“Fall out of the sky, do they…?” Nev asked carefully, and the young officer nodded in response as Randwick – the only one present who picked up the faint change of inflection in her voice – pricked up his ears and waited intently for what she was about to say next. “And… does anyone ever see the Night Dragons when they fall?”
“No one would dare…” William answered quickly, surprised the question even needed to be asked. “It’s rare for one to fall on or near a village – very rare – but it has happened in the past. The Brotherhood has told us many times of the destruction they cause… how no man who laid eyes on one has ever lived to tell the tale.”
Or any woman, I don’t doubt… She thought silently, smart enough to keep that thought to herself.
“So… if no one’s ever seen one…” she ventured instead, realising too late that she was still venturing out onto thin ice “…how does the Brotherhood know that it’s a dragon that’s fallen…?”
“But… of course it’s a Night Dragon…” William blinked, sounding quite perplexed as a vaguely suspicious expression flickered across his features for a moment. “What else could it be…?”
“I – uh – of course, sorry…” She backpedalled quickly, recognising his reaction for what it was and deciding tact was a better option at that moment.
“We need to keep moving…” Randwick announced almost too quickly, suspecting he already knew what Nev thought about Night Dragons and at the same time recognising that it was time to move away from a potentially dangerous subject. “We’ve only an hour or two left to travel but it’s at least noon now and there’s no time to waste!”
Burnii was pretty much exactly as Nev had imagined it might be, in the worst possible way. Approaching from the west along the coastal high road, she’d been able to see a dark haze on the eastern horizon long before they reached the higher density of farms and outlying stone huts that belonged to the ‘lesser’ residents, forced to make their homes outside the city walls due to expansion and the resulting lack of space within. For purposes of industry, warmth and any other possible use Nev could’ve imagined, chimney stacks throughout the ‘suburbs’ (as she quickly came to call them, for want of a better term) pumped a constant stream of soot and smoke into the air and she was starting to think that perhaps the fires were in operation as much for a general provision of comfort and security as they were for any practical reason.
Those sights were nothing compared to the city itself however as their horses crested the summit of that last, low hill coming in from the western high road and it was finally laid out before them in full view. The road passed close to the beach at that point and a great watchtower rose there where the surf met the sand, twenty metres tall at least with a trebuchet perched at its top. From there, city walls half that height ran away to the south, curving back around to protect the citizens within as similar towers dotted its length at regular intervals.
The western gates stood before them, just five hundred metres away as they came down the other side of the hill, and beyond that – above the ramparts of the walls themselves – Nev could just pick out a mass of roof tops, chimneys and other structures that stretched away beyond for several kilometres at least. Smoke and soot again hung heavy in the air, thicker and more acrid than it had as they’d passed through the suburbs, moments before.
A queue had gathered at the gates; at least a hundred people along with their possessions and a many and varied cluster of accompanying horses, oxen, carts and wagons. A dozen uniformed guards were running about as they approached, trying desperately to organise the gathering throng into some semblance of order as an increasingly exasperated junior officer shouted orders from the ramparts of the wall above, for the most part completely ignored by all.
“Endweek at the city gates…” Randwick observed with a wry smile, finding the scene all too familiar. “Oh aye, lass… that’d be the Burnii bouquet right there…” he added with an even broader grin as he looked back and caught sight of Nev wrinkling her nose over the insipid and cloying stench that had finally managed to force its way through the generally smoky tang in that seemed to constantly pervade the background of every breath. “It’s only the wind’s been in our favour so far: normally you can smell it as far back as Summerset.”
“Oh, that’s just charming…” she almost coughed as all three boys – all of them by and large completely desensitized to the smells of the only environment they’d ever known – grinned and chuckled over her displeasure.
“The king’s workin’ toward cleanin’ up the streets… literally…” Randwick offered with unusual optimism, “but it’s a slow process, changin’ people’s way of life…”
“Some things never change…” she muttered softly, thinking of her own world.
“Ahoy, guardsman!” William called loudly, riding ahead with his troop falling in behind as they drew up at the rear of the gathering crowd. “Official escort for Foucault Randwick, Mentor to the Namur… make way, if you please!”
It took one look at the King’s Guard and the well-known face of the old man behind them to galvanise the officer on duty into frenetic action. Taking just a moment’s pause to gather his wits, he again began screaming orders, however the rest of his men seemed to be taking far more notice now as they banded together to forcibly push the crowd away from the gates, making way for the cavalrymen and their charges.
“The Opening Ceremony, lieutenant!” Randwick called up to him from below as he drew near, forced to bellow at the top of his lungs to be heard over the general din of catcalls and complaint. “How go the celebrations? Have they begun yet?”
“Not yet, My Lord, but soon…!” He shouted in reply, taking a few seconds to turn and throw a glance off to the north-west, taking in sights that were invisible to anyone on the ground. “Even now I can see Harald’s flagship standing out to sea, but you’ve time enough yet, I’d warrant…”
“Here’s hoping, for all out sakes…” The old man muttered darkly, before forcing a smile back onto his face. “Send riders to Cadle and Demon’s Port and all in between!” He continued, shouting again. “Call the garrisons to alert – any who aren’t here already. Have them ready to march on Burnii as soon as they’re mustered!”
