War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  Chapter 79: Sally’s High Touch, Northcraven Harbor, mid-Leath

  Some called it the witch’s moon, some called it the devil’s moon, and in southern Mortentia there were some who still called it Marten’s moon, but to Coril Jemms the month of Leath would always be the month when the cannibals came to Northcraven. The cannibals had been there, of course, all along. It was the starving that brought them out from beneath the skin of otherwise normal folk, craftsmen, merchants, sailors and soldiers.

  When the cannibals came, wearing rags or stained clothing and carrying spears or butcher’s knives, the children who survived by eating tiny fish caught off the piers ran and hid, and mostly they escaped, but sometimes they did not, and the cannibals carried them away screaming.

  The blackened remains of a jibbing tree stood up from the shallow part of the harbor like a devil’s trident, the remains of the Happy Accident. The Happy Accident had been moored at the end of a mercantile pier, with perhaps five hands on board, all that was left of the crew when the pox finished with them. The cannibals had managed to board her. Captain Berrol and Parry Meade had stood by grimly watching and listening to the screams of the men on board the Happy Accident.

  The pox had done its work with the city, and the crew of the Touch had taken to fishing again, so although they were desperately hungry, none of them was yet starving. It was possible that the cannibals knew this in some way, or perhaps one of the dying crew of the Happy Accident told them this, but whatever the cause, rumor reached the cannibal packs that there was food on the Touch. The pack that seized the Happy Accident apparently included at least one sailor, for they had put up the mainsail and the working jib and brought their stolen ship into the wind, on a course to put them alongside the Touch.

  Captain Berrol had wasted no time, and what was left of the Happy Accident after taking two witchfire missiles to the upper deck had slowly drifted with the wind to hang up and half burn in the shallows on the east side of the harbor before sinking. The cannibals on her deck had burned with her. It was a shame, for she had been a grand merchantman built in Kancro, a fine example of the shipwright’s craft.

  But still, from his place in the rigging Coril could see the desperate game of hide and seek played by Northcraven’s children with the ragged packs of men, and the duke could do nothing, nor could the harbor master, for neither had the men to police the town. The pox had stricken their men with the same ferocity with which it had torn through the city, and Coril idly wondered how many men they had left, or if they were still alive.

  Pigeons still occasionally left the duke’s rookery, bearing messages to Lio knew where, and Coril imagined they were pleas grown increasingly desperate, but there was still no answer, and with winter coming on, none likely before spring. Already there had been a light snowfall, a mere dusting, but still a ghostly white harbinger of things to come. If the harbor completely froze over, as it did most winters, the Touch would likely survive it, for she was a good ship with a sound hull and well caulked and fitted.

  They could ice fish if need be, and Parry Meade had proven to be a surprisingly good fisherman, and so had several others of the crew, so Coril doubted they would starve. On the other hand, if the harbor froze over it would not be long before the sound did as well, and once that happened there would be nothing to prevent the Auligs from entering the harbor on foot and boarding the Touch, nor the cannibals, for that matter.

  Coril had not a bit of fat left on his body, for they were down to quarter rations even with the fish, and his heavy coat did little to keep the wind from biting him. Still he remained on watch, standing in the rigging, for it was as far from the city and the cannibals as he could get.

  Chapter 80: East Torth, mid-Leath

  Admiral Gyfard Ismarins limped onto the East Torth pier with a company of marines, men who could both sail and fight, and all wearing pale blue tabards with the Ismarins’ red schooner prominent. “Load them all.” He growled, and his captain hurriedly began issuing orders to his men. The admiral was using a cane, which he detested, although it was the kind of cane with a hidden sword within it, so it was tolerable, he supposed.

  That damned second son of the Earl of Talere could fight, but in the end he’d been overconfident in that newfangled spear he was carrying, one of the damned skinny swords the young nobles were calling fencing blades. Gyfard had put a proper longsword into his brisket, demonstrating that the old school weapons still had a place in the armament of a duelist. But the earl in waiting had marked him good, damn near breaking his femur with his first surprising thrust, and that was a lunge that was parried. Two months in hospital with a war on, and no orders issued in all that time, and nigh unto five hundred warships lying idle at anchor, if you counted the frigates and sloops. Ice would start filling the North Sea and the Northcraven Sound soon, and here he was, still in East Torth, awaiting completion of the weaponizing of his fleet. But today it should be done.

