Cattra's Legacy

by Anna Mackenzie

  An hour later Risha allowed herself a tight smile as four ships veered north from the main fleet. ‘All speed, Harl,’ she whispered.

  The wind began to rise as they watched the remaining eight ships. ‘If it would only lift a little more,’ Cantrel muttered. ‘The approach to the harbour is treacherous in a storm.’

  Risha compressed her lips. There was nothing left to do but wait.

  Westlaw’s fleet crept inexorably closer. At Cantrel’s insistence Risha slept for a few hours, waking groggy and confused to Margetta’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Cantrel asked me to wake you. They’re nearly on us.’

  She pushed past the dark remnants of a dream in which blood pooled across stone, slippery and thick. Margetta looked pale and scared. ‘Havre will come,’ Risha told her. ‘You needn’t be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not; not for myself, but people will die defending us. Emett—’ She broke off.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the harbour. He said his sword would be of use.’ Tears welled in the girl’s eyes.

  Dread bit at Risha too. Almost everyone she cared for was at risk, if not here then in Fratton. She splashed water on her face. It was better to be busy. Sending Margetta to the hall where Fretha had established an infirmary, Risha climbed to the outer wall. Cantrel’s defences were impressive: barricades and double blinds in the curtain wall, caches of arrows and crossbow bolts, pitch buckets and rocks ready to rain down on anyone who tried to scale the outer walls. It wouldn’t prove easy for the invaders to take the citadel — but before it came to that, Westlaw would face LeMarc’s first line of defence.

  Cantrel’s expression was grim when she joined him in the northwest tower. ‘Your fishing fleet is anchored south of the harbour. The wind shift has favoured us: our boats will gain speed while theirs lose it.’

  Risha stared at the oncoming warships, then north along the coast. ‘Have they engaged our decoy?’

  Cantrel swung his glass north and shook his head.

  They stood in tense silence as Westlaw’s ships sailed closer. The wind carried a briney tang and the harsh cries of gulls. Clouds were massing in the south — Risha hoped the rising waves wouldn’t prove too much for her little fleet.

  When it seemed almost too late, Cantrel gave the signal and the gatehouse bell clanged a chorus. Moments later the fishing boats began to move, rising and falling on the waves as they gathered the southerly wind into their sails. They looked minute against the bulk of Westlaw’s ships, ranging themselves in a line as they headed seaward, so that it seemed they were trying to escape. Jeering shouts from Westlaw’s men carried in snatches on the wind.

  She waited. The southernmost of Westlaw’s ships began to turn — the spyglass showed archers at the railings. The line of fishing boats opened and veered, dancing around the encroaching enemy. Risha breathed with relief that they’d not been lured into revealing the plan early.

  As soon as all five boats were within reach of a target Cantrel raised an arm and the bell rang again. Arrows flew, pitch flaming. Fires flared in the rigging and on the deck of two ships. A second wave of arrows was loosed, crossed in mid-flight as Westlaw’s men responded to the attack. A body fell from one of the fishing boats. Risha’s fingers clenched the parapet. Alarm bells sounded across the water as fresh fires broke out. Cantrel signalled the bells for the last time and Risha held her breath as the first fishing boat crunched into the bow of a ship. The smaller boat splintered and cracked, fire spreading rapidly along its length to lick at the hull of the larger vessel. One body dived clear of the doomed fishing boat — she didn’t see another. A second boat hit. This time the angle was too steep and the fishing boat swung and cracked side on, the spike useless. Arrows rained down.

  Westlaw’s ships had begun to take evasive action. Two boys dived from a fishing boat just as it crashed into a vessel. Bizarrely it didn’t splinter but hung from the ship’s side, lifting clear of the water as the ship’s bow rose on a wave. An archer from another boat fired a glowing arrow and flames spread in its sail, leaping quickly to the ship’s hull. Men began to throw buckets of water from above to douse the flames, but the pitch barrel on the fishing boat caught and exploded in a gushing roar.

