The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  Leaning out to grasp a knob of rock, the fisherman waited for Conard to step out of his boat. “Sorry about this, lad.” It was the first sound he had made all through the long ride, and he did not meet Conard’s eyes. “If it was just King Faolan’s orders, I would’ve argued. But them Whitish… Don’t want to get on their bad side, I don’t. And you wearing their uniform and all—hardly know what to think.”

  “I was plotting to save Lostport,” Conard said urgently. “I was born here, and I love this land dearly. I would do anything to stop the Whitish from destroying it.”

  “I’m sure of that,” the fisherman said. “Seeing as how you’re off to your death now.”

  Conard hung his head.

  “Get in there,” the fisherman said. “I’d best be getting home before the storm upends me.”

  “Aren’t you going to chain me to the wall?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, lad. I’m not so cruel as that.”

  With a splash, the fisherman dipped his oars back into the water and floated away from the rocks. A swell rose behind him, and when it had passed, he was gone.

  Conard stood in the mouth of the cave, assessing his options. He had three, as far as he could tell: he could try to climb the cliffs and sidle around the mountain until he reached land; he could try to swim for shore; or he could sit in the cave and wait for rescue. The first two were virtually impossible, given that his hands were still bound behind his back—he might have risked swimming on a calm day, but these waves would quickly send him to the depths of the sea, if they did not first smash him upon an exposed rock. And even with two hands free, he could see no way up the cliffs.

  The weak daylight, hidden behind billowing clouds, seemed already to be fading. Conard paced to the back of the cave, where at least he had some shelter from the rain, and then measured its size with his feet as he circled the floor over and over and over. A deep split in the floor let a sliver of water in to the back of the cave, while the rest of the cavern remained damp and cold from the last high tide. The cave had a permanent reek of rotting seaweed, a salty, moldy smell that overwhelmed Conard’s senses, and the wind gusted against its mouth in a ceaseless roar. How absurd that he had been in a different cave just the night before, thinking himself the luckiest man alive.

  Before long the darkness of the cave grew claustro-phobic, and Conard retreated to the entrance, where he sat with his feet hanging over the cliff. Each wave licked his boots, some slapping up against his knees. Spray flew in his face, stinging his eyes, but it was quickly washed away by the pounding rain.

  If he was to die here, he wanted to see the end coming. He would not cower in the dark.

  Chapter 24

  D espite the rain and the cold and the approaching night, Faolan remained on the pier, waiting for the fisherman to return. He hoped he had not sent the poor man to his death. Beyond the docks, both Whitlanders and Lostporters alike had gathered to witness Conard’s sentence; gradually the spectators dispersed, some retreating into quiet bars, others returning home, while those who remained kept a wary eye out for trouble. A shabby group of villagers patrolling the streets had not been scared indoors by the rain, and they put their hands to their swords every time they passed a disgruntled knot of Whitish builders.

  Faolan half-expected Laina to run to the docks and confront him, though she failed to appear. He hoped this was because she saw the truth in his verdict, and had recognized Conard for the traitor he was. Instead of Laina, he was joined by her sullen friend Jairus. The man kept his hood low until he had passed the Whitish guards, clearly afraid he would be attacked.

  “Evening,” Faolan said when Jairus drew near.

  Jairus gave him a curt nod.

  “What is your business here, on such a foul night?”

  Jairus scowled at the sea. “I have no place in Lostport. I am no help to anyone when I must hide. I am leaving.”

  “So soon? Have you finished your work with Master Swick?”

  Jairus jerked a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It does not matter.”

  Tossing a sack into the belly of a small sailboat, Jairus clambered down the ladder and stepped into the heaving boat. His hair was glossy from the rain, and he squinted into the wind as he untied the rope from its cleat.

  “Do you have permission to take that ship?” Faolan asked sternly.

  “No,” Jairus said. “Goodbye, King of Lostport.” Bending to fetch a set of oars, he pushed the boat away from the pier and rode a wave to its crest. In another instant he had vanished behind the veil of rain.

  Faolan felt nothing but hollow acceptance at the man’s departure. Jairus was no boatman; he would be flung from his flimsy sailboat and devoured by the stormy sea. It was such a pity to see a young man throw his life away like that.

  When a dark shape reared to the top of a swell and careened toward the pier, Faolan thought at first that Jairus had changed his mind. But this was no sailboat—it was the fisherman’s tiny rowboat.

  “Do you need help, sir?” Faolan called.

  The fisherman tried to grab the pier ladder. The first time he was swept straight under the pier, and the second time he caught hold of a piling and clung fast.

  “Throw me your rope!” Faolan shouted.

  The fisherman obliged, and Faolan looped it around a cleat until he thought the boat would hold. Paddling backward, the fisherman managed to grab hold of the ladder and lift himself from the water.

  “I should not have sent you out in such a storm,” Faolan said, taking the man’s hand to help him onto the pier.

  “’Twas but a small gale,” the fisherman grunted. “Pardon me, but my wife will be fretting.” He hurried past Faolan without even bowing and broke into a trot when he reached the muddy street.

