She shifted, shoulders aching where she was propped at an awkward angle. She lay against the rail of the ship, wedged beside a coil of rope. That she’d managed to sleep regardless was a testament to her exhaustion.
Even the slight movement brought a rumble from her stomach, and the shaky, hollow feeling that came with it. She’d had nothing but half a handful of dried meat in the last day. Everyone aboard the ships was hungry, but Winter and Dobraev had agreed to make straight for Dimiotsk, and not risk another stop looking for supplies that likely weren’t available in any case.
This close to the coast, the river had opened out into a broader, slower flow, and the sailors had agreed it was safe to continue by lantern light after dark. They’d seen no other ships, and few lights on the shore. We should reach the city early tomorrow. Winter glanced up at the sky, which was starting to lighten. Today, rather.
She stood up, thighs and calves aching, and did her best to stretch. With the departure of the Haeta and those refugees who’d decided to take their chances on land, the ships weren’t quite jammed to capacity, but it was still close. The deck was littered with sleepers, and she knew they were packed tight in the hold as well. She could see the lantern of Dobraev’s ship a few dozen yards away, sails drooping. The wind had been weak, and they’d relied mostly on the current and the oars. At least the rain has held off.
Turning to the bow, she could see more lights, twinkling in the darkness like a swarm of fireflies. Winter walked in that direction, following the rail, stepping carefully over sleeping bodies. The sun rose over the horizon, and the sky went from gray to purple and began shading into blue. Ahead, the lights started to wink out, disappearing like the constellations with the sunrise, and the prosaic reality of the city of Dimiotsk was revealed.
The river Bataria broadened at the mouth into a wide bay, letting into the Borel Sea. The northern curve of the bay was lined with tall, rocky cliffs, but south of the river the land was flatter, and there a hard-?bitten city had grown up. City was, in fact, perhaps too grand a term—?it was more like a country town writ large. The buildings were made of logs, with leather covering the window openings. With no shortage of space, they sprawled back from the riverfront with only the loosest suggestion of a street plan. Only the Sworn Church was built of brick, sporting a tall spire topped with a silver double circle.
Docks, most of them decidedly decrepit-?looking, stretched out into the river like the grasping, skeletal fingers of a corpse. Farther along, where the water was deeper, a more substantial set of moorings provided space for oceangoing ships. The harbor was somewhat protected from the sea by a string of barrier islands, barely visible as lumps in the ocean.
One whole section of the bay was devoted to lumber, a vast field of tree trunks lashed side by side and floating like a carpet stretching from the dock to the breakwater. A ship was taking some aboard with a crane, pulling them dripping out of the water and lowering them into its hold. The forests of northern Murnsk were famous, Winter knew. She wondered if the trade was hurting—?they certainly hadn’t passed any lumbermen.
A light flashed from the other ship. Sergeant Gorchov, who was in the bow, watched it for a moment and then looked over his shoulder.
“The lieutenant says we’ll dock here,” he said. “He has to proceed on to the fort afterward, to report, but there’s no need to drag this lot with us.” He gestured at the refugees.
“We don’t need to get permission from someone?” Winter said.
Gorchov snorted. “In Dimiotsk? Not likely.”
This turned out to be correct. They simply found a dock that looked like it wouldn’t collapse and they tied up, ignoring the furious protests of the crew of a small fishing boat who had been aiming for the same space. Gorchov exchanged scatological retorts with the fishermen over the rail, apparently in a fine mood, while the sailors dropped the cargo net over the side. The refugees swarmed off, despite the soldiers attempts to keep things orderly. I can’t blame them, Winter thought. I’d want to get the hell away from here, too.
The second ship docked nearby, unleashing a similar tide of desperate humanity. Winter saw Lieutenant Dobraev climbing down the net, hand over hand, and walking along the shore toward their vessel. Alex and Abraham had emerged on deck, looking as bedraggled and hungry as Winter felt. She turned to Gorchov.
“Thank you for all your help, Sergeant.”
He shrugged and scratched his beard in a way that reminded Winter so much of Marcus that she almost laughed. “It’s nothing. I should thank you. That bastard Kollowrath would have kept us there until we died at our posts.” He glanced down at the lieutenant. “I’m glad you could talk some sense into Byr.”
Winter smiled. “Glad I could help.”
Climbing down the cargo net was one more insult to aching muscles, but she managed it well enough. Abraham had more trouble, though Alex swarmed down with the agility of a spider and hopped lightly to the dock. Winter turned to Dobraev as Abraham gingerly dismounted.
“It... might be possible for you to come to the fort,” the lieutenant said. “The colonel may be understanding. And...” He gestured at the three of them, who had nothing more than the clothes on their backs and the saber at Winter’s belt.
“We’ll be all right,” Winter said. She wasn’t at all certain of that, of course, but it was clear that Dobraev didn’t think highly of his chances of explaining them to some Murnskai colonel. No need to make his life any harder.
“If you say so,” he said, relieved. “Thank you, once again. None of us would have survived if not for you.”
Winter nodded silently. You wouldn’t have been in danger if not for me. But she didn’t say it. It might not even be true. The Beast would have come here eventually.
“If you are unable to find a ship,” Dobraev said, “get a message to me at the fort. I will see if there’s anything I can do.”
“Thank you,” Winter said. “I will.”
There was an awkward pause. Dobraev looked up at Gorchov, who was leaning on the rail of the ship, then back to Winter. He grinned, straightened, and gave her a crisp salute.
“Division-?General,” he said.
Winter nodded, as she had to so many salutes. Dobraev turned and hurried aboard the ship. Gorchov said something in his ear, putting one big arm around his shoulders, and they both started laughing.
“We made it,” Winter said. She looked at her companions. Abraham was grave, while Alex grinned, eyebrows raised.
“We made it,” the girl agreed. “So, now what?”
*