by Chogan Swan
Alaina willed herself to stop shivering and stifled another sob.
Maclury stalked past, counting his crew and seeing to the wounded. Then he strode back. “Jahrad, cut these lines that foul ours. Maramd, batten the Dolphin's mooring line 'til we're finished here.” He turned to Kane. “Well, Master Kane, seems I might make some profit after all with this new ship…. Once it’s scrubbed down good.” He turned back to the Dolphin. “Ilrik, take a squad below to the storage holds and see what's there. 'Ware traps.” Maclury turned back to Kane and Alaina and said with grim humor, “I should sail in the dark more often in pirate waters. I might get a whole fleet of ships.”
Chapter 6 (Gynt Camp)
Marshall shifted his position on the branch of the tall pine and scanned the north harbor. The sun’s rays danced across the billows of the ocean out where the shade from the cliffs did not reach. He shifted again; there were limited ways to sit on a branch and his rear was getting sore. He’d occupied the same seat two weeks ago when the Dolphin ran the blockade with its shipment of weapons and supplies.
He wondered if Maclury had gotten clear on his way out. Pirates would need to be lucky indeed to trap that slippery, red-headed rogue.
A shadow passed over him and he glanced up to see Fletch light on a branch with a rustle of feathers on pine needles. The raven peered down at him then hopped lower, from branch to branch, until he was on a level with Marshall.
“Well, what is it, bird-brain?” said Marshall with affection.
Fletch folded his wings and cocked his head to regard Marshall. “Thank you,” he said. “I'd return the compliment, but I prefer honesty, and your mind is nowhere near that brilliant. At any rate, pirates have entered the south harbor and that new ranger captain asks you to come for an ambush. I will watch the south harbor until your replacement arrives.”
Marshall grunted. It was important for leaders to take unpopular duties—that was why he was in this tree—but he was glad for any excuse to get back on the ground. He stretched and flexed his legs before descending. As he touched the ground, a cluster of the tree's hard, little pinecones bounced off his head, leaving a dollop of sticky pinesap in his hair.
He grinned. It never paid to insult Fletch; the raven had mastered the craft of petty revenge.
Fletch's cackle followed Marshall as he trotted off toward the camp.
His new captain would doubtless have everything planned, but she’d wait for his approval before issuing orders at this level of engagement. She was always sure to follow procedure, never challenging his orders, but he knew she thought herself a more competent commander than him. In truth, she was adept at guerrilla warfare and a deadly fighter. Marshall had found it necessary to kill fighters just as good—at one time or another—but he was glad she wasn't on the other side.
The south bay sentry waited by Marshall's tent to give his report. Arod and Jyrmak sat on tree stumps nearby with the dark-haired bard who had come with the Dolphin.
Marshall motioned for the sentry to report. Fletch had spotted the ship long before the lookouts. It had turned towards the bay, navigating through the rocky approach. It was a sloop-rigged galley, and—using oars—she was creeping into the bay. Marshall listened to the catalog of weapons and men the sentry had seen then dismissed him.
Arod, Jyrmak and the bard studied a map spread on the ground, talking in soft murmurs. The rangers in camp went on with their tasks, watching the King and his counselors, but staying well away; no one cared to intrude.
“The north inland patrol is late with their scheduled report,” Jyrmak said as Marshall arrived.
Marshall frowned. The scouts should have returned yesterday evening. Now he wished he’d stayed in camp instead of pulling a token sentry duty. He didn't like it when things got past him.
A brown mare galloped into camp from the south bay trail. Alaina, his new captain, was in the saddle. She pulled to a halt and dismounted, hurrying over to Marshall.
“Did you send out a search party for the late patrol?” asked Marshall.
“Yes, about an hour before dawn.”
“Backup?”
Alaina nodded. “Two dogs and one mounted ranger.”
