by Welcome Cole
“Cap’n Fark! Riders approaching!”
Mal looked over at the source of the voice. It was Gath Boilstand, the company gate master who stood at his post on the catwalk directly across the wide gate from him.
“Five of ‘em, Cap’n! They’re pushing them beasts like Oiaerveus hisself be chasing them!”
Mal shaded his eyes and looked out over the crowd. Horses sprinted toward the fort from over a half-mile out. The riders pushed them recklessly through the crowd as they raced down the narrow dirt road leading to the fort’s gates. The lead horse was so black it appeared nearly featureless from this distance. That was Tree returning from the patrols she’d been assigned to days before. She rode with three of her Vaemysh renegades, all dressed in the same muted greens and grays. In stark contrast, the fifth rider shattered the mundane pattern of the savages. This one was draped in a brilliant red robe. Strips of the ride-loosened fabric danced wildly behind him like flames fanned by the wind. Something golden sparkled from his cowl.
“It’s Tree,” Gath called again, “She’s got herself a Mendoph. Looks a bronzer, Cap’n.”
That was the source of the gold spark. Mal felt a corresponding pang of apprehension for the revelation. Mendophian couriers of the bronze mask ranked at the highest level of security agents in the Mendophian army. Their services were spared only for matters of the highest confidence. It couldn’t possibly be good news that one now rode toward the fort with Tree and company.
“Gath!” he yelled across the gate.
“Cap’n Fark?”
“I want that rider taken to the council room soon as he crosses this gate!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“I mean it, Gath! You bring him to me before his horse even stops. And no one talks to him before I do. You understand me? No one!”
“Aye, Cap’n,” the man said with a sloppy salute.
“And ring the cursed officers’ bell alrea—”
The bell was ringing before he could finish the command. Despite the crude appearance of his men and the compound, they were as efficient and organized as any royal army. The crew worked with the synchronization of a ship’s clock, and the higher officers needed practically no guidance at all.
Mal spared one final look back at the courier before leaving for the offices. The riders were close enough now to eliminate any doubts about the Mendoph’s origin or rank. It was indeed a bronzer. And the sight made him sick at the stomach.
∞
Mal sat beside his brother at the head of the worn meeting table in the council chambers.
Lucifeus was dressed in rich buckskins stitched fancifully with brilliant threads of a dozen colors. His long black hair was woven back in Vaemysh tradition, though the bind was completed with a rich, flowing black ribbon rather than a traditional leather cord. Even as they prepared to ride out into the wilds of Na te’Yed and into the pages of glory (or a cold grave), his brother remained the living image of the proud, confident Smuggler King. And the pomp and circumstance of his brother’s countenance irritated him to no end.
Still, as he watched Lucifeus’s bejeweled index finger manically stroking his ridiculously groomed moustache, he found a moment’s satisfaction. Though Mal was certain none of the other officers noticed it, he clearly saw the tension and doubt simmering just beneath his brother’s confident facade. Despite his brazenly vain appearance, he was as worried and frightened a man as anyone else at this table. Polished image be damned, it appeared he was a mortal after all.
The usual suspects lined the long table. He and his brother sat at the table’s end opposite the room’s entrance, as always. Tree sat in her place at Lucifeus’s left hand. Wilc, with his cloaked form and ornately engraved silver mask, sat across from her on Mal’s right. Freer, the Watcher was next, with Esoria beside him.
The other major officers filled the rest of the table and the chairs lining the walls around it. Mac Grind, the old but capable stores officer; Slee’veer Hong, the Vaemysh treasury master; Hyme Clute and Greddle Touc, the second and third mates. At the far corner, directly down the table from Mal, sat Skull Wilcox, the fat, hairy arms master and the only Pendt in the company. Even among the minimal moral standards of this company of smugglers, murderers, and thieves, the animalistic Pendts were held in the lowest regard and trusted by few. Skull was the rarest of exceptions. He’d been with the crew since their earliest days of pirating aboard the Laughing Molly some twenty-five years back.
