The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [197]
“The horses make a difference,” observes Megaera.
“I suppose so. Was the big fleet just a decoy?”
“It seems too large for that.”
“Mop-up duty, perhaps. To turn whatever is left into a dutiful province of White Wizards.”
“How about scorching whatever’s left to make sure no one else gets similar ideas?”
“That sounds more like the wizards I met.”
Neither says more as their mounts carry them down the damp clay of the road to Land’s End. As they turn onto the rough stones of the road to the keep, a fisherwoman steps to the side of the pavement and turns her scarfed head away from them.
The duty guard at the keep is a thin-faced girl unknown to Creslin.
“Keren, get Shierra, Hyel, and the two wizards. Then sound the duty alarm.”
“Yes, Regent Megaera.” The guard is gone even before Creslin’s boots have struck the sandy clay.
Hyel is pulling on a tunic as he stumbles into the room that has become their meeting place.
Shierra wears a faint smile, which fades as she sees Creslin’s face. “I thought you said that the great White fleet was days away.”
“It is,” answers Megaera.
“But there are four smaller fleets almost offshore.” Creslin steps up to the rough map of Recluce that Klerris has drawn on the inside white-plaster wall. “Here, here, here, and here.” He looks toward the two military commanders. “They could land later today, and they are probably planning to.”
“Can’t you just destroy them?” asks Hyel.
“Why?” asks Megaera.
Lydya appears in the doorway, followed by Klerris. Both appear composed, unlike the regents and Shierra and Hyel.
“But—”
“That much destruction is dangerous,” offers Klerris in his customary mild tone, “even if it uses order as a basis.”
“Besides,” adds Megaera, “why waste the ships?”
Creslin nods, understanding. “We just drive all of them onto the beach. That was how we got the Dawnstar.” He pauses, wondering why he had not thought of such a simple expedient. Then he reflects. “But . . . that’s going to be a mess. And what about the troops who survive? A lot of angry, armed men will be wandering around.”
“I’m sure that Shierra and Hyel can take care of that,” Megaera says.
Hyel straightens his tunic. “Maybe . . .”
“Do you have a better suggestion? There also might be more gold that way.” Megaera’s voice is reasonable. “And less loss of life.”
“The less loss of life, the better.” Lydya’s voice is cool, as if she were discussing crops.
“In any case, we can scatter the ships. That way,” Creslin explains, “the survivors will be strung out along the beaches.”
“They’re still not exactly going to welcome us. They’ve certainly been warned that we’re devils and that they should fight to the death.” Shierra looks at Creslin, her dark eyes probing. “How many ships are there?”
“Thirty, I’d guess. That doesn’t include the big fleet.”
“And how many soldiers on each?”
“It depends. At least two score, perhaps as many as five.”
“Possibly two thousand armed men—and we’re supposed to handle them with what? Three hundred? And that counts the Hamorians, and some refugees who have held a blade for perhaps a season.” Shierra’s voice is acid.
“Most of them won’t make it,” Creslin says coldly. “Just because the ships are grounded it doesn’t mean that the troops will survive. Most of them can’t swim.”
“Fine,” snaps Shierra. “You kill three quarters of them. That’s still five hundred. And that’s not even counting the biggest fleet.”
“You’ve beaten those odds all too many times,” Creslin says tiredly. He turns back to the map painted on the wall. “Here’s where the ships are—”
“One other thing,” Megaera interrupts. “If we take over the hidden fleets, there’s no need to worry about the large fleet.”
The others turn toward the redhead. Creslin lowers the hand with which he had begun to explain the locations of the fleets.
“Why not?”
“. . . absurd . . .”
“It’s simple enough,” Megaera explains. “All of the wizards’ ships, and those of their close Candarian allies, are there. The hidden fleets are ships