by Rob Scott
Markus asked, ‘You mean they aren’t here to burn the town to the ground?’
‘Ostensibly, yes, but actually, no.’ Brand joined Gita by the fireplace. ‘They were left here to distract us.’
‘Well, they were effective,’ Sharr said. ‘But distract us from what?’
‘From a merchant carrack, a big mother, running up the coast as we speak.’
Sharr sat up. ‘A ship? Why? Headed where?’
‘Pellia, and then on to Welstar Palace,’ Brand said. ‘They’re hauling something, some kind of milled bark, treated lumber, maybe; I’m not certain exactly what. They loaded it during the last Moon, off the Ronan Peninsula, out beyond the Forbidden Forest near Estrad Village. It’s a cargo that Mark Jenkins will do anything to see safely into the Welstar Palace military encampment, some critical ingredient in his recipe for devastation.’
‘Who’s Mark Jenkins?’ asked one of the Gorsk commanders.
‘Essentially, he’s the acting prince of Eldarn, as powerful as – more powerful – than Malagon,’ Brand replied.
‘And how do you know these things, Brand?’ Markus asked. ‘And where’s Kellin Mora?’
As many of you are aware, I travelled south as part of an escort for Gilmour Stow and Steven Taylor, the sorcerers trying to retrieve a Larion artefact lost from Sandcliff Palace nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.’
Sharr surreptitiously let his gaze wander around the table; Brand’s tale was, so far, being met with little visible scepticism.
‘Steven and Gilmour were able to excavate the artefact, but we lost it shortly thereafter to Mark Jenkins, who, we assume, is transporting it to Welstar Palace.’
‘Along with this shipment of milled bark and leaves,’ Gita finished.
‘Yes…’ He paused as someone knocked on the door, which opened to admit a young woman, a maid.
‘Food, ma’am?’ she asked. ‘It’s a good hearty stew, and the bread’s fresh.’
‘Thank you, yes,’ Gita said, ‘and let’s have some jugs of beer too, please.’
‘Um, how many, ma’am?’ She took a cursory head-count.
‘Just keep the jugs full until Sharr over there is checking me for a heartbeat,’ Gita laughed.
‘Very good, ma’am,’ the maid said, and disappeared into the corridor.
Gita returned to business. ‘Go on, Brand.’
‘Kellin Mora remained behind. She’s offering what protection she can to Gilmour and Steven. They also have Garec Haile, the great bowman from Rona. When I left them, they were boarding a barge for Orindale.’
‘Garec worries me,’ Gita said. ‘When I last saw him in Traver’s Notch, he seemed hesitant, as if he’d lost his edge.’
‘He had,’ Brand said. ‘He cost me half a squad outside Wellham Ridge, when he wouldn’t fire on the advancing enemy, a platoon of them.’
‘Son of a whore-’ Gita began.
‘But two days later, he single-handedly wiped out a squad of armoured cavalry.’
‘Great gods of the Northern Forest,’ Markus whispered, ‘he must be a monster.’
‘Actually,’ Sharr said, ‘he’s a nice kid. You’d never know it to talk with him, but he could blind you at two hundred paces.’
Food and beer arrived, and the partisans tucked in like starving refugees. Four beers and three bowls of stew later, Sharr felt fatigue creeping up on him: it had been nearly two days since he had slept. From the head of the table, Brand, sitting now, continued his briefing between mouthfuls.
‘How did you learn about the shipment?’ a woman from one of the border towns in Gorsk asked.
‘Outside Wellham Ridge, less than a day after I left Kellin and the others, I killed two soldiers on patrol. One of the uniforms fit me, so I rode hard across the plains, changing into my own clothing after dark to keep the locals from hanging me from the nearest tree. Wearing the uniform during daylight hours meant I was able to keep up the illusion that I was carrying dispatches.’
‘Alone?’
‘I wove a convincing story of injured horses and squadmates following close behind. I never stayed attached to a unit for more than half an aven or so, and I never spoke more than a few words to any of the officers. So information was relatively easy to collect. I don’t believe I was ever in any real danger; everyone was hustling off somewhere: forced marches, battalions under orders to reach Orindale or Estrad Village. It wasn’t until I had ridden far enough to the northeast – and found a country trail to the Merchants’ Highway – that I learned of the carrack and the northbound shipment. That was five days ago, just before I left the last Malakasian company and rode for Capehill.’
