Before the surviving members of the pirate “trap” could regain their composure, Palto, now deployed with three hundred warriors off to the east side of the harbor led them forward. Just before the two sides met, a volley of two hundred arrows streaked in to the pirate lines from the west. What would have been a meeting of two evenly-numbered groups of fighters now became three hundred well-trained and disciplined warriors against just under two hundred pirate crewmen. The seamen were given just enough time to adjust their lines to face Palto’s warriors, then Jo-Dal led another two hundred fighters in an attack on their western flank. The battle was bloody, and it was fierce, but it was over quickly. The entire body of five hundred pirates were cut down in under eight minutes. Blood ran in rivulets back to the flames causing them to sputter when the fluid flowed over them.
Jo-Dal and Palto immediately led their warriors back to their protected positions behind the town constructions. They carried their dead and wounded with them. They’d lost thirty six warriors. In military theory it was a good trade, even a great one. In a commander’s mind, every loss was heartfelt.
***
Lampte stood on the wagon watching the carnage, his jaws agape. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. Five hundred men, all seasoned fighting men. All dead.
It had taken the outlanders mere moments to turn their own trap against them and slaughter a significant percentage of their numbers. Lampte fumed. First the warehouse, now this. He looked about and saw many of the pirates and the town guard glaring at him. Though Lampte was not a trained military commander he was wise enough to know that they were already losing faith in his ability to lead them. He would have to do something to regain their trust, and he would have to do it now.
***
Jile watched as his ship drifted sideways toward the submerged reefs. Thankfully, the wind to that side was barely noticeable, and their speed was minimal. The sea anchors were delaying their total destruction on the rocks. He estimated that they had a half hour until their hull was breached. The initial impact would not penetrate it, but the constant pounding of the waves driving them against the reef over and over would eventually splinter them.
Jile opened his scope and examined the chain again. It was being guarded on the island side by eleven pirates. He considered putting a boat to sea and mounting an attack on them. He knew that the pirates would see them coming and bombard them with arrows before they could reach land. No, they were seamen, they’d take their chances on board.
He examined the windlass that the pirates used to tighten the chain. He followed the obstacle all the way across the harbor channel to the point on the small islet where the other side was secured. If only they could reach that islet they could release it from that end, but they would hit the rocks before any rowed boat could reach it.
Jile sighed and took a last look at the windlass. He was about to collapse his scope when he saw movement on the rocks above the pirates. He re-focused the scope. Then he smiled.
Fauwler had sent Mal and Baynor to continue the efforts to convince their friends and acquaintances not to join in the fight against the town. He had seen the warriors in action, and he did not want his fellow citizens to be on the receiving end of that kind of destructive energy.
Fauwler was on his way to the western part of Kylee to urge the townspeople there to stay indoors until the fighting had stopped. He took the most direct route which required him to climb down the side of the hills lining the harbor channel. Now he crouched behind a shrub watching the eleven pirates who were laughing, talking and passing a clay jug as if a battle for control of the island was not happening. The guards were not important. Fauwler saw the chain and the bunched ships within the channel. The breeze was sweeping them all toward the reefs. If nothing was done they would crash upon the rocks, and many onboard would die. Worse, the entire plan of a two-pronged attack to take the island would be ruined.
He looked up at the hill that he’d just descended and all around himself, hoping to find someone to summon help. There was no one. He looked back at the ships. The men onboard were there because they had listened to him and agreed with his vision of what Kylee could become. They had put their faith in him. Now they would die, not in battle, but crushed against the unforgiving rocks which guarded their home.
No. Fauwler could not let that happen.
Captain Fauwler drew his sword. He measured the distance from his shrub to the windlass. There was no way that he would be able to reach them without being seen.
