Storm Season

EPILOG

The fishing fleets of Sanctuary made the first sighting.

Haron saw a strange sail and called Omat to show it to him. By the time he had shaded his eyes from the sun's glare and located the strange ship, there were five sails-then twenty, all with the strange lateen rigging he had seen the day of the Old Man's disappearance... only these ships were larger, much larger.

He began working quickly, his one arm aching and cramped with the effort of quick-hauling his nets. The alarm spread from boat to boat and soon the entire fleet was on the move to shore. Some abandoned their nets and traps, preferring to lose their equipment to remaining there on the fishing grounds.

By the time they reached the piers, over a hundred sails were in view, all on an unwavering course for the town called Sanctuary.

Word spread through the city like wildfire. A fleet, a big one-bound for Sanctuary. Some said it was an invasion from the north. Others argued hotly that the design of the ships was not northern; their specific point of origin was unknown, save that they could not be from the Northern Kingdoms.

All that was known for sure was that before nightfall new feet would tread the streets of Sanctuary. Some panicked, fleeing to the palace or the temples for reassurance. Others, more practical, began boarding up their shops and hiding their valuables.

Hanse Shadows? awn heard the news with mixed feelings, wishing anew he could be certain how long his guarantee of divine protection would last. Finally he decided that discretion really was the better part of valor and headed for the ruined estate that had been the scene of his recent adventures. An estate that was well outside the boundaries of Sanctuary proper. Things had been so much simpler before he had anything to lose.

Myrtis, ruling the Street of Red Lanterns from her Aphrodesia House, was perhaps the best prepared of any in town. A few curt orders were all that would be necessary to begin relocating her "staff to the tunnels beneath the city. Though worried about the chronic shortage of supplies in the chambers below, she was more worried about Lythande. The mage had been absent from town for some time now-and the oncoming fleet boded ill for any traveller's return.

The magical community of Sanctuary viewed the fleet with a mixture of anticipation and dread. There was magic in those ships, strong magic of a type they had never encountered before. Some, like Enas Yorl and Ischade, with nothing to lose, waited with curiosity, eager to add to their already great wealth of knowledge. The rest wove hurried spells of defense around themselves and prayed secretly to varied gods that strength alone would suffice.

Molin Torchholder, head priest of the Temple of Vashanka, had his hands full reassuring his cadre so that they might, in turn, calm the crowds of believers who pressed through the temple doors. Amidst his attempts to organize things, he was haunted by his own fears. He had worked to ground the Storm God's power, leaving the priesthood free to explain and interpret as was their god-given right and duty. He had thought himself successful, for lately Vashan-ka's presence was noticeably lacking in town.

Now this.

Perhaps his schemings had backfired. Where was the Storm God's protection now that a force threatened them? Just one good windstorm...

With a sigh Molin reminded himself that the trouble with the gods was that they were never there when you needed them, but always there when you didn't.

Jubal cursed aloud when Saliman arrived at their new hideout with word of the fleet. Their plans to rebuild a power structure had been going well, old employees being infiltrated through the existing structures of the town and new hirelings being bought or frightened into cooperation. With only weeks to go before their first act of power, this new force could mean complications and disruption of the existing order. He would need to completely re-evaluate and probably revise all their plans.

After months of painful healing and careful planning, Jubal was not one to accept inconvenience with a smile.

Prince Kadakithis shooed his advisors out of the meeting chambers so that he might speak privately with Tempus. It had already been decided that a messenger would be dispatched for the capital immediately with news of the fleet. There was no reason to believe they'd be able to get word out after the fleet landed.

Sanctuary's military situation was bleak. Counting the Stepsons, the garrison and Wale-grin's newly formed company, the city would muster less than two hundred swords. If this incoming fleet were indeed hostile, their opposition would likely number in the thousands.

The Prince angrily rejected Tempus' suggestion theft he accompany the messenger north to the safety of Ranke. He was royalty, pledged to the service and protection of the town. When one enjoyed the fruits of position, Kitty-cat said, then one occasionally had to bear the burdens too- even if that burden included the possibilities of capture, ransom and worse.

Tempus argued that this was illogical, citing numerous historic examples, but Kadakithis remained unswayed. The citizens of Sanctuary could not flee and, therefore, neither would he. Good or bad, he would remain with the town and share its fate.

Confronted with another prophecy come true, Walegrin sought his half-sister in the bazaar, only to find his path blocked by silent S'danzo men. Dubro's appearance averted potential bloodshed; the smith drew Walegrin aside and explained what he knew of the situation.

Illyra was in a meeting with the other S'danzo women-a meeting closed to outsiders. As near as Dubro could determine, they were pooling the information each had received through visions of the approaching ships and arguing over the best course for the S'danzo to follow. Until the meeting broke up, there was nothing to do but wait.

Walegrin fumed but settled back to sweat out the time until the meeting was over, knowing full well the value of the information that might be forthcoming if he could convince Illyra to share the tribe's secrets with him.

The Downwinders were jubilant when they heard the news. As those currently at the bottom of the social structures, any change would have to be for the better, though the more imaginative cautioned that this need not be true. Still, the scavengers anticipated the fleet's arrival with far more enthusiasm than could be found anywhere else in town.

The Vulgar Unicorn was crowded with those seeking to stave off the future with a tankard of ale. One-Thumb stoically refused to give either discounts or credit, wishing secretly that he had the courage to raise the prices instead. It took men to man ships, and men drank, especially when they landed in a new town. He could be rich by tomorrow, rich enough to leave this town for good, if ...

If these low lifes didn't drain his cellars completely before the fleet arrived. With an angry bellow he answered the next request for credit by smashing the asker in the face with a tankard.

The docks were deserted now. The fisherfolk had fled inland, leaving the area free for the garrison troops. The city's soldiers had not yet arrived and there was some doubt that they ever would. Most felt the Prince would keep them at the palace rather than run the risk of having them desert before they reached the enemy.

Only one person kept the seabirds company as they watched the fleet move closer. Hakiem, the storyteller, sat crosslegged on a crate in the shade of a ragged canvas awning that flapped noisily in the stillness of the empty wharf. He had purloined two bottles of good wine from an abandoned tavern and he sipped at them alternately as he squinted at the distant sails.

He had not been idle since his conversation with Omat and he knew now the approaching ships matched the descriptions of those used by the Fish-Eyed-Folk of old legends...and that a similar ship had captured the Old Man and his son months before.

Whether friendly or hostile, the fleets' arrival promised to be the most noteworthy event in this generation's history-and,Hakiem intended to witness it firsthand. He was not unaware of the potential danger, but he feared even more the possibility of missing the moment of landfall.

It might prove to be the end of the Old Man's story, and it would definitely be the beginning of a new story for Sanctuary. The fact that it might be the end of Hakiem's story was inconsequential.

Shooing away a random fly, the storyteller drank again, and waited.