Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  “Murder!” Too late Stromgald saw the green-faced recruit dart away. By the time Stromgald breached the tent, the tale spread like wildfire. When the rangers gathered together the valley was alive with the ring of steel sliding from leather. Panic denied explanation, rational or otherwise. Something pricked the back of Stromgald’s neck, but there was no sign of spell-casting. Luck was hard to come by, so Stromgald fled the scene, leaving clues that only a ranger’s keen eye would detect. When the company finally came together the whole incident reeked of betrayal.

  “That chickenshit bastard played us for fools.”

  “I know, Orson.”

  “Please say we’re going to kill that whelp in his sleep, Boss.”

  “As much as I would like to, no. Jekai has an army at his back. The tragedy of our apparent deaths would bolster sympathy with his allies. I am not entering a mission that ends in death.”

  “So what do we do, John?” There was no fear in Sylver’s voice, but her eyes were large and luminous. “Where do we go?”

  For a moment Stromgald was flustered. His silence shocked his team more than a legion of versi emerging from shadow. He was at a loss. The great John Stromgald, despairing like any other mortal.

  “We find Robert Jekai.”

  “Robert? The old man? I thought he was dead.”

  “That’s what Ronald wants us to think.”

  “The boy’s not really a thinker, Boss.”

  “True, but I do not think he would dare murder his father. Robert’s legend as a martyr would supersede his authority.” A pause, a silence. “I know the absurdity of this. Robert Jekai is the best strategist I have ever met. The only way to win this war is him leading us. I’d stake my soul on it.”

  Together they made their way.

  XLVI

  Entering the Solvicar camp once more was like second nature to the ranger team. True, Stromgald knew the risk of entering the self-same place of an enemy, but it was necessary. Any clue – even one susceptible to time’s withering touch – to Robert Jekai’s abduction would be a valuable find. Stromgald owed him no less.

  Stromgald went straight to Jekai’s lean-to, almost fully disguised by the forest border. Lord Robert did like to fool his enemies with the trappings of peasantry. Now, perhaps the illusion was too perfect. The floor was wreathed with empty beer bottles, and the air paled with the stench of expensive brandy.

  Stromgald gleaned the details while circling the haven in miniature. Bootprints lay open on the mud, single file like good little soldiers. Except those prints came from different boots. If it were the military like the scene suggested, the bootprints would have the same. There was a boot large enough for a titan, while a serpentine trail of children’s feet meandered throughout the secluded retreat. Another pair of prints was scattered across the haven, similar to the military boots save for one detail: a small pair of initials followed by even more obscure litany. Stromgald smiled. Robert Jekai had worn these boots when he proposed to his wife. There was no doubt. Robert Jekai had been taken.

  Unfortunately, the trail grew cold from there. There were more signs of bootprints, but too few and perfectly indented. Stromgald growled in frustration. The bastards had stepped in the previous’ footfalls to conceal their number. The lack of Jekai’s signature inscription meant the captors somehow incapacitated him. Beyond that, nothing.

  “John? We can sweep the area again. Maybe we missed something.”

  “No. No we haven’t.” All eyes pivoted to Raptor. “I made a living out of hiding things, Sylver. If we can’t find it, it ain’t here.”

  Stromgald paused for a moment. “We’re going about this the wrong way. The puppet-master is too good to leave a trail behind.” Nodding at the course set Stromgald marched across the compound. Behind him he could hear the irate mutters of confusion. They forgot their leader was the best. No whisper was low for him to grasp; the benefit of being tutored by an Eastborn.

  “A library, Boss?”

  It was indeed a library. Small, its walls of wood hastily constructed and already pitted. Robert Jekai liked to bring his books with him; it calmed his mind when battle loomed over his head. Now perhaps that balm would serve in the saving of his life.

  “This reminds me of LeKym.” Orson grimaced. “Why are we here?”

  “We cannot best this trial as we normally would. A change of tactics is in order.”

