She chuckled. “Looks like he’s out, but okay. Lucky, considering. No,” she said, standing to face the Front-Captain, “I think that was the worst. And we were in the thick of it. I wasn’t sure we’d live either, but here we are!” She raised her hands in victory.
Gallord-Smit nodded morosely. Impressive fortitude, these island defenders . . . but perhaps that was why they stayed to fight, instead of fleeing as reason would dictate. “He probably shouldn’t be moved,” he commented, gesturing in Hellamer’s direction with a nod, “but I suppose we don’t have a choice. I expect it might be sun-up soon. How quickly can you prepare the barge?”
Charese paused a moment; perhaps she was debating whether or not she was willing to leave Hellamer there, even in Gallord-Smit’s care. “Not long, Front-Captain,” she answered. “I’ll need some help.”
“Take who you need, and go. Leave someone who knows where you’ll beach to pick us up. And be careful, we can’t be sure the Somrians aren’t already poking around,” he warned.
“Understood, my lord.” Charese made a rough gesture with her hand above her chest; he imagined it was a salute of some sort. “Best time.” She darted off, calling to several men along the way, then disappeared into the night.
Gallord-Smit turned back to Hellamer. His friend was sleeping or unconscious—he suspected the latter—but appeared to be breathing well enough. He straightened again, surveyed what was left of the army around him, then began calling out commands to the men nearby. It was time to get the group organized for a sea journey.
・
The barge, which appeared to be constructed from the remains of ruined ships, was large enough to carry all of their men, barely. It was long, low and wide, only the bow that narrowed to a slightly raised point giving it the appearance of a boat; otherwise, it had the shape of a huge raft with an array of oars protruding somewhat oddly from each side. The rail was low enough that a swimmer could have climbed aboard with ease, so Gallord-Smit was glad for the calm seas, lest they find themselves more occupied with bailing than with rowing.
As it was, the slight breeze was sufficient to make rowing a substantial chore. Nearly all of the men—those not suffering from injuries—manned the oars, including Gallord-Smit himself. They made good time, but it was hard work, with the barge drifting to and fro across wide rollers. The men were in good spirits, despite their dire circumstances; they broke into chant and song shortly after launch, and continuing for most of the journey. Gallord-Smit knew many of their songs and happily joined in, though his singing voice left much to be desired.
The sun hadn’t yet blued the eastern horizon when they launched; making fast progress, Hellamer had guessed a full day’s row to reach the island, if they were lucky. Their early departure proved fortunate, as the wind began to pick up in the early afternoon, blowing from the east. Charese, ever quick to voice her opinion, had deemed it unlikely that the Somrians would discover their move and pursue that day, but if they did, the afternoon wind would force them to haul against it. They would be at least a day behind if the wind held until nightfall.
They stopped for lunch, but everyone was beginning to tire by mid-afternoon when Charese called out, “There! It’s there!” and pointed ahead. Sure enough, a bank of clouds had it mostly hidden, but a low line of green was visible above the waterline. Further study revealed a tiny triangle of grey above the clouds; the volcano’s summit.
Gallord-Smit shook his head in disbelief. “It’s true. The legends; the children’s tales. All true.” He laughed nervously; somehow, discovering truth in a myth he had heard as a boy brought back some of the wonder of childhood.
“I wonder if the others are true, too,” Charese muttered absently. “Sea monsters? Giant serpents?” She shivered. “I hope not.”
“I wouldn’t concern yourself with that,” Gallord-Smit consoled her. “If such beasts roamed our seas, fishermen would have dragged them up long ago. Besides,” he added, aware that he was comforting himself as much as her, “this barge is too big to be in any danger. We’re almost there.”
Sure enough, as a break in the clouds appeared and the island was revealed in its entirety, they realized they were closer than it had seemed. Clouds had veiled the island completely for most of their journey; now it seemed to materialize before them, growing as it did. A few hundred oar-strokes later, they were practically at the beach.
