Sharr Becklen huddled over one of Stalwick’s inextinguishable fires, clutching his cloak tightly around him, and shivered. It was raining again this morning; he forced a smile at a bedraggled Markus Fillin and nodded towards the sky. ‘Right on time.’
Markus ducked beneath the porous canvas tent that provided mean shelter at their guard post. He missed his family and worried about them often, especially during quiet moments, like this one. The rain, turning to sleet, wasn’t helping. Markus was young and handsome, but today his hair hung about his face in dripping strands and he looked like a warmed-over cadaver. ‘Lovely. This place goes from light grey to dark grey and back with the predictability of the tides. Bright and cheery, Sharr – and you live here?’
‘All my life,’ Sharr said, ‘and most days, I’m on the water, hauling nets or traps.’
‘In this? Markus rubbed his cramped fingers. ‘You’ve got ice in your bones, old man.’
‘Nah, it’s only dismal during this Twinmoon. Be glad this isn’t snow.’
‘Hoorah!’ Markus sniffed and asked, ‘Where’s our next meeting? Your friend, right? The harbourmaster’s mate or something?’
‘Assistant,’ Sharr nodded. ‘The harbourmaster is Malagon’s man to the core, but this fellow, Lan Hernesto, a Pragan if you believe him, has been with us all along. He makes life a bit more livable for those of us working nets or long lines offshore.’
‘Yes, well, he’s late,’ Markus said, ‘and it’s bloody cold out here. Tell me again why we aren’t meeting these people inside someplace warm and dry, like a tavern, or a nice comfy cathouse?’
‘Because we’re standing a post, Markus. Come on; this is soldiering.’
‘I thought we were officers.’
‘We’re Resistance, and that makes us full-on revolutionaries,’ Sharr said. ‘Call it Gita’s progressive leadership style.’
‘Progressive? I don’t even know what that means.’ Markus draped a blanket over a chair, then pulled the chair close to the fire. ‘Need to keep these dry,’ he mumbled, then said, ‘I don’t see her out here standing post.’
‘Markus, do you know where the occupation brigade went?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if there is a regiment of cavalry or a fleet of naval frigates coming here to slaughter us?’
‘No.’
‘Has anyone shown us anything that leads you to believe that we’re going to live through the Twinmoon?’
‘No.’
‘Then come here next to the fire, warm up, stand your post, and wait for Len. Later, I’ll take you down to the waterfront. I want to check on my trawler – with me gone this Twinmoon, it would be just like one of the wharf brats to stuff my scuppers full of rags. The old tub will be halfway to swamped in this rain.’
Markus crossed to the back wall where a lone figure drowsed contentedly on a cot. ‘Forgive me, Sharr,’ he said quietly.
‘No. Wait!’ he cried, but Markus ignored him.
Kicking one of the cot legs, he said, ‘Wake up, Stalwick. Come on now. Time to clear out the cobwebs.’
Sharr groaned. ‘Did you have to do that? I was enjoying the morning.’
‘What? What is it, Markus? Sharr? What is it? I’m up. I am.’ Stalwick was on his feet in a heartbeat, completely lucid and talking without pause. ‘Is it an attack? What’d I miss?’
‘It’s nothing, Stalwick. I’m cold, is all, and I need you to stoke up our fire a bit.’ He ushered the bandy-legged, unkempt figure towards the firepit. ‘There might be something wrong with this one,’ he explained. ‘It’s plenty bright, but there’s not much heat.’
‘Oh, I can fix that,’ Stalwick went on without a breath, ‘I can fix that right away, right away, I tell you.’ He gestured over the fire, winced as if he had smelled something bad, then flicked his wrist with a flourish. The flames leaped to the tent’s waterlogged ceiling.
‘Whoa!’ Sharr cried. ‘Ease off a bit, Stalwick. You singed my whiskers, old man.’
‘Sorry, Sharr, Markus, sorry.’ Stalwick blushed. ‘I just, you know, I just wanted it to be warm for you. But I guess that was a bit overdone, a bit, anyway.’
Sharr raised his hands in surrender. ‘It’s fine, good even, much better this way. Can you just… well, just keep the chatter to a low roar, all right? I’m trying to think.’