  Raptor and Orson lit lanterns where they could, and even then, the darkness dispelled only a sliver’s worth. It was enough to reveal the towers of books scattered lazily across the room. Mykel would be furious to see this. “All right. Spread out and search for docking histories. I want the records for the dock business for the past few weeks.”

  “How is that going to help us, Boss?”

  “If I am right, immensely. If I am not, nothing. Start searching.”

  The hours ticked by, and with each hour Stromgald wished fervently that Mykel was at their side. At least he was careful enough not to destroy age-old parchment with the slightest gesture. Each ruination built the rangers’ frustration. They were capable of patience, and a ranger dependent on brute force was a ranger not long in service. This, however, was a little out of the ordinary. They had not a librarian’s endurance, and without it this snail’s pace of progress gnawed at them from the inside out.

  “Boss! Boss! I found something!”

  “Oh, like hell you upstage me! You’re not the only one with eyes, pipsqueak!”

  “Would you idiots stop babbling? We’re a team, remember?”

  “Probably didn’t find anything.”

  “Enough!” Silence cut their words in twain, freezing them in the paralysis of embarrassment. “Whatever you three have to say better be damn important. Raptor.”

  “There’s a captain named Adrian Coltran. He commands the Lucky Goose. It’s a medium-sized ship. Not lightweight enough for speed-acrobatics and not heavy enough to classify a cargo ship.”

  “Sylver.”

  “Coltran’s been in the business for sixteen years. Started out on his father’s crew and climbed the ranks from there. He’s commanded the Goose for six years, and he was lucky to get that. His superior officers say that he’s too reckless and arrogant. He’s lost more men on his voyages than any one captain in the region combined. What kind of voyages, I don’t know.”

  “Orson.”

  “I think I know why he lost so many men. The shipping guild cut Coltran off six years ago. No representation, no protection, nothing. Other trade captains wouldn’t go near him. Nicknamed him the Curse. Since then he’s got into what’s known as the “little business.” Essentially an errand boy. Job’s too dirty or humiliating, they call on him.”

  “Until two years ago, Boss. Officials noticed the Goose was heavier than it should have been. Everyone let the slight slide because of Coltran’s father. He’s some mucky-muck in the naval food chain.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Coltran?”

  “Uh, yeah Boss. How’d you know?”

  “You’re not the only one whose been reading,” Stromgald quipped. “Well, what else?”

  “Well...that’s where I lost him, Boss.”

  “And that’s where I found him, John. There’s a midshipman that served on the Goose named Florentine. Cabin boy, basically. Three months in, he deserts the ship in mid-voyage. Manages to swim to shore unnoticed, goes directly to the shipping guild. Rants and raves about smuggling and slavery charges. Guilds send a two-man patrol. Signine and Warren. The Two Watchmen, they’re called. Whatever there’s an internal threat; these guys are the ones the guild calls for. Has a ninety-nine percent job record for internal threats neutralized. No one else in the
guild’s history comes close to that percentile. Ever.”

  “Is there a point somewhere in this?”

  “There is.” Orson smiled. “A month after Florentine confessed, the guild sent the two Watchmen on a “random inspection.” There was no contact for a week, which was unusual for them. The guild was considering a secondary patrol when Florentine hung himself in the safe house the guild stashed him in.”

  “Boss, Florentine was the only source of info. With him out of the way Coltran got off easy. There’s no evidence of any wrong-doing. He’s under constant surveillance but every time there’s a situation the boat magically becomes clean.”

  “That’s not all, John. Business is constant, which is typical when you’re dealing with the errand boys. However, three weeks ago, Coltran vanished. No one saw him leave, and no one knows where he went.”

  “Three weeks ago. That’s when Richard Jekai died.”

  “That’s not all.” Orson coughed when an errant cloud of dust attacked him. “Two days ago, a greenling fisherman caught sight of Coltran meeting with a cloaked figure. The rookie watched them plant a six-foot rug into the hold. Right after he contacted the militia where he provided a sketch of the cloaked man.” Raptor ripped the page from the report and handed it to Stromgald. “Anyone familiar?”

