The Forlorn

by Dave Freer

  She still stood there, wet faced, and looking lost in the intermittent glare. So Keilin took her elbow and led her to the shelter of a half-fallen tree. They huddled together, under the sloping trunk, sheltering under his cloak. Keilin felt the warmth and softness of her pressing against him. He ground his teeth, and closed his eyes and as felt, even in the ankle-pouch, the core section was growing colder. Storms in these parts were brief but furious. Keilin, for one, was enormously relieved when the rain slackened and the crack and boom of thunder faded to distant rumbling. Yet a small part of him had not wanted the rain to end.

  Shafts of leaf-speckled moonlight came spilling down onto them through the ragged edge of the storm clouds as they came out of their makeshift shelter. Her hair was wet and plastered against her skull. It only served to accentuate the high cheekbones and big eyes further. She turned to face him, bit her lip, and tumbled into speech. "I came to sleep with you. To get you to take me to my father."

  Keilin was silent for a minute. Then prudence won. "You don't have to. I said I would do that anyway. Now, go back to bed." He pushed her away roughly and immediately turned to the saddlebag and began taking out his bedroll. When, after some studied minutes, he looked up again, she was gone. But it was a long time before he got to sleep that night. And riding the next day was pure agony. But at least he didn't have to avoid her as well. She was doing that with more skill than he had.

  The days that followed were hard, pushing both the horses and riders to their limits. It suited Keilin. When they stopped he pushed himself still harder, chopping firewood, fetching water while the others sat owl-eyed and exhausted. He even forced Beywulf into weapons drills. By the time Keilin lay down in the evening, sleep was close to euthanasia.

  Once again they'd come down off the plateaus, this time into country which would lift any man's spirits. The rolling hills were rich and verdant. The grass was soft with flowers, the streams clear and laughing. The farmers were cheery and prosperous. Even the ants seemed fat and lazy. But Keilin resisted its appeal, staying locked into a frustrated anger.

  Port Lockry was a neat thatch-and-whitewash town, set in a gap in the sea cliff, built around a well-constructed harbor mole. From a mile away it looked the picture of prosperity and comfort. Like all fishing towns it smelt of tar and fish. It also reeked of fear. People scurried about in little knots of agitation, talking anxiously. They eyed the hard-ridden, well-armed group of strangers with suspicion. The party rode past the smithy, where a queue of townsfolk waited. By the smoke and din from within, the smith was working furiously. Keilin saw the plump burgher at the head of the queue paying over gold, and no small amount, for the clumsy sword he was receiving. By the way he was holding it, thought Keilin, with all the scorn of the newly skilled, it wouldn't matter that the thing would bend at his first strike.

  "We should make for the Silver Anchor, Cap. It's the best tavern for picking up news of ships with a berth or two," said Beywulf, hopefulness in his voice.

  "No doubt also with the best beer," Cap said dryly. "Still, I dare say you're right. Might be a good idea to find out just what is going on around here. Something has got a normally quiet town's fat little folk running around like newly beheaded chickens."

  The Silver Anchor was full and noisy, unusual for a sailor's and fisherman's pub at eleven in the morning. Elbowing through a mixture of drunken fishermen and crying-in-their-beer burghers, they fought their way through to the bar. Cap's commanding presence found them service and the attention of the hard-pressed barman. "We'll have four pints and two halves. And we're needful of finding passage on a good ship bound to northern waters. Do you know of any vessels heading up the coast?"

  The barman drew the beers from the barrel without a word, and placed the tankards on the scarred and stained bar top. He wiped his hands on his apron. "That'll be six silver," he said, his voice flat.

  Keilin took the half pushed at him. A half! Like a child. He was sixteen, dammit. Then he saw the Princess's face and lost some of his own anger in amusement. She was obviously just as displeased at being given a smaller tankard, but, as she'd just taken her first sip, it looked like the thought that she might have to drink all of it was vying with her chagrin. In the meanwhile Cap waited, his eyes holding the barman like a fly trapped in a pool of his own beer. Finally Cap said quietly, but in the sort of voice that stopped conversations all around them, "You haven't answered my question, ale draper."

