As Folville turned, he thought he saw a glimmer of light halfway up the cliffs on the right-hand side of the harbor. When he looked again, the light was gone, and he shook his head, wondering whether his eyes had played a trick on him. “Row them down!” Folville shouted as his oarsmen began to row in earnest toward the incoming small ships. “Capsize them! Use your oars. They won’t take our city from us!”
Folville had often heard it said that most sailors could not swim. He wondered if it were true. Every fisherman he had known could swim, and he bet that was true of the men and women in the flotilla. “Send them to the fishes!” he shouted, and his oarsmen put on a burst of speed, coming at one of the incoming small boats amidships, ramming it with their metal-plated prow.
The soldiers in the enemy boats had swords. Folville’s men had oars, which were twice as long. Folville grabbed one of the oars, swatting a blade out of a startled soldier’s hand and then shoving him hard in the chest, knocking him into the dark water and bringing the oar down with a crunch on the man’s head when he surfaced.
Folville’s boat rocked dangerously, splashing him with spray, but he could not resist a triumphant cry as he brought the edge of the oar down on another enemy soldier’s skull, splitting it like a ripe melon. Most of the soldiers tried to duck or flatten themselves to avoid the blows. A few dove overboard, only to be clubbed as they bobbed to the surface. Some tried to grab the oars away from their attackers, only to be shoved backward, out of the boat and into the water.
“That’s the way!” one of Folville’s men cheered, and soon up and down the harbor, the flotilla boats took after the incoming landing craft, capsizing the invaders, beating at their crews with heavy oars or getting in well-placed bowshots from close range.
“What’s that?” As Folville’s boat drew back from the overturned, empty craft they had just fought, Folville could hear the distant clank of heavy chains. Corpses floated on the surface all around them, and the light from the burning ships cast the entire scene in nightmare shades of fire and shadow.
“Can’t tell,” a man from the nearest boat called back. “But look! Something’s up there, and it’s coming after the sailors!” he said, pointing to the dark sky.
Folville looked up, still puzzling over the clanking noise, and saw shadow figures diving through the air, silhouetted against the burning sails. One of the figures snatched up a screaming sailor from the deck of the ship and carried him aloft like a giant bird of prey. To the shouts and screams of the men on deck, the figure held out their shipmate with one outstretched hand. He reached out with the other hand and tore the head from the man’s shoulders, sending a bloody shower onto the deck before he casually tossed the headless corpse among the sailor’s screaming comrades.
The boat rocked violently beneath Folville’s feet, and he heard a ghastly, shuddering breath, then one sodden arm swung over the side and a wild-eyed, half-drowned enemy sailor tried to haul himself in.
His weight made the boat lurch to one side, throwing one of Folville’s men into the water. Folville butted the pole end of his oar into the enemy sailor’s forehead, knocking him backward but not unconscious. The man flailed and kicked, grabbing on to Folville’s crewman, who was desperately trying to get back to his shipmates.
The two men were too far away for Folville and the others to intervene, and there was no way to pull their mate into the boat without dragging the panicked enemy sailor as well. The two men fought like mad dogs, with Folville’s man tearing at his attacker’s hair, clothing, and skin, trying to free himself, even as the sailor clung with panic borne of imminent death. A wave swamped the two men, and then another, and when the water fell again, they were gone.
“Sweet Charrot!” The cry made Folville turn to see one of Voss’s talishte hovering in the air just above the surface of the choppy waves. Several of the men in his boat shrank away in horror, but Folville grinned.
“Damn, I wish I could fly!” Folville said. It did not escape his notice that the talishte was bloodied to the elbows, and that his dark clothing was wet with blood.
“I’m to tell you that someone has raised the boom chain from the cliffs,” the talishte said. “And the metal net beneath it. The ships are trapped in the harbor. Voss expects more men by sunrise.” With that, he vanished, moving too quickly for Folville to see where he had gone.
“Over here!” Folville had barely processed the talishte’s news before he heard Betta shouting for him. He turned to see pairs of the small fishing boats, so common in Castle Reach’s harbor, sitting in a line from one side of the bay to the other.
