By midday, it was impossible to know which burning buildings were the terrorists’ targets and which were collateral damage. The partisans gave up trying to predict what might burn next and directed their attention to saving what they could of the waterfront businesses, fishing boats and warehouses. Sharr ordered two apartments near the centre of the wharf torn down: the weatherbeaten wood would go up like tinder, putting the pier, the packing warehouse and the waterfront stables at risk. As the fires crept south, the burgeoning heat a harbinger of death, Sharr’s soldiers fixed lines to support beams and cross-braces, chopped through key trusses and, once everything was in place, on Sharr’s call, collapsed two two-storey buildings into splinter, which they then hauled away, leaving behind a breach for the fire slowly consuming the Capehill waterfront.
Sharr stole a moment to see his family safely onto his trawler, then sent them to a mooring buoy in the harbour until the conflagration was under control. His wife and sons wanted to stay and help, but Sharr had his way, arguing that they were doing their part by saving his boat, nets and traps.
By the dinner aven, most of the burning had been contained or left to consume itself. Capehill was a roadmap of hastily dug trenches and fire lines. Ponderous clouds of acrid smoke swirled over the harbour like a rogue storm. Three strangers, caught outside a textile shop, had been beaten and hanged by angry Falkans bent on revenge. With thirty-one dead, hundreds burned and nearly seventy homes and businesses lost, the people of Capehill found that their reputation for hospitality was wearing thin. No one knew if the three men dangling from a linden tree on what remained of the town green were actually Malakasians in disguise – it was too late to interrogate them – but their dangling bodies were a stark message to the Falkan leaders: life in Capehill has not improved. Gita and her Falkan Resistance soldiers would not be welcome much longer.
At the boarding house, Gita gave orders for half the companies to assist with damage control and clean-up, while the other half broke for an evening meal. They were to switch at the middlenight aven, and then resume their previous assignments, patrolling the town. The search for the Malakasians was broken off.
Sharr watched Gita climb the stairs. She had been dealt a damaging blow by a handful of Malakasians. She, like the rest of them, stank of smoke and burned pitch, and she had a blistering burn on one hand and a bloody gash across her forearm. She permitted Barrold to clean and bind her wounds while she prepared to address the officers. Sharr collapsed into a chair beside Markus; he was glad to see the young man had survived the day.
‘Lose anyone?’ Markus whispered.
‘No,’ Sharr said, ‘thank the gods. You?’
‘Two women from Orindale.’ He swept a greasy lock away from his face, then bound his hair with a piece of leather. ‘They insisted on going into one of the houses, said they heard someone yelling. I didn’t hear anything.’ He frowned. ‘The upper floor collapsed. I heard them scream once, but then there was nothing.’
‘Anyone else go inside?’
‘I wouldn’t let them,’ Markus said. ‘I figured we’d lost two already. I don’t think their squadmates are very happy with me.’
‘They should be thanking you.’ Sharr gave his friend’s wrist a reassuring squeeze. ‘You probably saved their lives.’
Markus, still despondent, didn’t answer.
Gita stood near the fireplace in the corner. She thanked Barrold, gave her wrist bandage a final inspection, then turned to those crowded into the room. ‘Markus,’ she started, ‘thank your people for me. I appreciate them securing this street.’ To the others, she explained, ‘Markus Fillin’s squads have been redeployed at either end of this block. We’ve had to move the sick and the injured from the building we’ve been using as a hospital to the upper floors of the chandler’s across the street. We now have— how many crammed in there, Barrold?’
‘Eighty-six, ma’am.’ Her personal guard had burns of his own, along both arms and on one side of his face, just below his eye-patch, but he seemed adept at ignoring pain.
‘Eighty-six injured today?’
‘There were twenty-two already down with illnesses or injuries, ma’am,’ he clarified. ‘We had sixty-four seriously injured today.’
‘And…’
‘And eight lost.’
‘Eight, gods rut a whore!’ Gita gripped the table with white knuckles. ‘And thirty-some-odd locals. Demonshit, that’s almost forty people, in one whoring day! Gods keep us!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Barrold looked down at his boots. The rest of the room was silent.
