“Yes, Sir?” answered Heao, a little fearfully.
“Go inform your father of everything you have heard here and ask him to give word to the rest of our group.”
“Okay, Sir. What about Alik?”
Alik, he thought. He had this inexplicable sense that he needed to find that boy above all else. Perhaps because he represented an unfinished responsibility, something Jevan could never tolerate, or perhaps because all of this was so strange that it seemed it ought to be connected to the boy, the strangest thing about the island by far. “I will find him myself,” he told Heao.
I.ii.
Deran, the man with the dull, dark brown cloak, had proceeded directly to the docks in search of the port authority, only to find that the man had already left. He allowed himself a few minutes to stop and observe the course of events. Too many questors who did not, never returned. Too few…too few remained.
His eyes turned toward the storm. The fishing boats were beginning to pull in early ahead of it. The sun sinking on its westward arc was beginning to turn red as it descended into the black clouds. Those clouds—he could still hardly believe it. Not much time, then; not much time.
He turned toward the ships. The Tryphallian captain and his crew were boarding the Ferrian freighter and taking control. It was a quick struggle. Two of the Ferrian mates were slain; then the rest were marched below-decks. A general confusion ensued ashore: some islanders were running off to report the affair, while others milled and wondered what to do. No threats there—but no opportunity, either.
He turned his attention back to the fishers coming into the harbor. He knew little of seamanship but tried to calculate which of the boats seemed most seaworthy, which pilots seemed to guide them most smoothly—and which were closest, from his vantage point at the end of the docks, nearest the big freighters. There was the matter of inconspicuousity to be considered. Yes, that one would do: large enough to brave the open sea, coming straight for him. He waited until the pilot pulled in to dock. The deck was level with the dock, loaded with large bins of fish. The hull was peeling what had once been white paint but seemed seaworthy enough. The pilot was a likely-looking man, weather-worn with a rough beard and stocking cap. He threw a rope onto the dock and hopped over the rail to tie the ship down, casting a brief glance at the stranger watching him. “Help you?” he called out.
Deran tossed him a small purse of gold coins. “I’m looking for transport to the continent,” he said.
“I don’t actually transport…,” the pilot began to say as he looked into the purse. His narrow eyes widened noticeably. “You have a navigator?”
“Not yet. Do you know one you would recommend?” Deran asked.
“One in my group…name of Fehro,” he said. “Expect he’d be interested.”
“We have to sail before the storm,” Deran told him. “How soon can you find him and be back here?”
“Before the storm?” He seemed to be on the verge of objecting, but the purse in his hand dragged his attention back.
“Once the storm arrives,” Deran said, laying hold of the purse, “the offer disappears.” The pilot seemed to take that seriously, so Deran tossed in, “Anyway, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be a bad storm. Seems like it’s already breaking up.” He let go of the purse and leaned against the rail of the boat.
Considering all that, the pilot looked out to sea, where the storm really did seem to be weakening in the center. “I’ll send for Fehro. We’ll make a go of it.”
Deran nodded. “I’ll meet you here then,” he said. He considered as he left that he had very little time left to accomplish his quest. He straightened up suddenly. “By the way, who do you go to around here to report a pick-pocket?”
The pilot shrugged. “You know who done it, go to their group leader. Otherwise, Marshall Wavis or Port Authority Riphaelon.”
“Who’s the group leader for the scruffy little boy with the necklace who runs around by the sea?” Deran asked.
“You mean Alik? Doubt he’d be interested in picking any pockets, but if he did, like as not you’d find it somewhere along the beach.”
“Alik. Who’s his group leader?”
“Master Arran Delossan himself, scribe of the council.”
“Hmm,” said Deran. “Thanks.”
As he left, he saw the port authority with the marshall and his small force hurrying toward the Ferrian freighter. He took off in the opposite direction. If anyone could find the boy in time, it would be that scribe.
