The Burning Sea (The Furyck Saga: Book Two)

by A. E. Rayne

  Shelter.

  They rushed into the houses; every man on every one of the ships in the first row. The Islanders in the second row were not within range. Not yet.

  Jael squeezed in between Beorn, and Fyn, who looked ready to throw up all over her. ‘Poles ready! Bows ready!’ she called to the archers who had positioned themselves under the flaps, and the four pole-men who waited next to them, ready to hoist the flaps open. ‘Let their first wave come, then you’ll be up. Wait for my call.’

  They heard it then, the terrifying whistle as the arrows flew towards them.

  ‘Nock,’ Jael said calmly as she waited for impact.

  An explosion of arrows struck the deck and the walls of the house. They heard splashes as some hit the water. The house remained intact.

  Fyn sighed in relief.

  The archers moved, ready to go.

  ‘Wait!’ Jael cautioned. ‘Wait for the Tower.’ She listened for another wave, waiting. Waiting.

  Nothing.

  ‘Black flag, Fyn.’

  Fyn tried to get his shaking hands working as he pulled the pole down and added the black flag to the yellow one.

  Arrows.

  ‘They’re waiting for us,’ Jael grumbled, glancing at the archers, who looked eager to go. ‘Draw! Open!’ The pole-men shunted the flaps open, the archers quickly standing, bows at the ready. ‘Aim!’ Their eyes snapped to the ships ahead as they angled their bows to the sky. They had checked for wind and distance while they waited, but this would be the first real test. ‘Release!’ Jael called. ‘Down!’ The flaps banged shut as the Tower’s arrows shot towards them, sticking and stabbing into the house; one arrow shooting through the wall, near Fyn’s side.

  ‘Away from that wall!’ Jael ordered. She peered through the end of the house, watching the arrow storm as it buffeted the rest of their ships. The Hestians would have more arrows than ideas, she knew. And she needed to use them all up. ‘Nock!’

  Axl spluttered, choking, as the man on top of him squeezed his throat, foaming at the mouth, spittle flying everywhere. Axl hit out at him with his leather arm guard, smashing it into the bridge of his bulbous nose, knocking him away. Scrambling to his feet, gasping for air, Axl stuck his sword through the man’s neck. He pulled it out, ignoring the spurting blood, the scream of agony, spinning to hit the next Hestian on the shoulder. He was a thick-necked mountain and didn’t even sway.

  ‘One shot, Axl!’ Gant growled as he fought his way towards Lothar, who was cowering behind Osbert, who was trying to avoid being cut to pieces by Karsten.

  Haegen was there. ‘Karsten!’ he screamed angrily, trying to force his way through the tangle of warriors; trapped, unable to get any closer. ‘Karsten, wait!’

  Karsten Dragos smiled as he drew back his axes and lunged. He heard nothing but the ringing call of Vidar in his ear, telling him to kill Lothar Furyck.

  23

  Edela jerked awake, spilling her tea onto the floor. Vella, who had been lying at her feet, scrambled away, shaking the warm liquid from her fur.

  ‘Edela!’ Biddy cried as she bustled over to the chair. ‘I didn’t notice you’d fallen asleep. I should have taken your cup!’

  Edela’s face was troubled. She frowned as she tried to catch her breath, letting Biddy remove the cup from her shaking hand.

  ‘What has happened? What did you see?’ Biddy asked, concerned. ‘Is it Jael?’

  Edela shook her head, half-trapped in her dream. ‘No, not Jael. It’s Eirik Skalleson.’ She swallowed, staring into Biddy’s worried eyes. ‘He’s dead.’

  Biddy gasped, covering her mouth in shock, her mind whirring through the ramifications of that. ‘Eydis...’ she said sadly. ‘Poor Eydis.’

  Edela turned towards the hypnotic flames as they twisted and sparked before her. ‘He was murdered,’ she said quietly, slowly, seeing Eirik’s death over and over in the fading shadows of her dream. ‘And I saw who did it.’

  The wooden houses had been a good idea of Jael’s, Thorgils decided, watching as more arrows drove themselves into the wall in front of them. Good, but not going to last much longer if the Hestians didn’t run out of arrows soon. He leaned back and peered down the end of the house towards Jael’s ships. Their flags were still black.

  Arrows.

  ‘Nock!’ he called to his archers, ready to run the drill again.

