"Move that bloody fish cart! We've got wounded coming down!" the dockmaster shouted.
"Where am I supposed to put it?"
"Somewhere else!"
Quinlan watched from the rail as the fish seller hauled his cart clear, muttering about the consideration shown to honest businessmen. The smell he left behind competed fiercely with the blood on their clothes, and a crowd was already pressing toward the soldiers receiving the ship.
"Any survivors from the Harrow Gull?"
"My brother was on the wheat convoy! A dwarf, red beard! Has anyone seen him?"
"Keep the gangplank clear! You'll hear the names when we have them!"
"This way. Can you walk?"
A harbor attendant offered an arm to the first wounded sailor coming down. Behind him, others helped survivors onto benches while a healer beckoned the next patient closer.
"Let me see that leg. Gently, now."
An older woman broke through the crowd at the sight of a man limping between two rescued captives.
"Teren!"
