Farmers & Mercenaries (17 page)

T
wo sailors, their skin as dark as tar, pulled the gangplank from the dock once Alant Cor had both feet upon the deck of the
Mistbreeze Trader
. The hustle and bustle of the crew—those without the dark skin were deeply tanned, all were barefoot and most shirtless—exploded around him. People yelled, pulled, lifted, climbed, and ran in every direction. The big black Captain stood upon a raised platform at the back of the ship. His muscular arms waved or pointed to punctuate the orders he shouted at the men scurrying about. Everyone seemed to ignore Alant standing amongst the chaos of the ship. Striding to the front, stumbling slightly when the ship lurched forward, he leaned out over the railing and peered down into the water some ten paces below. Directly under him, attached to the front of the ship, a wooden beam jutted out away from the boat. An assortment of pulleys littered the beam, and four heavy hemp ropes jutted out from the inside of the boat at an angle to disappear into the murky, blue-green water of the harbor. All of a sudden the ropes stretched taut. The boat slid forward several paces, then all four ropes turned to his right in unison, as if they were fishing lines attached to some monstrous fish that was trying to get free. The deck tilted sharply in their direction, forcing Alant to grip the handrail as the ship slipped away from the dock and out into the center of the harbor, being pulled by whatever was on the other end of the ropes.

“Mermidians.” Alant jumped at the squeaky voice that sounded next to him. Standing just behind him was a young black boy of about thirteen. His long, dark hair—a tangle of curls that looked like it would be more at home on a mop head—billowed in the breeze that blew in from the bay. The boy looked much like any of the rest of the crew in his loose fitting pants and nothing else, save for the fact of his young age and the broad, bright smile that spread across his face. “There be Mermidians at the ends of the guide ropes.” Placing his right hand against his stomach, he bowed his head. “Krin Garson, cabin boy here on the
Mistbreeze Trader
. I be at your service, Sier.”

A pang jolted Alant. “Nix!” His voice rang out louder than he had intended. “I am no Sier, just an Initiate. I am heading to Hath’oolan to finish my training.” It was the first time anyone had addressed Alant as Sier, and it made him feel odd.

The boy’s smile grew larger. “Aye, mayhaps. Still, to us common folk, an Initiate be more than we shall ever be, Sier. I do think you will find it be the same with the rest of the crew as well.” Krin put both hands on the railing, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. “I do love the sea air. It be much better than that stink of the crowd on dock. Do you no agree, Sier?”

In spite of himself, Alant smiled. The boy spoke in the same thick accent as Captain Garson. Although he could not tell from what region, he knew the boy was from Silaway—and not just due to the color of his skin—far across the Great Ocean. Returning his attention to the ropes pulling the ship, Alant wagged a finger at them. “You say there are Mermidians at the ends of those ropes?”

“Aye, Sier, that there be. Four or five to a line, I should expect.” The young boy pointed toward the mouth of the harbor. “They will pull us out into the Glonlore Bay a piece before they do let us go.”

“I have never seen a Mermidian before. Will they come to the surface?”

“Nay, Sier, it no be likely. They stay to the depths, they do. I did see one of the beasties myself, once. When I did be dockside with the Captain.”

Alant peered in vain at the murky-green waters, eager to catch a glimpse of movement. “What do they look like?”

The boy laughed aloud. “Like a man who did eat one too many fish!” He shook his head, causing a curly lock of black hair to fall across his face. He flicked it aside with a finger. His natural smile slipped from his face as he looked up into Alant’s eyes. “Actually, they do look much like you or I, Sier. Their skin be greenish and thick as that of the great whales who do live out in the deep oceans. And their hands and feet be more suited for swimming than walking. Still, the strangest thing about them be the slits on their necks. The Captain did say it be how they do breathe, yet they did look ghastly to me—all gaping wide, like someone did take a knife to their throats.” The boy gave a shudder. Then his big smile returned as if it had never left.

