Without suspicion, at least, until the Lorthers threw their grappling hooks over the Plentitude’s railing and gave a synchronized, mighty heave as their own oars—with one more half stroke—rammed their ship into the side of their enemy’s vessel with a bone-jarring ka-thump.
Mikil was the first to jump over the water churning between the ships, his sword already drawn from its scabbard, the Lorther sailors following his lead. The stunned Pellish mariners did not have time to grab their bows while Lorther archers rained arrows wherever they could be assured of not striking their own men; indeed, the Pellish barely had a chance to reach for their cutlasses. Mikil managed to be everywhere, slashing as if this was his one chance to make up for all his mistakes and take vengeance for all the Lorthers killed by the Magi a decade ago. Men fell before his sword, if not quite like grass before a scythe, then at least like reeds before a knife—resisting, but in the end being hacked down.
Ultimately, Mikil’s trail of blood came to a halt when a desperate Pellish rower smacked him in the head with a bucket.
By then the Pellish remaining alive had surrendered. Nithanil crossed over a gangplank to Pexlia’s Plentitude, where the cries of his men brought him to Mikil’s side. Nithanil stared at his son lying prostrate. “Water!” he ordered, kneeling beside Mikil, his lips moving in an unvoiced prayer. He waited with his hands reaching upward until a Lorther passed him a full bucket of seawater. He doused his son’s unconscious form: first a small splash, and then a deluge of all the liquid that remained. After a wait that seemed forever, Mikil opened his eyes, stirred to wipe his face, and groaned.
Satisfied that his son still lived, Nithanil stood tall. He looked around at their captives. With a flourish, he removed his hat, displaying his gray braid to the Pellish crew, who couldn’t fathom why one of their “own” crews had attacked them.
“Not exactly what you expected, eh? We been right there on your aft starboard for nearly a week, and you shitwits never noticed.”
Nithanil didn’t need to crow over his ruse more than once. “All right, now,” he said to a captured mate. “We found some surprises on board that ship yonder. Not just the usual shipboard fare. You got any surprises in store here?”
Unlike their captured cargo ship, the Plentitude was not ferrying casks of hemlock juice. But just belowdecks it did have several large barrels tightly lashed to the side of the hull. When sailors took off their tops, the Lorthers discovered earthenware balls floating in water.
“What are these?” Nithanil asked the Pellish mate.
“Those are grenadoes for the lobber,” he answered, looking uneasy when Nithanil picked one up.
Noise and rustle made Nithanil look toward the ladder. Mikil came to join them, his clothes dripping with water turned lightly pink from all the Pellish blood that had sprayed on him.
“Explain,” his son said to the mate.
“Very dangerous things, those grenadoes—if that gets hot or you drop it, we’re all dead. The war galleys have this big slingshot,” the mate said, miming the motion with his two hands, “that hurls these grenadoes. They break open, and the stuff inside them burns through flesh and wood. Burns a man’s eyes or his lungs. We keep these extras here, out of the way of accidents.”
Mikil said, “Sire, let me feel how heavy they are.” Nithanil passed him the ball; carefully, Mikil held it in two hands, judging its weight. “Too heavy for birds,” he pronounced, disappointed.
Nithanil and Mikil climbed back topside; Mikil swayed on one of the ladder steps, but his father put his hand out and steadied him. Nithanil appraised Mikil’s eyes and color; he figured he’d do well enough in fresh air.
“Now what, Sire?” Mikil asked Nithanil as they both squinted into the confused smoke and battle raging in front of them.
“Now…” Nithanil scratched the itchy beard rash on his neck. “Now, you take this sow—she’s damaged but she’ll stay afloat—and I’ll take the one with my old biddy on it, and we’ll move up behind that last troop carrier there, from port and starboard, with fire arrows. Now that we have two, we can close on her from both directions.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Mikil.
“Son, time to run up the Trident flag. Strike fear into those sons of bitches.”
“Aye, Captain.” Mikil smiled grimly. “The Lorthers have arrived.”
