“We stopped using this a few years ago. It's too damp these days to store barrels in it for long,” he explained, as he struggled with the hatch. “It does go right under the back room though, so if we're quiet, we should be able to hear a bit.”
The cellar was low and Devin had to duck down to fit through the narrow hatch. He slid down the wooden ramp designed to accommodate the barrels of ale and into the darkness. Kainen followed, pulling the hatch closed behind him.
There was a soft scraping noise and a burst of sparks, as Kainen lit a small lantern, turning the flame low. It provided just enough light to show his face. He pressed his finger to his lips, calling for silence, and led the way through the cellar.
The damp was evident as they made their way through the gloom. A chill in the air and a slippery feel to the stones of the walls and wooden beams, which were enough to make them place their feet with extra caution. Noises filtered down from above, the footsteps loud enough to make Devin realise that a single noise made at the wrong time would have the two of them discovered.
Kainen led the way through the cellar, past disused racks that had once housed barrels and shaped shelves designed for wine bottles. He stopped close to the wall and pointed upwards, before cupping his ear.
They sat on the damp floor for a while and Devin began to wonder if they had wasted their time as he tried not to think about the possibility of rats. A loud set of footsteps made both of them look up and they came silently to their feet.
“Thank you all for coming together so quickly,” an unknown voice carried down through the floorboards. “I won't keep you for long. I just need to inform you of our orders from Duke Freyton.”
“It's no trouble, Commander,” Father Trallen said, his pompous voice carrying just as clearly.
“Why don't we all take a seat?” Owen said and a scraping of chairs and muted thumps accompanied their seating themselves around the large table. Devin had been around the rooms of the inn enough times to be able to picture the room they sat in. A simple chamber, dominated by a large circular table able to seat ten or twelve, it was probably originally intended for private functions, but it had little use beyond the council meetings these days.
“To business, then,” Harlen growled, as glass clinked and a liquid gurgled.
“As you probably know, the Bjornmen raids have worsened in recent years,” the commander began, to a rumble of assent. “The duke has ordered that we put in a relay of beacons leading in from the coast. They've proven effective to the south in Baron Rentrew's lands, so we've been sent to put them in place here, along with forts.”
“What does this have to do with us?” Cedril's voice was harsh and bordering on outright rudeness.
“That's hardly civil, Master Miller,” Father Trallen said, with a reproachful tone.
“Civil or not, this is building up to something and I doubt we'll like the smell of it,” Cedril snapped.
“Gentlemen, please!” Owen staved off the developing bickering. “Commander, please carry on.”
“We've been ordered to put in a beacon tower on the hill near your village,” the commander explained. “We're also looking for some good young men to help man it.”
“It'd keep some of them out of trouble,” growled Harlen.
“For a proper wage, I trust?” Cedril asked.
“Wage, uniform and training,” the commander said, reassuringly. “It's not the most glamorous job in the world, but it is important and we need responsible lads for it.”
“Alright. What else?” Owen sighed.
“His Grace has ordered us to fortify all of the villages within twenty leagues of the coast.”
“Fortify?” asked Owen softly, in the silence that followed. “How?”
“A stone wall or wooden palisade is the usual method,” the commander advised. “Widdengate is hardly ideal, however. You're a little spread out for my liking.”
“We're built the way we're built.” Cedril said. “Mill near the river, farms near the fields. How do you put a fence around that?”
“The only thing I can suggest is that we leave some of the outlying structures outside of the palisade,” admitted the commander. “We'll have to set up some form of warning signal calling people into the village.”
“The bell tower on the church might suffice,” Trallen said.
“I can't say I see the need for all of this,” Cedril said, scraping his chair back. “Widdengate is miles from the coast. It must be close to twenty leagues away, as it is. ”
“I'm just informing you of my orders,” the commander said, in a tone that left no room for argument.
“Yes, but it's not you having to scurry through the dark to the village every time a boy gets drunk and sneaks in to play in the church, is it?” snapped the miller.
