Storm Surge, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Storm Surge
More from Gail Z. Martin
About the Author
Storm Surge
A Jonmarc Vahanian Adventure
by Gail Z. Martin
ISBN: 978-1-939704-08-5
© 2013 Gail Z. Martin. All rights reserved. This story may not be retransmitted, posted or reused in any way without the written permission of the author.
"Don't let the horses drown!"
Jonmarc Vahanian grasped the reins of the horse he was leading, fighting the panicked animal as he tried to move through surging waters that were proving far swifter than expected. "I'm trying not to drown myself!" he shot back. Thunder roared and lightening flashed.
All around him, the caravan maneuvered skittish horses, stubborn oxen, and heavily loaded carts through water that was flowing swiftly and rising steadily. They had been caught in the lowlands by a heavy rainstorm, and the sodden ground flooded far more quickly than anyone had expected.
Nearby, a man screamed and was swept off his feet and under the thigh-deep water.
"Hold this!" Jonmarc shouted to the man nearest him, handing off the reins. He grabbed a nearby sapling and thrust his arm down into the water, grasping at the coat that was barely visible beneath the surface. At seventeen, he was six feet tall, strong from years of working in the blacksmith's forge. It took all of his strength to keep his hold on the sapling and not lose his grip on the hapless man's coat.
"Help me out here," Jonmarc yelled, but his voice barely carried above the storm. His grip was waning, and the man in the current bobbed above the surface, sputtering for air, only to disappear once more. Jonmarc could feel the man scrabbling for a foothold, but he also knew his own position was growing more tenuous with each passing moment.
He gave a mighty pull with the last of his strength, and popped the man above the water once more, yanking him out of the worst of the current. They clung to the sapling, heaving for breath, as the rain pelted them and the wind plastered their wet clothing to their skin.
Jonmarc got a look at the man for the first time. It was Russ, a slender, bearded man who often worked with the caravan's exotic animals. "Thanks. I thought I was a goner," Russ said with an exhausted grin.
So did I, Jonmarc thought, but did not voice his thoughts aloud.
Shouting from the bedraggled procession of caravaners roused Jonmarc, and he looked up to see a human chain stretching across the treacherous stream to where the wagons sat on solid ground on the other side. Jonmarc made sure that Russ was secure, and then reclaimed his horse and took his position at the end of the chain.
Twice, his feet were nearly swept out from under him as he was pulled across the stream. After a few harrowing moments, he reached firm footing beside a wagon, and collapsed against it, breathing hard, adrenalin tingling through his body at the near miss.
"Yer lucky Jonmarc has a blacksmith's grip," the wagon driver said to Russ, who was pale and shaking. He turned to Jonmarc. "Nice catch."
"Keep moving, or we'll all be fishes!" Maynard Linton, the caravan master, shouted loudly enough to be heard over the storm.
Jonmarc hoisted Russ into the bed of the wagon, judging that he was too shaken and exhausted to fight the floodwaters. He took back the reins of the horse he had been leading. Despite his cloak, he was soaked to the skin, and his long, chestnut-brown hair was plastered against his scalp, strands finding their way into his eyes.
It was early spring in the highlands of Margolan, and the snows in the mountains had been particularly heavy, making for swollen rivers and creeks. Maynard Linton's caravan--part traders and part traveling show--wound its way from the Borderlands in the far north across the kingdom. Whenever the caravan reached a populated area that looked prosperous enough to afford them a paying audience, they made camp for a few days to a few weeks, moving on when the novelty had worn off.
Only a month had passed since Jonmarc joined the caravan, fleeing the burning remains of his village and the monsters that had claimed the lives of his wife and child. Linton had taken him in when he had shown up in the middle of the night, bloodied from the fight and nearly incoherent with shock and loss. Since then, Jonmarc had lost himself in the caravan's never-ending need for a blacksmith's skills, staying busy to keep from thinking about what he left behind.
"Watch the wheels!" The wagon closest to Jonmarc bogged down in the mud, and Jonmarc looped the reins of his horse over the wagon's side railing and joined a half-dozen other men who put their shoulders to the task of getting the heavily-loaded wagon moving again.
