The town of M’Dahz languished hopelessly for the next few months, eking out an existence from the few desert traders desperate enough to sell their wares that they would brave coming this close to the troubled border, and from the occasional Calphorian merchant willing to face the possibility of pirates and Pelasian patrols for the high prices they could charge in the region.
It was far from a comfortable life, but it was a life, when all was said and done. After an initially hopeful start, when the seaborne section of the militia impounded two vessels and brought the navy’s strength up to eight ships, they soon encountered violent resistance from both pirates and a few Pelasian vessels that felt confident there would be no reprisals. Now, after four months of campaigning, the militia had achieved a few small victories, but were back down to a strength of four vessels and were beginning to lose heart.
The defences of the town had been bolstered by the land militia. The new walls were poor and badly-constructed when compared to the heavy fortifications from the height of Imperial power, but they enclosed the nervous population and were well-patrolled by armed militia. M’Dahz endures, the people said. It was the only positive thing anyone could really find to say, these days, and so the people said it often.
Asima and her two partners stood on the jetty waiting for the fleet of small two-man fishing boats to return. The flotilla speckled the water near the horizon and would reach the dock in ten or fifteen minutes, at which point the three children would fill the baskets in their cart with fish and take them back to the secure warehouse.
The past four months had seen an almost spectacular revival of her father’s trading interests. After a slow start, business had picked up rapidly for them and Asima had even talked of employing others, though had finally decided that the business should be kept between them. The girl was shrewd and, with the addition of Samir and Ghassan’s quick minds, her father was astounded at how rapidly his stores replenished and his coffers refilled.
Samir and Ghassan, as the months went by, were repeatedly taken aback by just how vicious and cutthroat Asima was capable of being in business deals. She showed no sign of sympathy or compromise in her dealings, despite the fact that the people they were trading with were often old acquaintances of her father and most were in a similar financial state to themselves, desperately trying to survive in the impoverished town.
Still, it was Samir and Ghassan’s knowledge of the city and their intuitive ideas, combined with Asima’s strength and wily approach to business, that had turned her father’s meagre surviving assets into a going concern once more. They may not like having to be hard on people with whom they sympathised, but it was doing so that was pushing them into a more comfortable position themselves.
And tonight their fish stock would go into storage so that tomorrow it could be distributed among the market traders and fill the ever-hungry bellies of M’Dahz.
Samir frowned and held his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun. Something was wrong.
“Ghassan?”
“Hmm?”
His brother turned from the warehouse wall at which he had been idly staring, counting the bricks.
“Ghassan,” his brother repeated, “look at the flotilla. What do you see?”
Ghassan, they had discovered, had the sharpest eyes of the three of them and was probably the most observant. He had spotted the bad dates they had been about to purchase last week, and a month ago had spotted a pirate vessel on the horizon in plenty of time to get word to the Calphorian captain with whom they had been dealing to bring his boat back in to dock.
Ghassan peered out into the bright light, trying to make out the many small shapes amid the glittering, sparkling waves, muttering under his breath. Finally, he removed his hand from his brow and shrugged.
“Twenty eight small fishing boats, all very heavily laden. Bodes well for us, brother.”
Samir shook his head tensely.
“I’m not so sure, Ghassan. Twenty eight, you say? And you’re sure?”
“I could count them again, but there are twenty eight. Why? Are some missing?”
Samir’s jaw hardened.
“Quite the opposite. There are only twenty three fishing boats in M’Dahz.”
Ghassan blinked.
“I know these things,” Samir shrugged. “I pay attention.”
He turned to find Asima, who was standing a few feet away from them by their cart, involved in yet more dealings with one of the dock workers.
“I think we may have trouble” he called to her.
Asima waved away the worker and joined Samir, who explained the discrepancy as Ghassan once more shaded his eyes and stared out across the water. Definitely twenty eight. And heavily laden. There must be so much fish…”
He bit his lip as he scanned across the boats once more.
They were far too heavily laden.
The flotilla was getting closer now and more detail was visible. Twenty eight boats, but not twenty eight fishing boats. Samir had been right. Twenty three fishing boats, for sure. And five lifeboats. Ghassan suddenly found that his heart was racing. He knew what was weighing the boats down now, even before he could confirm it with his eyes. He turned to the smaller brother, his mouth dry.
“Samir… they’re lifeboats.”
Samir stood still and silent as his eyes drifted from Ghassan and back to the bay, where they slid across the open water to the collection of small vessels rowing their way to land; rowing their way to safety?
Ghassan turned his own gaze back to the flotilla and nodded wordlessly as he confirmed with horror what he already knew to be true. The boats were devoid of fish. The men of M’Dahz rowed for land, but their cargo lay in bloody, soaked heaps among the ribs of the vessels. Not all were corpses, though most were clearly beyond hope. A few of the men rowing were bloodied and wet, but alive and making for home.