After a moment, Gita leaned over the table and sifted through a collection of maps scattered across it. She found what she was searching for, then looked up again at her officers. ‘Thank you all … for today,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you.’
A few of the officers mumbled, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Sharr forced a smile.
‘All right.’ Gita almost visibly shrugged off her grief. ‘We’ve some information I want everyone to hear. Brand is back – he’s come from Wellham Ridge – and he’s been able to throw some light on why this irritating band of thugs was left behind when our Malakasian friends sailed off.’
Markus asked, ‘You mean they aren’t here to burn the town to the ground?’
‘Ostensibly, yes, but actually, no.’ Brand joined Gita by the fireplace. ‘They were left here to distract us.’
‘Well, they were effective,’ Sharr said. ‘But distract us from what?’
‘From a merchant carrack, a big mother, running up the coast as we speak.’
Sharr sat up. ‘A ship? Why? Headed where?’
‘Pellia, and then on to Welstar Palace,’ Brand said. ‘They’re hauling something, some kind of milled bark, treated lumber, maybe; I’m not certain exactly what. They loaded it during the last Moon, off the Ronan Peninsula, out beyond the Forbidden Forest near Estrad Village. It’s a cargo that Mark Jenkins will do anything to see safely into the Welstar Palace military encampment, some critical ingredient in his recipe for devastation.’
‘Who’s Mark Jenkins?’ asked one of the Gorsk commanders.
‘Essentially, he’s the acting prince of Eldarn, as powerful as – more powerful – than Malagon,’ Brand replied.
‘And how do you know these things, Brand?’ Markus asked. ‘And where’s Kellin Mora?’
As many of you are aware, I travelled south as part of an escort for Gilmour Stow and Steven Taylor, the sorcerers trying to retrieve a Larion artefact lost from Sandcliff Palace nearly a thousand Twinmoons ago.’
Sharr surreptitiously let his gaze wander around the table; Brand’s tale was, so far, being met with little visible scepticism.
‘Steven and Gilmour were able to excavate the artefact, but we lost it shortly thereafter to Mark Jenkins, who, we assume, is transporting it to Welstar Palace.’
‘Along with this shipment of milled bark and leaves,’ Gita finished.
‘Yes…’ He paused as someone knocked on the door, which opened to admit a young woman, a maid.
‘Food, ma’am?’ she asked. ‘It’s a good hearty stew, and the bread’s fresh.’
‘Thank you, yes,’ Gita said, ‘and let’s have some jugs of beer too, please.’
‘Um, how many, ma’am?’ She took a cursory head-count.
‘Just keep the jugs full until Sharr over there is checking me for a heartbeat,’ Gita laughed.
‘Very good, ma’am,’ the maid said, and disappeared into the corridor.
Gita returned to business. ‘Go on, Brand.’
‘Kellin Mora remained behind. She’s offering what protection she can to Gilmour and Steven. They also have Garec Haile, the great bowman from Rona. When I left them, they were boarding a barge for Orindale.’
‘Garec worries me,’ Gita said. ‘When I last saw him in Traver’s Notch, he seemed hesitant, as if he’d lost his edge.’
‘He had,’ Brand said. ‘He cost me half a squad outside Wellham Ridge, when he wouldn’t fire on the advancing enemy, a
platoon of them.’
‘Son of a whore—’ Gita began.
‘But two days later, he single-handedly wiped out a squad of armoured cavalry.’
‘Great gods of the Northern Forest,’ Markus whispered, ‘he must be a monster.’
‘Actually,’ Sharr said, ‘he’s a nice kid. You’d never know it to talk with him, but he could blind you at two hundred paces.’
Food and beer arrived, and the partisans tucked in like starving refugees. Four beers and three bowls of stew later, Sharr felt fatigue creeping up on him: it had been nearly two days since he had slept. From the head of the table, Brand, sitting now, continued his briefing between mouthfuls.
‘How did you learn about the shipment?’ a woman from one of the border towns in Gorsk asked.
‘Outside Wellham Ridge, less than a day after I left Kellin and the others, I killed two soldiers on patrol. One of the uniforms fit me, so I rode hard across the plains, changing into my own clothing after dark to keep the locals from hanging me from the nearest tree. Wearing the uniform during daylight hours meant I was able to keep up the illusion that I was carrying dispatches.’