  He was waiting for the red flag because red meant sea-fire.

  ‘Grrr!’ Haaron yelled, slamming his palm against the stone wall. It hurt, but he didn’t care. He shook his head, clenching his fists in frustration, stalking across the floor, muttering to himself. ‘Are they planning on just sitting there? Waiting to die?’ Haaron lifted his eyes and raised his voice, his head spinning, trying to decide what to do. He turned back to the window. ‘Why are they waiting?’ he barked at the man closest to him.

  The archer hesitated, bow in hand. ‘They want us to use up our arrows, my lord?’ he suggested nervously.

  ‘Well, obviously!’ Haaron spat, squinting at the ships in the distance. ‘They think they can survive long enough to see us emptied of arrows. And perhaps they can in those ridiculous shelters, so, Jaeger needs to attack them. Draw them out! They will have no choice but to come out of their hiding holes once our ships are bearing down on them.’ He glared around the room, his eyes dark and determined. ‘No more arrows. Let’s watch and see what my son can do.’

  Gant’s boot slid, but he kept to his feet, his long sword scything menacingly, his shield clutched tight, protecting his chest.

  Karsten screamed in frustration, furious at this old man who had fought his way in between him and the Furycks. He remembered this man. He’d been standing next to the bitch when she’d taken his eye. He lifted both axes, swinging them about his head like an arrogant fool.

  Gant lunged quickly and sliced Karsten’s armpit.

  Karsten jerked away, bleeding. ‘Fuck!’ He swung with one axe, missing, as Gant jumped back. Karsten spat, cursing again, his other axe cutting nothing but air as it tried to claim Gant. ‘You want to die today, old man?’ he sneered. ‘You look ready to die to me!’ He sprung forward, screaming with fury. ‘Get out of my way!’

  ‘Me? In your way?’ Gant wondered coolly, his breath coming in short bursts as he ducked and spun, avoiding the glinting axe heads carving towards him. ‘Can you not see with one eye, Karsten Dragos? Perhaps I should remove the other?’

  ‘Karsten!’ Haegen called desperately, still trying to find a way through but the Brekkans were regrouping now, forcing the Hestians back.

  Karsten ignored his brother, and kicked out at Gant, taking him by surprise, but Gant’s reflexes were still sharp, and he skidded quickly to the side, missing most of the impact as he stumbled over the bodies of Lothar’s guards.

  Lothar was behind him, his sword long gone. Osbert, bleeding from both arms, was trying to protect him against Karsten’s men with just his short sword. Aleksander was there, on his other side, Axl as well. They had surrounded Lothar and would fight off any Hestian who tried to claim their king. Weak and foolish as he was, Lothar was a Furyck, protected by Furia.

  His death would not come at the hands of a Hestian.

  ‘We need to get closer,’ Jaeger muttered irritably to his helmsman. ‘We need to move!’ He felt his father’s scowl crawling out of the Tower across the dark sea to claim him. Jaeger knew how scathing Haaron’s disappointment would be, how loud his curses as he hurled them from the window.

  Eirik Skalleson had decided to play a different game this time, but in the end, he would be no match for the fleet they had assembled. ‘Blow the horn!’ he yelled to the man hanging from the prow. ‘It’s time to make them piss themselves!’

  ‘At last!’ Ivaar sighed as the Hestian fleet finally started advancing. The assault of arrows had stopped, but the Islanders in front of them were still hidden in their houses. He scowled; this was no way to fight a battle. A true king did not hide like an old woman. He could see the doubt and confusion in t
he eyes of the men around him; his men, who stood impatiently, watching everything unfold before them.

  Without them.

  If Jael’s mistakes meant that she had to die though, he saw no reason to intervene. Not yet. Not until the ships in his line were threatened. ‘We hold and wait for the flag!’ he cried. ‘Wait for the flag!

  Haegen surged forward with his men, at last, throwing his arm around Karsten’s throat, yanking him backwards, trying to avoid his brother’s flailing axes, his spitting mouth. ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Stop!’ He was furious; furious that Karsten was so lacking in self-control that he would try to kill Lothar, and his son, against their father’s orders.

  The Hestians rushed past the Dragos brothers, swarming over the Brekkans as they fought to keep their king safe. Gant was pushed to the ground, battered by boots as men stumbled over and around him. He groaned, wincing, covering his head with his hands as he tried to protect himself.

