The Gathering Storm - Elsewhere, Book 1

On the deck there were still pockets of fighting between the excise officers and Jonas’ men, but when they saw their captain brought on deck with a sword at his throat they capitulated and gave up their weapons. Melbren paced a small strip of the deck, his eyes everywhere.

“You five will be taken harbourside to the Excise house cells,” he declared. “The rest of you will be bound and locked in the galley. I’m not having any chance of rebellion while we search the ship. When my men find what we’re looking for, you’ll all hang as smugglers. If anyone would like to save his miserable skin, he should tell my deputies where the goods are hidden.”

Having made this offer of leniency Melbren stalked away down the gangplank, indicating that Jonas and his four guests should be brought along. He left his very efficient deputies to round up Jonas’ crew and then follow on after them. It was a short walk to the Excise building through the dirty quayside streets. They were watched as they passed by indolent sailors and beggars who loitered in doorways and on street corners, and from open windows by women who Jaquor was surprised to see awake, still or already, considering how little they had probably slept the previous night. Eliish didn’t like the eyes boring into her with suspicion as she walked, hands tightly bound and a sword point digging into her back whenever she slowed down. Tisha walked beside her, clearly frightened by the aggression of their captors and the grim possibilities that might face them in a Meeran jail. Eliish smiled encouragingly at her friend, but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes and Tisha was not fooled.

Behind them Jaquor and Beyon wondered at the nonchalance with which Jonas seemed to be handling the situation as he swaggered along after Melbren. It seemed he was not unfamiliar with the situation and previous experience told him he needn’t worry. He smiled and winked at the whores, answering their saucy calls with suggestive rejoinders. His overweening self-assuredness did little to comfort either Beyon or Jaquor however. When they arrived at the Excise house, they were unceremoniously thrown into a bare cell and left to stew in their worry, while Jonas was put into a side room to be questioned.

“Do you think they’ll question us?” asked Tisha in a shaky voice. Her bubbly confidence of the previous evening had all vanished and she sat very close to Beyon, trying to draw some comfort from him.

“Probably,” he replied, not wanting to lie to her. “Stick to our story like bugs on sap candy and we’ll be fine. It’s not illegal to buy passage to Lytos Bor and Jonas has claimed those jewels as his own.” He was trying to work his hands free from their bindings, but the wire bit into his wrists and he was forced to give up.

“Why did he do that? He wouldn’t have declared the jewels when he put into port so it’ll look like he was smuggling them in,” said Eliish.

“It has to do with that drink he offered us at the quayside, remember?” explained Jaquor. “It’s an oath to protect us. I’d imagine he’ll claim those jewels are personal wealth, however, rather than cargo.”

“Very clever,” came Melbren’s voice from around the corner, behind the cell wall. The grinning officer emerged from the shadows and stood in front of the iron bars which formed the front wall of the cell. He made some show of thoughtfully picking his teeth with the point of a needle-like dagger.

“I have to wonder though,” he went on, “why you’d have to ‘stick to your story’ if you’re all going to tell me the truth. And if those are jewels Jonas only ‘claimed as his own’ to fulfil the captain’s oath, that would mean they’re actually yours, wouldn’t it? My, my, I can see there’s some explaining to do here. You first,” he chose, pointing at Tisha.

A second Excise man, who must also have been hiding just out of sight, unlocked the cell door. Following Melbren’s direction, he grabbed Tisha and hauled her into a standing position. Beyon stuck out his foot to trip the guard and Jaquor tried to get to his feet, although what they hoped to achieve with their arms bound behind them they weren’t sure. Tisha resisted but the guard was quick and strong, dragging her away and avoiding Beyon’s foot easily. They were forced to watch as Tisha was led away, struggling in the guard’s vindictively tight grip, with no idea when they would see her again.

The guard pulled Tisha toward the room they had seen Jonas pushed into when they arrived, but stopped at the next door along and led Tisha inside. There was one chair in the middle of the room and she was roughly pushed into this, her arms aching as they were still tied behind her. She heard noises through the thin wall which separated her from the room that held Captain Jonas; bangs, shouts, thumps and low groans of pain. She winced involuntarily and selfishly hoped that he would not divulge their secrets. Then she hoped she would not let it slip herself if they questioned her as violently.

