by Oisin McGann
‘Peddar, you’ve got to listen to me,’ the Myunan pleaded. ‘Forget trying to defend the town; forget the town altogether. You need to get everyone out!’
‘Maybe we should listen to him, Peddar,’ Berra said anxiously. ‘What if he’s right? What if the Tide happened and we weren’t ready?’
‘Whatever it is you think the Noranians are up to, Emos, it will have to wait,’ Murris grunted as he loaded the harpoon gun he was holding. ‘We have more pressing concerns. My daughter and folks are at home, just beyond town. The same goes for everyone here. We’ve all got family to protect.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about, by the gods,’ Emos exclaimed. ‘At least get your families as far away from the coast as possible! And make sure they get to high ground.’
Murris stared at him for a moment, then looked to his wife and nodded. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she started moving through the defensive ranks, spreading the word that everyone not able to bear arms should flee to high ground. Emos took some comfort from that, but meanwhile every fighting-fit man and woman was gathering on the docks. Murris’s team was soon in position, and settled down to wait.
Braskhiam war machines rolled onto the quays, their crews racing to get to the port in time for the initial attack. The Braskhiams gathered and waited as night fell, some lighting fires and lanterns, and preparing food for the remainder who stood with weapons at the ready, gazing out to esh. The eshtrans moved from camp to camp, giving purified air to every man and woman and blessing them before the battle. All over the docks, quiet prayers could be heard.
The Karthars came at dawn. Emos had taken the chance to get some sleep finally, stretched out on the cowling of an engined catapult, and he was woken by the clatter of weapons being readied and bodies moving into position.
There, appearing from one end of the horizon to the other, was a fleet of fighting ships. Triangular sails drove low hulls through the gas; harpoon cannons were pressured up and loaded; soldiers stood on the decks in readiness for an invasion. The Karthars were bringing war to Braskhia. Murris gripped his harpoon gun and glared out at the oncoming esh-boats, his limbs and body trembling with adrenalin. People were running or driving in from all over the area to join the army that was forming on the dockside.
‘Curse them, damn their eyes!’ he snarled. ‘We should have listened to the Noranians while we had the chance. We should have put them down like the dogs they are before any of this could happen.’
Emos did not say a word. Like all Braskhiams, Murris had been trained for battle, but he was no warrior. Nevertheless, the Karthars were bringing war to them, and the Myunan knew every man and woman along that line would fight like a demon to stop the invaders. They would never give up their homes.
He looked up and down the sea wall; the rows of men and women stood on the edge of the docks, and waited as the Karthar fleet approached the mouth of the harbour. Laying his tools on the bonnet of Murris’s catapult, he hurriedly began reshaping his body.
‘What are you doing?’ Murris asked, watching as the Myunan amorphed his arms into wings.
‘The Karthars are descended from cave-dwellers – bats are sacred to them. They even breed them as pets.’ Emos stretched the sides of his head into huge, convoluted ears.
‘So?’
‘So, I’m hoping that if I fly over them in the shape of a bat, they won’t shoot me out of the sky.’ He quickly finished the transformation, and, leaving his tools where they were, he struck out with his wings and took off out over the esh, heading for the approaching fleet.
The sound of the wind in a thousand sails carried like thunder, and, from above, he could see the huge snowy wake left by the spread of vessels. Spotting the lead ship by its flags, he descended slowly and cautiously towards it. Harpoons were raised and sighted on him, but no one fired. His tactic seemed to be paying off.
‘I have a message for the Karthar Fleetmaster!’ he cried. ‘Will he hear me out?’
There was some activity on the deck, and then a Karthar in a lavish purple uniform waved him down. Emos steeled himself for what might come, and glided gently down to the wooden boards. He placed a wing against his heart and then held it out to the Fleetmaster in the traditional Karthar gesture, and the Karthar returned it, but then folded his arms and waited in silence.
