To the south, Sharu had come to a river too wide and deep to cross, and had sent word that he was returning to Everam’s Reservoir. To the north, no one had heard from Icha and his men in weeks, and even the dama’ting could not divine their fate with assurance.
“They were not cowards when there were ships to reclaim,” Abban reminded. “The chin fear you, Sharum Ka, and well they should. The least of your Sharum could slay a dozen fish men …”
“A score,” Jayan said, “without breathing hard.”
Abban nodded. “It is as you say, Sharum Ka. But do not underestimate the foe. It is not cowardice that stays them.”
“Then what is it?” Jayan demanded.
“There is no profit in attack,” Abban said.
“Pfagh!” Jayan spat. “This is Sharak Sun, not khaffit merchanting.”
“You have said many times the greenlanders are more khaffit than Sharum,” Abban said. “There is no gain in taking back the town when we have so many warriors to defend it, and more within a few days’ march.” He shivered, signaling Earless to put another log on the fire. “Better to let the snow and cold weaken us.”
Jayan grunted. All the Krasians were cold and irritable, remembering the last Northern winter. In Krasia winter temperatures would often dip to freezing at night, but the sun in the desert kept the days hot. In the North it was cold and wet for months with no relief. Winter had only just begun farther inland, but this close to the lake the snows came early, slowing their patrols and playing havoc with the scorpions. If the locals were to be believed, much of the lake would freeze in the coldest months, locking the ports until spring.
“So we are left to sit on our spears in this worthless chin hamlet?” Jayan demanded.
“The Evejah tells of many winters Holy Kaji was forced to wait out in captured lands, ere the winning of Sharak Sun. Conquest is ever thus, Sharum Ka. Months of moving men and supplies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike,” Abban clapped his hands for emphasis, “crushing your enemies.”
Jayan seemed mollified at that. “I will crush them. I will take their eyes and eat them. The fish men will whisper my name in terror for generations.”
“Of that, there is no doubt,” Abban agreed, keeping his eyes down, lest he stare at the milky orb of Jayan’s right eye. He had commissioned a patch of beautifully warded gold, but Jayan refused to wear it. The young Sharum Ka knew his eye unnerved men, and gloried in their discomfort.
“In the meantime, you can spend the winter in luxury,” Abban waved a hand at the lavish chambers, “with warmth and an abundance of fine food, even as the lake dwellers shiver on their frozen vessels, gnawing fish heads to fill empty bellies.” He doubted things were so dire, but it was always wise to exaggerate when flattering the Sharum Ka. “Work has begun again on your palace in Everam’s Bounty, and you have greenland jiwah to warm your bed.”
“I want glory, not luxury,” Jayan said, ignoring the soothing words. “There must be a way to attack. Now, before the winter comes in force.”
Indeed there was, but Abban was not about to let the boy know that. It was a risky plan under the best of circumstances, and Abban would not trust the timing to a boy whose foolish pride had cost them almost the entire captured fleet.
Of the ten large vessels that survived the Sharum’s burning, four had been stolen back by the Laktonians, and two more burned beyond repair. One was lost to a tide of water demons that had claimed several smaller vessels, as well. Abban had sent the remainder to a hidden bay guarded by his own men, where they studied sailing and shipmaking lore pulled from books, bribes, and the tongs of his torturers.
A Sharak horn sat both men up straight. Abban looked out the window and saw the cause immediately. “Sharum’s Lament.”
Jayan hissed, grabbing his spear and running to the window as if he meant to try and throw it a quarter mile to the sleek fighting vessel that swept in from the north, using the fading light to hide its approach.
Captain Dehlia had renamed Gentleman’s Lament after taking it back from the Krasians. The flag still had a silhouette of a woman staring off into the distance, but the rejected suitor had been replaced with the silhouette of a Sharum on fire. The ship attacked regularly, testing their defenses and giving credence to its name. It had been Dehlia and the Sharum’s Lament that stole the scorpion, allowing the Laktonians to copy the design.
Every time Sharum’s Lament came in sight, it meant grief and loss for the occupiers, and impotent rage for Jayan. Most often the ship would pull up on the edge of range, loosing flamework from its slinger or a deadly hail of arrows—sailing off before the Mehnding could calibrate their weapons to return fire.
Jayan had tried moving chin to the docks and buildings closest to shore, but somehow the captain caught wind of the plan, attacking elsewhere to draw Jayan’s forces while other ships effected a daring rescue of their conveniently placed brethren.
Every time they attempted to prepare for or counter Sharum’s Lament, Captain Dehlia seemed to know their plans and change tactics. There was no telling now if she was simply sailing in to harry, or moving with cunning purpose.
Abban watched carefully as the ship sailed along the shoreline, just out of range. She would veer sharply inward only when approaching her target. All along the docks and shores, Mehnding scrambled and held their breath, knowing they would have only a few moments to target and fire. Jayan had promised a palace to the team that could sink the cursed ship.
But then the ship turned, and Abban felt his sphincter tighten. “Nie’s black heart.”
“Eh?” Jayan asked, turning to look at Abban even at the slinger arm came forward, launching a heavy missile their way.
“Sharum Ka!” Abban cried, throwing himself on the man.
Jayan was heavily muscled, but even he could do little to resist Abban’s bulk as he bore the man to the floor. He punched Abban as they struck the carpet, sending him rolling away. “How dare you lay your unclean hands upon me, you pig-eating camel scrotum! I will kill—”
At that moment there was a crash as something struck the great window. The warded glass Abban had installed held against the blow, but the entire building shook from the impact.
Jayan looked from the window and back to Abban, who managed to get his good knee under him. Again he looked at the window, clouded with bits of wood clinging to the surface, and back to Abban. “Why?”
The young Sharum Ka was not known for articulation, but Abban understood him well enough. Why would a cowardly khaffit risk his own life for someone who had abused and derided him for years?
“You are Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Blood of the Deliverer, and the hope of our people while your father remains locked in battle with Nie. Your life is worth far more than mine.”
Jayan nodded, a rare thoughtful look about him.
The words were nonsense, of course. Abban would happily let the boy take a spear for him. More than once he had pondered having the fool killed himself. He might have, if not for the risk of the Damajah’s wrath.
But if the Sharum Ka were killed in his presence and Abban survived, Hasik would come for him. It might be that Qeran or Earless could stop him in time, but it wasn’t something Abban was willing to bet his life upon. Hasik would be all too willing to die if it meant he could take Abban with him, and that sort of man was not the kind to gamble against.