  He’d received a message while in hospital, a note from Northcraven’s Duke, describing a new kind of weapon he’d euphemistically called ‘dragon fire,’ although any fool could read between the lines and see that he was talking about witchfire, or what some called Brizaki fire. Gyfard had not known it was available outside of the Brizaki Empire, and finding out that an apothecary in East Torth was selling it on the black market had set him to this task.

  Of course, there were half a dozen apothecaries in East Torth, and no way to know which one was referenced, so Gyfard had employed some rather heavy-handed tactics. When every known apothecary in the city denied any knowledge of what he was talking about, Gyfard’s captain Annos had rounded up their wives and children, bound them securely and carried them to the end of the long pier. One girl of about fifteen went into the water to let them know he was serious, and he had his apothecary. Annos hadn’t mentioned in his report whether they’d managed to fish the girl out before she drowned, and the admiral didn’t care.

  The apothecary didn’t want to share his secrets until Annos brought his wife to the meeting and asked her if she knew how to swim. The formula had been committed to paper, and every other apothecary in the city put to work producing prodigious quantities of the stuff. Their protests had been handled in the same efficient manner as the first apothecary’s. Other craftsmen had been set to making little clay pots to put the explosive powder in, and yet others, finish carpenters and the like, had been put to the task of making ballistas and installing them on his warships. While the ballistas mounted on his ships were by no means as fancy or elaborate as the one the duke had described in his letter, they would serve the admiral’s needs.

  Refitting the ships had claimed a month from him, and it was an important month, but some things had to go before others, and that was just the way things were.

  His men began returning from the various apothecary shops, directing the apprentices where to haul the handcarts. Box after box was delivered, then run out in ship’s boats, and by the end of the day every box and every ship in his fleet was accounted for. He was an efficient man. Tomorrow he would make war.

  Captain Annos Fahalis stood on the deck of the grand schooner Firstkill with the admiral and watched ships fall into line behind the flagship, and ships stretched behind him as far as he could see. Admiral Ismarins was a man hard through and through, with black receding hair and a face like the business end of a wooden mallet, all blunt and flat and functional, sticking out from his hair like a wolfeel coming through a reef. He was limping about on his cane, staring down anyone who stood in front of him and seeking out anyone who seemed idle to berate.

  Annos didn’t mind, for he was the same kind of man. He wouldn’t have an idle hand on his ship unless the man behind it was asleep on his off watch. The admiral’s orders were quite clear. If a ship was flying a Mortentian flag, they would hail her captain, then one of the fast frigates or sloops would come alongside and inspect her. They weren’t looking for contraband, and if they found it, they let it be. There was no point aggravat
ing whoever was smuggling, for sometimes the owners of such vessels were powerful men.

  If a ship wasn’t flying a Mortentian flag, or if it refused inspection, it would be sunk. The first choice was to ram and sink her, but if she gave a fast flight or showed decent fight, the witchfire ballistas on the frigates would do the work. He was effectively serving notice that the western rim of the Tolrissan Sea was now a Mortentian Lake.

  By the twentieth of Leath the great fleet had claimed three Thimenian raiders, six ships of unknown provenance who chose to run when hailed, and five Aulig tubs that burst into flames at the first touch of witchfire. They were sailing hard by the Whitewood Forest north of Nevermind, and Captain Annos hoped to be in Northcraven Sound by the first of Arianus, if storm and ice didn’t stop him. Hidorus waited in his undersea house for anyone who stood in his way.

  Chapter 81: Celdemer in Maslit, Walcox, latter Leath

  “Her I saw but once.

  She was smaller than I had hoped and slight,

  But what agony this bliss:

  T’was love at first sight.”

