Page 86 of An Archer's Reckoning

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.

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