‘Braskhia does not want war,’ Emos said, breathing heavily. ‘Noran has started this, and they will finish it when Braskhiams and Karthars lie broken and dead together. Rak Ek Namen has engineered this war by attacking each side under the other’s flag, and his final stroke will be the destruction of your fleet and the Braskhiams’ homes. The Noranians have mastered the Harvest Tide and mean to bring it down on your heads.’
There was some laughter from the men around him, but the Fleetmaster silenced them.
‘Since when did the Braskhiams use Myunans to deliver their messages? And what a message! Do you take us for fools? Do you think you can delay us, to gain the Braskhiam scum more time to prepare? If so, you should have invented a more believable story.’
Emos stared into the Karthar’s eyes.
‘Who does this war serve? The Braskhiams will lose more than they could gain, as will the Karthars. Fishing grounds are no use if there are no men to fish them. Only the Noranians will win. Ask yourself why they are not here to help defend their allies. Ask yourself what would happen if the Harvest Tide broke over your fleet while it lay off the coast. Then ask yourself why the tide is high right now … when it should be low.’
Some of the crew looked towards the shoreline as he said this, and saw that it was true. Any esher knew when the tides were, and what they saw did not sit well with what they knew. A sudden swell rushed from behind the Karthar vessels, running beneath them, lifting them gently and then rippling out ahead and up against the harbour wall.
‘Only Rak Ek Namen wants this war!’ Emos shouted to them. ‘Are you willing to die for him today?’
Answered only with a stony silence, he beat his wings hard against the air and took off, rising above the sails and making his way back towards the docks. He landed by Murris’s group and slunched back into his normal shape. The area was utterly quiet.
‘What did you say to them?’ Murris asked.
‘The same thing I said to you,’ Emos replied, watching the oncoming ships. ‘They don’t seem to want to listen. At least that’s one thing you all agree on.’
With their eyes fixed on the enemy, the Braskhiams did not see the fine layer of sessium well over the edge of the wall and spread like an impossibly light carpet along the ground. Emos looked down in alarm and then cast his gaze around him, but the eyes of the Braskhiams were focused on the enemy. To the disbelief of the defenders, horns sounded abruptly, and the Karthar ships began to turn about and make for the open esh. People started to mutter among themselves. No one could understand why the enemy would come so close only to retreat again. Murris shifted his weight uneasily and wiped the sweat from his hands before replacing his grip on his harpoon gun. Emos grabbed his wrist.
‘Peddar! Open your eyes, man.’
The Braskhiam glanced down; he was up to his ankles in esh. He froze. It was not the season for Harvest Tide. And even if it were, he had never seen the esh rise like this. This was something else. He called to those around him and pointed out to the sea of gas.
‘She’s rising! The esh is rising! Forget the Karthars! We’ve got to get to high ground, now!’
Everyone finally recognised what this was, and the cries of alarm were going up along the line of troops. One by one at first, then in dozens at a time, the would-be warriors dropped their weapons, turned and ran inland. Murris grabbed the man beside him and pushed him towards the town.
‘We’ve got to get above this! he said. ‘The Noranians have brought the Harvest Tide down upon us!’
‘But how?’ The man’s voice was shaky with panic.
‘What does it matter? Move!’ They threw their weapons away and bolted inland. Emos gave the Karthar ships one
last look, and then turned to pick up his tools. They had been moved, and were nowhere to be seen. There was no time to look for them now; the esh was up to his knees. Swearing beneath his breath, he turned and followed the Braskhiams.
The tops of the tallest buildings were already filling up with those trying to escape, so they ran on through the roads full of panicking people towards the higher land further in. The sessium was gaining on them, almost to their waists, and some of the men and women grabbed children who were running with them to lift them clear of the gas. The land in this area was flat, and what hills there were lay well in from the coast. The crowds ran for these, frantic to get above the esh before it smothered them. Murris looked desperately around for his wife and daughter, but could not see them. Emos could see the anguish on his friend’s face and prayed they were already safe. The gas was up to his stomach now, and people were tripping and falling all around him, unable to see the ground at their feet. His shin struck something beneath him and he stumbled, but Murris caught him and kept him on his feet. Struggling on, they had to rely on their memory of the small town to find their way through the half-concealed streets.
