by Louis Emery
Reaching into her cloak pocket, she pulled out her pipe and flint. She turned away from the horizon to shield the flame from offshore breeze, but before lighting it she saw Abera amongst the dock laborers that bustled around crates and tar buckets lining the pier. At the sight of her assistant, Sho tossed the unlit crushed leaves in the sea where they floated next to kelp and bumped alongside the barnacle-tinged beams that held up the docks.
“Thought it wouldn’t be so busy here,” Abera said. She was a tall woman, and her neatly trimmed black cloak and grey trousers, along with braided hair beneath her hood, gave her the air of professionalism. Sho wished she had the pretty face and comely features Abera possessed. She never had any trouble attracting men when she wanted to look nice, and for the most part her darker skin wasn’t an issue. But her assistant seemed to do it with little effort. Sho couldn’t help but notice many of the workers’ eyes follow her, likely in surprise at her height and interest at her beauty.
“Neither did I,” Sho said, looking around. “Commerce seems unfazed by the war.”
“Here and inside the city.” Abera stepped up beside her, gazing at the hubbub of the harbor. “Being used to Em Regis, I never thought another city could be just as busy, especially in the Prestonpan Isles.”
On this assignment, Sho had requested Abera be brought with her. The woman had been working closely with her the past three years. Sharp-witted and a driven asker, Sho couldn’t fathom leaving Abera behind in the capitol. Not to mention, she prided herself that her assistant wasn’t just someone she worked with, but a friend. Abera, not being tied down with familial or romantic constraints, agreed with the transfer, much to Sho’s welcome.
Sho glanced back at the buildings and avenues leading deeper into the city. “After six months of rebel control and finally being rid of them, it seems people are eager to recommence their daily business.” Sho turned to face Abera. “You have something for me.”
“On my visit to the Watch Hall this morning, I tried to reach Bailiff Willoughby. The man’s rude, a lickspittle for Lord Sheriff Scargood. And he said he was too busy to talk about the case—but I managed to speak with Watchman Skolls.”
“And?”
“Turns out, late yesterday afternoon a witness came forth. A man who saw Raskin being accosted.”
“Why did the witness wait to inform the Watch? Did this man see Raskin being killed?”
“The man works in a smithy from early morning to midday. He came as soon as he heard there was an actual murder. The sergeant told me the man was leaving a tavern late that night and saw someone take Raskin by the arm down the street. The witness saw Raskin resisting, and there was a scuffle where Raskin’s abductor landed a few punches to his head. Our witness tried to pursue but lost them. Evidently, he was drunk and it was quite late. No call was made for a watchman.”
“Why didn’t the Watch inform me yesterday?”
“Watchman Skolls gave the same answer as Bailiff Willoughby,” Abera said, locking her fingers together and spinning her thumbs. “They were too busy.”
“So much for a joint effort.” Sho shook her head. Seagulls cried out and took off from a nearby post, landing atop the mast of a Phozantin ship anchored at the docks.
“I did find out that other bit of information you wanted. I managed to track down Gabriel Orlute last night.”
Smuggler, hustler, man-of-the-streets, and part-time informant, Orlute was a man with intimate knowledge of Quinlander—its people, its business, its illegalities. Sho had known him briefly when she used to call the city home. A friend of her father’s, he would regale her with tales of illicit dealings and gang feuds. He lived a dangerous life on the cusp of the law, but now that she was an asker, Sho had reached out to him, knowing well his importance in obtaining valuable knowledge in a time of volatility. A few weeks back, she’d told him to treat Abera with the same respect he showed her, and that whatever information was given would be rewarded recompense.
“I trust Gabriel was just as courteous as before?” Sho said.
“He was, milady.” Abera smiled. “Though he does have a bit of hound dog in his blood.”
“Such is the nature of our work, in dealing with his kind. So, he knew of Quinlander’s sorcerers?”
“He says there are three living in the city, one of which is quite old.”
