‘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.’