to tomorrow.”

  He fumbled with the scabbard and got the sword sheathed, then returned to his resting place in the shade with his back to the wall. At least the lesson had been a good distraction from his dark introspections. Now, unbidden, the emptiness returned and he wondered if he would ever feel anything beyond that hollow space where his heart once beat, now replaced by the need to find whoever was responsible for the raid that killed his wife and friends.

  He watched as soldiers hurried about their tasks, sensing their urgency and even a hint of desperation. Out of boredom he considered how he would go about attacking Marquenet, and he realized that the city offered very little in the way of real defenses beyond the walls of the old keep.

  This realization surprised him by being interesting. If invaders were coming from the nearest ports on the coast, villages and farms were all that lay between where they would land and the city. There were perhaps a dozen roads, but only three were wide enough to accommodate a large force. Those roads entered the city from the northwest and the northeast—the same road Declan and those traveling from Beran’s Hill had used—and from the south, which served the nearest port on the border of Marquensas and the Kingdom of Ilcomen. That southern route was the shortest, but the harbor there was at the end of a narrow bay, hardly large enough for a sizable fleet.

  The northwest route was the most likely, Declan reckoned, and once at the city’s ed
ge, the invaders would be faced with a maze of streets and perhaps be trapped or prey to ambush.

  The problem was becoming increasingly interesting. Declan decided to turn his full attention to it.

  As the shadows of the day lengthened, Declan found himself lost in the problem, mentally assigning troops to various defensive positions and moving them around like game pieces, considering what resources might be readily available, what resources needed to be carefully guarded, and what might change in the heat of battle. The raid on Beran’s Hill had taught him one thing: preparation was paramount, but you had to expect everything to change the moment battle was joined.

  Declan barely realized it was almost sundown until he noticed squads of men moving toward the mess hall in the soldiers’ commons and found that he was hungry. He got to his feet, feeling that his shoulder was slightly less tender than it had been this morning. He counted that a good sign.

  As he walked to where the evening’s mess was being served, he wondered how his plans for the defense of Marquenet might match up to the baron’s.

  Baron Dumarch looked down at the map. Balven sat opposite him and two of his most senior officers watched on.

  Balven said, “Word from North Tower is that the ships are starting to move. Some are outward bound on a southwesterly course, but others seem to be coming down the coast in our direction.”

  Dumarch was silent for a moment, studying the map. At last he said, “I can only assume they’re using ships to attack us either from the northwest or from the south.”

  A captain named Renfroe said, “Boarding those ships again and disembarking just a short while later entails risks that would be easily avoided just by marching south from Beran’s Hill.”

  The other captain, by the name of Markham, glanced at his fellow officer and nodded. “True.” He paused. “Unless they are heading to the port at Yallu.”

  “Too narrow a harbor,” said Balven. He looked at his brother and said, “If they mean to hit us from three sides at once, they could have forces marching south from Beran’s Hill now, while some offload at . . . whatever the village is at the end of the northwest road.”

  “Tanarith,” said Captain Markham. “Not much there, but it does feed the bigger road ten miles inland.”

  Balven continued. “So if they offload there and send their fastest ships south to Yallu, they could conceivably attack from all three roads at once.”

  “Or circle around and come at us from the east,” speculated the baron. He looked from face to face. “In other words, we have no idea what they may choose to do.”

  Balven said, “There are too many possible threats; we can’t prepare for them all. What is our best choice?”

  Daylon was silent for a long moment, then said, “Keep doing what we’re doing. Dig in. If anyone remains in the outer half of the city . . .” He crossed the room to a map of the city on another table and waved the two captains over. “I want every building in this city inspected. Anyone remaining in the outer half of the city”—he inscribed a circle over the map with his finger—“I want them moved into the area closest to the walls. I don’t care if they object, just move them, and pass the word: anyone who is in the city by sundown tomorrow will be expected to fight.”

  Balven chuckled. “That should send a number of them out the east gate in a hurry.”

  “I want gleaning to continue as fast as it can, and every useful item in a home brought to the keep. Food, obviously, if they find any, but tools, clothing, anything left behind that might prove useful I want loaded into wagons and moved here by sundown tomorrow.”

  Balven said, “That’s a lot of wagons.”

  “All the wagons from Beran’s Hill should have been unloaded by now. Commandeer any others you find in the city.”

  “The horses should be rested,” muttered Balven. “We’ll work something out, my lord.”

  To Captain Markham, Daylon said, “Rest the troops that are most in need for one more day, just give them light duties. Then tomorrow morning we start building fortifications. I want a defensive maze in the city so that invaders will have to fight their way through traps and ambushes.” He picked up the map and handed it to Markham. “After you get the men sorted out, I want you and your sergeants to sketch out your plans for defense on this map. Bring it back to me by supper and we’ll go over it and make whatever changes we decide are necessary. Work will begin at dawn.”

  Captain Markham took the map, rolled it up, saluted the baron, and departed.