  Yes. The too-young soldier. The one Stromgald had commanded to run home. The little bastard tricked him. “Running” was Ronald’s plan from the beginning. “Where is he now?”

  “Reports don’t say. However, there’s an old man named Mitsu. He’s essentially the mascot of the shipping guild. Has family doing the same job in town guilds across the land. Any sailor wanting to piss over his deck talks to him first.

  “Mitsu is a very moral man. About a day ago he was bribed to let the Goose to dock and leave dock. He wrote the violation report anyway, which was shuttled to this place since they were all in Coltran’s pocket. Tomorrow was bonfire day. It’s when the old papers are burned to make room for the new ones. If we hadn’t been here, Coltran would have been free and clear.”

  Stromgald grunted. “Let me guess. Mitsu was found dead along with the report.”

  Orson blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It’s what Coltran would do.” Silence. “Is that all there is?”

  “No, Boss. The record says there’s a speeder by the name of Esoog in dock, but there hasn’t been a speeder in dock for a week. Guess what this Esoog weighs?”

  “Too heavy for a speeder, too light for a cargo ship.”

  “There is a problem, John. The Esoog was reserved to undock in five minutes. If we don’t get there –”

  “We will.”

  It was a hunch. A crazy irrational hunch. But when a man’s life was on the line, sometimes craziness possessed the most sanity. Three minutes later saw the rangers at the docks, and their boat starting its slow drift into the ocean currents. Stromgald ran until the fire was eating his legs. And still the gap between ship and ramp was too wide. I’m going to make it. Stromgald pushed himself harder. I’m going to make it. He leapt; beneath him the crystal blue of the ocean waited in glittering anticipation.

  Then there was an agonizing pain that crunched the bone and set the blood aflame. Through clammy fingers Stromgald realized he was dangling over the ship’s rim like a broken marionette, but he was alive. Pulling the last ounces of his strength the ranger captain managed to roll himself over the rail. His collision with the wooden deck brought both moan and grunt from his tired lungs. For a moment, he considered lying on the deck forever.

  That wish died when three pairs of boots stomped on his ribs, one right after another. My own team. My own team lands on me. A chorus of apologies assaulted his ears. Stromgald cut them off with a gesture and peered past the dumbstruck sailors to the large, barrel-chested man heading right for them. Coltran. Again Stromgald took stock of the man’s physique and paled. This might be trouble.

  “Who in the blazing blue hells are you?” His eyes were on fire, adding a poison to his words that spoke of daggers in the shadows.

  “You don’t need to know my name.” Stromgald thumbed the hilt of the katana so the steel winked. “In the time it takes you to blink I will have thirty men aboard this ship. You’ve been quite the busy smuggler...Coltran.”

  The name sent whispers shivering down every throat. Behind Stromgald his rangers’ faces astonishment and embarrassment. It was child’s play to realize Coltran would be in disguise, given his reputation. The crew was too long with deception to not realize the tricks of this black trade, and yet they were gulled like any common greenling. Their anger tightened their holds on their respective steel; their show of righteousness rippled across the whole ship. In the instant of an eye-blink steel glinted in every sailor’s fist. Mutiny. And he did not have to lift a finger. Yet. Mykel would have found this hilarious.

  “You’re out of options, Coltran. Let’s go inside and discuss your future.” The bigger man licked his lips in dismay...and then launched himself over the railing. Rather, he tried to. Instead of the icy cold he expected, Orson barred the way with his sword gingerly touching the neck. A second flight was halted by Sylver, and the third Raptor ended with binding the faux-captain with the ship’s own chain. Desperation gave hope even when facing the gallows.

  This time Stromgald took no chances. With a titan’s strength, he led the captain into his own cabin, which the other rangers guarded the door in abrupt silence. “Let’s play a little game. I ask the questions, and you answer. Give me the truth, and maybe I won’t toss you to your so-called “crew.”

