30. Ayden

Chapter 30

Ayden

T raveling to Fleet Town was a useless mission. I was sure Captain Whitman knew it, too.

The trip from Grove’s Pass took twenty days. It would take the Rangers another day or so to gather, equip, and depart, then twenty or so more days, assuming weather cooperated in the dead of winter, to reach the headquarters.

The enemy was only days from the town when I left.

If that.

I spent much of the first few days mulling over why the Captain sent me away and fretting over how Declan fared. There could only be one answer for the former: I was the son of one of the highest ranking nobles in the country. The Rangers would send me on missions that might involve injury, but the Captain likely feared repercussions should I be killed in an avoidable conflict.

Avoidable conflict.

The very notion made me laugh.

There was nothing avoidable about any of this. The Kingdom was crossing the mountains with enough men and arms to crush us like a melon beneath a hammer. It would not matter if I had been born a cobbler’s son or the King of Vint, when the Kingdom’s trebuchets began firing, Melucia was doomed. We all were.

Thinking of Declan inspired an entirely different fear.

Worrying that I might be injured or slain was one thing. Seeing possible paths in which Declan lay bleeding on the frozen ground was another altogether. During those weeks headed on my mindless mission, I saw a hundred ways he might be killed.

By arrows in battle.

By swords in battle.

By Mage fire in battle.

The list went on and on, but there was one constant.

He would face battle, and I could do nothing about it.

So I fretted and daydreamed and worried myself sick . . . and each night, when I closed my eyes, I prayed he would enter my dreams again and tell me everything was all right.

But he never did.

I reached Fleet Town on the nineteenth day after leaving Grove’s Pass. Salt and sea filled the air. The ever-present stink of rotten fish somehow felt appropriate with all our fears. Still, there was something in the ocean’s kiss that felt right.

The outer perimeter of the town held no wall or palisade, only a ring of flimsy tents in which Rangers camped when not on guard. It was a marvel winter had not already claimed more men than Kingdom arrows.

As I trotted my horse toward a group of green-cloaked men, my brother-Rangers greeted me with tight lips and resigned eyes. The moment they heard I’d traveled from Grove’s Pass, their gazes fell to the sodden earth.

I handed off my horse to a boy and followed a Ranger who volunteered to take me to the commanding lieutenant’s building. The man’s seaward accent was so strong I had to strain to understand every other word.

“Ya say ya rode from th’ Pass?”

“I did.”

He eyed me sideways. “Ya ain’t heard, have ya?”

“Heard what?”

“The fookin’ Spires burned Grove’s Pass t’ cinders. Ain’t nothin’ left.”

I stopped walking. “Excuse me?”

“Even th’ headquarters. They had Mages throwin’ fire. The boy we sent came back lookin’ like all the Spirits in th’ world was chasin’ him. White as damn snow, he was. No boy gonna make shit like that up.”

A wave of nausea threatened to spill my day’s meal as I retched on the side of the road.

“Took most of us like that, it did,” the Ranger said.

“None survived?”

He shook his head. “Boy didn’t find nothin’ but bodies and ashes.”

I fought to keep my tears at bay. This changed nothing. It confirmed nothing.

Declan still lived. He had to.

Hope was a rare commodity, but I clung to it with every fiber of my being.

“Come on,” the man said. “Lieutenant’ll want t’ see ya straigt’way.”

Fleet Town was Melucia’s most vital port city, the gateway for maritime trade with the Kingdom and our northern island neighbors. On a normal day, a dozen or more ships would dock and depart, carrying cloth, fruits, grains, and any number of other goods for trade or sale.

These were no ordinary days.

As we strode along the wood-planked walk that led past the harbor to the town’s log cabin-style hall, six ships bobbed in their berths, each flying the crown and quill of Melucia’s Merchant fleet. I couldn’t see any sailors. There were no bargemen nearby. No dock workers scurried to load cargo or restock supplies.

Worse, there were no ships flying other banners.

A few folk in peasant clothing walked the beach.

A trio of young boys splashed in the unending waves.

“Damn blockade’s keepin’ our boys tied up here.” My escort noticed me staring at the ships. “Who would’ve thought we’d need military ships?”

I grunted in agreement.

