Several hundred feet away, the men on the beach sat about campfires, while others lay sleeping in the sand, clearly in no hurry to be about their day. They must be waiting for the ghouls and the Hishtari, she realized. What piqued her interest the most, though, was the large group of men, several dozen, who sat about, separated from the others, under guard from six men wearing gleaming ring mail and leaning on spears.
“Prisoners,” whispered Asger. “But who?”
“Those men are wearing Wolfrey ring mail,” said Owen bitterly. “Those are Greywynne Islanders. They’ve stripped our dead.”
Fioni gasped, suddenly recognizing one of the prisoners. “Erik,” she said. “Erik Gull-Song, Yarl Vengir’s oldest son. Those men are Windhelm clansmen.”
“Aye, you’re right,” said Asger. “I recognize at least a couple of the others as well.”
“Why prisoners?” Owen asked.
“The Greywynne Islanders are mostly fishermen, have been for generations now,” explained Asger. “It’s not an easy thing to sail a serpent-ship, not when all you’re used to is fishing boats. They’ve kept the Windhelm clansmen alive to row—and maybe help them sail.” Asger met Fioni’s eye. “Those men are like brothers. We can’t let this stand, Fioni.”
“We’re not going to,” she said with conviction. “Hard Stone has fifteen oars per side; let’s say thirty men then, maybe some spares.”
“I can’t count ‘em the way they’re bunched together,” said Asger. “But I think they outnumber the toads. They don’t look tied up.”
“Because they’re unarmed,” said Owen. “They can’t just attack men with spears and swords with nothing more than their hands.”
“You think they have swords?” Fioni asked with concern.
Owen nodded, glaring at the beach. “Castle-forged steel to go with their castle-forged armor—an entire fort’s worth.”
Asger sighed. “That changes things, then.”
“Not necessarily,” said Owen. “They still have no training, and we have Kur’teshi crossbows. They’ll punch right through armor, even Wolfrey armor.”
“We used most of the bolts on the harpies,” said Fioni sadly. “We have only a couple dozen bolts remaining. There’s Iron Beard to consider as well. If we charge the toads…”
“Don’t charge, then,” said Owen. “That’s the obvious tactic. Never do what the enemy expects.”
“We have to attack,” said Fioni. “If we don’t take Hard Stone, we can’t get off this beach. Besides, I won’t leave the Windhelm prisoners.”
“Will the prisoners fight?” Owen asked.
“I’m sure of it,” said Fioni, “especially Erik.”
Asger grunted. “The Windhelm are Fenyir. They’ll jump at any chance for revenge.”
“Okay,” said Owen. “I have a plan.”
Chapter 15
Owen
Owen, Asger, and four others had crawled forward from the trees and were hiding now in tall grass about a hundred yards from the beach and the campfires. Armed with the crossbows, they had split the remaining bolts between the six of them, four bolts each. They’d have to make each shot count. Owen’s bolts lay before his face in easy reach. He met Asger’s eye. “Ready?”
Asger snorted. “Since before you had fuzz on your balls, Northman.”
Owen smiled and rolled over onto his back. Placing his foot in the crossbow’s stirrup, he pulled the string back, locking it into place with a soft click. Then he rolled back onto his stomach, fitted one of the bolts into place, and took careful aim on one of the Greywynne Islanders guarding the prisoners. Each of them had already determined among themselves which of the six guards they’d fire upon, so as not to waste the precious bolts killing the same man twice. Owen’s target leaned over his spear, the iron spearhead digging into the sand.
“When I loose,” he said just loudly enough for the other men to hear him.
Asger grunted, holding his own crossbow tight against his shoulder.
Owen raised his head slightly, trying to see how far Fioni and her force of four fighters had made their way, crawling on their bellies, down the stream’s bed, hidden from view of those in the camp, but from his vantage point, he couldn’t see her or the others.
“She’ll be ready,” Asger said, noting where he was looking. “Fioni Ice-Bound does what she says she’ll do—just like her father.”
Owen exhaled and nodded. The moment he and the others engaged the guards, Fioni would need to charge. Their success would depend on timing, surprise, and maximum violence. As far as plans went, this one was simple: free the prisoners; kill the islanders. But then Keep-Captain Awde had always said the best plans were the simple ones.