Leaning back on the railings, the two young men stood in silence as the city of Mocley slipped by. The
Mistbreeze Trader
had been moored deep inside the harbor, and Alant enjoyed the view of the city while it silently slipped past as the unseen Mermidians pulled them out to sea.

To his right, pier after massive pier—each some ten or twelve paces wide—pressed against the stone wall that made up the bulk of the city-side shore. At each of these sat ships of every size and make, most large enough for long oceanic voyages. Smaller docks jutted out from the larger ones like branches of a mighty tree. These held the myriad of smaller fishing boats that reaped the bounty of the sea for the inhabitants of Mocley. Swarms of people now covered the docks and piers. Several small crafts, either ahead of them or pulling away from their resting spots, joined the
Mistbreeze Trader
in the harbor.

To his left side sat the Millitinia that housed the mighty Mocley Royal Navy. Over the high wall that skirted the shore in front of it, Alant could see ornate towers jutting up into the clear-blue morning sky. He assumed these spires must be part of the Proctors Residence, nestled inside the protective fort within the walls of the city. Guarders patrolled the battlements, and it conjured up an image of his home in Hild’alan. A spasm of longing ripped through him.

It will be many long turns of the seasons before I see the shores of my homeland again.

More fishing boats joined the large barquentine in the middle of the harbor. As they neared the mouth, Alant feared for the safety of the smaller crafts. “They are darting in every direction! Are those fishermen crazy? Why are they getting so close to us?”

“They no have control, Sier. No boats can navigate Mocley’s harbor without a Mermidian guide. The bottom of the harbor be filled with underwater barriers that can rip the hull off any ship.” Krin pointed to a boat streaming alongside of them. “Do you see the rope that be tied to that one’s bow-stem, Sier? She do also be led, just as we.”

“Watch the windfall as we do enter the bay and be prepared to back and fill!” Captain Garson perched at the rear of the ship, yet his shouts rang clear, even to where Arderi and Krin stood at the front. “When we do raise sail, I no want to be taken aback!” Alant wondered what the man meant.

It is like they speak a completely different tongue!

As they neared the mouth of the harbor, Alant turned to ask the young cabin boy the meaning of the Captain’s words, yet his breath escaped him as the full expanse of the open sea filled his vision. ”Never before have I seen so much openness! It goes on forever!”

“Aye, tis be as beautiful a sight as a man did ever see.” Krin motioned ahead of them. “Do you see the tower that juts out of the water in the middle of the mouth, Sier?” Krin waited until Alant nodded. “That be Gatekeep. If you do look closely at the waterline, you can just see where the chaingate slips into the water below.”

“What is the chaingate?” Alant had never heard the term used before.

Krin gawked at him in genuine befuddlement. “They really do keep you locked up in that Academy, huh, Sier?” He shook his head. “I can no imagine living so… confined.” The boy gazed back toward the open sea. Pointing off to the Millitinia side of the harbor exit, to the last tower that stood on a small strip of land, he wagged a finger at it until Alant looked that way. “Inside that last tower be a massive chain—links the size of a man—it extends down into the water and then crosses to Gatekeep in the center there.” He traced the path with a finger, continuing past the center tower. “A second one—you can see a few of the links just there—extend on to that tower on the city side of the mouth. To block the harbor, they raise the chaingate and no boat can get in or out of Mocley.”

“I have never heard of it.” Alant words came out hushed.

“As far as the Captain do know, it has no been raised in living memory. Most of the crew do think it be an old woman’s tale. Still, you will get a good view of the few visible links when we do pass out into the bay, Sier.”

Turning around, Alant leaned against the railing and stared back into the heart of the city. “I have been in Mocley for nearly two turns of the seasons now. Yet I have seen almost nothing of it. The Coliseum, Great Palintium, the Bazaar… all as foreign to me now as they were before I arrived.” He shook his head and looked down at the boy standing next to him. “And you, at barely half my age. You have seen what?”

A sheepish smile sprang to Krin’s dark face and he averted his chocolate eyes. “I did sail with the Captain since he did adopt me as a babe, Sier. My home be somewhere near Nithshilo. At least, that be what the Captain did tell me.”

