Harbinger of Doom ( Epic Fantasy Three Book Bundle), page 41
When the decanter was empty, the high priest selected a second man from the audience, and repeated the ritual, though this time, the dagger sliced across the man’s neck. It soon became clear that this was naught but ceremony, the men were not harmed at all, and no true blood was spilled. Only wine filled the chalices passed to the faithful, each devotee, young or old, man, woman, or child, all obliged to drink.
Both Ob and Tanch pretended to take a sip, though neither did. Soon the service ended, the great doors opened, and everyone left in peace.
Ob and Tanch wandered out in a daze. They didn’t speak until they were well away from the crowd.
“The prayers, the sermon, it was all so similar,” said Ob. “Except the sacrifices were just an act; the blood, just wine.”
“Without the bloodshed,” said Tanch, “their ritual was not the vile thing I remembered. Not to say I agree with their lessons, but some of them at least made sense. I can see why people attend, why they’re drawn in.” Tanch hesitated before continuing. “You did see the blood, real blood in the ceremony in Southeast, right?”
“I saw it,” said Ob, though he seemed less certain than he should.
The crew hauled aboard bundles of wood planks, buckets of nails, cords of rope, casks of local spring water, baskets of fresh bread, and crates of salted meats and hard cheeses, in workmanlike manner.
Slaayde completed his dealings with a rotund merchant of pointy beard, colorful garb, and pasty face, trading him a goodly number of boxes marked linens, tobacco, and Gnome mead for a number of unmarked crates of dubious origin and unspoken contents. Soon after their transaction was complete, Theta and the others returned. Theta and Dolan were grimy and sweaty, and Theta’s falchion was back in its sheath at this waist. His breastplate looked shiny and renewed, as did his shield.
“We’ve asked after The Rose as best we could,” said Claradon, “but no one can say which way she headed. There’s just too much traffic here. No one pays attention to what ships pass, and the harbormaster has no record. We need to decide which way to go—continue down the Hudsar or take the Emerald?”
“Are there any other rivers or tributaries that The Rose could take, off either river?” asked Theta.
“None what could handle a ship near her size,” said Ob. “But they have dinghies aboard. There’s a score or more small rivers and streams that flow into the Hudsar and the Emerald that you could send a dinghy up, and there’s a thousand places you could make shore at.”
“So how do we decide?” said Claradon.
“We know they were well-stocked at Lomion City for a long voyage,” said Theta. “How long to Tragoss from here, and to Minoc?”
“Both are a week to ten days away, depending on the current and the wind,” said the Gnome.
“What welcome would they receive in each port?” said Theta.
“Tragoss is ruled by monks who worship Thoth. They’re religious wackos, a lot like the Leaguers, but I don’t think they would abide them. Like as not, they and the League would be at each other.”
“And Minoc?”
“A large trading city, ruled by a merchant’s guild. One of the best of the independent cities. Korrgonn would get no welcome there.”
“But in a free city, he could hide,” said Claradon.
“Hiding is not his plan,” said Theta.
Claradon looked to Theta, shaking his head. “If he’s got no reason we know of to go to Tragoss or Minoc, he could be just passing through on his way to anywhere. We might as well flip a coin.”
“Leave it to fate, then,” said Ob, a pensive look on his face.
“What do you think, Lord Theta?” said Claradon.
“A man makes his own fate.”
Ob pulled a silver star from his pocket. “Kings for Tragoss, castles for Minoc. Choose.”
Claradon considered for a moment. “Kings,” he said.
Ob tossed the coin high into the air and let it fall to the deck. “Kings.”
***
South of Dover abided the Crags, a long expanse of enormous jutting rocks that comprised the river’s western bank. The river’s relentless flow had carved the Crags from the very stone of the earth, leaving naught but a tall stony palisade. Curiously, no similar formation existed on the opposite shore. Instead, the Mistwood—a vast, dark forest, nigh impassable and exuding a palpable dread, ruled the eastern bank.
