Their only recourse was moving stealthily through the city streets. Their advantage was Raeah knew them like the back of her hand. She had spent months within the city, stalking the unwary and drunk. The two men’s eyes followed the route she was pointing out with the index finger of her right hand. There were places they could travel without fear of detection from the soldiers.
She should know of such places, for she had haunted them both day and night: the smarter of Poltarc’s soldiers learned not to travel the dark alleyways of the city. Death by Raeah the princess, or Raeah the wraith, was not a pleasant experience. Especially for those who stumbled over the remains. No wonder men feared her.
They waited upon the knoll, lying beneath a tangle of scrub oak. They waited, expecting to see men walking the streets, but there was no one at all coming into their sight. The hours passed until Raeah spoke.
“There is something happening, something of which I am unaware. There should be men patrolling the streets, but there are none. Poltarc insisted the men keep watch, even if there was no one left outside the city to come at them.”
Simper asked, “Is it possible they know we are here, and have set a trap?”
Raeah shook her head, “It’s doubtful he knows we are here at all. His only information of my whereabouts would be from my eye.” She thought for a moment, “He probably believes I’m dead. He hasn’t seen anything from me for over two weeks. He’s probably mourning the loss of his magical machines, and countless hours of training he gave me.”
Mordon laughed softly, “It wouldn’t be those things I’d mourn.”
Raeah kicked the side of his shin, “I think we should move back down to the gully we saw earlier. We can reach the outskirts of the city without being seen.”
They pushed themselves back from beneath the shrubbery, and bent low until they were beyond the crest of the knoll. Raeah led them around the small hill and down into the gully they had seen as they climbed the knoll. A small stream meandered through willow and larger cottonwood. They followed its bank until it turned west away from the buildings at their front. This far out from the center of the city, the structures were hovels hastily erected by the poor. The earthen paths between buildings quickly led them to the first cobbled streets, and homes of the more affluent.
Mordon noticed the streets were laid out north and south, east and west. He asked if there were any streets running at angles, and received a no from Raeah as she kept her eyes forward, leading the way.
They came to a business district where Raeah halted them at the mouth of an alley. “There is something Poltarc is doing, for we should have seen someone by now. I can’t believe he would leave Glouster unattended. Poltarc must have brought the men together. The only place large enough is the plaza in the center of Glouster. There is room there for him to assemble them all, but why? He is not prone to speeches; finds such distasteful.”
Simper suggested hopefully, “Maybe he went back where he came from, and the men all went home.”
Mordon sniggered, “And cows fly.”
Simper shrugged, “I can always hope, can’t I?”
Raeah leaned against the stone wall of the building next to her. Where had, the men gone? She reached out and motioned they come closer to her, “We must proceed to the plaza with what stealth we can maintain. Follow my lead, and for God’s sake, keep a keen eye on the buildings and windows.” She turned and looked both ways along the street where they had stopped; no one in sight along the whole of its distance. She motioned them forward and stepped out to cross the cobbles of the street.
Mordon was intimately aware of their surroundings. This was no different than ghosting about Widley. All the buildings here were still standing, but vacant as last night’s encampment. He kept his eyes roving the windows of the buildings they passed. There seemed nothing alive anywhere. Minutes passed, and Raeah came to a stop at their front.
The street where they halted opened into a wide area paved in flat stones; perfectly fitted to create a smooth surface for nearly a hundred yards. In the center a statue of some past statesman or hero stood upon a granite pedestal. There was not a soul to be seen.
Raeah searched the mouth of streets where they entered the plaza. She knew Mordon and Simper were searching as intently as was she. Their lives depended on their discovering Poltarc’s men before being spotted themselves. This absence of so many men was confusing.
After discussing a myriad number of alternatives, the night, they learned of Poltarc’s true identity, they had decided to use the simple story with which Raeah had confronted Tadric. Raeah believed it would provide their safe passage to the warehouse. Once at the warehouse, Poltarc would relish the chance to play with Mordon and Simper. It all depended on Poltarc’s state-of-mind when they arrived. Dealing with a mad creature left them cognizant they would have to quickly shift any plan they had made to fit circumstances.