  To Captain Renfroe the baron said, “I want pairs of riders sent to the coast west of here and south down to Yallu. Another pair to the east to see how the evacuation to Ilcomen is going and to bring back word of my family.”

  The captain saluted and left.

  Balven put his hand on his brother’s shoulder when they were alone. “You’re doing all you can.”

  Daylon said, “It’s the not knowing. If they’re invading, why aren’t they moving ashore and digging in? Even if we’re in no position to counterattack, they should consider it a possibility.”

  Balven contemplated the question and then said, “Perhaps they’re not invading.”

  Baron Dumarch shook his head. “What do you mean? The cost of razing Copper Hills, Port Colos, and everything north of our city is . . .” He spread his hands. “. . . incalculable. There just isn’t enough plunder, including captives for slaves, to recoup a raid on such a scale. Occupying our land and taking it for their own is the only explanation.”

  “Perhaps not,” Balven said calmly. “Copper Hills might as well not exist. We are crippled, and if everyone returned tomorrow, it would take months, years perhaps, for our people to recover, to rebuild the farms to the north and west, to reopen trade to the east. We won’t see any fresh fish here for months to come.” He shook his head. “I can’t see a motive for an undertaking of this scale, save invasion . . . unless . . .”

  “What?”

  “If they want to plunder all of North Tembria, all they need to do is just keep sweeping across the kingdoms from Ilcomen to Sandura and launch raids into Zindaros and Metros . . .”

  “No,” said Daylon. “With that many fighters, they’d need to set up bases, start building encampments, and they’d do it north of us along the coast where they’ve driven us out. We have seen nothing in the way of camp followers: no commissary, no weapons makers, no tailors, none of the necessities of an army on the move.”

  Balven nodded. “You’re right, which is why you are baron and I am not.” He looked at his brother with admiration. “Father always said there were two or three things to be seen, and most men only saw one. I’m vain enough to think I am a master of two of them: the price of choices and the consequences of planning for the long term. There’s a third element, the . . . extrapolation of possibilities, the anticipation of unforeseen consequences. I’m aware of them but I can’t anticipate.” He smiled ruefully. “You have that gift.”

  Daylon grinned at his brother. “You flatter me.”

  Balven laughed. “We’ve known each other too many years for you to think that.” His expression became serious again. “I will attempt to find out as much as possible as quickly as possible.”

  “Information is vital.”

  Balven left, and for a long moment Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, allowed feelings of overwhelming hopelessness wash through him. He refused to embrace them, realizing that to do so was to surrender. But he also knew that to reject that painful fear was a trap of denial. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; this would pass.

  After a few moments he opened his eyes and let the hopelessness fade, knowing that he would either protect his people or die in the attempt.

  Hatu heard Jenson shout from the masthead, “Land!”

  “Where away?” asked Catharian.

  “Ahead!” came the answer.

  Hatu glanced at Denbe and Sabella, both of whom were looking straight ahead. He knew his voyage to this first destination would soon be over, and
he started to weigh all the possibilities he had imagined since being captured.

  He had only a vague notion of where he was relative to Marquensas. His survival after fleeing the Sisters of the Deep had given him a clear understanding of just how far he could sail alone. He felt sure it would be too vast a distance for him to make it back on his own. He fought off any feeling of helplessness, but he knew his choices were limited and that he needed more information.

  Catharian called to Hatu, “Let out the mainsail!”

  Hatu did as asked, and while securing the mainsheet he saw the spot of land ahead grow larger. Soon he could see enough detail to judge it to be a fairly large island, as mountains shrouded in clouds and a wide, sprawling beach appeared. His interest was piqued: if it was large enough and if the port was busy enough, he might be able to hide, and then perhaps he could find his way back to Hava.

  Catharian sailed downwind toward the island, then ordered a tack to the north, which took them away at an angle, apparently following a current. Then he tacked back on a southwest course that headed straight into a good-sized harbor.

  As they entered the bay, Hatu realized the island was larger than he had expected, with an impressive lagoon that sheltered the harbor. From the size of a ship anchored just a short distance from the shore, it must be a deep lagoon as well. Hatu had seen a few islands like this near his homeland, but they were few and far between, and highly prized by the Council of Coaltachin. Such ports provided convenient sites for refitting, transshipping contraband, and other activities valuable to the Kingdom of Night. For a brief moment Hatu wondered if the Council might actually control this one.

  They slowed as Catharian brought the ship around with a practiced hand: he obviously knew this harbor well. They headed past the ship at anchor, and Hatu saw it was clearly a deep-water vessel, with two tall masts and a long bowsprit. It was a ship he recognized as a brig, an ideal island trader, with ample room for cargo, yet nimble enough to deal with the tricky shoals of the islands.

  Catharian shouted, “Prepare to drop sail!” and the boys responded quickly, while Hatu loosened his grip on the sheet holding the main boom. The small ship swung around hard as Catharian spun the wheel, and its forward motion almost halted as a slight swell moved it a bit sideways toward the quay, which was built on heavy rocks. Hatu wondered for a moment if this was a natural outcropping on an otherwise long stretch of sandy beach, or if it was man-made.