Several hours after sunset, as The Black Falcon sailed through the narrowest portion of the river in the Crags region, the men spotted a score or more figures, male and female, amidst the lowest of the stony palisades, not much higher than the mast of the ship. Each stood on some rocky promontory or narrow precipice; locations where none but eagles were wont to go. Illumed only by moonlight, silent, still, and tall they looked down on the ship, their faces cloaked in shadow and mystery.
Theta, Claradon, and Ob stood on the Bridge Deck, and watched the figures watch them. As the stern of the ship passed them, one raised his arm as if in greeting or salute and then bowed low toward the men on the deck.
“Some friend of yours, Theta?” said Ob. “Another pal from the old days?”
“I know them not,” said Theta.
“They’re no friends of ours,” said Claradon, pointing to his amulet, glowing brightly.
“Since they’ve no bows, unless they can fly, they’re of little matter,” said Ob.
The figure who bowed lofted some small object toward them; a powerful and accurate throw. It landed on the deck.
Ob dashed over to examine it. The others kept their attention on the figures on the cliff. “It’s got a rune on it, embedded in a circle and a square.”
“Bring it here,” said Theta. He studied it closely after they were well past the strange figures. “Azrael,” said Theta, turning back toward the figures, now lost in the night. Theta gripped his Ankh in his right hand. “We shall meet them again.”
IX
TRAGOSS MOR
“They have to spread our wealth around to the poor.
That gives them power. That’s what this here is all about.”
“Theta, any sign of our shadow?” said Ob.
“It follows us still, though it has fallen farther back.”
“All the way from Lomion to the shore of the Azure Sea and not a sign of The White Rose,” said Claradon, his hand on the ship’s rail. “We must’ve hailed three score ships this past week and not one could say if they had seen her.”
“That don’t mean nothing,” said Ob. “The Hudsar is wide and busy down this way, so captains rarely pay heed to what ships they pass.”
“We should’ve taken the eastern fork to the Emerald River. I’ve failed my brother. We’ll never find him now.”
“We trusted to fate, and we will soon know if that was sound or sorry. Either way, we will catch up to them. Don’t you worry, boy. We will get Jude back.”
Tanch stepped up to the others, a wet cloth held over his mouth, his face pale and drawn. “What is that atrocious smell? It’s been getting worse all day.”
“It’s Tragoss Mor, Magic Boy. It’s the city that you’re smelling.”
“But we haven’t even entered the harbor yet.”
“Open sewers and such,” said Ob. “You get used to it after a while. Just keep breathing through your nose, not your mouth. Smells worse, but less chance of disease, I’m told.”
“Open Sewers? Disease? Someone, please put me out of my misery. What kind of a place is this anyway?”
“It’s an old port city,” said Ob. “Most sea trade between Lomion and parts foreign passes through here. It’s bigger even than Lomion City, but the buildings are smaller. Mostly one or two stories, some are three; few are more than that. Nice cobblestone streets, as long as you watch your footing. Here’s the harbor now.”
Tanch turned to look. “Dead gods, it’s huge.”
“Biggest in the civilized world,” said Ob. “More than one hundred piers, and berths for a thousand or more ships this size, and several times that many small ones. There’s no other port like it.”
“How will we ever find Sir Jude in all this?” said Tanch. “The White Rose could be anywhere.”
Captain Slaayde climbed the ladder to the Bridge Deck, accompanied by Tug. “I plan to pull into a slip in the center of the harbor,” he said, his usual wide grin on his face. “I assume you’ve no objection to that.”
“Why not pull off to the very end?” said Tanch. “Wouldn’t there be less chance we’d be spotted by the wrong sort?”
“And more chance The Grey Talon would come aside and risk boarding us. I want my ship in plain sight; there will be no safer place.”
“Why would this Grey Talon accost us?” said Tanch.
“She’s been shadowing us all the way from Lomion City. I’ve no argument with her captain or her owners, but I believe you people do. I will not risk my ship unnecessarily.”
“Who commands The Talon?” said Claradon.
“Captain Kleig is her master, but he’s a lap dog of House Alder, which, I assume, is why they’ve been following. They want your head, Eotrus, for what you did to the Chancellor.”
