Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  But the time of parting had now come, and as the cheering died away it was replaced by a deadly silence as the first of the exiles started to walk up the gangplanks and board the waiting ships. When each vessel had been loaded with its cargo of people it drew away from the quayside and was replaced by another, until it too was loaded and withdrew to wait in the calm waters of the harbour.

  At last, the largest ship of the fleet moored at the quayside. Sharley dismounted and walked to the waiting gangplank. Maggie’s sedan chair had already been carried aboard and he watched as the newly-made Monarch bowed to his parents and his brothers and sister, then walked the few steps up on to the waiting ship. No emotion was displayed by any of the Royal Family; only Oskan raised his hand, and Jenny, catching the mood, suddenly let out a long and doleful bray that seemed to carry the entire weight of the crowd’s feelings.

  The gangplank was drawn aboard and the vessel eased away from the quayside. Out in the wide waters of the harbour the rest of the first refugee fleet waited, and as their flagship took up its position at their head, they drew in behind and headed for the open sea. Only the rhythmic splashing of the dragon galleys’ oars and the wailing of seagulls broke the silence.

  Sharley watched the brilliant centre of the crowd, where the polished armour and colourful banners of the Royal Family and escort stood, and felt the emotion swell within him as they dwindled to a tiny speck like a star in cloudy sky. Then at last, as the first lurching swell of the sea hit his ship beyond the protecting walls of the harbour, the barrier that had shielded him was broken, and he quietly wept, his tears adding their tiny offering of salt to the vast, endless roll of the ocean.

  CHAPTER 8

  Oskan rode back to the citadel in silence. Saying goodbye to Sharley and the refugees had been emotionally draining, reason enough to make him want to ride quietly, but there was something more he needed to think about. Somewhere, a powerful Weather Witch was weaving her spells, and he couldn’t quite work out where. Whoever she was, she was clever enough to cover her tracks so well that he had no hope of pinning her down, but the effect she was having was obvious. The sea and land around Old Haven was already free of winter’s grip, and it had taken all of his strength to break her hold over the rest of the country.

  Thankfully, controlling the weather of an entire region must have proved too much for her, and he’d managed to settle the climate back into its usual patterns. Added to that, he’d also ensured that the passes were still well and truly blocked by impenetrable snow and ice. Unlike the last war, Bellorum wouldn’t be able to start his invasion during the winter, quite simply because Oskan had made the weather colder and used it as a wall to keep out the Imperial Army. The winter would continue its dominion for at least another month now, keeping the passes into the Polypontian Empire well and truly frozen solid.

  But he’d allowed the harbour and surrounding regions of Old Haven to have an early spring, so that Sharley and the first refugees had got away early, well before any of the Corsairs, Zephyrs and other sea-going allies of the Empire would be watching for them. But that in itself presented another puzzle. Whoever this witch was, she obviously wasn’t working with Bellorum because the early thaw hadn’t sparked off any increased activity amongst the enemy. She must be a renegade of some sort with a personal grievance against the Icemark.

  He had to track her down. The fact that she was female was obvious; the tone of the magic was undeniable, in much the same way that a speaking voice is recognisably male or female. But exactly where and who she was, was another matter entirely. The gateway to Old Haven’s citadel loomed over him as he passed through without noticing. His agile mind was devising ways and means of finding the witch, and already he was planning Magical traps and relishing the mind games ahead. But, engrossed as he was by the coming struggle, deep in the recesses of his mind he was still thinking of Sharley and his journey. One day, he’d return, a blade of fire in his hand. But when would that be and exactly how would it happen? He could only wait and hope that the Sight would one day reveal more.

  A tangle of seagulls kept pace with the fleet, the warp and weft of their flight patterns drawing Sharley’s eye deep into their flock and lulling his mind away from the pain of that morning’s departure. With an effort he drew his gaze back to the horizon, but eventually he had to admit there was no longer anything to see. Turning slowly, he looked out along the length of the ship.