‘Sure, of course, Sharr. Sure I can.’ Stalwick paced around the tent’s interior a couple of times, ostensibly looking for something productive to do. ‘I’ll just… well, I’ll just… you know. I’ll-’
‘So,’ Markus interrupted, ‘where’s our man, whatshisname?’
‘Len Hernesto,’ Sharr replied. ‘He’ll be here.’
Gita’s Falkan Resistance forces, essentially a battalion with the dregs of a couple of companies that had wandered in over the past several days, still held Capehill. They hadn’t lost a soldier, nor had they encountered an enemy. Unsurprisingly, the handful of Malakasian soldiers apparently left behind had gone missing, most likely in civilian clothes, and none of the locals they’d met so far had any clue as to where the rest of the Malakasians had sailed. Sharr hoped Len would be able to shed some light on the situation, on the condition of the import-export businesses still operating, and on the availability of food stores, in Capehill and on the Eastern Plains. Gita needed to know if there would be enough food to see Capehill and its new lodgers through the winter Twinmoon.
Sharr had met the harbourmaster’s assistant in a local public house the previous evening. Unwilling to talk there, Len had offered to join Sharr and Markus after the dawn aven, but now he was late. Sharr tried not to worry as Stalwick carried on about whatever desultory topic had sparked his interest. Sharr had about given up trying to focus Stalwick’s attention on anything.
As Len arrived, slogging through the sleet and mud, he heard: ‘-and that’s how you tune a bellamir, Markus, but I guess you might have known that, coming from the Plains, right? I mean, lots of farmers are bellamir players, aren’t they? What else is there to do at night? There’s nothing else out there, I mean, no towns or cities to visit, so music makes sense, right? Music or chainball. Rutters, I bet you all play some chainball out there. Don’t you, Markus? What with all that space, the courts would be huge, twice regulation size if you wanted.’ Stalwick took a seat on the cot, somehow knowing that he should avoid the small table and maps set up in the centre of the floor. ‘And speaking of chainball, you know that squad from Timmon’s old platoon, the one with that big fellow from Wellham Ridge and that kind-of nice-looking woman from the Blackstones? Anyway, anyway, they’ve challenged the third squad, the one from Brand Krug’s company – where is Brand, anyway? But they’ve challenged the third squad to a chainball game tonight, with archers around the Common, of course, but it ought to be fun, don’t you think? Markus? Maybe we should all go together. You, me and Sharr, when we get off duty, we can find some food and then head down to the Common. I know I could do with a chainball match, especially a muddy one. We could even stop by the boarding house and see if Gita wants to come with us. She might like a break, too. I mean, she works so hard, all the time. She’s like you and Sharr, Markus. She’s a tough one, and I’m going to miss her when she’s gone, but maybe she’ll like a chainball game as well. What do you think, Markus? Sharr? What do you think?’
Sharr held the tent flaps open; Len Hernesto slipped inside.
‘Stalwick,’ Markus said.
‘Chainball,’ he went on, ‘we never played much around here. Did you, Sharr? You’d think in a place this size, we’d have-’
‘Stalwick!’ Markus shouted.
‘What?’ Stalwick said, ‘what’s the matter, Markus?’
‘Sharr and I are going to speak with Len. We need you to step outside and stand the post, just for a bit. All right?’
‘Take a bow and quiver with you,’ Sharr added, ‘just in case someone approaches through those trees to the north.’
‘Sure, I mean, I can do that. Sure.’ He pulled his hood up and stepped outside.
The silence that followed was welcome, even to the harbourmaster’s assistant, who had been in the tent for just a moment. Outside, the wind had picked up and the freezing rain was a noisy fugue on the walls.
‘Len,’ Sharr said finally. ‘Thank you for coming. This is Markus Fillin, one of our lieutenants.’
‘Markus,’ Len nodded. He was a full two heads shorter than Sharr and at least fifty Twinmoons older. Clad in an all-weather cloak that dragged on the mud behind him, he had the wind-worn look of a lifelong sailor. His grey hair was close-cropped and his beard trimmed. Despite being shorter than his old friend, Len weighed nearly as much as Sharr, evidence that he had given up hauling nets for the relative comfort of the harbourmaster’s office, through his forearms were still heavily muscled and his hands remained as strong as ever.
‘Welcome, sir.’ Markus hung Len’s cloak near the fire then offered the older man a chair. ‘Can I get you a goblet of wine?’