A silence fell for a moment, as both the men above and the boys below absorbed the information. Finally, Harlen spoke. “Who will pay for all this?”
“You're a wise man, Master Smith,” the commander said. “Nothing comes for free in this life. I've not heard anything about it, but if I were you, I'd expect an extra visit from the tax collectors this year.”
Harlen grunted and his chair scraped against the wooden floorboards above Devin's head. “Is there anything else?”
“I think that covers everything,” the commander said, briskly. “I will place notices in the village about the recruitment. Any lad interested should come and see my sergeants before sunset this Noonday.”
Devin hunched low without thinking, as the scraping of chairs indicated the end of the meeting. Dust fell from the beams above their heads and long-abandoned spider webs shook in the light of Kainen's lantern.
The sunlight burned Devin's eyes as he pushed the hatch open, but he ignored it and clambered out of the cellar. The smell of dust and damp still filled his nose and he took deep breaths of the fresh spring air to try and clear it. Kainen closed the hatch and pushed barrels back into place.
“So, it looks like we're getting our own beacon tower,” Devin said with a broad grin.
“You going to try for one of the jobs?” Kainen asked, as he brushed the cobwebs from his hair.
“I'm not sure,” Devin said, as he picked dust and dirt from his clothes. “It sounds good and all, but I bet it'd get awful boring before long.”
“I'd wager you our friendly miller's son is one of the first in line, though,” Kainen said, with a knowing smile.
“If he wants to stand guard over a bonfire, he's welcome to it.” Devin spat. “That's if anyone's stupid enough to trust him with an open flame.”
Chapter Ten
Klöss leaned against the tree and looked out over the bay. Ships at anchor filled the waters and the shore itself was packed with crews working on the new vessels that would become the fleet. Keels, sprouting ribs, extended out as far as he could see along the bay in either direction, and another five camps just like this dotted the shores of the surrounding islands. The morning was grey and menacing clouds hung low in the sky. The weather was a good match for his scarred and bearded face and he seemed to reflect the mood of the skies, as he glowered down at the ships. He scratched at his thick beard and rolled his shoulders inside his well-worn leathers. The wind grabbed at his long, black cloak, whipping and tossing it as it tugged at his shoulders. He grabbed at it irritably and made his way down the hillside towards the camp.
The camp was surrounded by a high wall, made of thick, sharpened poles, and a deep ditch filled with short, vicious stakes. He grunted at the guards on the gate as he strode through without challenge, and made for a long, low building at the edge of the camp. The smells of cooking food filled the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of sawdust and pitch.
The streets were not paved and the spring rains had turned them to into an oozing mess. Wooden walkways had been laid down to try and help, but they seemed to make little difference. They didn't cover everywhere, the lay of the land prevented that. Sooner or later, a man needed to cross the street
and this meant trudging through the thick, clay-like mud. This, in turn, was tracked onto the walkways and by mid-morning, on any given day, the walkways were only marginally better than the streets.
The camp was busy. He didn't know why he even still thought of it as a camp. It was closer to being a small town now, with men and women bustling through the mucky streets, dressed in thick, practical clothing. There were subtle differences, though. The camp had no hawkers on the streets selling this and that. No one stopped to chat idly with friends. There were few children and those there were worked as hard as their parents. This was a camp preparing for war and it showed in a thousand tiny ways.
He stamped up a set of wooden steps and stopped to scrape the mud from his boots on an iron scraper set into the wood beside the top step, before going inside.
“Klöss!” Verig said, opening his arms wide. He was sitting at a long table, behind a huge platter of food. The man had changed in five years, turning greyer and harder. “How is my Lord of the Mud Camps, this morning?” He belched hard and wiped his mouth on his dark, leather-clad sleeve before returning to the plate in front of him.
