Reinman had been a captain for twenty years, and had served as a royal seaman for ten years before that, earning promotion rapidly. In his forty-five years he had never been known to hesitate once he understood the situation.
The Quegan galley was going down. Reinman knew ships, so he knew this trireme was open-benched from the bilges to the deck, with scant cargo room fore and aft, so after she was holed she’d take on water and sink quickly. Their grappling ropes were taut and could only be removed by cutting, but they were for the most part on the other side of a mass of dangerous demons.
‘Abandon ship!’ he shouted. ‘Port side bail-out!’
At once those tending the wounded began to help them get to the port side of the ship. Reinman knew that he only had minutes to get men in the water swimming away from the ship. If any tried to escape in any other direction than the port side, which was now starting to rise as the larger ship started on its way to the bottom of the Bitter Sea, they stood a very good chance of getting caught in sails and rigging, or sucked down by the vacuum created as the two ships sank.
His only hope for his men was that the Messenger would act as a massive buoy for at least a few minutes, slowing the huge trireme’s descent until his men could swim clear. This fight was lost: it was the only way to keep further casualties to a minimum.
The wounded were carried to the rail, save those too gravely injured to move. The ship’s chirurgeon glanced at Reinman with an unspoken question in his eyes. Reinman nodded once and the chirurgeon held his gaze a moment, communicating a bitter sadness. He then spoke to his assistant, who moved quickly away. Reinman had always found the term ‘final mercy’ offensive, but he understood that a quick, clean death was preferable to being torn apart by demons or hopelessly drowning. Even so, giving the order that six of his own men be killed left a bitter taste in his mouth.
His men were retreating in good order, and his archers on high were giving a good account of themselves and keeping the demons from pressing too quickly.
Suddenly the massive trireme gave a shudder and rolled, and the Messenger was jerked around like a rat caught by a terrier, and every creature on deck – human or demon – was thrown to the planks. Those demons still on their own ship began to scream and roar, running in chaos as they saw water coming up over the bow.
Reinman shouted, ‘Everyone over the side, now!’
His men didn’t hesitate, but stood, crawled, or leaped to the port side. The archers cast away their bows and crossbows, and jumped from the yards off the port side, diving into the sea. As the ship began heeling over, the barefoot sailors found some purchase on the deck, but many of the demons had hooves or claws which gave them little traction on the blood-and-water-soaked planking, and they started slipping away from their foes.
Screams of rage slowly turned to cries of fear as the demons realized they were sliding to their own watery deaths.
Reinman took one last look around and realized he was alone on the quarterdeck. Climbing up onto the rail, which was now almost nearly over his head as the deck was tipping, he pulled himself over just as the ship started to roll. Sheets and stays were snapping, and wood was creaking and cracking: the Royal Messenger seemed to be fighting for her every breath as the monstrous black thing that had once been a Quegan trireme sank under the waves, pulling the fastest ship in the Royal Navy under with her.
Reinman hit the water in a sailor’s dive, bending his knees as he entered the water, so he wouldn’t run the risk of a broken back. He broke the surface and without seeing who was near shouted, ‘Away from the ships!’
His crew needed no warning about being pulled under by the suction of the sinking ships and swam away as fast as they were able.
The two ships plunged below the surface, an uprush of air bubbles and debris fountaining into the air, then they were gone. Reinman paused for a moment to say a silent goodbye to a good ship.
His erstwhile second mate swam over and said, ‘Orders, Captain.’
‘Find something that floats and start making for that island.’
The tide had carried them northward during the battle and now Sorcerer’s Isle lay less than three miles away; barring problems, most of the fit men would make it, and the wounded, perhaps, with help. ‘Keep an eye out for sharks,’ said Reinman, as he started swimming toward some debris to look for makeshift flotation devices. Traditionally, many sailors refused to learn to swim, preferring a quick death by drowning than the possibility of a lingering death swimming, but Reinman had insisted that every man in his crew was a strong swimmer: he wanted no man on his ship who would choose any death under any circumstances over the chance of survival.
