"How do you plan to attack Caral? He is the most powerful man in Dura!"
At the table with me were Kovan the Longshoreman, the Armanean pirate-turned-crime boss, and Stanoval of Rozander. It was Stanoval who had asked the question. He sat with his arms crossed, his face that of a man much unconvinced.
"With your men, and mine combined, we are stronger," I replied. "His men are not ready for a fight. It has been days, and yet they do not drill or assemble."
"Perhaps they can do so at shortest notice?" Asked, Kovan. Behind him stood two of his lieutenants - one of whom was the giant man who had barred my way back at Kovan's den when I'd stolen the Deep One map. The giant gave me the same look now that he did then. They do not let grudges go easy, these people.
Likewise, they do not forget favors. This, I was counting on.
"Unlikely. Only the smallest and best-trained forces can do that," I replied. "My spies tell me that Caral has 700 men, 500 of whom are refugees, he added of late, to offset my association with you. They are not trained - if they can even be depended on to fight for him. If we strike before they are mustered, we will have 1,200 men against his close house guard of 200."
Stanoval shook his head.
"What of the city guard?" He asked. "They will not sit by and watch while this happens! That is 30,000 men, Burgher."
"Only on parchment," I replied. "Those are farmers, shopkeepers, and scribes. Even I may be called up to serve the Guard. The Burgher Council are much too cheap to keep a large force at the ready."
"You have the exact numbers?" Asked, Kovan.
"A thousand men at East Barracks," said Stanoval before I could reply. "Another thousand at West Barracks and one and a half thousand at North Barracks, right across from the Burgher Council House. That's 3,500 men against our 1,200."
I was impressed by the quality of Stanoval's information. I should not have been surprised that he had his own spies... I wondered how much more there was to this man and his power than he presented to me.
"You are correct, but we can manage them," I said, unrolling a scroll on the table. It was a map of the city. The three major guard barracks had been picked out and read. "Captain Zuhak commands North Barracks. The man is a coward. He turns up late for any disturbance - even the riot in the Apothecaries Quarter. Zuhak will not make a move until the other two Guard captains act."
Next, I brought my finger down on the barracks to the East. "Capt Dural is a greedy, corrupt bastard. There is nothing he won't allow for the right amount of coin. I will bribe him to remain in the barracks on the day of our attack."
"And what of Captain Osmorin?" Stanoval pointed to the West Barracks. It was the one furthest from Caral's holdings. "You will not be able to bribe him."
"No. Osmorin is honorable. He doesn't agree with the Council, but he will always follow their orders. However, he cares for the people - we can use that against him. I would need your help with creating a distraction."
"A 'distraction?'" Kovan smiled like a Shemite prison guard who had just been given permission to torture someone. "You mean a fire!"
"How did you know?"
"I've done it before. It's the best way to get armed men to leave their posts."
I wondered if Stanoval wasn't the only Armanean here that I had underestimated.
"If you can start a fire here, at the Ramad camp, it will pull Osmorin and his men in the other direction of Caral's holdings. Even if he hears of the battle through the chaos, he will not leave your people to burn."
Kovan grinned.
Stanoval did not.
"We won't leave our people to burn, either," he said. His tone had iced. "How much notice should we give our people at Ramad? An hour? A day? No notice at all? What of the old? Of children? People will die, Gerard! I cannot allow Armaneans to burn."
"Why burn Ramad?" Kovan leaned forward, drawing his knife. He stabbed the map with it, a few inches away from where I had been proposing. "The Kaddish camp is just as far. Let those Shemites burn! My contacts will help."
"And what about their old? What about their children?" I did not see how Kovan's suggestion was any better than mine.
"That is something they should have asked of our people when the riot happened," said Stanoval. His face hardened. "And, when the city guard came for us. When gangs attacked our disarmed people to kill and rob them. Our Shemite neighbors preyed on us the most! Let them see what this brings!"
Kovan, and the Armaneans guards standing around us, gave loud assent.
I found this unsettling. Never trust a man with a deep urge to punish. Nothing good comes from his actions. They will tend to excess. He will break whatever rules and norms and believe himself justified.
I realized then that it was not Stanoval I should not be trusting. It was them who should not be trusting me. I was that man with a drive to punish. I understood, looking at their faces, what mine must have looked like to them these days.
"If we can accept the distraction of the city guard as settled, then let us look at Caral's holdings," I said. I pointed to one end of the map that was built up with docks, warehouses, and water-side shanties. One pier lead to a small island. I had circled it in red enough times to damage the parchment.
"Caral owns the island, the pier, and these buildings along the shore," I traced each location with my finger. "He keeps nothing important, City-side. City-side, he just keeps a kitchen, a money lending service for the poor, and a temple to Dagon. There is a gate here controlling access to the pier. Only a small force holds it; they can be easily overcome."
"Then that is it?" Asked Stanoval. "We seize the gate and march down the pier to catch Caral, like a fish at the bottom of the net?"
"This fish can swim, your Lordship," said Kovan. "This fish is a fish. He keeps his boats on the island. Once we reach the island, he will be gone. Or, more likely, he will circle around and have his men at the pier cut us off. Then, they will burn it," Kovan nodded to himself. "It is what I would do."
"I'm coming to that," I said. "But first, let us consider the second gate," I pointed at the end of the pier on the island. "This is the real defense. It is part of a wall that extends halfway around the island, stopping only at sheer rock walls. The point of the first gate, on the City-side of the pier, is to stall an attack long enough for a message to be sent to the second gate, Island-side. If the second gate is shut, there is no taking it without siege equipment - and a serious loss of life."
