The Seer And The Sword (28 page)

‘So,’ Andris said. ‘The Sliviites will drown.’

Landen looked round at the men. ‘If the vessels burn quickly and sink fast, yes, they’ll drown. If they have their wits about them, they’ll take to their longboats and head for shore. For all we know, they may be planning to invade us in the boats tonight.’

So much depends on timing we know nothing about. If they’re on their way towards us as we row out to them, what then?

‘I believe if we get there in time to start the ships burning, the Sliviites will try to save their vessels,’ he said. ‘Without ships, they have no way to return to their own lands. It’s also likely some of them can swim as well or better than us. But if they swim encumbered by weapons, they’ll have hard going. And they may not know about the tide, which can weaken the strongest swimmer, and slow the most powerful oarsman.’

‘Sir,’ Bangor asked, his sweet tenor voice contrasting with the scarred mask of his face. ‘The Sliviites who get in the boats and make it to shore – what about them?’

Bangor was one of six in the band, including Landen, able to swim.

‘Since we’ll swim south at first, instead of towards shore, we’ll likely miss them in the water.’

‘But Castle Bay?’ Bangor persisted.

‘Castle Bay is at risk of attack,’ Landen answered.

‘So if the Sliviites jump in the boats because of us—’

‘We may provoke the invasion sooner,’ Landen finished for him. ‘But if we don’t act tonight, we lose surprise and our forces will be slaughtered.’

‘How do we defend the beach, swimming south?’ Bangor asked.

Landen looked at the Angel-Devil with affection. ‘We don’t.’

The high king stepped forward. ‘You’ll do your part with the ships. My soldiers and I stand ready to guard the beach. When you reach shore, drag yourselves to the south camp and get warm. For you, the fighting will be over.’

‘Once in the water,’ Landen told them, ‘look out for yourselves. Never swim into the rip tide, even if you think it will save a comrade. If you do, you’ll exhaust your body and won’t be able to make it to shore.’

He folded his hands, wondering how many of his friends would come back. He told them they could stay on land if they liked, now that they knew what was in store. No one backed out, so he drew a map of the fleet and began assigning ships. Then he went over the plan again.

As the men moved to leave, the high king addressed them. ‘What makes this possible is your courage. Before you go, please accept my honour and thanks. The future of many kingdoms lies with you.’

Clouds covered the moon as Landen’s crew set out, their oars gliding through black water. The men rowed in stoic silence, watching the boat captain’s arm rise and fall in place of a drum, coordinating their oar strokes.

Before long they could see the Sliviite vessels, opaque outlines against the dark sky, looming up from the shining darkness of the ocean. Darkness over darkness.

The massive ships, anchored in two long rows, crammed the horizon. Landen lifted his eyes, trying to fill his heart with the great sky, the vastness of eternity. As they neared the fleet, the night reached out to them, carrying Sliviite voices. Landen froze. The Sliviites must be getting ready to invade. With two hours until dawn, only their lookouts should be awake.

He wished there were some way to lasso time, to make the minutes obey his will so he and his friends could reach the great ships before they were too late. Pushing the sea under his oars was the only outlet for his urgency.

Now they were past the ships, rowing frantically.
When they reached a point west of the fleet, they stowed their oars, the men shaking with the effort of silence. All eyes were on Landen as he signalled in the gloom. He watched as one by one they slipped into the water in their coracles and paddled away.

Then it was his turn. His coracle was lowered and he dropped into it. The light craft, made of hide and green branches sewn together with leather thongs, bobbed on the swells of the ocean’s surface. Landen saluted the boat captain and floated off. The pull of the tide was intense as he guided the coracle towards his designated ship. The closest ship, since he was last to start. He had to fight hard against the water with his paddle, trying to keep quiet.

He felt naked and exposed, sitting in the tiny makeshift circle of the coracle, approaching the bulk of the Sliviite warship. It seemed the soldiers on her deck must be able to hear his heart, and if they looked down, would they be able to see him? Would he look like a spot of ink moving in the waves? Or like what he was, a young man bent on destruction?

Do no one harm
. The tenet of his childhood came echoing back. Landen turned his thoughts to the other men in the water with him. He imagined them crouched on their knees like he was, the smell of pitch mixed with brine heavy in their noses, pushing against the tide towards the ships.

