He didn't need any more hints.
"FIRE!" Erquig's voice boomed above the water.
He meant it literally. The Virmans occasionally made use of projectiles with oleum terrae. Not too often, as ships were made of wood, and cinders weren't much of a trophy.
The current case was different. It was Lilian Earton who had all but forced Leif to take those flasks. She handed them to him and explained how to use them. She still remembered how Leif had left Virma. He got lucky back then.
Moonshine can be used for more than distilling alcohol. It could also distill oil—thankfully, she had gotten a shipment from the Khanganat. Mix it with alcohol, add something else... It wasn't quite the infamous Molotov cocktail, but for the Middle Ages, it was a real wonder waffle. The perfect weapon, as long as you didn't get blown up by it yourself.
And that's what Leif commanded his men to use. In a minute, the catapults were loaded with the flasks, which then got ignited and...fire! That stuff would burn even in water. The enemy could hardly douse it: the Virmans didn't carry sand on their ships, having no reason to do it.
It was a terrifying mixture, especially when it splashed people, and a fiery sphere blossomed on deck, turning into a lake of fire, burning everything it touched. The enemy ships were about to dock, but nobody was going to let them.
Leif didn't have a lot of missiles—only about ten—but that was enough for three enemy vessels. He didn't keep any bad shots in his crew. Each ship got hit with at least two projectiles. Go on, guys, try to put the fire out now.
As for boarding Leif, it only sounded pretty in theory. Before they reached him, they could find themselves in the water, and that's if the fire hadn't gotten to them first. Dousing didn't work, and burned and crippled bodies writhed on the decks, while more missiles flew toward them. Fire was only the first harbinger, too.
Illuminated targets became all the easier to hit, both from catapults and ballistae. Leif's ship was also far from the only one docked. Other ships started shooting at the enemy as well, even if only with bows, not catapults, having figured that such guests were no good, plus the odd goings-on ashore...
The Virmans of clans Saragr, Draen, and Adrag had only one thing left to do: get to the shore. Still, jumping overboard and swimming while armed and armored was a challenge, seeing as all of it added at least ten kilos to a person's weight. Goodbye armor, goodbye shield, helmet, weapon...
Virmans were great swimmers—nobody argued that—but even they couldn't swim carrying all of that. They would get to the shore, but they wouldn't be battle-ready anymore, and then, their opponents would meet them there, anyway.
The only remaining option was trying to get their ships to land. Still, doing that on a burning deck under enemy fire, with other enemies waiting for you at the docks, seemed barely possible.
Each harbor had many ships docked manned by their crews and sentries, plus more people on the shore.
The landing party had failed their mission before they even disembarked. Yet it didn't mean that they would surrender.
Leif got caught in his own trap. Yes, he did set the enemy ships on fire, but that made boarding impossible. Would he risk coming close enough for his own ship to light up? Would he fight them on their burning vessel?
He was no fool.
"Landward!" he commanded. "Cut them down!"
Nobody was going to argue that.
Leif's ship was much faster than those on fire and reached the shore ahead of them.
The Virmans were getting off. Leif grabbed his nephew's collar.
"Where are you going? Stop right here!"
"You might as well kill me!" Torn snapped.
He was already wearing armor and weapons. Where had he found them?
Leif waved his hand. All right; he hadn't promised Ingrid to wrap her brother in silk and carry him in a box.
"If you die, I'll kill you!"
And he pushed him toward the shore. The ship groaned as it scraped against sand, complaining about its passengers, yet obeying them. It knew that for Virmans, it cost more than life itself.
Clan Erquig poured out of its depths, lining up in battle order, grabbing their bows and crossbows. The burning ships were already close, within easy distance. The welcoming committee was ready. To battle!
***
Surprise was the only element the conspirators could count on. All Virmans were warriors, fierce, cruel, and skilled. Olav didn't have any other in his posse. When the alarm had been sounded, and bells were rung on the ships as people battled each other on the land...