  “You can’t scare me. The world’s best came looking for me and failed. Those old cougars at the guild need help to piss. There’s no way they’ll find me.”

  “I found you.” Stromgald whispered. Suddenly the ranger’s face was inches from Coltran’s own, and the faux-captain flinched at the sudden movement. “It was easy, Coltran. And I’m just a ranger. If I can find you, others can. You know that. That’s why you haven’t touched land in a year.”

  “No shore leave will drive any sailor crazy, no matter how cowardly they are.”

  “You’re not very good at listening, are you? I said “you” haven’t landed in a year. You let your men off, but you remain on ship. You even have your whores brought to you. Gossip says you’re too much of a bastard to show your face.”

  “I’ve fucked a lot of daughters in my time. So what?” Stromgald waited for the grin to spread from ear to ear before activating the shiisaa. Coltran blinked at the sudden small grinding noise below him, and jerked at the stone-spell climb his legs inch by inch. “What the...what’s happening?”

  “I’m a jord, you pathetic idiot. Master of earth and nature.” He lifted a gloved hand. “You know what this is? It’s a shiisaa. I call it Medusa’s Touch. Let’s me turn anything I touch into stone.” He paused to let the intent sink in. “Either you tell me what I need or you can decorate your own bow as a statute.” The spell quickened to Stromgald’s anger; now the faux-captain’s knees were frozen in stone. “Where is Robert Jekai?”

  “Who?”

  “The man you smuggled!”

  “I smuggle a lot of things! I don’t remember them all.”

  “Think harder! You don’t have much time.” Coltran quailed as the spell reached his thighs. “Well? Tall man. Brown hair. Priest. Drunk as shit.”

  “Drunk...Priest? Yeah, yeah. I remember.” The spell halted like a loyal pet. “Two guys in cloaks came to me a week ago. Told me this is a special package. Keep in the brig and don’t let anyone see him.”

  “These two men? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see through their cloaks. Offered me gold up front for the voyage and more when I r
each the destination.”

  “The place. Where is it?”

  “Foxhead Prime. It’s an island off the western coast.”

  “Very good, captain.” Stromgald picked himself up and started from the cabin.

  “Wait, wait! You said you would free me if I talked!”

  “Oh, that. Funny thing, captain. I lied.” With a wave of the hand the spell was complete, and the fair captain was no more.

  XLVII

  “We should attack them now,” said Quigley. “We’ll never have an opportunity as good as this.”

  “We also have agents in the region.” Ptalis snapped. “If we act now we’ll be putting them in danger.”

  “Please. Poison is a woman’s game. Your “agents” have been in court for over a year. We’ll be one foot in the grave ourselves by the time Morgan dies.”

  Christina blinked. Morgan? As in Grell Morgan, father of Indra Orda, the famous Daughter of Roses? Interesting. Now was a good time as any to reveal herself. She strolled into the secret council as though tiptoeing through the gardens. Evan Ptalis – a reedy little man with an even reedier voice – shot to his feet to offer his chair, but Christina only had eyes for Quigley Zidan, he who was called the Brambled Thorn. After a moment of smoldering stares the fabled Lord offered his seat to the newly-raised Queen. Christina smiled as Quigley bullied Ptalis out of his chair, triggering a shuffle as each succeeding lord sought the next highest-ranking chair.

  The looks on their faces were beyond priceless. Heavyset Lord Quigley was a dark red grape from ear to ear, his teeth grinding to powder beneath thin white lips. Lord Ptalis’ glare was ruined by the lazy eye age had bequeathed him. Lord Ei’jus Lucas sat stiff and regal in his chair, a clear sign that he considered the wheelchair he was trapped in infinitely superior to the Royal Throne itself. The Four Wardens, Amden’s dirty little secret. No, the Three Wardens, Christina reminded herself. The King was the Chief Warden, but Nathan was too young. Funny how they had neglected to invite the Queen to their council. Christina almost laughed aloud.