Raeah was finding it difficult to believe they had gained such distances within the city proper without opposition. Nearly at every street corner and alley, she had asked herself the same question; where were the soldiers? An idea blossomed, “We must climb up to the top of the building across the way. From there, we can see the whole of the warehouse district and much of the surrounding area.”
She led them along the edge of the plaza to their right. They ducked into various buildings for minutes at a time, searching unsuccessfully for any of signs of life. An hour passed before Raeah led them into the tall stone building with the tower rising above its roof. Raeah asked Simper to stay and guard the entry, if Simper met any force they could descend and support his fight. All three blocked by Poltarc’s men in the tower was not a comforting thought. She could protect them from a few, but not a large body of men. Raeah and Mordon left a nervous Simper near the entry while they raced up the stairs until they reached the top of the tower. Cutter ran beside Mordon.
Mordon was breathing heavily from trying to keep up with Raeah. The tower dome was supported by stone columns. He looked out from between two of the columns as he stood next to her. Wherever they looked, there was no evidence of life beyond the three of them. He watched Raeah raise a hand and point toward the docks. Pass the roofs of the buildings, along the dock, masts of ships filled the skyline. Raeah turned to look up at Mordon, her face pale as the ghost he once was.
“My God, Mordon, he is preparing to leave Haverid for the mainland. We must hurry to the docks. If they are all waiting for the tide, we have only minutes to reach Poltarc before he leaves.”
Mordon raced down the stairs behind Raeah; Cutter ahead of the woman. When they reached Simper, they didn’t stop to explain, but ran onward. Mordon waved Simper to follow but kept pace with Raeah.
She led them by the straightest route she could remember through the streets. If they missed Poltarc, they might never get another chance to confront him. All the unsuspecting people they would slaughter across the strait . . . the thought almost made her stumble in her mad dash toward the docks. She ran until she realized it would do no good to arrive without Mordon and Simper. When she looked over her shoulder, Mordon and the dog were only a few steps behind her, but Simper was nearly a block behind. She stopped and waited for the old soldier. They needed to stay together. The plan they had devised wouldn’t work if they separated.
It was painfully frustrating waiting for Simper to catch his breath. When finally, Simper breathed normally, she led them at a slower pace along the last few remaining buildings. When they came to the wide street in front of the warehouses, she crossed without hesitation and led them into Poltarc’s den. She watched as Mordon forced Cutter to stay outside; this she understood. The dog might give away any chance their plan might work.
They could hear shouting from the ships outside the warehouse. Sailors were casting the final lines from the last ship leaving the dock.
Raeah nearly screamed her disappointment, and instantly knew what mus
t be done. The three of them left Poltarc’s warehouse, and stepped onto the dock. None of the sailors looked back in their direction. The sailors were so intent on their duties aboard the vessels they did not have time to look back. Raeah ran to one of the hawsers that had been cast off and picked up one end. “Quickly, Mordon, tie me to the bollard at the edge of the dock! Simp, go back inside and don’t come out . . . you know where you need to be.” When Mordon hesitated, “I’m the only one Poltarc wants out of the thousands of his soldiers. I’m counting on his surprise, and his greed of his investment in me, to turn him back to us. Quickly now, or all is lost.”
Mordon did as requested, and bound her tightly to the shoulder high post, “What now?”
“Take my eye patch off, Mordon.”
He dreaded seeing what Poltarc had done to her, but removed the piece of leather as quickly as his fumbling hands and fingers would allow. He tried to not show revulsion at what he saw; her eye had been replaced by a metal orb. The surface of the sphere was covered in a myriad number of tiny triangular facets. She still had a pupil, but what he saw must be the lens of the black instrument she had described. He had to shake his head to make himself concentrate on Raeah’s next words.