Claradon paled and looked as if he had just been slapped across the face.
“How many men does she carry?” said Theta.
“Her crew is half again larger than mine. I expect the Alders have loaded her up with their house guard, maybe even some Myrdonians. Probably one or more of the Alders will be leading them. I’ve no interest or plan to take her on, so don’t go getting any ideas.” Slaayde turned toward Tanch who was about to speak. “Harringgold’s coin does me no good if I’m dead.” Slaayde put a hand to his whited hair. “This trip has already cost me more than his gold is worth.”
***
Dozens of seamen and longshoremen loaded cargo off a ship docked across the wide pier from where The Falcon had just tied off. The Falcon’s crew secured the gangway and Slaayde immediately disembarked with his bodyguards to converse with Borman, the Harbormaster, a burly man of weathered face and bushy brow. They joked and traded quips for a time, as old friends. Ob and Tanch joined them on the pier.
“What mischief brings you here this time?” said Borman.
“The usual mischief,” said Slaayde.
Borman smiled and looked as if he didn’t expect any more of a response than that, and he got none.
“Harbormaster,” said Ob. “The White Rose, out of Lomion, came down ahead of us. Where is she berthed?”
Borman looked down at Ob, furrowed his brow, and turned back to Slaayde. “His kind aren’t welcome in Tragoss any longer.”
Ob’s face darkened. He made to move toward Borman, but Par Tanch grabbed him by the collar and pushed him to the side. The stone at the apex of Tanch’s staff glowed blue as he thumped the shaft on the pier’s deck. “My servant asked after The White Rose.”
Borman’s eyes widened at the staff’s glow, and he looked nervously about as if to see if any were looking. “I haven’t seen her, your wizardship, sir,” he said quickly.
“I owe her boatswain a gold crown from a game of Spottle gone bad, and promised I would settle up with him here in Tragoss. Have you heard no word of The Rose?”
“I couldn’t say. I couldn’t say. Many ships come and go through here. If they brook no trouble, I pay them little heed.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “The Thothians tolerate no magic, your wizardship, no magic at all. Keep your staff dark hereabouts or you will find yourself in the deep stuff. They will be here in a moment.”
Borman’s deeply lined face took on a serious expression and he then spoke loudly and boldly. “The port fee is four silver stars per day, up from three last year. As is custom, you pay now for today and for tomorrow, or just for today if you plan to leave before sunset. And cause no trouble in Tragoss Mor, or the swift arm of justice will smite you.”
He winked at Slaayde, turned, and walked swiftly away, leaving his aide to collect the fees. He halted after a few paces to bow to four strange men that approached.
Four Thothian monks, shirtless, bald of pate, beardless, but heavily mustached as was their custom, walked up to the group, ignoring Borman as they passed. Each wore baggy pantaloons adorned only with a wide sword belt.
“Welcome to Tragoss Mor, gentlemen,” said one of the monks. “I am Finch, Prior of almighty Thoth, may he watch over us always. How fares The Black Falcon?”
“She fares well,” said Slaayde.
“You are her captain?”
“Dylan Slaayde, at your service.”
“Good, very good,” said the monk with a smile. “What is your business in Tragoss Mor?”
“To purchase some fine wares and supplies for my ship.”
“Good, very good,” said Prior Finch, the same smile etched on his face. “You will find many treasures in Tragoss and we welcome your business.” The smile then dropped from his face. “I trust you’re aware that the slave markets are long since closed.” He paused, waiting for a response.
“And good riddance to them,” said Slaayde.
“Good,” said the monk. “Then you also know that no spirits are allowed here—not of grapes, wheat, honey, or any other. You will find no bars here, nor brothels. Seek not these things in Tragoss Mor and bring them not with you and your stay will be pleasant.”
“We’ll be on our best behavior,” said Slaayde with a smile.
“See that you are. Good day to you.” As Prior Finch began to turn away, one of his fellows placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Prior,” he said, pointing at Ob, “they have an imp.”