  Faolan put his hands in his sealskin coat pockets, which had mercifully remained dry, and trudged back to the end of the pier. He was exhausted, yet he still felt stronger than he had in days. At the end of the dock, Nort and Barrik joined him, both shivering and blue-lipped. Before they reached the end of town, Faolan heard two pairs of feet slapping through the puddles behind him. He turned, expecting a confrontation, and saw two gypsy men skidding to a halt before him. One was an old man dressed in a colorful patchwork robe that was oozing water; the other was a young, boyishly handsome man in black leather and silver jewelry.

  “Where’s Conard?” the young man gasped.

  Faolan frowned at him. How did he know Conard? “The traitor is dead.”

  When the young man opened his mouth to protest, the patchworked old man put a cautionary hand on his shoulder.

  “We were sent with urgent news,” the old man said. Though his breath was short, he did not seem to be terribly affected by the long run. “The bridge to Port Emerald was washed away earlier today, and a wave took out the Ashfall Creek bridge just moments after we crossed. Our camp is cut off from supplies, as is the building site.”

  Faolan barely restrained himself from saying thank goodness! “And is there something you wish me to do about this?”

  “We had word from the builders’ camp that their captain wishes for emergency supplies. Our people at the midway camp will not be inconvenienced in the slightest, unless the floods last a full span, but the Whitish builders will not make it to the end of the quarter.”

  “After ransacking Lostport and stealing our ships and bleeding our manor dry, those rats expect us to save them from the grief they have caused?” Faolan straightened. “You can go straight back to Port Emerald and tell the builders I want nothing more to do with them.”

  “Sire, the rivers are both bridgeless,” the young man said, thumbs in his pockets.

  “Furthermore, I fail to see how these rains were brought on by the Whitish builders,” said the old man.

  Faolan shook his head, weary to death of these self-entitled gypsies. “Not the rains. The flooding. If the bridge had not been constructed so flimsily, nor the area logged so heavily, they might have escaped any damage.”


  “And what of the bridge over that river just back there?” The old man jabbed his thumb toward Ashfall Creek. “It hardly looks as though the area was extensively logged. I just think we ought to provide some aid to the Whitlanders.”

  At that moment, Faolan wished very much that he was the sort of king who gave orders unquestioned and ruled his subjects with a healthy dose of fear.

  “May we speak to Laina?” the young man asked.

  Faolan narrowed his eyes. Was this yet another suitor? He was frightening, in the way one might find a female assassin frightening—unexpectedly fierce. “You ought to return to your camp and cease meddling. I have no use for gypsies here.”

  “We would, if we could,” the old man said, with a slight dip of his chin. “Begging your pardon, sire, but the bridge is gone.”

  Faolan swallowed a curse. “Come with me, then,” he said. “Laina is not home at the moment, but when she returns, she has a great deal of explaining to do.”

  * * *

  Laina sat in the middle of the forest road, soaked through with mud and rain, her ankle throbbing. She still could not believe the Whitish builders had thrown her so roughly to the ground. Did they really think King Luistan’s power extended far enough to protect them from her father’s wrath?

  When she had tried to stand, her ankle had nearly given way beneath her, and she had screamed into the empty woods. She hoped she had just sprained it, not broken it.

  Now she could hardly bring herself to move. Every slight shift sent agony coursing through her leg. If only she could rely on someone to come after her. But Conard was bound for the Convict’s Caves, and with the rains beginning to threaten flooding, no one else would be travelling this way. She felt like a worthless fool. If she had just remained in town, she could have argued against her father to reverse Conard’s sentence before it was too late. Now she was helpless, and it was entirely her fault.

  At last her teeth began to chatter, and she realized that she would die before long if she did not find shelter. It was too much to hope that one of the gypsies would happen upon her before the night was up—she had to summon up the strength to move.

  She was still close to the top of the pass, so the nearest shelter was the cave where the gemstones were hidden. The light was already beginning to fade; she had to make haste.

  Rolling onto her knees, she began to crawl along the road toward the pass. Her heavy skirts were both a blessing and a curse—though they protected her knees from the worst of the stones, they caught on every stray root and tangled themselves around her legs, until she was close to ripping them off in frustration.

  Each time her ankle juddered as it passed over an uneven patch of ground, she gasped in pain. Tears stung her eyes, and several times she yelled out in fear and agony.

  Night had almost completely fallen by the time Laina spotted the tree marking the turnoff to the cave. It was lucky she reached it when she did; with the clouds blanketing the moon and stars, the approaching darkness would be impenetrable.

  Laina’s entire body ached. She had an inkling that this must be what Doran felt like every day, unable to walk, robbed of something that had once come as easily as breathing. Yet she had gotten herself into this mess, and she would damn well survive it. Drawing a shuddering breath, she continued her painstaking traverse into the thick of the woods.

  The last stretch before she reached the cave was almost entirely in the dark. Thankfully she could follow the smoothed stones of the now-flowing streambed, and when she drew near the cavern, she could smell the cave before she could see it.

  At last she crawled beneath the roof of the cave, beyond the reach of the relentless downpour, and collapsed on the dusty ground.