“Now laugh, and make it look like you enjoy my discomfort.”
Mordon forced his mind to see Simper in the cold waters of the falls, and truly did laugh.
Raeah looked about her then down at her bound body, and out to the departing ships, “Mordon, you must strike me and laugh.” When she saw the pain in Mordon’s eyes, she let some of her madness return. “You weak fool . . . . Do you think I ever loved you? How could someone like me ever love a simpleton such as you? I know you have been waiting to crush my body with yours. You are no different than any of the others. Let me loose, and I will let you have me before I kill you. Am I worth your death?”
Mordon was taken aback. This woman had snapped, and gone back to sounding as she had in Widley. Anger welled from the depths of his soul. All this time, she had been truly using them. He lashed out and struck her mouth with the back of his hand. Blood flowed from her split lips. The sight of her blood left him reeling. What had he done? She was using him . . . but not for torment alone. Conflicting emotions erupted in his mind. Poltarc was seeing this display. He doubled his fist, and pretended to smash her belly. He wiped the blood from her mouth so it could be seen on his fist.
When Raeah smiled at him. He didn’t show his concern for her, but seemed to batter her body with his fists. He smeared her blood on his face and sneered at the woman.
Aboard the vessel, Sigrid’s Folly, Poltarc touched his forehead with his right hand, shading his eyes from the sun. He was seeing a man beating someone . . . it was Raeah. He had thought her dead. Instantly he needed to have a better picture, other than just what Raeah saw. He grabbed the captain’s telescope from the man’s hand, and ran to the stern railing. She was there . . . bound to a post, being beaten by a man he did not know. His mind went blank and then roiled with passion. No one could treat his Raeah as if she was trash. How was such even possible . . . after what he had gifted her?
Sigrid’s Folly was less than 300 hundred yards from the dock. Poltarc stepped to the captain, “Turn this boat around, and return to the dock immediately.”
The captain looked eye to eye with the man who had paid for his services. He had made more money on this one trip than in all the last year. “This is a ship, Sir, not a boat. Turning around now is impossible. This flotilla is bound outward with the tide. Trying to turn around would cause ships to be sunk.” The captain witnessed a blur of motion and didn’t feel Poltarc’s sword pierce his heart, but he died just the same.
Poltarc yelled, “Throw this carrion overboard.” He watched Sadon and two men respond to his request as he shouted, “Where is the first mate?”
A man of slender build with a scar across his face stepped forward.
While his sword dripped blood upon the decking Poltarc gathered the collar of the mate’s coat in his left fist and drew him close. “Turn this boat around.”
The first mate stammered, “I can’t . . . the captain was right . . . we’d have to take you out of the harbor and wait for the ships to stand apart. I can’t . . . .”
Poltarc’s bloody sword sliced across the man’s throat, “Another one for the water, Sadon.” Poltarc stepped forward upon the steerage deck, and boomed his request to the crew clambering about the vessel and rigging. “Any man who can turn this vessel around and return us to the dock can have this boat as theirs. But it has to be done immediately . . . no sailing beyond the harbor . . . now!” A sturdy looking man high in the rigging called down.
“Aye, Sir . . . I can turn this ship around on a copper.”
Poltarc motioned for the man to descend from his lofty perch. He watched the sailor slide down the stay lines until his feet hit the deck. As soon as the man set foot on steerage and approached him, “Get this boat stopped and turned.” Poltarc liked the cut of man standing at his front and softened his words, “Well Captain, what is your name?”
“Turgis, Sir.”
“Well, Turgis, the prospect of your living longer depends upon if your word is any good. Get me to the dock and I will make you rich beyond this boat.”
“Boat . . . yes, Sir . . . and a fine boat it is . . . but the boat is all I’ll need to make my way in life.”