Melucia barely had a standing army. We didn’t own a single ship with more firepower than archers against a railing. Some would argue the Triad’s vision had been dim, at best, in failing to prepare for every eventuality. But who would build and maintain a navy when war was more myth than memory?

“Here ya be,” the man said as we approached a two-story building that looked more like a woodland lodging house than a government center. There were no signs or markings beyond the two green-cloaked Rangers who stood guard on either side of a large wooden door.

I reached into a pocket and retrieved a silver mark. “Thank you for your guidance.”

The man eyed the coin as if debating the propriety of accepting it, then reached out and took it from my hand. He touched the bill of his cap in a sloppy salute, then ambled away. “I’ll leave ya to it, then.”

Unsure how to proceed, I stepped up to the guards and offered a fist to my heart. The pair returned the salute.

“I need to see Lieutenant . . .” Shit, I didn’t get his name. “Your lieutenant.”

One guard cocked a brow. “Lieutenant Briary?”

“Uh, yes, Briary. I mean, Lieutenant Briary.”

The guards exchanged glances, then the one who’d spoken turned and held the door open for me.

“Last door on your right. His clerk should be sitting at a desk outside his door.”

“Thank you.” I bobbed my head in the fashion of a Saltstone nobleman, then stepped into the building.

There were only three doors on the right and only one desk with one lone Ranger seated behind it. The bustle I was used to from the Ranger headquarters in Grove’s Pass was absent. In fact, everyone, save the lone clerk, appeared to be absent.

The clerk watched me approach. His eyes showed either boredom or wariness—I couldn’t be sure which.

“Ranger Ayden Byrne to see the Lieutenant,” I said formally.

“Is he expecting you?” Boredom mixed with disdain. Not wariness.

I kept my tone carefully neutral. “Captain-Commander Whitman sent me from Grove’s Pass.”

“Grove’s Pass?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “When did he send you? How long ago?”

“I left nineteen days ago, rode with all the speed my horse could muster.”

“Wait here.” He rose and vanished into the Lieutenant’s office, returning a moment later.

“The Lieutenant will see you, sir.”

The man’s tone had shifted to one of respect. What in the Spirits had the Lieutenant said to him?

By the time I stepped around his desk and entered the office, a man wearing the Lieutenant’s chevron on his shoulder had risen and made it across his office. I snapped to attention.

“Sir—”

“Lord Byrne, be welcome,” he interrupted.

“Ranger Byrne, if you will, sir. Lord Byrne is my father.”

“Of course.” He scowled over my shoulder, and his nosey clerk clicked the door shut. “Stand at ease, Ranger. Sit, if you will.”

At the Lieutenant’s gesture, I sat in a chair near his desk. He dropped into the one next to me.

“You rode from Grove’s Pass?” he asked without preamble.

“Yes, sir. Captain Whitman sent me here to retrieve as many men as you can spare. Kingdom troops—”

He waved a hand like he was swatting a fly from the air. “Your orders are stale, son.”

I bristled at being called “son” by a man only a few years older but held my tongue.

“Grove’s Pass and the headquarters are gone.”

He watched me closely as he spoke those words. When I didn’t react, he nodded once.

“Good, you heard already. Saves me the time of explaining.” He rose and rounded to sit behind his desk. “You are welcome to join us here, though I doubt you will have much work to do. The Kingdom’s forces march on Saltstone, stopping only long enough to raze small towns or villages in their path. They leave few alive.”

“Dear Spirits,” I muttered.

“Indeed.” He nodded gravely. “I fear the capital will share the same fate within a month.”

“A month? Surely, we can withstand a siege longer than that, especially in winter.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. We will soon see.”

“Sir, how many men do you have here?”

“Close to one hundred. Why?”

I thought a moment. “I was to take your men back to Grove’s Pass. What if I took them to Saltstone instead? As reinforcements? How far ahead are the Kingdom forces?”

He scratched his chin. “Only a day or two, and they have a longer haul with a lot more machinery. You could beat them there if you rode hard. But son, fifty men won’t make much difference against the whole of the Spires.”

“Sir, what choice do we have? We have to try.”

He stood and stared out a window that overlooked the sea. Tangy air ruffled the curtains that hung to either side of the opening.

“I can’t see what good you’ll do, but fine, fifty men. We have more than enough horses to see you to the capital. You’ll need to ride like the wind.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“Spirits be with you, son.”