Bronze Summer : The Northland Trilogy (9781101615416)

by Baxter, Stephen

  It was good to be back at sea. Qirum could hear men calling across the water, pilots passing bits of information, the crews mocking each other as fighting men always would. He could hear the horses too, their frightened whinnies carrying over the water. He relished the smell of pitch and resin, of the men’s wine and salted meat, even their earthy stink of piss and vomit, and above all the sharp salt scent of the air that lay over the ocean. Even to bring his army so far, to assemble such a fleet, was a huge achievement. And at this key moment, with the first landing on Northland soil imminent, it was Qirum’s ship that led, Qirum himself who guided it, he who would be the first to spring onto Northland soil, the first to fight, the first to kill.

  But that landing had yet to be made, that moment of glory yet to come. For now Qirum and his force were still at the mercy of the sea. Huge oceanic waves forced their way into this great throat of an estuary, and the boat creaked as it rose and fell. The men, most of them warriors from the eastern countries, looked uneasy, queasy, and more than one had emptied his guts over the side. At least the wind was strong enough for them to use their sails, but it blew too hard, driving the ships too fast for the comfort of the pilots, and it brought a bite of cold too on this unseasonably chill midsummer day.

  It was just as well, Qirum thought, that few of the men knew of the invisible traps that the Northlanders had planted all along the shore.

  Now the traitor came back the length of the ship to speak to him. He had to step carefully past the twin ranks of rowers, twenty-five men in each, their gear stowed beneath their benches, their weapons to hand, their oars shipped. The man, arrogantly dressed in the jackdaw-feather cloak of his ceremonial office in Northland society, himself looked unsteady; he was no sailor. But he smiled at the Trojan’s discomfort. “You’re doing well, Qirum. Just hold your course.”

  Qirum snarled, “I don’t need pats on the head from the likes of you, Bren.”

  “Of course you don’t. But nevertheless—” He glanced up at a sunless sky. “A midsummer day, a clear still morning. The weather is kind, believe it or not. You should see the storms that ram their way up this estuary in the winter.”

  Qirum glanced to the shore to the north. It was a strand of empty shingle beach, with a blur of forest in the distance. To the south, nothing could be seen but water. This estuary was so wide that you could not see one bank from the other. “I see no walls. Where are the mighty Northland walls, as I saw in the north?”

  “There are some on the south coast, but nothing to match the structures in the north, like the great Wall that shelters Etxelur itself. Here the issue is the management of the great rivers, and the tidal washes, whose flow is diverted and channeled to keep them from tearing at the land. Look over there.” He pointed to a section of coast that looked as if it had been undercut and slumped into the water. The exposed landscape, under a sward of green, was chalk, white as bone. “Without conscious management this very land would be cut away by the sea, as you see over there. You must understand that Northland is not just a question of walls. It is a system of water engineering that spans a whole country, a system designed and evolved to—”

  “So this precious land has been saved from the sea. I’ve heard all this before. To what end?” He peered at the empty shoreline. “I see no people here.”

  “But there are signs of them. See the ruined boat?” An oval shape on the strand. “And there is a fish rack, abandoned. And there, that black scar is an old hearth. They know you’re coming, Trojan. And they have laid their traps.”

  Bren had revealed the Northlanders’ hidden defenses to their enemy, underwater, concealed in the sand and shingle, and had no doubt already saved the fleet from disaster. The problem was Qirum could see none of it, and nor could his men. Qirum was a fighter by nature, not a thinker. He longed to be on those beaches, splashing through the last of the surf, wielding his sword against the foe—but there was no foe to be seen here, nothing but empty beaches, and air.

  Best not to think about the enemy and his cunning. Best not to let his mind get addled by twisted words from manipulative scum like Bren. Best to think of his own strengths, and purposes. He was already planning ahead, as a great king should. When he had built his kingdom in Northland, when the time came to strike at the Hatti and their lizard-queen in high Hattusa, it would be an overland expedition, by river valley and mountain pass, the like of which the world had never seen …

  There was a cry of alarm, floating over the water. The crew craned to see, and Qirum turned, holding the steering oar steady. One of the ships, a big pentecoster laden with horses, had broken from the loose column and was driving for the shore, its sail flapping. Qirum bellowed for the pilot to right his course, but he was surely too far away to be heard.

