The wheezing middle-aged fat man carried a small wooden crate down the moss-covered stone quay. In the afternoon glare of the two suns reflecting off the water, people were debarking from a ship. The fat man set the crate down in the middle of the quay, climbed on top of it and straightened his thigh length, red leather vest. In combination with the short sword belted at his waist, his clothing was recognizable as a uniform of sorts.
The first of the
refugees stopped as the fat man held his hands outstretched over his head,
regaining his breath. Behind him, where the stones of the quay ran into street
paving, stood a collection of tables laden with fruit, vegetables, crocks of
butter, honey, loaves of bread, jugs and cups.
Beyond the quay and
tables stood the rest of Midport. The town was built on atop and among the
ruins of an ancient city, often using the old greenish stones for new
structures. Broken walls and towers lay tumbled down hillsides and cliffs,
parts of the stonework fallen beneath the waters of the harbor, evidence of
some past cataclysm. On a clear day such as this, weed-covered remnants of the
old city were visible in the depths.
“Greetings. My name
is Sergeant Lugwort,” the fat man began.
The people gathered
before him, dazed by the sunlight, the promise of food and the splendor of Midport.
Or just numb and exhausted. It varied from group to group. Lugwort had seen
examples of all. The Sergeant had long since stopped asking why he always drew
welcome duty. This lot looked much the worse for the journey. Probably rough
seas.