Marshall frowned again. At least one dog should be back by now. Patrols weren’t that hard to find if you knew the route they followed. The dogs sent to shadow patrol and search parties were trained to watch from hiding and return at top speed when given a command or if the party was ambushed. This was an invaluable asset to the rangers, and the dogs knew their jobs well. Marshall didn't like it at all.
He looked at Jyrmak. “Could you send the raven?”
Jyrmak turned his head and gave a loud whistle.
“Tell him to be careful. They must have something that can catch birds too since no messenger pigeons have come in from the outer patrols.”
“He'll be touched at your concern.”
Marshall grimaced and rubbed the new bump on his head. His hand came away sticky with aromatic sap. “Don't tell the little monster I said it. Just tell him to be careful.”
Marshall knelt down to look over the map. The missing patrol should have traveled a route that ran about ten leagues inland to rendezvous with two patrols scouting farther afield then swing back to camp. If they’d met with trouble and sent no message, one of the other groups would have responded by sending an alert.
An army moving in a large group could never surprise the scouts. Perhaps they had elite, advance parties that were eliminating all the scouts at once. In this case, no news was worse than bad news because it meant whoever was coming could eliminate the backups and the patrols.
Someone knew too much about them, and someone was smart enough—and good enough—to make it count.
“I think we must assume the worst,” said Marshall. “If they know enough about us to eliminate our sentry system, they've learned our weak points and our temporary settlements.”
Arod rubbed his face, wrinkles of concern on his forehead. “We've held our ground here, but this could be bad if a large force moves against us, using our own tactics. The woody crags around this coast are good for avoiding confrontations. But, against a larger force familiar with forest fighting, we'll be pressed hard protecting the wounded, the children and the aged. We need more room to hide.”
Jyrmak broke in, “Fletch reported earlier that a thick fog is moving in from the northwest.” He stood and paced. “I don't like the smell of this,” he muttered. “I think we should leave here. There are ways into the inland mountains and the fog can conceal us too. With all the practice we've had, we should be able to trickle out in groups.”
Alaina waved her hands for attention. “I think we should be most concerned right now about the galley in the south bay,” she said. “If they reach us, we'll lose a day fighting, and if the outriders of the inland force are ten leagues off, we'll be between the hammer and anvil.”
Jyrmak smiled. “Not to worry, Alaina, if the ship is the hammer you are referring to it will be sinking right about now. And all those foolish pirates will go right down with it.”
Marshall chuckled. “The only passage through that channel is trapped,” he explained. “We didn't advertise that though—tongues will wag.”
Arod stood and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Commander Marshall, evacuate the people.” He motioned to Kane. “Our friend will go with the first group. He tells me we will find help in the hills.”
“Beg pardon, your Majesty, but if I could make a request?” asked the bard.
Arod nodded.
“I feel I would be more useful if I were to stay behind with the rear guard. I could always catch them later. We will need every sword here.”
“Very well,” said Arod, “but you must give the leader of the first groups with directions and a letter introducing them to your people. Agreed?”
“Yes, but we will almost certainly catch them in time. It’s not in my plans to get killed at this point; dead swordsmen are more useless than live musicians.”
>
Marshall rubbed his nose to hide a grin. The bard had a slick tongue and a sophisticated air, but there was true character in him.
Jyrmak stood and rolled the map, tapping it back into its case. In a low, forceful tone he said, “Let's not forget… somehow, they know many of our secrets. Don't be free with any plans or information. If you need to reveal something, tell only those you must. We need to find their source.”
~ ~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~~
Almin Smyth pulled the tray from beneath the pigeon house and dumped the droppings and the wood shavings lining the bottom into the compost pile. He checked the birds through the lathe: plumage... fine, eyes... alert and bright. He reached in and pulled one out, a small, solid grey female, and checked her for parasites; she was clear. This didn't surprise him. Parasites rarely got a foothold in a clean, well-vented coop, and Almin's birds were always clean, his coops large and airy.
Almin looked around the camp. Things were bustling. Rangers, wind-burned and leather-clad, directed the packing of tents and equipment.