  Snatching Cantrel’s spyglass, Risha swung it across the scene. There should be three more fishing boats — she could see only two, one veering out of control, sail flapping — and Westlaw’s southernmost ship was bearing down on one of the rescue boats. It turned — too slowly — and veered west, fighting the wind, then east again. They were barely beyond bow-shot, with Westlaw’s ship gaining. She tasted blood where her teeth clamped her lip.

  Cantrel’s hand clamped her shoulder. ‘They’re sailing for the reef. Our boat has a lighter draught. The Teeth of Sargath have served us before.’

  Three of Westlaw’s ships had veered north to avoid their own floundering comrades, another south. Cantrel gave a grunt of satisfaction as a crunch of timbers told them the last fishing boat had found its target. Risha raised the glass in time to see two bodies dive over the side and surface in the waves.

  Skiffs were being lowered from two of Westlaw’s ships — one was already going down. There was a cheer from the battlements as it foundered, spilling the men still on its deck into the waves. A second cheer followed a rending shriek of timber as the ship harrying the rescue boat gouged its side along the reef. Risha should have felt pleased with the success of her plan but didn’t. ‘We’ve lost the rescue boat.’

  ‘No. Look there.’ Beyond the first of the teeth a bright triangle of sail suddenly lifted above the waves. ‘They’ll circle out to sea rather than risk crossing the reef twice.’

  ‘They won’t make it into the harbour ahead of Westlaw’s fleet.’

  ‘Better they land in safety further up the coast.’ Cantrel’s glass turned to follow the ships that had veered north. ‘They’ll come to grief if they try to make the harbour from there. It’s a difficult entry in a southerly wind — and we’ve a few surprises yet.’

  Risha thought of the spikes waiting below the waterline across the mouth of the harbour. ‘Has the chain ever been tested?’

  ‘Not here, but at Havre. The principle is sound.’

  As the nearest of Westlaw’s ships ran like a hunting hound for the harbour, Risha counted heads in the second rescue boat: at least five. She willed them to get the survivors to safety. She could hear snatches of a chant as Westlaw’s men pulled on the oars of the rowboats. As she watched, the little rescue boat began to pick up speed, but it was not making for land. As it gained on one of Westlaw’s rowboats she saw two archers in the prow. They loosed their arrows and a rower slumped. Another flight of arrows and two more men fell. As Westlaw’s men turned to engage, a flaming arrow arced into their skiff, sending half of them diving for safety. The fishing boat loosed another pitch arrow among the rowers before veering sharply from the answering flight.

  ‘One more ship-length,’ Cantrel murmured, tugging her attention to the harbour.

  Westlaw’s first ship passed the jutting harbour wall and seemed for a moment to shiver. A low groan of timber grew to a wrenching crunch as the ship shuddered and sloughed sideways. The following ship, too close to take evasive action, rammed its sister’s flank before itself catching the spiked chain. Men jumped clear as the deck tilted to vertical. ‘Two more down,’ Cantrel crowed.

  Risha ran her eye along the garrison of guardsmen ranged on the jetty and harbour wall. Westlaw had lost four ships, but fewer of the soldiers they carried than she would have liked, and the chain could not bar rowboats from the harbour. The odds were still heavy against them.

  The remnants of the fleet regrouped outside the harbour. One had been holed and sat low in the water, its bilge pumps emptying a steady stream of water from its hull. All but one of the rowboats had reached the safety of their sister ships. There had been cheers when it seemed the last of Westlaw’s vessels would run aground north of the breakwater, but the captain had managed to pull the ship around and she w
as now anchored with the others in the bay.

  Light was beginning to drain from the day, the sky hanging heavy to the south. The wind held a wintry chill. ‘If that storm blows up, their ships will be at risk outside the harbour,’ Cantrel said.

  ‘We should pull the defenders back to the citadel. The odds against them are too high.’ The men and children lost already sat heavy on Risha’s conscience.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They’re lowering boats,’ a guardsman said.

  Cantrel raised the glass. Men were scrambling over the side of the holed ship. ‘They’re abandoning it.’

  The swell had grown steadily and the rowboats struggled to make headway. Before reaching the nearest ship one breached, dumping its cargo of soldiers into the waves. The others emptied men up ropes like fleeing rats. Soon after, all three ships unfurled their sails.