“It doesn’t sound very nice, does it?” came Melbren’s voice from right behind her. Tisha stiffened; she hadn’t even realised he was in the room. He leaned in close to her and she could smell his hot, rancid breath and sweaty body as he ran a finger down her cheek. She flinched, repulsed by the caress and the odour equally.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he purred in her ear. “Nothing like that needs to happen to you – as long as you cooperate. Are you going to be a good girl?” Now his finger was half way down her neck and he paused, checking her pulse. “Excited, are we? I thought your husband looked a bit pale and dull. Perhaps the touch of a real man is what you need.” He was beside her now, his dark eyes boring into hers as he pinched her chin and turned her head towards him. His skin was the colour of dry sand with pock marks disfiguring his face and rough, black stubble covering his jaw. He laughed humourlessly.

“I don’t often hit women,” he said, “but then I don’t often get women in here. You will tell me, eventually. Why not make it easy on yourself? Where are you from?” He leaned on the back of her chair, one hand either side of her, breathing in her face and speaking disconcertingly quietly.

“Meer Armen,” replied Tisha promptly. “We’re travelling to Lytos Bor with our friends to visit their family.”

“And why do you have those jewels with you?”

“To pay for our passage and cover the other expenses of our trip. That much coin would be too heavy to carry.”

“How long did it take you to travel here from Meer Armen?”

“Six days. On foot.” Tisha knew there had been the merest hint of hesitation in her voice when she answered and she hoped he hadn’t heard it.

“Six days,” he mused, “On foot. When you could have hired horses. Yes, with all those jewels you could easily have afforded horses and made the journey in two days. So why no horses?”

“I... I, don’t know how to ride,” stammered Tisha.

“A carriage then. You could have ridden in a carriage. Why no carriage?” Without waiting for an answer he carried on. “When you arrived in my glorious city, where did you spend the night?”

“At an inn. I don’t remember the name. It was the closest one to the city gate. The sign had a picture of a white horse on it.” Tisha realised her mistake as she said it; he probably knew the names and locations of every inn the city possessed. That slip would probably undo her story, but in her rising panic her tongue had run away with her. She bit her lip.

“But The White Horse is by the south gate. The nearest inn to the west gate, where you would have arrived from Meer Armen, is the ‘Drowning Fish’. Let’s start again, shall we?” He smiled as he said it and his tone was pleasant, so it took her completely by surprise when he stood up straight and slapped her sharply across her left cheek. Her head snapped round with the blow and her face stung and flamed as if on fire. Tears sprang to her eyes and her breathing quickened, despite her efforts to stay calm.

“Where are you from?” asked Melbren again, now standing in front of Tisha and rubbing the palm of his hand where it stung from hitting her. His voice was still quiet and it made Tisha very nervous. She gathered all her bravery and lifted her chin, looking at him defiantly.

“Meer Armen,” she replied.

“And why were you on Jonas’ ship?”

“We were discussing passage to Lytos Bor.”

“And you were going to pay him with those jewels?”

“Some of them, yes.”

“Where did you get the jewels?”

“They belong to all of us. We’ve been saving for this trip for a long time.”

“That’s not what I asked. Where did you get such lovely jewels?”

“From a friend who travels in the mountains. We traded with her, money for jewels.”

“A rich friend, then. A rich woman from Meer Armen who likes to travel. What is her name? I might have heard of her.”

Tisha didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t familiar with Meeran names. Melbren drew back his hand and slapped her right cheek so hard she nearly fell off her chair.

“Let’s start again,” he said pleasantly. “Where are you from?”

It seemed that she had been gone for hours, but the sun had moved only a little way across the sky, visible through the small, barred window of their cell. Beyon paced back and forth in the confined space, driven to distraction by the thought of what might be happening to Tisha while he was unable to protect her. Jaquor and Eliish sat on the hard, stone bench that spanned one wall, watching their agitated friend and worrying for his wife. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, they heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Two guards appeared, one of whom unlocked the door while the other stood with his sword drawn as a warning against attempts to escape. The first guard entered and unfastened the bindings on Beyon’s wrists, then backed away to make room for a third, who rounded the corner of their cell half carrying Tisha and pushed her roughly through the door. Beyon had to scramble to catch her before she hit the floor and mean time all the guards had exited the cell and locked them in again. Beyon gave a strangled cry as he took in the extent of Tisha’s injuries. Raised welts and darkening bruises covered her face and body, which could be seen where her clothes had been torn. Both of her eyes were swollen and blackened, her lip was cut and there were contusions on her shoulders and torso. Compassion for Tisha and anger toward the man who had inflicted such pain on her coursed through Beyon until he didn’t know which was stronger, but as he was unable to act on the latter he laid Tisha gently on the floor and examined her injuries. He suspected from the way she held her arm that her left collar bone was broken and she was also guarding her right side. There was bruising on the ribs there but Beyon hoped they were not actually broken. He moved his hands tenderly across her abdomen and hips, then down her legs, at which point she groaned and began to cry.

