Landings

The northeastern An'aird Barath coast, one hundred and ten leagues north-northwest of Bailryn.

When Cal first heard the stories, he had not believed the old fisherman's tale. More than a century had passed since the Dragon War, and everyone knew the witch was dead. They were eleven days from Whitecliff when he discovered the old man had been telling the truth. The Dragons were back, and they had brought an army with them.

Captain Fitzmella had anchored the Swallow east of a bluff bordering a shallow cove. With luck, the black cliffs south of the peninsula would camouflage their boat. But hidden or not, Cal did his best to stand still as he gazed at the Bay to the north...

There were seven ships in the bay, anchored in line half a mile off shore. They had been there a while, Cal guessed, yet no lamps burned on their decks. The faint shimmer of the Northern Arc had given up their position. The blue-grey light—known to the Cren as the Lights of Collisdan—danced around the shadows, drawing a pale sketch of the ships' rigging.

Despite the dark, Cal could see the longboats ferrying men and supplies from ship to shore. Each carried half a load of cargo and maybe fifteen Kel'madden. The Troopers held their spears vertically as they sat to port and starboard, causing the longboats to give the impression of massive, prickle-backed creatures lurching towards the shore.

To Cal's left, beyond the beach, he could see odd-looking beasts of burden striding up the cliff path, pulling thin, two-wheeled carts. The creatures were tall, like horses, but the similarity ended there. They had short, rodent-like faces with what looked like slanted eyes. Bristles of thick, black hair—a kind of mane, Cal thought—ran along their backs from between their ears to their slender tails. Strangest of all, the horses' skin reflected light from their handlers' torches. Could they have scales?

Scaled horses? Whoever heard of such a thing? Cal decided the darkness must have been playing tricks on him, they were a long way off.

Back on the beach, the longboats ploughed into the soft sand. The Troopers disembarked by twos. In short order, they had lined up in ranks four abreast, ready to march along the cliff path to their camp. From where he was watching, Cal could not make out the uniforms of the men now standing in tight lines, but now and then, the Lights of Collisdan reflected off what must have been armour. The Troopers were of a height with the Swallow's crew. But where the crewmen were slender, the Troopers had broad shoulders and appeared thick chested. No doubt, they were Kel'madden to a man, but were they all warriors, Troopers from the Eastern Isles?

Cal's grip tightened on the guardrail. Another hundred! How many more do they have up there? Again, he glanced over at where the cliff path crossed into the valley beyond. What I wouldn't give to—"

"Have you seen enough, Master Cahldien?"

Mateaf, Cal's Second, edged his way to the bow.

He was tall—seven foot, or thereabout—but still half a hand shorter than Cal was. Both men were thin but broad. If their heads were not covered, their blond hair would flow past their shoulders. Both had the grey-green eyes of their kin and moved with the relaxed grace many folks associated with Cren Woodsmen, swift and agile, despite their size.

Master Cahldien smiled. "No need to be so formal, my friend. Our Surabhan hosts do not care for rank, only gold. Call me Cal."

Mateaf nodded, yet looked reluctant. He always took his duties as Second too seriously, Cal thought. Forty years as friend and comrade, yet, at times, the man still acted like he had a pole stuffed up his shirt.

Mateaf sighed. His shoulders sank when he looked to the northern shore. "A month ago, if you had told me the Salrians would allow a Kel'madden army to land on their shores, I would not have believed you. What were they thinking?"

Cal shook his head. "I doubt the Salrians know any more than we did a fortnight ago. We are thirty leagues from the nearest farm, never mind a town or vill..." Cal trailed off when he heard Captain Fitzmella's bare feet stomping towards him.

"Sir." The captain raised a derisory finger. He stopped a good pace short of the guardrail so he would not have to crane his neck too far to look Cal in the eye. "I don't mean to barge in on your... discussion, I know you two are busy men, doing notable deeds for your folk, but I think we have been here long enough. Too long, if the truth's known."

The captain folded his arms and tried to muster a commanding glare. Not easy for a man whose chin barely reached Cal's elbow. Still, he was the captain, and Cal turned to face him.

The captain continued, "We're pushing the gods' own luck, staying this long. What good is your gold if I'm not alive to spend it?"

Mella—as the crew called their captain—was a short man with a receding hairline and the gut of a man who drank too much cheap wine. He always smelled of the stuff. Unlike the rest of his crew, Mella was a merchant, not fisherfolk, and had some peculiar notions on how to run a ship. That the crew listened to him at all was a wonder.

"Soon," Cal told him. "Our business here is almost done.

"You said this friend of yours came across the ships a month ago while running spices up the Lebara Straights?"

"Aye, sir, right enough. Came close to catching him, so they did, fair frit the life out of him, so he said. He was full of it when he got back to The Green Man, said how he had to outrun them, sir."

Cal chuckled. "I doubt he could have outrun them, Captain." Bending forward, Cal gave the man a hard stare. "But the date? You are sure of the date? A month... no more?"

The captain sighed. "Sir, I've told you a dozen times: a month, no more. He may have been spinning a yarn, saying they chased him and all, but I know where he was, and I know when he was there. It was a month! I swear it!"

Cal eyed the captain. The little man was likely telling the truth—at least as far as he knew it. Either way, Cal had no choice but take the man at his word. Nevertheless, he wished the captain's friend had come with them.

