Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Egar shook his head. “We don’t know how many warriors they have, but it is doubtless more than our two forces combined.”

“Unless the entire fleet moves to retake the docks and beach,” Isan said. “We can land thousands of fighting men and women.”

“That will be bloody,” Egar said.

Isan nodded. “But in six weeks, the lake will freeze, and we will be trapped without supply. The dockmasters are all agreed. We stand to lose far more if we do nothing.”

“When are you planning the attack?” Thamos asked.

Shepherd Alin put down a map with various markings. “These are the typical Krasian troop positions.” He put down a second map, significantly different. “And these are their positions during new moon.”

“Waning,” Thamos murmured.

“The sand rats spend the day in prayer, and then move to defend against demon attack,” Captain Marlan said. “They will not be ready to face our combined forces instead.”

People at prayer, people standing against the cories, and these men were planning to slaughter them. It was no different from what the Krasians had done, unprovoked, but still the thought sickened Briar.

Egar nodded. “That should be enough time to march, but not if there are enemy troops in the land between. We have to know the way is clear, or I cannot commit my men.”

Alin nodded. “We will need to interrogate Prince Icha more … vigorously.”

Briar flexed his hands, thinking of the screws crushing Icha’s fingers, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He coughed, trying to force air into his lungs.

“Are you all right, boy?” Shepherd Alin asked.

“What if he don’t know?” Briar asked. “What if things changed?”

“He’s right,” Egar said. “I won’t commit my men to months-old information. We need to know how many warriors they have in the hamlets now. ”

“I can go,” Briar said. Anything to keep that horrible old man from adjusting the screws, playing screams like an instrument. “Know where leaders meet.” He pointed to the maps on the table. “Steal maps.”

Captain Dehlia put a hand on his shoulder. “Briar, that’s too dangerous. We can’t ask you to …”

“Didn’t ask,” Briar said. “I’ll go.”

“They just sit there, watching us.” Jayan paced before the great dockfront window of his command center, previously the lavish office of Dockmaster Isadore. “I wish the cowards would just attack and have done.”

A dozen Laktonian warships stood at anchor halfway between Docktown—now called Everam’s Reservoir—and Lakton, still visible in the light of the setting sun. They might once have been fishing and trade vessels, but all had rock slingers on deck now, with archers stationed on the aft and forecastles.

Worst were the newly built scorpions, based on the Krasian design. With the greenland secrets of fire still largely a mystery, it grated on Abban that the Laktonians had so easily stolen the design.

The ships had held the line for months, guarding an invisible border the Krasians had never approached. But for all their armament, the ships were swift, gliding on the lake winds the way a bird might soar overhead. If they decided to attack, it would be swift. Ships switched out of the formation often, and there was no telling if they were crewed lightly to intimidate, or packed with warriors ready to take the docks and beach by storm.

Other ships came and went from the city on the lake, evacuating the dozens of local fishing villages along the lakeshore and desperately foraging for supplies to replace the lost tithe. Jayan sent his half brothers north and south, slogging through the wetlands with their strange demons to crush the hamlets, but most were deserted by the time Icha and Sharu arrived with their forces.

To the south, Sharu had come to a river too wide and deep to cross, and had sent word that he was returning to Everam’s Reservoir. To the north, no one had heard from Icha and his men in weeks, and even the dama’ting could not divine their fate with assurance.

“They were not cowards when there were ships to reclaim,” Abban reminded. “The chin fear you, Sharum Ka, and well they should. The least of your Sharum could slay a dozen fish men …”

“A score,” Jayan said, “without breathing hard.”

Abban nodded. “It is as you say, Sharum Ka. But do not underestimate the foe. It is not cowardice that stays them.”

“Then what is it?” Jayan demanded.

“There is no profit in attack,” Abban said.

“Pfagh!” Jayan spat. “This is Sharak Sun, not khaffit merchanting.”

“You have said many times the greenlanders are more khaffit than Sharum, ” Abban said. “There is no gain in taking back the town when we have so many warriors to defend it, and more within a few days’ march.” He shivered, signaling Earless to put another log on the fire. “Better to let the snow and cold weaken us.”

Jayan grunted. All the Krasians were cold and irritable, remembering the last Northern winter. In Krasia winter temperatures would often dip to freezing at night, but the sun in the desert kept the days hot. In the North it was cold and wet for months with no relief. Winter had only just begun farther inland, but this close to the lake the snows came early, slowing their patrols and playing havoc with the scorpions. If the locals were to be believed, much of the lake would freeze in the coldest months, locking the ports until spring.

“So we are left to sit on our spears in this worthless chin hamlet?” Jayan demanded.

“The Evejah tells of many winters Holy Kaji was forced to wait out in captured lands, ere the winning of Sharak Sun. Conquest is ever thus, Sharum Ka. Months of moving men and supplies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike,” Abban clapped his hands for emphasis, “crushing your enemies.”

Jayan seemed mollified at that. “I will crush them. I will take their eyes and eat them. The fish men will whisper my name in terror for generations.”

“Of that, there is no doubt,” Abban agreed, keeping his eyes down, lest he stare at the milky orb of Jayan’s right eye. He had commissioned a patch of beautifully warded gold, but Jayan refused to wear it. The young Sharum Ka knew his eye unnerved men, and gloried in their discomfort.

“In the meantime, you can spend the winter in luxury,” Abban waved a hand at the lavish chambers, “with warmth and an abundance of fine food, even as the lake dwellers shiver on their frozen vessels, gnawing fish heads to fill empty bellies.” He doubted things were so dire, but it was always wise to exaggerate when flattering the Sharum Ka. “Work has begun again on your palace in Everam’s Bounty, and you have greenland jiwah to warm your bed.”

“I want glory, not luxury,” Jayan said, ignoring the soothing words. “There must be a way to attack. Now, before the winter comes in force.”

Indeed there was, but Abban was not about to let the boy know that. It was a risky plan under the best of circumstances, and Abban would not trust the timing to a boy whose foolish pride had cost them almost the entire captured fleet.

Of the ten large vessels that survived the Sharum’s burning, four had been stolen back by the Laktonians, and two more burned beyond repair. One was lost to a tide of water demons that had claimed several smaller vessels, as well. Abban had sent the remainder to a hidden bay guarded by his own men, where they studied sailing and shipmaking lore pulled from books, bribes, and the tongs of his torturers.