“I’m sorry my darling, I have to know how bad it is,” he whispered to her, kissing her forehead which was one of the few spots on her face that wasn’t purple. Fortunately her trousers had wide, skirt-like legs which could be easily lifted to examine the damage. Beyon was shocked to see narrow, red lines across both of her thighs, indicating that she had been repeatedly hit with a stick or thin belt. He pounded on the dirt floor with his fists.

“When I get hold of that man, I’ll tear his throat out!” growled in a voice fuelled by a deep need for vengeance.

At that moment half a dozen guards quick-marched into the corridor, followed by Captain Melbren himself. Beyon leaped to his feet, eager to cause the man every bit as much pain as he had inflicted on Tisha.

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Melbren snapped. “If she had simply told me the truth I wouldn’t have had to continue...... questioning her. Besides, my guards would cut you to pieces before you got near me. Save your energy for caring for your woman. Or perhaps you’d just like to tell me your business in Lytos Meer and I won’t have to... question... your other little friend.”

“We will tell you nothing!” spat Eliish defiantly.

“Oh, this one has fire,” observed Melbren appreciatively.

“You don’t know the half of it,” retorted Eliish.

“Ah,” realised Melbren, “you’re Myrial, aren’t you? Perhaps one of the ‘lucky’ few with those special abilities the Roon like to cultivate? Maybe you think you can use your parlour tricks to escape. Just remember, even if you manage to get past me, there are guards waiting right here ready to end your friends lives before you can get near them. Besides, this one’s in no condition to run for it anyway.” He indicated Tisha, who was clearly in so much pain she could barely move. “Come along then, she-wolf, let’s see how feisty you are on your own.”

At a signal from Melbren the cell door was unlocked once again and four guards ran in, swords drawn. Two blocked Beyon and Jaquor while a third held his blade to Tisha’s throat, dissolving any ideas of resistance.

“Stop! I’ll come, just don’t hurt her any more,” cried Eliish bravely.

“Eliish, no!” shouted Jaquor, but he knew it was futile. He also knew that Eliish was brave and proud. She would not want to be dragged away screaming in fear, however accurately that might reflect the way she felt inside. She would hold her chin high and walk to her fate with dignity, defying any man who looked for weakness in her. As he watched her walk past the guards and follow Melbren away, he hoped against hope that they could find some way to escape.

Melbren took precautions with Eliish. She was an unknown quantity, however he might mock her magical abilities, and he did not wish to take unnecessary risks with his own person when questioning her. He led her to a room with an iron-barred gate for a door and had the guard shackle her wrists to the wall with iron manacles on short chains. He did not know what specific powers she might possess, but reasoned that a casting, or a bringing forth of power would require the use of her hands, so if they were disabled he should be fairly safe. He eyed her from across the room as he decided how best to proceed. She looked insufferably proud, he thought, not like a prisoner; not scared or defeated. She carried herself with grace, like a dancer. She had poise, holding her chin determinedly high and levelly meeting his gaze.

He would change that, he decided. He would reduce her to begging him for mercy; make her tell him all their secrets. He would know what they were planning. All those jewels must have been intended to fund some seditious enterprise. Consorting with smugglers and pirates, carrying the wealth of a fair sized town on their backs, Manguin and Myrial and an unknown magical threat arriving from who knew where with secret plans. Everything about them was foreign. Their clothes were simple in design, but too well made for peasant garb and cut from strange fabrics. Their sleeveless tunics and their leggings or wide trousers were not the current fashions in any Meeran town nor, so far as he knew, in the Myrial cities across the sea. Their hair was unstyled, worn loose and long. They had very little Meeran coinage among their wealth, although he had found some Myrial currency in a small purse.