  Aleksander backed into Axl, who was struggling to fend off three attackers, stabbing out to the right with his sword, batting away a Hestian with his left arm. But it was useless. Osbert was on the ground, Lothar almost sobbing behind them. There were simply too many of them now.

  Karsten pulled away from Haegen, his body jerking with rage, his mind clear of any reason. He growled, teeth clenched, then stepped back. Reluctantly. Screaming. Lunging at an escaping Brekkan, he chopped harshly into his neck, not even bothering to watch as he fell. His eyes remained fixed and furious... on his brother.

  Haegen turned back to Lothar who was being restrained by two of Karsten’s men now. He was dribbling blood from his nose and his mouth, much like his son, who was on his knees beside him. Osbert’s legs had given way, his arms thick with blood, his face so pale, he looked ready to pass out.

  ‘We have your king!’ Haegen turned and shouted to the men around him, the Brekkans who were still trying to hold on, even as they were being overcome by ever-increasing numbers of Hestians. ‘We have your king! We have his son! Surrender now, or we will kill them both! Throw down your weapons! Now!’

  ‘Here they come!’ Jael cried, her eyes trained on the enemy fleet. She blinked, squinting, staring again. ‘Here they all come!’

  Edela had stopped Jael before she left Oss, pulling her quickly to one side. ‘I’ve had a dream,’ she had whispered in her ear. ‘Hest’s fleet will be small. They will not have the men to launch all their ships, so Haaron will seek help from Silura. More will come. I see the leaping fish banner of Aris Viteri, flying from many ships. You will need to plan for that. They will not reveal their true strength. Not at first.’

  Jael smiled, shivering with nervous energy. She had indeed planned for it, and here they were, just as Edela had promised. ‘Change your arrows,’ she instructed, watching the ships grow into a thick, layered mass of angry prows, all surging towards them on a building sea. ‘Now, we are going to shoot fire,’ she said calmly. ‘Catapult crew to the front. Wait for my call. Red flag, Fyn.’

  Sea-fire.

  ‘Where have you been all day?’ Evaine asked sharply as Runa closed the door. ‘Tanja didn’t know where you were. Nor Respa. You just disappeared.’ She rounded on Runa, her blue eyes like icicles, frozen with menace. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Runa floundered under Evaine’s intense scrutiny. ‘Wrong?’

  ‘You look in pain,’ Evaine murmured, peering at her. ‘Are you unwell?’

  Runa wanted to believe that Evaine couldn’t possibly know what she had been doing, couldn’t possibly know about the tattoos. But, of course, even if she hadn’t acquired some magical skill that meant she could read minds, someone might just have told her. ‘I am,’ Runa said weakly, wanting to get away from those venomous eyes. ‘I think I shall go to my bed. I have been visiting Edela and Biddy, and I feel quite tired.’ It was best not to stray too far from the truth, she decided.

  Evaine’s pale eyebrows rose in surprise, following Runa as she hurried to her bed. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I went to see how Edela was, to see if she was recovering,’ Runa said quietly, lying down, grimacing at the ache in her upper arms where Entorp had tattooed her. She didn’t mind, though. She was terrified; desperate for any form of protection, no matter how painful it had been.

  ‘I didn’t realise you knew her,’ Evaine murmured, her nose wrinkling. ‘What is that stink?’

  Runa thought quickly. ‘It’s a salve. Biddy applied it when I said I was unwell. I think it best if I just close my eyes awhile and try to sleep.’

  Evaine stood, watching, as Runa tucked herself under a pile of furs, turning her face to the wall. She frowned, her eyes sparking with irritation.

  Edela, Edela. What was she going to do about the problem of Edela...

  ‘How many are there?’ Morac gasped, amazed at the size of the fleet amassing before them now. It was no surprise, though, not to Eadmund’s flotilla of four ships, as they waited, hidden amongst the stones of the Widow’s Peak, holding their position.

  ‘Enough to destroy us all and more,’ Eadmund breathed, his focus suddenly sharpening. He had barely spoken since they left Saala, too numb to feel anything, but he knew what he had to do now.

  He had to save his people.

  ‘There’s the red flag!’ cried a man in the bow, peering through the rocks. ‘Sea-fire!’

  ‘Put our flag up!’ Eadmund called, turning to Villas. ‘Take us out!’