‘Please,’ Len said, settling himself, after several tries, on a small camp chair. He glanced at a map Markus had set out earlier that morning.
Sharr joined him. ‘I understand you couldn’t talk last night, but I hope you can stay the aven. I’ve got a number of questions – we’ve got to come up with a plan to fortify the town, feed the populace, house the army – such as we are – and make a decision about where to strike next. Orindale seems an unlikely target – they’ve got a full infantry division – and Malakasia is out of the question, but if we can reclaim parts of the Central Plains, dig in around some of the ranches and farms, we can hold the East and the Merchants’ Highway until spring, oversee the planting, protect the winter stores.’
Len spoke, his voice the raspy burr of a long-time smoker. ‘Sharr, you wouldn’t have believed it. I was here, and I still don’t believe it. No one knew anything. They just commandeered every ketch, catboat – anything that would float, in fact – loaded up a brigade of scared and cold soldiers and set sail for the North Sea. Don’t worry, though. Your old bucket is still on her mooring; I think trawlers made them nervous: too many nets and lines. It was rutting madness!’ He paused to cough, sighed, and said, ‘I’ve been here a long time. You and I have known each other, what, a hundred and fifty Twinmoons? Two hundred? Anyway, I’ve had the opportunity to develop some lucrative relationships with Prince Malagon’s officers, some of the captains, even a few of the brigade commanders, and I tell you, Sharr, no one knew anything. The order came in from Wellham Ridge, if you can believe it, that little shit-splat in the Blackstones, and the ships were loaded and on their way within a few days. It was madness, pure madness.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Where could they be going?’
‘I was hoping you’d answer that for us,’ Sharr laughed.
‘I wish I could.’ Len Hernesto looked like a man overmatched by the challenges ahead. He breathed heavily, despite the fact that he was sitting, warm and dry, beside Stalwick’s fire.
‘How is traffic along the Highway?’ Markus asked.
‘Fine, fine,’ Len said. ‘They took care of the roads, even the farm roads, running back and forth across the Plains in a spiderweb. It was their rutting food as well, I guess.’
‘And the stores?’
‘Of that, I’m not certain. They emptied most of the waterfront warehouses onto the vessels that picked them up. None of us have ventured into the barracks buildings here or here.’ He pointed to two places on the map. ‘They left several stables full of good horses, but they’re gone already. Thieves were bold enough to sneak the animals out, but no one’s gone inside the barracks proper, not that I know of yet. So there might be food, clothing, maybe bits of useful junk in there. It’s certainly a more comfortable place for you to sleep than how you are.’
‘Too risky,’ Sharr said, shaking his head, ‘at least for now. Gita won’t let us anywhere near those barracks, not to sleep in, anyway.’
‘I suppose she’s right,’ Len agreed. ‘That’s all you need, to get in there all snug and warm, and then have a regiment of irritable stormtroopers arrive unexpectedly.’
‘Still, we could get in and out, pillage whatever they left behind. Gods know we’ll need the food,’ Markus said.
‘That you will,’ Len said. ‘And we need to get the commercial fishermen out again. A Moon’s haul off the banks will feed this town for some time. Bloody tragic, the way everything they brought in – you brought in, Sharr – had to go to those wet-nosed motherhumpers. Lords, but I won’t miss them.’ He spat a mouthful of viscous phlegm between his boots.
‘Hold on,’ Sharr held up a finger, ‘say that again.’
‘What?’ Len looked puzzled then said, ‘They’re a bunch of clods, you know it, Sharr. They’re a worthless drain on the land, a waste of food, wine and warm places to sleep. The lot of them aren’t worth one Capehill baby, naked at birth!’
‘Yes, yes, that, but after that-’ Sharr cut himself off, then shouted, ‘Stalwick! Get in here!’
Sharr and Markus slogged through the mud and sleet, trying to run and shouting for help at every turn. Stalwick, his assorted weaponry clattering like a skeleton, followed as closely as he could.
Len Hernesto, his days of sprinting well behind him, remained in the little tent, standing the post.
‘Where is she?’ Markus yelled above the wind and rain.
‘The boarding house,’ Sharr wheezed, ‘go ahead of me. Take Argile Road towards the town centre. I’ll be right behind you.’