He said as much to Mella.

"I tried, sir," the captain said. "I tried. But not even the likes of you would have got him on this ship, not for half the gold in Bailryn. I tell ya true, he's no coward. But he knows a bad deal when it bites him on the chin. And so do I. Which is why I think we should be off. You must have seen enough by now." The captain gave a thin grin while waiting for a response. When none came, he made his way back to the mid-deck, his shoulders slumped and feet shuffling along the scrubbed boards—no more stomping.

Mateaf watched the captain leave. The look on the Second's face said he might have agreed with the little man, but he made no comment. Instead, he pulled his hood forward and turned to face Amlin Bay. "We are too late!" he said, letting out a long, airy breath. "A month.... Might as well be a year. We are too late."

Again, Cal shook his head. "I don't think we are: they're not all here." He pointed at the northernmost point, a shallow beachhead. "Do you see them?"

Mateaf squinted into the darkness.

Cal did the same and waited for a sign of what he had seen earlier.

It wasn't long in coming.

Far to the north, on a small beach at the base of a black cliff, a light blue ball of flame appeared as if from nowhere. The pale light threw forth the silhouette of a monstrous beast. A few seconds later, another ball of fire, bigger than the first, gave up the presence of maybe five more creatures.

Now Cal knew where to look, he could hear what would otherwise have been mistaken for the wind: the rumbling chatter of dragons.

Mateaf gasped. "Gods, it can't be. Not here! Not now!"

"Easy, friend," Cal said, patting Mateaf on the shoulder. "I count maybe seven. Yet I don't see the black one among them. If he is not here, then she is not here. We may yet have time; it would seem they are still setting up camp."

Cal nodded towards the high cliffs, west of the beach, at where the Troopers had taken their horses. "I would give a year's gold to see into the valley. We need to know their numbers." He gazed at the cliff face, and then along the now empty path. "Ten days to Toi'ildrieg by ship... two months... maybe three." Again, he shook his head. "For all we know, there could be ten thousand Kel'madden up there."

"Do you really think it is her?" Mateaf asked. "After a hundred and twenty years, you think it is her."

"Whether it is her or another like her, it makes little difference. Someone has the Power, or the beasts wouldn't be—"

Again, the captain's bare feet thumped along the foredeck. "Really, sir, I must pro—"

Cal forced a harsh whisper through his clenched teeth. "Not so loud, you fool." Rolling his eyes, he turned to the captain. "Do you think this barge of yours could outrun one of their longboats with thirty Kel'madden rowing hard to catch you?" He waved his arm, taking in the full length of Mella's boat. There wasn't much to it, maybe ten spans from bow to stern. "If you talk any louder, we will find out. We leave when I say!"

The captain stood with his head bowed. "My apologies, sir," he whispered. "But the men, they're getting restless. We must be gone from here," the captain pleaded.

"You have been paid to do the work, Captain," Cal told him. "Paid very well, I might add. We go when the task is done."

"But you must have learned enough by—"

"We go when the task is done, Captain, and not before."

The captain sighed, bowed, and left.

The crew were sitting on the stern castle steps, eager, so it seemed, for their captain's return. Cal watched as their eyes followed Mella across the mid-deck. Questioning hands rose in anticipation of new orders, but fell as the captain began to speak. The crew didn't seem pleased by Mella's words—in truth, they appeared a whisker shy of mutiny. The captain waved his arms and gestured toward Cal, muttering something inaudible which, no doubt, laid the blame for their current dilemma squarely on the Cren's shoulders.

"You know he is right," Mateaf said. "The moon will be up over the cliff soon, and those clouds are starting to clear."

Cal felt a grin crease his lips, although why he was smiling was a mystery; there was nothing funny about the situation. "I know, friend. I will order our course changed when Mella doesn't think it was his idea. The man is charging enough gold to buy this boat twice over, yet he does nothing but test me. If it were up to him, we would have left having learned nothing. No, he can earn his money."

Mateaf gave him a wry look, which Cal ostensibly ignored.

Once more, Cal turned his gaze northwards. The longboats had returned to the ships and were already reloading.

Another hundred Kel'madden! Gods, if we had known sooner. Damn the Salrians. If only they had a sentry... a lookout... a passing shepherd... anything! For them to have come this far!

Cal sighed. "I suppose you're right, there's nothing more we can do here. Unless you feel like climbing those cliffs and taking a look at their camp?"

Mateaf's look said all Cal needed to know about that idea. There was nowhere to hide, and two Cren would stand out like a bull in a goat pen. Never mind Mella would likely sail off as soon his and Mateaf's feet touched dry land.

Mella all but jumped overboard when Cal tapped him on the shoulder.

"Make your course south, Captain," Cal told him. "And by the gods, stay east of the reef this time."

"Aye, sir," the captain said with a smile which spoke more of relief than happiness.

Mella gave the faintest nod to his crew. They jumped like coiled springs. The captain helped set the sails. Much to the crew's chagrin: the man really didn't know anything about sailing.

Cal turned to Mateaf. "Our work is done, friend. It is up to the council now."

Reluctantly, he made his way down to their cabin, wondering how much time would pass before the witch revealed her plans. Until then, they knew nothing. Well, there was one thing beyond doubt; Vila'slae had not ferried half of Toi'ildrieg across the sea for a visit with the neighbours.