‘Pity about the ship,’ said Mr Baintree.
‘They’ll build me another. And she’ll be better,’ he added, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Did those magicians and their companions get off safely?’
‘Lost track of them during the fighting,’ said the new first mate.
‘Well, let’s get these lads to dry land.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Mr Baintree.
A scattering of figures could be seen flying towards them, men and women in robes. ‘I have no idea,’ said Reinman with some fear, knowing full well that his men were helpless in the water and resistance to any attack was futile.
But rather than attack, the flyers split up and swooped down. A young girl with brown hair stopped to hover over the captain. She shouted down, ‘If you gather with others, we can get you to shore quickly!’
Reinman glanced at the wide-eyed first mate and then shouted back up. ‘We’ll swim to that wreckage!’
She nodded and Mr Baintree said, ‘Sink me! Now I’ve seen it all.’
Silently agreeing, Captain Jason Reinman, finest captain in the Royal Navy, started swimming toward a floating spar where half a dozen men already had gathered.
Donal said, ‘We’ll get them to shore and look for other survivors for a while. No one will be left behind.’ The young magician had taken charge of rescuing the crew of the Royal Messenger and the slaves escaping from the sunken trireme while Ruffio recovered from exhaustion.
Brendan nodded. From the castle the sight of the two ships going under had been daunting. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be on the decks as the vessels went down. He, Sandreena, and Amirantha stood beside Ruffio, who was now conscious, but weakened and slightly disoriented. He sat in a chair in Pug’s study, sipping at a tea another student had concocted which seemed to be revitalizing him quickly. He blinked a few times and took a deep breath, his eyes clearing. He smiled at the three and said, ‘Everyone all right?’
Amirantha smiled. ‘Barely, but yes.’
‘What was all of that?’ Brendan asked Ruffio.
Ruffio said, ‘In all of our dealings with the Pantathians, their plots and schemes over the centuries, much of what we’ve seen looks to be madness, yet their actions always have purpose. We’ve had rumours of the Dread; Pug has mentioned them in the past, but one hasn’t been seen on this world in over a century.’ Ruffio seemed at a loss what to think. Finally he said, ‘Whatever the cause, if in league with the Dread or in thrall to them, the Pantathians wanted this island locked down by storms.’
Sandreena said, ‘They didn’t want you going anywhere.’
‘E’bar,’ said Brendan. ‘They didn’t want you sending help to E’bar.’
‘Which is what I will do the moment we sort out this mess here.’
Sandreena said, ‘Had you sent magicians alone, they wouldn’t have survived, just as Reinman’s crew alone would have fallen before the demons.’
‘We got lucky,’ said Amirantha. ‘Still, it was a close thing.’
Ruffio nodded and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you,’ he said to the other three. ‘If so many things hadn’t come together in the proper fashion, we’d be still trying to wait out the storm, or we’d be lying dead in the bottom of that trireme.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, ‘I just sent a message to one of the
students to fetch Calis and Arkan. If we are going to discuss E’bar, it concerns them as much as anyone else on this island.’ He turned his attention to Brendan and said, ‘You’ve done all you came to do. I can arrange to have you in Krondor in minutes, if you wish to find your brothers.’
Brendan shook off his overwhelming desire to just fall to the floor and sleep. He suspected the damage done by the Dread might linger, but as long as he could keep his wits, he would not give in. He considered only for a moment. ‘That would be welcome. I need to be with my brothers, and that means getting to Prince Edward’s camp on the Fields of Albalyn. From Krondor I can get there by horse in less than three weeks. If you can get me closer than Krondor, that would be better.’
‘We’ll leave before supper,’ said Ruffio. ‘I’m the only one who can actually get us both into the palace and once there, a horse will be no problem.’
Brendan thanked him, then said to Amirantha and Sandreena, ‘It was an honour.’
They acknowledged his praise and watched as he left the study. Glancing at Ruffio, Amirantha said, ‘He’s a very special young man.’