Almin scratched his head.
Getting ready to move out.
As was his habit, he took a scrap of paper from his pouch and, in a moment, had scratched a series of tiny, letters with a needle sharp quill. He ambled through his pigeon houses to a small coop, separate from the others, letting the drying paper flutter. After a quick glance, he opened the door and reached inside for the bird. The cock did not try to escape his grasp, but—as Almin grasped him—the black pigeon pecked his hand in the soft flesh between thumb and finger, drawing blood. Almin swore and flicked the bird on the beak with his fingernail. The bird quieted but stared at him with a hostile, red-rimmed eye. Almin rolled the paper between his fingers, tucked it in a scrap of parchment and lashed it fast to the bird's leg. He put the bird on a perch next to the coop, but neglected to fasten its dangling leash, going on instead to the next coop and emptying the trays. After a moment, the bird darted into the trees and flew north without pausing to circle.
Chapter 7 (Bird in the Hand)
Almin was allergic to smoke, so his father was unable to train him in the family trade, smithing. It was a great relief when the keeper of the King's messenger pigeons—a solitary widower—agreed to take him as an apprentice.
Almin was clever and quick with his hands. He did well in his new job, and though he was too busy to make many friends, he was content, and he became fascinated with the work. When Almin was eighteen, the master retired, knowing his apprentice had learned more in his five years apprenticing than he himself knew after forty years of work.
At twenty-five Almin was master of the top floor of the south tower, and the finest, healthiest flock of messenger pigeons in five kingdoms. He never took an apprentice because he had no patience for errors with his birds and never allowed anyone into his tower unless on business. And his business was well-managed. The King was pleased with Almin and gave him a part of the profit from renting birds to merchants and nobles.
Word spread that Almin's birds were the best, and they always found the roost, but if you weren’t careful with them you would be charged more next time—a lot more.
So, he was respected and happy in his work, but he seldom strayed from the tower. As years passed, it became obvious he would never take a wife.
He was married to his birds.
One day, as he was spot-checking his flock, a black dove shot in through the window, circled once about the room and perched on the stand by the window.
What puzzled Almin was that it wasn’t one of his birds. What's more, the bird was of a strain he wasn’t familiar with, and he hadn’t believed that possible.
The bird was large, with a red-rimmed eye and—from its circling of the room—a strong flyer. The other birds in the room fluttered away, refusing to go near it.
A message case was strapped to a leg. Almin approached it. The bird didn’t startle when he came close and, though it hissed at him, it stepped onto his finger and allowed him to remove the case. Inside was a letter—the paper so fine and white and the letters so clearly scribed he didn't need the magnifying lens to read it.
The bird belonged to a physician in Ibuchan who kept his own coop of messenger pigeons. Some of his birds were ailing, and he was requesting advice on treatment. From the symptoms described, Almin diagnosed the trouble—a dietary deficiency no doubt rendered more severe by the poor quality of air in Ibuchan. He outlined a new diet and an infusion of herbs he'd used with good success then asked how a bird that had only an instinct to find its home roost could fly to a strange place to deliver a message.
He popped the message in the case, reattached it and let the bird go.
The next week, as he was inspecting a new coop, the black dove appeared again. This time the letter thanked him for his help and praised the results of his herb infusion. The doctor—who said his name was Callthiur—explained he commanded his birds with a red stone that he'd had set in a ring. He could send his birds anywhere if he knew the way, and he had been to Arod's court once, so had been able to send the bird.
The doctor sent one of the red stones as well—in payment for Almin's help. Since Almin wasn’t well traveled, he was only able to make limited use of its power. But, he was pleased with the stone and put it in a locket he kept with him. His correspondence with Callthiur continued on a sporadic basis. They had interests in common and Almin often thought the two of them were similar.
