“I assure you, my lord, six thousand men cannot hold Kingshold,” said Uthridge.
“Agreed. That’s not even enough to take the palace with the walls we have here. I’ve also ordered the Inner Wall gates closed,” said Grimes.
“It might not matter,” said Hoskin. “She also said they’ve set up barricades around the harbor. That’s probably what you’ve been running into as well, Grimes. They aren’t advancing, at least not yet.”
“Don’t worry, Lord Chancellor,” said the old general. “I have the garrison being mustered as we speak. We’ll drive them back into the sea once morning comes, assuming the fog clears.”
“The morning? If the fog clears? We’re just going to give them free rein down there until then?”
“I’m afraid we just don’t have that many soldiers sitting around waiting in armor. They’re at home with their families and have to be called and organized. That will take some hours.”
Hoskin sighed and looked to Grimes. “What about you?”
“I have five hundred city guard and two hundred palace guard. We can try to contain them if they want to move beyond their barricades, but they have the men. The guard aren’t real soldiers. There hasn’t been an invasion in living memory.”
“Don’t they train for this? Practice. You know drills?” asked Hoskin.
“I’m sorry, my lord. They should, but I’ve only been on the job for a day. Isn’t much I can do about it now.”
Hoskin cursed himself for not worrying about these things before. Penshead was not his choice, but the safety of the city was still his responsibility. Why would he ever think this would happen, though, when Edland had the strongest navy on the seas to hide behind?
His hard chair was not so comfortable now. The weight of the palace, the people of this city, pushed down on him from above, crushing him against the unyielding oak. Hands planted, palms down on the desk in front of him, he closed his eyes and breathed. “I want them gone by noon, fog or no fog. And you two need to protect the people down there. Don’t raze our own city, Uthridge.”
Chapter 38
The Salty Hull
Mareth could feel Neenahwi’s robe draped on his arm, but his eyes remained closed. Motega had drawn everyone’s attention to the beast in the harbor, which had resulted in Neenahwi disrobing, which was not the reaction Mareth had been expecting. And after the recent incident before the rally a few nights past, screwing up his eyes had seemed like the most honorable course of action.
It also had the secondary benefit of not being able to see the invading force of pirates anchored in the harbor, which had been bringing back some uncomfortable memories. However, Mareth’s hearing wanted to try to make up for the self-inflicted loss of the other sense, and so, he could hear only too starkly the cacophony of chaos in the city: shouts, screams, tolling bells, steel on steel carrying across the water. And then a flapping noise, followed by a buffeting of air.
“Can I open my eyes now?” asked Mareth.
“It all depends on what you’re trying to avoid looking at,” said Trypp. “The beautiful naked woman or the thousands of men who’d be happy to gut us and throw us in the harbor? The first one has gone, but the others are still there, unfortunately.”
Mareth opened his eyes. “The first. Where did she go? What was she doing?”
“My guess is she went to get Jyuth,” said her brother. “That is one big fucker out there, and I don’t know what we can do about it. I guess you’ve never seen her transform.”
“Still haven’t, thank you very much. Why did she have to get undressed?”
“Ever seen an owl wearing a robe? No, me neither,” Motega replied.
Everyone went back to looking out over the railing at the harbor. Mareth counted twenty-two ships, big ones. The steady stream of longboats ferrying men to shore continued. What are they doing here? He’d never heard of North Sea Corsairs banding together in such large groups. Three or four, even five crews, he’d heard of coming together to take down more lucrative, but highly guarded, targets. But this was something else. Pirates didn’t care about conquest, and he’d never heard of them turning mercenary. They preferred to intimidate, not fight.
“What are they doing here?” Mareth said out loud, still really talking to himself.
“From my years of military service, I’d say this is what they call an invasion—” started Florian.
“Hilarious, big man. You want to explain to me why it’s dark now?” spat Mareth. He was losing patience with the jokes. These three new friends had been invaluable, and usually he appreciated their banter, but how could they joke at a time like this?
