Sons of Plague

by Kade Derricks

  “Then why resettle the farms?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what father would do if he were here.” Cagle sighed as he said it. She was right. If he cared about nothing more than accomplishing his mission, there was little reason to resettle the farmlands. But he owed these people something. “Father said to pay for any food we take...if we can.”

  “I’d say ending this feud and retaking the farms would more than pay for the use of their ports and the grain we took.” Olinia said.

  “I took it. I made the decision and it was mine alone,” Cagle said. He felt himself growing angry. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cups. How many had he condemned to death for it?

  “No, baby brother, we are in this together,” Olinia said, approaching his side. “We all are. No matter what happens.” She hugged him then, and he hadn’t realized how much he needed it until her arms were around him.

  A week later the army departed. They journeyed through rolling hills and streams and thin forests. The travel was slow. Though wildlife was abundant, the land remained empty. No farms, no little villages, no settlements of any kind. Nothing.

  Cagle rode alone. He’d found a new horse in Crow’s Bay. At first, the emptiness—the silence—was welcome. Over the miles, though, it took on a haunted feeling. In the distance away from the road he could see the wreckage of abandoned farms.

  Once they passed through an empty village. The place didn’t even have a name, or not a name anyone remembered, anyway. Cagle wandered into the crumbling blacksmith’s shop. Whoever these people had been, they’d left in a hurry. Bits and pieces of half-finished projects lay scattered about. Even the smith’s tools had been abandoned. He hefted one of the heavy hammers. What would cause a man to give up the tools of his trade? His very livelihood?

  Reeve and his men kept in front of them, leapfrogging ahead, and each evening when the soldiers caught up they’d find a camp and a hot meal waiting for them. Several men among the hunters were excellent cooks, and Cagle grew to look forward to the end of the day.

  On the fifth evening, Reeve and all his hunters waited for them.

  “We are watched,” Reeve said when Cagle arrived. He pointed to a thick copse of alder trees on a hill almost a mile ahead. “Scouting parties. We spotted them this morning.”

  “From Washougle?” Cagle asked.

  “Some are,” Reeve answered. “There are two groups. The larger is closer. They are not so skilled, and we caught one. He told us they were from Washougle.”

  “Where is he now?”

  Reeve eyed one of his hunters, a man Cagle recognized as being from Crow’s Bay. “He was...wounded during his capture. We buried him in the woods.”

  “I need you to control your men, Reeve. I won’t allow men to be tortured, even enemies,” Cagle said, trying to control his rising temper.

  “I understand,” Reeve said. Breaking off eye contact, he studied the ground.

  “You said there were two groups.”

  “The second is smaller. More of the men with the symbols.”

  The Voice of Iridia. Where are they coming from?

  “There’s more,” Reeve said.

  “More?”

  “The bulk of Washougle’s army is ahead of us. They’ve fortified a hill a few miles down the road. You’ll see it by tomorrow.”

  “Fortified? How could they know we were coming?”

  Reeve shrugged. “They’ve raised a ring of stakes and berms to break our formations if we charge up the hill. There’s even an observation post on top.”

  Never fight on the enemy’s ground. That was the first lesson Cagle had learned of war, and he’d taken it to heart. Ask the Fleure what happened if they fought on his ground. What sort of traps had Washougle’s army prepared for him?

  It didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to walk into them. There were other ways to dislodge an enemy.

  Ragnall Niall sat at the end of a long table. The wood was warm and lightly stained, sanded to a fine grain. Pecan or oak, he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. His gaze drifted out over Monport’s harbor. The day was clear and blue, with only a fine lace of clouds high overhead, and the sea air smelled of strong salt. Gulls drifted over the ships rocking gently at anchor crying out for food, soaring on the clean ocean breeze. One dove for an opened barrel of fish and a sailor swung a gaff to shoo him away.

  Even the birds are starving, Ragnall thought. Soon we’ll be eating them as well.

  A week ago, Ragnall had reserved this section of the docks for today’s purpose. He had a squad of his personal guards stationed at the entry to keep the uninvited away.

  The rest of the docks were busy. The waters off Monport were famous for their rich fisheries of herring, cod, blue snapper, and even hook salmon. Many of Kartha’s converted warships were here to harvest what they could. Ragnall wished them luck. The lives of his people depended on them.

  Ragnall took a breath—what a perfect day—then turned his attention back to the task at hand. Seated with him were just over a hundred people. Men and women of all occupations; some were Senators, some were former sea Captains, some were the leaders or councilors of lowland cities, some ran businesses of various kinds and sizes. All were his friends, his compatriots, and despite their occasional squabbles and rivalries, all were trustworthy.

  He stood and cleared his throat. Every eye turned to him.

  “Friends, I thank you all for coming,” Ragnall started. “I apologize for our meager meal, but you all know why that is. Just as our people suffer, so must we. We gather at a delicate time in our history. I need not tell you how desperate our situation is. Not since we untied Kartha have we been in such dire straits.”

  He paused, and then moved to the table’s empty head.

  “As you all know by now, my son, Cagle, along with many of your own sons, has been sent into Iridia. Their mission is to find and send to us enough food to last out the winter. King Xur himself blessed their efforts. But as I said, all of you know this already.”

