The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  The sun dropping behind the mountains was the most welcome sight Conard had ever known. He limped down the last four steps and collapsed atop his pile of bricks, only vaguely aware that the new recruits around him were doing the same.

  Once he had caught his breath, Conard began eyeing the other piles of stone nearby, trying to gauge how well he had done. He had certainly made more progress than Ian, though several of the men were down to a mere handful of bricks. One had hauled the entire load, by the look of it.

  When the project director—Captain Drail, Ian had called him—reappeared from the camp headquarters, Conard stood wearily and tried not to draw the man’s attention.

  “Bet you’re hungry,” he said, stepping onto a pair of bricks so the men could see him more easily. “I don’t even know if we ought to feed you, though. Much less useful than a team of oxen. This fellow over here managed to carry out the task given to him; the rest of you lot have proven yourselves next to worthless. Come up here, young fellow.”

  The man who had moved every one of his fifty bricks slouched up to Captain Drail. He was a hulking man, tall and broad-shouldered and sullen.

  “You, sir, will be reassigned tomorrow morning. The rest of you lot will continue hauling bricks until you’ve managed to do your job properly.”

  A collective groan went around the circle.

  It was now so dark that Conard was having trouble picking out faces from the trees enclosing their work-site. Captain Drail directed the new recruits to a dining tent, where they filled their plates from a long table and returned outside to eat. Other men made their way for groups of tents huddled around individual campfires, the flames flickering gold beneath the dark branches, but Conard and most of the other new arrivals dispersed. There was no welcoming fire at their tents.

  Though he had sworn to befriend the others, Conard could not bear the thought of making conversation tonight. He was weary inside and out, too exhausted even to piece together words. Instead he slipped past the tents and down to the beach, moving by the light of the waning moon.

  Once the trees gave way to silvery sand, Conard sat wearily on a driftwood log and wolfed down his already-cooled dinner. He could not say exactly what it was—some soggy mixture of foraged vegetables and hunted meat—but he could not remember a more satisfying meal.

  Then he dropped to the sand and leaned against the driftwood, staring out at the water. He knew this beach, of course. The place had changed since he and his father had discovered it, though; it was now almost unrecognizable. The gemstone-littered beach they had stumbled across had been a wild place, inaccessible and untouched. Now the forest had been cut back, freeing the waterfront from its protective line of trees, and the beach was littered with the remnants of a hundred bonfires.

  Sitting there in the dark, a clamor of doubts began nudging against Conard’s thoughts. If he succeeded in the scheme Laina had set for him, he would be working directly to sabotage the king. He was already exiled, and could be sentenced to death if he was recognized.

  What would be worse? If he lost Laina and kept his life—it could even be a good one, if he devoted himself to a worthy profession—or if he put his life on the line for the slim chance that he might be able to drive away the Whitish builders and might win himself a royal pardon and might be able to ask for Laina’s hand in marriage?

  Who was he kidding? He was not eligible to marry the future ruler of Lostport. He had been doomed in that respect long before he nearly killed Doran.

  Yet he could not abandon this path. Whatever insanity it was that drove him to risk his life for the kingdom, it had not loosened its grip on him.

  Stars were beginning to emerge in the velvet sky, mocking his resolve. The world is infinite, they seemed to say. Why chain yourself to one doomed corner of a many-faced land?

  Rubbing his eyes in annoyance, Conard stood and collected his plate. It was harder finding the way back now, but eventually he could follow the soft patches of light and columns of smoke given off by campfires until he caught sight of the dining tent.

  Ian sat outside the tent, alone and staring into the woods with a sullen expression.

  “What are you up to?” Conard asked, stopping before him.

  “Thinking about how daft I was to join this wretched army,” Ian grumbled. “Everyone back home called me a girl, said I wasn’t good for anything but dreaming and wasting time, so I thought I’d serve in Varrival and come home a proper warrior. Only they tease me here too, and I’m no stronger than I started out. I wish I could just crawl into a cave and let everyone forget about me.”