The buildings around them were crowded with people taking refuge, but with all the extra bodies from the army that had formed, there was no room in the upper floors. Some people had managed to find gas masks and were helping others find their way to safety. Emos thought of the farms out on the plains. They would have no warning. Most of them had houses of one floor and no means of escaping the esh if it bore down on them. The land was higher just outside the town and the gas was still creeping up his chest. If this was a Harvest Tide, then it was going to be one of the biggest he had ever seen.
The esh made a sound like a soft wind, though there was hardly a breeze to be felt. Behind them, Emos could hear a rushing sound and feared the worst was yet to come. Harvest Tide could last for days, and the first onslaught was not always the heaviest. Looking back, he saw a churning cloud tumbling inland towards them. If it made it this far, it would cover them.
‘Run!’ he called out. ‘Run like the gods themselves are coming after you!’
The ground rose ahead of them, and the crowd staggered to a halt at the crest of the hill. Emos and the others kept going until they had reached as high up as they could get in the crush of bodies.
‘Pa! Pa! Over here!’ A child’s voice cried out.
There on the hill, off to one side of them, was Berra, with their daughter Bekeli in her arms. He was torn between the joy of seeing them and the fear that they were still in danger. Emos followed as Murris pushed his way around to his family; the Braskhiam kissed his wife and hoisted Bekeli onto his shoulders. Berra took Emos’s hand and squeezed it, and he saw the fear in her eyes. He nodded, wishing he could offer more comfort, wishing he could have warned them sooner. The knowledge of his failure was like a weight in his stomach, as a smothering death flooded towards them.
The gas was getting as high as the adults’ waists, even here. Peering beyond, they could see that the ground dipped after this hill. To reach a higher point would mean going beneath the esh. This hill would have to be enough. Facing the oncoming wave, the crowd waited with a mounting dread. Murris clutched his daughter’s waist. If the esh went over his head, he would try to hold Bekeli above it for as long as he possibly could. Berra, standing behind her husband, put her arms around him and leaned her chin on his shoulder.
The wave broke as it flowed through the town, and by the time it reached the hill, there was little more than a swell, but there were more to come. Even as they watched, a second, larger crest rose over the harbour. The crowd was so absorbed by the sight, it took some time to notice the sound of marching feet. Some turned to look behind them for the source of the sound, but all they could see was a flood of esh over the land. Then, like wraiths, soldiers appeared out of the gas and strode up the hill. They were wearing masks, the kind used for exploring the shallows of the esh. A person could breathe beneath the surface with one of those masks. The crowd eyed them greedily. Those masks could save their lives, but these were soldiers from the Bonescrapers, the Noranian crack fighting force, hardened by years of war and prepared for battle.
‘You there,’ an officer called to Murris. ‘Which way to the Karthars?’
‘They’ve retreated, sir,’ Murris replied. ‘They turned about before the esh rose.’
‘Retreated, eh?’ the Whipholder sneered. ‘We’ll see about that. Move on, Bonescrapers. The enemy is out there somewhere.’
Without another word, the troops followed their commander back into the esh, bound for the town. The crowd watched them go, and as the last one disappeared, they all gradually came to the same realisation. The Bonescrapers had come prepared for fighting in the gas. They had known that it would rise. Murris turned to Emos, who merely nodded. The Noranians could have condemned to death hundreds, perhaps thousands living in Braskhia. But the Karthars had had time to turn back; their ships had not been caught by the tide, and now the Prime Ministrate would not have his victory, even if he flooded Braskhia. Murris regarded the closing wave with a feeling of disgust. Their own allies were killing them.
The wave broke over them, and this time it went over their heads. Bekeli and the other children who were being held up were the only ones to escape. Some of the children were crying now. The surge passed and the crowd could breathe again. But another wave was already on its way. Perched on her father’s shoulders, Bekeli gazed out across the sea of gas, squinting against the glow of the sun off its surface. She pointed at something.