Both were absorbed in their work and both shared a love for birds. On his twenty-seventh summer, Almin was plagued by violent headaches. He supposed the headaches were from working too hard at first, but even when he cut back his work schedule, they continued. The usual medicines had no effect. When a black dove arrived in his aviary with a social letter, Almin sent back a plea for some medicine that would give him relief.
It arrived the next day in the message cases of nine black doves, a sticky, dark ocher paste applied to the forehead. The paste took effect straightway, sending him into a fevered sleep where he had odd, sometimes frightening, dreams that he could scarce recall when he woke. It seemed a small price to be free of the pain.
He began writing to Callthiur more often. He had his own coop of black doves now who knew the way to their master. The writing seemed to keep the headaches away, and he found a brief personal letter, chatting about the comings and goings at the castle and court helped settle them. Most of the time after writing such a letter the threatening ache would die away without the paste.
More and more he wrote about the King and Queen and their son, Wyatt. These letters seemed to help his headaches the most. And when—one year—the court went on the annual hunt, Almin wrote a brief note about it and sent it off as usual. That was the last letter for a long time.
Tragedy struck the hunt, and the castle was in uproar; it drove out all other thoughts for some time. Callthiur's doves had died, and that blocked writing anyway. It seemed the correspondence would die out.
Nineteen years later, the headaches returned. Almin searched his cupboard in panic for the ocher paste, but it was gone. He tried other remedies, but nothing worked. Two days later, when he found the black dove perched in his room, he fell on his knees sobbing.
Callthiur, the letter said, had been on a journey overseas, there was a lengthy account of his adventures, but Almin never read it, in his haste to write back. The medicine arrived the next day in the messenger cases of nine black doves.
They filled the same coop their predecessors had occupied; Almin's own birds would never enter there.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Fletch slipped out of the updraft that had carried him two miles high and started a long glide back to the coast and the camp. It was clear above the fog; the view was good all the way to the pines that lined the coast, towering over the deciduous inland trees.
To the west, the fog crept toward the coast. It was a freakish movement of weather and it made Fletch uneasy, even if Jyrmak didn't think it was witchery. He didn't like fogs
coming from the land and moving to the sea. He’d seen nothing of the patrols.
Noticing a movement below him, Fletch slid sideways banking to see better. A black bird was winging north toward the fog bank.
Fletch turned to follow. Though the bird was black, It wasn’t a corvid; it rowed through the air rather than flapping. Fletch was the most talented flyer the northern ravens had ever seen, but even he couldn't match the pace the bird below was making.
The bird was still a mile below him. Fletch folded his wings and dropped. In a moment, he saw it was a pigeon, but why was it winging into the fog? Even a bird as stupid as a pigeon knew fog was nasty for flying, but the black bird flew straight on. A brief gust of wind over a small crag caught the pigeon off-guard and it fluttered to regain its rhythm. As it rocked sideways, Fletch caught a glimpse of its legs and knew it was all wrong.
Fletch was an intelligent creature—he took pride in that fact too—but this was easy. There was a roll of paper lashed to the pigeon's leg and the bird was making a straight line from the camp to the fog bank. The messenger pigeons Fletch had hoped to see would have been heading to the camp from the patrol parties.
Fletch clicked his bill, angry, the bird was a messenger for the spy.
The raven hovered a moment, letting the wind slip from his wings with slight controlled shifts, allowing the black pigeon to pass beneath him. When it was past, Fletch folded a wing and rolled over.
He might not catch this bird from a dead stop, but he had two advantages and one of them was height, which gave him time to build up speed. He had to reach the bird before it made the cover of the fog bank.
Fletch cupped his wings and pulled them in close to his body. He sliced through the wind like an arrow. The rush of the air hissed through his feathers. About a quarter mile above the bird, he saw he needed to come in on his target's blind spot and needed a higher angle. So he pulled the leading edge of his wings up slightly, changing his approach. He waited until he'd passed above the pigeon, before going into his stoop, turning his wings down and letting his forward speed push him into the path he wanted.