“But… the ceremonies, My Lord…? Surely there are men enough here as honour guard already…?”
“Do as I say, lieutenant… do it quickly!” Randwick shot back, his tone making it clear he was not to be argued with. “And mark my words, now: they’re to make ready for battle, not celebration!”
“But – but, sir…!” The young man called down, voice quavering as he found himself torn between direct orders and what seemed simple, common sense. “The king… the peace treaties…?”
“If I’m wrong, man, then blame shall lay on me and me alone for this, but I beg you do this now – immediately – for if I’m right, then we may already be too late.”
Everyone in military service knew Mentor Randwick, a man who’d served the Namur family through three generations of kings and who carried a name as respected and revered as any in the entire kingdom. No matter how wild or unlikely his words might seem, he was not a man to be ignored lightly and it grated against the officer’s instincts to disobey an order from such as he. Much as he hoped Randwick was wrong, something about the intensity of the man’s gaze told him otherwise.
“My Lord, I shall send warning at once to any garrison we can reach and have them mobilised by sunset. We shall prepare for the worst and pray that you are wrong.”
“And I’ll pray the same, lieutenant… thank you, and fare you well!”
“And you, sir!” The officer called back with a salute, but Randwick was already galloping away through the open gates with Nev in tow, the guardsmen forming an escort ahead to clear the way as Lester and Godfrey held on tight to their reins and struggled to keep up. Behind them, atop the wall, the lieutenant began screaming his orders again and this time everyone was listening.
Standing apart fr
om the multitude of working docks and wharves that comprised the Burnii port, one particular jetty was always set aside for the mooring of one special craft. King Phaesus’ personal flagship, Wyvern normally found its home there when not in use, while Rapier might often be found at anchor behind it at times when the prince was in town. Although both men were indeed currently present on the docks, neither vessel was anywhere in sight that day: both had been moved out into the bay to make room for a very special guest, the gesture itself a sign of honour and respect.
The rest of the docks had also been emptied for the celebrations with much grudging and disgruntled acceptance from the owners of their usual occupants, their vessels also forced either to moor out to sea or relocate to Summerset or Demon’s Port for the duration of the Endweek ceremonies. A multitude of warships and royal craft from a number of Osterland kingdoms instead lay at anchor; transports for the dignitaries and invited guests come to take in the spectacle of it all. Yet that last, royal dock remained empty and waiting for the most important guest of all.
Pennants of bright blue hung from every post and window, all displaying the clean, white image of a falcon’s head that was the Namur family crest, and down at royal dock a grandstand had been constructed on the long, wide boardwalk that linked the wharves together, along with a dais from which both kings would soon be making their historic speeches. The seats rose in tiers six-high, stretching out to either side with room enough for hundreds while directly behind that dais stood two identical thrones; one for the king and one for his only child.
The stands were covered by a brightly-coloured canvas awning but Charli wasn’t sure what it was actually supposed to accomplish. There was rarely any sun anyway and it was far too flimsy to keep out any rain (which had fortunately held off so far despite the ominous look of the clouds above). It certainly did nothing to protect her from the chill of the cool breeze as she sat there with her father, already regretting a choice of dress that was stunningly elegant and cut from far too thin a material to be sensible for the weather at hand. At least someone had seen fit to fix torches to each corner of the small box set aside for the two of them, the heat of the flames flickering behind her left shoulder providing irregular warmth as it crackled and spluttered that was far better than nothing at all nevertheless.
Her father was nervous. She could tell by the sharp edge in his tone as he spoke to everyone and by the way he unconsciously fretted with his ceremonial uniform and fidgeted in his chair, waiting for what seemed an age as a nearby band prepared to play and everyone else in the stands waited eagerly for Harald’s flagship to make its way into the bay and drop anchor at the royal dock.
The king should have been nervous about the coming ceremonies and the fact that he was about to meet for the first time in friendship with the greatest enemy that Huon had ever known, and he was to some extent, but the princess knew that her father was also heavily preoccupied by the same, completely unrelated problem that was of great concern to her: the ‘Keepsake situation’. Just before midnight that evening, Charleroi would be expected to take a knee before the local prelate as she had every other Endweek for as long as she could remember, the problem being that this time she was carrying a dangerous secret; one that couldn’t be hidden from the all-powerful ‘eyes’ of The Shard.
Randwick was supposed to be organising something… some desperate bid for freedom of his own devising, the details of which – for her safety and his – even the king did not know. He’d been gone for two days now and had been expected back early that morning but was now many hours overdue. As confident as she was in her Mentor’s ability to look after himself whatever the situation, Charli couldn’t help fearing for his safety… couldn’t help worrying that his non-attendance there that afternoon was no coincidence.
Her attention was drawn for a moment as a hush and a murmur of fearful awe rippled through the grandstands. Craning her neck to see past the dais, she eventually caught sight of what had caused the reaction: Harald’s great quinquereme, Devastator had appeared beyond the breakwater protecting the eastern approaches to the harbour, cruising slowly toward the docks with its long, multi-layered banks of oars dipping in and out of the calm waters with military precision.
