Vrain pointed to one of the skylands on the whip end of the spiral and his low voice rumbled like an upset stomach. “Fleet headquarters informs me that a Skaladin culling fleet is ashore at Fishers Point. When last we heard, the raiders were assaulting the local garrison. Capitaine Wyatt, the garrison commander, begs us to intervene.”

The news hit Isabelle like a blow to the gut. Skaladin culling fleets could strip whole skylands bare of civilization. The clayborn they killed as heretics to their twisted religion, while every saintborn would be broken and branded to be remade into a tool for the tyrant.

But Isabelle’s orders were to proceed north without falter or fail, to mark the route through the Bittergale, to capture the Conquest and claim Craton Auroborea. She had no right to risk the Thunderclap.

“How long ago was this?” Isabelle asked.

“A few minutes,” Vrain said. “Wyatt said Skaladin infiltrators took the shore battery by surprise just before dawn. Then they sailed into the harbor cove and landed culling parties. Everyone who could retreated to the fort.”

“How many Skaladin?” Isabelle asked.

“Three ships at least,” Vrain said. “Wyatt couldn’t say what type, but the harbor cove isn’t very big.”

Isabelle’s belly tightened. More than likely a culling fleet would cut ropes and run at the first sight of an imperial warship. They wanted to steal their slaves, not fight for them. Yet if they stood and fought, Isabelle would be outnumbered and maybe outgunned against more experienced capitaines, and who knew what sort of cullborn slaves to provide them with sorcerous power.

“Do we have any other ships in this area?” Isabelle asked. The best thing, the smart thing, would be to stay away and let the Hoary Fleet handle it. Let this be someone else’s problem.

“No, Capitaine,” Ensign Navigator Pummeroy said. “If it hadn’t been for that storm, even we wouldn’t be in this area. The Hoary Fleet is a week out.”

By the time the Hoary Fleet arrived, the people of Fishers Point would be dead or halfway to the slave markets in Skaladin.

If the wind held, the Thunderclap was only half a day away. She might be able to catch the raiders ashore.

Isabelle scanned the expectant faces in the room—people waiting for her to make a decision.

“They are not left behind because they are unworthy,” said Don Luggia, his eyes hard and flinty. His crest feathers flattened back in a wedge. “They are left behind to distract the enemy, while we march for the prize.”

Isabelle grimaced at the callousness of that suggestion, but the advice was sound. If she allowed herself to be turned aside, it would give her foes time to catch up with her.

But it would also mean leaving defenseless people to be slaughtered or worse.