Chapter Three #2
They chose the soundest of the cottages for their shelter and used scraps of wood to try to block up the windows and other openings, but soon a sharp wind began to blow, and some rain still managed to push in through the gaps.
Lorath could only imagine how unpleasant the evening would have been had the storm caught them on the open road.
Lightning occasionally flashed outside, visible through cracks in the wood, accompanied by thunder that shook the floorboards against his back.
Somehow, Donan slept through it all, but Lorath lay awake, staring up into the swaying, creaking rafters.
He wondered who had lived in this shack before it became a derelict hull. Was it a solitary fisherman? A family? Had children run in and out through that front door? Had they watched their mother, their father, their grandparents die at the hands of a reaper?
“Is it the storm that keeps you up?” Tyrael asked from nearby in the darkness. “Or something else?”
“I don’t know,” Lorath answered.
“What is on your mind?”
“Back on the watchtower, you asked me if I truly seek justice. What else would I be seeking?”
A moment went by, and then Tyrael asked, “Who do you think justice is for?”
Lorath frowned. “For the victims, of course.”
“To what end?”
The question provoked Lorath into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”
“When you slew the cultists, did your justice undo the suffering their captives had endured? Did your justice heal the injured? Bring back their dead?”
“No.”
“Then how was your justice for them?” Tyrael sat up to face Lorath.
“Some might even say that justice was unattainable because each cultist had only one life to pay in recompense for the many lives they took. But justice is not an equation to balance. Justice is a virtue to serve and fulfill, and that is what makes it so hard to obtain.”
“I don’t understand,” said Lorath.
Lightning flashed outside and glinted off Tyrael’s armor, followed a few moments later by a receding clap of thunder. The worst of the storm had passed over them.
“There are many who claim to serve justice,” Tyrael said, “when all the while their true master is their anger, their hatred, their fear, their pain, or their powerlessness. Such people seek vengeance, Lorath, not justice.”
Lorath lay back down. “In a world this broken, I’m not sure there is a difference.”
The next morning, they left the abandoned village under a sullen sky that seemed to threaten them with another storm if they lingered.
The coastal road carried them southward, jogging inland now and then through dense conifer forests that offered sporadic views of the ocean below.
They had to contend with the occasional pack of spiders or wolves but otherwise managed to avoid any serious confrontations.
Eventually, they came upon an occupied village where the residents had somehow clung to their way of life, though many of the houses sat shuttered and dark as silent monuments to death’s toll.
The people there appeared fearful and forlorn, with scarcely enough to live on themselves, but they were willing to sell some meager provisions.
Lorath intentionally overpaid for a supply of hard bread and oily dried fish, which fed the Horadrim for the remainder of their journey to Kingsport.
Lorath had visited a few times before, many years ago.
He knew well its reputation for lawlessness even before the destruction caused by Malthael.
The capital port of Westmarch may have boasted a greater volume of legitimate import and trade, but Kingsport made up the difference with illicit smuggling and trafficking of stolen goods.
It lay tucked away in a river inlet at the southernmost point of the kingdom’s coast. Before the foundation of a royal city there, the sheltered bay had offered a haven to pirates and raiders, who had adapted to the encroachment of the crown on their territory by assuming a thin mercantile guise.
The Fish Road crested a ridge overlooking the city from the west, where the Horadrim paused, unsure of what to expect below.
Lorath saw ships secured at the wharf and deeper-keeled vessels anchored out in the harbor.
Even from their vantage, he could hear the commotion of the port, the clang of machinery, the shouts and curses of sailors.
He could smell the rank odors of rotten fish, mildew, smoke, and oil.
The road before them plunged into a labyrinth of streets and alleyways said to hide a murderous thief in every shadow.
“Is this wise?” Donan asked. “I thought we wanted to avoid unnecessary conflict.”
“We do,” Tyrael said.
Donan shrugged. “It’s just that…unnecessary conflict seems inevitable in a city like this.”