Marshall Hilger Wavis led an escort of four men for Commerce Secretary Nevea Iskaran as she marched up to the Ferrian trade ship, the Silverling. She was stopped at the bottom of the gangplank by two very dark-looking men, Tryphallian traders by their dress, decretal deputies by their badges. Wavis had seen much in his life, and he figured the two men were the darkest Tryphallians he had ever seen, if that was indeed what they were. “I am Commerce Secretary Nevea Iskaran of Western Isle, come to extend the island council’s invitation to a festival for the captain and crew of the Silverling,” Nevea declared cordially but a little nervously.
The two looked at each other. “No one is allowed on or off the ship, by order of the decretal of the prince of Tryphallia,” the guard on the left replied. Definitely not a Tryphallian accent, Wavis judged.
“I understand,” said Nevea, “but the decretal has approved this, so long as the crew was not allowed back on board.”
The two glanced at each other again. The first answered, “Seems reasonable, but we’ll need confirmation from the decretal himself.”
“Very well, if you must,” sighed Nevea. “Lon, could you go back to the council hall?” she asked, turning to one of Wavis’ men.
“Of course, Ma’am,” replied the one called Lon. He left, taking a route across the harbor that took him out of view fairly quickly.
Wavis shuffled his feet. “Mind?” he asked, holding up a pipe.
“No; mind if I join you?” the guard answered, pulling out a long, flute-like pipe.
Wavis filled up both pipes and lit them. “Keeps the bugs away,” he chuckled. “Satisfactory?”
The guard shrugged. “Not like home-grown. What’s the blend?”
Wavis smiled wryly. “It’s actually Tryphallian.” He let that sink in.
The guard gave a panicked look, realizing he was caught. “I guess it’s from a different region of Tryphallia,” he said.
What Wavis found most interesting, perhaps even tactically significant, was that this Tomerian mercenary (or heaven help them, Tomerian soldier) persisted in this charade.
Just then a cry came from onboard the ship, “At arms!” followed by tramping boots and ringing steel. Wavis was expecting—as happened—that the guards before them would draw their weapons and try to capture them. “Protect the counselor!” he commanded, drawing his own sword in ample time to block the attack of the guards. Wavis was not an indolent man—he kept himself in shape and drilled himself and his small command daily—but he found himself unable to sustain the attack of this younger and stronger Tomerian. The Tomerian pressed his advantage, and though Wavis was easily able to meet his attacks, he had to fall back at every blow. But at the same time, he was aware that his three charges were prevailing over the second guard. First the second guard fell, then the first. “Everyone okay?” he asked.
“Vic is wounded, but he will be all right,” the report came.
“They’re pretty good for sailors,” Vic said. “I’ll just get bandaged up and be right back.”
“They’re not sailors,” said Wavis. “They’re Tomerian soldiers or ex-soldiers. But what they’re doing here is another question.” He strode up the gangplank onto the freighter. Nevea and the other two soldiers followed him on.
Five more Tomerians were above-deck: two on the starboard side, two on the port, and one on the forecastle overlooking the harbor. On seeing Wavis, they all rushed toward them at once in a coordinated attack. Wavis sized up the situation quickly. “Take
the forecastle!” he commanded, running for it. The Tomerian on the forecastle stopped and prepared himself, realizing he was going to have to take the brunt of the attack alone but hoping he could hold them off from the forecastle’s relatively fortified position. Wavis signaled his men and charged up the steps. As he neared the top, the Tomerian reeled and fell to the deck, a thrown knife protruding from his thigh. Wavis finished him off and turned to make the same stand with his men.
He did not have to. At that moment the hatch from belowdecks crashed open and the imprisoned Ferrian crewmembers poured out, led by Lon and two more of Wavis’ men. The four remaining Tomerians were quickly overwhelmed.
Secretary Iskaran lost no time in finding and approaching the Ferrian captain. “Captain, Sir, my deepest apologies on behalf of all my people for this atrocity committed against you on our soil. Tryphallia has declared a blockade of the isle. Your only hope is to sail before their navy arrives to enforce this blockade. I am requesting to sail with you to seek the aid of Ferria in this crisis and, if possible, avert a major war.”