‘There were Malakasian soldiers on the Merchants’ Highway five days ago?’ Sharr asked.
‘Yes, and heading south,’ Brand said. ‘They were bound for Rona, planning to rendezvous with General Oaklen and then ride for Orindale. It seems the order to abandon Capehill was not wholeheartedly embraced by all officers.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me, either,’ Gita said. ‘Why give up a port town?’
‘Because they’re being recalled to Welstar Palace,’ Brand said, ‘by Mark Jenkins.’
‘The one who needs this tree bark shipment?’ Markus asked.
‘Yes.’
‘So he needs an army, one larger than the army already stationed at Welstar Palace, as well as a carrack full of magic tree bark to go along with it?’
‘Why come this way?’ Barrold asked.
‘If they’re heading for Pellia in a carrack, this is the only way,’ Sharr answered. ‘They’re too late for the Twinmoon, even the secondary tides. They’d never make the run up the Ravenian Sea in time. Going around the archipelago is the only passage deep enough for a ship that size.’
‘There’s more,’ Brand interrupted. ‘Again, I can’t be certain, and I didn’t see for myself, but on two separate occasions I heard that much of Orindale had been destroyed. And if what Gilmour told me is true, I would bet ten Twinmoons of my life that it was Mark Jenkins using the Larion spell table.’
Gita emptied a jug into her tankard, then gestured for Sharr to pass her another. ‘Orindale in ruins. Our families and friends lost in the wreckage,’ she murmured.
‘Rumour also has it that much of the merchant fleet was destroyed,’ Brand added.
‘And the occupation army recalled to Malakasia, except for Oaklen, who doesn’t take orders from anyone in the Eastlands. So he’s marching to Orindale, rallying every last footsore grunt he can find between Estrad and the northern Blackstones.’ Gita stared into her tankard for a few moments. No one in the room interrupted her thoughts; some took the opportunity to light their pipes and the small room filled quickly with the heady aroma of Falkan tobacco. It was a welcome change from the stench of ashes and soot.
Gita shook her head slightly. Still staring into her beer, she whispered to herself, ‘Oaklen riding for Orindale. The capital in ruins. Milled bark. A merchant carrack…’ Her voice trailed off.
Sharr watched her, waiting for the inevitable order.
Brand asked, ‘Sharr, is there a place north of here where this band of terrorists might pilot a launch into deep water?’
‘You think they’re getting picked up?’ he answered without taking his eyes off Gita.
‘I do,’ Brand said. ‘They’re either finished here, or they have another day or two of surprises waiting for us, but they’ll run, and that boat is their ticket home. Especially if those three hanging across town are spies. The others won’t linger here much longer.’
‘There’s no way for them to know if their comrades talked,’ Markus added.
‘Exactly,’ Brand finished his beer. ‘So what do you think? Is there someplace they might have stashed a boat or two? Some point from which they can run like rutting madmen for a deep water pick-up?’
Sharr didn’t answer.
Gita stood up. ‘All of you!’
The room went silent.
‘All of you, tonight, pass the word: I want
us packed and ready to ride in three days. I’ll need mounted dispatchers, one from each company, here by dawn. We have to get word to anyone still on their way up here that we have taken eastern Falkan… or, rather, it was handed to us. There’s nothing left for us to do in Capehill. We can rally the rest of the Resistance on the way. I want two riders from every squad assigned directly to me as a special mounted platoon. There’s no telling how many farms and ranches we’ll pass on the way. I want everyone to know that Capehill is free, that the port here is open, and that trade has been re-established, minus Prince Malagon’s take from every single load and transaction. We need food and supplies running into this town on a schedule as predictable as the tides. Every farmer on the plains has a winter stash somewhere, something the occupation army doesn’t know about. We’ll have them load up their wagons; let them know they’ll be well paid, but they’re needed up here, now.’
