Shadow and Flame

by Gail Z. Martin

  With a snort, Betta kneed him gently in the crotch, just enough to make her point. “All of the brains, no breakable balls.”

  “Truce!” Folville said with a laugh. “You’re fine the way you are!”

  “What are you going to do?” Betta asked, sobering.

  Folville sighed and stepped back. “Fight. It’s what we do.”

  “Do you think it’s the pirates, in different clothes?”

  Folville cursed. “Of course. They’re coming at us, trying to see where we’re weak.”

  Betta began to pace. “They sent the pirates, and we killed them. They sent more pirates up the coast. We found them and killed them. So it worries me that they’ve tried again.”

  “Maybe they didn’t expect us to actually be organized,” Folville said thoughtfully, leaning against the battered desk. “They might have thought they’d find a wasteland—maybe even that we deserted Castle Reach. It might have thrown them that we could stop them from just walking in and taking what they wanted.”

  “Then why even try the ambassador angle?”

  Folville shrugged. “They found out we were more organized than they expected, and decided to play along. Think about it. If the Great Fire actually hit everywhere, who has ambassadors? And who’s sending out delegations? It’s a charade.”

  “You know, if you’re wrong, we’ve probably just started a war.”

  Folville shrugged. “Not worried about it. From what we’ve seen of the pirates, they’re as poor as we are. Armies are expensive. Sending them across a sea is even more expensive. And for what? If we’re lucky, they’ll get a good look at us and go home and tell everyone else we’re not worth the trip. Let us rebuild in peace.”

  Folville, Betta, and four dozen of the Curs assembled on Castle Reach’s wharf front, peering out to sea.

  “That can’t be good.” Folville shaded his eyes to see the four sailing ships on the horizon.

  “Do ambassadors come with their own fleet?” Betta asked.

  Folville’s expression was answer enough. “Not unless they mean to conquer,” he replied. “Everyone! To your stations!”

  The Curs had gone from being a well-organized street gang to being a reasonably well-trained extension of Blaine McFadden’s army. More importantly, the Curs, like the Wharf Rats, knew every squalid inch of Castle Reach, its gutters and sewers, the fetid tunnels and forgotten attics, and the long-abandoned cellars. They could move through the war-damaged city like ghosts, hidden and unseen, traveling forgotten old tunnels and squeezing through ginnels outlanders could never find.

  “I see you’ve already mobilized your people.” Traher Voss strode up, hands on his hips, a man who was used to being in charge and being obeyed. Folville lifted his head and mustered his best bravado.

  “They’re in place,” Folville said. “No one is getting past the waterfront without going through them.”

  Voss nodded. “Good. Very good. I’ve got men up and down the coast, with most of them on that side of the harbor,” he added with a nod toward the shipworks end of the bay, the easiest beach for landing. “Considering it’s nothing but cliffs on the other side,” he added, glancing toward the sheer bluffs that rose from the sea on the left.

  “What about the catapults?” Folville asked.

  At that moment, he heard a loud, distant thunk and then, minutes later, something large and solid flew into the harbor ahead of the lead ship, sending up a huge spray of water. A few moments later, a second missile and then a third followed. The incoming ships drifted to a halt.

  “Right now, my men up there are supposed to keep those ships from landing,” Voss replied. “If there’s a hint of an aggressive move, if landing boats deploy or archers show themselves, the catapults start aiming for those masts and decks. Signal us if you see something—you’re closer to the action.”

  Folville smiled. “We’re thinking along the same lines,” he said. “Do you have talishte?”

  Voss nodded. “Not much good until nightfall, but after the sun goes down, they’ll be here. What are you going to do? This is your city.”

  “Yes, it is.” Much as Folville had decried the city’s excesses and exclusions before the Cataclysm, or bemoaned its hardship and hunger afterward, he could not imagine being anywhere else. “And those bastards are not going to set foot in it.”

  “We’ve got boats,” Betta said, her face flush with excitement, eager for a good fight. “We can tie them together and barricade the harbor.”

  Voss shook his head. “Those sailing ships will go right over you,” he said.