Stanoval started laughing and shaking his head.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"Did none of you burghers think something was wrong when he began building a fort?"
"The pier crosses deep water," I ignored him and continued. "The nets are not well maintained; large fish have been seen in that area. We do not know what booby-traps may be in place along the pier to bring it down. Also, we don't know what aid Caral may have from his Deep One kin."
"Deep Ones?" Kovan looked unimpressed. "All the way out here? There is no chance of that!"
"Caral is their agent, operating in plain sight. His coin has elevated him to the highest circle of power in this city. Totems to Dagon are going up all over Dura. Why would this man not have the close protection of the Deep Ones? They have invested so much in him already."
"Gerard, how do you even know if Caral is indeed sea-blooded?" Asked Stanoval.
"I'll check him for gills after I cut off his head," I answered. "I have presented what we will face. What I need is for you to bring your people to the City-side of the pier and seize control from that end. In the meantime, using your attack as a distraction, myself and my men will come by the water," I drew a line with my finger that stopped at the other end of the pier. "We will take the second gate by stealth. We will open it and send a signal. At that point, I will need your men to cross the pier and join mine in battle. If there is no signal, do not cross. The risk to you and your men is limited this way. That is as it should be; this is a vendetta that you are helping me and my men with."
"What about his boats?" Asked, Kovan. "You said you would come back to them."
"I was hoping that you Kovan, and your sea dogs, would come with us as we crossed the water. He has one large, ocean-faring ship and several river barges. Would you be able to deal with them?"
"You said you would not be risking my men," said Stanoval.
"Yes, but this risk, I think, is one Kovan will want to take, yes?"
Kovan's eyes had lit up at the idea. He looked over to Stanoval like a small boy pleading to be let out to go play now that his homework was finished.
"That ship is the Iron Shark," said Kovan. "She is as large as a heavy gallery - and three times as fast. Plank for plank, nail for nail, she is the best ship in all of Dura!"
"Fine, if you must have her so badly…" said Stanoval. "But, I am not interested in a boat, Gerard Lightning Shield. What do my people get for helping you with this?"
I was a little taken aback by this. I knew this was quite the favor to be asking of the man and his people, but I felt I had earned the goodwill. That it wasn't outrageous for me to ask for a little help myself.
"All armed Armaneans have the protection of being part of my ' personal guard.' Surely that is of no small value? I hear of no more attacks against your people wherever they show my seal."
"We will not need your seal the day we do this, nor would it protect us anymore afterwards. On that day, we will remove your seal and stand as Armaneans! Let the city see our numbers. Let them see that we are all armed. United as an army in their midst; not refugees to be robbed and kicked - and pitied."
"So - what do you want?"
"All of Caral's gold."
"That is quite an ask!"
"And all the ships, too, handed over to Kovan and his men."
"Handed over, nothing!" Kovan pounded the table. "Will take them!"
"And, Lightning Shield, I want your backing in whatever may follow from our actions that day. Come now; you will be the most powerful man in Dura after that day! And we will be the largest army."
I sensed his true purpose was being left unsaid. I could guess well enough what he wanted. Yet, given the topics of mass violence being discussed, it seemed best to clarify.
"Stanoval, do you seek violence against the Burgher Council?"
"No," he raised his hands, "not if they must abolish all the laws in this city that have been set up against us. We may go as and where we please and do business as and where we like. We will no longer be treated as a race apart."
"I can find no quarrel with that," I replied. "If the Council will not agree to those things - well, they are hardly popular. However, they are business people. I will appeal to their greed. Just give me the time I need to make sure there is no further bloodshed beyond what we have planned, and you will have my support."
"Then it is agreed. Let tomorrow be Caral's last day."
***
Mid-morning the next day, Town Guard East Barracks
"Do we have an agreement?"
The man before me gave no answer and continued eating.
I was in a large room. Its windows looked out onto a large training yard. Men in bronze armor stood to attention in rows as an officer walked up and down, inspecting them. Every so often, he would shout a command, and they would move like puppets on the same string.
There was a thick, woolen rug on the floor. It was made of intricate - and expensive - Shemite design in reds, blues, and yellows. On the rug, sitting cross-legged with a cushion at his back was the man who was eating.
He was morbidly obese, his belly pressing up against the low table against which he sat. The fat on his massive yet childlike hands quivered as he moved. He wore purple and blue silks shot with gold thread, as a rich burgher might. I stood: he had not invited me to sit. Standing on either side of him were two guards in full bronze plate armor, spears at their sides.
On the table was a silver tray that had been specially designed to fit it. Lying on the tray was a grilled human body. The arms and legs had been cut off. Cuts had been made along the back and down the buttocks to allow a marinade to enter. The body was female; the same cuts had been made along the sides of the breasts. Stewed fruit and nuts were packed around the body like a garnish. The victim's head had been tilted back so that her chin would rest on the silver platter. Rigor mortis would not have allowed this: she had been laid this way, on the tray surface, and then slaughtered. The mouth had been forced open and an apple shoved inside. This, too, could only have happened while she still lived. She would have known what was happening to her.
Dural, Captain of the East Barracks city guard, licked the fat off his fingers, one by one. Then, with a carving knife, he set to work removing a cheek from what had once been a face.
"Dural, do we have an agreement?"
Dural cut the cheek into smaller pieces and ate them.
Even for all the wealth of Dura, this was staggering debauchery. Hyperboreans were no strangers to cannibalism. They had many recipes for, and as many opinions on, the preparation of the flesh of slave girls at culling age or younger. However, Dural was eating alone. What would happen to all that he would leave behind?