Markus, younger and faster, lowered his head and sprinted for Gita Kamrec’s apartments. He hadn’t known Stalwick long enough to experience his strange propensity to foretell the future in unpredictable snippets, but he trusted Sharr: something Stalwick had said that morning had Sharr convinced that Gita was in danger.
Splashing round the last corner, Markus waved to the sentry beside the doors at Gita’s boarding house. ‘Inside!’ he tried to shout, sucking in breaths through clenched teeth, ‘get upstairs, now!’
‘Lieutenant? What’s wrong?’
The guard wore an eye-patch; Markus had seen him in Gita’s shadow for the past Twinmoon, but didn’t know his name. ‘Upstairs!’ he repeated.
Eye-Patch stayed at his post but drew a pair of hunting knives regardless. He wore a bow slung across his back and had a quick-access quiver full of goose-feathered arrows on his belt. ‘No one’s gone inside all morning, sir,’ he said.
Markus skidded, fell in the muddy road and rolled to his feet. ‘Listen, I don’t-’
‘Barrold!’ Sharr called, stumbling round the corner, mud-splattered and leading a handful of partisans, none of whom looked like they had any idea why they had been rallied like this. Behind the winded posse, Stalwick staggered, one hand pressing against his side as he gasped.
‘Barrold!’ Sharr shouted again, ‘go!’ He panted, then gave up and pointed towards the second floor.
Eye-Patch, Barrold Dayne, who had lost his left eye to Steven Taylor in the caverns below the Medera River, turned suddenly and kicked the boarding house door nearly off its hinges.
‘Go,’ Sharr panted to Markus, following him inside.
Barrold was already on the upper landing, already inside Gita’s apartment, and already shouting for help.
‘Rutters,’ Markus cursed and bound up the stairs three at a time.
There was a shout, a crash, then silence.
Sharr’s vision blurred, he saw swirling spots of yellow and white and knew he was about to pass out. The room spun, then lurched back into place. He sucked in a breath, another, then dropped his sword, shrugged out of his cloak and doubled over, his hands on his knees.
He heard the others; they were all right. The danger, for the moment, had passed, but with adrenalin addling his thoughts, he was glad there was no one here to fight.
‘Help him up,’ Gita said, then gave a string of orders to the crowd gathered in the corridor.
‘Whoa there, old man,’ Markus said, holding him beneath one arm.
Something clanged and banged outside the chamber and they heard shouting. ‘Let me through,’ a familiar voice said, ‘I’m with them, I tell you, I’m with them. I need to get in there.’
Sharr half walked and half staggered to a chair, found a mug pressed into his hand and swallowed a few mouthfuls of water. That was better. He coughed hard and felt all manner of stickiness come loose in his chest. ‘More, please,’ he gasped, and passed the mug to Markus, who passed it to Stalwick, who had managed to get past the guards at the door to take up station next to his friends.
‘Get him a beer,’ Markus said.
‘But I just got here, Markus,’ Stalwick explained. ‘I just got up the stairs and through that throng, and what’s happening in here? Is everyone all right? Did I miss something, and who is that?’ Stalwick pointed behind the table where an overturned chair, a map of southern Gorsk and a broken breakfast tray half-hid the inert body of a maid.
Sharr wiped his face on his sleeve, felt his heart slow and managed a smile: Stalwick had been right.
‘Just get him a beer, Stalwick. Move it.’ Markus shoved him towards the corridor.
The room came back into focus. ‘It’s all right,’ Sharr said, unwilling to stand yet. ‘I’m all right. Give me a moment; that’s more running than I’ve done since before you were born, Markus.’
Barrold slapped him hard on the back. ‘Better you than me, sir!’
‘Go easy on me, Barrold,’ Sharr waved up at him in mock surrender. ‘I’m still spinning down here.’
Gita pulled a chair up beside him. ‘How’d you know?’
‘It was Stalwick,’ Markus said. ‘He said something this morning. Sharr caught it. I don’t even remem-’
‘He said he would miss you when you were gone,’ Sharr said, nodding thanks as Stalwick handed him the froth-topped mug. He drank half of it in one swallow, then handed the mug to Gita who finished it in similar fashion.
‘Miss me?’