‘Where are we going, ma’am?’ Markus asked.
‘We’re going to Orindale,’ Gita said, ‘but you’re not coming, Markus.’
‘Orindale?’ Sharr raised an eyebrow. ‘Ma’am, there’s an entire division of soldiers stationed at Orindale, not to mention the Seron.’
‘Not to hear Brand tell it,’ Gita said, ‘not any more.’
‘It’s true,’ Brand said. ‘Word across the Central Plain is that they were all taken, loaded onto ships; every Malakasian navy vessel afloat on the Ravenian Sea is making for the Northern Archipelago and the Northeast Channel.’
‘And no officer resisted?’ Sharr looked askance at Gita.
‘Like I said, Mark Jenkins is a powerful and dangerous man.’
Gita paced alongside the table, back and forth, talking aloud to the floor. ‘That has to be why Oaklen is recalling the Ronan occupation forces. There’s no one minding the store. The old fart must have shat his leggings when he heard those ships sailed north-’
‘Or when he read the dispatch ordering him home to Pellia,’ Brand added.
‘So what?’ Sharr pressed. ‘We’ll ride to Orindale, securing shipping and farming agreements along the way? And then what? We battle General Oaklen and whomever he has left in the Eastlands?’
‘If the people of Orindale haven’t already done it for us, Sharr, yes we do,’ Gita said. ‘But, like Markus, you’re not coming.’
‘Why not?’ Markus asked.
She stopped pacing. ‘Because you, Sharr and Brand have another assignment.’
Despite his growing weariness, Sharr Becklen stood straight. ‘What assignment, ma’am?’
‘You’re to sink that carrack,’ she said determinedly, the light of battle in her eyes.
KEDGING OFF
‘Do you think Mark is in Pellia yet?’ Brexan asked Gilmour. Through the wispy fog they could see the coastal forests of Malakasia, the tall trees standing silent sentry. At slack tide, the winds had died and an eerie silence crept over the narrow channel Captain Ford and his remaining crewmembers were charting through the archipelago. With nothing but a few stripes of breakwater between them and the shoreline, Brexan worried that hard aground on a muddy shoal, the Morning Star – looking more like a shipwreck than a seaworthy vessel – would be reported by a passing military patrol or a fishing trawler.
As if reading her mind, the captain ordered the Malakasian colours run up the halyard; that ruse might buy them a few avens. Eventually, though, someone would wonder what a brig-sloop was doing working its way through the sandbars, atolls and mud flats off the northeast coast.
The deck canted to starboard. Gilmour hung onto the rail in an effort to maintain his balance. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Mark had a few days’ head start, but we were able to come up the coast fast and I don’t believe he’ll be much further than the initial tacks through the Northeast Channel.’
‘So we may reach Pellia before he does?’
Watching the process the captain called kedging off, Gilmour shrugged. ‘That depends on how long we spend dragging ourselves through these shallows.’
Brexan agreed. ‘It doesn’t look like the quickest route, does it?’
‘We need to be a bit luckier than we were this morning,’ he said.
‘That’s not very heartening.’ Brexan had been on deck when the brig-sloop ran aground. She was sure it hadn’t been Captain Ford’s fault – the Morning Star had been tacking towards a narrow channel between an island and a jumble of rocks Marrin had spotted from aloft. There had appeared to be enough draft for the brig-sloop to pass, even with the receding tide, but just as the captain was bringing the bow about, the topgallants – they were the only sheets he would permit Marrin to set – had caught a vagrant gust from the southeast. Under normal conditions, it would have been nothing, but arriving when it did, just as they were tacking northeast, the rogue breeze had shoved the Morning Star just far enough for her bow to catch in the shallows.
An aven later, the tide was out, the rocks Marrin had seen were above the surface and the narrow passage between them and the island was looking a hair’s-breadth too thin for the brig-sloop. Once off the sandbar, Captain Ford would have only one chance to thread the needle.
Brexan watched as Garec and Marrin rowed the ship’s launch into deeper water, looking comically like a crew in search of a ship as they sat on either side of the Morning Star’s anchor. The great metal claw had been lowered gingerly from the cathead and now rested against the bench. It dragged a length of hawser from the capstan to the channel between the island and the rock formation. ‘I wonder why he doesn’t wait for the tide to come back in,’ Brexan mused.