“Pull your men back,” Betta shouted. “We’re stretching fishing nets across the water. No one’s going to swim through them! And that big thing the king built last year, over on the cliffs? It’s a sea net. Damned thing actually works. The ships can’t go anywhere, and Voss’s men are pounding them to the waterline.”
“So I heard,” Folville said. “Everyone! Head for shore. The fishermen will take it from here!”
Cheering and singing, shouting insults at the stranded enemy ships, Folville and his flotilla rowed for shore. When they reached the wharves, he saw that Zeke and the men from the harbor crane had already strung up the chunk of broken hull, still attached to the harpoon and rope, as if it were a prize catch. Shouts and cheers greeted the returning boatmen, as women and children ran up and down the dockside, looking for returning loved ones.
Folville glanced down the line of boats. At least thirty such craft had gone out with him. Only nineteen returned. Those who did not find their family members among the survivors fell to their knees, keening in sorrow. A few bedraggled men and women who had fallen overboard and managed to swim back to shore were bundled in cloaks near the bonfires that dotted the beach. Folville knew that they were the lucky ones, and that the arrows and catapults had claimed the rest.
“Your crazy idea actually worked!” Zeke exulted, bounding up to slap Folville on the shoulder.
“I felt like a donkey in a gristmill,” one of the other men who had walked the treadwheel said, “but damn, it worked!”
“Good work,” Folville said, clapping Zeke on the back. “If the trading ships ever come back, you’ve got a job!”
Folville walked down the crowded harbor front. A small group of mourners were gathered at the edge of the dock, praying to Torven, master of the Sea of Souls, for the safe passage of their loved ones to the eternal resting place. Others paced the water’s edge, shouting for friends and family who had not returned with the others, refusing to give up hope that they might yet wash up unharmed or float back with the debris that had already begun to choke the berths. A few pious souls sang praises to Charrot, Esthrane, and Torven around a small bonfire. Most were gathered in groups of two or three, gesturing toward the ships in the harbor, and recounting what they had seen.
Amid the chaos, his attention strayed to the spectacle of eight men in unfamiliar uniforms who were bound and kneeling, jeered and prodded by the crowd. “Where did they come from?” Folville asked as Dakker, another of the Curs, hurried past.
“They managed to get one of their boats to shore, on the far edge of the docks,” Dakker replied. “Barely landed before we nabbed them.”
Folville walked up to the prisoners. “What was your plan?” he asked. When no one spoke, he clucked his tongue. “Hardly worth it to keep a secret now, don’t you think? Your fleet has burned and sunk. You’re the only ones who made it to shore. At least dazzle us with your brilliant plan, so we’re all duly impressed.”
The men regarded Folville balefully, but one of them lifted his head with defiance. “They told us the harbor would be undefended, and if they found otherwise or if the negotiations were successful, they’d send us a signal,” he said bitterly. “They said we could just sail in and take what we wanted, that you were all either dead or had run away long ago. This was supposed to be an easy run.”
Folville shook his head. “Someone gave you very bad information,” he replied.
“Are there more ships coming?”
The speaker shrugged. “Maybe. Not for a while. I’d heard they were going to wait to see what we brought back.”
“Going to be a long wait,” Folville replied. “You know how this has to end.”
The speaker gave a short nod. “Since we’ve failed miserably, can you at least make it quick?”
Folville felt a stab of pity. He knew little of war personally, but his entire life had been a fight. Can’t win all the time. Just have to hope the times you lose aren’t fatal. These fellows got the short straw.
“What do you want done with them?” Zeke asked.
Folville looked out across the harbor. Smoke hung heavy in the air. Two of the ships were burning, one nearly down to the waterline. From what he could see at a distance, the catapults had broken the masts on a third, and scuttled a fourth. The last ship, hemmed in between the wrecks and the boom chain, had no hope of escape. The fishermen’s blockade with its nets stretching across the bay remained in place, ensuring that no boats or swimmers from the enemy ships would get through. If there had been soldiers in the holds of the other ships, they were lost to the sea now. The battle for Castle Reach Harbor was over except for the mopping up.