  ‘They’re bringing them closer to the harbour before they try to land.’ Cantrel’s tone was smug. ‘I’ve one more surprise. Wait here.’

  Unlocking a grilled gate at the southern turn of the battlement, Cantrel shortly reappeared on the wall that ran southwest around the bay. At its end was the squat tower that housed the harbour chain winch.

  ‘He’s been itching for a chance to try it ever since he had it built, nearly two decades ago now,’ a guardsman told her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Watch.’

  Cantrel had disappeared within the stone walls of the tower. Beyond, Westlaw’s ships were beating towards the calmer water close to the harbour mouth — but not so close they’d risk running onto the chain or their own scuppered ships. There was a flash of movement and a jet of water rose beyond the prow of the first ship. Another followed, amidships. As Risha squinted at the tower, a giant arm swung up and over, releasing a projectile that flew out beyond the harbour. A cheer rose from the battlements as the rock struck the ship near the stern, tearing a hole in her timbers. Another followed, this time crashing through her rigging. The ship was near enough that they could see the panic that broke out on her decks.

  ‘A mangonel,’ Risha breathed. ‘He’s got a mangonel!’ She’d read of siege engines in one of Cantrel’s books, her interest roused by Donnel’s campaign in Fratton. Cantrel hadn’t said a word. ‘Secretive old devil.’

  The guardsman grinned.

  Boats had been lowered from the stricken ship and men were swarming down the side as rocks crashed into the water around them. The remaining ships were unloading as well. ‘Sound the alert,’ Risha called, and bells rang out across the town.

  She counted the rowboats that began to pull toward the harbour entrance, skimming over the chain: six or more from each ship, every one bristling with armed men. A chunk of rock the size of a man’s head caught one boat dead centre, sending men tumbling into the water. Another was capsized by a near miss. Two rowboats had turned and were pulling directly for the tower.

  ‘Cantrel!’ Risha cried.

  But the old man had made his point. Westlaw’s remaining ships had withdrawn from range and Cantrel was already hurrying back along the wall.

  Risha’s attention swung back to the harbour. The first of the boats had reached the jetty, disgorging a swarm of soldiers. They were at a disadvantage, clambering out of unstable boats, needing handholds while the harbour’s defenders had only to swing their swords. But, gamely as LeMarc’s guardsmen fought, there were too many. For every Westlarn soldier who failed in his bid, two others succeeded. The fighting was soon hand-to-hand along the jetty, the men of LeMarc slowly being pushed back towards the town.

  ‘They’ll be overwhelmed,’ Risha cried, as Cantrel limped up beside her.

  Another guardsman staggered and fell. Half a dozen were in danger of being cut off as Westlaw’s soldiers circled behind them. With an angry bark, Cantrel ordered the retreat.

  30

  Siege

  Below them, the town was burning. ‘Fools,’ Cantrel muttered as another roof roared into flame. ‘Where do they plan to sleep?’

  Risha wrapped her cloak tighter against the knifing wind. They had lost nineteen men defending the harbour, and the townspeople now watched bitter-eyed as their homes were looted and destroyed.

  The first cold drops spattered against the stone walkway and Cantrel steered her towards the stairs. ‘There’ll be no assault tonight: whoever is leading this rabble won’t gather them together before morning. Perhaps the rain will cause them to regret their fun.’

  The main hall was strewn with pallets on which injured men lay, others sitting propped against the walls. Two of the men looked unlikely to last the night. Margetta, sleeves rolled back to expose her thin arms, was sponging one man’s face as he struggled for each breath.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Margetta glanced up. ‘Lyse was looking for you. She was hoping for news of the fishing boats.’ Their eyes met. Lyse’s brother had been one of the volunteers.

  Risha found her in the kitchen.

  ‘Is Eon safe?’ Lyse demanded.

  ‘Both rescue boats picked up survivors but, beyond that, it’s impossible to know. Not all of them made it,’ Risha reported, scrupulous with the truth.

  ‘He was only thirteen!’ the girl wailed.

