The Fall of Lostport

by R. J. Vickers

  Coughing, Conard set the thermos aside. “I’m not dead?”

  “Not yet,” Jairus said. When Conard dragged himself around to slump against the bow, he saw Jairus sitting at the tiller of their tiny sailboat. Despite the storm, Jairus had not furled the sail. Each gust of wind threatened to heel them over, and several waves did manage to lap over the sides and swamp the boat. Conard spotted a bucket beside Jairus’s feet—clearly he had been bailing them out. The sail was reefed as far as it could go, though it was hardly enough in this storm. Conard could tell Jairus had little experience with handling boats, or he would have chosen a hardier vessel with a storm jib.

  “You saved me,” Conard said, sitting up straighter. “Why?”

  “I wished to repay my debt. You did the same.”

  Conard groaned and wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Did you hit me over the head first?”

  “Of course not! This would have been much easier with someone to help with the sails. No, you were already unconscious when I found you. I think a wave might have knocked you over.”

  “Where are we going, then?”

  “Away.”

  For the first time, Conard looked past the tiny boat and realized where they were. Jairus had managed to steer them onto the Samiread River, where they were being buffeted by a fierce current. The canyon walls, far shorter than Conard remembered, had diminished the wind’s ferocity, which explained why their sail had not been ripped to shreds. They were making very little headway against the current, though they certainly were moving upstream little by little.

  “We will both be killed if we return to Lostport,” Jairus said. “I will return to Varrival, and you can travel to the Twin Cities. We are young enough that we can find work without trouble.”

  “And neither of us can have Laina,” Conard said. “She won’t be able to give up her chances at the throne. She’ll marry a prince as soon as one appears.”

  Jairus nodded grimly.

  “I would still rather go back and help.” Conard took another gulp of the spiked cocoa, this time wishing the alcohol would numb the cold and the emptiness he felt.

  “You would die.”

  “I know.”

  Conard did not wish to say anything yet, but he knew the canyon walls would narrow before long and they would hit a section of the river that gave ships trouble even in clear weather. They would never make it past that stretch, unless they walked and dragged the sailboat behind them.

  The clouds had at least lifted, teasing them with the faintest hint of sunlight; Conard suspected the storm would clear before the next day was up. That hardly meant the waters would recede, though. It could be another five days before the river changed noticeably. Branches and logs and one or two entire trees went floating past their sailboat; Jairus fought to steer the boat away from these, struggling to position the tiller against the current.

  When the winds began to change, blowing from the southeast instead of the south, Conard took up the sails, lengthening the sheets to catch the new gale.

  “Why did you actually save me?” he asked, settling onto the narrow bar running across the center of the boat.

  Jairus stared straight ahead, unblinking, and for a moment Conard thought he would not answer. Then, softly, he said, “Because I did not want Laina to give up.”

  Before long, a massive tree forced Jairus to steer nearly into the cliffs to avoid getting tangled in its roots. The rapids were approaching now, and Conard could not remember if there was any break in the canyon walls before they hit.

  “We need to get off the river,” he said. “We won’t make it much farther. If we get caught in the rapids ahead, we’ll be thrown against the rocks.”

  “There is nowhere to stop,” Jairus said.

  “Look for something. Otherwise we have to turn around.”

  Jairus nodded tersely.

  The short banks of the river had grown to unrelenting walls of rock and mud, sloping away so steeply that some parts had been gouged into the ground at a concave slant.

  “There!” Conard shouted, pointing at a tree that had collapsed into the river but still clung to the banks by its roots. “Make for that. If we can grab it, we can climb up from the river.”

  “You are mad,” Jairus said. Still, he turned the boat toward the tree, angling so they could approach just downstream of it. If they collided head-on into the tree, they could very well tear it free of its tenuous hold.

  The first time they neared the tree, Jairus undershot it, clearly afraid of doing just that. They whisked past one of its more spindly branches and collided into the riverbank, which was thankfully no more than soft mud. Conard hurried to adjust the sails as Jairus sent them in a spiraling arc before approaching the tree once more.