  Rain thundered against the leaves outside. It seemed distant, muffled. Now that she was safe, the truth of Conard’s sentence hit her anew.

  He was gone.

  Hours must have passed since he was chained in the Convict’s Caves, and the high tide could have claimed him already. Not long ago, Laina had known the timing of every high and low tide, had strode the pebble-strewn beaches as though she were master of the ocean. But with Port Emerald claiming every waking moment, she had lost the rhythm of the tides. She would not know when Conard drew his last breath.

  She felt empty, hollowed out and fragile, as though nothing remained of her but wisps of sea-foam. She should never have asked Conard to sacrifice everything for Lostport. That should have been Laina’s burden, not his. Only those who ruled Lostport should have to suffer the weight of their kingdom’s demise.

  When she truly could see no more, Laina crawled farther back into the cave and found a crevice that offered protection from the draft swirling about the main cavern. There she curled up, shivering and half-numb, waiting for morning.

  Thoughts of Conard chased through her head, memories from their days as reckless children, ghosts of his touch. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she shook from cold and anguish.

  Yet somehow, at long last, she slept.

  Chapter 25

  L aina had not returned the following morning. Katrien had not expected her to, yet she was afraid of the lengths Laina was willing to go to in pursuit of her dearest friend. From the way Laina spoke of Conard, Katrien knew this childhood friendship had deepened into something more, and it saddened her to know that Laina would lose either Conard or her chance at the throne.

  She wished Faolan had been more reasonable.

  The rain still fell, relentless, from a granite sky. Ribbons of water were beginning to snake their way across the front lawn, tearing flowers from their beds and slicing a channel down the hillside.

  On top of her fears that Laina would kill herself trying to find Conard, Katrien was terrified that her followers had braved the river and would be smashed to pieces against the canyon walls. When Faolan retreated to his study to see what damage Laina had done while he was ill, Katrien found Tenori in the kitchen and asked him to accompany her into town.

  “Were you hoping for a swim?” Tenori asked, eyebrows raised. “We will be half-drowned by the time we reach the village.”

  Katrien lifted her chin. “I know. I need to see the Samiread River. I’m afraid our followers will never survive the trip here, especially in such flimsy rafts. I want to see if they have a chance.”

  “I can already answer that question,” Tenori said grimly. “Fetch every piece of waterproof clothing you can find. If you want, we’ll go at once.”

  Katrien nodded. Mylo helped them track down an assortment of sealskin cloaks and boots and trousers, and before long Katrien and Tenori were so heavily bundled they looked like seals themselves.

  “I have not told Faolan about them,” Katrien said softly. “After seeing how angry he was at Laina’s interference, I was afraid he might consider my actions to be treason.”

  “I don’t know Faolan,” Tenori said, “but his anger at Laina appears to be born more of fear for her safety than of true ire. And he has more than enough reason to be afraid for her.”

  Swallowing, Katrien drew back the front door and followed Tenori into the garden. The rain was like a waterfall, so loud it put a stop to any further exchange. They had to tread carefully on the stairs, for slick mud had accumulated on every step, and Katrien held the sealskin cloak tight about her, grateful for its protection each time she was buffeted by a gust of rain. Instead of continuing on the main road into town, Katrien turned right at the base of the stairs onto a narrow dirt walkway that was close to becoming a river in its own right. Just past a narrow band of rainforest, she and Tenori came to the overlook beside the Samiread River.

  The short cliffs that usually guarded this section of the river had been swallowed up by the murky, raging torrent. The water nearly threatened to spill onto the forest floor; in fact, on the far bank, a section of rapids sent water sloshing through a clump of ferns with each wave.

  “How much higher can it get?” Tenori had to shout to be heard over the combined roar of river and rain.

&
nbsp; “I’ve never seen it this flooded before,” Katrien called back. “But I was only here for three years. Faolan always spoke of the rains washing out roads and buildings.”

  “Your followers won’t have braved these storms,” Tenori said. “They are more intelligent than that. They are probably sitting in Ferrydown, waiting for the rains to clear.”

  “Unless they left before the storm hit,” Katrien said. “They weren’t far behind us. The rains might have caught them halfway to Lostport.”

  Tenori had no reply for this. Katrien took this to mean he feared the same.

  “I have sent thousands of courageous people to die.”

  Tenori took Katrien’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Then he stepped forward to the banks of the river. He stood for a long time, staring upstream at the turbulent brown waters, shoulders hunched. At last he turned. “Nothing remains for us but hope. Come, milady. Let us return before your husband fears you lost as well.”

  * * *

  When Faolan heard the howling wind sweep through his entrance hall, signaling that the front doors had just swung open, he abandoned his paperwork and made haste for the stairs, hoping beyond hope that Laina had returned home.

  It was Katrien. He had not even noticed her disappearance.

  “Where have you been?” he asked, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as his stiff knees would allow. “Are you quite well?”

  At the foot of the stairs, he noticed that Katrien was accompanied by the proud Varrilan who had brought her back to Lostport. The sight comforted him—unlike Laina, his wife had not simply run off alone and unguarded.