‘It just came out of him,’ Sharr explained. ‘You know how he gets, rambling on about gardening and boils and pest control and his great-aunt Gaye from Southport? No offence, Stalwick.’
‘That’s all right, Sharr. I do go on sometimes. I mean, not all the time, and well, my aunt’s name isn’t Gaye, it’s Mavene, and she’s not really a great-aunt, more a cousin, although we all call her Aunt Mavene, and she’s not really from Southport, she’s from a little village not far from here really, but you know, if you were just using that as an example, well, then, I understand what you’re-’
‘Stalwick.’ Gita raised a finger at him. ‘Please.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, sorry. Sharr, sorry.’
‘Anyway,’ Sharr went on, ‘when he said it, I knew we had to get over here in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the body in the corner, ‘but it looks like you had things in hand.’ Outside, the sleet had stopped; the street was silent. Drops from the roof above plunked an irregular rhythm on the wooden sill.
Gita gave the tired fisherman an uncharacteristic hug, then opened the windows, reaching on tiptoe to get the higher latch. She looked more like the partisans’ grandmother than their leader.
‘What happened, ma’am?’ Barrold picked up the chair, the map and what remained of Gita’s breakfast. He turned the body over with his foot. The woman was younger than Sharr, but not young. She was dressed as a maid, but it was impossible to know if she was merely a terrorist, sympathetic to Malakasian rule, or one of the occupation soldiers who had remained behind when the rest of them disappeared across the North Sea.
‘She brought a knife with my breakfast,’ Gita said calmly. ‘It was a mistake.’
‘A knife, ma’am?’ Markus asked. ‘Don’t they always bring a knife with your breakfast?’
‘I was having eggs and booacore.’
‘Well, you don’t need a knife for those things, ma’am,’ Stalwick broke in to state the obvious. ‘What needs cutting, really? I mean, what would you cut with a knife? It isn’t as though she brought you a loaf of old bread or anything.’
Sharr tested his legs and went to close the windows. ‘It’s cold.’
‘You all right?’ Gita asked.
‘Fine, fine.’ Sharr checked the street in either direction. ‘Just too rutting old for this business.’ The temperature had dropped again, and the sleet would freeze by the dinner aven, coating the town in ice. It would be a cold night for chainball.
‘Don’t talk to me about old, my friend.’ Gita smiled. ‘Anyway, if this one was Malakasian military, we have to be alert. Who knows what the others might be up to? How many did you say they had left?’ She ignored the body as she circled the table, shuffling through maps until she found one of Capehill.
‘There was a squad, maybe a handful more,’ Sharr said, ‘so fifteen, perhaps twenty soldiers.’
‘So we assume they’re in civilian clothes, hiding here somewhere amongst us.’ Gita bent over the map, her nose nearly touching the parchment.
‘That’s troublesome,’ Markus said.
‘And there’s no way to smoke them out,’ Barrold added.
‘Unless we round up the locals. You know them, Sharr. Pull two or three soldiers from each platoon, no more than ten from a company. Spread them out; blanket the town. See if anyone’s heard anything, seen anything. Find these motherwhoring pukes and bring me one of them alive.’
‘Very good, ma’am,’ Markus said.
‘And Sharr-’ Gita tugged her dagger loose from the treacherous maid’s chest with a grunt, ‘stay on your friend Hernesto. I want as much information as possible on the condition of the roads, the surrounding farms, the winter stores, the slaughterhouses, all of it.’ When he nodded agreement, she turned to Barrold and asked, ‘Any new additions overnight?’
‘Most of one platoon from the Central Plains, and almost a full company from Gorsk,’ he said.
‘Anyone from Rona?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Bloody Sallax.’ Gita frowned. And no word from Gilmour and the others either. When’s the Twinmoon, anyway?’
‘Maybe another day or two.’ Sharr checked again out the window, looking north.
‘We’re going to lose sleep over these leftover soldiers, boys. This isn’t good. Sharr, you’d better be right about Hernesto, because if he’s dirty, I’m going to eat his heart.’ Ignoring the map now, the grey-haired little woman prowled back and forth on bare feet, twirling her bloody dagger absentmindedly. ‘We have what… a thousand?’
‘Just over a thousand, ma’am,’ Barrold said.