Most suspicious of all, in the bottom of one of their packs he had discovered a number of small glass bottles and jars containing varicoloured tinctures and salves. They were like no physic or ointment he had previously encountered; shimmering and smelling of herbs or flowers. He strongly suspected that these were remedies from the forest. Elvish magic; Norn magic. What could be their purpose here? No southerner would enter Lytos Meer willingly unless they had some dark purpose in mind; some threat to his city. And it was his job to find out what that threat was. He had already sent a messenger to the Captain of the City Guard at the barracks in the high city and another to Government House, as was protocol when a threat of such magnitude was discovered. They would dispatch a squad to transfer the prisoners to the jail, since only the port was Melbren’s jurisdiction. But he was determined to uncover the details before they arrived. There could be a commendation in it for him if he played this right. He imagined being escorted to the palace to be congratulated by the King on his tireless work to protect the city. With an ambitious glint in his eye, he chose a stout leather whip and turned to face Eliish.

She had lasted as long as she could. They would understand that surely; they would know she hadn’t crumbled at the first touch of pain. If only he would stop long enough for her to gather her wits, perhaps she could last a little longer, but he was relentless. Could she be certain she hadn’t already let something slip? Her mind felt numb, but most of her body was screaming. She bit her lip to keep from letting any sound out, and winced in pain as she tasted blood. Oh yes, he had already hit her there. Her arms were leaden now from being shackled to the wall for so long, a fact she was grateful for since she could no longer feel the broken finger on her right hand.

The blows from the whip had stung her arms, legs and torso as she refused to answer each question. There was a tiny metal cap on the end of the leather, which bit into her flesh whenever it caught her and drew blood. Eventually he had given up on that and came nearer to her. He had a small bottle of red liquid which he dripped into the open wounds, sending searing licks of fire coursing through her body. It had taken every ounce of strength not to scream or weep. She would not give him the satisfaction.

It seemed to be more than just answers he wanted from her. He seemed to feel a sadistic need to break her; to see her cry and beg and give herself entirely to his mercy. When the fire-liquid had failed to make her talk- or scream – he had become angry. He punched her in the stomach, winding her and causing her to gasp for breath. He broke her finger. That made tears well up in her eyes but she blinked them fiercely away, gritting her teeth and emitting an agonised moan.

Now he was pacing in front of her, as if racking his brains for new ways to torture her. He seemed driven, like a man possessed with the need to get answers from her – a man who was up against a deadline perhaps? The thought that he needed to break her soon because perhaps someone was coming; someone who would outrank Melbren and stop him, someone who would take them away from this place, gave Eliish a small boost of resolve. Perhaps they would be no better off, but just maybe an escape would be possible if they were no longer held in this building.

Her renewed defiance shrank suddenly as she saw Melbren walking towards her, his dagger drawn. His eyes were ablaze and his breathing heavy as he grasped the front of her leggings, cutting the fabric down the centre. Eliish gasped in fear as he tore the garment away, letting it crumple to the floor. He threw himself against her, grabbing her face in one hand, his own mere inches away. His other hand pinched her skin painfully around her belly and thighs where it was already raw from the beating he had given her. His breath was hot and rancid as he growled at her.

“You will talk! Little forest-wolf, you think I don’t know where you came from? Might as well just tell me your plans, eh? No use holding back any more. Don’t think it’ll be any better with them – they don’t like people who threaten our city any more than I do! TALK!”

Eliish realised the cause of his fervour; she had been right about other officers coming to remove them from his custody and he didn’t want them taking away the glory of uncovering their secrets too. He clearly thought that they were planning something that directly threatened Lytos Meer. Well, let him, if it scared him that much. She spat in his face, defying him to the last.

Melbren seemed to lose all control at that. With a roar of maddened anger he thudded her head against the wall, causing flashes of bright light to appear in her vision as an encroaching darkness shadowed the periphery. She fought for consciousness as he shook her bodily, then grabbed her, raking his finger nails across her breasts. Still pressing his body against hers, he panted in her face, pushing his hand between her legs, forcing them apart as she did her best to resist him. She was terrified – surely a crown official couldn’t rape a prisoner in his custody? Her stomach clenched and she finally opened her mouth to scream, to beg, to plead with him for mercy.