  Beside him, Bren plucked his sleeve. “That’s the Gryphon.”

  “I can see that.”

  “There’s no point shouting. The man hasn’t forgotten the course he’s supposed to keep. He’s lost control of the craft altogether. Look at him.”

  And indeed, Qirum could see the pilot of the rogue ship hauling at his steering oar to no effect. As the ship listed horses bucked and neighed pitifully. The men scrambled to bring down their sail and tried to ship their oars, but their movements were an uncoordinated tangle in the heaving bilge and they got in each other’s way. Still, for a moment hope flickered in Qirum’s heart. The beach here was shallow, and Greek ships were designed to be driven far up the shore. If the Gryphon encountered no obstruction perhaps most of the crew—and the horses, which were more valuable than the men—could survive the landing.

  But long before the ship reached the shore something seemed to reach up out of the water, a blackened claw that pierced the hull and dragged at the vessel as it passed. The Gryphon tipped over onto its right-hand side, its mast dipping to the water almost elegantly. Men and horses tumbled into the water screaming, their oars and weapons and bales of clothing and food falling with them.

  And then a swarm of arrows flew into the air from the shore, like bees. They seemed to come out of nowhere. They fell on the men and animals struggling in the water, and the screaming intensified. There were shouts of anger from the other ships. Shields were raised, and a few arrows were loosed in return, to fall uselessly in the water.

  “So there are defenders,” Qirum snarled.

  “A tree stump,” Bren murmured.

  “What?”

  “A tree stump. That’s all it was—all that was needed. Upended, stuck in the beach, the roots sharpened. Covered over by the sea at high tide; they knew we would have to come in on the high tide, and it would rip open the hull of any ship trying to land. Simple but effective. And then the defenders on the land just pick off any survivors. I told you it would be like this. All the way along the coast.”

  Qirum snarled, “Except for the one weak point you will guide us to.”

  “Not far now.” Bren smiled, utterly confident.

  And Qirum’s eye was caught by a spark of light, rising into the air from the green coast. It was like a firefly, but he had seen no such insects in this part of the world.

  Erishum called from the prow. “Fire! Lord Qirum, it is a fire arrow!”

  Qirum could do nothing. The arrow fell, swooping straight down toward the Lion, and hit the sail. The woven fabric began to burn immediately. The men yelled and scrambled.

  “Cut it down!” Erishum, fast to react as ever, strode forward, yelling. “Cut the sail down! Get it over the side!” He slashed at the rigging with his own sword. It was a chaotic scene for a few heartbeats as the men hauled at the burning cloth and kicked it into the river. At last the sail was overboard, still burning, drifting on the water’s surface.

  Qirum, breathing hard, stood amidships and surveyed his crew. None had been lost, and only one seemed badly burned. And there were no more arrows coming; there was no need for the shields. “Back to your stations. To your oars! No more sails. Who needs the strength of the wind? From now on we drive ourselves
hard and strong all the way to our landing on the Northland shore!”

  He was rewarded with a roar of anger and determination. The men moved to their places, scrambling for their oars in the bilge. The drummer took his place in the prow, and, facing the men, began a steady one-two beat. It took only a few strokes for the men to settle into their rhythm. Soon the oars were cutting into the water, and the Lion surged forward.

  Erishum came back to speak to Qirum. “We were lucky.”

  “We shouldn’t have been in range. I blame myself for that.”

  “We were at the limit of an archer’s reach. It was a good shot. And aimed to pick us out.”

  Qirum considered. “They recognized me.”

  “Or perhaps him.” Erishum gestured at the traitor. “You could recognize that ludicrous feather cloak half a day’s walk away.”

  Bren looked up, huddled in his cloak. “You may take this as a warning of the campaign your opponents will wage. With cunning and stealth and intelligence.”

  “Cunning they may be, but we’ve no obligation to help them. Be done with this ludicrous thing.” Qirum bent down, grabbed the man’s cloak by the scruff, hauled it off his back and cast it away into the water. Loose black feathers fluttered in the air. Dressed only in tunic and kilt, Bren looked diminished—fragile, old. He wrapped his arms around his chest.