The attackers' numbers weren't high: one hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred. It was hard for them to assemble more men without drawing unneeded attention. Most of them had arrived in ships. They were supposed to join in later. If not for that deadly coincidence, they would have prevailed. How hard could it be to kill sleeping men quietly, especially when nobody expected any tricks from you? Just sneak up and strike, like it had happened to Tira.
Yet they failed. Elg's lust had proved to be their undoing. After that, everything just snowballed. The Virmans might have been spending their time feasting and drinking, but getting plastered wasn't the Hardring way. It was their clan, their land, and if anything happened, there would be no end to their shame. Some were fine with the idea of drinking until they dropped, but Olav wasn't, and his melon-sized fist was a good argument.
The white shoulder bands worn by the attackers to identify each other played against them. Arrows kept flying from the windows, and steel clashed against steel as the wounded cried out in pain. When Jamie saw Richard from his window, he ignored safety concerns and ran outside, his crossbow at the ready.
Something was clearly wrong. He knew Tira. It couldn't be her, could it?
His house was within a stone's throw from hers. In a giant leap, Jamie jumped in shadow and unloaded his crossbow from there. Then he rushed to Richard's side. He was the prince; if anything happened to him, Jamie would never forgive himself.
***
The attackers' ranks had been thinned out as early as on their ships, and then they got smothered with arrows and bolts while disembarking. The remaining fighters were met with axes and swords, and there was no quarter.
Saragrs, Draens, and Adrags knew what they had gotten into and fought with the fury of the damned. The Erquigs and the others in the docks understood—there would be no mercy. None would be spared, and it meant that they could strike freely.
Leif whirled his axe like a straw, thinking about only one thing: killing. He didn't think about his guess being proved right, about going to the village to help the others: he was simply killing and maiming, and woe be to those who stood in his path. His men covered his back, proud of their leader. Even Olive—even Holosh— was bound to appreciate a warrior like that!
Leif didn't even realize at first that he had run out of enemies. It seemed that just moments before, he had been taking hits with his shield and pressing forward, and suddenly, everyone was either lying dead or wounded or fleeing for their life.
Ha! Stinking cowards!
"The village!" someone cried out.
They could hear steel clashing and people screaming. The sounds were coming from there.
Leif wasn't going to spend too much time thinking. It wasn't likely that any more enemies would come from the sea.
"A score will remain here to guard the area and treat the wounded. The rest are with me!"
And with a huge leap, he took off. The battle wasn't over yet!
***
Richard still couldn't understand what had happened. He had just been sitting with Tira's head in his lap, and all at once, he found himself lying on his back, his nape killing him.
Jamie, once Meytle and currently Baron Donter, carefully touched a vein on the girl's neck. He shook his head.
"She's dead."
"James!"
Jamie took the girl's body in his arms.
"No...I can't do anything."
The healer's eyes
were dark and full of sadness. The man in front of him wasn't a prince, but simply someone who had lost the person dearest to him.
"Jamie!"
Was it a moan? A plea? Richard didn't know himself what he wanted to say.
Work a miracle! You're a doctorus, come on!
But a doctorus was no god and no wizard.
"I’m sorry."
That time, death won completely. Jamie saw the wound and knew that even if he had reacted immediately, he couldn't have done anything, other than maybe giving her a few more minutes.
Bastards.
All he could do was to save whatever there was to be saved, like, say, Richard himself. In such a state, even cockroaches could have taken him down with their little legs.
"Follow me!"
In critical situations, healers could order about no worse than generals. Jamie kicked down the door to the house and carried Tira's body inside. He put it on the bed and tried dragging Richard in, but the prince came by himself. In all likelihood, he had trouble understanding what was going on and whether he was dead or alive himself. It made sense; he was in shock. The only thing his mind could muster was to stay by Tira's side, whatever happened.