  Ragnall drifted down the table, pacing slow, hands clasped behind his back. Marlus sat near the center, and he stopped to put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. He would need his friend’s great strength in the days ahead. They would all need each other’s strength.

  “At first, the king wanted the food sent to the capital, where he could distribute it. The senate agreed. Some of you were there. But I met with him afterward and I convinced the king that the food would be better managed if we lowlanders did it ourselves. The plague is a lowland problem, the army is made up of lowland soldiers, and we should manage our own food crisis. Who better?”

  Many around the table nodded their agreement. They knew, as he did, that if that food was unloaded anywhere near LaBrogue, less than half of it would ever see the lowlands. After the great storm in the north, the capital would feed itself first and worry about the starving lowlands afterward.

  “Where is Cagle sending the food, then?” Marlus asked.

  “Right here.” Ragnall nodded to Halcion, the leader of the city. “Monport is central to the lowlands and has both a deepwater port and good roads to the other cities. We will unload the ships here.”

  “How will we distribute it?” Jales asked.

  Ragnall wished the younger senator’s daughter, Nuren, had been at the gathering; she seemed to have a calming effect on her father. Jales had her away on some task in LaBrogue, though.

  More than that, I must speak with her regarding Cagle’s wish for marriage. Ragnall sighed. So much to do and nowhere near enough time. Alanda, I wish you were here.

  His wife would have known exactly how to handle Nuren and Cagle.

  Clearing his throat, Ragnall began again. “The food will be allocated evenly by population. Those of you representing larger cities will get
more to feed your people. When the ships arrive, we will divide everything up at the port. Messengers from Halcion will let you know when it’s ready for shipment, and you will send caravans for your shares.”

  “What about bandits? There are desperate men in the fens and wildwoods. We’ve had several outlying farms robbed.” It was Prenton who spoke, the Councilor from Ventag, the most southern and remote town on the lowland peninsula.

  “You will send armed troops with the caravans. The army, those that remain in the lowlands, will be tasked with guarding the food and delivering it to those in need,” Ragnall said.

  “They are soldiers, not traders,” Jales protested.

  “That is correct. They are soldiers, and make no mistake, we are at war.” Ragnall’s voice rose. He let his anger flow into it. “Not against the Fleure, we’ve already won that battle, but against plague and famine and starvation. We are fighting to preserve our way of life. This is a war we cannot afford to lose.”

  After his speech, the gathering broke up into smaller groups to discuss more specific plans. It made sense for Ventag and the Yoghens to send their wagons together as the two were close neighbors. Several other towns and villages were in a similar situation. Ragnall made his rounds through the different groups. He stopped in at each, offering advice and support as he was able. Everyone had questions, both about the food distribution and the army. He answered them as best he could and then moved on to the next.

  Between groups, Jales caught up with him.

  “I was in the north last week,” the young senator began. “Falwood, in fact. I noticed our northern brethren were having little luck with their fishing.”

  Ragnall nodded curtly. “I’ve seen the reports from Silren. They are struggling.” He tried and failed to keep the irritation out of his voice. He didn’t care for the brash senator; he would have preferred if the district had elected someone older, wiser. They needed cool heads in the days ahead.

  “There were only two boats out when I was there,” Jales said in a low tone.

  “Two? The third fleet is based out of Falwood; all of the warships should be converted to fishing vessels by now,” Ragnall said. “This should have been finished weeks ago.”

  Jales leaned close and spoke again. “The dreadnoughts weren’t even there, and I saw only a pair of galleons.”

  “Ahh, there’s the man of the hour,” Marlus interrupted them. “Has this young pup been filling your head with conspiracies?”

  “No, I’ve been telling him what I saw,” Jales said, reddening.

  “Two days ago, he tried telling me the north wasn’t converting their warships.” Marlus gave Ragnall a sly wink. “Then I heard the fishing was poor in Falwood, so they moved them north to Restlain where they were having more luck.”

  “That would make sense,” Ragnall nodded. “But it’s odd that Silren didn’t mention it.”

  “Neither did Tresam,” Jales added.

  “Bah, Tresam is a bastard. He doesn’t want us knowing what he’s doing. Probably skimming off a few fish for himself is all. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll choke to death on one,” Marlus said. “If that no-good scoundrel were here I’d give him a solid thrashing.” He held up a meaty fist. “Creator only knows he needs it.”

  “But why—” Jales began.

  “Who knows why that snake Tresam does anything,” Marlus interrupted. “But come now, Jales, I’ll let you buy me a drink. I know a fine little tavern just a few blocks from here. We’ll leave Ragnall to his books and figures and politics.” Marlus clapped the younger man on the arm and led him away.

  Ragnall breathed a sigh of relief when they’d gone. He owed Marlus for sparing him from Jales and his conspiracies.

  No doubt I’ll end up buying him a few rounds later. Well worth it.

  After Jales and Marlus left and most of the others drifted away, Vlan’s father, Draka, and Hanf, who led the dwarves, approached him.

  “Have you heard from the army?” Draka boomed.

