exhausted soldiers herded the final stragglers into the building. Larson had sent word that he and his soldiers would hole up in one of Folville’s other shelters.
“It’s getting hard to stand against the wind,” Hemmington said as he sent his men on ahead of him into the warehouse. He shook the sleet from his cloak like a wet dog. “Too bad we can’t use the first floor, too, but it’s sure to flood.”
Once, the structure had been a warehouse, before the Great Fire. Then it sat damaged and abandoned before Folville’s men took it for their own, replacing or boarding up broken windows, shoring up its supporting beams and patching its ruined roof. They would be high enough to escape the storm surge, Blaine thought, but he wondered whether the building would hold against the winds, which seemed to grow stronger minute by minute.
Men and women, entire families, old and young, crowded into the shelter. They had felt the storm warning in their bones and brought only what they could carry. Some clutched wailing infants and terrified small children. A few hung tenaciously on to dogs they refused to leave behind. Most came only with the clothes on their backs or a small bag of hastily gathered belongings.
Blaine struggled to close the door against the wind. The downstairs shutters had been secured, but they banged against the sill. Rain struck like small pebbles being tossed against the siding.
“Let’s find a place upstairs where we can see what’s going on in the city,” Blaine said.
They climbed the steep, narrow steps, stopping at each landing to look in on the people sheltered on that floor. Some milled about, or spoke quietly in small groups. Others huddled over crying children or tried to calm disoriented elders. Though it was cold outside and growing colder, the press of bodies warmed even the large, open room.
“You have provisions?” Blaine asked.
Folville nodded. “I’ve got men on each floor to make sure the provisions are rationed evenly. With luck, we won’t be here long enough to need them.”
Blaine eyed the refugees. Most had a bleak, hopeless look, as if this last round of hardship, on the heels of the Great Fire and the Cataclysm, was nearly too much to bear. A few sobbed quietly. The third floor was as crowded as the second. Despite the large number of people, it was strangely silent, quiet enough to hear the wind battering the building. From time to time, something crashed against the brick or shattered against the wooden shutters, hurled by the wild winds outside. Those nearest the windows flinched, but others, lost in their misery, did not react at all.
Blaine and Kestel worked their way over to the fourth-floor windows facing the sea, but darkness and driving rain made it impossible to see out. “How long do you think it’ll be until the storm gives out?” Kestel asked, slipping up beside Blaine.
He shrugged. “Hard to say. If we’re lucky, maybe it will be over by daybreak.”
The question, of course, was what would be left after the storm passed. People had just begun to rebuild. Devastating storms could undo all that. If the storms continued, residents would abandon Castle Reach, leaving the former seaport deserted.
Blaine and Kestel returned to the first floor, where they found Hemmington and his soldiers, as well as Folville. Oneof the soldiers peered through a broken shutter. “I pity anyone who’s out there. The wind is driving a lot of garbage around. Looks like it’s ripping the tile off some of the roofs.”
“Hopefully, not ours,” Folville said. The old building creaked and wind whistled through gaps, as if the entire structure was moaning. Lanterns cast a dim glow over the large rooms. The air smelled of smoke and lamp oil.
Hemmington posted two soldiers on watch by the door. “I’m less worried about people breaking in than water seeping under the door,” he said. “You see a leak, I want to know about it.”
Time passed, and no more bells tolled.
“It’s getting hard to stand against the wind,” Hemmington said as he sent his men on ahead of him into the warehouse. He shook the sleet from his cloak like a wet dog. “Too bad we can’t use the first floor, too, but it’s sure to flood.”
Once, the structure had been a warehouse, before the Great Fire. Then it sat damaged and abandoned before Folville’s men took it for their own, replacing or boarding up broken windows, shoring up its supporting beams and patching its ruined roof. They would be high enough to escape the storm surge, Blaine thought, but he wondered whether the building would hold against the winds, which seemed to grow stronger minute by minute.
Men and women, entire families, old and young, crowded into the shelter. They had felt the storm warning in their bones and brought only what they could carry. Some clutched wailing infants and terrified small children. A few hung tenaciously on to dogs they refused to leave behind. Most came only with the clothes on their backs or a small bag of hastily gathered belongings.
Blaine struggled to close the door against the wind. The downstairs shutters had been secured, but they banged against the sill. Rain struck like small pebbles being tossed against the siding.
“Let’s find a place upstairs where we can see what’s going on in the city,” Blaine said.
They climbed the steep, narrow steps, stopping at each landing to look in on the people sheltered on that floor. Some milled about, or spoke quietly in small groups. Others huddled over crying children or tried to calm disoriented elders. Though it was cold outside and growing colder, the press of bodies warmed even the large, open room.
“You have provisions?” Blaine asked.
Folville nodded. “I’ve got men on each floor to make sure the provisions are rationed evenly. With luck, we won’t be here long enough to need them.”
Blaine eyed the refugees. Most had a bleak, hopeless look, as if this last round of hardship, on the heels of the Great Fire and the Cataclysm, was nearly too much to bear. A few sobbed quietly. The third floor was as crowded as the second. Despite the large number of people, it was strangely silent, quiet enough to hear the wind battering the building. From time to time, something crashed against the brick or shattered against the wooden shutters, hurled by the wild winds outside. Those nearest the windows flinched, but others, lost in their misery, did not react at all.
Blaine and Kestel worked their way over to the fourth-floor windows facing the sea, but darkness and driving rain made it impossible to see out. “How long do you think it’ll be until the storm gives out?” Kestel asked, slipping up beside Blaine.
He shrugged. “Hard to say. If we’re lucky, maybe it will be over by daybreak.”
The question, of course, was what would be left after the storm passed. People had just begun to rebuild. Devastating storms could undo all that. If the storms continued, residents would abandon Castle Reach, leaving the former seaport deserted.
Blaine and Kestel returned to the first floor, where they found Hemmington and his soldiers, as well as Folville. Oneof the soldiers peered through a broken shutter. “I pity anyone who’s out there. The wind is driving a lot of garbage around. Looks like it’s ripping the tile off some of the roofs.”
“Hopefully, not ours,” Folville said. The old building creaked and wind whistled through gaps, as if the entire structure was moaning. Lanterns cast a dim glow over the large rooms. The air smelled of smoke and lamp oil.
Hemmington posted two soldiers on watch by the door. “I’m less worried about people breaking in than water seeping under the door,” he said. “You see a leak, I want to know about it.”
Time passed, and no more bells tolled.
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