  Folville gave him a sidelong look. “When we dredged the harbor, we only dredged the outer section,” he said with a crafty smile. “Not the wharves. We meant to get back to it, but you know how it goes…”

  Voss raised an eyebrow. “So there are still sunken ships down there?”

  Folville nodded. “Oh yeah. Out to where the bottom drops off to really deep water, the harbor floor is lousy with the ships that sank the night of the Great Fire,” he replied. “We were going to clear the harbor in stages. But then there were the floods and the bad weather this spring, and it didn’t happen.”

  “Can you lure them in?” Voss asked. “Put your ships just inside where the wrecks are. You’re almost daring the pirates to come after you, and scuttle themselves in the process.”

  Folville grinned. “I like that. And we’ll have plenty of archers too, just in case. Plus I’ve sent the Wharf Rats up to help with the catapults. They’ll lug rocks and debris so there’ll be no shortage of heavy things to throw at them.”

  “Now, that’s a proper Castle Reach welcome,” Voss chuckled. “Keep a sharp eye out. They’ll probably send some small boats in once it gets dark. That’s what I’d do. Shoot them on sight.”

  “With pleasure,” Folville replied.

  Candlemarks later, Castle Reach harbor was under siege. Much as he hated boats, Folville saw no other course except to lead the insolent flotilla that waited in a line across the bay, staring up at the huge hulls of five enemy sailing ships.

  “Hold steady, lads,” Folville yelled above the wind. They had positioned themselves, as Voss suggested, just inside the undersea ridge of sunken ships that blocked clear entry to the wharves. If the Cross-Sea ships insisted on sailing for the docks, they would rip out their hulls on the ships’ graveyard beneath the waterline. Yet if they were to get that close, dozens—or hundreds—of men would swim for shore. Folville had no desire to fight them.

  “Watch out! They’ve got catapults of their own!” one of the boatmen yelled.

  The shipboard catapults were smaller and lighter than the massive war machines on the embankments, but they could still fire rocks heavy enough to kill a man or sink a small boat.

  “Scatter!” Folville shouted. “You’re harder to hit if you’re moving, and we’re almost too close for them to hit.”

  He eyed the ships angrily. They were likely catapulting ballast stones, which would be plentiful. He watched the trajectory as stones sailed over the small boats, smacking into the seawall and the wharf front. The line of defenders ran for cover, then pulled back out of range.

  “Looks like Voss’s men have the catapults ready,” Folville warned his boatmates. “Get ready for some waves,” he said as he waved the torch back and forth.

  Moments later, he heard the thud of a catapult and the whistle of something large flying through the air. A crash followed as the large rock smashed into the deck of the sailing ship nearest the cliffside.

  A few seconds later, the clunk came again, and a ship on the other side of the harbor lost a mast as the men in the boats with Folville cheered and hooted. A burning orb sailed through the air next, hitting the sails on the damaged boat and setting canvas and rigging alight. Even from a distance, Folville could hear the panicked shouts of sailors as they raced to contain the damage. Bits of flaming sailcloth fell like fiery rain onto the decks, and still the catapults kept up their bombardment, alternating fire and stone.
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br />   “That’s how it’s done!” Folville cheered, raising a fist to the sky in defiant triumph.

  “Go back where ye came from!” one of the men in the next boat shouted.

  “Watch out!” The cry went up too late, and before the sound died on the air, there was a crunch and screams as one of the rocks crashed through the bottom of a small boat, tossing its occupants into the water.

  Moments later, a large rock fired from the embankment catapults sheared part of the prow off the nearest ship, sending sailors screaming as the figurehead and bowsprit tore away and fell into the harbor. Folville and his companions hung on to the sides of the boat, staying low as the waves rocked them.

  In the boat next to Folville’s, a man cried out and clutched his chest, tumbling overboard with an arrow protruding from his ribs.