He would throw it away. He would do so in front of me, just to make a statement. That was the kind of person he was. My distaste for cannibalism was no secret. The slave girl had been slaughtered and cooked, I imagined, for no other reason than to disturb me.
"I said," my teeth gritted, "do we have an-"
Dural held up his hand. Hanging out of his mouth was the cooked slave's tongue. He stuffed it into his face, using both hands. He closed his eyes to better savor the taste.
"Burgher, what were you saying," he said at last, after swallowing.
I resisted the urge to kill him.
"I want you to keep your men in the barracks tonight."
"Of course!" Dural smiled and nodded. "But why ever would I do that, most esteemed Gerard of Stone? I can always arrest you on suspicion of troublemaking!" He giggled to himself.
His guards did not react. They kept staring ahead like carved statues. I wondered at the offers and counteroffers they must have heard in this room. They must have been as corrupt as he was.
"You have no evidence," I rolled my eyes. He was just wasting my time. "Nothing you say would stick."
"Oh, most esteemed Burgher, I can get any evidence I want with my knives and thumbscrews! Whatever you are planning, it is worth ten times what you are offering, is it not?"
I felt a flash of anger. It grew into a sudden, uncensored wave of rage. The kind that only happens when the angel that sits on your shoulder instead agrees with the devil on the other. It was the anger - and the clarity - that makes a man ever so dangerous.
"Take the gold," I hefted a sack of coins worth enough to buy a sea-going galley and threw it on his meal. It struck the head and opened, gold coins clinking as they poured out into the gravy.
Dural - and his guards - stared at me.
"Take the gold, or I will cut off your head."
The guards drew their blades, but I drew mine faster. I lunged forward at one and skewered him through the chest. I struck where the plates came together, and the leather beneath was thinnest. He stumbled backwards, one hand to his chest, red seeping out between his fingers.
The other yelled and charged, sword raised back to strike.
I parried and brought my fist up under his chin. There was a loud crack, and he stepped back, dazed.
I kicked him in the knee: he cried out, and there was the crunch of breaking bone. He fell backwards, dropping his sword and groaning at the pain.
I stepped up and brought my boot down on his face. He tried to bring up his hands to protect himself. It did no good: I stepped on his face again. Then again, and again. He was still at the fourth stamp. At the fifth, his jaw broke.
Covered in blood, I turned to face Dural and pointed my sword at his neck.
"I'll take the gold! I'll take the gold!" He clutched at the bag with a shaking hand. The other one he raised for mercy.
"If you betray me, you disgusting piece of shit, I will come back and put you on a tray and cook you alive. Do you understand?"
Dural was shaking, pale with terror. I smelled urine; a pool formed under his table.
I wiped my sword on his fine blue and gold silk robe before leaving.
I cannot tell you how happy it made me to kill his men - or hard it was not to turn, go back, and kill him, too.
***
Early Afternoon, Deshaval, Majority-Shemite Refugee Camp
Dostan pushed his hand cart over the muddy, rutted road. The cart jolted as one wobbling wheel splashed into an opaque, grey puddle. The cart's load of firewood thumped against the side of the cart. Dostan took a deep breath and pushed it up, out of the depression. His back and legs burned with the effort - but then it was out! The cart rattled forward.
Dostan couldn't afford a slave girl to push the cart for him, but one day. Dostan worked hard. Dostan didn't blame his God Shem, or his priests, for not protecting him and all his people. Dostan thought of the future and what he could do in the now to shape it in his interest. He had chosen a path, committed to it, and found the peace and share that comes only with hard work, a clear plan, and the joys of incremental success.
There were many things Dostan had lost, but that was changing. Now, he had a cart. In time, he would have a slave girl to push it for him. He smiled at the thought. Yes, he'd buy himself one of those tall, blonde, Armanean girls. Such perfect slave meat they were, every last one of them! He'd get one with big, bouncy breasts. She'd keep him warm better than any fire…
That would be the first girl. The next one would be a Landing Beast Shang. such graceful, slender beauties, like the river sprites that sorcerers caught with traps of spider silk… But they were strong girls and could live off even the slime that grows on wet stones.
After that, a Shemite girl. One that reminded him of Sheala, the baker's daughter who had lived next door. What a hot little bitch she was! Twice, her father had turned out his suit, even for 50 pieces of gold and a horse. What happened to Sheala? If she lived, she could only be a slave by now. Perhaps she knelt in a cage at that very moment, a bronze collar around her throat, dust under her feet, as she eyed with horror the men who might buy her.
Maybe Dostan would be that man one day...
The woman waved to Dostan as she passed him in the Street. She had a child in a papoose carrier on her back. A staring toddler, held by the wrist, walked after her. Dostan smiled at her and nodded.
"Any wood today, Sister?" He shouted.
"Not today, but maybe in two more nights!" She shouted back.
"I will come by," he replied.
Dostan turned down a path between some driftwood shacks sealed against the cold with earth and straw. He stopped outside one and gave a shout.
A few moments later, a hunched over woman with grey hair and a face as cracked as old bark came limping out.
"I have a copper," she held it up, her hand shaking. The coin gleamed.
Dostan took the coin. Next, he pulled out three bound bales of firewood and plopped them down in front of the old woman.
"No, no!" She shook her head. "I have only one copper!"
"But you will need three bundles, Grandmother, until I come by this way again."
"No," she frowned and crossed her arms. "Take them back!"