‘Just over a thousand soldiers to feed, clothe and house this Twin-moon. I want to know that we’re hauling nets and booacore traps, that we’re running carts and wagons out to every farm with a storage cellar or a grain bin, that we’re contracting with every tailor, smith- rutters, even any schoolchild who can sharpen a blade or sew on a whoring button, understand?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ they echoed in unison.
‘This corner of Eldarn is the closest thing we’ve had to freedom since before your great-grandmothers were in nappies – even yours, Sharr! – and I don’t want us making a bloody mess of it. If an armoured division is riding north along the Merchants’ Highway, I want to know. If a Malakasian sympathiser is putting chickenshit in the water supply, I want to know. If a local whore is selling information to a Malakasian spy, I want her gutted and served up with greenroot and pepperweed. I want every able-bodied farmer, merchant, sailor, fisherman, bartender, gutter-digger, fruit-picker and teacher armed and ready to defend this town, or to march on my orders. History will not recall that we had this opportunity and buggered it up; I don’t care how many knife-wielding scullery whores they send in here to stick holes in me.’ Gita stood toe-to-toe with Markus Fillin. She was a full head shorter than the Falkan farmer, but Sharr wouldn’t have wanted to bet on who would win in a bar fight, especially hand-to-hand.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Markus said. Sharr nodded, and ushered Stalwick towards the door.
‘And find me these terrorists! Our hold on this town remains in jeopardy until we do.’
Markus saw the first fire before dawn.
Sharr was sleeping. They had been up much of the night, organising the search teams. By the middlenight aven, Markus had questioned hundreds of locals and dispatched pairs of their people to investigate nearly as many reports of suspicious strangers, unknown vagrants or potential terrorists. The people of Capehill either had no idea where twenty Malakasian warriors could have secreted themselves, or they knew exactly where to find the terrorists and were happy to lead Markus and his team to the hideouts. Naturally, each of these forays beneath the coastal town’s damp underbelly yielded nothing, and Markus, falling asleep on his feet, dismissed the search deployment for a few avens’ sleep.
But now he had the chance, Markus couldn’t sleep. He had met Sharr back at the boarding house – they had taken the room next to Gita’s, with Stalwick and Barrold in the chamber across the corridor. The big fisherman, exhausted after his heroic sprint across the town, had collapsed in his cloak and boots. He snored loudly for a few moments, then rolled onto his back, his mouth lolling open. Sharr owned an apartment near the waterfront; his wife and two sons were there, but he preferred to spend the night near Gita, on hand should another clandestine plot unfold before dawn.
Markus stirred the coals in their small fireplace, added a few bits of wood and some dried-out corn cobs Stalwick had hauled from the bin in the canning cellar, and warmed his hands. Someone shouted outside: a warning or a cry for help. Markus shuffled to the window, more out of curiosity than concern.
‘Who’s yelling at this aven?’ he asked of no one.
A shadow, dark and quick, hustled towards the town centre. Another followed. There was a second shout, louder this time, from the direction of Argile Street, the downtown business area.
‘What’s this?’ Markus whispered, his breath fogging the blurry pane.
Then he heard the cry again, this time from three or four streets over. Fire!
Someone moved in Gita’s room. There was a thud, some footsteps, and then the tired creak of her window hinges, complaining in the cold.
The first orange and yellow tendrils danced in the predawn haze. A plume of thin smoke rose above the merchant district, trailing in the light breeze.
‘What’s wrong?’ Sharr asked, without moving.
‘Nothing,’ Markus said. ‘Go back to sleep. One of the alehouses is on fire… I think. I’m not sure if it’s the Cask and Cork, the one we were in the other night, or the building right next door. It’s hard to see from this far away.’
‘Next door?’ Sharr sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Which side?’ He yawned.
‘Um, to the east,’ Markus said. The noise outside grew as more locals and a few of Gita’s Resistance soldiers hurried to fight the blaze.
‘East? That’s the fish market.’ Sharr poured a goblet of water from the bedside pitcher. He swallowed and said, ‘That’s odd.’
‘What’s odd?’
‘What’s to burn at the fish market?’
Markus shrugged. ‘Probably some drunk kicked a brazier over. You want to go help?’
‘No.’ Sharr fell back into the blankets. ‘The locals can handle it. We’ve got to be up and on our way before the-’
‘Wait,’ Markus said suddenly, ‘oh no, Sharr, this isn’t good!’