  “It’s too short.” Denja D’Maslit said judiciously, setting the long-stemmed wooden cup down at the man’s table. He was slender and not particularly tall, with fine features that almost seemed feminine, but not unhandsome. He frowned at her.

  “Girls don’t like it when you don’t compliment them.” Vossa D’Maslit, plainly Denja’s sister, chimed in. “That bit about her being smaller than you hoped, I would take that out.”

  “Do you think so?” Celdemer said in a worried tone. “I thought it was romantic, you know? Like she was not what I expected.”

  “Do you have another?” Denja inquired. She was serving cups at the Rounded Crown, an inn that had been in Maslit and known by the same name since time out of mind, although nobody really knew what the name meant. It was one of Maslit’s finer places, set close to the old wall and the hill where the castle stood. “Something longer? Girls like it when you tell them long poems.” She was not speaking from personal experience, of course, for no one had ever written poetry to her, although she was pretty in a heavy way, and her eyes were dark and heavily lashed. The offers she tended to receive were much cruder and more to the point.

  “Yes, something longer, like a verse in a song.” Vossa chimed in. The traveler had come into the inn on his way south, which was not uncommon at all. The roads north were full of marching armies and raiding Cthochi, and it was only since the black griffin started appearing on the walls of Maslit again that the town felt safe. Lord D’root and his army had gone through Maslit on their way north, putting an end to the Cthochi peril for the moment.

  “Well, I have been working on one.” Celdemer replied. “Stop me if you think it’s silly.”

  “Never did I learn to steel my heart,

  Nor stay my tongue in youth,

  Grief and wonder, pain and joy,

  E’er moved me with their truth.

  But never in all the ages,

  Beneath heaven or on this ground,

  Was such a broken, hopeless love

  As my heart doth confound.”

  “Well, ‘tis pretty enough.” Denja said after a moment. “But you aren’t really talking about her. It’s all about how you feel, not how pretty she is or how smart she is. Girls like to hear nice things about themselves.”

  “I think it’s lovely.” Vossa said. “I think she will like it.”

  “I think you sound like a sissy.” Said a tall man named Tromso with broad shoulders and a chinless face like the point of an anvil. He was wearing a blacksmith’s leather jerkin and had very large arms. “You dress like a sissy, too, and you’re taking up the barmaid’s time so’s I can’t get my ale.”

  “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Celdemer said to the man. Celdemer was wearing simple freeman’s woolens, although well-cut and tailored to fit him, and he was carrying no weapon. “I can see that you haven’t been taught to appreciate poetry. You go ahead and drink your ale.”

  Denja had to step back to avoid being stepped on when the big man stood up from his table, knocking the chair to the floor. His face wore an expression of amused disbelief. “What did you just say about me? That I don’t appreciate poetry? Is that supposed to be some kind of an insult, sissy-boy?”

  “Oh no.” Celdemer stood also, facing the man, although he stood a full head shorter and weighed perhaps half as much. “If I were insulting you I would have questioned your intellect or your parentage, two areas in which you are quite obviously deficient. I might have made light of your enormous nose. But maybe you do like poetry. It’s hard to tell from just one meeting. Tell me, what is your favorite verse quintet?”

  The man looked confused for a moment. “My what?”

  “Your favorite poem, then.” Celdemer held out his hands placatingly, and spoke in an encouraging way. “Share with us your favorite poem.”

  “I don’t have no favorite …” Then the blacksmith smiled as an idea hit him. “Oh, wait. Here’s one: Bobbin and Wickard was two pretty men. They stayed in bed ‘til half past ten. Up starts Bobbin and looks at the sky: ‘Oh, sweet Wickard, the sun’s got high. You go afore me with yer bottle and bag.’” The man grabbed his crotch suggestively when he said this. “’And I’ll come along on my little jack nag.’”

  Celdemer turned his head sideways and regarded the man. It was certainly not the first time he’d heard the poem, for the bullies of his youth had often taunted him with it. “Your favorite poem is about two pretty men?” He opened his eyes wide with mock surprise and looked at the two barmaids, and put one hand to his cheek. “Oh my, who would have thought it?”