“You may sail with us, but what of the Tryphallian ship?” the captain asked. “We cannot dare them.”
“Leave that to us,” said Marshall Wavis. “We islanders are not completely helpless.”
As Jevan crossed the harbor in search of Alik, people were already running in every direction, and there was a red gleam of fire coming from the direction of the big freighters. The winds were coming hard now, and the sky was like evening. The clouds seemed to go all the way down to the sea. Jevan didn’t think Alik would be around this kind of clamour, but if he had gone inland….
“Guardian Delossan!” a voice cried out behind him. He turned. It was Heao Sedhar, the baker’s son. “Guardian Delossan, look! They’re fighting on the ships!” Heao exclaimed.
Jevan looked back. “Yes,” he said, “and worse is no doubt on its way. Have you already been to your father?”
“Yes,” said Heao, “and to Pylarus and Chenan and Biehle. Father’s organizing the group and a few other groups to help save the isle. He sent me back to find you to see where he could best help.”
“Oh, that is good, then,” said Jevan. “Did you see Alik again?”
“He wasn’t there anymore,” said Heao, “so I checked with the musicians, because sometimes he hides with them. But they said he and the girl had gone off somewhere else; nobody knows where. Sir, what shall I tell….” He broke off in mid-question with a gasp: “Sir! Ships!”
Jevan looked out to sea. A volley of rain pelted across his face: the storm arriving. There, safe in the center of the storm, the curtain of clouds was parting to reveal a fleet of nine Tryphallian warships approaching the isle. His jaw dropped.
“Guardian Delossan,” spoke up Heao. “Guardian Delossan?”
Jevan didn’t know what to say. How was it possible? Shard’s power? Elf wizardry? But shards and wizards were just legends…weren’t they? Then what? He shook himself. “Heao,” he said, “find Riphaelon and tell him to evacuate every seaworthy vessel he can at once. Then bring your father and whoever he has to me. And Pylarus with his boat.”
“Where will you be?” asked Heao, wide-eyed.
“I am not entirely sure,” said Jevan. “The beach, heading south toward the reefs. I shall see if Alik is to be found there, but if not, we shall be forced to leave the island without him.”
“I’ll be there before you know it,” exclaimed Heao; and with that, he dashed away.
The fleet—the fleet changed everything, Jevan thought. It was the end of the isle. So many years living in peace and prosperity…. Their way of life was being swallowed suddenly by something far beyond it. Something told him that warning Ferria and Anthirion was no longer significant, if anything was. This is what it feels like to watch your home burning down, he thought, or to find your spouse’s fishing boat washed ashore on the reefs, empty. He stared out to sea for some time, then finally managed to shake himself free and hurry south.
The flagship of the approaching fleet, the Correvale, flew with full sail through the flashing lightning and billowing waves, the double flags of Tryphallia and Tomeria streaming with the wind. As the Correvale entered the harbor, the wind slackened and the storm rolled on with surging energy to pass over the island. On the bow of the ship, next to the admiral and surrounded by a small company of men, General Gradja Marrann of the Tomerian Eleventh Command stood scowling towards the harbor, a spyglass in his hand. Down below, he could see the Tryphallian freighter Snowdowne listing and in flames, while the Ferrian freighter was just beginning to break port. Several other ships were also fleeing ahead or behind the Ferrian. As for the harbor, it was filled with fishing boats, torches, and angry shouting.
“Your prince’s pride has cost us,” General Marrann told the admiral. “He has managed to turn a peaceful population into a military front.”
“Due to the failure of your soldiers,” the admiral retorted. “Look, the Ferrian trader is escaping. Ensign!” An ensign promptly stepped forward, saluting. “Have the signal man signal the Starmark to pursue the Ferrian ship.”
“Perhaps we should see how well two nines of your own troops could fare against a whole island,” Marrann answered the admiral. He caught the ensign by the shoulder as the young man was leaving. “Ensign, signal the Starmark to drop ten boats of my troops as he leaves.” The ensign hurried away. “At least it won’t be a complete loss. We can use them to combat those fishing boats.”