  Qirum looked back at his fleet. More drums were sounding now; more oars were being lowered into the water, more sails furled, as the crews followed his lead. The ships surged through the water, energetic, as if angered themselves by the loss of their fellow. “How much longer to this landing place, traitor? How long?”

  Deri lay with Nago and Mi in the long grass. They were with a party of two dozen, some Northlanders, some Hatti scouts and warriors. Looking out over the ocean, they watched Qirum’s flagship recover from the burning of its sail, and its renewed surge through the water. It was at the head of a navy that had been barely touched by the Northlanders’ defense measures so far.

  Deri clapped Mi on the back. The girl still had her bow on the grass beside her. “Good shooting, kid.”

  “I’m not a kid, uncle.” Mi spoke with a thick Kirike’s Land accent. She was fourteen years old now, but looked younger.

  “Well, whatever you are, you did your job well. I’ve never seen an arrow fly so far!”

  “Medoc taught me.”

  Deri nodded. “My father was a good man, and I could use him at my side right now. If we’d had any luck we’d have sunk that ship and taken out fifty men, Qirum himself, and that worm Bren in the process.”

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” Nago asked.

  “You could hardly mistake that Jackdaw cloak. The arrogance of the man in wearing it is beyond belief. Yet he thought he was safe, out on the water, I suppose.”

  “So he told them about our beach defenses,” Nago said ruefully. “They knew to avoid the shore. We only got the one ship. All that work wasted. And all because of one man, because of Bren.”

  Deri rubbed his face. “He hasn’t won yet. Nor has Qirum.”

  “But he must have told them about—”

  “About Shark Bay. I know. The one place the Trojans can land.” Deri was determined not to look downcast; he forced a grin. “But every setback brings an opportunity. At least we know where they will land. And we can be ready to face them.

  “There’s nothing more we can do here.” He stood and turned to the wider party, and snapped out orders in their own tongue to the Hatti scouts; the men ran to their horses and galloped off. “The tracks are good along this coast. If we make good time we can be ready to give these Trojans a warm welcome. And don’t forget your bow, Mi. I have a feeling you will be very useful in what’s to come.”

  48

  The inlet Bren called Shark Bay was the outflow of a minor river. A narrow valley with walls of eroded chalk led inland from the beach.

  As the ship turned to face the shore, as the landing at last approached, Qirum gave up his place at the steering oar to his pilot, grabbed his weapons and armor, and made for the prow, Erishum at his side. The two boats following were commanded by Protis and the Spider, his two basileis, and were filled with their best fighters. These three boats, the hardened spear point of the entire force, would make the first landings, and the heroes they carried were ready to win the day for the Trojan force.

  Bren pointed out the features of the shore. “The Annids decided that the whole coast could not be rendered impassable. We Northlanders do rely on trade. This place was chosen as a safe landing. It was thought well enough defended naturally, by its sandbanks. Can you see?” The sandbanks were visible as a maze of pale brown shadows under the water. “If you don’t know this coast, any experienced sailor would avoid this inlet.”

  “But if you do know it, there is a way through.”

  “Yes, as I told your pilot—”

  “Then get back to the stern and tell him anew. I don’t want any mistakes now we’re so close.”

  The traitor hurried back.

  The rowers worked more gingerly now as the pilots carefully guided the ships through the banks. As they passed the men threw out markers, pigs’ bladders weighted with rocks, to guide the ships following.

  Erishum pointed to the shore. “They’re ready for us.”

  Qirum peered that way, and saw the glint of metal, a fence of spears, just inland from the water’s edge. The enemy at last, silently waiting. He grinned. “Good. We need a fight to sharpen our wits. It’s too many days since I killed a man—”

  An arrow hissed through the air; it fell short of the ship, but not by much.

  “Shields!” Qirum snapped.

  Behind him the rowers, without missing a beat, manhandled their shields over their heads. The first arrows clattered down into the boat.

  “Somebody has a good arm,” Erishum said.

  “Maybe the same freak of nature who set fire to our sail. He will pay for that, in time.” More arrows fell now as they came within range of the shore, and Qirum and Erishum raised their own shields. But Qirum stood proud in the prow of his ship, defying the Northlanders’ lethal hail.