  Jaeger smiled, turning to admire the vast formation of ships assembled behind him now, rowing in unison towards their enemy. His smile faded quickly though as he turned back around, watching the catapults being loaded ahead of him. ‘Archers!’ he screamed. ‘Kill those men!’

  Haaron’s eye twitched as the Islanders scrambled out of their holes and rushed to load their catapults. ‘Archers!’ he yelled furiously. ‘Light your arrows! Kill those men!’

  ‘Release! Back to the house!’ Jael cried to her catapult crew, listening as the jars of sea-fire crashed onto the Hestian ships.

  The arrows wailed, hurtling towards them from the Tower, but her men made it back to the shelter before the walls of the house were peppered again.

  Jael peered through the gap near the roof, watching fire bloom. ‘Fire on deck! Sigthorn! Darri! Get those buckets out there! I need men with shields! Siegbert, Mats, cover them! Now go! Load the catapult! Fire at will! Archers ready!’ Jael held her breath as her men rushed into the bow and prepared the catapult for launch. They carefully placed another jar into the cradle, released the tension, and hurried back into the house as the arm swung back and lobbed the sea-fire jar into the air. ‘Archers! Nock! Light your arrows!’ Jael watched as the archers turned and dipped the pitch-soaked arrowheads into the braziers. ‘Draw! Open! Aim! Release! Down!’

  ‘Again!’ she called, checking on the flames which had been quickly doused. ‘Load the catapult! Again! Fyn take those buckets up to the door.’

  Jael’s eyes widened as the sea-fire suddenly exploded. She could hear the panicked screams as flames burst into life on one, two, three ships; rising out of the sea, determined to swallow their enemies whole. She watched as the wind caught the flames and fanned them from ship to ship, fire sparking as the burning vessels tried to turn around.

  Now they had to trap them.

  ‘Here comes Eadmund!’ Fyn cried, peering through the hole near the roof as Eadmund’s ships emerged from behind the tall stone spears of the Widow’s Peak.

  Jael glanced to the right as Thorgils’ small flotilla hammered the Tower with sea-fire, showering it with flaming arrows. That would keep them busy for a while.

  ‘Turn!’ Jaeger screamed through the flames. ‘Turn the ships around! Now!’ His voice, urgent and demanding, was lost amidst the rising panic as his men caught fire, screaming, trying to flee. The two ships to his right were already burning. The fire was spreading, blazing across their fleet. Desperate men threw themselves into the sea, oars abandoned, sails flaming, wood catching.

  The catapults kept firing, splashing the
thick, black liquid all over them.

  The sea was on fire.

  ‘Turn!’ Jaeger yelled helplessly, his head reeling, watching as his fleet tried to head to the right. Then he saw them. More ships. Islanders.

  Islanders with catapults.

  Coming for them.

  Haegen reached forward and grabbed Lothar by the mail, yanking him to his feet. ‘Do you want your king to die?’ he bellowed, bringing his sharp knife up to Lothar’s soft neck. The sky was grim now, and his eyes bulged, white and furious in the gloom. ‘Because I can kill him now! I can kill his son! And then we can kill all of you!’ He looked at the faces of the Brekkans who stood waiting, hands on swords, eyes on their king, confused. ‘I can slit his throat!’ Haegen yelled. ‘Just like that! Should I?’ He spun Lothar around, showing him to his men, listening to him snivel and grovel, ignoring Karsten’s petulant face.

  ‘No! No!’ Lothar cried, trying to pull himself away from the razor-sharp edge of Haegen’s knife. ‘No! Put down your weapons! Throw down your swords! We are overwhelmed! We must surrender!’ He was too panicked to sound disappointed. ‘I surrender!’ There would be a way out of this, Lothar was sure, if he could just stay alive.

  He had no intention of being the second king killed in Osterland that day.

  ‘Again!’ Eadmund screamed at his catapult crew, now one man down. The loader had an arrow through his side and was lying next to him, his eyes glazed, his breathing laboured. ‘Load!’ He turned towards his archers. ‘Nock! Light your arrows!’ He glanced at the ships to his right. Jael’s ships. They had the Hestian fleet on fire. And beyond them, Thorgils’ ships had the Tower under siege; flames bursting out of every window.

  He could see the Silurans turning away.

  Now, he just had to stop them from running. They had to burn as many as they could; destroy their enemy’s fleet before they escaped the flames.