Alant cocked his head to one side and gave the boy a quizzical look. “Nithshilo? Where is that?”

“It do lie on the coast of Silaway, on the other side of the Great Ocean, Sier. I did cross the Great Ocean many a time now. I have gone as far north as Katsujai and south down to Aktita, covering the breadth of the Silawaian coastline. Circled the Isle of Elmorr’eth, stopping at all three of its great cities, and have seen most ports here on Ro’Arith, from Aalholm to Velvithia.”

This boy has seen so much, and I still have a farm boy’s understanding of things. What kind of Shaper will I make?

The smile slipped from Krin’s face, and reaching out, he put his hand over Alant’s. “Did I say something that upset you, Sier?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

“Nix. I simply lost myself in thought.” Alant smiled at the boy before he leaned onto the rail and watched the
Mistbreeze Trader
slip past the last towers standing their stoic watch on the harbor. He saw the two visible chaingate links jutting out of the side of the tower and slipping into the waters below—each link easily big enough for a man to walk through. The land peeled away to either side and the full expanse of the Glonlore Bay opened before him, revealing nothing except white-capped waves extending off into the horizon. Alant’s stomach lurched. He forced himself to turn back to the city for reassurance that land still existed and they had not, in fact, fallen off the Plane and into emptiness.

The cabin boy giggled and Alant realized his mouth hung open. Shutting it with a click, he mentally kicked himself for acting like a fool, yet he could not bring himself to turn back to the vacuous sight that lay in the path of the ship. “Could you show me to my quarters? I need to lie down for a while.”

“Aye, Sier.” Krin took him by the elbow. “Let me help you. The deck do shift when the sails be set.”

Alant let himself be led. The cacophony of sights and sounds swirling around him dissolved, and numbness overtook him.

D
usk had settled across the land before the walls of the stead came in view. Clytus Rillion nudged his dustier, Starborn, into a canter, and noted with satisfaction that Alimia matched his pace without hesitation. This far out from Mocley he had no wish to camp outdoors when a fortified place lay so close at hand.

Things will be rough enough once we cross the Artoc.

Approaching the main gate to the small stead with Alimia by his side, Clytus’ heart gave a flutter when he saw the gates were already down for the eve.

“Do you have any contacts here?” Alimia called out over the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

“Nix! I am not even sure what stead this is.” He hoped the Crystal from the Shaper’s Order would carry some extra weight out here in the country.

If
it does not, I will wave that annoying Jintrill in their face. At least the boy will be good for something!

They reined in their mounts at the gate and Clytus dismounted. The sally-port—a small, man-sized door set within the larger main gate—opened and a guard stepped out. He looked to be a stout man about two paces tall. Short-cropped black hair peppered with gray gave his age to be well over thirty winters. He stood there, dressed in a thick brown leather jerkin and pants, with a shortsword belted on his left hip. The fact that several archers looked out from slits set nearly ten paces off the ground was not lost on Clytus.

The guard approached with a weary look in his eye. “Well met.”

“Well met. I am Clytus Rillion. I command a merc troop out of Mocley.” Reaching into a belt pouch, he withdrew a Crystal and offered it to the man. “Here is my license.”

The guard held it to his brow, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “Attached to the Shaper’s Order, huh?” The man returned the Crystal, his stance visibly relaxing. “I am Dartin Sim, Guarder Captain of the Third Watch here at Hild’alan. What might I do for you, Commander?”

“My host and I are traveling north and were hoping to take refuge inside your stead for the eve.”

Dartin looked over Clytus’ shoulder. “How many in your troop, Commander?”

“Thirty three ahorse, seven wagons with drivers, a dozen or so spare mounts, and a Shaper, Guarder Captain.” Clytus hated to note that, to this country lout, the Shaper had more impact than the rest combined.

“Aye, we have a spot that can accommodate you, Commander. Alas, I will warn you. We have no accommodations for entertainment—no taverns or such. We are a farming stead, not one meant to entertain. Keep your men in camp, if you please.”