  “By Torven! Retreat!” Folville shouted, and the cry echoed up and down the line. Arrows zinged through the air around them like angry bees. He heard more shouts and cries of pain as the rowers put their backs into their strokes, retreating toward the shoreline and out of bow range. Folville felt a sting. He looked down to see a slice through his shirt that was red with blood and realized he had nearly taken an arrow.

  “Now what?” one of the men said.

  Folville looked up at the sun. “We let the catapults hold them off, and wait until dark. We can maneuver more then, and be harder for them to shoot.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Folville shouted to the boats on either side of him. “I’m heading to shore, but I’ll be back. The rest of you, hold the line. Their arrows can’t reach you here.” The message was repeated down the line, and Folville fidgeted until the boat made it back to the waterfront.

  “How is it?” Zeke was a Cur and one of Folville’s lieutenants.

  “Not good,” Folville replied with a curse as he waded ashore and helped to pull the boat up behind him. “They’ve got archers and small catapults. We had to fall back, and I hate doing that.”

  “Looks like the big slings on the embankment made a few hits,” Zeke said with a nod toward Voss’s catapults.

  “Yeah, but if the ships move in too close, it’ll be harder for the catapults to hit them,” Folville said.

  “They can’t get in past the wrecks, can they?” Zeke asked.

  Folville shrugged grumpily. “Wouldn’t think so, unless they’re willing to scuttle themselves, but I’m not a sailor.” He began to stride toward the far end of the docks. “Come on!”

  “Where are you going?” Zeke asked, running to catch up.

  “I’ve got an idea, for after it’s dark,” Folville replied. “I’m not about to let Voss’s men get all the credit for saving our city.”

  The harbor-crane building hunkered beside what had been the deepest berth in Castle Reach’s harbor. The roof had burned during the Great Fire, and storms had pounded the stone building during the Cataclysm, but it had been built well, and it withstood the assault.

  “What are you looking for?” Zeke asked, following Folville as he picked his way across the debris that littered the crane-building floor.

  “Those,” Folville said, pointing to two large wheels next to a huge capstan and a large windlass. The treadwheels once powered the harbor crane, so that four men at a time, two in each wheel, could supply the energy to the giant crane and unload the heaviest boxes from the cargo ships that had once crowded the bay. The treadwheels could also power a windlass, enabling the harbormaster to draw in a heavy barge or a disabled ship.

  “What are we unloading?” Zeke asked, looking utterly confused.

  “If this works, we’re going to ‘unload’ some of those pirates—right into the sea,” Folville said, determination tightening his voice. He sighed as he looked around the crane house. No one had needed the huge machine since the Great Fire, and it sat rigged as it had been on Castle Reach’s last day before the Cataclysm.

  “Go get three sturdy men and the largest harpoons you can find. They’re with the rest of the weapons, in the main camp,” Folville ordered. “Two or three harpoons if you can find them. And as much thick rope as you can carry.” He put his hands on his hips. “They want to sail into our harbor? We’ll just extend some forceful hospitality.”

  Zeke took off, and for the next candlemark, Folville worked with the heavy crane rope. He was glad that the windlass was already wound, and managed to get it connected to the treadwheels. “No idea whether that rope is rotten or not,” he muttered to himself, though the rough hemp seemed solid enough as he handled it, and the upper floor of the building had shielded the rope and the mechanism from the weather once part of the roof was gone.

  “Got them!” Zeke announced as he returned. Three of the biggest Curs accompanied him, men who actually made Zeke, with his thick neck and powerful arms, look average by comparison. They carried wicked-looking harpoons with sharp steel points, and coils of heavy rope.

  “Good, good,” Folville said. “Bring everything over here. We’ve got work to do.”

  Two candlemarks later, Folville’s bastardized machine was ready, and he left Zeke in charge with orders while he returned to the flotilla. Torches lit the waterfront and dotted the shore on either side of the bay, the better to ensure that enemy landing boats did not come ashore in the dark. Voss’s men kept up their bombardment from the embankment, interspersing the debris they hurled with weighted, flaming balls that quickly set one of the invading ships aflame.