“A fishing dinghy can’t make the crossing to Skovos,” Tyrael said. “We need a ship. And that city is where we will hire one. Some conflict may be unavoidable.”
“At least the port is active,” Lorath said. “I suggest we head straight for the wharf.”
Their descent followed a winding track of switchbacks down the tiers and levels of the city.
The streets were narrow and hemmed in by the leaning upper stories of the half-timber buildings.
As with all the settlements they had visited in their travels, they passed many empty houses left to rot, though in Kingsport it seemed that vagrants and squatters occupied several of the forsaken structures.
Lorath could feel the gaze of hostile eyes upon them as they made their way downward.
He walked with his polearm at the ready, while Donan walked with his staff, and none could miss the great sword at Tyrael’s side.
They must have appeared formidable enough to dissuade any would-be thieves from assailing them.
As they neared the market quarter, the streets widened to allow for the passage of wagons, but fewer carts traveled those lanes than the city had once boasted, which left the passages feeling haunted by the loss.
Alehouses, brothels, and petty shops began to appear, and the streets grew more crowded with poor mariners wearing clothes fashioned from old sailcloth, but now and then they glimpsed someone wearing finer attire, always in the company of menacing thick-necked guards.
Upon reaching the wharf, Lorath pointed at a dockside tavern calling itself The Bilge. “I imagine we’ll meet captains and crew in there,” he said.
They went in and found it a typical sort of place, with a low ceiling, thick timbers, and murky light intruding through grimy windows.
But as soon as the Horadrim entered, the room fell silent.
Lorath peered through the smoky gloom at a crowd of weather-beaten faces.
Most stared into their mugs, but a few of the patrons watched them with predatory glares.
Tyrael strode to the barkeep and laid a few coins on the counter. “Your next round is on me,” he announced to the room.
“Who’s buying?” someone asked from a far corner.
“Three travelers looking to secure passage on a ship,” Tyrael replied.
“You can buy your way onto any vessel in the harbor,” said an old salt with a crooked nose and a missing ear. “It’s the getting off bit that’ll prove tricky.”
At that, the room erupted with laughter.
“Old Pike ain’t wrong,” said the barkeep, chuckling as he cupped Tyrael’s money across the counter and into the waiting palm of his other hand. “Now, do you have a destination in mind? Or are you just looking to get out of Kingsport in a hurry?”
“We are bound for Skovos,” Tyrael said.
The barkeep glanced up as if he doubted his hearing. Then his thin lips broke into a gap-toothed grin. “Right, right. And from there you’re off to the Cold Isles, are you?”
“We do not jest,” said Tyrael.
“Then you’re mad.” The barkeep lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “If the crossing don’t kill you, them Amazons will. No one sails to Skovos.”
“No one?” asked Donan.
The barkeep gave him a hard stare. “No one.”
“Really?” Lorath drew closer, propped an elbow on the counter, and narrowed an eye. “Are you telling me a fine establishment like this doesn’t have a single bottle of Skovos wine in its cellar?”
“Have a care, lad,” the barkeep said.
“If you don’t have any,” Donan said, “we’ve seen it elsewhere. Do the bottles just wash in with the tide?”
“You should stop asking questions now.” The barkeep cast a wary glance at his own patrons. “You wouldn’t want to attract the interest of the Harbormaster.”
“The Harbormaster, eh?” Lorath said. “Now, who might that be?”
“Keep talking, and you’ll find out soon enough.”
Donan folded his arms. “What does this Harbormaster have to do with Skovos?”
“That’s it. You lot ain’t welcome in here.” The barkeep made a show of slapping Tyrael’s coins back onto the counter with a loud clink and pushing them away. “I’ll ask you to clear out and never again cross the threshold of my alehouse.”
Chairs scraped against the floor as several roughs nearby rose to their feet, ready to enforce the barkeep’s order.
Lorath looked at Tyrael, who shook his head.
A brawl would not be prudent so soon after their arrival in the city.
Instead, Tyrael simply took his money back, and the three of them left the tavern.