“Hang them off the arm of the crane,” Folville replied. “We’ve got too damn many corpses in the harbor already.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
YOU SURVIVED.” PENTREATH REESE’S VOICE WAS a raw whisper, but for the first time since he had been rescued from the oubliette beneath Onyx’s manor, he was conscious and lucid.
“In a manner of speaking,” Pollard replied. “Your suffering was visited on me every moment of the day since your capture. And I endured it without the benefit of being talishte.”
Reese gave a gravelly chuckle, a sound that made Pollard think of a corpse expelling the last breath in its lungs. “Good,” he wheezed. “Very good.”
Pollard shoved down the white-hot anger and kept his face carefully neutral. “You’re gaining strength,” he observed.
“Liar,” Reese shot back. “I am a shadow of myself. It will take time,” he added, and despite the frailty of Reese’s voice, Pollard could hear steel beneath it.
“You wished to see me?” Pollard prompted, having found that efficiency provided an excellent protective screen to reduce the amount of time he spent in the company of his master, and helped him to keep revulsion out of his reaction.
“Yes.” Reese spoke slowly and sibilantly, drawing the word out like a snake’s warning hiss. “I must have richer food if I am to heal. I require you to find it for me.”
Pollard frowned. “We’ve brought you nearly one hundred mortals,” he said. “Almost all sturdy young men and women, very few old or sick.”
“Not good enough,” Reese snapped.
“What do you require?” Pollard replied in the bland voice courtiers used to mask annoyance. I’ll be damned if I’ll add ‘m’lord,’ no matter what he thinks he’s entitled to, Pollard thought.
“Bring me ones full of life,” Reese demanded. “Pregnant women. Women at their moontime. Girl-children just at the cusp of maidenhood. Young men who have not lain with a woman. Bring them to me. Their blood is rich.”
Pollard thought he was long past disgust for his master, only to find that Reese had exceeded his low expectations once again. “Of course,” he said. “But such requirements may take a bit more time.”
“Get them!” Reese’s voice was a harsh rattle, and his emaciated frame shook with the effort of his shout. Even in his current condition, Pollard knew Reese could snap him like a twig.
Pollard inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Shall we continue to bring you less perfect food as well? The patrols have rounded up another twenty captives.”
“I will make do… until you supply me,” Reese growled. “Send them to me. I hunger.”
“As you wish,” Pollard replied, with just enough edge to his voice to let Reese understand that Pollard was more than servant. At least, that’s what I tell myself, Pollard thought. On the other hand, he could count himself lucky that for the moment, both Garin and Thrane were not present. I should be thankful for small favors.
He left Reese’s underground convalescent chambers restraining his urge to run. Nilo was waiting for him outside the front door, and they walked down the front steps in silence, not speaking until they were in the remnants of what had once been Solsiden’s formal gardens. Nilo listened silently as Pollard recounted Reese’s demands. Pollard could see Nilo’s temper rising as he spoke. “He has no idea how difficult that will be,” Nilo fumed.
Pollard made a dismissive gesture. “He doesn’t care.”
“Bad enough to have talk about people disappearing, even though we’ve tried to take travelers and strangers, people who wouldn’t be missed,” Nilo ranted. “But this—it’s likely to bring an uprising.”
Pollard shrugged. “Marat Garin and his ilk would probably welcome an excuse,” he said. “They’ve gotten overconfident.”
Nilo scowled. “They’ve forgotten that if enough mortals rise up, even they are not invulnerable.”
“They’ll care when the peasants head our way with torches and pitchforks,” Nilo muttered. “Or at least, head your way—I’ll be with the army and have to save their sorry undead asses.”
“I would have thought that immortality might make one more careful, more aware of consequences,” Pollard said. “But apparently not. Or maybe, death doesn’t change how people were before they died.” Though the sympathetic wounds he shared with Reese had begun to heal since his master’s release, the price was not only Reese’s constant presence but being overrun with the broods of Garin and the rogue Elders, as well as their toadying mortal servants and sycophantic hangers-on. No different, perhaps, than those who cling to the hem of any petty despot or strongman, Pollard thought, but infuriating, nonetheless.
