Page 3 of Of Steel and Scale

I frowned down at the smoking ruins for several more minutes, torn between the need to know what had happened and the knowledge that I might well be walking into trouble.

But it wasn’t like I couldn’t defend myself.

I flexed my fingers; sparks danced across their tips, and I couldn’t help smiling. A sword and a knife were all well and good, but nothing beat flame when it came to attack or defense.

As a number of Mareritt patrols we’d come across over the years had discovered.

I scanned the ridge and found what looked to be a capra track heading down through the boulders and scrub. I followed it as fast as was practical while keeping half an eye on the settlement. Nothing changed.

Nothing except the weather.

The storm hit just as I reached the rocky shoreline. I wrapped my cloak around my body, then pulled on the hood, tugging at the strings to draw it around my face. The wind was fierce and icy, and every step forward became a battle. With the rain sheeting down so hard, it was almost impossible to see where I was going. I slowed, wary of walking into a trap in such conditions. Just because I hadn’t seen any movement from above didn’t mean there wasn’t anything—or anyone—waiting here.

It seemed to take forever to reach the broken outskirts of the small settlement. I stopped behind what had once been a net repairer’s to catch my breath, enjoying the speck of warmth radiating from the still-smoldering remnants of the partially collapsed building. While I could have easily used my inner fire to warm up, I preferred to save its force for any threat that might yet linger.

Despite the rain and the wind, the scent of smoke and ash hung heavily in the air. What I couldn’t immediately smell was death, and that was puzzling. How could so many people utterly disappear? Even if most had managed to escape via their boats, surely some would have died. No attack, even those successfully repelled, went without casualties.

I drew my sword and moved on cautiously. In the waning light of late afternoon, the glass blade and intricately carved grip glowed like blue ice. This sword, like the knife strapped to my left leg, had come from the mages of Ithica, one of our major trading partners. Both blades had been fashioned in the arcane fires of Ithica’s high temples and could only be destroyed in those fires.

While not all of Esan’s soldiers had access to them, those of us whose task it was to scout Mareritten for any sign of activity or armed buildup certainly did.

But my father had personally commissioned this set and had given it to me when I’d finally made captain.

I suspected now it had been meant as a peace offering, because the pips had barely hit my shoulders when, on my thirtieth birthday, he’d informed me the commitment agreement had finally been signed.

I sucked in a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the destruction rather than the life-changing events of tomorrow.

Eastmead’s layout was pretty basic, consisting of only three streets—one followed the cove’s shoreline while another circled the central marketplace. The third shot off toward the south, eventually leading to the port of Hopetown. Not many folks used it—as roads went, it was long and hazardous, especially in bullock-drawn carts. Few here could have afforded a courser; aside from the fact fishermen had little use for swift mounts, the shoreline didn’t provide much in the way of suitable grazing anyway. They could have held them in the valley to graze, of course, but that would have only made them targets for the larger drakkons who hunted there. Even stabling would have been difficult, as that would have meant importing feed. In fact, the few times I’d accompanied my father here on one of his inspection tours, the only stock I’d seen were poultry and a few domesticated capras—none of which were currently visible.

I cautiously padded on. This end of Eastmead had been devoted to all the different industries that a fishing village—large or small—needed. Aside from the net repairer, there’d been boat builders, blacksmiths, rope and barrel makers, fish scalers, and ice stores. While all the buildings here had been destroyed, there was little sign of the inventory or tools that each trade would have used. Even if much of it had burned, the fire wouldn’t have been hot enough to destroy the blacksmith’s tools and anvil. And yet, only the remnants of his forge remained.

It very much looked like the invaders had scooped up absolutely everything they could before they’d left... Which raised another possibility—had they also scooped up the people?

Slavery wasn’t much of a problem these days. It was certainly banned here in Arleeon, and most of our trade partners had also either banned it outright or had never ventured there in the first place. But most wasn’t all, and there’d been whispers of slave trading gaining traction on shores far distant from those of our trading partners. If that were true, we’d have to start stationing small garrisons around our outlying settlements. Or, at the very least, provide arms and training.

I paused again at the edge of the rutted and muddy ring road, looking left then right. Many of the buildings that had once lined both sides of this road still burned, though the flames were little more than flickers creeping along the edges of the blackened, broken walls. Despite the destruction, the central marketplace wasn’t visible from where I stood. The beautiful old clock tower that had stood so proudly in the heart of the village for eonswas, though it was now little more than a stark, skeletal structure—one whose still-smoldering support struts looked for all the world like blackened fingers reaching for the skies, pleading for help.

But there was no helping Eastmead. Not now.

I continued on warily. Tin rattled in the strengthening wind, briefly drawing my gaze left. Through a crack between one building wall and another, I spotted the smoldering mound that ringed the base of the tower. I had no idea what it was, but it certainly wasn’t the collapsed remnants of the tower—the mound was simply too big. Too neat.

Intuition stirred, as did unease, but I didn’t examine either too hard. Until I got closer, I really didn’t want to speculate.

I kept following the road, my boots sticking in the mud, making every step that much harder. I checked each house I passed, but there remained no sign of life—or even death—in any of them. Nor was there any evidence of the usual household clutter; the fire that had consumed Eastmead had obviously burned white hot, so it was not surprising that all the furniture was ashed. But where was all the kitchenware? At the very least, there should have been clumps of metal that had once been eating utensils or pots. But there was nothing—not even broken remnants of plates and cups. The flickering sense of unease grew ever stronger.

I finally reached an entry point into the marketplace and paused to study the road ahead. It was tempting to continue down to the docks—or what was left of them, at any rate—rather than go left and confirm what suspicion and intuition were telling me about that mound.

But there was no guarantee I wouldn’t find worse by the sea.

I drew in a deep breath and then resolutely turned left. The strong wind pushed at my back, as if eager to move me on, to make me see. My grip on my sword reflexively tightened as I moved from the mud of the road to the wide slabs of stone that marked the beginning of the central market area.

The closer I got to that mound, the more certain I became of what it was, and the angrier I grew.

Damn it,why? The refrain pounded through my brain, but the rain and the wind provided no answer.

I was ten feet away when my steps finally faltered. All I could do was stare at the horror that lay before me.

When I’d been standing on top of the ridge, I’d wondered where all the villagers were.

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