  Before being requisitioned for its work as a refugee ship, the Horizon had been a fast merchantman, one of the vessels used to bring perishable cargoes at speed from foreign ports and seas back to the Icemark. It was long and slender with four masts and raised areas of decking fore and aft. Sharley watched with interest as the crew scurried about scrubbing the planking with white stones, tidying away ropes and canvases and hurrying about on mysterious errands. It was all totally fascinating and completely different from anything else he’d ever experienced before and, as he watched the ship at work, his sadness began to lift.

  After a few moments he made his way across the heaving deck to the hatchway that led down to the cabins. Grabbing the rail, he started to climb down the steps, his feet sometimes suspended in mid-air as the ship rolled hugely on the swell. Reaching the bottom safely, he entered a narrow corridor that seemed to run the entire length of the ship. It was lined by doors that opened on to the cabins of the rich refugees, whom he could hear retching and heaving as the sea did its best to empty their stomachs.

  Charlemagne walked slowly along the passageway, peering at each door until he stopped outside the one next to his own. He listened, then knocked softly.

  “Come in,” a voice called strongly, and Sharley stepped inside. The cabin was surprisingly large, with a desk, two chairs, a comfortable-looking bed and a small table. “Ah, Sharley!” said Maggiore happily. “Or should I say Your Majesty?”

  “Sharley’ll do.”

  “How’s the Ring of State?”

  “Too big.”

  “You’ll grow to fit it, in more ways than one,” said Maggie mysteriously. “Anyway, sit down, sit down. Perhaps a little wine to settle your stomach?”

  “My stomach’s fine, thanks.”

  “Yes, I do believe it is. Obviously the Lindenshield clan remember their seafaring ancestry.”

  “And your stomach?”

  “Ah, it’s bred from a nation that once owned the largest maritime empire the Southern Ocean has ever seen. My blood is seawater and my digestion could hold down a banquet in a hurricane, with the fattest bull walrus jumping up and down on my midriff.”

  Sharley absorbed this image with difficulty, then his mind turned to what was really bothering him. “I thought it’d be a good idea to talk to you about the Southern Continent. What’s it like, exactly?” What he actually meant was: how different was it from home, would the people like him, would he be overwhelmed with the massive responsibilities that faced him, and was he right to feel so terrified?

  “Don’t you remember any of your geography lessons?” Maggie teased, understanding perfectly what the young Prince meant. Then, deciding to put him out of his misery, he went on, “Sharley, I’d be lying if I said there’s nothing to worry about. A war’s about to start, and you’re going to a foreign land that lives and thinks very differently to the ways you’re used to. But you have every advantage at your disposal. You’re young, you have a natural gift for languages, and most importantly you have Royal status.” Maggie paused as he looked at the slight, vulnerable figure of the boy before him.

  Sharley nodded, desperately trying to find comfort in his old tutor’s words. But his fears continued to roll like a stormy sea through his mind. There were too many horrors to put into a single sentence, so he unconsciously condensed it all down into unimportant questions that pecked at the edges of the much bigger issue. “Will I meet the Doge? And will I be expected to . . . contribute in some way?”

  “You’ll certainly meet the Doge, yes,” Maggie answered. “But he doesn’t have a Court a
s such; he’s not like a king in any sense of the word that the Icemark would recognise. He’s an elected leader, chosen from several candidates put forward by the eight aristocratic families of the capital city.”

  “Which is?”

  “Venezzia, of course,” Maggie continued, frowning. “An ancient settlement built on a series of islands and connected by a network of canals and waterways, if you remember from our many lessons.”

  “Some of it. But what are the people like?” Sharley asked, his tone almost desperate as he tried to find some clue about what his personal circumstances would be.

  “Sharley, you’ll be fine,” the old scholar said, answering his true question directly. “You won’t fail, nobody will laugh. This is your greatest chance to get away from the smothering pity of your family that’s held you back for years. Seize it now and you’ll never look back!”