The young captain took a moment. He breathed the fresh air of the sea, filling his lungs over and over, savoring the smell of the brine. He listened to the squawks of the seabirds drifting effortlessly on the winds above. The sound of waves crashing on the shore reached him. Fauwler had never been one for formal worship, but he did believe there was something that created the beautiful things in this world. He expressed his appreciation for the years of freedom that he had spent experiencing those things. He asked to be forgiven for deeds he’d committed that had been less than noble.
Then he stood and started down the hill.
At the windlass, Barl, the First Mate of the Necromancer, was watching the slow drift of the invading ships toward the reefs. Movement caught his eye and he was astonished to see Captain Fauwler at the base of the hill. The captain was charging their position. Barl laughed, his large facial scar puckering with the effort.
“Here now, Lads,” he shouted to the other ten guards. “Take the captain’s head and we will each share fifty pieces of silver.” Barl did not inform his comrades that Lampte had offered a hundred pieces of silver for the head of the leader of the invasion.
The men formed up behind Barl. Three were archers and, at Barl’s direction, loosed their arrows at Fauwler. Two of the shafts passed harmlessly over his head. The third grazed the side of his left hip, a painful wound, but not life threatening.
Then he was crashing into Barl. The broad blade of the pirate’s sword was deadly, but it never reached its intended target. Fauwler judged the arc of the weapon and sidestepped at the last moment. Barl’s weapon missed the captain’s face by the width of a whisker. He never had a chance to make a second attempt. The slim blade of Fauwler’s rapier slid easily between the pirate’s ribs, skewering his heart.
Fauwler did not wait to see the man fall. He pivoted three hundred and sixty degrees and slashed his blade across the face of another pirate. The wound was massive and bone and meat was exposed. The man dropped his spear and used both hands to hold his face together.
Fauwler felt a burning pain in his back and whipped his sword around to open the throat of a pirate who had planted a dagger there.
Three pirates were now down. Fauwler shuffled backward, putting distance between himself and the remaining eight.
A man with a spear hopped forward, thrusting his weapon at the captain. Fauwler was able to grasp it with his left hand and use his sword hand to deliver a killing thrust to the chest. He kicked out with his forward foot and caught another attacker on his knee. The joint folded in backwards, and the man fell screaming in pain.
Fauwler had just parried a sword thrust from one of the windlass guards when an arrow pierced his thigh. One of the bowmen had wisely stayed apart from the fray and taken his time to re-nock an arrow and take aim. The pain of the wound almost made the captain fall, but he steeled himself anew. He reached down and quickly tried to pull the shaft free. The barbs were too solidly affixed so, instead, he snapped the arrow off at the flesh line, ignoring the fresh burst of agony.
Hobbled now by a barely functioning leg, Fauwler narrowly dodged another swing of a sword. He saw the pirate lining up for a third strike. He drew his dagger and caught the man’s blade with its edge, then drove his rapier into the man’s abdomen. The pirate fell to his knees with blood pulsing from his mouth.
Then there were five, not counting the one pirate with the shattered knee.
Fauwler saw the bowman drawing back another arrow, preparing to
deliver a killing shot. The captain leapt forward, ignoring the burning agony of his leg wound. He stabbed out with his dagger catching one pirate in the soft spot at the side of his head. The light in the man’s eyes was immediately extinguished. Behind him the bowman was taken by surprise, unable to launch his missile in time. Stretching out to his fullest, Fauwler’s foil pierced the bowman’s eye. The arrow shot off harmlessly while the bow and the bowman fell away. The screams of the archer were heart-rending.
Another bolt of white hot pain surged through Fauwler’s abdomen. One of the remaining pirates had taken advantage of his focus on the bowman and slipped sword under his dagger. The wounded captain felt a measure of strength go out of his arms and legs. With the blade still in his belly he dropped his dagger and reached out to grab the swordsman’s arm, securing it in a steely grip. Looking directly into the pirate’s eyes Fauwler saw the fear in his face and the knowledge of what was coming. The captain drove his blade forward with what remained of his strength. The rapier was designed to slide between the ribs of an opponent and pierce the organs within. The weapon did its job well and the swordsman died screaming.
