Chapter 19

Paranafn, Werna

It had been a frantic ride back from Kasikskad, riding late into the night and starting again early each morning, pushing the horses as hard as they could without killing them. It had taken them a week to get out to the city of ruins, and they’d made the return journey in just under four days.

Which still might not have been good enough, based on the information they had about when the priest had left Kasikskad. They were told that he was heading to Paranafn, which meant to a ship, but it didn’t guarantee he would still be there. Winter had started, so it was unlikely they would sail out, but Werna Bay was huge, and sailing across it to the cities on the other side was as far as sailing across Althear Bay. They would be out of sight with no way of knowing which city the man had traveled to.

They reached the bustling waterfront, a maze of stacked crates, coiled ropes, and hurried men, looking just like they’d left it.

“Get back to the ship and tell Sir Drummond to have it ready to sail. If they’ve left, we might need to follow quickly, and I do not want to wait. I want to be able to sail the moment we step aboard,” he told one of the two Sidorian soldiers.

The man nodded and then ran in the direction of the far pier, dodging stevedores and merchants’ carts as he disappeared into the crowd.

“Look at the people on the ships. We have his description and this Barnabas should be with him,” William said, waving at ships along the dock.

The three men split up, running quickly down the dock, trying to get a look at everyone onboard the ships. It seemed like an impossible task as he went from ship to ship, trying to catch sight of anyone who matched any of the descriptions he’d been given.

There were all sorts of vessels, from broad-beamed coastal traders, sleek fishing boats, and a few larger vessels, that looked fit for voyages across the Great Expanse.

Most looked like they had been there for some time while others looked like they were ready for imminent departure with sails partially unfurled, crews active on deck, and gangplanks ready to be pulled.

“William!” A voice rang out.

Turning, he saw that Eskild had stopped and was pointing at a merchant cog, midsized with a high forecastle and aftercastle, bustling with activity. It was one of the ships that seemed primed for immediate departure. Sailors swarmed the rigging, shaking out the large, square sail on the main mast. A knot of men stood near the gangplank, overseeing the loading of what might be the last few crates.

Among the men on the ship was a large man who matched Eskild’s description of Mercer. More importantly, behind him, near the railing, was a smaller man. Thin and sheltered-looking in acolyte robes, clutching a bundle wrapped in plain cloth.

The shout drew more than William’s attention, however. As William was taking in the brute and the scholar the man was tasked to protect, Mercer had looked up and followed Eskild’s gaze to William, who was now hurrying toward the ship.

From the expression on his face, something like a self-satisfied sneer, William got the distinct impression that Mercer knew exactly who he was.

William had gotten close enough that he heard the big man yell, “Cast off! Now! Get the lines!”

Sailors scrambled to obey. The remaining mooring ropes splashed into the murky water. The gangplank began to retract.

As soon as the ship started moving, the operative barked orders at someone just out of view. Four heavily armed men drew swords and followed him as he hurried down the gangplank just before it lifted clear of the dock. They landed heavily on the timber planks, spreading out, apparently unworried that they would be left behind. The ship’s great sail caught the wind, billowing open with a snap, and the vessel began to drift slowly away from the pier.

Barnabas and his men formed a hostile line between William and the departing ship.

Eskild drew his own weapon, a heavy Thay long-knife that was almost a short sword. William didn’t know where their third man was as he pulled his own sword free, hoping he would join them soon, as the odds were heavily against them.

Two of Barnabas’s men charged William directly while the other two angled toward Eskild, aiming to flank him or at least keep him occupied.

The first attacker swung wildly, a downward chop aimed at William’s head. William didn’t try to parry. He stepped forward, inside the man’s reach, and brought his own sword up in reply.

The legendary blade met the descending sword not with a clang, but with a soft, shearing sound. Steel parted like firewood. The momentum carried William’s blade onward, through the man’s outstretched arm, severing it at the shoulder, then biting deep into his chest. Bone offered no resistance. The man’s eyes went wide with disbelief before he crumpled, blood spraying across the wet planks of the dock.

The second man hesitated for a heartbeat, unnerved by the effortless destruction of his comrade’s sword and life. He lunged, thrusting his blade toward William’s gut. William sidestepped the clumsy attack, the point whistling past his side. He reversed his swing, the famous sword moving with impossible speed. The blade sliced clean through the man’s neck. His head tumbled onto the dock, mouth still open in a silent shout, followed a second later by the collapsing body. Two down in as many breaths.

He glanced toward Eskild. The Thay warrior was locked in a brutal grapple with one opponent. Eskild used his size and strength, deflecting a sword thrust with his forearm guard, then slamming his forehead into the man’s face. Bone crunched. As the mercenary staggered back, clutching his broken nose, Eskild disarmed him with a swift twist of his wrist and drove his long-knife into the man’s side, just below the ribs. The man gasped and fell to the dock.

The fourth attacker, however, had bypassed Eskild and engaged the lone Sidorian guard who had unexpectedly returned, drawn perhaps by the sounds of fighting or a premonition of danger. The guard fought bravely, parrying blows, but he was clearly outmatched. He managed to score a shallow cut on the mercenary’s arm but was quickly forced back against a stack of fish crates, his sword knocked aside. The mercenary raised his blade for a killing blow.