  Charlemagne knew he was right, but somehow he couldn’t quite believe that he’d really be allowed to think and act for himself. With an effort, he sat up straight and tried to look the part of Prince Regent and Monarch in Exile. “All right, Maggie. Tell me more about the history of the Southern Continent.”

  Maggie looked at him closely. The Prince’s mother had grown into her throne, and perhaps Sharley too would become the leader his people needed, if only everyone would trust him. “There’s nothing left of the empire the Southern Continent once had,” Maggie said quietly, “but they still have a strong trading fleet and a navy to protect it. It’s their skill as merchants and seafarers that has kept them safe from the Polypontians. Scipio Bellorum and his Emperor have no navy to speak of; they’re purely a land power and they need the Southern Continent and its trade links. Even they can’t conquer every land that has some commodity or other they need, so they have to bargain for things they want to import. The Doge and his ships supply the Empire with tons of raw material every year. And while they’re useful to the Polypontians, they’re safe. Safe enough, in fact, to risk offering a haven to you and the refugees.”

  “That’s what I don’t quite understand,” said Sharley, warming to the subject. “Why do they risk upsetting Bellorum and his armies? They can’t really believe they’re that safe.”

  Maggie chuckled quietly and walked over to his bed where he retrieved a very sleepy Primplepuss and settled down with her on his chair. It had been decided that the old cat should also go into exile, where she could live out her life peacefully in the gentle warmth of the Southern Continent.

  “It’s quite simple really,” Maggie continued. “The Doge is playing a risky game in the hope that the wild card of Queen Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, will make his gamble pay off. When she defeated Bellorum last time, the Empire almost fell apart. There were rebellions and insurrections throughout its conquered lands and it took almost twenty years for Bellorum to bring them all back under control.”

  The old scholar poured a generous measure of wine for himself and a smaller one for Sharley. “The Southern Continent made an enormous profit selling arms and raw materials to all sides. They even had a chance of regaining some of their old empire as the struggle went on. For the Doge, the risk of upsetting Bellorum and having to grovel to him and the Emperor for a while is well worth the opportunity to make huge profits again. And, who knows, perhaps this time the Polypontian Empire will finally fall, and the vacuum could be nicely filled by a nation with a well-organised navy and a highly developed sense of business.”

  “A clever politician, then,” Sharley said.

  “Extraordinarily so,” Maggie agreed. “In fact, I’d go so far as to say that Machiavelli III is probably the Southern Continent’s greatest Doge in almost three hundred years.”

  Sharley nodded thoughtfully, then said, “How long will it take us to reach Venezzia?”

  “With a good wind and even better luck, we could be sailing up the Grand Canal in about three weeks. But you’d be safer allowing for a month,” Maggie answered.

  “Well, if I’m going to be imprisoned in this wooden barrel for all that time, I’d better get to know it, and how it works,” said Sharley, and climbed to his feet. “I’m going on deck to talk to the officers.”

  His departure left a sense of emptiness in the cabin. Maggie smiled to himself. It reminded him of Thirrin and her youthful energy when she’d first come to the throne. He was now almost convinced that, given a little more grooming, Charlemagne would not only be ready to fill his role as Regent to the Exiles but would also be able to carry out Maggie’s plans for him to perfection.

  Over the next five days the winds and sea slowly subsided to a state of virtual breathlessness. But with the sails on the three huge masts spread to their fullest capacity, they still gathered enough wind to move the ship slowly forward, gliding over an ocean that was as calm as an inland river. Even those with the weakest stomachs were able to leave their beds and buckets to stroll about the decks, looking pale, but happier than they had in several days.

  Even Sharley seemed much more relaxed as he walked around on deck, but the same couldn’t be said about the sailors of the fleet. They spent most of their time watching the horizon, sniffing what little wind there was and murmuring amongst themselves.

  The fleet had already travelled a good distance south and the last ice floe had been left behind over two days ago, but still the crews weren’t happy. The winds were unnaturally warm for such latitudes and they carried an unusual earthy scent, as though they’d originated over land, instead of over the sea as they should have done.