The swollen stream had overflowed its banks, turning the nearby land to mud. Water from the heavy rains formed swales where the water ran swiftly, growing deeper as the water carried away the dirt beneath it, eventually ending in the stream.
Ahead and to the right, shouts and curses erupted as a wagon broke an axle and overturned. One of the horses reared, flailing its hooves, striking down one of its would-be rescuers in wild-eyed fear. Boxes and sacks spilled onto the soaked ground, and some of them were carried away in the swales that swept past Jonmarc's legs. There was nothing he could do. It was taking all of his effort just to keep his own wagon moving. He glanced at the ruined items floating down the stream, and sincerely hoped the wagon had not been carrying the evening's dinner provisions.
Everywhere Jonmarc looked, the caravan's crew was struggling to save their livelihoods. The traders wrestled carts loaded with the Noorish carpets, boxes of jewelry and crates of trinkets and luxuries that attracted patrons and earned a tidy profit. On the other side of the stream, the animal trainers labored to protect the exotic beasts which visitors paid to see. In their cages, the animals growled and twittered, protesting the storm. Even the powerful stawar looked wet and miserable.
Musicians and cooks, laborers and healers, acrobats and contortionists sloshed through the water carrying their possessions. Teams of horses pulled the large wagons that carried the caravan's folded tents and bundled equipment. Jonmarc spotted a group of tent riggers struggling with their own wagons in the thick mud. The oxen were balky, and one of the riggers, a tall, spare man with a pock-marked face, was muttering under his breath as he tugged on the unwilling beasts. There was a strong gust of wind, and a tree crashed to the ground, narrowly missing the wagon.
The spring wind was cold, and it was strong enough to lash the tops of the smallest trees from side to side. Jonmarc's hands were numb, and the cold stung his face. He glanced around at the soaked and weary caravan company. If they did not find shelter soon, a situation that was dangerous would quickly become life-threatening.
"Over here!" Jonmarc could barely make out the shouts above the rain and wind. Ahead, he could see a man waving his arms, gesturing for the sodden travelers to take the right fork in the road. A few moments later, Jonmarc saw a large barn set on high ground, and breathed a sigh of relief.
It took at least another candlemark to get the caravan's people and animals inside and to secure the wagons on the sheltered side of the barn. Jonmarc helped tie down the cargo with oilcloth tarpaulins and rough rope, fastening the wagons themselves to anything that looked too heavy to float away.
Though the barn afforded shelter from the storm, enough rain had been driven in between the gaps in the planking or dripped in from the roof that it was still quite damp.
"What do you think the farmer will make of a group of motley performers squatting in his barn?" Jonmarc asked the sandy-haired man next to him as he set to seeing to the horses. Corbin, the farrier, spared him an exhausted grin.
"He won't say a blessed thing, because no sane man would be about on a day like this," Corbin answered, checking the nearest horse for injuries. Jonmarc followed him, holding a satchel with Corbin's liniments and ointments. Assisting the farrier was one of the many varied jobs to which Linton had put Jonmarc to work, and, grateful for a job and the promise of regular meals, he accepted the tasks without complaint.
"With luck, the storm will pass and we'll be on our way before there's any trouble," Jonmarc replied.
Maynard Linton strode back and forth, counting heads and taking stock of the situation. Linton was short and muscular, his skin coppery from seasons spent out of doors. Jonmarc guessed that Linton was in his early thirties, but while many members of the caravan were older than Linton, no one got in his way. Linton spoke rapidly as he moved among the caravan's members, switching easily from Common to Margolense and occasionally into other languages Jonmarc did not understand. The caravan's artisans, performers and crew were a varied lot, hailing from across the Winter Kingdoms, brought together by Linton’s vision and energy.
"Do you think we're safe here?" Jonmarc asked as Corbin bound up a bad gash on one of the horses.
Corbin frowned. "Safer than we were in the storm. Why?"
Jonmarc shrugged. "That storm seemed to come up out of nowhere. Didn't seem natural. Too much lightning."