“Actually, I was going to say this would be an invasion if these ships would be getting out to let more in. Or if there was a force outside the gates. But I don’t think there is. And there aren’t enough men here to take the city. They must know that.”
“So, what are they doing, Florian?” asked Trypp.
“Good question.”
Mareth saw small groups of pirates wandering along the dockside, but they didn’t seem interested in venturing too far into the neighborhood. He wouldn’t be surprised if these crews had berthed here before, maybe even drunk in this same tavern, so they’d probably know their location well. He watched as longboats rowed back to the galleons, bobbing in the water. The lamps at the prow and stern of those boats cast strange shadows on the planking area in the middle. No people sat there, but they weren’t empty either. Mareth followed the line of their progress back to shore where they’d come from. There. He saw other figures moving crates into the longboats.
“By Arloth!” Recognition hit him. “This is a raid.”
“A raid?” asked Motega. “This is not some fishing village.”
“I know. But look over there,” said Mareth, gesturing to what he had just seen. “They’re loading something onto those boats to take back to the ships. And look over there, you can make out them hauling it up onto the deck.”
Silence as everyone squinted to see in the darkness.
“It does look that way,” said Dolph, nodding.
“Bastards,” said Mareth, shaking his head. “This is the way we attacked Hulmouth. Five ships to raid that poor town.”
“Pardon?” said Trypp.
“I said that’s the way they do these raids. Hulmouth was a town in northern Pienza. There wasn’t a lot left after the corsairs had taken slaves and anything of value.”
“No, that wasn’t the question,” said Trypp. “What you said was we.”
All four of them stared at Mareth.
“Fine!” he said. “I may have been a pirate for a little while. But I didn’t want to be, believe me.”
All four of them stared at him some more.
“Ha!” said Florian, punching his shoulder and almost pitching him off the roof. “You’re going to have to tell us that story.”
“Later. I promise.”
“You’d better not let anyone else hear it, Mareth,” said Trypp. “I don’t think folks will want an ex-pirate for a lord protector. Even those numbskulls down in Bottom Run.”
“I’m aware of that. That’s why I don’t usually talk about it,” said Mareth, a little sheepishly. “But look, I know these people. I think I know what we can do.”
After a brief discussion, they descended to the common room of the Salty Hull. Pushing past locals standing in the hallway to enter the long, smoky room, Mareth remembered how roughly a score of people had been sitting in there when they arrived. Now the place was standing room only. He looked over his shoulder to Trypp, and Thorley was grinning his toothless grin next to him.
“We recognized youse when you came in, Lord Bollingsmead,” said the innkeeper. “Might a bin a few folks went out and told some others.”
A motley collection of men and women, hardy souls with hard muscles from years of laboring at the docks. Most with drinks in hand, and all with their eyes on him. Motega and Florian cleared some men from a table nearby with hardly a grumb
le. Mareth thought he’d like to see them do that on a usual night. Then again, he doubted even the most hardened nut would pick a fight with Florian, and Motega had the wild eyes of someone anyone would generally regret starting something with. Mareth climbed onto the table.
“Good people!” he called.
“Where?” called some wag at the back of the room, earning a few chuckles, but more than a few scowls.
“Good people,” he tried again. And he poured his heart into his words. Like he did the morning after the visit from the assassin, like he did when in front of thousands in the marketplace. There was no song, but he could still weave the words with this small a crowd. He made sure to make eye contact, just a second or two for each person, but it was like creating a binding line from them to him.
“Our city has been attacked by pirates! Low scum and thieves have come to our home to steal from us. They’re taking our people as slaves, our food, and our treasure!”
Cries of, “No!” and various curses rippled across the room, “Corpse fuckers,” being one particularly original utterance from an old lady sitting in front of him.
“Yes! And when they’re done, they’ll set our city on fire and flee into the night.”
Heads shook in the crowd. “What can we do?” called a tall skinny boy off to the side, pimples on his cheeks, and a mustache of beer foam.
