Rust leaped into the rower’s seat Jahl had vacated. They put their backs into it, not a moment too soon. A mustachioed sailor peered over the rail, brandishing a scimitar. Behind him, the Norland deck blazed.
We rowed as if imps snapped at our heels. Suddenly I cried, “We forgot the anchor!”
“No need!” Jahl’s white teeth gleamed in the pale moon’s light. “They’ll sail to shore.” Even as he spoke, the barque’s anchor rope slid into the sea; someone had slashed it. A sail flew into the spars. Soon they had headway, but too late. Flames tongued the canvas. In a moment the barque was an inferno. Flailing figures leaped into the sea. One was ablaze.
Three more barrels. We made for a brigantine, the heaviest vessel in the bay. By now the whole Norland fleet was wakened. Around us, ships hauled anchor, raised sail. Men peered over rails. Sculls from burning ships careened about, adding to the confusion. Our longboat was dark, our lantern covered, but we surely cast a silhouette against the flames. I peered over my shoulder. Two ships, one fully ablaze, the other smoldering, blocked the neck of the inlet.
“Hold us off!”
Too late. Our prow smashed into the brigantine’s ample side netting. Our boat shuddered and was still. Would we sink? I probed the planks. No water. Thank Lord of Nature.
Deftly, Jahl entangled a barrel in the web of the Norlander’s net. He sought and found a torch. Overhead, a face. Frantic shouts. Two men brandished daggers. Three.
Jahl reversed his torch, smashed the top of the barrel, slammed the flaming end within. Rust and his companion arched their backs in a mighty tug at oars. Jahl caught his balance. A dagger whirled through the air, landed at his boot. He bent, plucked it out, flung it back.
Flames leaped up the side of the brig.
“The anchor!” Jahl’s eyes glinted. “If this one drifts ...”
We rowed to the stern. The overhang sheltered us from eyes above. I snatched out my dagger, reached to the rope.
No rope, a chain. I gaped, and cursed.
Jahl snapped, “On deck, they’ll have an axe!”
“I’ll go.” Rust clambered to the stern.
“No!”
“He’s fisher, not fighter, Roddy. Stand clear.”
Numbly, I did. I ought go along. Rust had sword. Mine was tucked safely in the bow of the boat. Still ...
Rustin leaned into the net, caught hold, scrambled up.
On the broad deck above, screams, orders, calls. A sail fluttered.
Rustin disappeared over the rail.
Not again. I couldn’t lose him again. Numbly, I reached for the net.
The chain shuddered.
“Modre ko!” Kill him!
The chain slithered into the sea. Rust darted over the side, scrambled down. His flank dripped red. He dropped heavily into the boat. Jahl hauled at the oars. We shot from the stern.
“Rustin!” My cry was agonized.
“A scratch.” He pawed at his jerkin. “Well, a bit more, but—”
I tore off my cloak, pressed it hard to his side. He winced. “Live, my lord!”
“I intend to.” He leaned back, with gritted teeth. “They were passing buckets, but they’ll lose her.”
“Two more barrels.” Jahl.
I glanced about. Everywhere, sails burned. Not twenty paces before us, a ketch had hoisted all her sail and slammed into a yawl. Her prow skewered the smaller vessel. Masts tumbled. Behind us, on the brigantine, fire leaped to the skies.
From the sea, cries of distress.
“Rust, are you ...”
“Do it!”
Jahl picked a fat, elderly vessel, beribboned with spars.
In the water, a head loomed. “Sal noas!” Save us! Desperate fingers gripped our rail. The sailor’s body acted as anchor, slowing us, turning us about. I seized a spare oar, raised it high, smashed it down. His skull split. Slowly, the body sank. I swirled the reddened oar in the salt sea before setting it in the bottom of the boat. Rust watched without expression. We rowed on.
Above us, men dashed about the deck. A sail was in place; the ship began to gain way. Jahl and his companion bent to their oars. I scrambled to our prow. We neared their stern. I stretched, couldn’t reach. Behind me, Jahl panted from exertion. Our prow wavered in the one-master’s wake. I leaned far out over water. My fingers brushed the netting. Again. I had it. I hauled us in.
“Hold tight!” Jahl abandoned his oar, scampered forward, tied us expertly to the fleeing Norlander.
From a passing ship, in the Norland tongue, “They’re at you!” Frantic fingers pointed our way. Then they were gone. In the confusion, no one noticed. Jahl heaved up the barrel, set it on his shoulder, launched himself. He climbed precariously up the netting. Perhaps he’d decided he was fighter after all.
Vexed, but with admiration, I snarled, “Madman!” I made ready the torch. Carefully, Jahl set the barrel on the Norlander’s thick, flat rail. He reached down for the torch, lit the oozing pitch, slammed both palms into the barrel’s side. It toppled onto the Norland deck. As Jahl scrambled down I cut the rope binding us to the Norlander. Our eyes met. We grinned.
