Demontech: Gulf Run by David Sherman

and between the corners provided archers with angles to shoot at any attackers who attempted to gather under the overhang. Within the walls, only the towers of the central keep were higher than the curtain walls. In the past, before they turned to trade, raiders from the Low Desert north of Dartmutt had often attacked the city, and the city had built its defenses to hold them off. There was no moat, but the massive gates looked strong enough to withstand any but the mightiest siege engines.
    Shallow-draft ships, the merchantmen of Princedon Gulf, were moored at the quays and piers; a few were off-loading cargo, none were boarding passengers or cargo for shipment east. Fishing craft and houseboats, strangers to that end of the Gulf, bobbed at anchor. Little more than half a mile from the shore, a thin screen of war galleys shielded the harbor’s mouth, preventing other craft from entering its waters. In the distance, more craft, which appeared to be coast huggers, were approaching.
    Companies of soldiers struggled to clear the roads the city needed to bring in provisions and goods from elsewhere—and to prevent starving refugees from assaulting the small supply caravans and looting them. Troops of cavalry patrolled the forest that edged the plain, other troops patrolling the farms to chase away refugees who would harvest the grains and vegetables for their own use.
    One of those troops broke into a gallop when its commander spied the van of the column emerge from the Eikby road.
    “Hold!”
the captain shouted, reining up in front of the lead wagon. His men arrayed themselves in three ranks behind him, weapons at the ready—swords in the hands of the front rank, lowered lances behind them, nocked arrows in the bows to the rear. The light armor that protected the soldiers’ chests and arms looked like it had seen battle; it was obvious even to the people in the column’s van that these weren’t ceremonial troops.
    Esaulow, a stout, garrulous Eikbyer driving the lead wagon, stopped and looked fearfully at the cavalrymen. He hadn’t expected to be greeted by the prince, but hostile soldiers were even further from any welcome he’d thought likely.
    “Yes, lord,” he said as he swept off his hat to bob his head and tug at his forelock.
    “You must turn back,” the captain announced in a strong voice. “None more may approach Dartmutt.”
    “Lord?” Esaulow asked. “I don’t quite well understand your words.” He’d never been to Dartmutt and wasn’t familiar with the local dialect.
    “Are you deaf? I spoke clear enough. Turn back!” The captain put his hand on his sword hilt meaningfully.
    “Stay, lord, stay!” Esaulow said quickly, holding up both hands as though to fend off a blow. “I’m sure someone else will gladly speak to you.” He twisted around to look back down the column and huffed out in relief when he saw horsemen cantering forward. “Who can speak Dartmutter?” he called out, and wondered why
he
had to be driving the lead wagon, he who couldn’t understand the way these Dartmutters mangled the tongue. Even as he asked the question, he saw Plotniko, the former master carpenter of Eikby, striding forward. Yes, Plotniko would understand the Dartmutt captain; he’d journeyed this way several times in quest for materials and tools. He watched Plotniko step aside for the horsemen—Spinner, Haft, and that harridan, Golden Girl.
    “What’s the problem, Esaulow,” Spinner asked when he reached the van. He was proud of himself, he’d hardly had to pause before he remembered the man’s name.
    Haft pulled up alongside Spinner and graced the Dartmutt captain with a polite nod and a wolfish smile. He didn’t put his hand on his axe, not quite, but it was obvious he could have it out as quickly as the captain could draw his sword. A sergeant murmured an order and half of the archers drew back their arrows and pointed their bows toward him.
    Alyline shouldered her stallion forward and didn’t