  Forty years of working in a dockside tavern had taught him to recognize trouble when it stared him between the eyes. It was one of those things you learned quickly or you didn't survive. This barman had once been a county champion wrestler, and the fact that he welcomed brawls had tended to discourage them. Today he was feeling too old for bruises. And the squat hairy one next to the tall fellow had brawl written all over his wide countenance. But before he could step back and bring the heavy metal-grid shutter slamming down, Cap's long fingers closed on his shirtfront. Without any sign of effort on the tall man's part, he lifted the three-hundred-and-twenty-pound barman, and pulled him half across the bar counter.

  "Don't even think about it, friend. Just answer my questions and we'll get along peacefully. What's going on here? Normally every bloody barman in a port town would give you the names of three skippers going anywhere, including hell. Have they stopped giving you kickbacks?" Cap asked, in the sort of voice used when discussing the weather.

  There was a faint gargling noise from the barman, and a weak flailing of arms and legs.

  "What? Oh," and the viselike hand pushed him back and loosened slightly. But it still remained on the barman's shirtfront.

  The barman had a lifetime of experience. This was more than potential bruises. His respectfully toned reply was still faintly choked. "Sorry, sir. I . . . just about every man in this place has asked me to find him or his family a berth . . . on any damn thing that'll float. There's no chance, sir. Not even for all the gold and jewels in Amphir City."

  "There's a fair forest of masts out there. Why won't they sail?" Cap asked.

  "The Hashvilli!" The barman looked gray just at the mention of the name.

  "Hashvilli? Oh, that rabble of pirates and petty slavers from the Ferl Islands. Never used to worry a decent skipper . . . in your father's time that is. I gather they've become something more of a nuisance," said Cap disdainfully.

  "Sir! Sir jests! The Hashvilli sea wolves are a scourge on the sea lanes. The Kalmis Navy used to hunt them, keeping the trade route to the north open in return for those extortionate duties at their ports. I'll admit that when the Tyrant up north swallowed Kalmis, the traders were worried, but at least some of the patrols went on . . . up until last year. Since then there's been nowt to stop the Hashvilli. Eight months or so ago was the last time a vessel made it north and back. The news they brought wasn't good. There's a war in Kalmis between the Tyrant and some new Emperor. And the sea is full of Hashvilli raiders," explained the barman, ignoring calls for beer from the far end of the bar. No one this end was being foolish enough to interrupt.

  "Shut up," said Cap to the crowd at large, in his voice of command. Even the drunks were silenced. He turned to the barman again. "Then why the panic today?"

  The barman's voice dropped to a near whisper. However, in the newly-won silence they had no trouble hearing him. "Two weeks ago they hit Northhaven, forty mile up the coast. Took every able-bodied soul as slaves, impaled the rest. Even a newborn baby. The same again three nights later at Whitesands Bay. But there a few of the farmers got lucky and got away . . . with a Hashvilli prisoner. He talked before they killed him. The Ferl Islands had a drought the year afore last. Bad crop and a lot of starving folk, with no way out except raiding. Then this year, it was a wet winter. The winter crop got the blight. Their wheat turned black in their fields. An' now, there's famine loose there. No food but what the raiders bring home. And there's been no ships going north for dunamany months."

  "An' now they're coming here. They'll gut this place like a
herring," a panicky voice from the crowd cried. "The Bess was out last night long-lining on Fourteen-Mile Bank. They saw 'em at dawn. Bess's skipper dropped the lines and ran, and she got in maybe two hours ago."

  Another took up the tale. "The skipper he took word up to our burgomaster, Johannes the Chandler. Within twenty minutes our brave Johannes'd chartered the Kessaly to run him an' his family and a couple of fat chests south." There was some satisfaction in the tone as he continued: "She was burning off Scarff Point within twenty minutes."

  "The Garfish sailed maybe five minutes after. They made it back though."

  Another snorted, "Only just, mind. They were so badly holed, with four dead an' seven wounded of a crew of seventeen, that the raiders obviously didn't expect them to see land. Garfish's skipper says the Hashvilli cut an' run as soon as they could see the cliffs . . . But they say there's hundreds of masts just below the horizon."