Gilmour pointed towards the shore; though there was not a building to be seen, it was still risky being within hailing distance of Malakasia, especially while immobile. ‘I don’t think Captain Ford likes having his ship stuck in the mud, Brexan,’ he said, ‘and I don’t know if he needs more water than we have now to work his way through that little passage.’
‘It does look skinny, doesn’t it?’
‘I believe that’s why Garec and Marrin are out there.’
Brexan and Gilmour were been whispering. It seemed an appropriate morning for whispering. Both jumped when Marrin, almost out of sight in the grey fog, called in for instructions.
‘Captain,’ Marrin said, surprisingly loud, ‘there’s plenty of draft, but I’m worried about whether she’ll fit.’
‘She’ll fit.’ Ford’s voice was low but resonant; Brexan wondered how far it would carry in the fog. She was reminded of the bells she had heard from the porch at the Topgallant Inn and flashed back to Jacrys Marseth, dipped in blood, trailing blood, but still ringing that whoring bell.
‘We’ll row through,’ Marrin called back. ‘We have enough line, and if I can find a decent handful of rocks on the other side, we’ll pull her through with the capstan.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Captain Ford said dryly.
‘You are the commanding officer, after all,’ Marrin teased from inside the burgeoning fogbank.
‘Ha!’ Ford said, ‘and generally the last one to give the orders around here.’
‘Yes sir!’ Marrin, now completely lost from view, shouted. ‘You just keep the old girl on a strict diet while the Ronan killer and I snake through this little stream you’ve discovered.’
‘Good enough,’ Ford said. ‘We are thinking thin thoughts.’
‘Captain Ford?’ Garec called, ‘once we get the anchor set, I can drown him if you like.’
‘Nothing would please me more,’ Ford replied with a laugh.
To Brexan his good humour seemed forced, another mask he fashioned while above decks to keep his crew in good spirits. He, like the rest of them, was mourning the loss of three crew to the shapeshifting tan-bak. Losing Kanthil, Sera – had it eaten her? Or just cast her over the side? – and finding what was left of Tubbs had caused something inside the captain to come loose. Now sneaking along the coast like this, dousing the lanterns and running the blockade all smacked of retribution, something owed to the crew. While giving Tubbs his rites,
Captain Ford told Brexan his crew believed in him because they knew that he was a man motivated by just two things: paying them well and seeing them safely home. This voyage had violated an edict he and his crew – his family – had agreed upon Twinmoons earlier. It was the reason so many of them shipped with him season after season: they do it together, and they go home together. Chasing a pocketful of easy silver, Ford had gone against his own core values – and he had lost friends as a result.
Reaching Pellia now, even if he had to get out and push the old ship through the shallows, was the only way he could earn himself a measure of redemption.
‘Got it,’ Marrin shouted.
‘What’s he done?’ Brexan asked.
‘He’s found a place where he and Garec can lodge that anchor. With that done, and the rest of us manning the capstan like all the gods of the Northern Forest are whipping our backsides, hopefully, the ship will pull itself right through.’
‘Kedging off?’
‘Kedging off.’
‘That seems pretty risky in a ship this size,’ Brexan said.
‘Again, my dear, I leave that to Captain Ford; he seems capable.’
‘Yes, he does,’ Brexan mused, watching Ford lean over the rail, straining to see through the fog. She imagined that Versen might have grown to look and act similarly one day. Brexan couldn’t allow herself to get personally involved with Doren Ford. Regardless of how obvious it had become that he might welcome a relationship, however ephemeral, she fought the urge to cross the deck and wrap her arms around him, to feel his muscled body against hers. Becoming intimate with him would be too much like making love with a shadowy, older version of Versen. It wouldn’t be fair to the captain to use him to recapture what she had lost.
After a moment, Captain Ford called, ‘Come back and wait near those rocks. If anything is going to get us, it’ll be that bunch, and we can’t see them as clearly as we could half an aven ago.’