‘Alone?’
‘I wove a convincing story of injured horses and squadmates following close behind. I never stayed attached to a unit for more than half an aven or so, and I never spoke more than a few words to any of the officers. So information was relatively easy to collect. I don’t believe I was ever in any real danger; everyone was hustling off somewhere: forced marches, battalions under orders to reach Orindale or Estrad Village. It wasn’t until I had ridden far enough to the northeast – and found a country trail to the Merchants’ Highway – that I learned of the carrack and the northbound shipment. That was five days ago, just before I left the last Malakasian company and rode for Capehill.’
‘There were Malakasian soldiers on the Merchants’ Highway five days ago?’ Sharr asked.
‘Yes, and heading south,’ Brand said. ‘They were bound for Rona, planning to rendezvous with General Oaklen and then ride for Orindale. It seems the order to abandon Capehill was not wholeheartedly embraced by all officers.’
‘It doesn’t make sense to me, either,’ Gita said. ‘Why give up a port town?’
‘Because they’re being recalled to Welstar Palace,’ Brand said, ‘by Mark Jenkins.’
‘The one who needs this tree bark shipment?’ Markus asked.
‘Yes.’
‘So he needs an army, one larger than the army already stationed at Welstar Palace, as well as a carrack full of magic tree bark to go along with it?’
‘Why come this way?’ Barrold asked.
‘If they’re heading for Pellia in a carrack, this is the only way,’ Sharr answered. ‘They’re too late for the Twinmoon, even the secondary tides. They’d never make the run up the Ravenian Sea in time. Going around the archipelago is the only passage deep enough for a ship that size.’
‘There’s more,’ Brand interrupted. ‘Again, I can’t be certain, and I didn’t see for myself, but on two separate occasions I heard that much of Orindale had been destroyed. And if what Gilmour told me is true, I would bet ten Twinmoons of my life that it was Mark Jenkins using the Larion spell table.’
Gita emptied a jug into her tankard, then gestured for Sharr to pass her another. ‘Orindale in ruins. Our families and friends lost in the wreckage,’ she murmured.
‘Rumour also has it that much of the merchant fleet was destroyed,’ Brand added.
‘And the occupation army recalled to Malakasia, except for Oaklen, who doesn’t take orders from anyone in the Eastlands. So he’s marching to Orindale, rallying every last footsore grunt he can find between Estrad and the northern Blackstones.’ Gita stared into her tankard for a few moments. No one in the room interrupted her thoughts; some took the opportunity to light their pipes and the small room filled quickly with the heady aroma of Falkan tobacco. It was a welcome change from the stench of ashes and soot.
Gita shook her head slightly. Still staring into her beer, she whispered to herself, ‘Oaklen riding for Orindale. The capital in ruins. Milled bark. A merchant carrack …’ Her voice trailed off.
Sharr watched her, waiting for the inevitable order.
Brand asked, ‘Sharr, is there a place north of here where this band of terrorists might pilot a launch into deep water?’
‘You think they’re getting picked up?’ he answered without taking his eyes off Gita.
‘I do,’ Brand said. ‘They’re either finished here, or they have another day or two of surprises waiting for us, but they’ll run, and that boat is their ticket home. Especially if those three hanging across town are spies. The others won’t linger here much longer.’
‘There’s no way for them to know if their comrades talked,’ Markus added.
‘Exactly,’ Brand finished his beer. ‘So what do you think? Is there someplace they might have stashed a boat or two? Some point from which they can run like rutting madmen for a deep water pick-up?’
Sharr didn’t answer.
Gita stood up. ‘All of you!’
The room went silent.