  For a moment Conard wished he hadn’t stopped to talk to the man. He didn’t want to hear these sniveling complaints, especially not since they mirrored his own thoughts so closely. “We’ve just started,” he said heavily. “I’m not much stronger than you; I just look like I am. Once we’ve been hauling stones for forty days, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

  “Sure,” Ian said sarcastically. “I’m not giving up, though. Why did you come here? All the men have a reason. Some did it for the gold, some for the honor.”

  Conard settled on a half-truth. “Don’t tell any of the others, but…I’ve got a girl back home. I did her a great wrong once, and I have to redeem myself.”

  Ian gave him a thin smile. “Good to know I’m not the only dreamer around here.”

  Too right he was.

  Conard slept so soundly that he didn’t startle awake until most of the laborers had finished breakfast. Groggy and disoriented, he stumbled from his tent and knelt by a stream to splash water on his face. Every muscle ached, and none worse than his shoulders.

  Breakfast was already being cleared away; he barely had time to grab two rock-hard rolls before he was shooed out of the dining tent. Gnawing on one of them, wishing for butter, he followed a pair of familiar faces back to the stack of bricks he had been working at the day before. Then he stopped in dismay.

  The pile was exactly the height it had been the previous morning. Overnight, someone had added seventeen bricks to the pile until it rose fifty high once more.

  Nearby, the other builders were muttering and stomping around in dismay. When Captain Drail strode from the trees, he cleared his throat and barked, “What’s the holdup? You’ll be hauling bricks for the rest of your sorry lives if you don’t get a move on!”

  Conard cursed and kicked at the closest brick, which just made his toe ache. There was no way in a thousand years he would be able to carry fifty of the bloody things in one day. No way.

  He wanted to quit. That night he would turn and head straight up the pass and follow the forest road back to Lostport. Then he would jump on the first boat heading north.

  And they would see his exile’s bands. Conard rubbed his wrists in frustration and lifted the first brick.

  There was no turning back now.

  Chapter 17

  A fter a quarter of travel along the rolling Darden plains, Katrien and her company had fallen into a comfortable rhythm. What had begun as excruciating soreness had now dulled to a background ache, and the nights spent curled on a lumpy bed-roll were now eagerly anticipated rather than dreaded.

  The farther they traveled, the more Katrien realized the open grassland was far less barren than she had first guessed. Herds of buffalo and packs of coyotes roamed the grasslands, along with deer, wolves, and hawks. Much of what looked like weedy grass to Katrien could in fact be eaten, which meant her companions and the roving bands of warriors they occasionally came across could easily fend for themselves while on the move.

  As they rode south, Dardens and Varrilans and other enemies of Whitland continued to join their cause. At first, no more than one or two new arrivals trickled in each day; most of these were residents of the Twin Cities who had taken their time in preparing for departure. Now, though, a few bands of nomadic warriors had chosen to add their numbers to the party; these men rode on the outskirts of the group, always alert and silent. A few Varrilans had even travelled all the
way up from Varrival to join the company, sweeping up from the southern end of the great mountain range and intercepting them as they went. Word had traveled fast, it seemed.

  Amadi had recovered quickly from the disappointment of leaving the Twin Cities. Katrien hadn’t heard a word of complaint from her in days now. The girl seemed to thrive in the open plains—though Katrien still thought Amadi’s riding clothes were improper, they suited the girl perfectly. Most days, Katrien saw Amadi riding at the head of the company, often asking questions of the Darden warriors or leaning close to confer with a young Varrilan man who had taken her fancy.

  On the third day after Amadi met the young man, she brought him to Katrien’s fire for dinner.

  Though Katrien wished to warn the young man away from Amadi at once, she decided to give him a chance.

  “Good evening,” she said, gesturing to one of the rolled-up blankets opposite where she sat by the fire. “I have seen you from afar, but I don’t believe we have met. My name is Katrien.”

  “Begging your pardon, but everyone knows that,” the young man said with a mischievous sideways look. “You’re famous here. The lost queen, some of them are calling you. Here to save not just Lostport but the entire empire.”