The last chair in the corner of the table opposite Mal was empty, as usual. Its owner hunkered in the corner behind it, just left of the door. He had one foot braced back casually against the timber, one hand locked on his belt, and the other fingering the sliver of wood he chewed on. Despite the excellent light of the room, the man’s face was a shadow, his features cloaked by long, seemingly colorless hair that draped his face like closed curtains. Though he was the tallest of the officers by a full head and a half, he was the picture of stealth, able to make himself so inconspicuous that even Mal could pass him in a crowded tavern and never remember seeing him. However, once this man found your eyes from across the room, you’d never sleep soundly again.
This was Fledge Freevow, the only Baeldon among the officers. He was ship’s first mate and third in command of the Freehold. He also served as their master cannoneer, lead hunter, and chief recruiter. His furtive nature made him particularly adept at the recruiting aspect of his job, though “recruiting” might be an excessively swanky word to match his means.
“For gods’ sakes, Fledge,” Lucifeus said, rapping the table with his ringed fingers, “Will you take a seat for just this once?”
“Reckon I’m right good where I stand, Cap’n.”
“Goddamn you, Fledge! You’ll be in charge while we’re gone. I want you at the table.”
Fledge just grinned back at him. “Standing suits me just fine, Cap’n Luce. Thanks all the same.”
“Bloody hell! Do I have to order you to—”
“Oh, for the love of Calina!” Esoria said with a slap to the table, “Just leave the man be, will you, Lucy? Seems there are plenty more dire matters to get yourself in a huff over than whether or not poor Fledge has a whim to sit, stand, or lay out flat on the floor!”
“God’s hooks!” Lucifeus spit back, “Well, fine then! The hell with you, Fledge. Go stand your ass outside if it suits you. You might be able to hear us through the window if you press your head against the wall hard enough.”
A knock broke the tension.
The hairy, grizzled face of Gath slipped through the rough plank door. “Pardon me the intrusion, Cap’ns,” he growled. Everything that came from his mouth was either a shout or a growl. “Got me the Mendoph courier out here, if it pleases ye.”
“Send him in already,” Lucifeus said, “Do we look like we have all night?”
Unfettered, Gath pushed the door open and stepped back against it to allow passage of the courier.
The Mendophian approached the table like a bloody red sail. He settled a pace short of the empty chair as if fearing what fate might befall taking it. The only hint that a mortal lived behind the bizarre bronze mask was the eerie red eyes peering from behind it. Mendophs’ irises and sclera were deep, solid red so that the eyes looked like bubbles of blood that might burst with a hard look. Mal had always found it immeasurably disconcerting.
He gestured toward the empty chair at the end of the table, saying, “You must be tired from the ride, sir. Kindly sit.”
Instead of complying, the bronzer simply stood there looking at Mal in the contemplative style of the Mendophs. If Mal hadn’t known the Mendophian culture as well as he did, he’d have thought the man deaf or maybe confused by the command. Gath slid the chair back for the man, who continued to study it for a moment longer before finally sitting.
“Comfortable?” Mal asked sarcastically.
The courier looked at him, but didn’t respond.
“What news brings you to the Freehold in such a hangman’s rus
h?”
“I’ve information from Magistrate Bobomar,” the courier said from the other side of the bronze mask.
The voice startled Mal. It was soft and unmistakably female. He wasn’t sure why he’d made the assumption that the courier was male. Then again, telling the Mendophian sexes apart was a near impossibility, short of disrobing them. Males and females were of the same approximate height and build, and the masks and robes effectively made their gender-specific bumps and curves invisible.
Still, upon closer inspection, the detailed face of her bronze mask boasted fully cast lips, almond-shaped eye windows with finely engraved lashes, and sharp, though delicate cheekbones. It was obviously the mask of a female. Had he been less impatient, he would have spotted it straight from the dock.
Mal glanced over at Lucifeus. His brother gave him a subtle nod of understanding. This courier was sent by Bobomar, who was their lead agent in Fetter’s Woe, a city just sixty miles northeast of Smeck’s Gate, the southernmost gate in the great Wall of Morleph that physically separated the eastern Mendophian border from the rest of Calevia.