Prior Finch’s eyes widened. He stepped up before Ob. “What have we here, Captain? Surely not a passenger?”
Before Slaayde could respond, Tanch spoke up. “The Gnome is but a common laborer, bound to the ship’s service for the rest of his days.”
Prior Finch’s smile returned, and he visibly relaxed. “Good, very good. We are a civilized people, its kind are not free to roam our fair city. See that it stays on your ship or travels only with an escort.”
Ob’s face went beet red. He clenched both fists tightly and bit his tongue to stay it.
“Your imp is not properly trained, Captain.” Prior Finch’s hand darted out and slapped Ob, hard across the face, knocking his head to the side.
Ob slowly turned his face back toward the Prior, expressionless, his eyes locked on the monk’s, boring through him. The monk’s hand went up to strike Ob again.
“Stop!” said Tanch, placing his fist against the monk’s chest to stay him. Prior Finch looked down at Tanch’s hand in disgust and then met him eye to eye.
“He’s no use to us if he’s damaged,” said Tanch.
“Discipline, not damage,” said the monk. “Captain, your ship would be the better for it.” He pushed Tanch’s arm aside and backed away. “Your crew will show the proper respect to all Thothians and citizens, Captain, or you will be held accountable.”
“I’m sure that they’ll behave,” said Slaayde, with his widest grin. “Good day to you.”
Ob took a long drink from his rather large goblet. “I’m gonna kill that one,” said Ob, his face still red from the monk’s blow and perhaps the ale.
“A slap is not worth killing over,” said Tanch, a serious look on his face. “Perhaps, a bit of torture, though.”
All looked at Tanch in shock. He smiled and the Captain’s Den briefly filled with laughter. Even Ob chuckled. The tension gone from the room, the men settled into their seats.
“The harbormaster lied,” said Theta.
“He’s hiding something,” said Ob.
“Do you think The Rose is here?” said Claradon.
“Here, and gone most likely,” said Ob.
“I agree, but we must check and find out what we can.”
Theta directed Seran to take six men and walk the eastern docks to look for The Rose. Artol was to do the same at southern docks. Theta warned both to steer clear of the monks.
“It may be that Korrgonn and dear Sir Jude have disembarked and the ship has moved on without them,” said Tanch.
“Unlikely,” said Ob. “If they were letting off Korrgonn here, they would’ve stayed in port for at least a couple of days to rest and resupply. With the time we made, they couldn’t be much more than a day, at most two, ahead of us.”
“Slaayde,” said Theta. “Resupply as fast as you can. Assume a long journey and fill your hold accordingly.”
Slaayde looked surprised. “What? We’ve come all the way to the sea. How much farther are we to go? And who is to pay for this?” said Slaayde.
“You are,” said Theta.
“I’m sure that Duke Harringgold will reimburse all your expenses,” said Tanch. “And reward you generously for your service.”
Slaayde didn’t look entirely convinced.
After a few hours, Artol and Seran returned and the group gathered again in the Captain’s Den. On deck, Slaayde’s crew hauled aboard and stowed kegs of fresh water, dried fruit, and all manner of supplies.
“Gather round you scum,” said Artol, displaying his characteristic toothy grin, “for our mission was a success.” The big soldier casually twirled a long knife in his right hand, a thick cigar smoked in his left. Seran stood at attention, his armor shining even in the poor light of the cabin.
“My pal here Mr. Spit-and-Polish,” resting his hand on Seran’s shoulder, “despite his pretty face and wily ways, came up empty on the eastern docks. You might say that he’s an incompetent fool not worth the gruel we feed him, but I prefer to think The White Rose docked to the south, so the scum of the east side knew nothing to tell.”
Seran paled and looked mortified. The others who knew Artol far better than Seran looked amused.
“So what did you find?” said Ob.
“Three men I plied with a bit of silver and a bit more persuasion, if you get my meaning, told the same tale. The Rose sailed at dawn yesterday, stocked for a long haul, many weeks or more. To where, none of three knew.”
“Perhaps more silver would loosen their tongues?” said Claradon.