“That’s about the average for a city like this, I suppose.” Sho rubbed her jaw. “Their loyalties?”
“All loyalists… at least, that’s what Orlute thinks. They live in close proximity to each other, near the center of the city. Supposedly they all get along.”
“Hmm. That’s interesting.” Sho had known firsthand the rivalries sorcerers tended to have against one another. It was the nature of magic users to be secretive and have competition with their colleagues, something to do with the nature of tapping into the art itself, something that always seemed to come with the territory. The paradox was, many sorcerers sought each other out to trade craft secrets and improve their practices.
“Their names?” Sho asked
“The oldest is Elliot Thungerd off Cistern Street. A former assistant to the noble family of Syrahbor. Rumors are that he’s no longer practicing. The others are younger. Jaster Montogue is in his fifties and lives off Nappoli Avenue. He is a freelancer. And Bastion Lastingly is early forties on Porlinder Alley. He serves the reinstated duke and ruler of all Prestonpan, Lord Staverly.”
Sho had heard a sorcerer was working alongside the duke. Likely to help root out residual rebel factions within the city, while also acting as a sort of bodyguard for a power figure whose position had been ambiguous in past months.
She thought she’d heard of Thungerd before, the noble family of Syrahbor being a pet favorite of the King and Queen. Something about the sorcerer helping out peasant farmers on the nobles’ land, providing crop yields in a time of drought, thereby reducing the effects of famine, until fortuitous climate arrived to naturally sprout cornfields. Sorcerers had many specialties, whether it was using powers to fight wars, assist commerce, advise rulers, or solve crimes. Like anything, the more a sorcerer studied a certain branch of power, the more effective their spellcasting.
Sho took off her feathered roundhat and wiped the droplets of sweat beginning to pool on her forehead. “Good work, Abera.” The sea breeze provided welcome relief to already-intense morning humidity. She replaced her hat and turned away from the harbor. “Looks like we have a few sorcerers to call upon. Let’s start with the youngest and busiest, Bastion. Shall we?”
The two ladies walked the planks of the docks and then the boardwalk, leaving sailors, laborers, merchants, and ship-inspectors to their tasks.
16
Malcolm awakened feeling stiff. The fire had died out, and Artemis sat cross-legged against a nearby tree, using his knife to carve on a piece of bark. Leora was still sleeping. He stood and stretched, taking in the early morning twilight.
Mist surrounded the woods, making the branches seem like floating phantasms ready to assault those who trespassed. Birds chirped and called around the camp. Malcolm thought this would waken their captive, but it hadn’t yet.
Artemis walked over beside him, looking at Leora. “She needs the rest. A blow like that to the head, she’s lucky to be in her right mind.”
“And a good thing she kept her helm,” Malcolm said.
Artemis nodded.
“We’ll follow the river out of here,” Malcolm continued, “to the south.”
“Where there’s water there are people.”
“Yes, but any other way, and we’d be lost. These woods are mazes, and I’d rather know at least what direction I’m going. Especially since this area is crawling with Furmanic tribesmen.”
“Don’t want an axe in my back,” Artemis said. “Don’t want to be taken hostage and serve as some ritual sacrifice.”
“Neither do I,” Malcolm slapped his friend on the back. “We should eat and fortify for today.”
“I’ll go
catch something. Though it may be rabbit again.”
“Anything’ll do.”
Artemis walked away, and Malcolm threw branches on the makeshift fire. He pulled flint from his pouch, next to Leora’s special vial, and unsheathed his great sword, the metal reverberating amongst the mist and trees. He began to light the kindling of pine needles beneath the logs, using his sword to create sparks with the flint. As soon as the sparks caught, the fire gusted over to the stacked branches, scorching the bark.
Malcolm sat down. He wondered why Leora turned a blind eye to the notion that someone close had betrayed her. Whether it was Varick or not, there still must have been signs or at least reasons she could fathom. Then again, it might’ve been a coup, a secretly plotted attempt to eliminate her generalship to better serve another individual’s military faction.