  The landing itself was only moments away. Qirum felt his heart race, his blood surge. Of the whole operation the landing required the most skill. If you got your run at the shore just right, if you timed the very strokes, then you could drive your ship half a length up the shore before it came to rest, and that alone could punch a hole in any defense. But the rowers had to work precisely to the rhythm of the drummers, even though they kept having to duck behind their shields, for all the time the enemy bombardment continued, the fall of arrows thickening. Mostly the arrows clattered harmlessly against shields or armor, or hit the wooden deck, but some, as always, found a way through to flesh, and a man would scream, and the ship juddered as a rower was lost.

  And now the first answering wave of arrows from the ships behind the lead flew over Qirum’s head, falling on the shore, and the first Northlanders, surely, began to die. Encouraged, the men rowed faster, their discipline growing tighter. Qirum felt the salt wind in his face as the boat leapt forward, and the hail of arrows from both sides thickened in the air.

  The hull struck the sea bottom with a shuddering crunch, and slid over the shingle, and the last of the water surged around the prow. Qirum raised his sword with a roar. Even before the boat came to rest he leapt out into the surf.

  Nago, with Deri at his side, stood firm at the center of the Northlander line. They both wore armor borrowed from the Hatti. The plan was to strike at the Trojans just as they landed, when they were most vulnerable, with the bulk of their force still trapped at sea. Nobody expected this small force defending the beach to hold for long, but the more damage it could do the better.

  But here came the ships! Somehow, whenever he had imagined this moment, Nago had never thought of the ships themselves. Now here they were, three of them rearing up out of the beach, sliding on their wooden bellies over the rough stones of the beach, with pain
ted eyes glowering as if they meant to devour the defending warriors themselves. They were monsters, an aquatic nightmare. It was hard not to flee in superstitious terror.

  And the first man was already out of the still-moving lead boat, short, stocky, his face livid with a kind of rage. Nago knew this man. It was Qirum himself, first to set foot in the country he meant to make his own. The Northlanders held their line—all save one man who broke and ran forward, yelling, waving a sword. Qirum ducked inside the man’s clumsy slice and slashed his own short, heavy sword across the man’s midriff, cutting through cloth and flesh and stomach wall. The man fell forward into the seawater, and blood spilled red. Qirum laughed, exultant.

  A Hatti officer roared, “Scrape these bastards off the beach!”

  The defenders charged, bellowing, in their line, and Nago and Deri ran with them. Nago pumped air into his lungs and clenched his muscles, a fisherman trying to become a fighter, trying to remember the training the Hatti corporals had given him.

  And he saw the first Trojan he was going to close with, a huge fellow from the lead boat. He carried a sword in his scabbard and a spear in his hands, but he had no shield. Rather he was kitted out with full armor, bronze sheets on his breast and over his thighs, jointed extensions to protect his neck and shoulders, and his face was shielded by a grill of bronze under a boar-tusk helmet. It chilled Nago that he could not see the man’s face, this stranger determined to kill him. The man came at Nago with a muscular roar.

  Don’t hesitate: that was the one message the Hatti corporals had rammed into the heads and hearts of the Northlander fishermen and canal dredgers. Don’t hesitate to strike, to kill, or you will be killed.

  Nago ducked under the Trojan’s sword thrust and swung his own weapon, hoping to cut the man down at his legs, only to have the blade clatter against shaped armor plates on the shins. A spear stabbed down, and Nago rolled on his back on damp sand to avoid the thrust. He struggled to his feet, but while he was still off-balance the warrior raised his spear again. Nago, almost falling, lunged at the man with his sword point-first, probing, finding a joint in the armor—and he drove his sword up under the man’s right shoulder plate, sliding it beneath the metal and into soft flesh. The warrior collapsed, gurgling behind his mask. He would have pulled Nago down, but Nago stayed upright, stepping back, holding onto the hilt of his sword, feeling how it tore through the man’s body as he fell. The Trojan landed on his back, like an upended crab in the shallow seawater. Nago dragged out his sword, positioned the blade again, and thrust down into the man’s mouth, driving through soft tissue until the blade ground on bone. The man coughed frothy blood, and subsided.