The island seemed, at least from the perspective of their approach, to be circular, the perfect cone of the mountain standing erect in the centre as if to exert a phallic dominance over the surrounding seas. Jungle encircled it in a ring no more than a few thousand paces deep, if what lay before them continued behind the mountain.
There was an inviting white sandy beach facing them as well, though it looked to be protected by a reef. That would make it idyllic for fishing and swimming, but dangerous to approach in a boat. Gallord-Smit eyed it suspiciously.
“Do we have an anchor?” he asked.
“Of sorts,” Hellamer answered.
Gallord-Smit turned to him in surprise. His friend had been sleeping continuously since the storm, and he had begun to worry that he would not wake. A wide smile spread across his face. “Perfect timing, Hellrack. You didn’t have to row a stroke.”
Hellamer grinned back, though he looked tired, with great black circles under his eyes. “Just my plan, Captain Smite.”
Gallord-Smit shook his head disapprovingly, but he couldn’t stop smiling, and he strode over to where Hellamer sat against the barge’s low rail. “How do you feel?”
“Like I had my leg hacked half off, then was humped by a horse all night. Was that you?” he asked, making a suspicious face.
“Insubordination,” Gallord-Smit accused with a smirk. “Yes, I saved your life, you old rot. You’re welcome.”
Hellamer let out a chuckle, but it turned to cough. Gallord-Smit patted him on the shoulder and turned to Charese, who stood nearby with a worried expression. He walked to the bow of the barge, motioning her to follow.
“The anchor is a huge rock,” she said in answer to his previous question. “We found it below the cliffs; it has a natural hole in it. Right bizarre, but it was hard and smooth, so we made up twenty paces of rope and looped it through, then hauled it on board. It’ll hold if the weather stays. If it gets too windy, I can’t say.”
Gallord-Smit nodded. “Prepare it; we can’t navigate that reef without knowing what’s under the water.” He glanced back at Hellamer, then looked Charese in the eyes, cocking his head in the Right-Precept’s direction. “What’s going on?”
She paused for a long moment. “I’m not sure, Front-Captain. He should be getting better, not worse.” Her eyes were strained; she clearly held the man in great affection, as well as respect. “The physicker isn’t sure what to do.”
“The Somrians will have proper chiurgeons,” Gallord-Smit noted. “We could leave him on the beach for them to find, with a young lad to watch over him until they show up. Or you,” he added carefully, not wishing to suggest he questioned her courage.
Charese shook her head. “No, Front-Captain. They’d let me live, but Hellamer is known to them. He would have to be put to death, as an example.”
“Understood,” Gallord-Smit said. “I suppose he’ll have to hold.” Hold on tight, old friend, he thought, watching the Right-Precept attempting to drink some water brought to him by a soldier, and struggling to hold the skin up. This will be the worse we’ve faced, and I may yet need you.
The anchor proved effective enough; it was indeed a strange monstrosity, made all of shining, curved, black rock that seemed to have been shaped by massive hands. It stood nearly at high as he did; he was surprised they had managed to get it aboard, and wondered how they had done so. Somewhat worriedly, he also wondered how he had missed seeing it, sitting covered under a simple tarp as it had been. He consoled himself that the boat had been packed full of men and supplies, and hoped he wouldn’t miss any such details in setting up their defenses
, or once the battle had begun.
Once the anchor was in the water, they dropped out the two small rowboats they had brought along—one being the boat Charese and the others had come out to meet him on—and began ferrying ashore. Gallord-Smit went first; he wanted to begin surveying the island.
He guessed he would be able to walk all the way around the island in an afternoon, but he couldn’t be certain the Somrians would give them that much time. He opted instead for a direct hike to the base of the mountain, and a climb up its slope to a position of good perspective.
The jungle was different from that on the larger island, where the ground—except on the mountains—had been mostly flat with low undergrowth and spindly trees, making passage easy. Here there were few large trees, and the ground was covered with twisted vines and roots erupting the ground. It would, Gallord-Smit realized, be useless for cavalry. If the Somrians brought any, they wouldn’t be able to use it; horses attempting to run through would trip and fall, breaking legs and ribs. It was a fortunate development.