  "Hell's teeth! So what are you folk planning to do now? Run inland?"

  There was a silence. Finally a big man in a striped seaman's jersey spoke up. His voice was slow and raw from speaking over a sea wind for half a lifetime. "My boat's here, mister. So's my life. I'm not going inland. What could I do there? Beg?" A murmur of agreement went around the room.

  "So, you're going to fight."

  "Aye!" a belligerent chorus from the fishermen and sailors. Some of the townsfolk were silent, scared looking.

  "But you don't have a leader, and you're passing the time in the bar getting soused." Cap's voice was scathing.

  The big seaman pushed his way forward. The crowd melted back magically. "Look, mister. I don't like your tone. I don't like your face. And I don't see what it's got to do with you." He reached out a contemptuous hand.

  And found himself flat on his back. "Get up. Don't waste your strength fighting me. You'll need it for the Hashvilli tonight." Cap's voice was icy, commanding. "I want a ship out of here. Seems to me the only way I can get one is to stop the place from being trashed by a bunch of sea scum. I am an officer of the Crew, and I am taking control of the defense of this town. Any man who wants to challenge me is welcome to try his luck. Barman, this place is closed for the duration. Now, finish up your drinks. I want every man, woman and child that can carry arms, and whatever weapons they have to carry, on the quayside in ten minutes." He raised his tankard. "I give you a toast. Death to the Hashvilli!"

  There was a moment of silence. Then every glass and tankard in the house was raised. The tumult was overwhelming.

  The quayside meeting had been wary and fearful at first. But within five minutes Cap had them raring to fight, and beginning to believe they could win. Then he split the mob into sections and assigned various duties. Beywulf was set to a weapons inventory, sorting out the usable from the trash, and selecting archers for Leyla and Shael to take in hand. S'kith was demonstrating swordsmanship, assisted by Keilin.

  Cap was questioning the skipper and some of the sailors off the Garfish, as well as several other senior captains. "You're sure this is where they're bound?"

  "Nowhere else to go, sir. There's sea cliff for thirty miles to the southeast and another forty or more northwest," Garfish's skipper replied.

  "And coming in here? Where can they beach?" Cap pointed at the harbor.

  "Only inside the harbor sir. There's a mean reef just outside the mole. It breaks at low tide, and at high it'll rip the bottom off anything deeper'n a dinghy. I suppose you could jump off onto the moles as you come in, too."

  "I see," said Cap slowly. "Tell me . . . what sort of wind do you have most evenings?"

  The seamen looked at him in some amusement. "Why, it's allus offshore at this time of year, sir. That's the way it works. Land gets hot and breathes out at night. Then the hills get cold and suck air off the sea in the early morning."

  "And what time is the tide? And how soon can they be here after dark?"

  "It's rising now, sir. She'll be full at about three. They'll have to tack in an' row the mole. Mebbe ten o'clock? It'll be about full low, then."

  "Hmm, right. This is what I want done." He detailed various tasks, and sent a sailor running to fetch Beywulf.

  "Lot of bows, but light stuff. And some fair shots, too, from what Leyla says. There's a marsh a few miles away and a lot of the townsfolk go after waterfowl. The swords are rubbish and they've no one worth calling swordsmen either. S'kith'd have killed someone by now if the boy wasn't with him. They'll do one hell of a lot better if they stick to gutting knives. There's hardly a man or woman in the town that hasn't got at least one, an' most of 'em have those ten-inch filleting knives, too."

  "Right. I want pikes, fifteen-foot ones. Tell that rascally blacksmith if he makes another so-called sword, I'll gut him. If there aren't enough spearheads, get the seamen to lash knives on poles. Tell S'kith to start them on pike drill instead. I want two hundred men who'll stand. I don't want a single runner, Sergeant-Major. Pick them for steel. Take the skipper of that barque over there and put him and his first mate behind them. He's a murderous old bastard. Tell him to cut the head off the first man who breaks ranks. We want a hundred for each mole, so you'll need to find another sea captain like that. Don't worry about the lightness of those bows. The sea wolves don't have armor. You drown too easily in the stuff. And they won't have to shoot far. Now, I want you to round up a couple of carpenters. Should be easy enough in the boatyards, and make me at least one Brunhilde capable of throwing a hundredweight cask from here into the channel."

