James West - Queen of the North

Within minutes the large encampment, which lay a league west of Ruan Breach, had become a bedlam of activity.

As day faltered toward dusk, the River Sedge carried the Lamprey along at the pace of a galloping horse over rolling waves and through sucking eddies. A wallowing tub like this shouldn’t go so fast , Rathe thought, standing amidships and listening to the ship’s timbers creak and groan. More disconcerting was the sight of the helmsman using a member of the crew to help him keep the rudder steady.

Captain Ostre had mentioned that the river would get rougher as it narrowed to no more than a hundred strides, but had also assured Rathe all would be well. “I’ve passed through Ruan Breach more times than I remember. Even in high summer, when the Sedge is at its lowest flow, it’s plenty deep enough for the Lamprey’s draft.”

Rathe hoped that was true, for if the ship ran aground now, the current would quickly dash it to bits. He and everyone aboard the ship might survive that, but the cold black waters of the Sedge spoke of death with a cold and watery tongue.

“Crew says a storm is coming,” Loro said, joining Rathe’s side. Dark clouds had been building throughout the day, and were now spitting occasional showers of snow. The wind had picked up, making the rigging sing.

“Captain Ostre has said the same since we left Iceford,” Rathe allowed, “but we’ve yet to suffer anything worthy of being named a storm.”

Loro shrugged. “We’re not from these lands, so how can we know?”

“What else does the crew say?”

“That these early storms oft bury the land to the height of a man sitting astride a horse.” The cuts on Loro’s face had scabbed over, but the rest was a mottled confusion of swollen and bruised flesh. Still, he looked better than Liamas, who had joined the crew an hour earlier. Battered though the Prythian was, it didn’t keep him from barking orders and making threats. So far, he and Loro had avoided talking, but they had gone so far as to share amicable nods.

Rathe looked for Edrik’s company along the southern cliff, but by now the day had grown too old and dark to make out anything besides overhanging trees. “I’m more concerned about the outlanders, and whatever they have planned for us.”

“Bah!” Loro said, flapping a dismissive hand. “The worst those fools can do is lob a few fire arrows our way. With night almost on us, they’ll have a hard time hitting anything.”

“True enough,” Rathe said, but he was not given to discounting the wiles of his enemies. Continuing his study, he asked, “How is it between you and Fira?”

Loro paused in testing the draw of his bow and dropped a lecherous wink. “I’ll tell you for sure on the morrow.”

“What of Liamas?” Rathe asked, wanting to change the subject before Loro could ask about him and Nesaea. For himself, Rathe was not sure what had occurred between them, but knew he didn’t like it.

Loro glanced toward the Prythian giant. “Truth of it is, I cannot blame the quartermaster for making a try at Fira-a blind man can see she’s a fine-looking woman. Now that I’ve cracked the bastard’s head, I expect he’ll prove to be a decent sort.”

Rathe stifled a chuckle. He had seen the same many times before, two men bitter enough to kill each other over one thing or another, only to become friendly after swapping blows. Women, though, seemed a more grudging breed. He thought Captain Ostre was right about letting Nesaea think she won more often than not in order to keep peace between them. The problem was, Rathe had never been one to surrender out of hand.

“Rider!” the watchman called from the crow’s nest.

All eyes turned. At first Rathe saw nothing out of place. Then, framed between two boulders perched high above, he saw a man sitting astride a horse.

“Seems he’s only enjoying the view,” Loro said.

Before Rathe could respond, the rider bent over. A moment later he sat up bearing a flaming torch. In the deepening gloom, it appeared he was holding a tiny sun aloft. Not just holding it, but waving it.

“What’s that fool doing?” Loro asked.

Rathe’s jaw tightened. “Sending a signal.”

Leaving Loro’s side, he ran to the poop deck and joined Captain Ostre, who was using a long eyeglass to look farther downriver.

“What do you see?” Rathe asked.

“Two more signal fires. There can be no doubt they’ve been watching us all along.”

“How far to Ruan Breach?”

“We’re nearly there, lad. In less than a quarter turn of the glass, we’ll be through.”

“The darkness will help,” Rathe said.

Ostre lowered the eyeglass. “I’m more a merchant than a fighter, so explain how battling in the dark helps?”

Rathe pointed at the first rider, now falling behind the Lamprey , then moved to a bright splinter of light rising off the second rider’s torch-the third, he still couldn’t see. “They can drop fire on us, as we feared all along, but we’ll see it coming.

“There’s a comfort,” Ostre said, sounding anything but comforted.

“Surprise is the key to a proper ambush,” Rathe explained. “They’ve lost that now. That they gave it up so easily tells me they’re not skilled fighters.”

Ostre tugged his beard, nodding. “I see what you mean … but I’m of a mind to teach these fools a lesson.”

“Such as?”

Instead of answering, Captain Ostre called to Liamas, “Bring up the ballistae-and be quick about it, or we’ll miss our chance.”

Rathe loosed a burst of wicked laughter. “You surprise me, captain.”

Ostre shrugged. “After battling the Crimson Gull , I decided the Lamprey would always fight, instead of run. Liamas, being a Prythian, has a head for the ways of war. Loading half a dozen ballistae into the hold was his idea-”

“Do you hear that?” Rathe interrupted, his head cocked toward a sound akin to drums. He had heard something like that before, but where escaped him.

“Sounds like battering rams hammering a gate,” Nesaea said, climbing the stairs to the poop deck. She had donned a northern warrior’s garb of dark leathers and furs. Her gloved hands caressed the hilts of the dagger and the sword hanging from either hip. Her eyes cut toward Rathe, as if challenging him to dispute her observation. He had no intention of doing so.

The Lamprey surged downriver, picking up speed the closer they came to the throat of Ruan Breach. High above, the second torchbearer flashed by, much faster than the previous one. As the ship climbed up and over a frothy swell, snow began to fall in earnest. Not much farther on, the ship was flying through a swirling white squall. The erratic drumming echoed through the gorge, falling on them from all sides, hastening the crewmen to set up the ballistae around the deck on three-footed pedestals.

“What do you make of that?” Ostre called, pointing past the jagged lips of Ruan Breach not a quarter mile distant. Father downstream, almost lost in the snowfall, a figure was running along the riverbank, frantically waving a torch.

“Something’s wrong,” Rathe said.

“For them, or us?” Nesaea asked.

Before Rathe could answer, a loud, popping crackle sounded through the gorge. The drumming abruptly ceased, replaced by a deep rumbling that vibrated his teeth and bones. The rest of the crew stood looking about in confusion. Rathe scanned the walls of the gorge, but saw only dark rock webbed in ice.

“We’re nearly through!” Ostre shouted. He jabbed a thick finger toward a pair of crewmen at the bow who were fitting a ballista with a spear-sized bolt. “You there, make ready!”