Chapter 99

The warehouse had been under suspicion for several weeks, though nothing had yet been found to prove that contraband was being stored within its walls.

It stood on the outskirts of Norham, where the neat rows of commercial buildings gradually gave way to the docks. Beyond that point, the streets grew muddy and deserted, particularly after sunset.

There was nothing usual about the warehouse itself. It was a broad, weather-beaten structure, its timber and stone darkened by years of exposure to the salty air. Wide loading doors faced the water, and its spacious interior could easily accommodate a substantial quantity of goods.

Yet there had been reports of carts arriving and departing at peculiar hours, often well after most of the surrounding businesses had closed for the night.

Draven had taken the reports seriously. He therefore ordered the warehouse placed under even closer surveillance.

Ten of his men were assigned to the task that night, positioned around the building and along the adjoining lanes so that no one could approach without being observed.

They were not sent there to make arrests or interfere with whatever might occur. Their orders were to remain hidden, watch the warehouse and report what they saw.

If the suspicions proved unfounded, they would return with nothing more than a tedious night’s work behind them. If a shipment arrived, they were to identify the vessel, observe the men handling the cargo and determine what was being brought ashore.

It was grueling work, and patience was something Draven’s men understood.

It was well into the night by the time movement finally stirred along the waterfront.

The men had been waiting in the cold for hours, scarcely speaking as the damp air settled into their clothes. The smell from the docks drifted through the darkness, mingling with tar, wet timber and the faint smoke of fires still burning farther along the docks.

Then there was movement in the darkness.

The men watching from their concealed positions remained still as it drew alongside the dock.

The crates were moved quickly from the vessel to the warehouse, and the men carrying them worked like a well oiled machine.

One of Draven’s men, concealed near the side of the warehouse, watched a crate disappear through the loading doors, wondering how much each one weighed. He knew they must have been heavy from how the workers were struggling to hurl them.

What were in them? Most likely going to be ammunition like the last one they seized.

Another observed the markings burned into its side. As it was their first time seeing it, none of them could tell what it meant.

Answers weren’t forthcoming. They only needed to observe a little longer.

A quiet metallic sound cut through the darkness, and given the precariousness of their situation, it might as well have been the deafening crack of thunder.

A man’s boot had caught against a discarded piece of iron as he shifted his position. The sound was small, but the waterfront was quiet enough for it to carry.

The workers stopped what they were doing, now on full alert. Their gazes swept the surrounding area, searching for the source of the noise.

One of the workers broke away from the rest and began inspecting the area for himself.

In the course of his search, he came dangerously close to where one of Draven’s soldiers was concealed, narrowly passing him without noticing. The soldier remained perfectly still, scarcely daring to breathe as the man moved within a few feet of his hiding place.

The worker paused partway through his search, scowling as though sheer concentration might help him discover what he was looking for.

For several long seconds, he remained motionless, his eyes fixed upon the darkness where the soldier was concealed. Then he turned, said something quietly to the man nearest him, and began walking in that direction.

The soldier knew at once that the mistake had been made.

He could have tried to retreat, but any sudden movement would only compromise the mission further. There was simply nothing that can be done about it now.

By the time the worker reached the corner and spotted where he was hiding, the soldier had already drawn his pistol, training it directly on the man.

The worker was not cowed by the sight of the pistol. His expression hardened, and his own hand moved toward his weapon, clearly prepared to draw.

He never got the chance.

A shot cracked through the night.

The worker jerked violently and staggered backward before collapsing hard onto the ground. Blood began to spread across his chest, dark against his clothing.

The man behind him saw the body fall. His panicked shout caused a frenzy.

Men reached for weapons. Doors flew open. More figures appeared from within the building, and gunfire erupted almost immediately, shattering the stillness that had surrounded the docks only moments before.

Draven’s men returned fire.

What had begun as a quiet observation became a fight for survival.

The first minutes were confusion and panic. Gunshots thundered around them, sending echoes down the adjoining lanes.

Lanterns knocked from their hooks smashed on the ground, leaving portions of the yard in total darkness while flashes of gunfire illuminated it in violent bursts.

The men threw themselves behind carts, crates, walls, and anything at all that might serve as cover, firing whenever they caught the slightest glimpse of movement.

The smugglers knew the warehouse and its surroundings well, a point in their favor.

Some were armed with pistols, while others hastily seized muskets from the carts where they had been stored.

But the workers were not trained for warfare of any kind, they lacked the discipline for it.

They fired too quickly, wasted rounds with slurpy aims and they exposed themselves and their location whenever with each clumsy shot.

They moved with the training they had been given, covering one another and making use of whatever shelter the yard offered. But skill did not make them immune to bullets.

One man went down beside the warehouse wall.

Another fell while attempting to reach him.

The fighting continued for several agonizing minutes before the advantage finally turned decisively in soldiers’ favour.

One smuggler attempted to flee toward the docks and was brought down before he could get far.

When the shooting finally stopped, the silence that followed seemed unnatural.

Smoke hung low in the cold air and blood darkened the earth.

Two of Draven’s men were killed in the crossfire. Several of the smugglers were dead as well, while a handful remained alive, wounded and quickly disarmed.

The man commanding the operation stood amid the wreckage for a moment, breathing heavily as he surveyed what remained. His men fought well, but it had cost them more than anyone expected.

The commander pointed to one of his men and motioned for him to step forward.

The soldier obeyed, coming to a halt directly in front of his commander. He looked as rattled as the others, his composure still shaken by the ordeal they had just endured.

"Head to Westmarch Castle," the commander ordered. "Tell the Duke everything that transpired here tonight. He needs to know what happened before we can determine our next move. Do not delay."

The soldier gave a jerky nod and turned to carry out the order.