long enough for the Brotherhood to grant you Ath’s protection.’
‘Right aye, belowdecks we go, then.’ The captain snapped out his rigging knife and slashed off a sheetline for binding the volunteer victim. Like all blue-water seamen, he could tie knots in his sleep. Over his ongoing rattle of orders, and the crackle of pitch flares, and the hellish, drowning pound of rain on wooden decking, Tharrick found himself thrust down a companionway and lashed in total helplessness to a hatch ring over his head.
‘All right, listen up!’ cracked the captain. ‘I stay, and one other. We’ll draw straws to see who bids for shore leave.’
Tharrick voiced an immediate protest, cut silent as the captain yanked the sash off his waist to twist into use as a gag. ‘There has to be a sacrifice,’ he said as he tied off the cloth in desperation. ‘If we leave an empty ship, your place will be questioned. Then they’re sure to mount a search for survivors.’
A brisk hand clapped his shoulder, while the sailhands drew lots for the longboat. ‘Off we go, mate, and Dharkaron avenge.’ The captain threw Tharrick a bright-eyed, fierce wink. ‘We’ll send prayers from Ath’s sanctuary, and me from past the Wheel. Bless you for bravery. It’s grand luck yell need. Ye’ve charted fair course fer bad waters.’
Shearfast’s crewman raced light-footed from the hold. Behind, for cold necessity, they left the whispered lick of flame and a poisonous, pitch-fed haze of smoke. Tharrick coughed. His throat closed and his eyes ran. The thick fumes sickened him to dizziness. He felt as though he were falling headlong through the very gates of Sithaer. Driven senseless by the metallic taste of fear, dazed beyond reason by poisoned air, he did not remember giving way to terrified screams, muffled to whimpers by the gag. Nor did he keep any shred of raw courage as he wrenched like a beast at the rope ties.
Awareness became wrapped in an inferno. Skin knew again the blistering kiss of agony as the red snap of fire chewed through the planks overhead. The thumps of a distant scuffle made no sense, nor the mazed clang of steel, followed by the defiant last shout of the gamecock captain. ‘Kill the prisoner!’
The cry that bought Tharrick his chance for salvation rang through the steel clash of weapons. A fallen body thudded, kicking in nerve-fired death throes. Then a dying man choked out a rattling gasp and slammed through the companionway door, the blade through his chest a glistening reflection doused in fresh running blood.
‘Merciful Ath, hurry on!’ someone cried with the bite of authority. ‘They’ve got some wretch lashed in the hold!’
Two officers in gold braid kicked past the downed corpse. They staggered across canted decking and barked into bulkheads, fumbling through the murky, coiled smoke to cut his bonds. Tharrick scarcely felt the hands that grasped and steadied him onto his feet. Cramped double and choking, he lost consciousness as they dragged him like a gutted fish up a reeling companion-way into clear air and rainfall.
Whether he lay in the hands of the duke’s officers or those of the Prince of the West, he had no awareness left to care.
Landfall
Lysaer s’Ilessid set foot on the damp sands of Merior, still dissatisfied over the report sent back from the galley which had run down the fugitive vessel. Of an unknown number of enemy crewmen, two had been slain in the melee of boarding. The sole survivor brought back for questioning was himself a prisoner of the Shadow Master, notched in scars from recent cruel handling, and unconscious from fresh burns and smoke poisoning.
Duke Bransian’s crack captains had been too busy sparing the one life to mount a search of the waters for longboats.
Thwarted from gaining the informant he required to dog his enemy’s trail, Lysaer clenched his jaw to rein back a savage bout of temper. Since the strike force under his personal banner was land-bound to close off the peninsula, Alestron’s mercenaries had done the boarding, a setback he lacked sovereignty to reverse. His own officers had been trained on no uncertain terms to expect the vicious style of Arithon’s pirate forebears. Seldom, if ever, had the men they commanded surrendered their vessels with crewmen still alive to be captured.
A salt-laden gust parted Lysaer’s fair hair as he trained his stormy regard up the beachhead. The rain had stopped. Mid-afternoon light shafted through broken clouds. The puddles wore a leaden sheen, and a shimmer of dipped silver played over the drenched crowns of the palm groves. Nestled in gloom as though uninhabited, the whitewashed cottages of Merior greeted his landing with wooden plank doors and pegged shutters shut fast.
The harbour stretched grey and empty as the land, choppy waters peppered with vacant moorings. The local fishing fleet would return with the dusk, as on any ordinary day. Up the strand, a sullen, black streamer of smoke spiralled on the wind from the site of Arithon’s shipyard. No fugitives had sought to cross the cordon of mercenaries that blocked Scimlade Tip from the mainland; the single lugger found setting fish traps in the bay had offered no hostilities when flagged down for questioning.
The name of the Master of Shadow had drawn a blank reaction from the crew. Also from every man and woman in the trade port of Shaddorn to the south, that advance scouts had waylaid for inquiry.
‘I wonder how long he prepared for our coming?’ Lysaer mused as Diegan strode up behind him.
The Lord Commander’s best boots were soaked from the landing, his demeanour as bleak as the surrounding landscape above chain mail and black-trimmed surcoat. ‘You know we won’t find anything. The shipworks will be a gutted ruin.’
A thorough search was conducted anyway, a party of foot troops sent to poke through the steaming embers of collapsed sheds under Diegan’s direction. Lysaer waited to one side, his royal finery concealed beneath a seaman’s borrowed oilskins, while the breakers rolled and boomed in sullen rhythm against the headland and the wind riffled wrinkles in the puddles.
‘The withdrawal was well planned,’ Avenor’s Lord Commander confirmed at length. ‘No tools were abandoned. These buildings were emptied before they were fired. We can send officers house to house through Merior all you like, but I’d lay sand to diamonds that Arithon left nothing to clue us of his intentions.’
Lysaer kicked the charred fragment of a corner post amid the rubble that remained of the sail loft. Scarcely audible, he said, ‘He left the village.’
‘You think he’ll be back?’ Prepared to disagree, Diegan pushed up his helm to scrape his damp hair off his brow.
‘No.’ Lysaer spun in a flapping storm of oilcloth and stalked to the edge of the tidemark. ‘The fugitive ship which burned before our eyes was the easiest chance we had to track him. Now that option’s lost, he’ll have the whole ocean in which to take cover. We’re balked, but not crippled. The stamp of his design can never be mistaken for merchant shipping. Wherever the Shadow Master plans to make landfall, I’ll find the means to be waiting.’
At twilight, when the fishing luggers sailed homeward to find their cove patrolled by war galleys and their shores cluttered with encampments of mercenaries, knots of shouting men and a congregation of goodwives converged upon the beaten earth of the fish market. A groomed contingent of Avenor’s senior officers turned out and met them to assure their prince would answer their complaints. By the fluttered, ruddy light of pitch torches, on a dais constructed of fish barrels and planks, the Prince of the West awaited in a surcoat edged in braided bullion. In token of royal rank he wore only a gold circlet. Against all advice, he was not armed. His bodyguard remained with the longboats, and only Alestron’s fleet admiral and two officers
