Ison of the Isles
“Harg watched the ant-swarm of activity from the deck of the Windemon. It was a scene of controlled chaos. Four ships lay at anchor in the bay, disgorging their loads of men and equipment in a calculated rush. The water was crowded with rowboats, the beach a milling mass. Nearby, there were tense, hushed orders from the shiphands controlling the ropes of a cannon swaying in a hammock from the improvised crane of the Windemon’s main yard. Ropes and muscles taut, they slowly lowered the iron barre...l into the cutter waiting below.
Barko appeared at his side. “Everything ready?” Harg asked.
“As ready as it can be,” Barko said. He grinned in exhilaration, looking even nastier than usual.
Harg clasped his friend’s hand. “Good luck.” Then, on an impulse, he hugged Barko close. “Be careful,” he said.
“I will. See you in Villamish.” Barko turned toward the waiting gig.
Harg wished he were going, too—or that he were sending someone less valuable to him.MoreLess
Barko appeared at his side. “Everything ready?” Harg asked.
“As ready as it can be,” Barko said. He grinned in exhilaration, looking even nastier than usual.
Harg clasped his friend’s hand. “Good luck.” Then, on an impulse, he hugged Barko close. “Be careful,” he said.
“I will. See you in Villamish.” Barko turned toward the waiting gig.
Harg wished he were going, too—or that he were sending someone less valuable to him.MoreLess
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