“We’re going to stop them,” shouted Mareth. “They’re thieves, and thieves are cowards!”
Trypp had taken offense at that statement back on the roof. It seemed like the three of them had some tales to tell, too. But Motega had understood right away. What was it he had said? “Nothing worse than someone screwing up the exit.”
“They don’t want to take over the city. They don’t want to fight more than they have to. No profit in death is their proverb. They want to go back home with their plunder. So, what will we do?”
Silence. He could have heard a rat fart. He knew he had them. They all hung on his words, waiting for the grand plan.
“We burn their ships!” called Mareth. “Without their ships, they can’t go home. If two or three ships go up in flames, fear will take them! Fear that they’ll be the ones left behind, ready to be crushed by our soldiers. But if we wait for the soldiers, they’ll take what they want and get away.”
“Burn them!” called the wag at the back. And the chant was picked up around the room. Mareth stood on the table, hands on hips, looking at what they had to work with. It would work. It had to. He raised his hands for the cheering to stop and smiled at them.
“I need your help,” he said in a conversational tone. “I need lamp oil and pitch. Rags and kindling and coals. And a few small boats. And we need volunteers.”
And then the room was abuzz with calls to assist, Dolph, Trypp, Motega, and Florian fanning through the room to organize.
Chapter 39
Partial Revenge
She remembered when as a child, she, her brother, and Kanaveen fled their homeland after her family, her entire life had been destroyed. They’d traveled east, hoping to find other tribes to warn about the invaders. But it soon became clear they were heading to the source of their enemy because these destinations had already been visited. It was a familiar sight each time: whole tribes slaughtered, buildings nothing more than smoldering embers.
But in one village, she’d seen a child, a girl who looked to be about her age, cowering against a tree with her back toward them. She’d gone to see the child, to reassure her they were there to help. The smell as she neared, sweet like rotten fruit, should have made her realize something was wrong. Neenahwi had spoken soothing words, reaching out tentatively to touch the girl’s shoulder and turn her, so she could see her face. The body, unbalanced, had slipped to the ground, the light touch enough for the child’s stomach to burst open. Thousands of maggots erupted, spilling onto her bare feet.
She remembered this as the body of Gawl Tegyr began to contort and bulge, before the man’s face split like an overripe peach and something pushed out. Round, multifaceted eyes and clicking mandibles on a long skinny neck emerged from the ravaged head of the man she had just fought. The head reached down and attacked the cadaver’s torso with sharp mandibles, cutting through bone and flesh like a tailor’s scissors. The chest cavity opened like a book, a book of children’s nightmares, and from it, the creature climbed. The insectile head sat atop a shiny chitinous black body, steel arrows still embedded in its center. Multi-jointed arms ended in wicked scythes of bone, and though it seemed impossible, skinny, furry legs unfolded from the body until they alone were as tall as Gawl Tegyr had stood. Ichor made the creature shiny, and its initial stumbling as it found its feet reminded Neenahwi of a newborn foal.
She slowly stepped backward away from the foul issue. Another demon. Its head tilted as it regarded her, mandibles clicking.
“I’ve known you a long time, Neenahwi,” the demon spoke through its insect mouth in a rasping hiss. “You know you’re almost a daughter to me. Do you remember me now?”
It advanced as it spoke, still a little unsure on those long legs, and she backed away some more. What was it about this creature that seemed familiar? She couldn’t remember ever having met it in the past. And then it came to her. In her demon stone-induced vision on the mountain. She’d seen the same head atop a different body murder her family.
What to do? Her stomach burned at the sight of the hellish apparition responsible for destroying her life. But little mana remained in this area for her to draw for her power, her weapons were lost, already lodged in the demon’s body without any apparent untoward effect, and it now approached menacingly.
An arm flashed out, blunt side of the razor-sharp appendage hitting her squarely in the stomach and sending her flying across the street into the wooden shingles of a building. She crashed to the street and attempted to gasp great gobfuls of air back into her lungs. The demon advanced on her once more.