“Fishing boats?” the Tryphallian admiral snorted. “They are no match for this ship. Don’t trouble your men.”
“It’s a trouble to my soldiers when their transports sink,” hissed Marrann. “Solveys,” he called. His chief aide, a slim old man, reported immediately. “I want archers up and down both sides of the ship and at both ends. If anything comes near the ship, shoot it. The same with the other ships.”
“Yes, Sir,” Solveys replied, and was gone.
Six ships sailed into the harbor, furling their sails and raining arrows seemingly everywhere. Death cries joined the howling of the wind and rain. Landing ships rowed through the harbor, attacking and destroying the larger fishing boats on their way. But in response the cries of the islanders ashore only became more impassioned. First, the Tryphallian freighter, listing in flames, turned away from the docks toward the Tryphallian warships and rammed into the nearest. A few islanders, including the unmistakable profile of Marshall Wavis, could be seen onboard the burning ship, hurling kerosene and burning pitch onto the other ship as the soldiers and sailors of the warship enveloped them.
A line of haphazardly-armed islanders stood along the docks, waving their arms and shouting. As the first landing boats approached, the piers exploded into flames.
General Marrann scowled again. So many people who didn’t need to have died, who were only doing what they had to in order to survive, just as they always had. Well, that was war—and of the most urgent of causes. The archers let loose a volley into the battle line on the docks, and islanders fell in scores. Another volley, and the lines broke apart. What was left of them. The landing parties struggled with the flames on the docks and managed to make a few footholds. Many would die, but it would be over soon.
Amidst the collapsing defenses of the islanders, one man was continually striding back and forth, shouting orders and diving into the fray wherever necessary. The islanders rallied around him, fighting fiercely as they were pressed slowly back toward the city. This could only have been a guardian. It was, in fact, the chairman of the Guardian Council, Halaeius, already twice wounded, limping heroically and brandishing a Tomerian spear.
Heao darted through the streets alone as the sound of Tomerian soldiers grew nearer. The streets were nearly deserted. As he passed through the market where his father’s shop stood, an eerie wailing filled the air. A thatched basket crashed to the ground, spilling silver fish-heads across the cobblestones. A tawny cat trotted out of the dark and attacked a fish. Suddenly it perked up, seeing Heao,
and took off across the street. Heao glanced into the darkened market and caught sight of another cat’s tail darting out of sight, and a hundred marble-green eyes stared back at him.
He stumbled back and started to run, but a flash of movement passed through the corner of his eye and a girl reached out to grab hold of him. “Come on, Heao, they’re coming!” she urged. It was the honey voice of Sirikka, the daughter of one of the singers.
“Sirikka,” he said, his heart racing, “I have to meet Guardian Delossan and my father on the beach. Have you seen Alik?”
She sniffed. “That boy? He ran off toward the jungle long ago, and I haven’t seen him since. We’re going to stage a resistance!”
Heao bit his lip. “Stay safe,” he managed.
She let go of him. “You too.” And before he knew it, she was gone.
He took the road down to the beach. He knew in his heart he would not see Sirikka again.
The road passed through an arch covered with flowering vines, down through a line of palms of various fruits to the beachfront. As he reached the beach he saw the great form of one of the other Tryphallian warships towering over the shore. The beach was already covered with Tomerian soldiers in their battle-grey uniforms, but there was no sign of Guardian Delossan or his father or any of their group.
He skirted the beach in the shadows of the palm trees. The soldiers were organizing into a long line and beginning to march up into the island. If he had been any later he would have been cut off. He sped up. He had to find the guardian quickly.
The Tomerian search line spread out across the grain fields south of the city, posted patrols for fugitives coming from the city, and began marching up along the sloping land leading into the islands interior. The rain slashed through the fronds of the trees, soaking everything, glistening on the bright yellow and red and blue flowers and fruits of the jungle, streaming down runoffs and filling streams. Here and there a colorful streak flashed through the undercover as a bird or a lizard was disturbed from its place.
The Wizard's Heir Page 4