“Odd, isn’t it. They’ve cleared the land of trees, and you can see where they once planted fields.” Cagle pointed to an abandoned plow and harness. “Why aren’t they being worked? The soil seems rich enough. Why is everyone crowded into the city? There is more going on here than meets the eye, my friend.”
Cagle studied the city for two days, watching the defenders, gauging the wall. He noted the position of the boats and how many men were on each of them. He wondered how long the city could afford to keep so many men on watch.
It matters little if a few rest. I’m sure they can muster them at a moment’s notice.
On the third day, he drilled the men. They ran through a series of exercises, practicing their swordwork, running through formations, preparing their armor, sharpening their weapons.
Alarmed at the sudden activity, the defenders blew great horns and more men flooded to the walls. They watched the drills with interest at first, then a few hours later they dwindled away to their customary numbers. They grow bored, Cagle noted with interest. They quickly tire of playing soldier and watching us. Discipline was the most important quality of a soldier, and these men didn’t have it.
I can use that to my advantage.
For five days the drills continued, and each time fewer and fewer men gathered to defend the walls. They were slower, too, often arriving in only bits and pieces of armor and still buckling those into place.
Cagle gathered the Fist leaders on the morning of the sixth day.
“Today, the city falls,” he said, gauging their reactions. These were experienced soldiers. Veterans. Every one had seen battle during the Fleure invasions. Men would die today, loyal soldiers cut down as a grim sacrifice to take the city.
“Straightforward assault?” Felnasen asked.
“Without siege equipment, how can we?” one of the Fist leaders added.
“No, not a direct assault, but we’ll let them think that,” Cagle said. “Felnasen will lead the main assault. I want a nice, leisurely march. Use up as much of the day as you can and keep our losses to a minimum. Meagera will use her mages to keep the defenders blind.” He turned to face the mage. “I don’t want them to know what we’re doing. Can the mages mask the area we discussed in fog?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Good. Once the army starts forward, shroud the troops and spread the fog out into the harbor. I want them to spend their arrows attacking empty ground.”
“We can do that,” she said.
“What are you going to be doing?” Zethul asked.
He outlined the rest of his plan.
“You are sure of this?” Vlan said.
“I am,” Cagle said. “They respond slower and slower every time, and they stopped manning their ships two days ago.”
“It’s half a mile at least. Are you sure you can swim that far? There’ll be guards at the docks for sure. My men and I could swim with you.”
“No, my friend. Each of us have our tasks, and this is mine. No matter how thick the fog is, they’ll hear and see you.”
“Why not send someone else, then?”
“I stood aside when we assaulted the defenses in the pass. My duty is here. I will not stand safe while Pal Turas and his men risk their lives.” Cagle reached over his shoulder to check his sword. The weapon was heavy and it would weigh him down, but Vlan was right. Once they reached the docks the enemy would swarm them. He had a small belt knife at his waist. Both were tied securely in place. He’d also smeared himself waist to scalp with the black grease they used on the trader’s wagon axles.
If Olinia could see me now she’d surely laugh. He’d asked her to stay back and keep an eye on Sansaba. The trader seemed honest enough, grateful even, after they’d freed her, but he didn’t fully trust her yet. First Reeve and now Sansaba—there were too many in his party he needed to watch.
Cagle studied Vlan again. The giant’s scowl rivaled that of Zethul’s; he was genuinely worried. There are still a few friends I can rely on, Cagle reminded himself.
“See you inside,” he said.
“For Honor,” Vlan clasped his fist over his heart.
“For Honor,” Cagle said, copying the gesture. He motioned to the others. There were three dozen men with him. Most were sailors, strong swimmers all, according to Pal Turas, and Cagle led them out into the bay. The tall captain himself followed with them, looking almost eager to be in the water again after so long.
When the waves rose to his waist, Cagle started to swim. He oriented himself toward the end of the wall, the exact spot where one of the patrol ships usually waited. He kept his hands low and close to the water, kicking his feet but not so hard as to splash. If they were seen they’d be easy targets for bowmen, like salmon in a stream.
He swam a hundred strokes, two hundred, then three. The water was dark as midnight and cold, far colder than in the Karthan lowlands; it sucked the air from his lungs. The wind too was icy and thick near the sea’s inky surface. He cursed himself for not thinking of the cold. When they arrived at the docks they might be too frozen and numb to fight.
He arrived at the wall at last and held to one of the stones, resting his aching arms and legs. The rock was slimy, years of seaweed and moss coating it. It smelled of salt and rot. The sailors followed his lead, lining up along the base and keeping their heads ducked low. Cagle counted them. Thirty-three. He waited a few minutes for the stragglers, finally seeing them further down the wall.
Well, the easiest part is done.
He checked his sword and knife. Both were still secure. His greatest fear was arriving at the docks surrounded by enemies while weaponless. He could hear sounds in the fog, men shouting, bows singing. Felnasen was doing his part.