  Katrien folded her arms and studied the young Varrilan. “I wish they would stop that nonsense. My aim is simply to remove the Whitish builders, not to stir up a revolution against the High King. If those are the stories you’ve been told, many of your people will be terribly disappointed when we reach Lostport. And you still haven’t told me your name.”

  The young man folded himself onto the blanket roll, moving with grace despite the lankiness of his still-adolescent limbs. “Kurjan, Milady. I arrived with the Varrilan contingent five days ago.”

  Amadi sat beside Kurjan, leaning toward him but maintaining a hair’s breadth of separation. Katrien suspected her brilliant smile hid a measure of uncertainty. She seeks my approval, Katrien realized suddenly. The outwardly fearless girl still needed reassurance.

  “Your Whitish is very good,” Katrien said, trying to make the boy feel welcome. She handed a bowl and ladle to Kurjan.

  He shrugged. “I mostly grew up at the Borderlands school. It doesn’t belong to any throne, exactly, but the lessons are all in Whitish.”

  “Tell her why you were there,” Amadi whispered loudly as Kurjan began ladling wild pheasant stew into his pot.

  “She’ll suspect I’m trying to manipulate her,” he replied with a sidelong glance at Katrien. He was clever, this Kurjan.

  “Tell me whatever you wish,” Katrien said. “I can tell you my story, if that helps. Though you probably already know a much more interesting version of it.”

  Amadi giggled. “Some of the warriors are saying King Faolan is under a spell, and you’ve found the counter-spell. They also think you’re going to make the land rise up against the Whitish throne, or something like that. I can’t tell if they think the trees are going to gobble up everything, or if the ground is just going to open up and swallow the capital.”

  “They sound very creative,” Katrien said. “But I thought the warriors were supposed to guard us, not gossip about magic.”

  “I wouldn’t say they’re supposed to do anything,” Kurjan said mildly. “They’ve joined your cause because they believe in it. They’re guarding us because they can do it better than anyone.” He nudged Amadi in the ribs. “And if you want to know what I was doing at the lakeside school, it’s the same reason why I’ve joined your cause—my parents were both killed in a Whitish raid. We were having a drought that year, so a few brave families moved into the borderlands to farm and keep us alive through the winter, but the Whitish soldiers decided we had invaded their lands and burned the two villages we had founded.”

  “Therein kindling your lifelong hatred of Whitland.” Katrien took the proffered ladle and scraped up the last of the soup. “I don’t see why Whitland is so possessive of its borderlands. They hardly see any use to begin with. There are leagues and leagues of fertile land lying untouched!”

  “Exactly.” Kurjan jabbed his spoon in Katrien’s direction to emphasize his point. “We think it’s unnecessary cruelty. But the Whitish hate the fact that we’ve slipped out of their control. They’ll use any excuse to stamp us out.”

  Katrien sipped at her soup for a moment, thinking. There was clearly far more to this ride to Lostport than met the eye. She had started with the intention of ridding Lostport of its dangerous occupation by Whitish soldiers, and in the process ensuring that Whitland was not able to extend its reach any further, but each contingent that had joined her cause came for its own reasons. “And if I don’t begin a revolution against Whitland?” Katrien asked. “Will my followers abandon me in disgust? I wanted this to be a quiet mission, a subtle extraction of troops. But it looks as though it will be anything but.”

  “Everyone wants something different,” Kurjan said. “The politically savvy know that Whitland is broke and can’t start anything without the jewels it’s supposed to get from Lostport. The Varrilans living in the Twin Cities are fed up with the abuse and racism they’re getting every day from Whitish guards, and they’ll do anything to push Whitland back. And any Varrilans who remember the raids we’ve seen in the Borderlands are ready to march to war on Whitland. But they’ll lose. We aren’t warriors, Lady Katrien. We’re just very adaptable.”

  “What about the Darden warriors?” Katrien asked. For a young man, Kurjan knew more than he should; she wondered if his school took part in any political schemes.

