The Towers Of the Sunset (47 page)

“I’VE LOOKED AT all the possibilities,” Creslin asserts. “Lydiar isn’t well-guarded, and at times there are half a dozen oceangoing ships in her waters. If we use the weather, there’s a chance that we can capture three or four of them.”

“We have two ships already, and you said they would help. Now you’re saying we need more. When will it stop?” Klerris speaks in a tired voice.

“We don’t have any choice.”

“Would you explain your logic, Creslin?”

Creslin first sips from the deep green crystal goblet produced by Megaera and Avalari. “We have only one true oceangoing ship. Everyone knows that we cannot afford to risk that ship. In addition, with more than one ship, we can keep a steadier flow of goods. Finally, if need be, we can use the ships as a lever-”

“How?”

“Piracy. With more than a single ship, we can tell Nordla, Austra, and the other traders that either they trade fair and square or we seize or sink their ships.”

“And just how will you carry out that threat?”

“I don’t want to. That’s why I want the ships, but if we had to resort to piracy, I could ride the winds and see where their ships were. I could probably raise storms and run them aground… at least anywhere in eastern Candar.”

“Could he?” Shierra looks to Lydya, who nods.

“This is not a good idea.” Megaera’s words are flat… idiotic, dangerous, and wrong…

“We have no choice,” Creslin repeats. “We either act before our position becomes clear and while we have some hope of surprise, or we act later and lose more troopers and guards.”

“I don’t know,” Klerris muses.

“Fine. The fisherfolk were complaining about having no flour. We managed only enough to get us through the fall until harvest… from the Dawnstar’s last trip, and from what we could afford to buy from the smugglers. And what we can harvest won’t last through midwinter, if that. For half the year, we were unable to pay our people. Freigr came back with less than half a cargo, and that was before everyone knew about the wizards’ trade edict. We don’t have enough food to last until spring, let alone until our next harvest, and while we could afford to buy food, no one will sell it except a few smugglers, and we can’t afford to buy at their prices. So we steal either ships or money.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” Megaera protests.

“You’re right. You come up with a better one.” Creslin stands, sets the goblet down and walks out.

The five still seated look across the table at each other.

“Sometimes… Do we really want to stoop to piracy and theft? Can we?” asks Lydya.

“No,” answers Klerris. “We’ll do nothing and starve. Or we’ll let Creslin destroy himself to save us all.”

“That’s cruel.”

“He offered a solution, and he asked a question. Do we have a better answer? One that allows us to survive?”

The five look at each other again, but no one speaks as the hooves of a single horse echo on the road.

After reaching the Black Holding and unsaddling Vola, Creslin sits on a shaded section of the terrace wall, listening to the low surf. In time, the shadows lengthen to cover the entire terrace, and still he sits there, staring sightlessly out across the Eastern Ocean toward distant Nordla, or even more distant Austra.

He does not look up at Megaera’s approach, nor at her, even when she sits on the ledge with her back to the cliff, facing him.

“We’re not finished. Walking out didn’t help anyone. Like always, you decided that the mighty Creslin was right, and darkness forbid that we should question you.”

“I asked for any answer besides waiting to starve. Besides hoping that someone, somehow, will rescue us- like your dear sister. Do you really think she will?”

“She might.”

“She bound you in iron, and she’s going to provide you with enough supplies to raise a nation that just might threaten Sarronnyn?”

“What you’re planning isn’t right.” Megaera’s words are flat, evenly spaced. “You’re using your abilities to pervert the whole spirit of order-mastery.”

Creslin looks beyond the terrace, at the whitecaps of the Eastern Ocean that seem almost pink in the sunset. For a time, there is silence. “What would you have me do?”

“I don’t think that piracy is exactly honorable.”

“Honor is all well and good, but what would you have me do? The Blacks of Candar are being destroyed one way or another, year after year. Korweil is dead, and Westwind has fallen. Ryessa and Fairhaven have prospered, and we’re struggling to stay alive. No one will help us, and the gold we have left, no one will take. Even if someone did, there isn’t enough of it, and yet the people keep pouring in. Ships come, and they bring no cargo, only mouths to feed. What are we supposed to do? Sit here and starve?”

“You’re not talking about taking food.”

Creslin takes a deep breath, still not meeting her eyes, for he knows that there is truth in what she says. “I’m talking about taking one action. One action so that we don’t have to keep begging and stealing. When we can, I’ll even repay what we take.”

“How will that help those whose lives are ruined?”

… how… how on earth…

Creslin shakes his head, feeling her pain and her helplessness. “What am I supposed to do? My mother was assassinated; my father and sister have been killed by the Whites. Montgren has been conquered, and your sister rejects both of us. And you tell me what I plan is wrong. I know it’s wrong. But what else is there? Give me another answer.

“More than five hundred people have fled to Reduce in the past year. The rains saved a lot of crops and the pearapples, but how do we build a town with a few tools? Despite the new buildings, we still have people living in huts and in caves in the sand. We’re even getting beggars. How can we build enough ships enabling us to trade so that we don’t get fleeced on every item? How?”