“Aye. I had no intention of letting my troop have any leave time this eve, so that will not be an issue. And I am grateful for the hospitality, Guarder Captain Sim.”

The guard turned and let out a loud, shrill whistle, waving his arm in a circle above his head. The gates groaned as they broke from the ground. The loud clickety-clack of a hoist and ratchet sounded through the cool, early-eve air. Clytus remounted and stared down the road at the approaching wagons.

Once inside the stead walls, a wide-eyed young guard escorted them to a section of dirt covered by a sparse layer of grass between two in-stead animal pens full of bleating sheep. “This is our only camp area, Commander. We use it for fairs and festivals.”

Nodding, Clytus dismounted. “This will do nicely.” He flicked a silver pent to the young man.

Snatching it from the air, the boy grinned openly and nodded to Clytus. “My thanks to you, Commander, sir. I will be by in an aurn or so to see if you need anything else.”

Probably a full moons wage for the lad.

As soon as the wagons came to a stop, Jintrill jumped from his perch and bustled over. He snagged the young guard by the arm as the man was leaving. “Take me to the Ques’lian.” At the baffled look of the young man, he sighed. “The Hall of Shapers.”

The young guarder’s eyes bulged. “Sier, sir… My apologies…” He stared around in panic. “Hall of Shapers?”

Clytus shook his head. “Jintrill! This is a farming stead. You will find no Ques’lian here.”

“Aye, I mean nix, Sier… sir.” The young guarder tried in vain to extract his arm from Jintrill’s grasp without making it appear impolite.

The Shaper released the guarder. “You do have Shapers here, do you not?”

The guarder rubbed his arm as if he had been burned. “Aye, Sier. There are several.” His eyes lit up. “I could take you to the Master Shaper! His apartments are in the Magistra.” Clytus chuckled at how proud the young man seemed at his revelation.

“That would be acceptable.” Jintrill waved a hand. “Lead on, then.”

“Oiy!” Clytus yelled and was rewarded by a jump from both young men. “I suppose then, you will not be in need of a tent this eve?”

A horrified look sprang to the young Shaper’s face. “I should hope not. Civilization should at least extend this far from Mocley, should it not?”

“Aye, mayhaps. Just do not get used to this. It will be the last time you sleep in a bed for several moons.” Clytus started to turn, then paused. “Oh, and if you are not with the troop when we move out in the morning, it was nice traveling with you, young Sier.”

Jintrill’s jaw dropped open. “The Council… You would not leave me here, surely!”

“Oh, aye, lad, I would indeed. Keep in mind that
you
have been ordered by the Council to accompany me. I was only ordered to let you. I am under no obligation to help you keep up, nor to make your journey comfortable.” Clytus shifted his smile into a vicious grin. “Or even insure that you return home alive.”

He watched with amusement while the implication of his statement settled into the young Shaper. Jintrill shrank away in terror, stumbling as he turned to flee into the buildings that made up the center of the stead.

Clytus chuckled and nodded to the young guarder. “Go get him and make sure he makes it to the other Shapers.”

The man grinned and trotted off after Jintrill.

Watching his troop dismount and start their chaotically organized camp setup—complete with Alimia spouting off orders where needed—Clytus spied some young boys who had taken note of them, and stood on the fringes, staring.

Trilim walked by carrying an armload of cooking pots. “The smell of the animals should add to the taste of this eve’s stew nicely, Master.”

Clytus snorted. “Mayhaps. Still, tis better than
becoming
something else’s stew.”

“There is that.” Hefting his load, Trilim continued to the spot he had chosen for the camp’s cook fire.

Glancing once more toward the country boys on the fringes of the camp, he took a moment to study them.

I have always wondered how the Proctors of Mocley keep these labor steads operating. One step above slavery, and the fools who live here do not even realize it. Yet, when you are born into it, with no knowledge of what the rest of the Plane holds, how are you to know that you have less than you should?

Shaking his head, he set off to see to his own tent.