With little strength remaining, Captain Fauwler took the hilt of his rapier in both hands and turned to meet the remaining two pirates. Instead he saw only their retreating backs as they abandoned their friends and fled to the safety of the forested hills.
The rapier fell from Fauwler’s hands as he began to shudder. His vision fogged and refused to focus. His hands reached for his weapon, but they could not lift it.
“Not yet!” he shouted to himself.
The Captain of the Dreadnaught staggered over to the windlass. It was a large construction made mostly of wood with metal parts used where the effects of friction was most pronounced. A cogged wheel held the chain tightly. The wheel was chocked by a metal slat.
Fauwler collapsed and fell against it. The pain in his abdomen and leg was excruciating. He pushed himself back and squinted while trying to force his vison to clear. He saw the slat. It was hinged at the bottom, and there was a rope attached to a hole at the top. Fauwler reached out. His hands missed the rope three times. He found it on the fourth try. The Captain tried to stand but was unable to summon enough strength to make his legs respond. He scooted backward until he could force his legs up against the windlass.
Exhaustion overtook him. The blood loss, especially from the stomach wound, was stealing his strength. He gulped air. His eyes closed, and he lost consciousness. He fell backward and lay motionless.
“No!”
He struggled back up to a sitting position. His eyes sought the ships in the channel, but they were too far away for his impaired vision. He would have liked to see ships again. He concentrated and tried to hear the waves and the seabirds, but the sounds that reached his ears echoed like he was at the bottom of a well.
He tried to remember what he was doing. What was that in his hand? A rope. The windlass.
Fauwler wrapped the rope around his arm several times. He leaned forward and took a fresh grip with his other hand. All pain was gone now. Euphoria began to wash over him. He readied himself.
With a shout of defiance he heaved back on the rope.
***
“Clear ahead, Captain!”
Jile heard the shout from the crewman in the rigging. He rushed to the rail and opened his scope. It was true. The chain was submerged. There was no way to tell how deeply it had dropped, but they really had no choice.
“Raise half sail,” the old captain ordered. The sheets were quickly pulled upward on ropes and pulleys. The light wind was immediately captured by them and the mighty Dreadnaught turned gracefully back toward the middle of the channel.
Jile turned his scope to the windlass on the passing shore. He saw multiple bodies heaped about it. One man was crawling away. Another was leaning face-down against the mechanism. They were too far away to make out faces.
The Flagship of the Fauwler fleet reached the point where the chain had been. There was no jolt such as they would have experienced had the chain been lowered just enough to deceive them. The danger was past.
“Raise the flag of the Eye of Kylee,” Jile shouted. A cheer rose from the crew. Jile smiled. The smile faded quickly. He took a final look at the spot on the shore where the released windlass and the pile of dead men lay. There was something about that one man.
Then he pushed all else from his mind. “Prepare to make shore!”
***
“Stop! Everyone stop!” Dayel raised one hand over her head to emphasize her words. All sound ceased in the cellar. Even Taggart paused in his efforts.
Dayel stared intently at Dwan’s arm. There was nothing. The silence continued. Still nothing.
Taggart bent forward, preparing to force air into the woman’s lungs again.
The hand twitched.
“Stop!” Dayel repeated.
Taggart looked at her, brows lowered.
She pointed to Dwan’s hand. There was nothing for a moment more. Then it twitched again. Then it flexed. The fingers curled.
“It’s just a muscular reaction,” one of the healers opined.
“No! It’s more.” Dayel raised the woman’s hand and offered it to Taggart. The big man took it gently into his own. He felt along the wrist, searching for that special spot. He found it.
“Her heart beats.” He said it quietly and without emotion.
The gathered women wiped at tears as they stared at the dramatic event taking place in front of them. No one spoke, the cellar was as quiet as a church.