Richard lowered himself on the floor next to the bed, where the healer had placed the girl and squeezed her hand tightly. He was in pain.
Jamie poured something into a glass and handed it to Richard.
"Gulp it down."
"What’s that?"
"Drink," the doctorus snapped, completely forgetting subordination. "Just do it."
Richard nodded and knocked it back.
With relief, Jamie watched his eyes become clouded and sleepy. That opium was good stuff. His teacher Tahir had personally ordered it from the Khanganat. Jamie knew the right dosage, and Richard really needed a few hours of sleep.
What was going on outside? Jamie peeked out of the window and saw that he had nothing to worry about. Two tall men were fighting their way to the village from two directions.
Olav Hardring spun a giant axe above his head and roared like a frenzied bear, promising his enemies all earthly and heavenly punishment. Leif Erquig made do with a sword, but in his hands, the long blade seemed weightless, effortlessly flying around him. Both men weren't going to leave their opponents alive.
A living enemy was a luxury they couldn't afford.
***
Jamie had no desire to leave his patient unprotected, especially when he was drugged. And even later, it wasn't good to abandon him; that was clear.
Jamie wasn't much help in battle; better to wait inside until everything was over. He loaded his crossbow, put it close, and waited for any outcome. He didn't know what was going on, but that was no excuse to die like a sheep in a slaughterhouse.
So when Leif burst inside, he was met with a crossbow aimed at his head. The Virman spat out and pulled off his helmet.
"Jamie!"
"Leif!" Baron Donter responded with genuine joy. "Is it over?"
"Yes. What's going on here?"
"It's...bad."
Leif could already see the two bodies, immediately recognizing one as dead and the other as alive.
"Richard?"
"He's alive. But Tira was killed."
Jamie gave a heavy sigh. Leif could imagine the consequences. Jamie didn't know if the prince would retain his mind after that. Even the best doctorus couldn't help with healing a soul. Maybe Tahir Djiaman din Dashar or Lilian Earton would have known what to do, but how could he?
"Holosh!"
In truth, Leif's phrase was more colorful, but there's no need to quote it. Jamie's ears turned red.
"Yeah, no meadow daisies."
"And Richard?"
"I gave him a sedative. He'll be out for two hours."
"You shouldn't have."
Jamie brushed it off. There was no second-guessing it.
"Have you seen them together?"
"Yes."
"Then what are you talking about? He loves her to the point of madness. I couldn't have him lose his mind. He could never fight in that state. He'd take the first blow he chanced upon."
Leif nodded slowly.
That was true.
If anything happened to Ingrid... Olive, don't make it so! Fleyna, protect my beloved!
"I see."
Yes, it was probably the most merciful of options. Either death upon losing his mind or...
"What is it with him?"
That was Olav Hardring. Enemies or no enemies, diplomacy was as important as ever—as well as peace of mind. The Virmans could have won the fight but saddled themselves with a war against Ativerna. Making sure that Richard was alive was the first thing that Olav did after the battle. He had heard a part of the conversation between Jamie and Leif and approved of the healer's decisions, too.
There was no medicine to heal the pain of your beloved's murder, only oblivion. After the prince woke up, he would decide whether he wanted to live or didn't, as long as he didn't actually commit suicide in Virma, waiting to get home.
Jamie was rewarded with Olav's approving nod.
"Thank you, healer. I'll send women to take care of him."
"I'd rather you send wounded," Jamie replied. "I won't leave the house, but I can help. Right now, any hands are as good as gold."
Nobody was going to argue.
"I'll send my men to keep him company," Leif said, nodding at Richard. What if there were still-alive enemies about? He quickly left.
Olav could only shake his head.
"Poor boy."
Jamie was in complete agreement. Poor boy, indeed. It didn't matter that he was a prince; the only feelings Richard could currently incur were pity and sympathy.
But what would happen when he woke up?