Corbin patted the horse and produced a carrot from his pocket as a treat. "You ever been this far East before? We're out of the Borderlands. Weather's different."
"Maybe."
Jonmarc searched the crowd for Trent, the caravan's chief blacksmith. Both Jonmarc and Corbin answered to Trent for their work, along with two other apprentice smiths. The caravan’s many horses kept two of them busy most of the time, while the others worked on the tools, barrel hoops, nails, fittings and weapons needed to keep the caravan moving. Finally, he spotted Trent among the healers' patients. The burly man was heading their way, and Jonmarc saw that Trent had one arm bandaged.
"What happened to you?" Corbin asked, eying the bandaged arm.
Trent grimaced. "I wasn't fast enough getting out of the way of the trees that came down. Damn that wind! I won't be sad if I never see another storm like that!"
"How many people got hurt?" Jonmarc asked, looking toward where the healers had set up a makeshift hospital over in a corner of the barn. It seemed to Jonmarc that more than a few of the caravan's guards were among the injured. Then again, he thought, the guards had been clearing the roadway of debris, a dangerous job.
"At least a dozen that I saw, maybe more," Trent replied. He went to steady another horse so that Jonmarc could help Corbin apply a bandage. Around them, the stable boys did their best to rub down the sodden horses and get them as dry as possible and see to their food and water.
"I heard Linton say that three men are missing, and a horse had to be put down. Broke a leg when its wagon overturned," Trent added. "We've lost supplies, and we've gone several miles out of our way to get to higher ground."
"Where are we heading?" Corbin asked as he checked over another horse.
"There's not a lot between here and Huntwood," Trent replied. "Linton was planning for us to set up just beyond the manor's lands, near the town. We didn't stop there the last time we came north, and we can pick up the main road east from there."
He paused. "I wish we could have stayed on the original route. The forests are thick on this new route. I've heard tell of bandits."
Eventually, the caravan would reach the Nu River, crossing from Margolan into Principality, where the best mercenary troops in the kingdoms wintered. Linton had assured Jonmarc that the mercs had gold to spare and an appetite for food, drink and entertainment. Jonmarc had never been out of the Borderlands, making every day's travel a new adventure.
"We're within a week's ride of the palace city," Corbin said, frowning. "Surely King Bricen's soldiers would have the bandits well in hand."
Trent shrugged. "The king's men can't be everywhere. I hope Linton knows what he's doing."
"Did the forge tools make it through the storm?" Jonmarc asked.
Trent chuckled. "Oh yes. The anvils were heavy enough that the cart wasn't going to wash away or overturn, and I had oxen, not horses, so we didn't get stuck in the mud. We might be short a tent and some fancy rugs, but we've got what we need to shoe the horses and mend the tools."
"It's not the worst storm we've ever weathered." They looked up to see Maynard Linton standing behind them. Linton's broad face was creased with worry and anger. "Can't say I'm pleased about what we lost, but it could have been worse."
"Do we have any idea what the road looks like ahead?" Trent asked. Trent and Corbin had been with the caravan for several years, and had obviously earned Linton's trust.
Linton cursed. "What the road looks like right now doesn't matter. It's what the road looks like when the storm is done that counts." He shook his head. "I've taken this road across Margolan for years, never saw a storm like this come up without warning."
Jonmarc exchanged an "I told you so" glance with Corbin, who shrugged.
"So what's the plan?" Trent asked.
Linton sighed. "We'll see how things look in the morning. If the road's washed out, we'll have to revise our route. If not, we find a way back to the main road, and stick to the plan. I think setting up for a few days outside Huntwood would bring us some extra coin. We'll need that on the next stretch; we won't have a chance to do another full show for awhile, and we'd best have enough coin to buy provisions in the between places."
Linton withdrew a flask from his belt and took a swig of liquor. "I'm chilled to the bone," he muttered.
"If you're short on guards, Jonmarc and I can take a turn at watch," Trent said.
"So can I," Corbin volunteered. "I'd rather lose a few candlemark's sleep and know we've got eyes open through the night."