Then she heard shouts and banging doors, stamping feet and orders being given. Melbren stopped, frozen to the spot as if suddenly realising where he was and what he was doing. Deliberately, he stepped back, wiping her blood from his hands onto her tunic. His breathing was still fast, anger emanating from his every pore. His face was twisted in rage and frustration that they had outwitted him; that he didn’t have the goods on them to report to his seniors. He backhanded her across the face one more time, just for good measure it seemed, then left the room.

Eliish sagged against the wall, relieved to have escaped that last indignity, but filled with shame that Jaquor would see her so destroyed, that he would know what had almost happened. She felt dirty, soiled, like her skin was crawling with bugs; like he was still all over her, but on the inside where he could never be washed off. Half naked and caked in blood, she waited for whoever was going to come. And finally she wept.

Jaquor stumbled over a loose stone and nearly fell into the guard in front of him, but regained his balance just in time. They had been walking uphill for what seemed like hours. The lieutenant of the guard had been less than pleased with the condition in which he found Tisha and Eliish.

“Torturing women!” he had seethed at Melbren. “What sort of man are you? And I don’t think I even want to know about the state of the Myrial woman’s clothing! You’ll be lucky to keep your job after my report goes in, Melbren.”

Tisha and Eliish had been placed on stretchers for the long journey up to the High City jail, since it was plain they could not walk. Jaquor had physically baulked when Eliish was brought out of the room in which she had been questioned. A guard held her under each arm and her clothing was torn and bloodstained, speaking volumes about what she had endured. Angry questions whirled in his mind as he took in her ripped leggings bunched about her ankles and the trails of caked blood and angry red welts on her thighs. Her tunic was torn from one shoulder and he could see cuts and bruises across her chest. The middle finger of her right hand was bent in the wrong direction and Jaquor clenched his own fingers in sympathy and rage. If it was ever in his power to take revenge on Melbren, he swore he would make him pay for what he had done.

The lieutenant had introduced himself as Jaeman and had actually apologised for the way in which the women had been treated. He had informed them that they would be taken to the jail in the High City where a government official wanted to question them about their presence in Lytos Meer. He made it plain that he already knew they were from Theyos Raal, so it would be pointless to further lie or prevaricate on that point. He promised that the women would not be touched again, and even that their wounds would be tended, but urged himself and Beyon to cooperate as he could make no such promises for them. They had been taken at sword point by the twelve-strong detachment of guardsmen, out of the Excise House and back through the city to the foot of the hill that loomed over the poorer districts, emphasising just how far above them the upper echelons of society were. Eight of the guards carried the stretchers bearing Eliish and Tisha, who had both been sedated to lessen the pain of the journey. Jaemen led the party and the last three guards flanked and followed himself and Beyon, who were still bound at the wrists as though they might try to escape, even though this would clearly mean leaving the women behind.

“What sort of men do they think we are?” wondered Jaquor quietly to Beyon. “Do they think we would just abandon them to their fate and run?”

“I don’t think they know what to make of us,” replied Beyon. They know we’re from the forest, but they’ve never dealt with ‘Southerners’ as they call us and they’re working form superstition and hearsay.”

“Perhaps we can find a way to use that to our advantage,” mused Jaquor.

“Well if you think of a way, please let me know. We sure could use an advantage right about now.”

“No Talking!” barked the guard behind them, as if he was afraid they were plotting their escape.

By the time they had climbed the hill into the High City it was dusk. The scenery had changed noticeably as they passed from the market district into the tree lined avenues of the wealthier residences. At first, the houses were quite small and close together. Jaquor supposed that these were the homes of less prosperous merchants, minor officials and the like. As they climbed higher the buildings grew larger and were situated within progressively bigger gardens, indicating the greater wealth and higher status of the inhabitants. The lamp lit roads of the city were still busy. Smartly dressed businessmen and court functionaries hurried by carrying leather satchels, barely affording the guards and their prisoners a glance as they made their way through the streets. Lavishly dressed women accompanied by maids and pages left shops and cafes to climb into horse-drawn carriages on their way home. Delivery boys ran by carrying parcels and lamp lighters went from post to post, ensuring that the citizens were able to continue their business after the sun set. The atmosphere was a strange mixture of intense industry and privileged luxury.