Thrane, Garin, and the other Elders needed sustenance as well and had decided that drinking the blood of cows or deer was beneath them. They, at least, fed more circumspectly most of the time. Part of the second floor had been given over to their ‘herd’ of donors, captive humans whom Thrane and his fellow talishte fed from as they pleased. This arrangement meant the people of the herd lived somewhat longer, and a favorite might last for several days, perhaps a week or two, but it was always the same in the end.
I’m running out of room to bury the bodies, Pollard thought. And there are too many to burn. Thrane and Reese are going to bring the mob down on our heads with their arrogance. As if I needed something else to worry about.
“I don’t get the impression that Reese was ever the cautious sort,” Nilo observed. “So… any ideas on how to do this and keep from leaving a trail back here?”
Pollard sighed. “Go a day’s journey or so away from here. Spread the word that one of Esthrane’s priestesses will be blessing children and youths and women with child. Set up a tent down the road and out of sight of the village. Grab them as they come in.”
Nilo raised an eyebrow. “You’re a cold son of a bitch,” he said.
“Always have been,” Pollard replied with a shrug. “I’ve found that it works.” He paused. “Oh, and one more thing. Send a whore to Eljas Hennoch. Make it clear to her that if he doesn’t sleep with her, we’ll kill her. That should inspire her. Post watchers at the peepholes in his room—shouldn’t be difficult given the subject. Make sure it happens.”
“You’re removing his eligibility?” Nilo asked with a sly smile.
“Larska Hennoch is useful to me,” Pollard replied. “And to Reese and Thrane, regardless of whether or not they consider most mortals to be interchangeable. He will be most helpful if his son remains alive.”
“What from Thrane?” Nilo asked. “Now that Reese is free, what’s his plan? Sooner or later Penhallow and the other Elders will retaliate. We need to be ready.”
“Thrane has been gone since the night after Reese was freed,” Pollard replied acidly. “I suspect he’s gone back to
talk to his Meroven puppet.”
“Nagok?”
Pollard nodded. “Thrane’s quite taken with Nagok. He’s bound him with the kruvgaldur. And it was Thrane who helped Nagok rise to power, after the Devastation in Meroven,” he replied. “He worries me.”
“You sense a threat?”
Pollard shrugged ill-temperedly. “There is always threat when there’s a new favorite,” he said. “Nagok is quite probably insane. And he is powerful. We need to remain visible—and valuable.”
Nilo nodded, and Pollard knew he understood what was not said. Just like at court, where nobles constantly maneuvered to gain and keep the favor of the king, Thrane kept his vassals off balance and insecure, so that each would continually look for ways to outdo his competition. At court, a noble who fell from favor might miss invitations to hunt with the king or attend a ball. Those who fell from favor with Reese and Thrane stood a much higher risk of becoming food. I have played this game too long and at too high a price to finish without the crown of Donderath, Pollard thought. It’s all for naught if Thrane grows too fond of Nagok. Let him rule Meroven. Donderath is rightly mine.
“You have a plan?” Nilo asked.
“Forming one,” Pollard said. “And we require the full cooperation of Hennoch to make it work. Nagok will see us as rivals or as expendable. We must give Thrane a reason to value us, so that we don’t lose his favor.”
“And?”
“We have two opportunities,” Pollard continued as they walked. The grounds were no longer carefully planted and the shrubbery maze had not been groomed since the Great Fire. Here and there, portions had burned down to the roots, and the wild storms and winds had uprooted other sections. Instead of manicured forms, the bushes grew shaggy and wild. Yet the ruined maze was one of Pollard’s favorite places, one of the few areas he could go and feel some distance between himself and his masters.
“Theilsson’s portion of McFadden’s army has ventured north,” he said. “They’re far from reinforcements, and our scouts say his encounters with Nagok have not gone well. It will be a while before McFadden can reach him with more troops. If we could break Theilsson while he’s vulnerable, it might even deliver McFadden into our hands, if McFadden were to show up and find the other half of his army has been destroyed.”
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