“You’re a bronzer,” Lucifeus said, “That leaves me to presume the message is verbal, no?”
“Yes, sir,” the Mendoph said, nodding ever so slightly, “It is the way of our rank.” Her voice was as soft as satin, her words melodic in their delivery. Mal found it disconcertingly appealing.
Lucifeus patted Mal on the arm. “Brother, I fear it just got worse.”
Mal knew he was right. Communications by verbal message were typically of the highest priority. It meant the sender was avoiding any possible physical interception of the information, and the Mendophs were the perfect couriers for such guarded communication. Obsessively secretive by nature, they were also doggedly loyal and practically impossible to extract information from, even through torture.
Lucifeus looked at Tree. “You’ve seen her identification?”
Tree tossed a thin, square wallet of green leather onto the table. It was stamped in the center with the image of a black cat arched over a jawless mortal skull, and it contained a gold coin in its pocket, a coin stamped with same black cat on one side and the image of a lone skull sitting before a rolled scroll on the other. The impression of Bobomar’s bite mark in the gold was the final proof of its authenticity. It was the Fark’s marker, given to the courier by Bobomar as proof the message was legitimate.
Satisfied, Mal slipped the token back in the wallet and handed it over to his brother. “What’s your name?” he asked the Mendoph.
The courier looked down at the table. She gazed into the polished wood as if in search of the answer.
“We’re marching out at midnight,” Lucifeus said harshly, “That leaves you seven hours to find an answer to the bloody question.”
The Mendoph leveled her blood-red eyes at Lucifeus for just an instant before turning to Tree, who nodded back commandingly. Mal thought it odd that the courier would need affirmation from Tree before answering the question of a captain, but let it go.
“I am called Feck, my Lords,” the woman behind the mask said, “Feck Fedalia Grimsun Went of Glovenreed in the Mendophian state of Fweorelfield.”
“Well, then, Feck Fedalia Grimsun Went,” Lucifeus said, scowling, “Give us the damned message already. If it pleases you, I mean.”
The Mendoph again glanced at Tree.
“Is there a problem?” Lucifeus said, “What are you waiting for, a reward? I won’t tell you again, give us the message already!”
“My apologies, my Lords,” Feck said softly, “The message from Magistrate Bobomar was intended for your ears only. It would disrespect his wishes to deliver it in the company of unrequested persons.”
Despite his irritation at her stubborn refusal to comply, Mal was again moved by the sound of her voice. It was as mesmerizing as a mother’s lullaby.
“These are the ship’s officers, man,” Lucifeus said, gesturing toward Mal, “You may speak as freely among them as you would myself or Captain Fark, this you have as my word. Now give us the cursed message before I have you thrown in the brig.”
The courier’s uncomfortable red eyes shifted to Mal, where they remained for nearly a minute. Eventually, she nodded and said, “By your will, sirs. A Vaemysh army has been spotted moving points west and north between Dobb’s Outpost and Fetter’s Woe. Magistrate Bobomar believes them to be making haste toward Smeck’s Gate. He believes it to be a siege army. He has secured patrols behind said army to track its movement. For safety’s measure, he has also sent a third party east in search of a potential second battalion. To my regret, the latter scouting party had failed to return ere the time of my departure.”
Mal drummed the table with his fingers. The news was worse than he’d hoped, but every bit as bad as he expected. “Is that it?” he asked her.
The Mendoph looked at him for a ridiculously long moment, then nodded once. “That is the entirety of Magistrate Bobomar’s communication, my Lords.”
Lucifeus growled. “Well, that’s disappointing. I’m damned grieved to say that old Bobomar’s news is a few days overripe. The Vaemyn already gave us as much. Sink me if this hasn’t been a sorry waste of our time and energy!” He drummed his fingers against the table and glared at the Mendoph sitting across from him. The courier seemed to take no note of Lucifeus’s irritation. She simply continued staring at Mal. The room was as silent as a pew.
