already knew to be true. The boats were devoid of fish. The men of M’Dahz rowed for land, but their cargo lay in bloody, soaked heaps among the ribs of the vessels. Not all were corpses, though most were clearly beyond hope. A few of the men rowing were bloodied and wet, but alive and making for home.
Militia. All men of the militia of M’Dahz. And, as they came closer and closer to the docks, every face was bleak and hopeless. Samir’s own mouth was now dry as he stared out among them. Asima was between the boys now, her hands on their shoulders in a gesture of strength and support.
“It could have been any of the militia ships” she said hopefully.
Samir shook his head, unable to speak in more than a low croak. Ghassan reached across and squeezed his brother’s wrist before turning to Asima and shaking his own head.
“Each of the militia ships carries only two lifeboats. That was all that could be drummed up.”
He turned back to the fleet that were now jostling and manoeuvring into position by the jetties.
“Five lifeboats means at least three of the four ships.”
Asima fell silent once again, not trusting herself to speak any further.
Quietly and unhappily, the men from the boats climbed onto the jetties and went about the sad and grisly business of finding carts to transfer their bloody cargo from the boats. The brothers watched with bated breath, their eyes playing across the crowd of sailors, looking for the man they somehow already knew would not be there.
As the last figure shuffled up the wooden walkway, Samir collapsed backwards onto a sack of grain awaiting removal. Silently he sat there, staring at the chaos, as Ghassan hurried down the jetty and began to examine all the bodies piled in the boats.
Asima gripped Samir’s hand. She didn’t know what to say, but the chances were not good. She watched and realised she was biting her cheek once again, a habit she had been trying to kick recently. She had realised that many of her little habits were signs of weakness or insecurity and, as the main negotiator for her father’s business, she could no longer afford such girlish tendencies.
She continued to watch, clutching the silent Samir, while Ghassan ran from boat to boat, stopping the men as they carried their ghastly cargo from the dock to the carts, and checking each body. Finally, he stopped and shuffled slowly back towards them.
“He’s not there, brother.”
Samir sagged a little more, but Asima straightened purposefully.
“Well that’s good, then. Faraj may be alive. His ship may be intact.”
Ghassan shook his head sadly.
“The insignia they’re wearing are from all four ships. No one escaped. If uncle Faraj is not there…” his voice cracked and tailed off.
He sat with a heavy thump next to his brother.
“If he’s not there, then he either drowned or he’s been captured.” He took a deep breath. “And given what the pirates are said to do to their prisoners, best to hope that he drowned.”
Asima stared at the taller of he two brothers, but realised that Samir was nodding sadly.
“Pirates?”
The three of them turned at the sudden rude interruption. A militiaman, bleeding profusely from a cut above the eye and with a damaged arm tucked limply into his belt, stopped on his way to a cart.
“Pirates, you say?”
Ghassan nodded, uncertainly, and the man shook his head.
“No pirates, lad. This was Pelasia.”
Asima blinked.
“But they wouldn’t dare? Even with the army gone, Calphoris is only a day distant, with the governor’s forces.”
The man laughed a hollow and unhappy laugh.
“Calphoris will be looking to its own defence now. They’ll not sally forth to protect a third-rate little crossroads like M’Dahz.”
The man sighed.
“Pelasia comes, my dear. Pelasia comes now, and there is no one to stop them. The satraps have made their opening move and destroyed our ships. Best get indoors and stay as quiet as possible and hope the invasion is quick and painless.”
With a last, sad look at the three children, the militiaman shambled off among his peers. While their small exchange had occurred, one of the men must have announced the news, as roars of distress and groans of despair went up among the civilians among the docks and as the three of them sat on the grain sacks, the world exploded around them. People ran in panic this way and that, rushing to find their loved ones and either hide within the houses of the town or flee and hope they would make Calphoris before the satraps of Pelasia could catch them.
Ghassan nodded sadly as he watched the people rush in a mindless panic and turned to Samir.
“Will the rest of the militia fight, do you think, brother?”
Samir nodded.
“They are men like our uncle. Can you imagine Faraj rolling over and showing his belly to the Pelasians?”
He sighed.
“No. They will fight.” He swallowed sadly. “And they will die.”
Ghassan shrugged.
“And we will fight and die with them.”
As Samir nodded, Asima turned to them, a shocked expression on her face.
“What?”
The two boys merely shook their heads sadly.
“But you’re ten years old!” she barked. “The militia will send you home.”
Samir sighed.
“Asima, when the Pelasians come it will make no difference. We can fight as well as any man in the militia now. Faraj trained us well. And we have to try; for you and your father… for mother.”
“But you’ll die!”
Ghassan nodded sadly once again, but Samir turned to look at her.
“I have been dreaming of this for a long time. I had always assumed it would be glorious and we would be the victors, but that seems unlikely now. And yet, many times in my mind I have stood on the walls and watched the Pelasians come. It no longer frightens me.”
He grasped Ghassan’s wrist.
“Let the Pelasians come.”
In which M’Dahz changes
The last twenty four hours had been frantic for most folk. At Samir’s estimate, a third of the town’s population had left through the east gate for Calphoris. The road between the two places must be thronging with refugees. A few of the hardier folk had found weapons and joined the remains of the militia where they gathered at the great market to plan the next step.
The commander of the M’Dahz militia was a man named Cronus, a mercenary from the northern lands who had settled in the town over a decade ago. He had proved to be a strong and intelligent commander and had, as soon as the militia had mustered, gone to see the town’s governor, only to find that the palace compound’s gate had been shut and barred. No amount of cajoling had drawn a response from within. The governor had withdrawn in solitude; the militia were on their own.
And so Cronus had found himself and his men in sole charge of the defence of M’Dahz. No questions had been asked of anyone who joined them and no one, regardless of age or ability, had been turned away.
By the time the sun had set last night, every body the militia could muster had been given a position on a