"That is alright. If you do not use them, I will take them when I come back. Otherwise, just keep them, Grandmother."
The old woman gave him a hard look but said nothing.
Dostan smiled and moved on.
Across from the old woman's shack stood a young, petite, Shemite woman. She had long, dark hair that fell loose below her shoulders. She stood wrapped in a woolen shawl. She beamed at Dostan. Her large, brown eyes seemed to shine.
"What are you doing out here, Sister?" Said Dostan, pushing his cart up to her. "You wear no veil! Where are you, bodyguards?"
"Bodyguards?"
"So rogues do not see your beauty and carry you off!"
The woman threw back her head and laughed. It was a beautiful sound. Dostan thought it might be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world, a Shemite girl laughing as if she had no other care.
"That was kind, what you did for Agal."
Dostan shrugged.
"We must all help each other. That is all. Do you need any firewood?"
"No. Come and see me when you visit her next. I will give you copper for the firewood you gave her."
"It is enough to see you smile, Pretty Lady."
The girl laughed again and went back inside her hut.
Dostan leaned into his cart and started it down the road again. She was a very pretty girl, he thought. Even prettier than Sheala. He wondered what it would be like to come back and seize her in the night, like a warrior bandit. Such a beautiful slave girl she would make! On her hands and knees before him, thanking Set that he owned her… Perhaps something else to plan for the future?
Dostan turned his cart down a small lane. It was never traveled; the smell of human waste was too great for any but a fugitive - or an entrepreneur - to put up with. It was a shortcut, Dostan would-
"Hey! What are you doing?"
In the lane was a group of men he had never seen before. Large men. Well-fed, well-armed. Beside them was a cart pulled by two horses. The cart was filled with barrels. The men were unloading them, passing the one to the other. One barrel had cracked open. Black, gleaming pitch was spilling out it in a growing puddle. The men did not seem concerned by it.
They all stopped and stared at him.
"What are you doing with all that pitch? By Set! What is this madness?"
Iron gleamed as the men drew blades.
Fear gripped Dostan; he turned to run-
"Oh no, you don't!" Said Kovan, shoving a dagger into the wood-sellers belly. Dostan stared, clutching at Kovan's arms, gasping.
Kovan held the man by the shoulder, twisted the dagger, and ripped it out. He let the wood-seller fall to the ground and stepped past the corpse.
"Pass me a barrel," he motioned to one of the men. "This wood cart will go up just fine."
***
Early evening, Temple of Dagon, City-Side of House Caral's pier
"Eat up! Eat up, my brothers and sisters. Father Dagon provides for all."
Juskar sat at the soup kitchen table, staring down at the wooden bowl he had been given. Steam rose up from the black rice congee inside it. Sitting on the top was a fish head, the armored plates still attached. Its eye had been cooked through.
On either side of him sat his men. They looked sideways at each other, then back at their bowls. One caught Juskar's eye.
Juskar glared.
The man looked away, picked up his wooden spoon, and poked at his congee. He did not eat.
All around, the hopeless, helpless, and hungry were eating. Not partaking, however, were a great many men in hooded cloaks. Large, well-fed men who all stared at hooded, large, well-fed Juskar.
"Father Dagon provides all for those who worship him," said a bald man walking up and down between the rows of tables. He wore the green and gold robes of his priesthood. Blue and green tattoos ran up his arms and neck. Gill slits had been tattooed where his jawbone met his neck. "These are all Father's lands. This river. The rain that falls, and all that it passes, on its way here. The fish have been here long before any creature learned to walk. They worship him. Who are we, then, to refuse his call? We who are less than insects before the power of the gods? Before the power of the Event?" The priest's eyes went to the large, hooded men who sat without eating.
His gaze lingered on them.
The men looked to Juskar.
Juskar picked up his wooden spoon, scooped up the fish head, and put it in his mouth.
It wasn't so bad, he thought, as the brittle, translucent bone plates cracked between his teeth like eggshells.
All around, the bodyguard of House Stone began eating their congee.
The sight seemed to put the priest at ease. He smiled and nodded to himself. His gaze fell upon Juskar.
Juskar smiled.
"Thank you for the food, Brother!" He said.
The priest smiled back.
"You know these men?" He asked.
"Yes, Brother. We - we are together. We heard there was food."
"Yes! Our cauldrons are ever overflowing with food for the hungry, the lost, the heart-stricken. Let me tell you, then, of father Dagon. How all these lands were filled with his worship, and how they shall be again!"
Juskar smiled again and looked past the priest. Outside the soup kitchen, beyond the large, wooden temple and its white-dressed worshippers thronging for the night sacrifice, was the City-side gate that guarded the pier to Caral's private island.
Guards walked back and forth in front of it. Their iron helmets gleamed in the light of the flaming torches. Some of them were staring 2towards the soup kitchen. One guard leaned towards another other and seemed to say something. The other nodded and turned, running through the gate and up the pier towards the island.
Should I stop that man? Thought Juskar.
***
Midnight, The River Black
I kept my head down as I paddled.
There were six of us in the boat. Our faces were blacked out with soot. Cloaks were worn over chain mail and iron-studded leather. I dipped my oar into the water in time with the others. I looked back over my shoulder: all eyes were towards Dura.
All eyes towards the fire.
It was in the distance behind the bulk of the city. All we could see was an orange-yellow glow stretching for over a mile. The sight made me sick to my stomach. What had I done?! It was all on my hands - death upon death. This was what I had to show after two years in Hyperborea.
"Ha! That'll burn all night!"
