Versen hesitated for a moment to take in their surroundings properly. There was not a person in sight on Strandson’s main thoroughfare except for the gruesome remains of the almor’s four victims, lying haphazardly like pockmarks in the earth. Versen shuddered. Each of the mummified husks was like an open sore on the land, sores that might never close or scab over. He was careful to avoid stepping near any of the demon’s victims for fear that the world might open and swallow him and Brexan into a glowing, pearly-white Eldarni hell.
*
Beyond the green lay Strandson Harbour. Normally a hive of activity, the docks now were silent. Word of the almor attack had spread throughout the small port and save for a pair of drunks sleeping soundly beside an empty wooden crate, Versen was unable to find a stevedore, sailor or merchant, or even a prostitute, out among the abandoned cargoes and shipments. It felt as if they were riding through the inside of a sea god’s tomb, complete with ships, channel markers, trawlers and mooring buoys. Versen and Brexan whispered together, loath to break the silence that blanketed the city. A squabble of seagulls padded contentedly along the wooden docks, searching for food and Brexan shuddered at the thought that even these most clamorous of seabirds remained silent in the wake of the almor’s carnage.
Strandson had five docks stretching out into the harbour. The longest of these, an improbable structure balanced precariously on oak pylons and reaching out into the deeper water, accommodated a twin-masted topsail schooner. Drafting deep in the water, the ship was stocked and ready to sail with the morning tide.
Despite her size, the Falkan Dancer was a sleek vessel with a narrow beam and fluid lines; to Versen it looked like she was already in motion, even though he could clearly see she was tied securely to enormous stanchions. Squinting in an effort to improve his vision, he detected motion on the schooner’s decks. He had a horrible thought that he and Brexan were bound for the open sea.
Almost in answer to Versen’s silent query, Karn and Rala shepherded their charges across the wide plank boardwalk, between stacks of wooden crates bound for unknown Eldarni ports and onto the dock where the Falkan Dancer was moored. Versen caught sight of the Malakasian colours, hanging limply from the stern rail. There wasn’t enough wind to lift it into life, but he didn’t think many needed the flag to know this was a vessel of Prince Malagon’s Imperial Navy.
Turning slightly, he whispered, ‘What do you know about ships?’
Brexan leaned against the woodsman’s back, her arms wrapped about his torso: a position she found most comforting. ‘Well, that appears to be a ship over there.’ Every word made her face hurt and she would have given ten Twinmoons off her life for a handful of querlis. ‘Why? Don’t you know anything about ships?’
‘I’m a woodsman,’ he said, a touch of sarcasm colouring his quiet voice. ‘That’s wood: as in trees. This is the closest I have ever been to a ship. I don’t particularly want to get closer.’
Brexan squeezed him more tightly. ‘I can’t say I blame you. I do know that if we board that one, we’re probably bound for Malakasia.’
Versen grimaced. ‘I was afraid you might say that.’
As they approached the end of the wharf, Versen could see the schooner’s crew was made up entirely of Malakasian soldiers and sailors dressed in a motley collection of rags. Surprised, he said, ‘It’s not a naval vessel. Those are merchant seamen.’
Brexan watched as the horde of sailors and stevedores busied themselves about the ship and up aloft in the rigging. Despite her concern for their future, she was almost excited at the prospect of a journey across the Ravenian Sea. ‘From the looks of those crates they’re loading, we might be a late addition to this cargo,’ she said. ‘Judging by the response we got back there, I don’t believe too many people were expecting us.’
As if on cue, a squat, pig-faced merchant, puffy about the eyes, balding and sweating profusely, approached the gangplank. The man dragged a sodden handkerchief over his shining pate again and again, as if polishing it. He wore a highly unsuitable silk suit over a delicate, frilly tunic; Brexan guessed that he was the Falkan Dancer ’s owner as he looked absurdly out of place; he was too well-dressed to be a captain. When he turned to look directly at her, Brexan was hard-put not to react to the sight of a large, misshapen mole growing from the side of his nose.
The merchant struggled for several moments to communicate with Karn, then glanced over at the two prisoners with disappointment. His voice rattled, as if his larynx were coated with phlegm. ‘This will be easier on both of you if you tell me where I can find the talisman.’
‘We don’t have it,’ Versen answered.
‘Where is it, then?’
‘It was left at home.’ Versen glared down at the merchant in disgust. ‘What are you doing working with this bunch? Where’s your honour? Your sense of decency?’
‘I have no decency. I am a businessman and this is business. The prince is interested in-’ The fleshy merchant hesitated a moment, as if confounded by the idea that Malagon would be searching for so dishevelled and disagreeable a quarry, then continued, ‘The prince is interested in you two and I am here to deliver you – for a handsome fee.’ Rolls of flab wobbled about his abdomen as he chortled. Brexan shuddered with distaste.
‘If you tell me where I can find the stone, I will see to it that you are well cared for: good food, comfortable accommodation, a change of clothes and perhaps-’ he glanced at Brexan as if imagining her after a hot bath ‘-perhaps even some querlis for that face, young lady.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘Now tell me where it is.’
Unimpressed, Versen glared down at the merchant, which sent the man retreating slightly across the pier. ‘Not ever, and you, especially you, should pray to the gods of the Northern Forest I do not get my hands on you.’
The merchant laughed at Versen from a safe distance. ‘Not to worry, my malodorous friend, I have special quarters arranged for you for our journey to Orindale.’
Orindale. Versen forced himself to remain calm. Smiling contemptuously on the sweaty merchant, he drew a long, slow breath and said, ‘Well then, let’s get to sea.’
Hannah Sorenson slogged through ankle-deep mud. For the first time since her unexpected arrival in Eldarn she was happier to be wearing boots than her running shoes. Their progress along the road to Middle Fork had speeded up since they had moved north of what she guessed was the greater Southport area. Although the local Malakasians had identified and hanged a number of Pragans, ostensibly for murdering the soldier who attacked Hannah along the coastal highway, everyone knew those hanged were not the guilty parties. Searches continued for the killers, as well as for that small group – or perhaps even one exceedingly brave (or exceedingly addle-pated) member – of the Resistance who had burned a Malakasian cargo ship to the waterline. No one died in the fire, but an enormous supply of weapons, silver, food and clothing was destroyed by the blaze. The only clues to the arsonist’s identity came from one witness, who claimed to have seen a man fleeing the quay. The man must have been injured because his limp was clearly visible, even from a distance, as he hurried into the night.
As they moved north Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were stopped several times a day and questioned about their destination and their business. They stuck to the same story: they were migrant workers who had finished the autumn tempine harvest outside Southport; now they were heading to Middle Fork to find scullery work for the winter season. Hoyt always gestured towards Churn and added, ‘Except for him, of course. We’re just hoping he’ll bring a few copper Mareks for hauling some firewood or shovelling snow.’ Frequently the Malakasian platoon sergeant would cast him and Hannah an understanding nod after taking in Churn’s vacuous expression.