He aimed at the guard leaning on his spear. As he inhaled and exhaled, the iron-tipped bolt rose and fell. On his third breath, Owen paused as he exhaled, and the bolt once again fell on the center of the guard’s body.
He squeezed the firing lever.
The weapon jumped in his grip as its wooden and bone-reinforced arms snapped forward. His target spun about and fell backward without a word. The other guards stared at him in confusion, but then Asger and the others released their own bolts, and three of them also fell. Owen reloaded as the guards began screaming. Owen loosed another bolt at one of the two remaining guards, but he couldn’t tell if he hit the man. Then a Fenyir war cry erupted from the hidden bank of the stream as Fioni and her team rose and charged toward the prisoners, who were also jumping to their feet, making it impossible to shoot at the remaining guard. Owen transferred his aim to the confused mass of islanders around the campfires, who were now screaming and yelling, kicking those still asleep awake.
“Get up, get up!” yelled Owen, rising to his feet.
The others joined him. The time for hiding was over. He wanted the islanders to see them. He loosed a bolt at the men, seeing at least two of them fall. He loaded his last bolt. More of the islanders fell under the shots of Asger and the others, and the men with Owen began screaming insults at the islanders. Fioni and her fighters had reached the prisoners, who were now picking up the guards’ fallen weapons or pieces of driftwood, and began forming a rank with Fioni and her men in the center.
“Waveborn, Windhelm!” Fioni yelled, thrusting her sword in the air. The others also took up the cry.
Then the islanders did exactly what Owen had been hoping they’d do. At least half of them, almost a dozen men, broke away and charged straight at Owen and the other crossbowmen. A large dark-haired bearded islander screamed at the men, waving his sword and ordering them to come back, but Owen saw they were too angry to think clearly, their attention entirely focused on the men shooting at them from less than a hundred feet away. When the islanders hit the loose, dry sand farther up the beach, they slowed down noticeably, as if now running in water. This time, Owen took careful aim with his last bolt, sending it flying into an islander’s face, shattering it. Taking his time, he placed the crossbow down and drew his Hishtari scimitar as the surviving islanders, their faces now showing their exhaustion, struggled forward through the loose sand.
Asger and the others joined him. “I think I like your plan, Northman,” he said then swung his axe down upon a terrified islander, cleaving the man’s head in two.
Owen and the others charged into the handful of men that had made it across the sand, shattering any hope they had of cohesion. The first man Owen came up against awkwardly thrust a castle-forged Wolfrey sword at his face, but Owen batted it aside before killing him with a reverse cut against his throat. Owen swept down from the high guard, cutting another man’s sword-hand off at the wrist as he inexpertly lifted it in a half-hearted attempt at a parry. Owen’s next cut split the screaming man’s skull to his jaw. Once, a lifetime ago, Owen had wondered if he could ever take another man’s life. Now he did so with ruthless efficiency.
The last of the islanders who had charged across the sand lay on the ground, Asger’s fighting axe buried in the back of his skull. Asger, blood dripping from his beard, wrenc
hed it free and faced Owen. “What now, Northman?”
On the beach, Fioni and the prisoners fought a desperate battle against the remaining islanders, more than a dozen of them. Owen pointed his scimitar at the mass of islanders. “Now we kill them all.”
Asger barked a rough laugh. “Ha! I love this plan, Northman.”
Owen and the five others moved to engage the islanders fighting Fioni and the prisoners. Unlike their enemies, they took their time crossing the sand, moving at a steady, determined walk. As they came closer, Owen saw that the better-armed islanders were savaging the Windhelm prisoners, few of whom were armed with more than a piece of driftwood. At least a half dozen Windhelm bodies lay on the blood-soaked sand. If not for Fioni and the other four Fenyir warriors, the islanders would have broken their line already. As it was, they couldn’t hold much longer.
They wouldn’t need to.
Owen, Asger, and the others smashed into their unprotected rear. Before the islanders even realized they were there, they had killed a man each. Some of the islanders turned to face this new threat, including the heavyset bearded islander, the leader who had been screaming orders at the others. This man charged straight for Owen, bearing a wooden round shield in one hand and a shining longsword in the other. He smashed into Owen like a wave thundering against cliffs and, unlike the other islanders, possessed enough skill with both shield and sword to force Owen onto the defensive. Owen fell back under the onslaught, deflecting each of the man’s attacks, but without a shield of his own, he was at a decided disadvantage. The heavyset attacker paused, breathing heavily behind his shield, his sword raised in a hanging guard so that its point threatened Owen’s face.