  Beywulf nodded. "A piece of cake. It's not above a hundred yards."

  "Go to it, soldier. Oh, and send a local to me. Somebody who's no use to the militia but who knows his way around. I need to find a couple of masons and some chemicals."

  CHAPTER 11

  The night was quiet. Too quiet. All that could be heard was the sea's constant crash and whisper. Keilin knew his were not the only ears straining to hear the creak of a rowlock, or any other ship-betraying sound from the sea. He knew that up on the clifftop many anxious eyes were peering seawards, wishing desperately for more moonlight. That didn't stop his stomach twisting itself into knots. What the hell was he doing here? If he slipped off now he could be a good few miles away before morning. His reading had lead him to believe that battles were glorious, and he'd often imagined himself leading the heroic charge. Now it was coming. And he was scared.

  Something touched him on the shoulder. He whirled, assegai at the ready. It was Shael.

  "Kim! I mean . . . Princess. I'm sorry. I . . . I wasn't expecting you."

  There was a glimmer of a smile. "It's all right. Even Beywulf's jumpy. They've spotted them from the clifftops. I . . . just came to say goodbye, Cay, and . . . I'm glad you still think of me as Kim."

  "Habit. I'm sorry."

  "I'm sorry too. For everything. I absolutely hate you. Good luck." She turned and fled.

  Keilin was left to reflect about his scant knowledge of what made women tick for the next few minutes. He also spent some time regretting a certain missed opportunity. But he hadn't known he might be going to die quite this soon. Then the first Hashvilli galley came cautiously nosing in between the moles, the rowers putting their muffled oars carefully into the water.

  As quietly as possible, men jumped from its sides and spilled like ink across the white stone of the South Mole. Then the second galley arrived, and its reivers leapt off onto the other mole. The third, fourth, and fifth galleys quickly followed, now sacrificing silence for speed. There were nine vessels between the moles, the oarsmen rowing as hard as possible to reach the inner harbor and beach, or run up alongside the quay. The running vanguard surged ahead along the moles and struck against the breastwork and its wall of pikes. In the stilt-mounted pavilion behind the pike line, Leyla waited until the attack was a thick and clustered mass of swearing men hacking against the spear points. Those behind were pushing their leaders onto the thicket of sharp points. Her calmness seemed to spread across the archers. "Aim at the mass, after that, pick your marks.
" The sound of stretching bows and indrawn breaths was audible in the silence of the pavilion. "Loose."

  Across the channel the same scenario was being enacted.

  "Like shooting ducks in a barrel," commented one archer as the mass attacking the pike line was suddenly turned into a rout of screaming men. A rending crash, and the sound of splintering timber drowned his words. The lead galley ripped her bottom out on the heavy sharpened logs that had been anchored just below the water line. The next two galleys were only yards behind her. The momentum of the leading galley had borne her onward, until the weight of water in her shattered bow abruptly stopped her. There was no chance for the two behind to avoid collision. The fourth steersman was more alert. He managed to avoid the first three ships in a scream of wood and shattered oars. But the ship's inertia carried her forward, inevitably, onto the waiting logs.

  There were fifteen vessels between the moles when the first struck. Of these, eleven had hit either each other or the hidden obstruction. Several of the vessels began to break up. The channel rang with desperate shouts and screams, the sound of rending and tearing wood, and frantic splashings. The few undamaged vessels were unable to move effectively, and men in the water scrambled towards them or the mole embankments. Another four galleys attempted to come in from the sea and their crews jumped, pouring onto the mole.

  "Beywulf. Now!" The three catapults sprang and the casks of whale oil and naphtha flew to shatter into the channel. Two minutes later, when the oil was spreading in a greasy sheen across the water, the lit tar-candles in their net-float containers followed. Some went out. Some floated harmlessly amongst the wreckage, emitting clouds of foul black smoke . . . and one spat a fat spark into the naphtha fumes.