Poltarc bowed to the man. “Then get it done, Captain Turgis.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Poltarc stepped back, smiling at the confrontation he was planning for the man who had struck his Raeah. He did not care if the man beat her. She was his property, not the other man’s play thing. The thought of defeating the stranger with swords, and then playing with him on his vacant table brought a spasm of utter joy to his mind and body. He could already hear the man’s screams. Raeah had not supplied him with the sensual pleasure he had grown used to and now expected. She had given him moments of climax with such complete and utter glory, her death had been a complete shock. To discover she was alive, and to see his finest work abused by another man, filled him with rage. The new captain’s loud voice brought him from his thoughts.
“Lively men, drop the port anchor and chock her at 20 fathoms. Let her fall all the way out, and I’ll have your backsides for my whip. Furl the canvas, but don’t tie ‘em off. Boson . . . have the men rig the stays for a tack away from shore.”
Poltarc half drew his sword, “I said back to the dock, Captain.”
“Aye Sir, but if you kill me, no one else aboard this vessel can get you back before the boat falls beyond the quay of the head land. We’re too close to the shore, for the wind comes from the southeast. When the anchor hooks the reef at the mouth, she’ll be rigged to tack above the docks. The tide will carry us back to the dock when we shift and tack to port.”
Poltarc knew not a thing about boats, but he was impressed with the man’s resolve. “Do as you must, Captain Turgis.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Turgis turned from the railing where he watched the men following his orders, “Sir . . . when the anchor hooks the bottom, you better be hang’n onto something.” With his warning delivered, Turgis looked back to his crew. The anchor had been let out and chocked, if the chain didn’t rip the ship’s bow off, he would have a vessel he would be proud to captain. Captain Folgar had owned the vessel outright, so he wouldn’t have to contend with partners. He watched as the men hurriedly adjusted the backstays of the rigging. He yelled to a man in a yellow shirt, “Boson, run up the burgee so they’ll know we’re up to something, and stay clear!”
The ship was being carried at a swift pace with the running tide. The reef was another quarter league off their bow. Turgis was happy with the turn of events. This morning he was just another sailor looking for a fresh bunk, and now he was a captain of a fine vessel. That is if the anchor chain didn’t snap under the pressure, or if the chain a
nd anchor didn’t capsize her as she turned. Turgis cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled, “Listen up, you dogs and sons of dogs, when the anchor snags, you’re gon’a wish you’d been hanging onto something. I ain’t gon’a come back for you if you are dumb enough not to lash yourself to something.”
Turgis turned to Poltarc, “You’ll fly clean off the bridge if you don’t hang on. Just a few more seconds . . . just a few more seconds . . . .”
The entire ship jumped as if struck by something huge. The bow dropped nearly to water level. The ship groaned and vibrated. The tide caught the larboard side of the three-masted Barque as it tried to swing in answer to the claw caught on the reef. Water made the freeboard disappear on the larboard side and crashed over the bulwarks, making the vessel heel further over. The men in the rigging hung on with pale faces, stricken with fear. Cross timbers on the masts dipped their tips into the sea, and then pulled them back out. The vessel righted itself and wallowed in the disturbed waters of its own making. Then it was free, holding against the tide; anchor chain drawn taunt with the pressure of the water sliding under the bow.
Turgis could hear men on other vessels cursing him in their panic to stay clear, but he didn’t give a tinker’s damn. He beamed his pleasure, and then screamed at the men still on deck, “Alright lagers, you’ll see your mothers and lady friends again.” A cheer went up from the crew. “Unfurl the canvas from every sail we’ve got. Hop to it mates . . . from the bowsprit to the mizzen, get ‘em up and tied off. Let go the anchor chain as soon as we’ve wind in our sails.”
Men rushed to unfurl the canvas from every backstay and spar. Anything capable of carrying sail was pulled up and lashed tight. The wind caught the face of the canvas and spewed off in a new direction; driving the ship forward against the tide. Sigrid’s Folly listed to starboard with the rush of wind hitting its half acre of canvas. Turgis watched the last of the other vessels slip by, nearly under the mainmast topgallant.
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