Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4)

by S. J. A. Turney

  Aware of what that particular direction meant, Titus helped the man shift the heavy oar until the vessel was using the last of its descent to run ahead of the storm. He’d seen ships at ramming speed in small conflicts with pirates before now, and he’d seen this particular vessel race across the seas to Pelasia in fruitless pursuit of the empress, but until this moment, he’d never have believed a ship could travel this fast. It was exhilarating. And terrifying. The sailors had driven her as fast as their muscles allowed, and the last great wave had added a god-like impetus to the hull.

  ‘Let’s hope that ballast is adequate,’ the captain muttered. ‘Now count with me and then release. Ready?’

  Titus nodded, freezing water dripping from the tip of his nose and spraying from his wild hair.

  ‘One… two… three… four… five!’

  As the marshal stopped guiding the oar, the captain jerked it through a small angle and then held it tight again. Titus added his own grip once more as the ship turned a little so that it was cutting slightly towards land.

  ‘‘One… two… three… four… five!’

  Again, he released, and the captain moved the oar a fraction before they both locked their grip once more. The ship changed course slightly again. Now, he could feel the pressure starting to build on the starboard, storm-ward side of the hull. That was why the captain had shifted the ballast to that side – to counteract the force of the water trying to push them over.

  ‘One… two… three… four… five!’

  This time, Titus was prepared and actually helped the captain move the oar and then grip it. The man nodded his approval.

  ‘One… two… three… four… five!’

  Again.

  Four more times the captain made the count and they moved the oar, and finally he declared that they were done.

  ‘What now?’ Titus shouted over the blowing of the gale.

  ‘Pray.’

  He could feel the ship struggling, the ballast barely counteracting the pressure the advancing storm water was putting on the starboard side of the hull. But the ship was still moving at speed, and the cliffs of the Vinceia Peninsula were coming closer and closer. Now, for the first time, Titus could actually see the lights of Nessana to which the captain had been referring. They did not fill him with confidence. He’d been expecting beacons and dockside guide lights. What he could actually see were the lights in house windows. Maybe five or six such lights flickered atop the cliffs, and a small cluster of them emanated from a shadowy area of the crags. It looked about as port-like and welcoming as any other part of the peninsula – to wit: not at all.

  ‘Have you been to this Nessana before?’

  The captain, still gripping the oar tight and gritting his teeth against the pressure – the current was trying to turn them with the storm again – hissed between clenched jaws. ‘Not for some years.’

  Titus watched the lights getting closer. They were starting to lose their momentum now, rushing across the front of the storm rather than racing with it. But the captain had known his stuff and if Titus was any judge of speed they would make the cliffs just before the storm overwhelmed them.

  He hoped…

  There was an ominous groan and a cracking noise, and he felt the steering oar lurch.

  ‘Shit,’ the captain said, with infinite feeling.

  ‘Shit is not a good thing. What is it?’

  ‘The oar’s cracked. Way down, where I can’t see it. We’ll just have to hope it holds.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  The captain snorted. ‘Then we go wherever the storm wants to take us. Most likely straight down.’

  Titus started to churn out prayer after prayer, aiming them at any god or goddess whose name he could recall. He wasn’t an overly religious man. He respected the gods, though he was never entirely sure how much their hands were truly involved in the world of men. But the fact remained that when death was sharpening his blade, no man denied the gods.

  ‘We’re going to make it,’ he said with heartfelt relief as he saw Nessana racing towards them. The ship was miraculously – or at least due to a stunningly adept captain – aimed directly for the centre of a narrow opening in the cliffs that led into a sheltered cove full of twinkling lights.

  ‘Don’t tempt the gods, Marshal,’ snapped the captain.

  But they were almost there. The storm was on them again now, and the rain that heralded it was battering the ship, but the roiling waves would not get them before they were through and into safety. Titus laughed.

  And the steering oar snapped.