As they walked between the large, solidly constructed buildings Jaquor became aware of the enormous Royal Palace imposing itself on his peripheral vision to his right. It was a vast, gated complex with many torches flaming atop the walls and guards patrolling the perimeter. The palace itself was a towering construction of fanciful architectural design, several stories high with delicate towers reaching toward the sky. To the front of the outer walls a broad, paved square created a feeling of separation from the surrounding streets. They crossed this square and entered the next quarter, which seemed to be mostly composed of offices and commercial premises. Jaquor was aware that they hadn’t had any food or water since breakfast and he and Beyon were both tiring fast. He worried about Tisha and Eliish, hoping that Jaemen would keep his promise not to harm them further. He wondered what would constitute ‘care’ in a Meeran city jail and did not feel very optimistic.

They emerged into another wide square which was flanked on two sides by imposing buildings. On their right a stately, three storey structure with tall windows and a wide carved door impressed them by its grandeur. A large sign above the door proclaimed it to be Government House. To their left a grim building identified itself as the Court House and City Jail. Iron bars at the windows and a heavy gate enhanced the ominous feeling in the pit of Jaquor’s stomach. How in all the realm were they going to escape from such a fortress? At a shout from Jaemen the gate swung open and they were allowed into the courtyard at the centre of the square building. The sheer height of the bleak walls felt oppressive in the darkness as Jaemen discussed arrangements for their incarceration with the warden. The stretchers bearing the two women were set on the ground and Jaemen’s men turned to leave. Jaquor felt a curious sense of near-abandonment as the guardsmen walked back through the gate and left the sorry little group of travellers to a new unknown.

The warden was a beefy, lumpish man who looked disgruntled with everything about his life. He shouted orders at the guards, ignoring the travellers entirely, then watched as they were taken away into the dimly lit corridors of the jail. They were separated, much to the men’s consternation. Their wrists were unbound, then each man was roughly shoved into a small, bare cell with brick walls and a thick wooden door. There was a small grate in the door and a barred window in the outer wall. The torchlight in the corridor which barely pierced the grating was the only illumination. Tisha and Eliish were carried further down the corridor, but Jaquor had no way of knowing their eventual destination. He looked around his cell, squinting in the near darkness. There was a bare pallet along one wall with a blanket folded at one end. A tell-tale squeaking told Jaquor he was not the cell’s only inhabitant. He sat down on the pallet and wondered if they were going to be given any food. Suddenly he heard a scrabbling by the opposite wall. At first he assumed this to be the rats, but eventually there was a stony grating sound and a thud as one of the bricks fell to the floor.

“Jaquor?” asked Beyon from the next cell.

“I’m here,” he answered, then realised what an obvious statement that was.

“Are you alright?” asked Beyon, knowing how ridiculous it sounded but unable to think of anything else to say.

“I’m worried Beyon. We knew this trip was a necessary risk, but it was pure bad luck that those excise men stormed Jonas’ ship. It shouldn’t have got this bad. I don’t rate our chances of getting out of here alive, which means no ships, which means an army of forest folk camped on the shore waiting for transport which may never come while their food runs out. I hate that the whole expedition hinges on us and we can’t do anything!” Jaquor thumped the pallet, which hurt his hand but made him feel slightly better.

“I know. I want to know that my wife is safe, and Eliish of course, but safe is a relative term in here. What does it matter if they heal them now, just to execute us all tomorrow?”

“Thanks for that my friend,” replied Jaquor. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?

The bowl cleared again and Raya was left staring at her own reflection.

“Oh my,” she said to the raven. “They are in a deal of trouble, aren’t they?”

“Trouble! Trouble! Aarck!” squawked the raven.

“I wonder,” mused Raya. “I wonder if I could reach that far.”

She prepared the vision bowl again, this time concentrating on the two women. She saw Tisha and Eliish lying in adjoining beds in what must have been the jail’s sanatorium. The walls were whitewashed and lamps hung along them at regular intervals, giving a smoky yellow light to the room. The beds appeared to be clean, with white sheets and pillows. A medic sat at a nearby table, writing in a book. The women’s cuts had been tended and Eliish’s finger set, splinted and bandaged. They had been stripped of their torn clothes and dressed in simple grey shifts. They were both sleeping, or possibly sedated. Raya looked at Tisha first and concentrated all her will on her. She hovered her hands in a cradling motion over the bowl, spoke the words of healing which would release the power of the spell and opened her hands. The water shimmered as if Raya had used the bowl as a conduit to reach Tisha over the great distance between them. She worked slowly from head to foot, concentrating on each injury in turn. Beads of perspiration stood on Raya’s forehead with the effort of sending power so far, but she knew it was both necessary and worth the effort. She repeated the whole process with Eliish, then sank into her chair, exhausted.