His heartbeat was the drum commanding his progress. When he slid into the shadow of the ship’s hull, the coracle moved rapidly. Though he tried to slow down, it bounced against the ship’s side. Landen
searched for something that would hold him against the great vessel, but there was nothing to grab but smooth wood. He wondered about the other men, as he realized he’d have to get into the water and use the trace and auger there.

He pulled off his boots, while the coracle swirled and bumped. He drew out a bootlace, tying one end to his wrist and the other to the frame of the coracle. A moment later he was in the cold sea, intent on fixing the brace against the hull, boring with the auger, praying no one heard him, that no one chanced to be on the other side in the hold. He twirled his auger with all his might, while the tethered coracle tugged at him.

The timbers were thick, solid oak, and resisted his strength. At last, they yielded a hole and Landen started on another. When he had two holes, he passed the lace from his boot through them, tying the coracle. He heaved his dripping body into the tiny craft, almost capsizing it. Dipping a thick brush into the bucket of pitch, he painted with a frenzy, in and round, above and through the cavities he’d created. When the pitch was gone, he stuffed paraffin rags into the holes.

He sat and waited, shivering, trying to smother the sounds of his frazzled breathing. The soft thudding of the coracle against the ship seemed to make a furious clamour, beckoning the Sliviites to find him.

How were the others? Did they find a way to use the brace and auger and keep their coracles close by? Would they all have time?

Landen stripped off his wet clothes, dropping them in the bottom of the coracle. He listened to the night,
straining to understand the voices from the ship. Some sounded near, as though soldiers stood directly above him on deck. He huddled, every nerve crying for the release of action. The beach fire was supposed to draw the Sliviite lookouts with its glow. Was it lit? Should he start his wick?

Suddenly, the air was filled with shouting. He heard running footsteps on deck. The Sliviite outcry echoed from ship to ship.

Landen struck his flint and tinder and watched the spark catch on the paraffin. The little flame ate away at the wick, then burst into crackling life when it reached the pitch.

Just before he dived, he saw answering flickers from other ships. Taking a huge gulp of air, he plunged deep into the waves, swimming south. As soon as he got a little away from the ship, he felt the grip of the tide, sucking him out to sea as if he were no more than a leaf travelling a rapid watercourse. With an effort, he kept his head, and swam across the rip, not against it. He had forgotten his flotation log; it lay in the bottom of his coracle, shrouded in his sodden shirt. Impossible to go back for it now.

When he surfaced, the tide had sent him fifty yards west of the Sliviite ships. He trod water for a moment, while the surging current moved him further away. He could see the blaze he’d ignited, burning with ravenous heat, eating away at the ship. In its light, dazed foreign faces stared over the deck. Shouts blasted the air and fire roared.

The tide was carrying him so fast he would soon be
too far for their arrows. He thought of the men who had torched the eastern line of ships. The tide would move them into the path of the western row. Landen searched the orange sea, bright in reflection of the foundering ships. A head surfaced near the ship closest to him. He pounded the water, trying futilely to stop the gaining tide. The man went under again, reappearing twenty yards from the ship. Arrows hurtled through the night as the man dived again.

Landen tried to reach his comrade, forgetting his own advice about fighting the current. There was a splutter in the water only a few feet away, and Bangor’s one good eye stared at him.

‘What are you doing, man?’ the Angel-Devil shouted. ‘You told us never to fight the tide!’

Landen gazed at the flickering, strangely lit ocean. The inferno silhouetted men on deck, like black figurines on a stage. He could see Sliviites struggling to lower boats from the stern. Archers shot at the ocean. As the blaze lapped higher, a few soldiers leaped pell-mell into the water. The next ship in the row was listing badly, her side consumed by towering flames.

He felt an iron grip on his shoulder. Bangor shook him.

‘Come, Bellanes! Swim, man!’

‘But the others!’

‘Leave be! They took their chance, same as you and me. Come, this tide’s murderous.’ Bangor shook him again. ‘Where’s your log?’

‘Forgot it.’

‘We share mine. Swim, man! If we don’t get across
the tide, we’ll be meeting the sun coming up in the broad ocean.’

Landen tore his gaze from the ghastly scene and began to swim. Side by side in the cold sea, the two men pushed south with all their power.