Although she hated to admit it, it was indeed a grand and terrifying vessel with a huge, silver-plated ram projecting from its bow and a brass-nozzled projector mounted on either side, each able to spray jets of flammable black liquid known as seafire, a weapon used by both sides that was devastating to enemy ships at close range. Randwick had told her once that the ship housed almost five hundred men, most of the oarsmen, and she could hear the drum beat as it drew near… thrumming over and over in time with the constant dip of the oars.
The huge warship was almost fifty metres long with a single mast amidships, its sail currently stowed for in-shore manoeuvring, and displaced close to 200 tons in mass. It was an impressive vessel to say the least, yet as the princess looked on she began to feel as if there were something unusual about the warship – something very different to any other she’d seen. Charleroi was no expert on naval matters but a healthy curiosity for knowledge in general backed up by many daily hours of regal boredom meant that she read widely and asked many questions about a wide range of different topics.
It had arrived with a veritable fleet of smaller Blackships – fifty triremes and quadriremes at least – that followed on behind, taking up a huge area of ocean as their crews pushed them on in tight formation. There was no chance of accommodating all of them within the harbour itself and as the flagship rounded the breakwater, the rest of them turned away, forming into long lines and standing off to sea to await further orders.
As she looked across at the smaller vessels already moored at the other wharves, she eventually came to the realisation that Devastator was missing the archery towers that were almost invariably fitted fore and aft to every other oared warship she could see. The towers were vital during close-in fighting as they gave archers and crossbowmen a tactical advantage when firing down at the decks of an attacking enemy. Yet on Devastator there were none, nor could she see any of the catapults or ballistae that were also found on most other vessels. Instead, all she was able to see behind the bow were one or two flat, slightly-raised platforms upon which sat what looked to be pieces of machinery of some sort: although it was impossible to make out any detail at such a distance, they clearly weren’t catapults or any kind of weapon Charli had ever seen.
Devastator was drawing closer now, coasting slowly into the harbour itself, and there was another soft shudder of awe through the crowd as her mainsail unfurled, rolling downward almost to her deck to display a huge image of Harald’s family crest: a stylised picture of a roaring lion with the world clasped in its paws, all in bright red against a black background.
The sound of tromping feet rose above the general background noise and Charleroi turned her hear to watch as two platoons of Taas’ elite guard marched up along the boardwalk in single file, all of them in immaculately-polished armour with swords at their belts and crossbows slung across their backs. At their head was Prince Baal himself, Viceroy Garrick following close behind and both of them resplendent in their own ceremonial livery of blue and gold, wearing their swords in similar fashion to those of the men they led.
Garrick also carried a slung crossbow, however Baal instead carried something else Charli had never seen before: it seemed to have a wooden shoulder stock similar to that of a crossbow but it was far longer and seemed to end in two long, thin tubes of dark metal that (much like the machinery aboard Devastator’s deck) looked nothing like any weapon she’d ever encountered. Some ceremonial staff or sceptre of esoteric and no doubt boring origin, she concluded in an instant and paid it no further heed, instead turning her attention back to the approaching warship.
As the troops broke into platoons and moved to stand in formation on either side of the dais, Baal took up a standing position opposite Charli, behind the king’s right shoulder. With a sin
gle glance and formal nod of recognition between them, he removed the strange ‘sceptre’ from his back and held it diagonally across his chest as he stood at stiff attention with eyes forward.
The Brotherhood was also there now as she looked around again. De Lisle had moved to stand by her side, glancing down once with a condescending smile as he stood waiting in stunning robes of bright red silk she’d never before seen any brother wear. The Crystal hung at his neck, glowing faintly beneath the overcast sky as a half-dozen more brothers filed in to stand in line to his left, all clothed in similarly gaudy ceremonial garb (Prelate Roland among them). To Baal’s right stood another seven in similar dress, one of them Silas. Their presence undoubtedly obscured the view of those seated in the first few rows behind but not a single soul voiced any objection: no one was that stupid.
Baal’s right arm still hurt. Silas had worked his magic, disturbing as all that had been, and his arm was now definitely good as new… possible better, if that were possible. But it still hurt all the same… and itched like nothing he’d ever experienced. He supposed that made sense if one thought about it deeply enough: whatever power those infernal crystals drew from The Shard and whatever miracles they worked beneath his torn and swollen skin, there was no way a man could shrug off that kind of injury overnight. Bones still needed to knit and muscles to recover, and there was always some price to pay in return.
None of that made it any more tolerable however as he stood stiffly at the king’s side, doing his best impression of someone not holding a loaded shotgun right next to a reigning monarch. That no one else present other than Silas and De Lisle knew that it was actually a weapon was irrelevant: he knew it was a weapon, and had the quartet of Phaesus’ personal bodyguards standing just two metres away on either side known what it was (and what he was intending to do with it), he’d already have been lying on the boardwalk in more pieces that was generally considered healthy.
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