Just before she fell asleep another vision came to her, not in the bowl this time but taking over her mind, as rarely happened when a glimpse of the future intruded on her present because she was concentrating so hard on the person involved.

“The white pirate will come in the darkness, to free the hands of justice from the fist of the law,” she intoned in a hollow voice. Then she slumped forward onto the table, unconscious.

At the coast the largest part of the force from the forest was waiting patiently. They expected to glimpse the ships on the horizon by the following night fall and to be greeting their friends again the next afternoon. The atmosphere in camp was relaxed and jovial. As far as they were concerned everything was going to plan. They were well out of sight of any Meeran towns and had plenty of supplies. The soldiers trained during the day while the quartermaster’s helpers prepared food, scrubbed pots and laundry and gathered firewood. In the evenings campfires were lit and stories were told, songs sung and love found under the stars, at least for a lucky few.

Harson Cooper was not one of those few. His evening meal was carefully dosed each day and after eating he fell into a long, deep sleep, waking the next morning in a docile semi-stupor. His friends in the squad suspected something slightly underhand was going on, but as Sergeant Smith watched them all with a steely gaze they were obliged to maintain order. Brin was grateful to Nula for solving that particular problem but had decided that once Roween left for home Harson would have to be allowed his wits again or he wouldn’t be much good in a fight and that would hardly be fair, considering their destination. Brin Smith was nothing if not fair.

The following morning all eyes were on the horizon as they watched for the ships. Illion stood on a rocky outcropping by the water, gazing at the far away division of sky and sea for that tell tale black dot that would announce that the ships were coming. Captain Moor stood beside him, sharing his vigil.

“Why can we not see the ships yet, Captain?” asked Illion, though he knew that he sounded petulant and the other man had no answer for him. “What if something happened – they couldn’t find any smugglers or they were caught? How would we even know? How long do we wait here, watching our supplies dwindle? The strategy sounded good before we set out, but I have my doubts now.”

“Calm yourself, Highness. We have no cause yet for such concern. One or two minor delays can be allowed for; perhaps they had to wait until the ship was unloaded and then had to wait for the next tide. There are supplies enough for a few extra days if needs be. Doubtless we’ll see them by tomorrow morning.”

But of course they did not see them in the morning, nor yet the morning after that. The troops grew increasingly restless as they, too, began to consider the vast distances which lay between them and their homes and the supply wagons which grew emptier by the day. Sitting on a rock by the shoreline, Vineder kept a near constant vigil for the ships. He worried for the four who had ventured into the city; worried that if they never came their fate would be, at least in part, his fault. Another day passed without cause for hope and Vineder started to feel the unfriendly gaze on his back of the men, some of whom were beginning to look for someone to blame for their seeming entrapment at the foot of hostile mountains, miles from home. Vineder also felt keenly the distance from his own home and yearned to begin the next stage of their journey north. So he waited and watched and wondered, and the hours and days slid by.

Waking in the sanatorium the morning after they were brought to the city jail Tisha and Eliish were startled to discover their bruises and lacerations all but healed. Even their broken bones seemed to be mending. Eliish wiggled her finger experimentally, testing it for pain and stiffness. She had a vague memory of the nurse setting the bone and tending their other injuries when they arrived, but surely this degree of healing must be magical and the Meerans had none of those skills; indeed they feared and despised them. So how was it that they felt so well? She suspected an outside influence, but was stumped as to who might even know of their current predicament. Whoever it was, she hoped they would be able to offer further assistance; helping them to escape, for instance, would be much appreciated.

Since it would probably make their jailer-come-nurse rather suspicious that they had returned almost immediately to full health, the women quietly agreed not to appear too much better right away. They stayed in bed as they were expected to do, accepting all the foul tasting tonics they were offered and feigning sleep much of the time to avoid having to answer any awkward questions.

For three more days they waited, worrying about what had happened to Jaquor and Beyon, pretending to recover slowly and wondering what the Meeran authorities had planned for them.