  Denja stifled a giggle and the big man’s face turned red. “I was telling the pome about you, pretty boy. You’re the one it’s about.”

  Celdemer rolled his eyes. “Is that the best you can do? Question my manliness? You sir, are as stupid as you look.” Then he shook his head and picked up his cup of wine, giving the two girls an exasperated little sigh.

  “Do you want to step outside fer this conversation?” Tromso asked, cracking his knuckles.

  “Are you challenging me to fisticuffs?” Celdemer laughed. “And me standing here armed?”

  Tromso looked confused. “You ain’t armed.”

  “Oh, but I am.” Celdemer replied, holding up his wooden cup by the stem and striking a guard pose. “I have a sword in my hand. It’s small and it’s wooden, but deadly nonetheless.”

  “Then I got a sword, too.” Tromso laughed, picking up his wooden flagon by the handle. “You wanna have a sword fight, pretty boy?”

  Celdemer gave him a weary look, and then shrugged. “It looks more a mace than a sword, but why not?” He turned and walked toward the door, looking once over his shoulder. “Are you coming sir? You did issue the challenge, did you not?”

  “Leave him alone, Tromso.” Denja said, stepping into the big man’s way. “You’ve got no reason to be harassing our customers.”

  He shoved her aside with the back of his arm. “You stay out of this, Denja.” He warned. “This sissy’s gonna learn a lesson about running his spindle gobbling mouth.”

  Celdemer saw the big man push Denja aside, and saw her wince when her ample backside struck against a low table. “You will apologize to her for that.” He promised Tromso.

  “Like hells I will.” Tromso said. “After I stomp your face, she’ll apologize to me for getting in my way.”

  Celdemer stepped into the wide avenue in front of the Rounded Crown, and around him rose the three storey buildings that were so common in Maslit, buildings fronted with stone or plaster and roofed in slate. The town was exceedingly clean, and from many windows hung banners carrying the D’root griffin in black on red or gray, almost as many as sported the blue boar of the governing Z’Ullmers on yellow. The streets were well-cobbled, and Celdemer did a little dance to test his footing, then he assumed a guard position, holding the little wooden cup in front of him, for all the world like a very small swo
rd.

  Tromso came for him like all bullies do, arms extended to the sides and charging, confident in his superior strength and size. Celdemer leaped forward and to the right, crouching, and hooked his foot around the big man’s ankle, spilling him to the ground. “Apologize to the barmaid for putting your hands on her.” He asked calmly. “And I’ll forget the whole thing.”

  Tromso came up from the ground red-faced. “I’ll send you to the physics for that.” Again he lunged, and just as he came forward, putting his great weight onto his left knee, Celdemer struck it from the side with the heel of his riding boot. Something within the joint made a greasy-sounding pop, and the man collapsed to the ground again, this time holding his knee with both hands.

  “You are a bully and a lout, sir.” Celdemer explained. “’Tis you who will need to see a physic. However I shall grant you the choice of how many ailments you carry with you. Apologize to the lady and ‘tis just a broken kneecap.”

  “You little queer. That was a dirty kick.” Tromso growled menacingly, struggling to his feet and trying to keep the weight off of his damaged knee. He stood there waving his long arms helplessly, trying to reach Celdemer, but his knee was indeed badly injured, and the leg would take no weight. He fell again, cursing.

  Celdemer walked around him. “Apologize.” He insisted. “It is no more than a few words, a mere formality. You say you are sorry and I won’t do this.” He jumped forward suddenly on the last word and brought his bootheel down on top of Tromso’s hand, breaking two fingers.

  “Damn you!” Tromso shouted, tucking the hand up to his chest. “I’m a working man! You’ve taken the food from my mouth!”

  Celdemer stood just out of the man’s reach and raised one foot in the air, balancing unwaveringly on the other. “And if you don’t apologize I will take the teeth, too. I invited you to a duel, not a fist fight. Did you imagine you wouldn’t get hurt?”