Read Online Isles of the Forsaken by Carolyn Ives Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn Ives Gilman
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homicidal mania. Harg was on them in an instant, meaning to drag Jory off, but one of the marines was closer, and raised his truncheon to strike.
“No!” Harg cried out, but the marine brought the club down on Jory’s shattered head.
The young man’s body went stiff, and he fell to the ground. Then, as Harg knelt over him, Jory began to shake in the grip of a seizure. Looking up, Harg saw the marine raise his truncheon to strike again, and with a yell of rage, Harg launched himself at the man. His fist landed in the marine’s face with a crunch, and the man flailed the air with his club, clutching a bloody nose with his other hand.
A gunshot went off, and in a moment of sheer instinct, Harg grabbed for his officer’s pistol, an elegant flintlock which, as soon as he had it in his hand, he recalled was loaded but not primed. It didn’t matter; the sight of the gun had the necessary effect. The marines both froze. On one knee over Jory’s rigid, quivering body, Harg paused with the gun in his hand. Seeing an opportunity to calm the situation, he said in a commanding tone, “No one move, and we can work this out.”
The soldiers both obeyed, but the instant Harg thought everything was under control, something barrelled into him from behind, knocking the gun from his hand and the breath from his body, laying him out on the ground. He had forgotten the overseer, twice his size and three times as angry.
The marines sprang to life again, laying into him with their truncheons, so that all he could do was try to shield his own head from the blows. As several more marines, summoned by the gunshot, came racing up, they wrenched Harg’s arms behind him and tied them with some sort of twine to his ankles. Four men picked him up, and he saw the box with the epaulette fall from his jacket into the sand.
“Gill! Bonn! Take care of Jory!” he shouted at the Yorans, who stood frozen, appalled at the explosion of violence on their beach.
After that, Harg saw only the sands of Yora passing under him as they carried him off to the brig.
3
Prisoners of the Past
The city of Tornabay was wedged into a crescent between the mountain and the sea. To a ship approaching from the east, it seemed to rise nearly vertical from the water, the conical peak of Mount Embo at its back.
It was a smoky, hodgepodge city that climbed the mountainside in an architectural tumult, clutching for toeholds on the steep slope. Neighbourhoods butted aggressively at each other; their boundaries looked like the results of fierce haggling sessions like the ones that went on in the markets by the waterfront.
Tornabay was a trading city, always in the market for something new. In its chameleon history it had incorporated every wave of migration that had washed over the isles. The smoke-darkened, geometric mass of its stone palace, built on a rocky spur that bisected the city, was proof that the Altans had once found something there worth guarding against, though what it was no one knew. When Alta fell in the time before history, the town became a sleepy Adaina settlement of timber, woodsmoke, and net reels, clustered along the bay. Then the industrious Torna had immigrated and transformed it into a busy, brick-and-beam emporium organized around a hundred markets. When the Innings conquered the isles, they spurned the ancient capital of Lashnish and made Tornabay their colonial headquarters. They cleared away whole tracts to impose an island of rational order on the mercantile hubbub.
It was just after dawn when an imperial frigate flying the red-and-white standard of Inning moved into the bay between the black, knife-edged headlands. It was a grand sight in the morning sun. Forty guns ranged on two decks, sails piled to the sky to catch the morning breeze, it walked the water with authority. As it cast anchor in the harbour, the only sounds that drifted to the piers were the faraway rattle of anchor cable and the occasional muffled bark of orders as the
“No!” Harg cried out, but the marine brought the club down on Jory’s shattered head.
The young man’s body went stiff, and he fell to the ground. Then, as Harg knelt over him, Jory began to shake in the grip of a seizure. Looking up, Harg saw the marine raise his truncheon to strike again, and with a yell of rage, Harg launched himself at the man. His fist landed in the marine’s face with a crunch, and the man flailed the air with his club, clutching a bloody nose with his other hand.
A gunshot went off, and in a moment of sheer instinct, Harg grabbed for his officer’s pistol, an elegant flintlock which, as soon as he had it in his hand, he recalled was loaded but not primed. It didn’t matter; the sight of the gun had the necessary effect. The marines both froze. On one knee over Jory’s rigid, quivering body, Harg paused with the gun in his hand. Seeing an opportunity to calm the situation, he said in a commanding tone, “No one move, and we can work this out.”
The soldiers both obeyed, but the instant Harg thought everything was under control, something barrelled into him from behind, knocking the gun from his hand and the breath from his body, laying him out on the ground. He had forgotten the overseer, twice his size and three times as angry.
The marines sprang to life again, laying into him with their truncheons, so that all he could do was try to shield his own head from the blows. As several more marines, summoned by the gunshot, came racing up, they wrenched Harg’s arms behind him and tied them with some sort of twine to his ankles. Four men picked him up, and he saw the box with the epaulette fall from his jacket into the sand.
“Gill! Bonn! Take care of Jory!” he shouted at the Yorans, who stood frozen, appalled at the explosion of violence on their beach.
After that, Harg saw only the sands of Yora passing under him as they carried him off to the brig.
3
Prisoners of the Past
The city of Tornabay was wedged into a crescent between the mountain and the sea. To a ship approaching from the east, it seemed to rise nearly vertical from the water, the conical peak of Mount Embo at its back.
It was a smoky, hodgepodge city that climbed the mountainside in an architectural tumult, clutching for toeholds on the steep slope. Neighbourhoods butted aggressively at each other; their boundaries looked like the results of fierce haggling sessions like the ones that went on in the markets by the waterfront.
Tornabay was a trading city, always in the market for something new. In its chameleon history it had incorporated every wave of migration that had washed over the isles. The smoke-darkened, geometric mass of its stone palace, built on a rocky spur that bisected the city, was proof that the Altans had once found something there worth guarding against, though what it was no one knew. When Alta fell in the time before history, the town became a sleepy Adaina settlement of timber, woodsmoke, and net reels, clustered along the bay. Then the industrious Torna had immigrated and transformed it into a busy, brick-and-beam emporium organized around a hundred markets. When the Innings conquered the isles, they spurned the ancient capital of Lashnish and made Tornabay their colonial headquarters. They cleared away whole tracts to impose an island of rational order on the mercantile hubbub.
It was just after dawn when an imperial frigate flying the red-and-white standard of Inning moved into the bay between the black, knife-edged headlands. It was a grand sight in the morning sun. Forty guns ranged on two decks, sails piled to the sky to catch the morning breeze, it walked the water with authority. As it cast anchor in the harbour, the only sounds that drifted to the piers were the faraway rattle of anchor cable and the occasional muffled bark of orders as the
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