‘His entire family are special,’ said Ruffio. ‘The Conclave has watched that branch of the conDoin family for years now. If we survive the coming battle, we’ll need them to rebuild the Kingdom.’
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN •
Silden
JIM DASHER DIVED FOR COVER.
He had expected the explosion of rock and gravel, and the cloud of mortar dust as a massive boulder crashed into the wall behind which he was standing, just not at that exact moment. He had been on the wall next to the Knight-Marshal of Silden, Geoffrey du Gale, acting commander of the city in the absence of the Duke of Silden, who was currently with Prince Edward.
Jim had come to Silden by swift horse from Bas-Tyra, after conferring with the duke on behalf of Prince Edward and Duke James. Jim’s grandfather was recovering, and what little energy he possessed was being directed at keeping Earl Montgomery of Rillanon from doing something stupid, and keeping Prince Oliver of Maladon and Simrick squatting on the fields north of the king’s palace in Rillanon until it was to Edward’s advantage for Oliver to come to the Fields of Albalyn.
So once again Jim Dasher was scurrying around the Kingdom, doing his grandfather’s bidding, which lately seemed to require him to travel quickly to very dangerous places he did not have magic access to. He could leave Silden at will, but his duty required him to see this city defended long enough to frustrate Oliver’s plans.
Jim picked himself up off the stones of the palisade and peered between two merlons on the wall. ‘That was to get our attention,’ he said.
Geoffrey looked up from his hands and knees and said, ‘He has it.’
The young soldier had been adjutant to the old knight-marshal of the city and had been promoted on the old man’s death. Jim liked him. He was smart and confident, but not arrogant or certain he was always right, and he listened. He also followed orders without asking unnecessary questions, but asked the necessary ones.
What impressed Jim most was that he was the duke’s nephew: Jim had expected him to be the product of the usual blind nepotism, rather than ability, and was pleasantly surprised to discover the young man deserved his office. His family owned working properties where Geoffrey had been put to work as a boy: he had grown up to be a nobleman unafraid to get his hands dirty. ‘What now?’ he asked Jim.
Jim grinned. ‘You know as well as I do.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, standing up. ‘But if you say it and we’re wrong, I’m not the one who looks stupid.’
Jim shook his head and smiled. They both looked to the distant hill where the crew manning the trebuchet was reloading the bucket and cranking it down. ‘I hope that was a lucky shot,’ said Jim. ‘Because if they can actually hit what they’re aiming at, we have a far more serious problem than we thought.’
‘We have one task,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and we shall achieve it.’
‘Here comes the messenger.’
A herald in the livery of Salador was accompanied by two guards, one carrying a white banner. Reaching the walls, the herald cried out, ‘I bring terms!’
Geoffrey looked at Jim, who nodded, and stepped forward to present himself to the view of the herald, while Jim hung back out of sight. ‘Terms?’ he shouted down. ‘The only terms that are acceptable are for your master to cease this unlawful assault on my sovereign lord’s city, and get himself hence to his own lands without further ado. Moreover, your master should stop committing further base felonies against the lands, chattel, and people of Silden, for which he must answer to His Highness, Prince Edward of Krondor.’
‘That should do it,’ said Jim.
‘My lord Arthur, Duke of Salador, does act as bade by our lawful master, King Oliver. Open the gates and no one shall be harmed, nor shall booty be taken, nor property seized or ravished. All lawful commerce may recommence, and as long as the peace is kept, no retribution shall be taken.’
‘Retribution for what?’ muttered Jim. ‘Not opening the gates before they got here?’
‘Resist,’ continued the herald, ‘and no man, woman, or child shall be spared the sword. Every building shall be sacked, and all goods confiscated.’
‘Nasty,’ said Jim. ‘Sounds like a Keshian Dog Soldier general.’
‘I know that’s for the benefit of those soldiers on the wall who can hear him. He sacks Silden and Oliver will hang him.’ Geoffrey hiked his thumb over his shoulder to the men on the palisades and added, ‘But they don’t know that.’
‘Time to give him an answer,’ suggested Jim.