* * *
Sumroth could do nothing to affect the naval battle, and he had given his orders to the fifth- and sixth-flamers on each ship long ago. So instead of focusing on which vessel was sunk or saved, he used his spyglass to survey the harbor defenders. He paused over the Harbormaster Hut, noting its flags. He considered all of the taller and more substantial buildings behind the quay area, but he didn’t find what he sought.
If she still lives, she will be close by.
A rush of seagulls flying together caught his eye, and he followed them with his glass as they landed on the top of the cliff that loomed north of the harbor. People stood there. People in Weir uniforms. He took the glass down from his face and tried again to focus it.
Ah! Blue hair!
It was impossible for him to judge whether this was the same girl he had captured after the Battle of Iron Valley—he couldn’t distinguish features well enough. But the blue hair was unmistakable. Sumroth was overjoyed that she had escaped all the earlier assassination attempts. He pumped his fist in the air and almost crowed with delight.
* * *
Thalen saw Pexlia’s Power pause just outside of Weir bow range in the waters lapping against the quay, its oars holding its position. The Pellish sailors rearranged themselves—only half the men now manned oars, while others readied crossbows and fussed with their munitions in the prow. Were they planning to send those balls of white devilment into the quay to burn or panic Thalen’s forces?
The commander motioned to his trumpeter, who blew the predetermined cadence.
At the signal, the Weir archers Thalen had entrusted with the difficult task of lying still all morning in the casually arrayed and anchored rowboats threw off the tarps or sacking that disguised them, lit their prepared fire arrows, aimed, and let them fly at Pexlia’s Power. Many flew wide, the archers’ aim disturbed by their boats’ rocking surface or their nerves, but several hit various parts of the enemy ship. The water-soaked wood did not immediately catch fire, but the Pellish sailors had to stop their preparations to fight the flames, and while they worked to extinguish those threats more and more fire arrows hit the vessel.
Then one of the Pellish sailors shouted something Thalen couldn’t hear, and men started diving off the vessel.
“They’re afraid that their grenadoes will rupture in the fire,” Naven commented with more insight than Thalen would have credited the man.
Ultimately, Pexlia’s Power didn’t flame over—the water-soaked wood wouldn’t catch no matter how many times the archers’ burning bolts struck it. But Thalen didn’t care, because now he had its crew weaponless and swimming for their lives.
He watched through his spyglass, discovering the Pellish were strong swimmers. A group of six swam in tandem to the closest rowboat. They massed on one side, rocked the craft a few times, and then with a mighty effort overturned it, sending the Weir archer into the water. Thalen saw several arms holding daggers reach up above the surface. Then the Pellish sailors flipped the boat back right-side up, climbed in one by one, and thus repurposed it as their own lifeboat.
Thalen couldn’t help but admire their teamwork and skill. Luckily, several of his Weir archers in nearby rowboats drew closer and began peppering the enemy craft with arrows. And all over the harbor, the men and women who had waited all morning for their part of the battle pursued swimmers; a few, the more humane ones, rescued captives, but most—rendered cruel by their fear—clubbed wildly with their oars until their enemies sank under the water.
Looking up to survey the whole field of battle, Thalen realized that although the whales and Wilamara’s ad hoc navy had performed nobly, all they
had actually accomplished was to blunt the threat from Pellish sailors. The bigger menace—the Oro troop ships—now bore down upon the defenders, and he had no more surprise tactics left.
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The troop ships, stretched in one formidable line, entered Cascada Harbor in a simultaneous onslaught.
They didn’t, however, make even progress toward the quay. The water now was full of obstacles—principally the smashed or burning carcasses of other ships—which the seamasters had to navigate around with care. The vessel the humpbacks had bashed began to take on water and sink. And the sails of another ship, originally in the rear of the pack, burst into flames—flames that in this case, since the high deck was drier and easier to light, spread.
The Weir merchant ships that had been pressed into service put themselves in the way of the invaders. Sailors loosed arrows down from the rigging, but the Pellish vessels returned fire with their big striker, puncturing their hulls. As the Weir sailors rushed to man their pumps, the troop ships brushed past them.