‘All of you, tonight, pass the word: I want us packed and ready to ride in three days. I’ll need mounted dispatchers, one from each company, here by dawn. We have to get word to anyone still on their way up here that we have taken eastern Falkan … or, rather, it was handed to us. There’s nothing left for us to do in Capehill. We can rally the rest of the Resistance on the way. I want two riders from every squad assigned directly to me as a special mounted platoon. There’s no telling how many farms and ranches we’ll pass on the way. I want everyone to know that Capehill is free, that the port here is open, and that trade has been re-established, minus Prince Malagon’s take from every single load and transaction. We need food and supplies running into this town on a schedule as predictable as the tides. Every farmer on the plains has a winter stash somewhere, something the occupation army doesn’t know about. We’ll have them load up their wagons; let them know they’ll be well paid, but they’re needed up here, now.’
‘Where are we going, ma’am?’ Markus asked.
‘We’re going to Orindale,’ Gita said, ‘but you’re not coming, Markus.’
‘Orindale?’ Sharr raised an eyebrow. ‘Ma’am, there’s an entire division of soldiers stationed at Orindale, not to mention the Seron.’
‘Not to hear Brand tell it,’ Gita said, ‘not any more.’
‘It’s true,’ Brand said. ‘Word across the Central Plain is that they were all taken, loaded onto ships; every Malakasian navy vessel afloat on the Ravenian Sea is making for the Northern Archipelago and the Northeast Channel.’
‘And no officer resisted?’ Sharr looked askance at Gita.
‘Like I said, Mark Jenkins is a powerful and dangerous man.’
Gita paced alongside the table, back and forth, talking aloud to the floor. ‘That has to be why Oaklen is recalling the Ronan occupation forces. There’s no one minding the store. The old fart must have shat his leggings when he heard those ships sailed north—’
‘Or when he read the dispatch ordering him home to Pellia,’ Brand added.
‘So what?’ Sharr pressed. ‘We’ll ride to Orindale, securing shipping and farming agreements along the way? And then what? We battle General Oaklen and whomever he has left in the Eastlands?’
‘If the people of Orindale haven’t already done it for us, Sharr, yes we do,’ Gita said. ‘But, like Markus, you’re not coming.’
‘Why not?’ Markus asked.
She stopped pacing. ‘Because you, Sharr and Brand have another assignment.’
Despite his growing weariness, Sharr Becklen stood straight. ‘What assignment, ma’am?’
‘You’re to sink that carrack,’ she said determinedly, the light of battle in her eyes.
KEDGING OFF
‘Do you think Mark is in Pellia yet?’ Brexan asked Gilmour. Through the wispy fog they could see the coastal forests of Malakasia, the tall trees stan
ding silent sentry. At slack tide, the winds had died and an eerie silence crept over the narrow channel Captain Ford and his remaining crewmembers were charting through the archipelago. With nothing but a few stripes of breakwater between them and the shoreline, Brexan worried that hard aground on a muddy shoal, the Morning Star – looking more like a shipwreck than a seaworthy vessel – would be reported by a passing military patrol or a fishing trawler.
As if reading her mind, the captain ordered the Malakasian colours run up the halyard; that ruse might buy them a few avens. Eventually, though, someone would wonder what a brig-sloop was doing working its way through the sandbars, atolls and mud flats off the northeast coast.
The deck canted to starboard. Gilmour hung onto the rail in an effort to maintain his balance. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Mark had a few days’ head start, but we were able to come up the coast fast and I don’t believe he’ll be much further than the initial tacks through the Northeast Channel.’
‘So we may reach Pellia before he does?’
Watching the process the captain called kedging off, Gilmour shrugged. ‘That depends on how long we spend dragging ourselves through these shallows.’
Brexan agreed. ‘It doesn’t look like the quickest route, does it?’
‘We need to be a bit luckier than we were this morning,’ he said.
‘That’s not very heartening.’ Brexan had been on deck when the brig-sloop ran aground. She was sure it hadn’t been Captain Ford’s fault – the Morning Star had been tacking towards a narrow channel between an island and a jumble of rocks Marrin had spotted from aloft. There had appeared to be enough draft for the brig-sloop to pass, even with the receding tide, but just as the captain was bringing the bow about, the topgallants – they were the only sheets he would permit Marrin to set – had caught a vagrant gust from the southeast. Under normal conditions, it would have been nothing, but arriving when it did, just as they were tacking northeast, the rogue breeze had shoved the Morning Star just far enough for her bow to catch in the shallows.
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