Down the back of the ridge they darted, to snatch up rope and grapnels and weaponry and other such. And by the time they reached the crest again, the sloop was blazing in flames as amid the pirate fleet it sailed.
From somewhere below there came the clanging of an alarm gong, and on the fortress walls, horns blew.
“Fire ship! Fire ship!” came the repeated cry. And in the light of the burning sloop, dinghies rowed for the outlying craft, and men from the
The entire bay now came alight with blazing flame, the center of the fleet afire as the raging unmanned sloop crashed in among the corsairs.
Pirates ran down to the docks, cursing, raving, weapons in hand. They were met by volleys of arrows from the archers aboard the dinghies.
And as alarms rang and horns sounded-
Up onto this beringing bulwark clambered a trio of dark shadows, their faces smudged with black streaks.
Down the other side they scrambled, leaving a rope in place in case of need, for none patrolled this wall, and discovery of the line unlikely. Across the killing ground they slipped, nought but wraiths in the dark. They sped to one corner of the fortress, for there free-climbing would be easiest. And up they clambered, Roel in the lead, Celeste coming last.
Up the rough stonework they scaled, passing by arrow slits in the wall, darkness and silence within. Up they clambered and up, now and again slowed by a bit of smooth work. Finally, they neared the top, where Roel in the lead motioned the others to stillness, and they all clung to the stone without moving, for running footsteps clattered nigh. Cursing voices grew louder, along with the thud of boot. Lantern light shone brighter and brighter, and with their hearts hammering ONCE UPON A SPRING MORN / 143
in their throats, the trio pressed themselves against the stone, as all ’round the darkness faded. Directly above on the wall the glow passed, and then sped beyond, voices and light fading as the pirates loped onward.
Celeste exhaled, noting for the first time that she had been holding her breath. When the patrol was but a distant scuffle, upward Roel climbed, to slip over the parapet and onto the walkway above. Looking left and right as he slid Coeur d’Acier from its sheath across his back, he turned about to motion the others up, to find Chevell hoisting Celeste onto the banquette. They cast their cloak hoods far over their heads, for they would not have any see just who they were, strangers within the hold. Chevell drew a cutlass, and Celeste whipped the bow from her back and nocked an arrow.
Chevell took the lead, and down a spiral stair within the fortress wall he led them: one storey, two storeys, three storeys, and more. Five in all he descended, and out into the courtyard they passed, the place a turmoil of men and horses, some shouting commands as massive gates were opened.
Ignoring the pirates, across the courtyard they dashed, merely three more rovers amid others running.
To the central tower they sped, and Chevell led them in through doors flung wide.
Now up a spiral stair they scrambled, the flight turning deasil, ever rightward, the stair giving advantage to right-handed defenders against right-handed foe. Past doors and chambers and arrow slits they wound, seven flights in all, passing through trapdoors flung back as to each storey they came.
Finally they reached the top, and Chevell led them into the chamber therein. A large, swarthy man stood at an open casement, peering out at the flaming chaos in his harbor below. Behind him a cloth map lay open on a table.
To one side in the shadows of the chamber stood someone else, dark and nearly invisible.
The large, swarthy man turned when the trio entered the room. Momentarily he frowned, his pitted face twisted in puzzlement.
“Caralos,” said Chevell, casting back his hood.
The man’s dark eyes widened in recognition and then he spat, “Chevell.”
“The day has come,” said Chevell, raising his cutlass.
As Caralos sprang to take a like cutlass from the wall, Celeste drew her arrow to the full.
“Nay,” barked Chevell. “He is mine.” Even as Caralos took the weapon in hand, the person in the shadows started toward the table, where lay the map.
“Non,” gritted Roel, raising Coeur d’Acier and moving between the chart and the shadowed being. And then Roel gasped, “You!” And as Roel sprang forward, the man in the black cloak whirled ’round and ’round, red limning flashing in his gyres. “Yah!” shouted Roel, Coeur d’Acier slicing through the air, to meet nothing whatsoever, for the being had vanished, even as Celeste’s arrow shattered against the stone chamber wall beyond where the man had been but an instant before.
Cursing, Roel slashed at the shadows, but his blade clove only darkness.
They closed and hammered at one another, and Chevell jumped inward and smashed Caralos with the bronze basket hilt of his cutlass. Caralos staggered back, but then lunged forward again. And in that moment, Chevell spitted him through. Caralos stood an instant, his eyes wide in wonder as he gaped down at the blade.
And then he fell dead, even as Chevell jerked his weapon free.
“You’re bleeding,” said Celeste.
“He got me across the forehead,” said Chevell, blood running down.
Celeste quickly examined the cut. “A slight flesh wound; it looks worse than it is.”
Chevell nodded and turned to Roel. “Who were you fighting?”
“ ’Twas the Lord of the Changelings,” raged Roel.
“He was here and then not, and once again I failed.”
“The Changeling Lord? Are you certain?”
“I know my enemy,” gritted Roel.
“And now so does he,” said Chevell.
“Mayhap he knows me as well,” said Celeste, “for I loosed an arrow at him, but he vanished e’en as the shaft flashed through the place where he had been.” Chevell sighed and shook his head. “Oh, Princess.” Stricken with the realization that both he and Celeste were now known to the Changeling Lord, Roel stepped to the princess and put an arm about her. Celeste looked at him and then at Chevell and said, “Roel is right, it was the Lord of the Changelings. I saw the red limning on his cloak. And who else can vanish simply by whirling about?”
“ ’Tis an ill thing he was here,” said Chevell.
Roel gestured at the table. “He was after that map.” Chevell moved to the board and peered at the chart.
“Voila!” he cried. “It is what we came after.”
“Then let us take it and flee,” said Celeste.
They rolled up the map and then sped down the stairs, meeting no one. When they reached the courtyard, it was nearly empty, but the fortress gates yet yawned wide.
“As I surmised,” said Chevell, and out and through the beringing wall and down the switchbacked road they fled.
“This way,” cried Chevell, and he led them through the streets of the town and ’round the arc of the bay as ships burned, and men doused flames with water, and crowds milled about along the piers in the radiant heat.
Dark smoke rose into the air and blotted out stars, acrid tendrils drifting onshore, the smell of it rank. Finally, the trio reached the end of the town, and at a small wharf sat a dinghy, a five-man crew waiting, three with swords in hand, two with arrow-nocked bows.
“Florien!” cried Chevell as he and Celeste and Roel came running. Swords were sheathed and bows slung and oars taken up even as the trio leapt aboard, and Florien barked, “Away!” and the rowers put their backs to the flight, all unnoticed in the pandemonium centered in the bay.
’Round the larboard shoulder of the cove the dinghy hauled, to come to the waiting