Linton nodded. "I'll take you up on that," he said gruffly, his voice raspy from the weather. "The three men we've lost were guards, and the others took more than their share of injuries getting the animals and the wagons through the storm. I'll need to hire some men when we get to somewhere the people outnumber the sheep and cows."
Supper was a haphazard affair, since many of the provisions were still packed in crates and other supplies had gotten too wet to use. Hard biscuits, salt pork and ale were the most readily available provisions, and Jonmarc was hungry and cold enough to eat his ration gratefully.
After supper, the barn grew quiet. People found their places for the night, and conversation dulled to a low hum. Several of the musicians began to play, partly for practice, Jonmarc guessed, and partly for solace. The music sent a hush over the exhausted crowd of caravaners, and even the animals seemed less restless. Jonmarc dug a dry blanket out of his pack and settled down to catch a few candlemarks' rest before his turn on watch.
"Get up. It's time." Trent shook Jonmarc awake. Jonmarc blinked and yawned, trying to shake off drowsiness. He stuffed his blanket back in his bag and reluctantly followed Trent out to the barn doors, pulling his hat and gloves on as he went.
Most of the caravan’s performers were sleeping. One of the animal trainers tended to his restless charges. A few of the riggers and crew were playing cards. The skinny man Jonmarc had spotted earlier was among them, and he seemed to regard Jonmarc and Trent with bored curiosity as they picked their way across the crowded barn floor. They stopped long enough to exchange a few words with the guards who were coming off watch, and to take two shuttered lanterns with them into the night.
Outside, the storm had waned. The ground was soaked and water dripped from the barn's roof, but the rain had stopped and the wind stilled. Out here, far from any town, there were no bells to mark the passage of time. Wherever the farmer who owned the barn lived, it was not so close that they could see a house, or that the farmer noticed lights and movement around his barn.
"How long have the riggers been with us?" Jonmarc asked.
Trent gave him a sideways look, as if wondering where that question had come from. "A few have been around for a while. Several came on at the last stop." He shrugged. "It's tough work, and dangerous business. Riggers always come and go, if they don't get killed in the meantime. Why?"
Jonmarc shrugged. "It's just, there's one of the riggers who just seems ... odd."
Trent barked a laugh. "It would be stranger to find a rigger who wasn't odd. They have to be crazy to work the poles and the ropes, and it seems to draw a peculiar type. I mean, caravaners are a strange lot to begin with. Most of us took up with this to get away from something else. There's a reason a lot of folks make themselves scarce if the king's guard show up. I'd dare say more than a few are wanted by someone for something."
"Maybe," Jonmarc replied. "But something seems off." He paused. "Would someone want to harm the caravan, or Linton?"
Trent chuckled. "More than a few folks, I warrant. Linton runs a tight ship. He's had to get rid of people who caused problems--fights, stealing, that sort of thing. Made a few enemies that way, I'm sure."
Trent scanned the horizon. Nothing stirred. "There are always rivals. I've heard grumbling sometimes from the local merchants that when the caravan comes to town, local traders and shopkeepers lose business." He shook his head. "That might account for damage if we were camped near a village, but out here? Doesn't seem likely."
They fell silent, watching and listening. Jonmarc glanced behind them, into the barn. Most people were sleeping. A small group still played cards in the corner, including the skinny man, who appeared to be counting his earnings under his breath as he fingered the small pile of coins in front of him.
A low snarl carried on the night air. "Did you hear that?" Jonmarc said with a sudden glance toward Trent.
Trent drew a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt. Jonmarc drew his sword. Trent gestured in one direction, indicating with a nod for Jonmarc to head the opposite way. Cautiously, Jonmarc moved as silently as the wet ground would allow. He kept his lantern shuttered, using the faint glow that escaped to light his way, hoping it did not give him away.
Another growl sounded, closer than before. It sounded more like a wolf than like one of the large wild cats that roamed the lowlands. Jonmarc really did not want to meet either predator alone at night. Yet something in the low snarl seemed off, not quite right. Slowly, Jonmarc took another step.