Dayel slowly raised her hand and pointed at Dwan’s chest. It was rising and falling on its own.
The quiet in the room was now broken by the gentle weeping of the other women. Toria and Tay stood together with Lyyl and Geraar. Even the stoic Tay had tears in her eyes.
A moment passed, then another. Then Dwan made a small mewing sound. Taggart raised her head and rested it on his lap. His hand stroked her hair gently, it was an act that she enjoyed when they were alone together.
There was another faint sound. Then her lips parted.
Dwan’s eyes opened. She looked left to where the women stood. Then she looked right to where Taggart was bending over her. There was no expression on her face for a moment. Then she displayed a look of bewilderment. She struggled to say something but appeared to be unable to. Her eyes fluttered and opened again. Finally she regained control of her voice.
“Are you really here?” she managed weakly.
Tears fell anew from Taggart’s eyes. “I am here, my sweet girl.”
Dwan continued to look at him with no emotion. Then a small and barely noticeable smile appeared on her face. Her hand trembled with the effort, but she was able to lift it and place her hand against his cheek. She looked deeply into her husband’s eyes. “My Warrior.”
Tears ran silently down Toria’s face. Like the others in the room she was deeply affected by what she had just witnessed. She watched the two reunited lovers for several minutes before movement on the floor near Dwan’s head caught her attention. Tinker had come out of the trance that she had entered in order to enter Dwan’s mind. The motion that Toria had seen was the twitching of her long tail. She watched as the animal nuzzled her mate’s whiskered face. There was something wrong. Pan was still lying motionless on the floor beside her. Tinker was emitting waves of anxiety which Toria was receiving. She understood immediately that Pan was not coming out of his spell.
***
The smell of smoke and burned bodies made the air difficult to breathe. The situation was not helped by the screaming of the injured. The town guard had overlooked the need to commandeer people who were trained in the healing arts which made efforts at easing the pain of the wounded ineffective.
Lampte had ordered all of the crewmen off of Tallun’s ships and put them on the battle line. There had been some squawking, but he had shortstopped it quickly. With the horrific results of their attempted trap, the town guard was now down to some t
hirty three hundred fighters. At least that was what the number would be if all of the guard were still present. Lampte could not be certain, but it appeared that a number of the fighters under his command had slipped away in all of the confusion. There was nothing to be done about it anyway.
The Governor estimated that he had two hundred archers left after the warehouse debacle. He wished there were more. Bows and arrows were useful at sea where fleeing ships could be compelled to surrender in order to escape a constant barrage of missiles from the rigging of surrounding pirate vessels. Each ship usually only carried a dozen or more. With the unusual security that the island’s natural layout provided, there had been no real call for developing more archers. After all, no one seriously expected an attack from the South. Lampte certainly hadn’t.
Apart from his archers the town guard was equipped with numerous other weapons. Most of the seamen carried the broad-bladed short swords that were made to be used for hacking and slashing. Fauwler was the only privateer that Lampte knew of that favored the thin rapier. After the swords there was the usual assortment of knives, spears, clubs and sharpened gaffs.
It was good that so many of his fighters were experienced with the sword, but that particular weapon was only effective in close quarters. What was needed here were more people who were accomplished in the use of javelin and spear. They needed something beyond the few archers in their army to score kills from a distance. Lampte was comforted in the knowledge that he had such a large superiority in numbers. As far as he could tell his fighters still outnumbered the outlanders three to one, but that advantage was meaningless unless they actually attacked. Then his numbers and the prepared defensive positions would come into play. Lampte searched the sky to see the position of the sun. It was still early in the day. The invaders had many hours before they would be disadvantaged by the darkness. Then Lampte would send raiding parties out to harass the enemy using their knowledge of the town. He hoped to deny sleep to the enemy and draw down their numbers enough to force them to attack on the next morning.
The Coastal Kingdoms of Olvion: Book Two of The Chronicles of Olvion Page 44