  He watched a full third of the great wooden shaft, tipped by its wide, flat blade, rocket out of the water and bounce off across the waves. The ship lurched sickeningly to port, and in dismay, Titus watched their course change so that they were no longer making straight for the cove.

  ‘Port oars out!’ the captain bellowed. ‘Row for your life, ramming speed.’

  There was precious little chance of anyone hearing the tune of the piper that would normally set the pace, and instead, as the oars were run out, the leading man started yelling the timing, which was picked up by every rower until they were heaving their oars in time and chanting the pace. Titus watched with bated breath as the ship, which had spun left off target, gradually clawed its way back towards the narrow gap in the cliffs, the oars fighting against the storm-driven currents.

  ‘Will we make it?’ he shouted, but the captain was busy, his lips moving constantly in silent prayer as they closed the last hundred paces to the cliffs.

  There was a horrible tearing sound from somewhere below, announcing the meeting of timber and rock, and a strange sound that Titus could only assume was the sea beginning to flood the hold. Still, they pressed forward, so the submerged rock must have barely touched the hull in passing, just enough to tear through the planking.

  They were not going to make it. The safe harbour entrance was getting closer, but the storm current was fighting the power of the oars, and the ship was bearing down on a particularly sharp spur of rock at the left edge of the cove entrance. Titus added his own silent prayers to those of the captain, and very likely the rest of the crew too.

  Despite the fact that the rowers had been pulling with all their might and matching the impressive ramming pace, they were now, somehow, finding an extra turn of speed. Men from the starboard benches were dashing across the ship, endangering the delicate balance of the ballast. There they grabbed hold of any oar space they could find and added their own strength. Titus was impressed. Within four heartbeats, three quarters of the ship’s rowers were on the port side, heaving the oars back and forth in their oval manoeuvre at such speed that if one man lost the rhythm, they would all clatter into chaos and the ship would be lost. Yet the vessel turned very slightly and Titus winced as they bore down on the rocks. Five, he thought to himself.

  The ship was almost clear. It might just make it through the gap.

  Four.

  It would be close. So close.

  Three.

  ‘Clear the benches!’ the captain roared. Titus frowned. Now? At this last moment? Surely they needed the oarsmen pulling against the current to the last?

  He had no time to question the command, though.

  Two.

  The rowers were throwing themselves across the walkway and back to the starboard side.

  One.

  They might still make it. The oarsmen were almost all away from the benches now, barring a few stragglers, who’d been slowed in the press of men.

  The imperial courier vessel Sea Eagle launched from the open sea into the narrow, hidden anchorage of Nessana, scraping along the side of that brutal rock as it went. The sounds of timber tearing all along the port side were clearly audible, but that was not what horrified Titus and drew his eyes wide with shock. It was what happened on board. That was why the captain had given the order to clear the benches. The oars had splintered and shattered like balsa sticks against the rocks, but the force of th
e impact had sent the sections of oar that projected along the benches on board jerking this way and that. The few poor bastards who’d not managed to clear the benches were shredded, broken, torn and pulverized by the flailing beams. Titus had seen men die in battle, by execution in extreme cases, and once, memorably, under torture. But he’d never seen men die as badly as this.

  The ship coasted across the eerily calm lagoon towards a single wooden jetty. Every 10 feet it progressed, Titus could feel it dip slightly and he had the horrible feeling it wouldn’t quite make it. There must be four or five breaches in the hull now, and water was pouring in at an alarming rate. He glanced back over his shoulder. The storm was upon Nessana. Though the brutal waves were now rushing past the cove, only small swells were making it through the gap, disturbing the calm within. The rain began to lash down into the secluded harbour, sizzling on the surface of the water. Titus gripped the shattered remains of the steering oar tight, though it made precious little difference. It was more for a personal sense of security than out of hope of steering.

  He almost passed out with relief as the ship suddenly lurched to a stop with the sound of scraping gravel, and then tipped to one side, throwing everyone against the port rail.

  They had beached.