A bleary-eyed Andris waited along a stony beach south of Castle Bay, scanning the ocean in the faint light of pre-dawn. The high king had assigned him to prepare camp for Bellanes and his crew; every other man available was needed to guard the bay. The tide was beginning to come in, so the big man started a fire well up on the gravelly sand.

The swimmers drifted in on rising breakers, clasping their flotation logs with numb hands, so exhausted they had to crawl through the shallows, helped by the faithful Andris. They couldn’t respond to his eager questions. Many were unable to make their way past the tideline to his fire, falling asleep by the water’s edge. Andris dragged them to the warming blaze and went to search for others.

The sun was up, a dazzling dance in the waves, and still no sign of Bellanes. Or Bangor, for that matter. Seven other men were missing as well, soldiers from Dahmis’ troops. Andris walked up and down the shore.

He couldn’t bear the waiting. A fishing boat was moored to the tangled roots of an ancient log. He tugged it into the water and jumped in.

Buffeted by large waves, it seemed he made no headway. At last he got beyond the breakers and squinted hard. Nothing.

He rowed farther out, till the beach was a distant line, his head wagging ceaselessly, seeking his friends. Still nothing but the blinding glint of sun on water. Tears rolled into Andris’ beard. He kept rowing, only because he had no heart to go back to shore. It seemed the ocean was an enormous bowl of endless water, met by an inverted bowl of endless sky, and himself a lost speck, consumed by the blue.

It was then he spotted a dark dot on the horizon. His heart pumped with renewed vigour. He strained to row harder. Slowly, how slowly the time went, and the ocean seemed reluctant to give up any distance between Andris’ boat and what he pursued.

At last, he was close enough to see. Two men. One seemed lifeless; the other hung on a short log, holding his companion’s head out of the sea.

Bangor. Bangor passed Andris the dead-weight of Bellanes and helped haul him into the boat. Then he heaved himself in, lying in the bottom while Andris pleaded with Bellanes to waken.

He pressed the unconscious man’s lungs, rocking the boat, till water squirted from Bellanes’ mouth. The young man coughed, and began shivering violently. When his eyes opened, he smiled.

‘Andris, am I dead? Because
you
look like an angel.’

When he tried to sit up, Andris pushed him down. Bellanes closed his eyes. Beside him, Bangor sprawled asleep. Andris summoned the strength to row again, lips moving in wordless gratitude.

Elation over saving his friends brought a burst of energy, but outraged muscles soon rebelled. The oars
grew too heavy to move. Andris slumped on the bench, tired eyes groping for sleep.

Fierce rain woke Andris. He jerked upright. His body felt like it had been beaten. He stretched wooden arms and tried to ease cramped shoulders. Angry dark clouds held the sky hostage, but a glimmer of sun in the west told him it was afternoon. The tide had done its work, and he could see the beach perhaps a mile off. His companions were stirring; Bangor thrust out his arms as if to shoo away the pelting rain, while Bellanes sat up and looked out across the choppy water.

‘Thank you for coming after us, Andris,’ Bellanes said. He pulled himself to the bench opposite Andris, letting rain wash over his naked chest.

‘Aye,’ Andris said. ‘Had to.’

Bangor groaned as he scrunched to a sitting position. ‘Good man, Andris.’

‘So,’ Andris asked, grabbing the oars. ‘What happened out there?’

‘Eh, mate,’ Bangor grunted. ‘Some ships caught fire. Don’t know more than that. We was trying to save our lives, and swimming blind.’

Andris glanced at Bellanes. His leader’s face was pale through the rain, eyes dim.

‘Andris.’ Bellanes’ voice was stark. ‘Andris, turn round slowly.’

The big man shipped his oars and swivelled. ‘What?’

‘There, along the gunwale.’ Bellanes pointed.

Holding on to the rim of the boat, Andris caught
a glimpse of human hands. They let go. There was a splash.

Bellanes leaned over the side. ‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Show yourself.’

The man swam. Bellanes lifted the oars on his end, rowing along with Andris. They soon overtook the swimmer. The stranger was clearly too tired even to dive away from them. Andris picked up a fishnet and threw it over him, yanking it tight, pulling him against the side of the boat.