Klöss grunted in response and went to the fireplace, lifting the kettle from its hook and shaking it experimentally to listen to the water slosh. “As well as any other day in this god-forsaken place,” he muttered. He swung the kettle over the fire on the bent iron rod set into the stone fireplace.
“How do things look?” the old trainer asked, more for something to say than from any real curiosity.
“Bad. The same,” Klöss said, without looking around. He rested his forearm on the stones of the chimney. “We're still behind schedule. We will only have two-thirds of the ships ready in time, at this rate. It's all I need.”
“You wanted it, Klöss,” Verig reminded him, drinking deeply from a tankard.
Klöss grunted again and then looked curiously at the man. “What is that? Mead?” The older man nodded and smiled. “It's barely past sun up, man!”
“You sound like you have a point, Klöss,” Verig said, with dark eyes. “Were you planning on making it?”
“Just don't let it interfere with the training, is all,” Klöss said quickly. “My uncle is due here today to inspect things and, given the state of the fleet, the last thing I need is men who aren't ready either.”
“Listen to yourself, man. You're whining like a petulant child,” Verig said, his voice stern. “You asked for this post. Badgered him for a month or more, if I recall rightly. Though why you'd want to give up a decent reaver and crew to sit in a muddy camp is beyond me.”
“Because, Verig, here in this muddy camp, he has me. On the reaver, all he has is sweaty men,” a soft voice carried in from the doorway.
“That's a good reason to go to a muddy camp, Ylsriss,” Verig said, unruffled by her nearly silent entrance. “Not a good reason to stay there, though.”
“You have too little soul in you, Verig,” the willowy blonde said, as she moved behind Klöss to wrap her arms around him. The thin, grey dress clung to her body beneath the thick fur-lined cloak she wore and the swell of her belly was just starting to show. It wouldn't have done, if the dress had been slightly less clingy. Verig was almost glad when she pressed herself to Klöss's back. Some things you shouldn't be caught looking at.
“You're not the first to say that, Ylsriss,” the small man said easily. “The New Dayers seem to say it all the time.” He turned back to Klöss. “Are you sure letting them in the camp was a good idea? I mean, I understand bringing the women, but priests? Really?”
“She's right, Verig,” said Klöss, with a dry chuckle “You do have too little soul in you.” He disentangled himself from Ylsriss gently and went to the fireplace to pull the hissing kettle from the fire. “Luckily, you have the finest sword skills I've ever seen. I'll take that and let the priests worry about your soul.” He busied himself with kettle, ground leaves and cups for a moment, before handing a steaming mug to Ylsriss. “Nettle, I'm afraid,” he said, with a wink. “As for the priests, Verig,” he said, blowing on his own cup, “the men need something to take their minds off where we are and what we do. Not every man is as lucky as I am, or as soulless as you.”
Verig grunted and drank deeply from his tankard, before thumping it down on the table and pushing his chair back as he stood. “Well, I suppose I ought to be turning these downy-faced lads into something more than walking targets,” he said.
“As a once downy-faced lad, I know they'll appreciate it some day,” Klöss said, with a tired grin. “Just probably not today.”
“Definitely not today,” Verig said, with an evil glint in his eye, and left.
“He's a bad man, rich boy,” Ylsriss said, in a low voice.
“You haven't called me that in years,” he chuckled. “As for bad men, sometimes I think we all are.” He turned to her as a thought struck him. “What are you doing this morning?”
“I'll have to check my calendar,” Ylsriss replied, with a straight face. “There is so much to occupy a lady's time here.”
Klöss ignored that. “I need to walk through the shipyards and speak to the work crews. Would you like to come?”
“And miss the opportunity to wade through all that sludge?” She smiled her crooked smile. “Not for all the stars in the sky!”
He set his half-empty cup down on the table and moved towards the door. “What? Now?” she said, as he laughed and held the door open for her.