  The rain washed the deck in huge torrents, swilling away the sheets of blood from the unfortunate rowers who’d been killed by the oars. The captain straightened with some difficulty, gripping the stern rail for support. He grinned like a lunatic.

  ‘What now?’ Titus managed to ask, shaking wildly.

  ‘Now we go ashore and make it through the night. Then in the morning I assess the damage and try and decide whether the Sea Eagle is salvageable or whether you owe me the price of a ship.’

  Titus stared at the man, but the captain simply jacked up his mad grin and began to shout orders to his crew. The marshal turned and looked over Nessana. The entire place couldn’t number more than forty buildings, including the shops, artisans and what looked suspiciously – and welcomingly – like a tavern set back from the shore.

  ‘I need a drink.’

  Chapter XIV

  Of Unexpected Connections

  ‘Is this strictly necessary, sir?’

  Titus turned to the guardsman who was holding up a spare sailor’s tunic with an air of distaste. The grey garment was patched in three places and covered in old stains. Not that the tunic the soldier was currently wearing was in much better shape. It was fully intact, with no patches or darning, but in respect of dirt and stains, the long sea voyage had taken its toll.

  ‘Yes, this is necessary. The captain knows his stuff, and we’re in his world right now, so what he says goes. There might just be villagers here, but there could be smuggler crews riding out the storm, and I have no wish to start a fight against a larger force just because we couldn’t be arsed to change our clothes. And when we get in there, it’s first names only, remember? No ranks and no “sirs” and all that. We’re just ordinary mercantile sailors caught in the tempest. All I want to do is wait out the night somewhere warm and with food and wine and then in the morning, when the captain’s had a chance to look at his ship, we can decide what our next step is.’

  A heavy droplet of water hit the marshal square on the forehead and he grunted irritably as he peeled off his wet tunic, his mat of curly body hair plastered to his flesh. He looked up at the thick branches above him and a second drop hit him in the eye, bringing forth a virulent curse.

  The Sea Eagle lay 25 paces away, looking forlorn and broken. The captain had tutted over his initial assessment and wasn’t convinced she was salvageable, but the morning sun might cast things in a different light. The ship’s crew were busy wading through the water, carrying crates and barrels and sacks, ferrying them from the ruined vessel into the shelter of the trees where other men were unfolding giant canvasses with which to cover the retrieved stores and protect them from the worst of the weather. The meagre shelter of the trees was shared by the guard unit while they changed out of their uniforms and into the spare clothing from the ship. A few of the men had miscellaneous tunics in their packs, but most carried only a spare uniform tunic and had been forced to rely on the sailors’ charity. Titus was convinced that the captain, who had begun mumbling surprisingly high numbers with respect to the value of his ship, would also charge them an inflated price for the old tunics.

  Young Appius had already donned his borrowed, dry tunic and belted it on, slipping on the tight dark-blue breeches beneath, and was now staring with clear disdain at the borrowed sword – a slightly curved effort with a grip carved into the shape of a naked mermaid. The poor young fellow had been the only one of the guard whose kitbag had been lost in the storm, and he had to rely entirely on borrowed goods. He looked peculiar, and quite unhappy.

  Another drip hit Titus, announcing the end of the trees’ efficacy as cover. The storm had now rolled over the village and settled in for the night, and the saturation of the shoreline woods had begun.

  ‘Come on, lads, hurry up. Time to go for a drink and get out of this rain.’

  He turned as the ship’s captain plodded into the meagre shelter, his clothing plastered to him, his hair stuck down to his face. ‘Are you coming with us, Captain?’

  ‘Yes, since we’re done here. Have you given thought to what you will answer when you’re asked difficult questions?’

  Titus shrugged. ‘I was planning to improvise.’

  ‘Poor choice. What happens when you and three of your men all say you come from different places?’

  ‘I was planning to be rather reticent and not reveal much. Surely that would be in keeping with smugglers.’