As his eyes ran up that blade to the lion of Wolfrey etched into its fuller just above the cross-guard, a chill of recognition flashed through Owen, burned away a moment later by hot anger—he knew that sword.
Owen took up the middle guard, and the two men began to circle one another. Around them, the battle raged, but their attention was only on each other. Months ago, Keep-Captain Awde had used that very sword in the courtyard of Castle Dain to demonstrate the principle of countertiming—the intuitive recognition of the crucial moment when an opponent was about to launch an attack. “If you could recognize that moment,” Awde had said, “you could preempt it with your own strike. To the untrained eye, it appears as though you both attacked at the same moment, but his attack fails while yours luckily succeeds—but there’s no such thing as luck or fate in battle. What’s truly happened is that you’ve anticipated your opponent’s attack and moved in such a way that—even without parrying—his strike misses and yours hits.”
Effective countertiming was, Owen now understood, the defining mark of a master swordsman.
When the islander darted forward, thrusting with his sword point, Owen was already sliding to the right, his scimitar flashing around the other man’s blade in a thrust cut. His opponent’s blade swept past Owen’s face, so close he heard it whistle by his ear, but before the other man could react and alter his blow, Owen was already sliding back into the hanging guard, his blade dangling over his eyes, blood dripping from it. The bearded man’s eyes widened. He stumbled forward, falling to his knees and dropping his shield and sword as he grasped at his neck, blood spraying from the severed artery. He stared at his bloody fingers in disbelief, not quite understanding what had just happened. Owen finished him with a single sword thrust through the back of his neck.
He had been a competent foe.
The remaining islanders broke, running for the forest. His breathing wild, his blood pounding, Owen stared at Brice Awde’s sword lying on the beach. His Hishtari scimitar fell from his fingers, and he bent down and picked up the finely crafted longsword, gifted to the Keep-Captain by old Duke Oskaley himself.
Owen took a quick assessment of their situation. The fighting had been vicious. The corpses of at least a dozen Windhelm prisoners lay about. Fioni’s small team had been able to help the prisoners stand and fight, but it had been costly. Two more of her herdsmen had fallen—as well as one of the men who had fought with Owen—leaving Fioni now only six men left of the thirteen who had sworn oaths the night before. Asger still lived, although he was limping, his thigh bleeding.
The young blond man they had seen from the woods, Erik Gull-Song, Yarl Vengir’s oldest son, rushed forward and hugged Fioni. “Gods bless you, Fioni. Where did you come from?” The man was tall, with a warrior’s physique. He was handsome, with long hair and a plaited beard, and intricate tattoos covered his chest and shoulders.
“Fioni!” yelled Asger. “Iron Beard.”
They all turned and stared. The massive drake-ship’s oars were in the water as it turned to face the shoreline. “Galas can’t come in this close,” Erik said.
“He doesn’t need to,” said Fioni, pulling away from him. “He has us trapped here. Leave everything but the shields and the weapons and get to Hard Stone. If we’re going to survive this day, we need to fight our way past my cousin.”
The survivors, some two dozen Windhelm and Fioni’s half dozen herdsmen, rushed to the beached serpent-ship. The men threw shields and weapons over its hull and then shoved it back into the water.
“Too slow!” Asger yelled.
He was right, Owen saw with mounting desperation. Even now, the massive drake ship was ready for them. Armed men stood along its hull, screaming insults. Among them, Owen saw Galas Gilt-Mane. Arrows began to fall into the water.
“Push!” Fioni yelled.
Hard Stone slid off the beach and onto the surf. Thigh-deep in the cold water, Owen and the others helped the wounded aboard, before clambering over the hull themselves. “Oars!” Fioni screamed.
Hard Stone slipped away from the beach, its oars rising and falling, and it began to turn toward the massive drake-ship. Fioni was right: they’d need to fight their way clear if they wanted to live. He picked up one of the round shields lying on the deck and slipped his arm through the straps before joining Fioni, Erik Gull-Song, and Asger, all of whom had also picked up shields. Arrows whipped overhead, with several hitting the rowers. The man at the tiller tried to maneuver Hard Stone past Iron Beard, but it was too late. Iron Beard bore down on them.