‘Ma, Pa. There’s boats coming. Look.’
They followed the direction of her pointing finger, and saw Karthar esh-boats charging in.
‘Now they attack,’ Murris muttered under his breath. ‘They’re coming to finish us off.’
What Braskhiam boats there had been still out at esh gave chase, but they were too few and too far behind to save the people inland. Murris scowled bitterly, and Emos realised that most of the Braskhiams had abandoned their weapons at the docks. But as the crowd watched, the Karthar ships split up and made for different hilltops and buildings in the distance. Landing craft were lowered, and began taking people aboard. The enemy had sailed in across the land, not to destroy them but to save them. An esh-boat approached and its landing craft, with their cluster of small float pods, were lowered to cross the shallows under bellows power.
One drew up near Emos, and Murris and his family, and a Karthar soldier beckoned to them. With his goat-like face, grey-brown fur, and hands with their two thumbs, he was a strange sight, but a welcome one.
‘We can take some of you on board, and more ships are on their way. I can take eight in this boat. Hurry, before the wave hits!’
Women and children were pushed forward, crying and calling to their fathers, husbands and brothers. When all were aboard, the landing craft pushed off and sailed back to the ship. The wave rushed over the men who remained, but they braced themselves and stayed on their feet, and the esh subsided enough for them to keep their heads clear. Emos grabbed the sides of his head and forced it upwards, stretching his neck so that his head was raised above the gas. Shorter men were lifted up by those around them.
All the men knew that the next one would be the end of them. They watched in anticipation as another Karthar ship dropped anchor nearby, and its smaller boats were lowered. A wall of esh rose up behind the town and surged across it. The men started shouting and screaming for the boats. There was no swimming in the esh; the boats had to come to them. The landing craft came close enough to reach by wading, and Emos and Murris joined the rush to meet them. Men clambered aboard; those who could not get in hung to the sides to keep their heads above the gas. Emos tumbled over the side of one and reached behind to hold onto Murris’s arms. The wave lifted the esh-boats and the men clinging to them. They washed further inland, over lower ground, but the Karthar boats kept them out of the gas. Karthars and Braskhiams held each other as they rocked around in the st
rong currents. Murris closed his eyes and trembled with rage at what had been done to them.
By evening, the esh had started to recede, and the esh-boats, overloaded, settled to the ground before they could get back out to the harbour. The gas drew back and left a landscape littered with ships and their landing craft, Karthar and Braskhiam alike, stranded with their hulls resting on solid earth. One by one, people began climbing down and wandering around. The esh was receding as fast as it had come in, and out from its depths came the Bonescrapers. They made for the Karthar ships, but found their way barred by mobs of enraged men and women armed with the weapons abandoned on the docks, standing between them and the enemy. They would not be killing Karthars today. Faced by overwhelming odds, the Noranian elite backed off and beat a hasty retreat.
Murris watched them march away, and Emos could see that something had hardened inside him.
‘The Noranians did this to us!’ he yelled. ‘Somehow, they did this and I want some answers. I say we go to Noran. I say we give Rak Ek Namen a closer look at this war! Who is with me?’
All around him, an angry clamour rose up. There was a reckoning to be had.
19 HOW THE SKACK GRUBS EAT
Groach woke up in his bed and stared at the ceiling. It was his fourth day back at the Harvest Tide Project, and he had spent most of the time discreetly searching for ways to escape again. He had found none so far. He had been questioned along with all the other scientists by Mungret and various officers, who suspected that there was a Karthar spy among them. On top of that, some crumble cones had made it through to Braskhia, and he had lain awake until late in the night before, worrying that he had not done enough to stop it. He threw the covers off and sat up, shrugging out of his nightshirt and reaching for his tunic. He was back in the work clothes of the project – the long tunic that extended to his knees, belted at the waist, and a pair of simple sandals for his feet. His beard was starting to grow back and he decided he would shave it again; it took so long to grow, and was itchy all the time while it did.