Concealment was also readily available. Most of the plants were quite large, and broad, flat leaves were common. All in all, it would be nearly impossible to track enemy movements. Again, advantage to the defenders—so long as the Somrians couldn’t pinpoint their movements and strong points, they couldn’t effectively concentrate their attacks.
There wasn’t time for his men to learn the terrain properly, of course. So he would need to come up with a basic strategy that prevented the enemy from learning it as well, and allowed his men to attack their probes with minimal losses.
Gallord-Smit paused a couple of times while traversing the jungle; he heard what sounded like large creatures moving invisibly through the foliage. Adrenalin surged as he recalled the monsters of his own bedtime stories, then he laughed at himself; no large predators could exist on such a small island, since they would quickly run out of food. That said, some plant-eaters could be large and dangerous. He opted to remain vigilant.
Probably not too long after he imagined the boats had been fully unloaded, he emerged abruptly from the jungle and came upon a rocky slope. It was quite a sudden transition, with the plants simply ending where flat dirt encountered sloped rock. Much of the rock was smooth and black; he wondered if the anchor Hellamer and Charese had found could have come from the volcano, but dismissed the notion. How could the rock have made its way across to the large island? It was impossible; rocks didn’t float.
He began climbing. It was hard going; the slope was quite steep, and didn’t appear to level off above, but rather climb continuously to the towering summit. Tufts of cloud shrouded the mountain’s top from view; for a moment Gallord-Smit considered utilizing it as cover for an ambush, but he shook his head as he realized how silly the idea was. The slope was steep and well defensible, but the summit was too far up and appeared barren; the enemy would simply squat down at its base and wait for the defenders to come down. No, he needed a better plan than that.
From about a hundred paces up, he turned to survey the island below him. The jungle began at the mountain’s base all the way around, or at least on the western side of the island. He imagined it was probably similar on the other. It was fairly flat, or at least appeared reasonably so, judging from the treetops, and ended at the beach, which was about twenty paces down to the sea from the last outcroppings of roots. The reef varied in breadth from about three times the length of the barge to perhaps four times that; there was no place for a ship to beach that he could see. Have to check that, it might change everything.
A beachhead defense then, assuming there were no obviously viable passes through the reef. He played a scenario out in his mind; the enemy launching boats to land on the beach. They would spread out to avoid being ambushed at a single site. His archers would open fire on all of the other boats while they came in, then retreat. His soldiers would take up a position opposite the largest landing party and ambush them in the deeper sand. Then, general retreat. Disappear into the forest. He might expect to eliminate one to two companies of the enemy that way, with minimal losses. Taking on more would be folly.
After that? He pondered. With no enemy cavalry, the terrain advantage would be irrelevant. He could place his men up on the mountain’s slope. Perhaps create a rockslide?
No, there were no loose rocks; the slope appeared to be sculpted of solid stone. In fact, it had the appearance of liquid that had hardened as it flowed down the slope. He frowned as he imagined the heat that would have been required to do such a thing.
No rockslide, then. Place the men in easy bow range of the slope’s base, then, and force the enemy to charge up under fire?
He shook his head. If he was leading the enemy force, he would simply hide under the protection of the trees until nightfall, then begin the assault. In the dark his archers would lose most of their advantage. Superior position would still play a role, but not enough of one; they would be wiped out.
He didn’t know if Arad would be making strategy for the Somrian army, but he was certain the boy wouldn’t miss something as simple as that. And he couldn’t assume that an officer more foolish would hold the reigns.
Always assume your enemy is a genius. It was one of the first tenets learned in officer training in the Lords’ Lands, and no doubt in Somria as well.
He needed something more devious to have a chance of winning this battle.
Startled, Gallord-Smit became aware that he was no longer thinking of the conflict as a suicide mission. When had that changed? The Somrians still had them outmanned at least five to one. Why was he suddenly feeling more optimistic?