“Stand by for impact!” Fioni screamed.
The crew scrambled away from the benches and rushed to pick up shield and sword, axe and spear. They formed massed ranks near the prow and down the steering board side. As Iron Beard came forward, Owen again noted the elaborately carved wooden figurehead of a beastlike woman, her arms reaching forward, her catlike face snarling in hatred. The resemblance between the figurehead and the white stone hilt of Sight-Bringer was remarkable, but then there was no more time for such thoughts.
Iron Beard’s prow smashed into Hard Stone, caving in its hull and sending the warriors falling back. Only the press of the other warriors around him kept Owen on his feet. Water sprayed their faces as the wooden hull splintered and fell apart. The enemy crew cheered and rushed forward, jumping over the prow to land atop the ruined deck of the much smaller longship. Fioni screamed and rushed forward to meet them, followed by Owen and the others. In moments, the deck was a writhing mass of warriors, locked in a death struggle, pushing and straining against one another, trying to strike over the tops of their shields or shove their opponents back into the water. Aboard Iron Beard, men threw grappling hooks attached to ropes against Hard Stone’s broken hull, lashing the two ships together. More and more of the enemy jumped down onto their deck, while others shot arrows directly down on them with frightening accuracy. As the defenders fell, the attackers pushed them inexorably back. In the surf, with neither ship under oar now, both ships began to spin about, turning Hard Stone’s stern out to sea. We’ll never get underway again, Owen realized with sinking resignation. We’re all going to die.
An arrow struck the baleen plates over his collarbone, shattering the shaft but sending a shard of it flying up to cut his cheek. Fioni remained on his right, their shields locked
together, with Asger on his left. One of Galas’s warriors came at him, but Owen shoved his shield into him, throwing him to the deck. Another man took his place, screaming in rage as he came at Owen. In the press of bodies, Owen managed to maneuver his sword—Brice Awde’s sword—over his shield and then drove its point right through the man’s open mouth, severing his tongue.
But for every man Owen put down, three more took his place. Asger went down under a spear thrust that slipped beneath his shield. The fighting pushed them back, and now they fought beside the keelson, the huge block of wood that held the ship’s mast in place. More and more of the defenders fell, leaving only a handful now. Owen’s lungs burned, and his shoulders were on fire. They couldn’t possibly win now, yet not a man surrendered.
“Ship!” a panicked voice called out. “There’s another ship coming to take us from behind.”
Thunder Killer, Owen realized, unable to take his eyes off the men attacking them. They’ve come back to finish us. A huge fat man came at him, forcing him back under his powerful attacks. Then, bizarrely, he heard a dog barking. “It’s Fen Wolf!” Fioni yelled. “I told you Kora would come back. Fight on, fight on!”
Out of nothing, hope surged in Owen, lending him the strength to keep going. “Wolfrey, Dain!” he screamed as he lashed out at the fat man, splitting his skull to his shoulders.
Fear and uncertainty flitted through the eyes of the enemy as they realized they were now fighting two ships instead of one. They faltered, falling back. Owen caught a quick glimpse of Galas Gilt-Mane, standing on the deck of Iron Beard, screaming at his men to press the attack. Hard Stone shuddered as Fen Wolf ran right into its stern, shattering it and sending those fighting on its decks reeling. Then volleys of crossbow bolts hammered into Galas’s men, savaging them, forcing them back farther and opening up space between the two forces. Kora was screaming at Fioni and the others to climb aboard Fen Wolf before Hard Stone went under.
A hand-axe flew through the air, coming right at Owen’s face—a moment later, pain lanced through his skull, and he was falling. He hit the cold seawater already pouring over Hard Stone’s deck. He couldn’t see properly. Something—blood—was in his eyes, blinding him. He lay on his back in the seawater, waving Brice Awde’s lion-marked sword and babbling incoherently. Then someone grabbed him and lifted him up, and the world spun around him before a familiar young woman with strawberry-blond hair peered down at him, asking him something. He blinked in confusion, desperate to understand how his little sister, Tanda, had somehow gotten here.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 63