I looked to the side. Kovan's boat had pulled up alongside mine, his trained men no strangers to rowing. They were pulling ahead of us already.
"I haven't lit a fire like that since we went to Saridan," whispered, Kovan. "Ever heard of Saridan?"
I shook my head.
"It was a nice place," he held up his hand for his men to ease off. Their boat slowly fell back in line with ours. "The walls of its temple to Shem were covered in gold leaf. The girls all had breasts like melons. Saridan is gone now. Sometimes you return, and there's nothing there, yes? It is not like farming. You can never judge how much is too much to take."
Ahead of us, we could see Caral's island. I could see why he had decided to settle here. It had been a miserable rise of rock sticking out in deep and sometimes treacherous water. Crumbled stone ruins poked out from mangrove-like jungle, showing where others had once tried to tame it. By day, it was a nesting ground for primitive birds. The kind that still had sharp teeth instead of beaks.
However, the island was defendable. The pier Caral had built could be easily cut - or burned. It was further away from the main docks and markets of Dura. His boats could come and go as they pleased. If they waited for the night or the morning mist, their passage would remain secret. I wondered what ships - and beings - trafficked here.
I studied Caral's handiwork. The island had three peers. Two had river barges moored against them. One, however, had an immense, ocean-going galley. Its deck was lit by several lanterns. Others moved up and down the piers, carried by guards. Abutting the piers were warehouses and workshops built of wood and stone. Rising above them was a squat, stone fort. That was Caral's seat.
Tall, tapering structures emerged along the waterline, some leaning to the side as if about to topple. As we drew nearer, we could make these out; totems to Dagon. Offering crosses had been set up alongside each. From some, I could make out the forms of slave girls hanging limp. I watched as one thrashed for a bit, tugging against her shackles several times. Then, she, too, became still.
I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder. I turned.
Fogrim held a finger to his lips and pointed across the water.
Just 30 feet away, a large wake had formed in the water. It moved towards us, gaining.
I reached into a sack beside me and pulled out a hunk of raw, bloodied meat. I hurled it as far as I could behind us.
The wake grew closer.
I hurled another, larger piece of meat.
The wake did not change its course.
A moment later, there was a huge thrashing in the water behind us. Water sprayed into the air, raining down and drenching us. The wake ended. A second thrashing broke out near the area of the first. Bubbles rose up from the water, then nothing.
At the island, the lantern closest to us stopped moving.
We all froze. Was this it? Had we been seen?
Then, the lantern began moving again, going down the line of the rocky beach.
I let out the breath I realized I had been holding. On all the boats, men began to row again.
We reached the island. We all jumped out of the boats; the waters of the Black were freezing cold. My boots slipped on the rocks beneath me as my team pulled our boat out of the water and over the stony beach. To the left and right, other boats made their landings. There were 20 boats; over a hundred heavily-armed men. I was ecstatic: the most dangerous part of our mission was now behind us! There is nothing a group of men cannot kill if they are allowed to stand on dry land when they make their attempt.
I signaled to the teams that were to follow me. They signaled back, and we converged. The other teams were already on the move, creeping towards the gatehouse that controlled the fortified second gate at this end of the pier.
Fogrim came up alongside me.
"Let us take the path," he pointed to a cleared dirt road that wound its way up towards the buildings. "I will lead," and with that, he was off.
I nodded to my men, and we followed.
***
We did not see our first sentry till we were halfway up the path. It was a single man carrying a lantern on a stick, swinging back and forth behind him. He seemed to be mumbling something to himself.
We disappeared into the bushes that lined the path. Slow, disinterested, the guard made his way towards us. The mumbling became a song. It was in a language I did not know.
We waited for him to pass. Only once he rounded a corner. A good 50 feet away, we stepped back out from the bushes.
Our next encounter was not as straightforward. We had cleared most of the distance to the gatehouse. There were no bushes to use for cover this time, but there were built-up stone and wooden structures. In many of them, there were no lights - they were closed workshops and barred slave kennels. Two sentries sat in front of a fire, right where the path branched into several smaller ones. One guard held his hands to the fire and rubbed them. Another drank from a tankard.
We waited for them to move.
They did not.
Fogrim picked up a stone and hurled it down the dark alley.
The guard with the tankard looked up for an instant but then carried on his conversation with the other.
Fogrim threw another stone.
This time both men stopped and looked down the dark alley. The man with the tankard got up and walked over, tankard still in hand. The other then returned to staring into the fire.
The guard stepped into the alley, his back turned to us. He took a few steps, and that was where his life ended. Fogrim stepped up behind him, shielded by buildings, and shoved a blade through the back of his throat. The man choked and gurgled as he went down on his knees. Fogrim held him from toppling forward with a crash.
The second guard stood, tilting his head.
"Lastur?" He called out the dead man's name.
Fogrim turned and regarded me, blood dripping from his dagger.
The second guard drew his sword and walked towards the alley.
The moment he turned his back to me, I rushed up at him. He heard me and turned, his blade flashing.
Too slow -- my sword still went through his back. He gasped, dropping his blade. I put my arm around his chest and pulled him to me as I shoved the sword in, deeper, its blade coming out of his belly. I pulled the blade out.
The man twisted as he fell, staring up at me with dying eyes. He choked as his mouth filled with blood. It dripped down the sides of his face.
A wave of hate rose up in me, the same uncensored, uncontrolled hate I'd felt back at the town guard barracks when I cut down Dural's guards. I got down over the guard and drew my dagger. I stabbed into his neck and cut a slit where Deep One's gills would have been. I stabbed again, the cut uneven, jagged. I did the same on the other side of his neck.