  ‘We sank or disabled six of their ships, Lyse. They’ll tell stories for decades of boys in fishing boats getting the better of Westlaw’s great fleet.’

  Lyse pressed her hands against her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just … he’s all I have.’

  ‘Cantrel says they’ll land at one of the fishing villages up the coast. We won’t know more till this is over.’

  Lyse looked away. Risha’s throat was thick with guilt at the lives she had spent — and there would be more before this was done. At least the assault on the mangonel tower had failed, as Cantrel had assured her it would. ‘It’s far older than the citadel and will stand against an army,’ he’d told her. ‘If the citadel falls, the tower is our last line of retreat.’

  Returning to the hall she felt sick with dread that it might come to that.

  When she finally found her way to her bed she sank into an exhausted, dreamless oblivion, only to wake an hour later, her muscles sparking with tension. The night was still and tight around her. Beyond the walls Westlaw’s soldiers would be preparing their siege plans while, within, they were trapped.

  Their only hope lay with Havre, and even that thin thread hung on whether Harl and Dragonfly had landed safely, whether they eluded pursuit, whether Havre’s Council would heed Harl’s plea on her behalf. It would be another day at least before he reached the city. Would help come in time? How long would it take before Havre’s forces were gathered, before — Risha hesitated … Perhaps Harl was not their only hope.

  She drew a breath. The thought-picture game she’d played with Nonno as a child had been a two-way exchange, unlike the cursory contact of the past year. It was as if, in building a wall against Nonno, she had lost the ability to play the game. But this was no game. Risha smoothed her mind till it was clear and still as water, then threw Nonno’s name like a stone into its depths.

  There was a flurry that turned the water wind-ruffled and wild. She smoothed it again, only to find the surface pocked by tears. Risha felt battered, bombarded. Fighting to hold steady, she formed an image of herself on the citadel’s high wall. A face, blurred by ripples, shaped itself in her mind. Risha pictured the sea that stood between LeMarc and Havre, then added Westlaw’s ships and the scene of slaughter at the harbour, LeMarc burning. She breathed smoke. She was choking, drowning, assailed with questions and longing. She fought to swim to the surface, to find fresh air, to shake free.

  With a gasp, she sat up. Her skin was clammy and her breath rasped in her throat. It was not how she remembered the game of her childhood.

  And yet. Risha steadied her breath. It was worth one more effort. The water smoothed easily and she paused, poised above it, before she summoned Timon’s face and let it shimmy across the surface. Nothing. Or perhaps, the fain
test hint of something. She repeated her series of images and added one of Harl riding Dragonfly hard along the coast. Her eyes felt gummy now, her brain sluggish. Turning on her side, she let the images slide away as she slipped down into a smooth dark well of unknowing.

  Risha woke dry-mouthed and heavy-limbed. Her head ached. Rain lashed at the window and, above the steady assault of the wind, she could hear the roar and crash of the ocean. It was early: dim light was just beginning to nudge at the dark. She stood, dragging a hand through her hair as she tugged her rumpled clothes straight.

  The hall was noisy with the sounds of men sleeping restlessly or kept awake by pain. One of the injured guardsmen had died in the night. Risha found Cantrel in the kitchen.

  He eyed her with concern. ‘You slept?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You don’t look well. Perhaps you should—’

  ‘I have a headache, that’s all. What’s happening in the town?’

  ‘Little, as yet. This weather may work to our advantage.’ He took some dried herbs from a shelf and stirred them into a mug of tea. ‘Here. It will clear your head.’

  She took it. The taste was bitter but she gulped it regardless. Cantrel set a bowl of gruel in front of her and plucked his cloak from a chair.

  ‘If you’re going to the battlements I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Eat first.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I’ll wait.’

  The courtyard was awash, rain flowing in runnels down either side of the exposed stair. Thunder rumbled above as they dashed for the shelter of the watchtower. Risha shook herself like a wet dog. Below, the town still smouldered, flecks of sodden ash thick on the wind. Risha’s memory spat up an unwelcome image of the sacked farmsteads in the north.

  Westlaw’s remaining ships were bucking and straining at their anchors, taking what little shelter they could find on the northern side of the harbour wall.