The sun was bright, but carried little heat, as it peeked through the hazy clouds, and the breeze coming in from the sea brought a wet chill along with it. It was a welcome breeze, however, as the camp always seemed to have the lingering stink of burning pitch about it. They huddled into their cloaks, as they walked along the wooden walkways towards the edge of the camp. The distant noises of the shipyard drifted up to them, mingling with the ever-present ringing from the smithy.
“Was what Verig said true?” Ylsriss asked, after a few minutes.
“About what?” Klöss replied, in a distracted fashion, as he scowled out at the distant waves.
“About you asking to come here.” Ylsriss replied, with a dangerous lilt in her voice.
“Oh. That.”
“Yes. That.”
“Yes, I did.” Klöss replied, shortly. “It's a big thing Uncle Aiden intends to do. I want to be a part of it.”
“And you will be,” Ylsriss said firmly. “He'd not likely leave his most successful Shipmaster out of his scheme. But why this?” She waved her hand vaguely at the camp and distant shipyard.
He looked around and frowned.
“What's wrong, Klöss? You've been in a foul mood for days,” she demanded.
“It's just not possible!” he burst out, stabbing a finger at the shipyards. “We're falling further and further behind, and I just can't see a solution. Frostbeard wants the ships and men to be ready in three months, and he just doesn't seem to see a problem with that. I had to build the camp from nothing, harvest the lumber and get Gareth to design the landers. There simply wasn't enough time.”
“Why don't you just tell him, then?” Ylsriss replied, reasonably.
“Because he doesn't damned well listen!” Klöss exploded. “He doesn't see it. I only have so many men. I needed them all to harvest the lumber and build the camp. Then I needed to get the ships built as fast as possible. I couldn't have them harvesting lumber and training to be halfway decent oarsmen at the same time.”
“So what have you done?” she asked, in a small voice.
“I've let the ships suffer,” he admitted. “We're only going to have two in three of them ready in time.”
He stepped off the end of the walkway and led her along a shingle path running alongside the beach. Almost the entire shoreline of the bay had been transformed into a shipyard, with space only spared for the docks. The huge boats were in various stages of construction. Some were waiting to be moved down towards the sea on the massive log rollers. Others were little more than skeletons, wi
th just the keel and bare ribs completed.
Workmen scurried around the bones of the ships like so many ants. Massive cranes worked to move the huge beams into place, while ponies walked docilely inside the large wooden wheels that drove the winches.
Klöss spotted a grey-haired man standing high on the deck of one of the ships that looked close to completion. He held his arm high as he hailed him. “Gareth!”
The man looked across and raised a hand in greeting, before turning back to the men he was talking to. Some of his long, grey hair was tied at the nape with a simple leather thong, but most of it had come loose and whipped wildly about his face in the wind.
As they drew closer, Gareth waved his arms at the men, his whole air one of frustration. His shouts could be heard through the wind, though the words could not. He climbed nimbly down one of several ladders leaning against the sides of the hulking ship and made his way over to meet them, adjusting the large rolls of parchment he carried under one arm.
“My Lord Campmaster,” he said formally, offering a slight nod of the head that could have grown up to become a bow, had it had slightly more ambition. He turned to Ylsriss and the bow bucked its ideas up as he greeted her. “my lady.”
“I'm not a lady, Gareth,” Ylsriss said, with a wicked smile. “And I'm certainly not yours.” She placed a hand on her stomach and gave Klöss a meaningful look.
“Gareth, I've asked you not to do that,” Klöss muttered. “I'm no more a lord than you are. If you must call me something, call me Shipmaster. At least that implies I go somewhere. This camp seems to be going nowhere!”
The grey-haired man responded with a tight grin.
“Tell me you have some good news for me, old man,” Klöss said, his eyes showed his worry and plead more urgently than his voice.
“Nothing's changed, Shipmaster,” Gareth said, without apology. “I told you six weeks ago that we needed more men.”
“And I explained to you then that you couldn't have them,” Klöss said, as his face grew hard. “I told you to find a way to get the work done with what you had.”
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