I felt Fogrim's hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him: his expression was completely blank. This was a Hyperborean's body language when one saw something they did not understand and did not know how to engage with.
I shoved away his hand. I stood, gave the corpse a kick in the groin, and pointed to the pathway that led to the gatehouse.
***
The Island-side gate on this side of the pier was much grander than its partner on the City-side. It was three stories tall, built of thick pine trunks mounted over a base of stone. Its sides were buttressed against battering weapons. Ladders led to a platform that ran across the width of the gate and to support towers on either side. Guards stood along the walkway platform and in the towers. Many had large bows over their backs. Stands filled with iron-tipped arrows were positioned along the platform.
More guards were below, at ground level. They wore chain mail armor over leather and were armed with round shields and spears. I saw Dagonite tattoos on arms and necks. Some wore necklaces strung with fish teeth. Others had shoulder pads or face guards made from armored fish plating.
A group was down on their hands and knees while a priest in green and gold robes chanted prayers to Dagon before a 9-foot wooden totem. A squad of eight guards sat around the fire, talking about nothing. A shivering Shang slave girl stepped out of a cookhouse and walked up to them, carrying a tray of steaming bowls. Each took a bowl, and she knelt beside the fire, head down, thighs apart, shivering and waiting for them to finish eating. There were blue and green tattoos on the backs of her legs and along her back. I remembered the assassin, and the wave of hatred rose inside me again. I could not take my eyes off those tattoos.
I felt Fogrim's arm on my shoulder again.
"Brother," he whispered in my ear, "you are clenching in rage. You will get killed. You will get other people killed."
A flash of reason cut through the hate. Then, it was shame that filled me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Fogrim just nodded. He pointed to the back of the cookhouse.
"Let us double back and enter from behind it."
***
Shielded by a large, windowless slave kennel, we entered through the open back door of the cookhouse.
Inside were two guards. One stood against a large table, and the Shang slave girl we had seen before was bent over it before him. She had a pained expression as she clenched at the table, her legs parted as she stood on the pads of her feet. Her body buffeted against the table, Brown-nippled breasts tossing forward with each thrust. The guard's pants were down, his spear and shield propped neatly beside the doorway.
The second guard was pulling his own pants back on. Cowering in a corner, her back to the wall, was a pale, brunette girl. She raised her hands over her head. Already I could see the black eye that was forming.
"Hurry up," said the second guard. "We have to do another round!"
"You go on ahead," said the first guard, reaching down to grab the Shang girl by her hair. She winced as he yanked her head back. "I'm almost done. Say I'll be right out."
The second man picked up as weapons and left through the main entrance.
Fogrim and I exchanged glances, and we stepped forward.
The man turned his head back to see was the sound was. His eyes widened for an instant, and Fogrim's arm went around his neck. In the same instant, his other hand plunged a dagger into the guard's chest. Blood sprayed out over the Shang slave's back.
She turned her head and opened her mouth to scream. At that moment, my hand clapped over her lips, and I held a finger to my lips.
"Not a sound," I whispered. "Or I will kill you."
Fogrim let the body slide to the floor. The slave girl's eyes went to mine, to the corpse, then back to mine.
I removed my hand. She made no sound.
"Kneel," I pointed to the floor.
The slave knelt down before the table.
I drew rope from my pack and crossed and bound her wrists, pulling tight. Next, I picked the dishcloth from the table and stuffed it into her mouth. With another rope, I tied that in place. Then, I pushed the slave under the table, crossed her ankles, and bound them. She would not get in the way, but she would not escape, either. She was a prize.
I stepped to the kitchen's open main doorway and looked out.
The group of eight guards - now seven, had begun on their way down the side path. There were perhaps 30 men left manning the gate. Their attention was focused across the pier at the city, on the blaze raging through the Deshaval camp.
I looked back into the kitchen. Six more of my men had entered, crouching down by counters and peering through a slit window.
Archers, I signaled.
One nodded and went back outside. He came back with 10 men, each with a short bow with an arrow nocked and ready.
I motioned for them to follow, and I stepped out and into the open.
None of the guards noticed me.
One archer got behind a barrel, two more crouched behind a cart. The others climbed up the side of the cookhouse and took position on its roof.
A guard turned and saw me.
I looked at him and waved.
"Hey, what's-"
The archers opened fire.
The guard who had seen me took an arrow in the throat and pitched backward off the box he'd been sitting on. Along the platform, men fell, arrows throwing them forward over the gate ramparts.
"Where are they? Where are they!"
"Raise the alarm, you dogs!"
My men came streaming out of the cookhouse, swords drawn, shields readied. More guards fell, some screaming, arrows in their backs.
"They're behind us! Dagon's tits, they're right here!"
"Close the gate! Close the gate!"
I roared and charged forward, sword raised to strike.
All around, battle was joined. I lost a sense of what was happening. All I saw was the man in front of me. Sometimes he was one of mine, sometimes one of theirs. I glanced an axe away with my shield and shoved my blade through a man's throat. He gurgled and snarled as he died, Dagonite tattoos all across his face.
I saw one of my go down, an axe cutting into his back. His assailant turned and whooped, both arms raised. A javelin tore through his throat, and he went down.
A brute carrying a spear two-handed came at me. His beard was tied in knots, and blue and green script was tattooed in rows over his bald head. He thrust at me, but I parried. I tried to step forward, but he turned his spear and smashed it against my shield, pushing me back.
A screaming slave girl bumped into him as she tried to run past. He turned and looked back for an instant.