  ‘Don’t overextend yourself, Marshal. Don’t try and play smuggler. These people will see through you. You’re too legal to pull it off, and they know smugglers well. You’re just a merchant and his men caught in a storm and washed here by chance. That way you won’t get tripped up so easily. You were coming from Haedaris with a cargo of lead, bound for Burdium Portus. A lot of lead goes that way, and tin comes back the other, so that was probably what you were planning on buying in. But now you’re worried about being destitute, since we had to heave the lead overboard at sea to prevent sinking. There’s a few ingots among our goods, so there’s some evidence if you need it. But if you play the role calmly and don’t draw attention to yourself, you should be fine. You might even be able to buy a horse and cart to travel west again in the morning if you don’t cause any trouble.’

  Titus frowned. ‘I thought we’d sail west again?’

  ‘How, Marshal?’ Even if the Sea Eagle is repairable, it’ll be weeks of work. If not, then we have to start the trek back east. Either way, you’re on foot from here given the urgency of your task. And don’t bother asking any of the locals about ships. There’ll be none willing to take unknown passengers.’

  ‘Shit,’ grumbled Titus as he settled the cloak about his shoulders and adjusted the hang of his sword belt. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Burdium is, what, five days away by horse?’

  ‘Bet on seven or eight, especially if you’re taking kit in a cart.’

  Titus hissed his disappointment. ‘Bastard gods and their storms.’

  The captain made a warding sign against ill luck and glared at Titus. ‘Bear in mind that those gods you’re cursing saw you safely into harbour. You could easily be floating face down out on the ocean right now.’

  The marshal merely grunted his acceptance of that fact and pulled the hood of his cloak up to stop the rain that was now beginning to filter through the tree branches in force.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go get a drink.’

  The party emerged from the trees and the sodden sailors converged with them so that one large group moved on up the slope towards the houses. Titus tried not to feel self-conscious as every window they passed framed a suspicious face, peering out at the shipwreck in their harbour and the fortunate survivors moving into their village.

  ‘Friendly place.’

 
The captain snorted. ‘The authorities almost never get out here. Your officials and soldiers just pass by on the main roads a little inland. They have no real interest in the tiny fishing villages of a harsh and dangerous coast. That’s why it makes such a good place for underhand transactions. Be wary, Titus. Don’t, for the love of the gods, let them think you’re officials.’

  ‘All I want is to get warm, fed, drunk and rested. In that order.’

  ‘And you’ve money?’

  Titus jangled the heavy purse at his belt. ‘There’s more in the kit back under the trees, but this should be ample.’

  ‘Good.’

  The building that sat slightly apart from the houses, with warm, glowing windows and smoke curling up from twin chimneys at both ends of the structure, bore a sign that declared it to be the Drunken Harpy.

  ‘My kind of place,’ grinned one of the guards.

  ‘Have a drink, by all means,’ Titus addressed his men, ‘but remember the tale the captain concocted for us. Watch your tongues and be on your guard at all times. These will not be the friendliest of people.’

  Titus let the captain push open the tavern door and followed the man in, the guards and sailors all filtering in behind, grateful to be out of the torrential rain, the sailors dripping wet, the guards removing their soaked cloaks, largely dry beneath. Half a dozen locals glared at them as they filled the tavern’s large common room to the seams.

  ‘We’ve nae room for your whole crew,’ the innkeeper snarled, his eyes flinty and suspicious.

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t stay on board,’ the captain replied levelly, ‘what with half the ship filled with seawater and the gravel of your beach. My men can make do with stables or barns or whatever shelter you can offer. My friend here is – was – a wealthy merchant. He can pay you handsomely.’

  On cue, Titus jingled his purse. The innkeeper, and the rest of the room’s occupants too, looked the marshal up and down, taking in every detail. Titus was unusual for a high-ranking military man in that he was rarely shaven, his hair was long and unkempt, and he looked generally much scruffier than one would expect of an imperial marshal. Of course, the same had been true of his father. On this occasion, it would work in his favour. He couldn’t imagine that he looked very official.