Jaquor and Beyon had woken the morning after they were brought to the city jail stiff and sore from a night spent on their hard wooden pallets with nothing but a thin grey blanket for warmth and their own arms to cushion their heads. The thick stone walls of the fortress-like jail seemed to hold a chill deep within them and almost no sunlight managed to shine through the high, barred windows. In the dim light Jaquor could see a thin layer of green, glistening mildew creeping across the top of the wall from the damp, shadowy corner. A rat sat on its haunches by the door, evidently waiting for breakfast to arrive. Footsteps echoed along the corridor as the guards distributed food to all the prisoners. Jaquor could hear shouted insults and harshly barked orders, the first hint he had had that there were other people besides himself and Beyon being held there. A hatch in the bottom of his cell door opened and a bowl of thin gruel was pushed through it. The rat sniffed it, then ran to the other side of the cell.

“Well, that says it all,” remarked Jaquor, ignoring the bowl. Beyon called softly through the hole in the wall.

“Jaquor? Did you say something?”

“No, I was just exchanging pleasantries with my rodent cell mate. He doesn’t think much of the catering.”

“It’s hardly a match for Demet’s honey porridge, is it?” agreed Beyon. More footsteps approached from down the corridor and Beyon’s cell door grated open. Jaquor hurriedly replaced the brick into its hole in the wall so that the guards would not see. He heard a harsh voice barking orders and then the sound of heavy boots receding as Beyon was taken for questioning. The minutes slipped by as the hint of sunlight travelled across the window, changing the angle of the shadows minutely. Jaquor watched his rat friend scamper about, inspecting the floor for crumbs. The highlight of the morning was a pitched battle between this rodent and an interloper from another cell, which was fought passionately for several minutes before the intruder fled in ignominy. The champion settled down to lick his wounds in peace, occasionally glancing at Jaquor as if wondering why he was so interested in the vagaries of rodent life.

After a few hours Beyon was returned to his cell and they opened Jaquor’s door.

“Come on, on your feet, Pixie loving forest scum,” shouted the guard.

Jaquor stood, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth to keep his temper under control. It would do no good to start a fight with his three companions under lock and key and no escape plan in place. The guards walked him through a maze of torch lit corridors to a small room with a table and two chairs in the centre. The interrogation was nothing like what the women had clearly endured. He was asked the same questions over and over, denied water while the guard drank long draughts from a tall glass, cajoled, bribed and threatened, but no actual violence was done to him. The guard implied that keeping secrets was futile, that Beyon had already told him everything and he was just looking for confirmation of the story, that the women had talked in the infirmary and that they would never be released to carry out their plans anyway. Jaquor refused to believe him, or to give up hope that somehow they would be rescued or manage to escape, so he said not a word, staring stoically ahead until the frustrated Meeran gave up and took him back to his cell.

“Tomorrow you’ll talk. Or the next day. Eventually you’ll be so hungry you’ll say anything for a good plate of stew.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Jaquor in silence and darkness. He turned to the wall dividing his cell from Beyon’s.

“Beyon?” he whispered. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” came the reply. “Hungry though. I don’t suppose they’ll feed us tonight. I heard that last remark the guard made. You didn’t talk either then.”

“Of course not!” Jaquor scoffed.

“Sorry. I knew you wouldn’t. Tomorrow we need to try and get an idea of the layout of this place. Look down corridors as you’re taken to that room; see if you can see stairs, windows, open spaces. Anything that might help us escape.”

“Then will you teach me how to juggle?” Asked Jaquor sarcastically.

“There’s no need for that, Jac,” admonished Beyon quietly. “I’m just trying to plan.”

“Sorry. I guess we’re just both tired and hungry.”

The guards did bring food, of a sort. Bowls of thin barley soup and crusts of stale bread were passed through the door hatches. Jaquor had to kick the rat across the floor to stop it getting to the food before he did. He gulped down the luke-warm, oily soup, dunking the bread in it so it wasn’t so hard. It was bland and moderately unpleasant, but edible. The two men talked for a couple of hours about nothing much; stories from home and hopes for the future, to keep their spirits up. Then finally they fell asleep.

The next three days passed in much the same way, but the information they gathered on the building wasn’t much help. The corridors seemed to form an endless maze and the guards seemed to delight in choosing a new route every time they were taken to the interrogation room. They saw door after identical door set in cold, bare stone walls; the torches smoky and evenly spaced, the floors rough and dusty. There was no way to gain a sense of direction or form a map in their minds of the layout. It was hopeless.