“You don’t need to be in one piece for this, Neenahwi. We have ways of keeping even a broken body alive.”
She scrambled to her feet and fled. Bare feet slapped against the hard cobblestones as she pumped her arms and ran away down the closest street. From behind, she heard it pursuing her. A wet, squelchy sound and from the corner of her eye, she saw it spit a gob of liquid from its mouth. She flung herself to the side and down an alley, the putrid liquid hitting the ground where she’d been moments before, sizzling as it scoured the stone. Acid.
Neenahwi ran harder than she ever had before, giving her all to escape when all she wanted to do was turn and fight and kill this monster. The pouches on her belt rose up and down, striking her legs as she ran. She burst from the alley into a street of brown brick warehouse buildings, avoiding more volleys of acid. The twisting nature of her path had given her a slight advantage in her flight, the demon struggling to negotiate the sharp turns.
Now she had a plan.
And she was done running.
Drawing on her own life, she used a tiny sliver of energy to make the nail on her index finger grow long and sharp. She raked the wolf’s claw across the palm of her right hand, slicing deep into the flesh. Skidding to a halt, Neenahwi fumbled with the drawstring of a pouch as the demon entered the street behind, it slowing to a walk as it saw its prey no longer fleeing.
The blood from her hand made undoing the strings difficult, but she created a small gap and was able to shove her right hand in to grasp the contents.
She felt the demon stone in her hand. And then a rush of energy up her arm and into her body as the gem made contact with her bloodied palm.
It was like nothing she’d ever felt before: the power available, she could beat anything. Hairs all over her body stood on end. Fire danced across the fingers of her other hand, and the world became brilliantly stark as if it was the brightest day. She pulled her hand from the pocket, gem in her fist, and it too was encased in red and purple flame that gave off no heat.
The demon continued its advance, hunched ov
er on its long spindly legs like a grotesque crone. Its body lifted upright and then jerked forward to spit gobs of acid in her direction. Without thinking, flames leapt from her hands to catch them midflight, the caustic spittle exploding in white flashes.
“You feel the power. It flows through you, yes?” rasped the demon, mouth clicking. “It’s about time for you to embrace your heritage.”
She didn’t know what it meant. Her people didn’t have these demon stones. Was it referring to Jyuth? It seemed unlikely, considering how Gawl had referred to her father before. Of course, it could likely mean nothing, just trying to put her off guard.
“It’s time you paid for what you’ve done!” she yelled. Twin bolts of fire arced from her outstretched hands toward the demon. It parried them with bony appendages, but its arms burned, and it gave a high-pitched squeal.
“Don’t you want answers?” it asked, a note of desperation in its words.
In her hand formed a ball of fire. She had only needed to split her mind once to draw on the never-ending thread of energy from the stone. To pull, and pull at it, weaving this tainted mana into the form she needed. One aspect to arm herself and the other to fire. The demon bolted to the side to avoid the grenade that exploded against the brick building behind it. It scrambled up the warehouse that ran along the length of the street, long reach and pointy appendages helping it to scale the surface like a spider. It paused at the top of the wall, its insectile head turning to look completely behind it at Neenahwi.
“Don’t you want to know why they all had to die? Why I was there?”
The demon skittered along the building as it called out, reaching a chimney on the outside wall. An arm, still smoldering from the flames it had parried before, smashed into the stack with immense force, bricks and clay and mortar showering down onto Neenahwi and the street around her.
She tried to raise her defenses, throw up a wall of fire, but her aspect was occupied with offense, and she was a second too late. Chunks of masonry, half bricks and sharp chimney pot smashed into her body, dust clouding her vision before her conjured shield evaporated any debris coming into contact with it. Pain flared, briefly, across her body, and she jumped back in alarm, but as she looked down, it appeared she had suffered no real damage. The demon stone had protected her.
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