  This time their bow knocked lightly against the main trunk. Abandoning the sails, Conard threw himself over the port side of the boat and wrapped his arms around the tree. The trunk shifted beneath his weight but did not wrench free.

  “Grab that branch!” he shouted at Jairus.

  As soon as Jairus caught hold of one of the fat upper branches, Conard dragged himself out of the boat and onto the trunk. Arms around the trunk, he shimmied his way up toward the riverbank, locking his feet onto each solid branch he reached for reassurance. The tree was bobbing lightly in the current; with each movement, Conard was certain it would roll over and dump him into the river.

  “Careful!” Jairus yelled.

  Conard gripped the tree fiercely, and a heartbeat later, a solid log collided with the branches. He was flung sideways and nearly lost his hold on the water-slicked trunk. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying the tree would hold. It was swaying more than ever, buffeted back and forth with each wave.

  It held.

  Slower now, Conard continued to climb. The riverbank was close now, but he could not see how to clamber over the roots without dislodging the entire tree. When he reached the top and got a sturdy hold on two gnarled roots, he turned to see whether Jairus was still afloat.

  “I’m afraid I’ll knock the tree off,” Conard called.

  “Just go!”

  Gingerly, Conard hauled himself up until he was standing on the trunk, braced against the netting of roots. He used the roots like a stepladder and climbed slowly over the tree and onto the sagging banks of the Samiread.

  “I made it,” he called back. Circling around the tree, he watched Jairus fumble for a good handhold on the tree.

  “Maybe I should toss up a rope,” Jairus said. “I am not so good at climbing trees.”

  “Do you have one that’s long enough?”

  One hand still on the tree, Jairus knelt and rummaged beneath the one seat on the sailboat. “Will this work?” He held up an algae-encrusted rope.

  “Give it a try.” Conard held out his arms to catch the rope. He no longer trusted the tree to remain in place.

  Jairus’s first throw missed the cliff by more than two paces. He wound the rope under one arm before trying again. This time he put his entire body into the throw, releasing the tree and leaning back to build up a bit of momentum. As soon as he let go of the branch, his sailboat began drifting quickly downstream. Conard edged along the shore to keep pace with the boat, hoping desperately that it would not catch on a rock.

  Jairus hurled the rope at the cliff. Conard thought it was going to fall short once more, but the very end of the rope whipped against the top of the cliff. Conard dove for the frayed end, landing on his stomach and sending a clot of dirt careening over the cliff.

  “Hold tight,” he yelled. Quickly, before the sailboat could drag him downriver too far, Conard lashed the rope to a tree and tied it firmly. “Now climb!”

  Below, the boat was being yanked downstream so fiercely that Jairus was doubled forward to keep ahold of the rope.

  “Leave the boat and climb!” Conard bellowed.

  Jairus stepped over the side of the boat and plunged into the water, so deep the waves slapped at his chin. Then he began t
o climb the rope, slowly and awkwardly making his way out of the river. When he reached the clifftop at last, Conard grabbed his arm and pulled him over. Jairus collapsed on the mud, panting, his face pale.

  “I’m guessing you haven’t climbed much,” Conard said, trying to appear sympathetic rather than mocking. “I suppose there aren’t many trees in Varrival.”

  Jairus shook his head. “I do not like heights. And I never was very strong. I am a scholar, not a warrior.”

  Conard took Jairus’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “I’m not a warrior either. I just got up to lots of trouble when I was a kid.”

  This elicited a brief smile from Jairus.

  “And now?” Conard asked. “I hope your supplies haven’t all floated downstream with that boat.”

  Jairus turned to show Conard the rucksack he wore. “This is enough to last us at least a quarter. It is the same simple food the Darden horse-warriors take on long expeditions.”

  “And now we walk?” Conard asked, peering through the dense forest.

  “And now we walk.”