Mal looked over at Tree, who only glowered back at him. Eventually, he threw up his hands and said, “Well, then, Feck Fedalia Grimsun Went, we thank you for your efforts, unpunctual though the content was. My apologies to the officers for this waste of their time. If there’s nothing more, you may consider yourselves dismi—”
“I fear there is indeed more, my Lords,” Feck said too carefully.
Mal’s stomach knotted at that. “More?”
“Yes, sirs. I fear it to be my duty and my burden to trouble my Lords with news further north of Fetter’s Woe, though said news shares no rent with Master Bobomar’s message and is delivered unsolicited and unbeknownst to him.”
Feck’s gaze remained locked on Mal’s. It was so intense, so troubled, he briefly considered the option of simply sending her on her way before she could dispense the news.
“Why do I have the feeling this burden you carry is going to ruin my day?” Lucifeus said as if reading his mind.
The Mendoph said nothing.
“Fine,” he said, slapping the table, “Let’s get it over with, then.”
Feck continued to watch Mal. She didn’t seem intent on complying anytime soon.
“Feck?” Mal pressed, “Today, please?”
Feck’s crimson eyes flitted about the room as if making an inventory. In time, her gaze skidded down the table to Mal again. “The Captains will understand that these are field observations merely, made whilst managing my trip north to my Lords’ fort.”
“That’s fine,” Mal said, “Get on with it.”
“Word from our field agents indicates there has been a most unfortunate occurrence at Dobb’s Outpost.”
“The Outpost?” Mal asked. The words stimulated his curiosity. “What manner of unfortunate occurrence?”
Dobb’s Outpost was deep south in the Nolands, just north of Fetter’s Woe. A much larger city than the Woe, it served as a major smuggling outpost and tertiary base of operations for the Freehold after Farksborough.
“It seems…” Feck stopped. Her red-gloved hands slid out across the polished tabletop. She planted her eyes on the wood directly between them. Even with only her eyes to gauge it, Mal sensed a deep and acute fear rising in her.
“Go on, Feck,” he said gently, “You’re safe here. What happened in Dobb’s Outpost?”
Unsurprisingly, Feck didn’t respond straight away. The obvious terror that had seized her persuaded Mal to give her a bit of latitude. Minutes passed. It felt like forever before she looked up at him again.
“Go on,” he said, “It’s all right. You’re in saf
e company.”
“My Lords,” she whispered, “It is my unwanted and uninvited duty to report to you that Dobb’s Outpost has received a grievous attack.”
“Attack? What do you mean, attack?”
“Plainly said and plainly meant, my Lords.”
“To what end?” Lucifeus said, “And by whom? The Outpost is seventy miles north of Smeck’s Gate. Even if the savages’ goal is to lay siege to the Wall, the Outpost wouldn’t serve as an obstacle.”
“Go on, Feck,” Mal said to her, “I suspect there’s more to the message than that.”
“There is indeed, my Lords. Word from our field agents is that said attack consumed every soul within the walls of the city.”
Lucifeus stiffened. “Every soul? Dead? I don’t believe it!”
Feck didn’t look at him. Her sorry eyes remained locked on Mal. She gripped him like he was a lifeline and breaking his gaze would send her plummeting to her doom. Her red eyes gleamed sharply in the lamplight, lending them a sheen that served to make her gaze that much more desperate..
“There are twelve hundred-odd inhabitants in the Outpost,” Lucifeus said to Mal, “That doesn’t even count the transient merchant population. How the hell could the savages have killed all of them?”
Still gripping Mal with her gaze, Feck whispered, “Word is the Vaemyn did not attack Dobb’s Outpost, my Lords.”
“Not the Vaemyn?” Mal said, “Who else could it have been? The stinking Pendts couldn’t sneak enough soldiers through the forest to take a farm, let alone a city. And even if the Allies were inclined to commit such a crime, a concept I find impossible to swallow, we’d have seen their armies in the Nolands long before they reached the Outpost.”
Lucifeus again slapped the table. “Spare us the damned conundrum! God’s hooks, I do so loathe riddles. Tell us how you know it wasn’t the savages, and be straight about it, girl!”