Shouting, Geoffrey replied, ‘We shall not yield!’ He turned to a raised platform on top of the barbican over the main gate of the city and shouted, ‘Loose!’
A huge trebuchet hidden from view behind and to the right of the gate unleashed a massive rock which sped overhead and crashed into a line of Salador soldiers within ten yards of the duke’s pavilion.
‘Nice,’ said Jim. ‘That will buy you an hour as Arthur moves his personal residence farther behind the lines.’ He glanced at the sky. It was perhaps half an hour after sunrise. ‘Expect the full attack before noon.’
‘I agree,’ said Geoffrey. ‘How long before we will be relieved?’
‘I wish I could guarantee a time,’ answered Jim, ‘but there are other parts to this that need to be in place and I have no control over the time. But if everything goes according to plan, expect a ship flying a huge green banner sailing into sight within two weeks. Can you hold?’
Geoffrey smiled. ‘If they’re not very good, we can hold for two weeks, maybe longer.’
‘Salador hasn’t endured a war on its doorstep in two generations. Arthur has never fought in a battle, let alone supervised one. And the gods watch over fools.’ He put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘Two weeks, and with the gods’ blessing, not one hour more,’ said Jim. Then he hurried from the ramparts. As far as Geoffrey knew, Jim Dasher was the Crown’s agent, on his way to mount a fast horse to Bas-Tyra. But Jim planned on travelling much faster than that.
Once he was out of sight, Jim took out the Tsurani travel orb Ruffio had given him and toggled it. He was instantly inside his own quarters in the palace at Rillanon, and moved to the door.
Sentries had been posted outside, and they came to attention. ‘I need you no longer,’ he said. ‘Dismissed.’ They saluted and moved smartly down the hallway. He had stationed pairs of guards on four-hour rotations, instructed to let no one disturb him except for his grandfather – who wouldn’t – two days before. He hadn’t been in the room, but none of the guards who had stood post knew that.
Jim hurried to his grandfather’s quarters to let him know that the siege of Silden had commenced. He had a plan, one that if successful could keep the Kingdom of the Isles from tearing itself apart. Jim was no idealist, and by no means viewed his nation as any sort of paragon of human governance, but he knew it was the best this world had ever seen. And he
would die before he would see the Kingdom of the Isles reduced to a nest of petty monarchies like those in the Eastern Kingdoms.
There were two great powers for progress on Midkemia, in Jim’s mind: Roldem, which had raised the arts to the level of honours previously reserved for rich nobility. The other was the Isles, where the rights of the common man were held as unquestioned.
Yes, those rights were often abused or ignored, but in no other nation did a commoner have the legal right to petition the king. It was a fragile concept, this Great Freedom, as it was called, this idea that no matter what their station in life, each person had a basic right to personal freedom, but it was unique to the Kingdom of the Isles, and it was something for which Jim Dasher Jamison would risk his life on a near-daily basis.
Jim reached his grandfather’s quarters and looked enquiringly at the guard on the door. ‘He’s awake, sir,’ said the guard.
Jim knocked once, and when he heard his grandfather’s voice, entered. The old duke looked his age and more. He was pale and thinner than Jim ever remembered seeing him. Like every grown man and woman with elderly parents and grandparents, Jim knew he would eventually see them die – and Jim was no stranger to death, often as a result of his own direct action – but the reality of seeing the most powerful and unswerving man he’d ever known reduced to a pale echo of himself had struck Jim hard.
‘What news?’ said his grandfather without preamble.
‘Salador is assaulting Silden, even as we speak, or will be as soon as Arthur moves his pavilion a little further out of range of the trebuchet Geoffrey sneaked in behind the gates of the city.’
‘Geoffrey?’
‘Du Gale, Duke Reginald of Silden’s nephew.’
‘Ah, that Geoffrey. For a moment I was concerned it was Geoffrey, Baron Montcorbier – that man’s an idiot. I know du Gale. Smart lad. Has a future.’ He pushed himself away from his desk with a sigh. ‘Assuming any of us has a future.’
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