This time Megaera winces and holds her head. “There aren’t any answers, except-”

“I refuse to die honorably,” he snaps. “And it’s not fair to Hyel, Shierra… or Fiera.”

The sun has dropped behind the western hills, and the whitecaps have faded to gray before he speaks again, his words a mere whisper above the evening breeze. “You think this is easy? No matter what happens-”

… best beloved…

Their hands and tears touch.

“YOU’RE A STORM Wizard. Why did you have to wait for the fog? Why not just create fog or a storm?”

Heavy clouds loom in the sky to the west of the Dawnstar. Both the schooner and the
Griffin seem ghostlike as they make their way southward through the light fog. Creslin continues to concentrate as he stands on the Dawn-star’s deck, his consciousness but half-present. “We waited until they didn’t have any ships nearby, and so they wouldn’t have any advance notice.”

Freigr looks from the helmsman to Creslin.

Creslin dries his forehead. Not all of the moisture is from the fog. “I could create a storm, but if I do, it’s like writing my name in fire across the sky for any wizard who’s watching to see, and the White Wizards are certainly watching. If we wait for the right kind of winds-and I can see when they’re developing-then I can change them into what I need at the last moment and no one will have any warning.”

“But you called a waterspout when those ships came after us.”

“I did.” Creslin nods. “I barely managed to hang on to it long enough, and how many days was it before I could even walk again?”

The Dawnstar’s captain glances from the choppy water ahead back to Creslin. “I think I see that. Why won’t the White Wizards just bum our troops once they land?”

“They’ll try to. But it’s hard to manage fire in the middle of a really violent storm, and you can’t do it from a distance. So we only have to worry about the Whites who are in Lydiar right now.” Creslin frowns. “I just hope there aren’t too many of them.”

The two ships ease southward through the thinning fog until the outline of the harbor appears.

Creslin concentrates, and to the south, the clouds billow, darkening into a blackness that turns midday into late twilight.

“How long?” whispers Thoirkel.

“Steady…” murmurs Freigr to the helmsman of the Dawnstar.

“… can’t see a thing…” The words drift from the forecastle, where the makeshift crew waits behind the armed squads.

Creslin pushes, twists, and pulls at the winds.

“Steady as she goes…” Cracckkk! Thurrumm…

The hammers of the lightnings crashed against the wall keep above the harbor, each forked blast of energy echoing down the gentle slope to the harbor. Within the fog that shrouds them, the Reduce ships ease toward the trading piers as all eyes in Lydiar focus on the storms.

Creslin counts, once more, the hulls tied to the piers. Five, and he has barely enough bodies to crew them. He shakes his head.

“You all right, ser?” Thoirkel looks from his squad to Creslin. The black-haired soldier radiates disappointment at being held in reserve.

“Well enough.” Well enough, considering that he is essentially perverting the Black order. Well enough, considering the creative use of destruction. Well enough, considering… “You’ll have plenty to do,” he adds.

“If you say so, ser.”

Creslin twists the winds again, and another line of lightning hammers upon the towers of the newly built keep.

“… darkness save them…”

“Look out for the ships!” The warning comes from the trading pier as the Dawnstar shivers into position, her crew leaping to the wooden pier and roping the schooner in. The raiding squads are already swarming across the gangways of the three-masted Hamorian brig and the Nordlan schooner.

“Pirates!”

“Get the bastards!”

The watchstanders on the traders yell their warnings, barely audible above the crash of thunder and the violence of the storm.

Thunk! Creslin’s concentration on the winds breaks momentarily as an arrow vibrates in the railing beside him.

“Get the Storm Wizard!”

“Take over!” Creslin orders Thoirkel and the reserve squad. As he speaks, he edges behind the stern castle to his knees, putting the heavy timbers between himself and the archers on the Hamorian ship.

Thunk!

He edges farther sternward and attempts to hold the storm center above the White-held keep. Above him, Freigr and the helmsman drop behind the low timber shield that half-encircles the helm.

More yells, curses, and muffled sounds of combat echo along the pier as the squad assigned to the Hamorian ship overwhelms the handful of archers. Creslin eases forward to where he can see more clearly.

On the Nordlan ship, which had been essentially uncrewed, the prize crew is already beginning to make ready for departure. On both of the Lydian ships, the ship’s crews-or some of them-appear to be working with the prize crews.

“Offf…”

Thunk, thunk, thunk!

“Thanks…” Creslin looks up from the deck at the arrows and then at the concerned face of Thoirkel. He takes a breath and gathers himself back together.

“Best be careful, ser.”

How can he be careful when his mind is split in so many directions? Still, he drops behind the superstructure as he again twists the storms. Rain lashes across his face, and intermittent sheets of water cascade along the pier.

No more arrows fall on the Dawnstar, and the Griffin has been tied alongside the Nordlan ship. Two squads race for the shops detailed on their maps. Another races for the grain warehouse.