He raised an arm and then pushed away from the wall, swimming off around the end and swinging around toward the docks.
Again he counted his strokes—one hundred, then two. He saw the flash of a large shape pass beneath him, a darker shade of black within the depths, moving fast. He caught another glimpse of it seconds later—a pointed head, triangle-shaped fins, and a long, powerful tail.
Cagle’s heart froze. By the Creator, a bull shark.
Bull sharks were notoriously aggressive and territorial by nature. The adults often grew to the length of a rowboat, which they occasionally attacked. They feared nothing. Fishermen caught them out of Monport, though they were rare. Cagle had seen the bones of one on the beach once. He remembered the huge open mouth and row upon row of white, jagged teeth. He swam faster, still trying not to splash. The docks were still a hundred strokes off. It would take him minutes to reach them—minutes he didn’t have. If the shark struck and even a single man screamed, it would all be over.
A fin rose out of the water ahead of him. Silent and quick, it came directly for him. Cagle felt at his waist for the knife. Facing a shark in the water was worse than stupid, but he wouldn’t let himself be eaten without a fight.
The knife refused to come free; he’d tied it too well. The fin was just a few yards off. Suddenly, the creature changed course and vanished beneath the low waves. Cagle’s breath caught in his throat. He dropped his head beneath the water, trying to see from which way the shark would attack.
He felt something hard and smooth brush his leg and almost cried out in alarm.
He jerked at the knife with no effect. He felt the shark’s fin brush over his back and then turned to face it. He scanned the gloomy water, trying not to thrash.
He spied it turning to approach him once more. At first there was only a vague shape, a shadow blacker than the waves. It swam closer, closing the distance at an impossible speed. Cagle tried the knife again, but the blade remained trapped. He thought about the sword, but the longer weapon would be unwieldy in the water.
But better to die with a weapon in my hand.
Just as he was about to turn and make a desperate sprint for solid ground, he noticed something odd about the bull shark. The shape wasn’t quite right. The nose was pointed, but the whole head was actually rounded. He caught a glimpse of the tail then, and it beat up and down instead of lashing side to side. The nose nudged against him, and he heard a friendly clicking noise echoing through the water.
A damn dolphin. Not a shark. Cagle, you great silly idiot.
Cagle rose to the surface, the dolphin following along. He patted the fish on the head and it clicked again. He tread water for a moment, allowing himself to calm down. The dolphin clicked once more, turned, and then vanished into the gloom.
Cagle took a moment to study his surroundings.
The dock was another fifty yards away. He could see the creaking hulls of several ships in the bay, all secured to the docks save one. Judging from the wake, this one was headed out to the wall’s end. Lucky it didn’t arrive earlier. He saw a slim flash of white where one of his men raised an arm. He was behind them now, delayed by his embarrassing confrontation with the gregarious dolphin.
Satisfied they hadn’t yet been seen, Cagle swam for the docks again. In a few minutes, his fingers brushed against one of the wooden pilings. Then he felt the sun, warm and welcome on his face. Meagera’s mists didn’t quite extend this far. He ducked beneath the wooden planks and vanished into the shadows.
The men waited for him there, or most of them, at least.
“The rest?” he whispered to the nearest.
The sailor pointed. “Beneath the other pier.”
“Good.”
“Do we wait for night or strike now?”
Cagle moved his head so he could see the sun between the planks. Four more hours until dark. The swim had been much farther and taken a lot longer than he’d planned. Felnasen would be finishing his maneuvers now. He might even be at the wall. There would be no point starting now. Surely, he would have noticed the delay and retreated.
“We wait. We’ll slip out at dark and find our way to the gatehouse.” Cagle studied the man’s craggy face. “Think you can slip beneath the water and swim over to the other pier to tell the others?”
“I can,” the man nodded. “Captain Turas once said I was half-fish.”
“Tell them we’ll move once the moon is up. I’ll send another man to let them know when it’s time.”
Cagle cursed his luck. His task would prove easier to accomplish at night, but how much blood had been spilled while he dallied?
He took his belt from around his waist. The knife was still stuck in its sheath. The leather had swelled, trapping the blade, and it took him several minutes to draw it. When it was free he sliced the belt longwise to the buckle, doubling its length. Then he brought the belt around his back and beneath his armpits. A line of pilings ran down the center of the broad pier, and he swam for the nearest. He buckled the lengthened belt around both it and himself. He stopped kicking his feet and, though he sagged, the belt held him fast with his neck just above the water. It would have to do.
The other men saw what he’d done and copied him. Cagle leaned his head back against the slime-covered wood. He realized then how exhausted he was. The muscles of his legs and arms clenched and cramped. Though the water under the pier was warmer, his body felt frozen through after the long swim.
Just as well we wait. I don’t know how much fighting we could have done.
He hung along the piling, head leaning on the post, and slept.
A tug at his belt awakened him. He came out of the sleep quickly and to the sound of lapping waves, cold and dry down around his knees. It was dark, and it took him a moment to get his bearings.