  They trudged along the riverbank for all of that day and half of the next. At times, the forest grew so dense that they lost sight of the river, though the thunderous rapids were easy enough to find. The rain slowed on the morning of the second day, leaving the forest dripping as heavily as the rain had fallen. Birdsong began to ring through the trees once more, and occasionally Conard caught sight of a fantail or a bellbird flitting among the leaves.

  When midday drew near on the second day, the sun was so close to breaking through the clouds that Conard had to squint when he looked into the sky.

  “How do you stand this weather?” Jairus asked, shaking an especially large drop of water from his forehead.

  “It’s only part of the year,” Conard said. “The rest of the time it’s warm and sunny. We spend our summer by the ocean, swimming or sailing or exploring. This place wouldn’t be half so alive without the rains.”

  “There is beauty in emptiness, too,” Jairus said. “But I find Varrival too harsh. Lostport is too closed in for me, so I prefer Dardensfell. Enough life and enough emptiness for me.”

  “I never thought about it that way, I guess,” Conard said. “If I ever want to be somewhere vast, I just go out to sea. No one knows what lies beyond Lostport and Varrival, so it’s fun to imagine where you might end up.”

  “I never liked the sea much, either,” Jairus admitted.

  Conard grinned. “Fair enough. After what we just went through, I’ll be waiting a while before I set foot on another boat.”

  Just then, he heard something large rustling in the bush.

  “What is that?” Jairus whispered.

  Conard backed away and shrank behind a tree, waiting for whatever was lurking in the bush to reveal itself. A moment later, two women and a boy stumbled out of the underbrush and caught sight of Conard and Jairus.

  “You didn’t come with us, did you?” one of the women asked. She was dressed as a Darden warrior, while her companion wore a more conservative dress and cloak.

  “No, we’ve just come up from Lostport,” Conard said, stepping out from behind the tree. On closer inspection, the women both looked a bit worse for wear—the Darden warrior had a long scratch down one cheek, and the other woman’s dress was torn in several places. “What are you doing in the middle of the rainforest?”

  “Are you from Whitland or Lostport?” the Darden warrior asked suspiciously.

  Looking down, Conard realized he still wore his Whitish uniform, though it was stained almost beyond recognition. “Lostport,” he said. “Long story—I’ve been passing as a Whitish soldier in an attempt to persuade the soldiers to head back home, until I was sentenced to drown.”

  Jairus stood and circled to the front of the bushes where he had remained hidden until that moment. At the sight of him, both women relaxed fractionally. “The Whitish have become too strong,” he said. “If we return, we will both die at their hands.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Conard said lightly. “Why are you stumbling through the middle of the forest in this weather?”

  The women shared a glance, and the warrior nodded. “We have traveled south with Queen Katrien. She rode ahead of us, and we tried to follow. There are many of us. We joined her to help free Lostport from King Luistan’s grip. Two days after we set off from Ferrydown, the storm hit. We tried to continue on, but many of our boats were smashed against the cliffs, and those of us who survived managed to climb up the riverbanks. For three days we have been wandering the forest, trying to regroup, and now we have gathered everyone who remains.”

  “You should go back,” Jairus said. “Lostport is a very dangerous place now. There are ten thousand Whitish builders living there, and they hate Varrilans.”

  “Fewer than half of our followers are Varrilan,” the second woman said. “We have Dardens and Kohls and even a few from Ruunas within our ranks.”

  “Still. I will not return to Lostport again.” Jairus folded his arms, his intelligent face fiercer than Conard had ever seen it.

  “Will you show us the way, then, good sir?” the second woman asked Conard.

  “It’s simple,” Conard said. “If you follow the river until it hits the sea, you’ll be right at the town docks.”

  “And what can we scavenge for food?” the warrior asked. “All of our supplies were washed downstream.”

  Conard sighed. “I suppose I could accompany you, just to the edge of the forest. I can’t show my face in town again. I’ve been accused of treason, and I have no way of proving my innocence.”

  “Please do,” the second woman said. She gave Conard a smile that lit her plain face with hope. “We would be forever in your debt.”