Malcolm had heard of West Ballardian generals taking over the positions of those from East Ballardia, due to the regional differences inherent between them. Those of the west had a different temperament, coming from a more agrarian culture. Easterners thought themselves more sophisticated, being skilled laborers, craftsmen, and artisans. These differences had worked their way in the armies all the way up to generals, and Malcolm had heard of Ballardian mutinies erupting because of them.
Still, he didn’t think cultural gaps would cause a coup against the kingdom’s own princess. Then again, no one ever truly knew the secrets of plotters in power. He wondered what King Greenvale would do once Leora was in his grasp. It was probable he would indeed use her as leverage—force King Reed to withdraw his troops from Alorens in order to get his daughter back. Or maybe, he’d want Leora to remain in Em Regis, the Backland capitol, as a sort of ambassador to her kingdom. To aid in drawing up plans to alleviate the hostilities in the northern border holdings.
Malcolm found himself not minding this last conclusion. He looked over to her, sleeping against the log. Her brown hair draped over her face and complimented her shapely frame—at least he thought it shapely from what he could gather, her armor hampering the impression. Her green eyes had captivated him in last night’s firelight, despite the conversation that took place. He’d heard stories of her formidable leadership on the battlefield, but never thought she’d wield a sword that way. Yes, the thought of her staying on in Em Regis intrigued him.
She stirred awake as Artemis returned with a breakfast similar to the previous night’s fare.
“Just in time,” Malcolm said as she sat up. “We’ll have breakfast and then head out.”
“Lovely,” she replied.
They heard a rushing river as they walked amongst the tall pines. Patches of granite began to protrude from the ground the closer they got to the water. In places, the woods were dense, and they maneuvered around various copses until the trees were spread out far enough to allow passage. The ground began to curve upward, and they breathed heavily with the incline.
A break in the trees caught Malcolm’s eye. “This way,” he motioned Leora to follow with Artemis trailing her. The opening was an edge to a ravine dropping a hundred feet to the swift river below. This position offered a comprehensive view of the forest, which to the northwest became more mountainous, beginning with the jagged rocks tracing the edges of the river and steadily rising hills dotted with thousands of trees, ever increasing in the distance.
“The land evens out further down next to the water,” Malcolm said. “We’ll follow it once we descend.”
They walked away from the cliff’s edge and scaled the reverse slope down ridge, careful not to slip on dirt or littered pine needles, only to fall on the bedrock beneath them. The three of them failed in their balance, scraping hands and knees as a result. Malcolm had to steady himself with his long arms more than once before again colliding with the earth.
As the ground leveled, they finally approached the river. Malcolm refilled his deerskin, and they each took turns taking drinks. Thirsts sated, they followed the banks and fortunately, most of the jagged rock outcropping was on the opposite end, though certain erosion on their side forced them to be cautious and move back to the tree line.
Further along, they came to a great redwood growing in the middle of the water. It looked oddly out of place, the majority of trees being ponderosa. Carved on its bark were tribal runes of spirals and curvy lines and what appeared to be human-like symbols amongst imitations of the woods.
“We’ll have to cross here,” Artemis said, looking down river.
He was right. Each side made it impossible to follow the banks, the terrain being too rugged, and the ground dangerously precipitous. The only way to follow without getting lost in the woods to the east was to follow the shallows across, near the great rune-carved tree.
“Okay,” Malcolm said, “time to get our feet wet. Everyone stay away from that redwood. If you get swept in the current, avoid it at all costs. There are things not to trust about runes and objects surrounding them.”
“And why’s that?” Leora asked. “Do hobgoblins jump out and cut you?”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” Malcolm replied, “I led a regiment through the Southwoods once. Sent a lieutenant and two soldiers on a forage scout. They went amongst the rune-woods. Only one came back. He said he heard screams, but could not follow their location. We couldn’t find the bodies.”
“Furmen might’ve done it.” Leora raised an eyebrow, insisting.
“No, our forces scattered them. They retreated. This was something else.”