The first fire was joined by another as the old occupation barracks near the town livery went up in flames. The sound of horses whinnying wildly joined the cries for help as smoke billowed through one of the corrals. From the window, Markus watched as stable hands ran here and there, herding the animals to safety. Then another fire, still just a flicker of colour against the whitening dawn, glowed near the waterfront. It diffused into another and then another; flames burned rooftops across the town, making Capehill look like a monstrous pyre at a holiday festival.
‘That’s the harbourmaster’s office,’ Sharr said quietly. ‘And that- ’ he pointed south, ‘is an assay office. There’s a mining equipment shop, a glassworks, and a grain and feed store on that block.’
‘Whoring Pragans.’ Markus tallied the devastation as he looked across the false dawn rising over Capehill. ‘That’s six – no, seven fires we can see from here. What’s happening?’
‘It’s them.’ Sharr was up and on his way across to Stalwick’s room when Gita appeared, fully dressed, in the corridor.
‘You’ve seen outside?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Sharr replied. ‘I want to look up north. There are more offices, some critical supply businesses there.’
‘I think we’ve answered any lingering question about the soldiers they left behind.’
‘Strike quickly. Burn what you can, and fade back into the populace,’ Markus summed up. ‘A cunning tactic.’
Before Sharr could knock, Barrold opened the door. He wasn’t wearing his eye-patch and Markus winced at the sight of the ragged, hollow socket.
‘There’s ten, maybe twelve fires burning out here.’ He didn’t seem surprised to find the rest of them gathered, fully dressed, in the hallway.
Sharr nodded. ‘It was probably all planned, or if it wasn’t, they decided to move after the attempt on Gita’s life failed.’
‘They’re using slow fuses, I’d bet,’ Barrold added, ‘rolled tobacco leaves will burn slowly before igniting whatever tinder they’re using. It gives them time to get away.’
‘On to the next target,’ Markus said. ‘We’ll be three streets behind them all day.’
Stalwick emerged from behind Barrold. Still groggy, he didn’t say anything.
‘Mother of an open-sored slut!’ Gita kicked at the wall, shouted an unintelligible curse, then regained her composure. ‘Stalwick, go get the others, all the company commanders, even the ones from Gorsk. I want them downstairs in the front room before my tecan gets cold. Sharr, you’ve got to think. What else will they hit? Come up with five or six likely places that aren’t in flames yet, and let’s dispatch platoons – no, squads – to those locations. Be ready to brief the others when they arrive. Stalwick?’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘What are you still doing here?’
‘Sorry, ma’am.’ Stalwick hurried for the stairs, tightening his cloak. ‘I’ll just… well, I’ll just go.’
Markus smirked. ‘Good show, Stalwick. Hurry back.’
‘They’re trying to hurt us from within,’ Sharr said. ‘They’re a handful of soldiers, not enough to fight us. So they’re attacking our food, horses, supplies, even the water won’t be safe.’
‘We need to catch one of these motherless bastards!’ Gita was fuming. ‘We’ll dunk him in the harbour until he talks, make him eat broken glass!’
‘I don’t understand why they abandoned the town,’ Barrold said. ‘Why give up Capehill, flee around the Gorsk Peninsula, and then leave a squad of spies to terrorise us? What do they have to gain by making our Twinmoon here miserable? Do they really think we’ll just sit around and starve, that we won’t boil water or buy grain on the Central Plain? Why are they doing this?’
‘I’ll tell you why,’ a strange voice said and someone clomped up the wooden staircase. He had the road-weary look of one who’d competed a forced march, and the soiled cloak and tattered boots to prove it. In the candlelight, his face was drawn and tired and angry. Markus knew he had seen this man before, but couldn’t place him until Gita jumped up and screamed in delight.
‘Brand! Thank the gods!’ She ran to the stranger and threw her arms around him.
Capehill burned all day, the flames reaching skyward as vast swathes of the city, both business and residential property, were reduced to ash. Resistance squads worked with local citizens to fight the fires, but the old wooden structures, many with thatched or wooden-shingled roofs, ignited and burned so quickly that little was salvaged. Sparks blew into neighbouring homes and whole blocks were quickly lost in a fiery haemorrhage.
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.