I dropped my shield, grabbed the shaft of his spear, and pushed it aside. He tried to regain control, but I stepped forward and stabbed him through the mouth. He fell away, his spine severed at the base of his brain.
I saw my men going up the ladders, taking position on the platform. They turned and fired at a barracks that more guards were issuing from. One guard fell dead, two arrows in his chest. The others fell back, shields raised.
I felt the hate coming upon me again. Again, it felt right! I laughed, and time slowed around me.
Soldiers sometimes speak of the rush they feel when they enter combat. Others speak of it with shame, if they will speak of it at all. It is something civilized people do not talk about. Something they do not want to admit. I had never felt it before; the excitement of battle, yes, the energy, the endorphins.
However, this was the first time I enjoyed something new. Something I would find as disturbing afterwards as the day I first looked upon a slave girl in a tavern and ordered her to come and licked my feet.
For the first time, I found delight in killing.
I picked up a bloodied sword that lay in the dirt and rushed forward at a group of six guards. I was invincible. I feared nothing. They could have been 100 of them! It would only have filled me with more joy.
I killed all six. The last one died with me standing over him as he tripped while turning to run from me. I went after more. Soon, I noticed men running from me wherever I looked. They were melting away, being chased down by my own. I felt cheated - angry! Where was the enemy going?
I turned and saw Fogrim standing a few feet from me. Had he been there the whole time, fighting by my side? You cannot tell these things sometimes in the confusion of war. He stared at me with that same blank look he had had before. Other men of mine were staring at me with the same.
All around my feet lay the dead.
I heard alarm bells sounding. Perhaps they'd sounded for some time. From the fortress, I saw a stream of torches as men came pouring out to meet us.
Upon the captured platform, an archer fired a flaming arrow straight up into the sky.
Through the City-side gate, all the way at the other end of the pier, hundreds of torches appeared. They started coming down the peer. I could hear their cheers over the water.
I cheered back, turned, and ran towards the guards coming from the fortress. Whether or not my own men came with me, at that moment, I could not have cared less.
***
Caral's Fortress, Early Morning
It is hard enough to keep control in a fight in the open. It is all but impossible, at night, in a large, unknown building. My men stayed with their leaders and went room to room. Some were tasked with holding chokepoints and exits. Others, clearing a floor at a time, from left to right. This has broken down somewhere in the last hour. The chaos was all. It would end only when there was no one left to kill.
I went down a hallway. Fogrim and six others stayed close to me. Ahead of us, one of Caral's guards came up a stairway. From an open room to the side, one of my men emerged and struck the man's head with an axe so hard that it split from his body. The trunk and the head rolled back down the stairs. The head clanged as it went until the helmet came loose.
Slave girls ran down the hallway, screaming. Through an open archway, I saw one of my men carrying a tall, dark, Darfuri beauty over his shoulder. She kicked with her legs, her fist pounding against his back. Alongside him, another was rummaging through a row of vases. Some already lay shattered on the floor. He reached into one and pulled out a gold necklace, grinning.
Lying further down the hallway was one of the fortress guards. His back was propped against the wall. He carried no weapons. He sat in a pool of his own blood. The life was draining fast from his face.
I went up to him and gave them a kick.
"Where is Caral?" I demanded.
The dying man gave no answer.
I drew my dagger and shoved it into his eye, going deep into his brain.
Fogrim and the others exchanged looks.
We rounded a corner and found a short hallway that ended in a giant pair of wooden doors. On each door was a symmetrical carving of a naked woman, kneeling, a chain at her throat, with her hands braced up as if in prayer. There were scuff marks where others had tried to break the doors open. Chips of wood lay on the floor after an axe had been tried.
"That has to be the harem," I said. "Bet you the coward is hiding in there! Let's get that table," I pointed to a side room, blood staining its open door. Inside it was a large table made of wood. We dragged it down the hallway. A couple of men seeing us, came running over to join.
"Altogether," said Fogrim.
We raised it up.
"Heave!"
The doors clattered as the table smashed into them.
"Heave!" Another loud clattering - it felt like a thunderclap in my ears. From inside came the screams of women.
On the third strike, a door broke off its hinges and fell down with a crash.
We roared and charged inside.
Caral's harem had been designed to reflect the river he owed so much to.
Its structure was that of a hallway of stone. However, its floor was the same stony beach we had pulled our boats up last night. At the far end, the hallway was open to the water. It flowed in, in gentle waves. It began shallow, at the broken doorway, no deeper than ankle height. From there, it deepened, towards the end of the hallway, till the water became too dark to see through.
The water grew deeper in a gentle gradient. At knee height, the slave pens began. They were wooden posts arranged in circles with fishing nets strung between them. Each pen was no taller than waist height. At the center of each was a stone, carved totem pole fitted with a circle of bronze chaining rings. Chained at the throat to each chaining ring was a slave girl.
Two Bharaji girls began screaming, splashing as they tried to run behind their stone totem. A Shang slave hugged another, both staring at us, terror in their eyes. A brunette, Ansaru, got down on her hands and knees, water lapping over her shoulders, and shut her eyes and prayed.
All transhumans. All rapid-breeders.
Further along, where the water was deeper than a man could stand, wooden platforms rose out of the water on stilts. Each platform had been cut in the form of a giant lily pad. They were painted in greens, blues, and reds.
Kneeling on the lily pads were more slaves. One group began calling out to another across the chamber. Both groups were mainly Shang. The chains that held their throats were only 3 feet long - none of the girls on the pads would have been able to stand.