  Maggie tried to apply his smattering of meteorological knowledge to the conditions, but soon gave up. None of the usual rules applied. Clouds and winds seemed to be moving independently of each other, and the sun beat down on the decks as though they’d already reached the coastal waters of the Southern Continent. It was almost as though some Magical Power had been brought to bear on the weather. But the Chief Royal Adviser dismissed the idea as utter nonsense. Living with witches and warlocks must have clouded his common sense.

  Then one evening as Sharley and Maggie were eating supper, the Captain knocked on the door and walked in without being asked.

  “Ah, Captain Lokri!” said the old scholar breezily. “You’ve come, I presume, to give us some doom-laden prediction about the weather.”

  Sharley looked at the old sailor and thought that he could have guessed his profession even if he’d met him up a mountain in pitch darkness. Everything about him screamed sea captain, from his grey beard, weather-beaten face and gold hoop earrings to his great big sea boots and broad leather belt. He even smelt of the sea: a not unpleasant mix of salt, tar, and the slightest whiff of fish.

  “I’ve come to tell Your Worships that the weather’s far from doing rightly what it should, that’s a correct assumption, Your Worshipful Maggiorrirey. It’s brewing up a storm. And what’s more, it’s brewing up a tropical storm, or my name’s not Lokri Sigurdson, and that’s a fact.”

  “Well, undoubtedly your name is as you say, so what measures must we take against this rising storm?”

  “I sees it like this, Your Worshipfulnesses: we can either draw in our sheets and batten down hatches and passengers in the hope of riding it out, or since it’s a good two days off yet, we can break out the oars and try and outrun it.”

  “And which do you recommend, Captain Lokri?” Sharley asked, determined to be noticed.

  “Well now, Your Young Worshipfulness, there’s an island, sou’-sou’-east of our present position, that’s beyond any hope of reaching in the normal course of events. But with a following high sea to push us, and later some prodigious winds to come, we could just about get lee side of it and ride out the winds, be they ever so fearsome.”

  “So, we ‘break out the oars and try to outrun it’?” asked Sharley, beginning to enjoy himself despite the grim weather warnings.

  “That’s about the size of it, Your Young Worshipfulness.”

  “Then, by all means give whatever orders are f
itting and let’s give race to this storm, be it ever so fearsome!” said Maggie, getting into the spirit of things nicely.

  The Captain nodded, saluted and very nearly bowed. He then marched from the room, bellowing orders as he went and waking Primplepuss, who showed her disapproval by emitting a terrible smell that drove all thoughts of supper out of the minds of both Maggie and Sharley.

  “Not all fearsome winds have yet to reach us,” said Maggie, waving a handkerchief under his nose. “I suggest we go up on deck to allow this particular hurricane to blow itself out.”

  Later, Sharley stood in the prow of the ship. It was a clear, moonless night with stars reflected in the smooth dark water, like silver coins from a celestial treasury densely scattered over the blackness of the sky. It was perfectly calm, and though the sails still ruffled and creaked as they harvested the wind, and the oars splashed and groaned in a precise clock-like rhythm as they drove the fleet steadily onward, it was otherwise deathly quiet. As the ships flowed purposefully on it seemed to Sharley that they were sailing through the universe. In his imagination he was navigating the cosmos, a sailor whose ports were planets and whose seas were the wide empty spaces between the galaxies.

  As he stood absorbed in the beauty of the night, a slow roll of the ocean told him that the first storm surge had hit the fleet. The smooth mirror of the sea buckled, and the reflected stars shattered into a million shards of light.

  He shuddered. What was he doing here, so far from home? A strange sound reached his ears. A low, barely audible rumble muttered across the sky, and a distant flash of light illuminated a massive bank of clouds that seemed to be rolling over the surface of the sea. As far away as it was, the advancing wall of clouds was obviously enormous, towering into the sky like a vaporous mountain range, and accompanied by the remote whisper of a howling wind, the far echoes of the screaming rage that he knew was coming for them.