  Conard looked back at Jairus. “And you? Will you join me?”

  Jairus shook his head. “I made my choice. I will travel north and leave this place behind. I am sorry, Conard. You are a good man.” He picked his way over a clump of ferns to Conard’s side and gave him a brief embrace. “Thank you for saving me twice.”

  Conard gripped his hand. “And thank you for doing the same for me.”

  Just past the two women, Jairus stopped and unhooked his rucksack from his shoulders. He tossed it to Conard, who barely managed to catch it. “Take this. It is not much, but it might keep those people alive.”

  “What about you?” Conard said. He made to throw the pack back to Jairus, who ducked behind a tree. “You’ll starve!”

  “I have traveled these parts before,” Jairus said. “I will make do.”

  “You must go to Ferrydown,” the second woman said. “Give them this.” She pressed an elaborately-detailed compass into Jairus’s hand. “Tell them your story, and beg for food. The people of Ferrydown support Lostport fiercely, and they will honor you for what you have done.”

  “I cannot accept this,” Jairus said.

  “You must.”

  “Thank you, Milady.” With a last glance at Conard, Jairus turned and disappeared into the woods.

  * * *

  Faolan and Katrien were sitting at dinner when a runner came from Lostport with the news.

  It was a young man whom Faolan recognized from one of the patrols on the night of Conard’s execution. “They’re burning our houses! We need help. The soldiers are ransacking the village!”

  “Has the rain stopped?” Faolan asked, getting to his feet.

  “Yes, it has. And they’re lighting our houses from the inside. Half the village is on fire!”

  “Mylo!” Faolan called. “Gather our household and send down whoever is willing to assist!”

  The cook hurried from the kitchen and broke into a run as he left the dining hall.

  Katrien had gone pale, though she did not betray any sense of alarm.

  “I bloody well should have denied them supplies,” Faolan snapped. “Ill-bred scoundrels, the lot of them.”

  “These are not the men camped at Port Emerald,” Katrien said sti
ffly. “It is possible their captain has not sanctioned such violence. These men may have simply run amok.”

  “Perhaps,” Faolan said skeptically. “You should keep yourself safe, and be wary in case the soldiers decide to pay a visit to our manor. I must visit the town and see if our men can be organized.”

  “I would rather accompany you,” Katrien said.

  Faolan almost smiled at that. She was every bit as daring and headstrong as Laina. “We must leave someone here. I admit that I would like to keep you within my sight, but there has to be someone at home to protect our manor. Please remain here. I cannot trust anyone else to negotiate with the soldiers should they advance on this place.”

  “I will obey your wishes,” Katrien said reluctantly. She followed Faolan into the entrance hall and stood to the side while he hurried upstairs to fetch his sword and chainmail vest. Both had been decorative gifts from Katrien’s family, never before used in conflict. There had never been a need in Lostport. The chainmail vest was a bit tight over his stomach, though it did not restrict him too much. He donned his coat over the vest, not wishing to frighten anyone with the notion that this revolt called for proper arms. If this was to become a war, Lostport was doomed from the start.

  Back downstairs, Faolan joined his household in frantic preparation. Mylo and his assistants were strapping kitchen knives to their belts; even his youngest new assistant was slipping knives into every loop of her great overcoat. She finished with a slim dagger in her boot. They were joined by Nort, Barrik, Harrow, both gardeners, and the tailor. Of Faolan’s staff, only the housekeeper would remain behind.

  Katrien’s companions from Dardensfell were hurrying about in similar preparations—the two Darden warriors strapped hardened leather braces about their arms and legs, with chainmail shirts beneath it all, while the young Whitish girl and her Varrilan friend donned what Faolan recognized as old plate armor Katrien must have dug up from the storage room where Kurjan had lain while his wounds healed.

  “No!” Katrien called, hurrying over to the Varrilan youth’s side. “Kurjan, you must remain behind. Your wound will never heal if you go running off now!”