It was, he considered, likely due to surviving the first conflict. It had been proven again and again that once surviving a battle where one expected certain death, a certain bravado began to overtake the spirit; a sense of indestructibility. Surviving the storm, he mused, no doubt added to that. Gallord-Smit reminded himself not to become overconfident, which was a danger in such circumstances. There was no need to rush into battle. If you don’t expect to die, that’s fine—but don’t expect to win, either, he chastised himself.
So, holding the slopes of the mountain was not the best option. But could he convince the enemy that he had done so? And could he use that to his advantage?
He examined the jungle below. A pleasant breeze was in his face. He frowned, recalling the eastern wind on their approach, and looked up at the conical mountain, then back over the treetops, which rustled gently. An idea began to dawn on him.
The mountain isn’t the key, he began to grasp. The jungle is.
At that moment, his eyes drifted out over the sea to the west, and he saw sails on the horizon.
Their time was almost up.
・ ・
By the time he made it back to the beach, the army was organized on the waterfront. Charese was running back and forth between Hellamer, who was propped up against a tree at the edge of the forest, and the men, who were split in several groups in the sand. Gallord-Smit identified archers, shock troops, and skirmishers. The latter were by far the majority; that was no surprise, considering the poor equipment most had managed to salvage in their initial retreat from the village. Those designated as shock troops had mostly liberated armour and weapons from dead Somrian infantry.
He knew he needed to take charge; Gallord-Smit strode confidently to Charese. “Well, done, Charese. I have a job for you.”
“Yes, Front-Captain.” The girl stood straight at his words; she looked proud. He had never seen a woman as an officer, but he thought the Northern Islander would do well.
“I want you to put together a team of skirmishers and go into the jungle. Gather all the dry wood you can, and stack it in twenty piles about fifty paces apart, just inside the jungle.” He pointed, drawing a line across the foliage before him from left to right.
Charese frowned. “Front-Captain?”
“Just do it, Charese. Oh,” he added as she began to turn away. When she looked back, he pointed out at the
sea. “Hurry.”
Charese looked out across the waves, and her eyes widened. She nodded, then quickly trotted over to the skirmishers group and began shouting commands.
The ships’ hulls were visible by the time she came back. Gallord-Smit had taken the time to deliver his orders to the archers, who had dispersed to find optimal firing positions on the incoming ships, which were already beginning to spread; they were intending to launch troops at multiple points, as he expected. He hoped they would keep to the standard strategy for superior numbers, and regroup. If they didn’t, his plan would not work.
Gallord-Smit was crouched with the shock troops just inside the edge of the trees when she returned alone.
“It’s done, Front-Captain. I have twenty men stationed at the piles, one at each. I can recall them if you don’t have planned what I think,” she said.
Gallord-Smit nodded. “They can ignite the piles quickly?”
“Yes, I have them already burning small starters,” she replied. “But I found something else of interest, my lord.” She produced a packet of twigs from a roll of cloth at her belt; they were sticky with sap. “If you were hoping to make smoke, Front-Captain, I found these plants all through the jungle. I know them from the other island. They don’t burn well, but they smolder like mad, and produce massive clouds of smoke.”
Gallord-Smit’s eyes lit up. “Charese, I could kiss you! Can you get them burning quickly?”
“I’ve had the men gather up piles of it as well, and they have torches ready to run between them. We’ll make quite a show of it, if that’s what you want,” she said. “But, Front-Captain, what’s the point of—?”
“Not now, Charese. There isn’t time,” he said quickly. Besides, I’m not sure it will work, and I don’t want to start a debate, he added silently.
Charese nodded. “Where do you want me?” she asked.
“Here,” Gallord-Smit said. “If things go according to plan, this is going to require some fast orders going out to everyone at once. I need you ready to send those messages, then handle the smokers when I’m ready. Bring me the quick-footed runners, and keep them handy,” he commanded.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 52