Creslin takes a deep breath, then releases his hold on the warm winds that carry the fog, but he remains shielded by the stern castle. He can sense that a whiteness is moving toward the harbor.

“Thoirkel, you’d-”

Whhssttt!

A firebolt flares through the lower, unfurled sail of the Dawnstar.

Creslin touches his harness to ensure that his sword is in place, then steps toward the railing. A small squad of White warriors has appeared on the avenue heading toward the pier. Behind them are two points of white that Creslin feels rather than sees.

“Let’s go.”

“Yes, ser!”

Creslin twists a small fragment of the nearest thunderstorm, directing it toward the head of the pier and the force there, even as he trots down the gangway. Somehow, Thoirkel is in front of him.

Another set of firebolts hisses past them.

Creslin pulls harder on the winds, and cold air rips through his hair. He stumbles but catches his balance, unsheathing his sword as they near the squad of White guards. Three more of Thoirkel’s men charge in front of him.

“Oooo…”

One of the charging Recluce troopers staggers and collapses as a white firebolt turns him into a cinder.

Creslin yanks the forces of the winds into a funnel before him, hurling rocks of hail into the midst of the White guards.

“Get-”

“Kill the silver bastard!”

Creslin’s sword flickers, almost automatically, as he forces the ice chunks against the White Wizards. A White guard staggers, then is hurled aside by Thoirkel.

Now the firebolts are directed upward, as if to melt the icy arrows flying into the rear of the White guards.

“That’s it…” gasps Thoirkel.

A handful of White guards are scrambling uphill, up the avenue and away from the storm.

Creslin shakes himself and redirects his attention to the main storm, forcing himself to re-intensify the hammering lightnings.

Around him lie the bodies, the bodies that always seem to accumulate whenever he acts. He takes another deep breath, then looks at the black-haired squad leader. “Back to the pier.”

“Yes, ser.” Thoirkel turns. “Back to the head of the pier. We’ll hold there.”

Creslin watches as a heavy-laden cart rolls toward the pier, a single Reduce raider guiding the horse.

“The Nordlan ship!” Creslin snaps. “Last one on the left.”

“Who-” The man stops as he sees the silver hair. “Yes, ser!”

Creslin moves behind Thoirkel’s men and turns his attention from the storm to the ships along the pier. All five of them are being readied for sea.

Another cart rolls onto the pier, then another.

For a long time-Creslin is uncertain of how long, except that the fog has almost totally lifted, although the rain still lashes the port city-the carts roll onto the pier, and the cargoes are quickly stowed.

A flash of white grabs at Creslin’s senses, and he probes farther uphill, toward the keep, where a point of white flickers and builds-from either one of the wizards who has escaped or from a third. With a deep breath, Creslin builds the storm cell just to the west of the keep, until it is darker than night, until the lightnings flash within. Then he releases his hold, while directing that force toward the keep.

Craacckkk!

Even Creslin pauses at the flare, and at the rending and crumbling of stone. Despite the downpour, the flames and smoke begin to grow and rise from the pile of shattered white stone above the harbor.

Creslin is no longer watching as once more his guts spill, although he has walked to the edge of the pier and manages to foul only the harbor. Blackness wavers before his eyes, as if he were blind. He takes a deep breath, then another.

“Gee-ah. Move, beast!”

Slowly he turns, feeling his way, using his senses to guide him along the edge of the pier toward the Dawnstar.

“You all right, ser?”

“Just hold the pier, Thoirkel. I won’t be much more help.”

“We’ll scarce be needing more, I think.”

“… look at that!”

Though unseeing, Creslin needs no eyes to sense the destruction he has wrought, nor to know that Megaera must feel some of his discomfort. Step by step, he makes his way back along the pier and onto the Dawnstar, sensing, as he walks, how all has been seized; the horses being boarded in the makeshift stalls, the barrel upon barrel of grains and foodstuffs stored in the holds, the rest of the goods, seized under the cover of the storm, securely stowed away.

“You all right, your grace?” Freigr meets him at the Dawnstar’s railing.

“I’ve been better. How does it look?”

“The Nordlan schooner is pulling clear now, and Byrem is almost ready with the Hamorian.”

“The Lydians?”

“Won’t be too long.”

Rubbing his splitting forehead, Creslin sinks into a heap on the ladder leading to the helm. “We may have to leave quickly. Can you pass the word to finish up?”

“Make ready for departure! Set sails!” Freigr orders.

“No one’s headed to the harbor. You sure?”

“I’m sure. Remember, we still have to reach
Land’s End.”

“That is that. But who would follow us on the high seas?”

“No one, I hope. Because there’s not much else we can do.”

Creslin sits sightlessly on the ladder as the seven ships glide northward on the dying winds of the storms he has built.

Few on the Dawnstar look at the exhausted man in green leathers, even after
Cape
Frentalia
has become less than a dark smudge in the evening’s distance.