  “I don’t know them well,” Kurjan said, spreading his arms in a gesture of uncertainty. “But my guess is that there’s a lot more to Dardensfell than anyone knows. They act as though they’re close allies with Whitland, but only as far as politics go. Anyone you talk to on the streets is furious about the Whitish patrols causing havoc, and then the warriors are immediately flocking to your cause. I have a feeling there’s a bit more to this than either of us can fathom.”

  “An interesting thought,” Katrien said, tipping her bowl to drink the last of the soup. “You will have to join us again, young man, and teach us more. I clearly have much to learn. I’ve been far too sheltered, for the most part at my own choosing. I can see now how misguided I was.”

  “Didn’t you say you thought Lostport was too rugged?” Amadi asked, still with the unnatural smile across her face. “And here you are now, sleeping on the ground and riding horses all day.”

  “Not to mention the fact that I can’t remember the last time I had a bath.”

  Kurjan ducked his head to hide a grin. Once his expression was more serious, he set aside his bowl and rose. “Thank you for the dinner, Milady. It was a treat.”

  “And thank you for joining us,” Katrien said. “It was a pleasure to meet you. Amadi, help me dig up the pillows.” She began shuffling through a towering mound of supplies while Kurjan and Amadi said goodnight. They seemed stiffer than before; Amadi’s smile had vanished, replaced by a sullen, uncertain look.

  Once Kurjan had disappeared into the smoky crowd, Katrien returned to the fire and settled onto the blanket roll. “You were very quiet at dinner. Is something wrong?” She studied Amadi’s hunched form, her features unreadable in the flickering firelight. “Have you decided you don’t like him after all?”

  Amadi shook her head.

  “What is it, then?”

  “He’s so smart,” Amadi moaned.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” Moving closer, Katrien rubbed the girl’s back, trying to hide her smile.

  “But he knows so much. He knows everything about everyone. And he’s been everywhere in the world. I’m so boring! I’ve just worked at one house for my entire life, and then ridden a boat down a river. Can you tell him I’m already promised to someone else?”

  This time Katrien couldn’t hide a chuckle. “That boy was just showing off. I’m certain you could amaze him with your knowledge of the Twin Cities and the class structure in Whitland.”

/>   “So exciting,” Amadi muttered. “I wish you weren’t here. If I was by myself, I’d tell him I came from Itrea, from the rebel city of Baylore. I’d make up all sorts of fascinating stories about the magic there, and no one would be able to say I was wrong.”

  “Falsehoods are not a good basis for romance,” Katrien said, taking Amadi’s chin in her hand. “Then again, political marriages are even less tolerable. If you want me to tell Kurjan you are not free for the taking, I certainly could. Aurum knows, there are more than enough young men running about.”

  “Hmph.” Amadi stood and collected her bedroll, pausing to look in the direction Kurjan had vanished. Katrien took that to mean she had not given up on the young man yet.

  Though she had begun to adapt to the toils of the road, Katrien was plagued by greater worries than before. Had she started something too big, something that would spiral out of her grasp and harm Lostport in the pursuit of justice? Would her husband welcome the support, or would he see the foreign troops as an attack by the enemy?

  Katrien was still staring into the dying embers when Tenori strode up flanked by a pair of warriors.

  “Thank goodness you’re awake.” Tenori sounded somewhat out-of-breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Katrien rose swiftly. “Have the Whitish soldiers found us?”

  Tenori shook his head. “Nothing of the sort. But there is trouble. If you will come with me…”

  As they wound their way past dying fires and silent tents, Tenori explained why he had called on Katrien. “One of our Varrilan followers was recognized by a Darden warrior band and accused of treachery. The Varrilan was a mercenary in Whitland’s army ten years ago when they made a move to exterminate the more belligerent bands of Darden warriors. That particular group captured the Varrilan, tortured him, and sold him back to the Whitish army for entertainment. The Varrilan mercenary and his friends are threatening to kill the warriors, who are likely to desert at the first sign of trouble.”