The outer pilings groaned as seven hundred pounds of spiked iron slammed into the timber.
Vanguard Commander Varkos landed on the edge of the pier, his massive black cleaver resting across his shoulder. Purple Star-Marrow mist hissed where his boots met the salt-stained wood. His red eyes swept over the trembling allied infantry like a butcher appraising sheep.
Then an ebony abacus blocked his path.
“Halt right there, esteemed traveler,” Deacon Vane squeaked. His knees knocked together like wooden spoons, but his fingers held the abacus at eye level. “You have crossed into the imperial commercial basin without clearance.”
Varkos stared down at the trembling man. “What did you say, worm?”
“Docking fees,” Vane replied, clicking three beads along the lower wire. “Under Imperial Maritime Code article forty-two, any vessel exceeding three hundred paces incurs a heavy tonnage tariff. Furthermore, your acidic discharge violates coastal fisheries regulations.”
The silence on the pier became heavy and profound.
Fifty paces back, Sera Thorne lowered her spear an inch. “Is Deacon Vane attempting to tax an invading warlord?”