Stranger still than what was in the harem was what wasn't in it. There were no pleasure crosses, no stocks, no chains hanging from the ceiling. There wasn't even a pile of furs a girl could be led to. I did a rough count (as best I could over all the screaming). There were as many as 60 girls here. Every single one of them appeared to be Shang, Bharaji, or Ansaru.
A wooden platform ran down the center of the hall. It rose up over the deep water, rising on wooden stilts. It ran all the way to the very end, where the chamber opened up to the river. At the end of the platform was a cross. A slave girl had been mounted on it, facing towards the river. She did not move.
"There is quite a bounty here!" Fogrim grinned, looking about the room. Some of the other men laughed. "But there is no Caral."
"He could be hiding," I took a step onto the platform and tested it with my boot. It was sturdy. "We have to check this place, all the same. Follow me."
We began making our way down the platform. Around us, the water grew deeper - and darker. We cleared the pens, then the lily pads. The cold air of the river whistled through the large stone arch opening. I could see it had been designed like the open jaws of a giant, carnivorous fish. There were no more slaves between us and the girl at the far end, mounted on the cross.
We advanced, black water all around us.
I reached the girl. She was a dark-haired Ansaru. Her features were Caucasian, but her eyes had epicanthic folds. She stared ahead across the water, unreactive. She did not so much as turn and look at me. There was a trickle of blood running down one leg. I squatted down and looked: it came from her vagina.
I stood and peered into her eyes, trying to make them out in the poor lighting.
Her pupils were dilated. I snapped my fingers in front of them - there was no blink reflex.
I had seen this before. Once back at the Red Water slaving camp. The other time, in my own quarters, in the face of a curious girl that Juskar had brought from upriver.
"There is a Deep One about," I looked about. "It may still be nearby!"
The men all turned around, staring into the water, then at each other.
Something burst out of the water behind us. It emerged as a shark does when it menaces a boat. Fanged jaws wide open, its large, red gullet in full view. It grabbed the man standing at the back, using its long, grey-blue arms. The arms ended in black talons, each as long as a dinner knife. They clenched around the man in the same moment as its jaws clamped over his throat. The Deep One knocked him off his feet and over the other side of the narrow platform. They both disappeared in a splash into the black water.
The slaves began screaming anew, and this time we joined them. I had let us into an ambush!
More Deep Ones leaped out of the water like man-sized, flying fish. Their grey-blue body reeked like pond scum. Another man was knocked off; he flailed as he fell, screaming. There was commotion in the water, and then nothing but bubbles.
A third man turned and started running back down the platform. A Deep One climbed out of the water, like a diver onto a boat, and stood in front of him. The man screamed and charged at it, sword raised.
The Deep One just stood there.
The man staggered, stopped, then threw up on the platform.
The Deep One rushed him, raking its claws across his face. It ripped out his eye, then pounced on top of him like a frog onto a leaf. The man screamed and thrashed as it kept him pinned. Then, the Deep One lowered its open jaws to tear out the man's neck.
One of the monsters climbed onto the platform, facing me. Red spilled from its lips from its last kill. It stared at me, its pupils just black pinpricks against its yellow, deep sea-suited eyes.
A wave of nausea ran through me, and the world began to spin. It was not a creature of our world - but one that had come here from the Outer Dark, summoned by its god, Father Dagon, to serve his purpose. To look upon a Deep One was to glimpse the larger universe that humans have no place in or scope to understand. Therein lies madness.
Before it could rip out my throat, it staggered back, a spear thrust right through its chest. It screeched, an earsplitting sound, clawing at the blade as Fogrim raised it up and then flung it back into the water.
Another began climbing out of the water and swiped at Fogrim's leg. Fogrim sidestepped and brought the spear down through its skull. There was a cracking sound of bone, and the Deep One slid back into the water.
"We must go!" Yelled Fogrim.
I nodded, the world becoming still again, my feet again trusting which way was down.
There were just three of us left. We began backing away fast as we dared.
The remaining Deep Ones climbed out of the water, between us and the way we had come. There were three of them. Their fins along their spines rippled, and they shed water like dogs after a bath. The monsters looked up at the ceiling, their giant jaws distended, and roared. Even the sound made me nauseous! Fogrim clutched my arm to hold me steady.
They began advancing.
One pitched forward, staggering. It looked down at his chest: an iron-tipped arrow was protruding there. Another one struck it in the back of its head, and it fell, tumbling over the platform.
Behind the Deep Ones, at the entrance to the harem, stood Juskar alongside an Armanean archer. The man was already nocking another arrow.
"Get them!" yelled Juskar, charging forward. Behind him, a cheering mass of Armaneans followed, swords and axes drawn. The Deep Ones turned to face the new threat and roared again.
I rushed up and stabbed one in the back. The other snarled and turned, raising his jaw to swipe at me.
I smashed it in the face with my shield, breaking its teeth. It staggered back, clutching at its jaw.
It looked up just in time to see the sword as I cut its head off.
Outside, it was growing light - dawn was breaking. I looked back out across the water. Sailing away under the fading darkness was a small sailboat.
"That's him!" I began running to the end of the platform. "Archers! Get that boat!"
The archers came up to take position and fired at the boat. Arrows landed near it in the water, and a few landed on deck.
And that was all. The boat disappeared into the mist bank, and I never saw it again. I leaped into the water after it, swimming through the black waves till my arms and legs burned. I only stopped because the strong hands of Kovan's seadogs pulled me into a rowboat before I drowned… Later interrogation of the survivors would confirm that Caral had indeed escaped on that boat.