“What the—” he started.
“The tide’s gone out,” someone whispered. “And the moon is up.”
Cagle swallowed and looked around. He wasn’t alone. There were men in the water below, all staring at him. The sailors—the sailors were with him. They were all hiding beneath the pier in an enemy city.
Creator, but my head is groggy and I feel like death. Evidently sleeping under a pier, lashed to a post, half submerged in frigid water isn’t the best decision I’ve ever made.
“We’ve got to go,” Cagle croaked, drawing his knife and slicing the belt free. He slid down into the water without a sound. Cold before, the water was liquid ice now that the sun was down, and it forced the air from his lungs. His cheeks pumped like bellows as he tried to breathe against the shock of it.
One of the sailors chuckled. “Look at him blow,” he said.
“Nice evening for a swim,” Cagle said, “though next time I’ll make sure to bring prettier companions with me.”
More men laughed at that. “Ain’t been one of us yet didn’t puff that same way.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ve had enough seawater for one day. I’m no sailor,” Cagle said. “One of you swim over and get the others ready. We’ll give you a few minutes and then head up onto the shore. You see any guards?”
“No sir, not lately,” another answered. “A couple walked by about an hour ago. They stood around for a minute, smoking and talking. Then left. No one since.”
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
Cagle waited until the messenger returned, and then he led the group into the shallows, sticking to the shadows beneath the pier. Once he felt the sea floor beneath him he stood, or rather tried to. His legs were numb from the knees down, and he had to grab a piling for support. The others were doing the same.
He waited until he could stand and then took his sheathed sword from his back. It too was trapped, but a few cuts along the scabbard with his knife freed it. Cagle squeezed the hilt tight. It felt good just to hold a real blade again. He’d tied the crystal his father had given him around the scabbard as well, and he hung it back around his neck now.
Ready at last, Cagle eased out around the dock, struggling to stop his legs from shaking with the cold.
The town lay quiet. A few lazy orange torches hung along the little avenues between rows of silent shops and sleeping houses. A big, shadowed building loomed nearby, likely a warehouse. There were others like it scattered all along the harbor. Cagle crept to the closest.
He shivered in the freezing night air. A moment later, the first of his men moved alongside, then two more, and then the rest. They waited until the second group emerged from their own pier and joined them.
Lightly, Cagle rapped his sword twice on the warehouse’s wall, making sure he had everyone’s attention, then he led them out.
They kept to the shadows, moving slow, steady, and ever inland. They passed a shop, and Cagle tried the door. The latch was locked. He felt along the door’s edge. There was a narrow gap between the door and frame. He handed his sword to the man behind him and jammed the tip of his knife into the crack. He raised it and felt it click against the latch. Gently, he lifted against it. The latch didn’t move. He swore under his breath. Just his luck to find a deadbolt. Hoping he was wrong, he strained harder, and the latch shifted an inch. He lifted harder still and pushed against the door, and it swung inward.
The shop was large and, though it was dark, a hint of torchlight shone through one of the corner windows. Cagle fumbled his way to the counter at the back and found a small oil lamp.
“Anyone have a flint?” he whispered.
“I do.” The imposing frame of Pal Turas approached, and Cagle handed him the lamp.
“Keep the light low,” Cagle said.
In moments, the captain had the lamp glowing behind the counter, and they could see the shop better. The place looked neat and tidy. Bolts of cloth in painted racks lay near the front and sa
cks of flour, sugar, and salt were arranged all along the far wall. Bricks of beeswax and tiny jars of amber honey were stacked in the front window.
The stocks of food were low; just a few small parcels of each. The shop didn’t seem to have much.
“Look around. See if you can find anything we can use,” Cagle said. “We’ll dry off and get warmed up before pressing ahead.” He tapped the shoulder of the nearest man. “Come with me, I want to check the upstairs.”
On cat feet, Cagle crept up the stairwell. He’d been prepared to find the shop’s owner and family sleeping upstairs— many Karthan shopkeepers lived above their stores—but the rooms here were empty save for a few scattered crates. The first crate contained a soft white cheese, and he sent the sailor down carrying several blocks of it. The next crate held salted pork. He picked up three bundles and went back down. The men had a tiny fire going in the hearth and most of them were wrapped in the bolts of cloth.
“Some pork for you boys,” he said.
“Well, this isn’t half-bad,” one of the sailors said. “But next time let’s break into a brothel.”
The others laughed under their breath. “I’m not sure they’d welcome us, smelling like we do,” another said.
“You must be used to high-end women,” another answered. “My type don’t care what you smell like.”
As the rest of his body started to warm, Cagle noticed that his feet remained half-frozen. Before the swim, he’d wrapped them in wool to give them a layer of protection, but now the material was soaked through.
“Someone check around and see if you can find some boots,” he said. “And if there’s ale or wine, leave it.”
“Aww, come on, general, a nip won’t hurt us none,” one said. “Warm us right up.”
Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One Page 9