“Time to go,” Wilamara ordered her trumpeter.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He jumped feetfirst, holding his trumpet high above his head, and she felt relieved at the sight of a lifeboat heading for the glint of his metal instrument. Then she aimed The Big Catch at one of the troop ships and dashed around the boat, lighting the piles of oil-soaked straw. She waited to see these piles burst into flames; then, coughing, she climbed up on the side and dived into the water.
But her sacrifice was for naught; the fishing boat got caught up on a Pellish ram sticking out of the water like the long finger of a corpse. The Big Catch burned itself out without harming any of the incoming vessels.
Thus, nine troop ships—carrying, Thalen quickly calculated, at least three thousand Oro soldiers—used their long oars to weave around all obstacles, set their anchors, and began disgorging their men into swifts.
Although this process took nearly an hour, Thalen watched it unfold helplessly, knowing that nothing he could do would forestall the coming landings. Through a spyglass he examined the Oros; for this battle they wore nearly full armor; they’d covered their heads, chests, backs, and shoulders. For mobility they left their arms and legs free, but he saw that once they settled in the flat swifts, they strapped on thigh protectors and pulled on their gauntlets.
The Oros’ allies, the Pellish, wore no armor. But they wore something worse—bows and full quivers. Each swift was protected by a brace of Pellish archers who sat forward with bows of yew.
“Tilim!” The name came out of Thalen’s throat more forcefully than he intended. He swallowed to regain control of his voice. “Ride to the cliff and tell Her Majesty that I sent Marcot’s cavalry north to bolster Wareth’s company. I’d like a report from her birds when they engage the Oros to help me decide where to commit the last of the cavalry. I’ve pulled them closer in, so they can go in any direction.”
Duke Naven returned from a last tour of the Weir positions.
“How are the archers and foot holding up?” Thalen asked.
“Nervous,” said the duke. “But ready. And I found a warehouse for captives. And the navy has been plucking a lot of their men from the water, and Alix has set up a healers’ area back that way for their hurts.” He continued, as if reassuring himself, “I’m sure they’ll pull out Wilamara. Did you see that dive? Forty years on that woman if she’s a day, and she arched out into the water like a porpoise. I’m sure she’s all right.”
Thalen was not listening; he was measuring the distance to when the landing craft would be in range. “Here they come,” he said. He ordered his nearby trumpeter, “Sound ‘Fire at will.’” The notes, repeated five times, echoed. The Weir archers rose from where they lay, concealed in buildings and on rooftops, and fired volley after volley at the approaching craft. Where their arrows hit the wood of the swifts, they penetrated and vibrated, but most of those that struck the Oros bounced off of their armor without causing significant injury. Thalen cursed softly, wishing for Mellie archers capable of hitting those elusive flashes of skin, or even for repeating crossbows that could punch through the steel.
The Pellish archers in the swifts returned fire, forcing the Weir bowmen to duck down and take cover.
“Shoot the archers, you damn idiots!” Thalen shouted, and soon enough his archers figured this out for themselves. Many of the Pellish guardians were killed or wounded.
Thalen ordered his force to continue the barrage of archery as the swifts began beaching or tying up; he hoped that as the Oros disgorged, his bowmen would be able to aim at unprotected areas. Perhaps a few dozen more enemy took hurts, but not enough to make a difference.
Timing was crucial. “Now!” Thalen ordered. “Call out the infantry!” The trumpeter blew the signals to cease archery and unleash the foot soldiers that had waited, massed in squads of twenty in the shelter of the quay buildings, out of sight of any Pellish archers. Like their antagonists, Weir pikemen wore a breastplate and helm; they wielded halberds, and their officers had swords.
The Weirs came running out, shouting, eager to engage. No one could have hoped for more spirit and bravery. They hacked at men caught between the landing craft and solid footing, killing them, maiming them, and pushing them back into the water. But while they clustered around one craft, other swifts landed, unimpeded. And whenever the Oros were able to gain the surface of the quay securely and then engage the Weir infantry, Thalen could tell at a glance that the Oros were stronger and more skilled fighters. Weirs began to die—first by tens, then by scores.