Artemis corroborated. “I too have heard stories such as this.”
Malcolm saw Leora look at the tree in a different light. He turned and stepped in the cold flow. The water reached just above his knees, and he traversed gingerly on the river stones. He heard his two companions wading behind him. The redwood loomed ominously before him, its large branches and pine needles whispering in the breeze. He wondered how many centuries it had sprouted from the riverbed.
Stepping on the opposite bank, they each shook off water from their legs. Out of the shade of the trees, the sun beat down its oppressing rays, and each of them sweated beneath their armor.
“Let’s move,” Malcolm said. “Looks like we’ll be cutting through the woods a bit to bypass the steep banks.”
They worked their way through the woods. Malcolm exhaled as a breeze swooped down from the northern slopes, whistling through the pines. The day’s warmth taxed all of them, and he anticipated the twilight of early dusk and its drop in temperature.
Aside from the wind gusts, the forest around them was still. The occasional bird chirped, and squirrels burrowed, but otherwise an eerie quiet set in. Something was off.
They descended a rise, boulders dotting the terrain. Malcolm heard a sword draw and footsteps approaching.
“Hold,” a man called out before them.
Great, Malcolm thought. Just what I need. Five men emerged from out behind the trees and boulders. They wore the forest greens, trunk browns, and ranger’s cloaks of the Rousers. Their clothes were coated with leather and metal-plated armor. Not the type of attire suited for hunting.
“Say, strangers, have you lost your way?” the man who’d called out before stepped forward. He wore the best armor of the group, but his sword was still sheathed, unlike the two men who stood beside him. He also had two archers with him, arrows knocked.
“Merely taking a shortcut home,” Malcolm replied, nonchalantly resting a hand on the sword hanging over his left leg.
The man laughed. “That’s a first. Never heard someone taking the Southwoods as a shortcut.” He ran bulky fingers through his short-cropped hair, scratching at his scalp. He scanned the three up and down. “Looks like you’ve had a skirmish. Let me guess—Backlanders?”
Malcolm eyed him warily.
“Did you win?”
“Defeated,” Malcolm said, shifting his stance. “Returning home to rejoin the main army.”
“I’m shocked they beat you, going up against someone your size.” The Rousers around him laugh
ed. “Well, now,” the man noticed Leora, “that’s the sigil of East Ballardia isn’t it? A prisoner of war, I take it?”
“None of your concern,” Malcolm replied calmly, though he grew impatient.
“Well, you see, my name is Lothrin, and I serve Redwoodia.” He put his hands on his sides. “You do know that we lay claim to the upper Southwoods.”
“And does that claim mean no one is allowed to pass through?” Malcolm wished he would get to the point.
“Not at all,” Lothrin replied. “We allow all manner of travelers, though these parts are a might dangerous. When it comes to prisoners, though, we have special concerns. Tell me, milady, are there people who’d prefer you returned to them?”
Malcolm turned and faced Leora, shooting her a sour look. She ignored him.
“Why, yes, sir. If you take me back home, I can assure you’ll be paid substantially in gold. Redwoodians are welcome in Ballardia. Escort me home and receive your reward.”
“Quiet!” Malcolm commanded. “This is a prisoner of war belonging to King Greenvale. She’s coming with us.”
“This isn’t the Backlands, sir,” Lothrin said. Then to Leora, “Is your father a lord, by chance?”
“Yes. He is a lord.” She gestured to Malcolm. “This man has my sword and necklace. If you could pay him for them, return them to me, and bring me home, I’d be forever in your debt.”
Malcolm looked at her. “Why are you so eager to return to people who betrayed you? Don’t you want to find out who stabbed you in the back before knocking on their door?”
“Again with the lies, Malcolm. I’m fed up with your story. Lay down your weapons. Let me go with them, and I promise to send recompense your way.”
“Wait—” interrupted one of the Rousers holding a bow. “I’ve seen her before when I worked in the Crowley Keep when House Reed was visiting.”