Militia. All men of the militia of M’Dahz. And, as they came closer and closer to the docks, every face was bleak and hopeless. Samir’s own mouth was now dry as he stared out among them. Asima was between the boys now, her hands on their shoulders in a gesture of strength and support.
“It could have been any of the militia ships” she said hopefully.
Samir shook his head, unable to speak in more than a low croak. Ghassan reached across and squeezed his brother’s wrist before turning to Asima and shaking his own head.
“Each of the militia ships carries only two lifeboats. That was all that could be drummed up.”
He turned back to the fleet that were now jostling and manoeuvring into position by the jetties.
“Five lifeboats means at least three of the four ships.”
Asima fell silent once again, not trusting herself to speak any further.
Quietly and unhappily, the men from the boats climbed onto the jetties and went about the sad and grisly business of finding carts to transfer their bloody cargo from the boats. The brothers watched with bated breath, their eyes playing across the crowd of sailors, looking for the man they somehow already knew would not be there.
As the last figure shuffled up the wooden walkway, Samir collapsed backwards onto a sack of grain awaiting removal. Silently he sat there, staring at the chaos, as Ghassan hurried down the jetty and began to examine all the bodies piled in the boats.
Asima gripped Samir’s hand. She didn’t know what to say, but the chances were not good. She watched and realised she was biting her cheek once again, a habit she had been trying to kick recently. She had realised that many of her little habits were signs of weakness or insecurity and, as the main negotiator for her father’s business, she could no longer afford such girlish tendencies.
She continued to watch, clutching the silent Samir, while Ghassan ran from boat to boat, stopping the men as they carried their ghastly cargo from the dock to the carts, and checking each body. Finally, he stopped and shuffled slowly back towards them.
“He’s not there, brother.”
Samir sagged a little more, but Asima straightened purposefully.
“Well that’s good, then. Faraj may be alive. His ship may be intact.”
Ghassan shook his head sadly.
“The insignia they’re wearing are from all four ships. No one escaped. If uncle Faraj is not there…” his voice cracked and tailed off.
He sat with a heavy thump next to his brother.
“If he’s not there, then he either drowned or he’s been captured.” He took a deep breath. “And given what the pirates are said to do to their prisoners, best to hope that he drowned.”
Asima stared at the taller of he two brothers, but realised that Samir was nodding sadly.
“Pirates?”
The three of them turned at the sudden rude interruption. A militiaman, bleeding profusely from a cut above the eye and with a damaged arm tucked limply into his belt, stopped on his way to a cart.
“Pirates, you say?”
Ghassan nodded, uncertainly, and the man shook his head.
“No pirates, lad. This was Pelasia.”
Asima blinked.
“But they wouldn’t dare? Even with the army gone, Calphoris is only a day distant, with the governor’s forces.”
The man laughed a hollow and unhappy laugh.
“Calphoris will be looking to its own defence now. They’ll not sally forth to protect a third-rate little crossroads like M’Dahz.”
The man sighed.
“Pelasia comes, my dear. Pelasia comes now, and there is no one to stop them. The satraps have made their opening move and destroyed our ships. Best get indoors and stay as quiet as possible and hope the invasion is quick and painless.”
With a last, sad look at the three children, the militiaman shambled off among his peers. While their small exchange had occurred, one of the men must have announced the news, as roars of distress and groans of despair went up among the civilians among the docks and as the three of them sat on the grain sacks, the world exploded around them. People ran in panic this way and that, rushing to find their loved ones and either hide within the houses of the town or flee and hope they would make Calphoris before the satraps of Pelasia could catch them.
Ghassan nodded sadly as he watched the people rush in a mindless panic and turned to Samir.
“Will the rest of the militia fight, do you think, brother?”
Samir nodded.
“They are men like our uncle. Can you imagine Faraj rolling over and showing his belly to the Pelasians?”
He sighed.
“No. They will fight.” He swallowed sadly. “And they will die.”
Ghassan shrugged.
“And we will fight and die with them.”
As Samir nodded, Asima turned to them, a shocked expression on her face.
“What?”
The two boys merely shook their heads sadly.
“But you’re ten years old!” she barked. “The militia will send you home.”
Samir sighed.
“Asima, when the Pelasians come it will make no difference. We can fight as well as any man in the militia now. Faraj trained us well. And we have to try; for you and your father… for mother.”
“But you’ll die!”
Ghassan nodded sadly once again, but Samir turned to look at her.
“I have been dreaming of this for a long time. I had always assumed it would be glorious and we would be the victors, but that seems unlikely now. And yet, many times in my mind I have stood on the walls and watched the Pelasians come. It no longer frightens me.”
He grasped Ghassan’s wrist.
“Let the Pelasians come.”