***
Leif's men arrived almost immediately. Two burly men mostly resembling double-door wardrobes, Jamie knew them and had treated them in the past. Without any further drama, he pointed at Richard.
"Call me when he starts moving."
Then he left. Wounded people were waiting for him, lots of them.
Not everybody had managed to fight back. Eighty-seven men had fallen that night, their bodies lying on the white sand. And that's only the allies; the enemies' losses counted almost three times as much, on top of those who had died on the ships or were slowly burning out on the coast. Jamie suspected that by the morning, the number of killed would multiply.
Olav didn't hover over him, instead retreating into the darkness. From time to time, shrieks coming from there reached Jamie's ears. The Virmans, as was their habit, were beating information out of their victims—literally.
Meanwhile, Jamie was busy working. Tend to the wound, stitch it up, examine it, disinfect it—who said that it was easy? Without letup, other than walking from one patient to another, he toiled away, not raising his head and using a moist towel to wipe off his hands and then his brow that sweated profusely despite the night-time.
That was no simple work. Someone worked side-by-side with him: Virman women treated their injured as best they could, but they couldn't do it without a doctorus.
Jamie was slaving away when someone touched his shoulder.
"He's moaning."
That short phrase was enough. Jamie nodded, indicating that he would come, carefully stitched up a wound on a Virman man's leg, bandaged it properly, and went inside. He had a hard conversation ahead of him.
Or did he? Trudy Elleig was sitting inside the house, her dead daughter in her arms, and her face...
She didn't have any, only a death mask made of gypsum. She was already dead—or at least, her spirit was, and her body...it was only a body.
Jamie would have rather spent an entire week stitching up wounds. That would have been easier than seeing something like that.
***
What is the perpetual temptation of those in second place? To get to first. But what to do with those who illegally and immorally take their own position?
Well, that depends on
decency. Some make do by simply deposing them, letting them live freely, some kill them, some arrange accidents...
There were six of them in total: clans Torsveg, Hardar, Erdar, Saragr, Draen, and Adrag. Six clans who decided that they were fit to run the Circle and decide the fate of Virma. Clearly, they were the best ones for the job, Holosh damn those Hardrings, Gardrens, Kellogs, and Oronstegs. With some, they had planned to negotiate later. Some, they would massacre—definitely the Hardrings and the Gardrens. Their plan was a good one, Olav had to admit.
The conspirators had wanted to wait for the Circle to gather, arranging a nightly visit for those asleep. And they would have succeeded, too. An ordinary session of the Circle would have been over by then. The Ativernans were a surprise, and a big one.
Olav had strictly forbidden docking next to the visiting ships; the only possible place to moor was several hours from there, and that order was enforced, while the coast was patrolled. What would you do? Those were the prince and the princess of an allied kingdom! Olav and Bran had gone out of their way to arrange the visit, and they didn't do it for nothing. If not for them, the conspirators would have simply sent several ships to dock at night and send their warriors in rowboats to the shore.
But what were they supposed to do when Erquig had decided to stay on board? The only option was to strike all at once; otherwise, they would have given themselves away. And that's what they did.
They had several hundred men. If they had started from land, the people aboard would have joined in, making it easy to leave no trace of the Hardrings by the morning. But Tira had come out onto the porch, and Elg Torsveg's lust had gotten the best of him.
As for the medallion, it used to belong to the chief of Adrag. Aliah Reinst had been killed on his order, as a witness and to return the evidence.
At last, Olav knew the truth. Both Aliah and Ashley Lorin had fallen victim to their own stupidity.
It seemed so cute at first, a girl accepting a courtship and then considering it too aggressive and hiding somewhere private. Then she heard something that she wasn't supposed to hear: Elg Torsveg making arrangements with the chief of Adrag. They couldn't really have prepared everything in advance, not the entire plan. The Adrags were supposed to deliver weapons, and their shipment went south, leaving the attackers without crossbows. Elg was furious and gave way to his temper.
The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8) Page 12