  Ragnall shook his head. “Nothing of late. Cagle sent me a message when he entered the pass over the Jandas and I’ve heard nothing since. Everything will be snowed shut now, though, and no word will get through.”

  “Those mountains are dangerous,” Hanf said. He tugged at his long brown beard. “Long ago, we thought of settling near them, but the stone was treacherous and full of thin faults, like a cracked plate. Sinking a shaft anywhere near the Jandas would be suicide.”

  “Well, they aren’t digging for food. They only have to cross them,” Ragnall said. He looked at Draka. “Are you having any dreams of them?”

  “Alas, no.” the Yoghen grinned. “I’m surprised you know about that. Few outsiders do.”

  “I didn’t, but Cagle told me before he departed. He said it’s rare, but occasionally a Yog will share the dreams of their mage. He’d hoped that would be the case between you and Meagera.” By the startled look on Hanf’s face, the dwarf hadn’t known, either.

  “It does not appear so,” Draka said. “But that could change. Typically, it works when the mage feels strong emotion, but it’s never been tested at this range before. It may simply be that the distance is too great.”

  “Pity,” Ragnall said. He pinched his lips between his fingers. “If that changes, will you let me know?”

  Draka smiled. “Of course.”

  Ragnall had never spent much time with the Yoghens. Until the fever affected them they lived very much apart from the human settlers. His son, though, both knew and respected them. Olinia too seemed to like them, though she’d had less exposure than Cagle.

  “How is your new mage working out?” Ragnall asked. He’d learned that Meagera—who’d gone with the army—was the mage assigned to their family, and one of the stronger spellcasters in the realm. Selaza; he thought that was the new mage’s name. She stood at the end of the pier and, as he’d asked, she’d set spell wards around the area to detect any troublesome spies. “Will the strain of keeping our little gathering silent affect you?”

  “No,” the giant rumbled in what Ragnall took for a chuckle. “She is very talented. Though she isn’t new. Selaza has served our people for many years now. We are merely sharing her talents with another family.”

  Even though Cagle had tried explaining it to him, Ragnall couldn’t begin to understand the relationship between the Yoghens and their mages. He knew that the giants treated them as the most honored of guests. But that wasn’t right, either. It was closer to the relationship between siblings. A life pact, Cagle had said. The spellcasters swore themselves to keep the fever at bay for a family, and in return, every member of the family, from the oldest down to the youngest, swore to protect and care for the spellcaster for life.

  Neither Selaza nor Meagera were young.

  Someday soon, there would be a new generation of spellcasters headed south, the third such, and while Ragnall believed in what they were doing, the lowlands couldn’t continue like this forever. Draka agreed, he knew. They had to find a more permanent cure for what ailed the Yoghens.

  A problem for another day. We’ve enough already with this famine.

  “And you, Hanf,” Ragnall said, turning to the dwarf. “Do you have some way to communicate with your distant children?”

  “No,” the dwarf said. “But I know he’s fine.”

  “How?”

  Hanf grinned. “Cause if he isn’t, his mother is going to skin me alive for letting him go.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Quiet Visitors

  Olinia led her horse into Washougle wearing her own face for a change, but disguised as a poor hunter. She’d been masquerading as one of her brother’s guards for so long now her own skin felt foreign.

  The sky was a curtain of gray and tiny drops fell—just enough to soak everything. The day was almost over and the light
was dim. Olinia wore a mix of rough wool, mostly grays or faded greens, and browned leathers. A quiver hung over her right shoulder, a few arrows rattling loose inside, and she carried a gnarled old bow. The sinew string was safely stored away from the weather in her pocket, a spare in her horse’s saddlebags. On the way here she’d camped out among the forests, hills, and grasslands. There was a range of rolling mountains all along the way, low and worn down by time. They were mottled and broken like the bony knuckles of some great gray titan.

  For the first time since leaving for this mission, she felt alive. Traveling with the army and watching Cagle’s back was all well and good—necessary, certainly—but she wanted to really see Iridia. To mingle with its people and absorb all the sights and sounds and tastes. You couldn’t do that trailing along with thousands of soldiers.

  She’d been thrilled when Cagle had asked her to ferret out the Washougle’s secrets. In an odd way—surrounded by enemies and slipping in and out of their midst—she was in her element now. Too bad all she had to do was see how full their granaries and warehouses were.

  Well, that’s all he asked me to do, anyway. That doesn’t mean I can’t visit with a few of the guards and see what they know.

  Surely, Cagle wouldn’t mind if she scouted out their defenses while she was here.

  “Business?” the guard said. He chewed on a wad of tobacco, leaning on the crumbling wall as if he were holding it up.

  “Trade,” Olinia responded. She held up a red fox’s pelt.

  “Move along,” the guard said without looking at her. He waved with a lazy swipe of his hand.

  Olinia entered the city, trying to take it all in without appearing to. She’d expected at least a few merchants inside the gates. There were always merchants inside the gates. She planned on selling off a few skins there to lighten her load, trading for a hot meal, and then making her way further into the city. Instead, there wasn’t so much as a single citizen to be seen. The city looked abandoned.