  The enemy ships were in the middle of the harbor. They had not moved forward far enough to be scuttled on the wrecks, and positioned in the center of the harbor, they were a difficult shot for the catapults, whose missiles hit only once out of every third shot.

  “You are completely crazy,” Betta said as Folville gathered two of the small boats and their crews together.

  “So they say,” Folville replied. “And the rope may break. The windlass might fall apart. On the other hand, it’s our fastest way to wreck one of their ships—maybe more.”

  The nearest ship, the Gull, was the likely target, and to Folville’s glee, it was also the smallest of the five. Flaming missiles from the embankment catapults had already reduced its sails to soot-streaked rags, meaning it could not use the wind to pull against the towrope. The ship had a relatively small catapult, and Folville and his accomplices took a zigzag course to avoid the rocks that crashed into the water, staying well into the shadows of the ship and out of the moonlight to avoid being targeted.

  “Throw it!” Folville ordered. A brawny man with the practiced aim of a whaler hefted the harpoon confidently and heaved it with his full might at the hull of the Cross-Sea ship, lodging not far above the waterline.

  “Get us out of here,” Folville hissed, and the oarsmen began to move them silently back toward the flotilla behind the tangle of wrecks on the harbor floor, carefully letting out the rope that was attached to the harpoon. Once they were safely out of archer range, Folville lit a small torch and held it up, the signal to Zeke and the men in the crane building.

  The harbor windlass gave a mighty groan as the old gears creaked into motion. As Folville watched, the heavy rope gradually grew taut, rising to the surface and then above it as the windlass created an inexorable pull.

  “Fall back!” Folville shouted, and the flotilla withdrew to a safe distance, as the rope strained against its burden.

  “Either it’s going to tear a hole in that hull, or we’re going to drag that ship right into the wrecks,” one of Folville’s companions muttered.

  “That’s the idea,” he replied.

  The catapults on the embankment thundered again, and this time, one of their large rocks smashed down through the decks of an enemy ship, toppling a mast and raising screams and cries of alarm from the sailors on deck. Folville’s crews cheered and hooted, yelling insults and catcalling.

  In response, the Gull’s shipboard catapults sent another volley toward the flotilla, falling short and raising a large splash as the rocks hit the water. Folville grinned as the shouted taunts
from his crews grew bawdier.

  “It’s working!” The shout brought Folville’s attention back to the winch line. Folville grinned as he watched the tight line strain. Caught like an injured whale, the Gull was being slowly pulled toward shore—and to the man-made shoals of wrecked hulls and broken masts beneath the water.

  “Stay out of their range!” he shouted to warn the others, though the archers aboard the Gull appeared too distracted by their ship’s mysterious trajectory to take careful aim. Even at a distance, Folville could hear the Gull’s captain shouting orders, trying to regain control of his panicked crew.

  With a hideous crash, the Gull’s keel collided with the ships’ graveyard beneath the waters. Dragged on by the harbor windlass, the doomed ship continued forward, shuddering as sunken debris tore at its hull. The Gull was clearly being towed, all pretense of sailing under its own power dispelled. From what Folville could see, the crew was making every effort to stop the forward motion, even as the ship suddenly came to an abrupt halt, with a jerk that toppled men out of the rigging.

  The harbor winch did not care that the Gull had become hopelessly snagged on the broken ships beneath the waves. The heavy rope stayed taut, continuing to pull. Folville heard a cracking like ice after the winter thaw, then a thunderous boom, and the rope went suddenly slack, pulling with it a chunk of broken planking. The Gull listed, taking on water fast through the hole in its hull.

  Another cheer went up from Folville’s crew, but there was little time to celebrate. “Look! They’re dropping boats!” one of the men down the line yelled. Folville squinted, trying to see in the darkness. Behind them, torches lit the waterfront and Castle Reach residents waited with whatever weapons they could find to ‘greet’ the attackers. Out on the water, with their backs to the torchlight, it was dark, lit only by moon and stars.

  The second closest ship, its sails afire, was indeed lowering launch craft into the water.

  “No one gets past!” Folville shouted. His belly was a hard knot. “Don’t let those bastards get to shore!”