And while his infantry was engaged in fighting the men from the landing craft, the troop ships used their long oars in skilled choreography to bring themselves up to piers at the north and south ends of the quay. Once docked, they began to disgorge all the men who hadn’t fit in the swifts, which was hundreds, or a thousand, more soldiers.
Through galloping messengers, Thalen redeployed his archery squads to attack the ships while they docked. Arrows bit deep into the backs of enemy legs as they scrambled down the rigging. He had also kept companies of infantry in reserve; he sent these, running double-time, to meet the new threat. His troops crashed into the enemies’ pikes with verve. But the Weirs were no match.
Naven hissed, “A handful of our men are fleeing up the alleyways! Drought damn them!”
A few dozen Oros pursued their enemy into city streets. Thalen had to hope that the barricades would hold both those who were retreating and those who chased them.
For the most part, however, the fresh Oro infantrymen formed disciplined pike squares and began, inexorably, to converge on the middle of the quay. Their plan was to surround the Weir fighters.
Thalen’s mind reeled at the prospect of another Rout.
Recalling the battle outside of Sutterdam, he knew it had been lost not only because of numbers but because of faulty tactics. The quay area had turned into pandemonium. Where—in all this mayhem—was the Oro general?
Finally, Thalen spotted a cluster of red helmet feathers on a wide pier to his left, close to the north edge of the harbor.
“Give me your horse,” he shouted to a messenger nervously waiting behind the Harbormaster Hut. Naven copied his action, grabbing a horse’s reins from a girl, turning her to face the city, and giving her a strong push toward cover.
“Weirs! Follow me! Follow me!” Thalen called. A squad of twenty pikemen heard his cries and formed up around the horses.
* * *
Sumroth had landed on one of the last swifts and had set up his command post on the widest of the wooden piers, just where it met the solid quay, near the north end of the harbor and the tall cliff that was his goal. Of course he could have stayed out of the fray on the troop ship, as Admiral Hixario had done, but that was not his way. He hadn’t traveled all these leagues to keep his sword clean.
His flagmen gave signals for his men to drive the Weirs before them from both ends of the quay; eventually they would encircle the bastards. Those magicked whales
had been a nasty surprise, and the ragtag navy had put up a staunch fight, but now the tide had turned. And the sixth-flamer in charge of the flanking action up the coast should have also disembarked by now, and should be moving in a pincer movement toward the harbor.
As soon as these defenders were swept away, he would redeploy his troops to encircle that cliff.
Above the other noises, Sumroth heard a welcome sound: his men were singing as they took down their enemies.
* * *
From the top of SeaWidow Cliff, Cerúlia watched the battle buffeted by alternating waves of hope and despair. Her eye had been drawn by movement at the back of the armada: two ships drawing very close together. When she next looked back at them, she was astonished to see the Lorther flag, the Walrus Trident against a gray background, flying from their masts.
“Look! Look!” she shouted to Darzner, grabbing his elbow. “Do you see?”
“What am I looking for?”
“The Lorther flag on the two rear ships!”
Darzner peered through the spyglass she had handed him, trying to get his bearings. “Yes! I see it too!”
Cerúlia drew in a breath. “It could be a trick. Write a note. ‘Identify yourself.’ Those two are the only ones left where whales could reach them, but if they’re really Lorther…”
She dispatched the note attached to a pelican leg.
A seagull returned with news concerning the Oro detachment that was attempting to flank the city. They had pulled in to a small sandy beach of a small fisherman’s village just north of Cascada.
“That’s Clam Diggers Cove,” Darzner explained in a rush. “I used to swim there as a child. The water is plenty deep for them to dock, but then they have to climb these sandy dunes. After the dunes, they’ll hit a narrow dirt road that passes between foothills.”
The Cerulean Queen Page 41