Our two fishers rowed madly. One’s oar slipped, dousing Rustin with a bucketful of salt spray. His head rocked back.
His knuckles were white on the thwarts. I shuddered, feeling the sting on my own ribs.
“One more barrel.” Jahl.
“No!” I waved. “Look at them.” A score of ships were alight. More, far more; we’d sent five boats, each with five barrels. And fleeing Norland ships had beached themselves, tearing masts from their hulls. Others drifted; some came about madly in an effort to reach open seas. Even as I watched two collided, in a jumble of fallen rigging. Half a dozen ships lay low in the water; one half-sunken vessel tore the bottom out of an unseeing comrade racing to safety. Twenty alight? More like a hundred.
“No,” I said again. “Put us ashore.”
Jahl growled, “We agreed ... at Stoneshore village ...” We’d agreed to rendezvous at the warehouse south of town.
Rustin groaned. He clamped shut his lips.
I snarled, “Look you!” Though the inlet was blocked, a handful of ships bore down on it, as if they might smash through their disabled companions. “We won’t get through. Row for shore.”
“They’ll kill—”
Rust was hurt, and I’d had enough. “Throw the barrel over, and the torches. We’re Norland folk saving ourselves. Be quick!” I got cautiously to my feet, peered about. “Over there, nearest the Keep.” It was the last place they’d look for Caled raiders.
“If they ask—”
“I’ll speak!”
Reluctantly, Jahl muttered to his seatmate, and the pair rowed for shore.
We were a small enough craft to avoid the ships blundering about the bay. It wasn’t long before we neared the rocky breakwater that barred the Keep. A dismasted Norland barque blocked part of the breakwater. The rocky arm swarmed with men, some armed with swords, others bearing bows. Torches sputtered. Men ran about shouting orders. I crouched in the bow.
Our rowers reversed oars. We glided to a halt. I cupped hands. “Ayut noas!” Help us! Frantically I beckoned to gawking troops. “Grab the rope! He’s hurt!” Softly, “Rust, don’t speak. You men, carry him ashore when they—”
“I can walk.”
“Carry him; they’ll make way for wounded.” Clutching the bag that held my coronet, I threw the rope to a soldier. He strained, holding us tight to the rocks. “Now! To the Keep!” I spoke Norlandic, but jabbed my finger at the parapet. To the soldier, “How many Caledi?”
“Swarms! They raid from the castle! And look! Three score ships attack!”
I snorted. Imps of night and confusion were our allies. “Lift him gently! Over the side!” Lord of Nature, I was speaking Caled. The soldier was as overwrought as I; he didn’t seem to notice. Our four fishers hosted Rustin, carried him onto shore. I gripped my sword, ready to rip it from its sheath at the first outcry.
“Roddy
...” Rust caught my arm in a fierce grip. “Your cheek!”
My palm flew to hide the scar. “Stand clear! You men, this way!” This time, I spoke Norl. I shoved aside bystanders. “Hurry!” I dropped my voice. “Rust, forgive me.” I pawed at his flank. He gasped. My hand came away bloody. I wiped it on my cheek, and again.
I led my crew to the joinder of me breakwater with the coast road. The Keep was but fifty paces distant. The postern was still open, but guarded by a dozen hard men. Pikes bristled; swords were unsheathed. Above, on the wall, flickering torches cast shadows on scores of bow and swordsmen.
I growled, “Empty, my bollocks.”
Rust muttered. “Why there? It’ll be swarming with—”
“Where else would a Norl officer go? Be quiet!”
Rustin lay supine in the clasped arms of my four fishers. We trudged to the gate. I marshalled ill-remembered words. Hurt, wound, help, save, surgeon—
A huge hand clasped my shoulder, whirled me around. “Voe hae vos?” Where do you go? Beady eyes, a bushy beard.
I almost dropped my wrapped bundle. Then, “Coth?” I tried to smile, fought not to cover my cheek. “He’s hurt. The surgeons ...”
Coth’s eyes flicked to Rust’s blood-soaked jerkin. “Faranga Caledi!” A bellow, to the portal guards. “Let them in!” Our fishers inched forward; with a curse, Coth thrust them aside, lifted Rust into his blacksmith arms. “Make way!”
I hauled Jahl after. “Be quick!”
We trailed Coth into the Keep. He stalked to what once had been Llewelyn and Joenne’s kitchen. “Surgeon!” His roar echoed across the cobbles. He kicked open the door. The room was empty. He laid Rustin on a table. Instantly, I bent over Rust as if to examine him. “You fainted!” My lips barely moved. His eyes promptly shut.
I looked up to Coth, “Are there no other wounded?”
“A few. Burned men—” A gesture, knife across throat. “—save them agony. I’ll skin the first Caled I meet!” His eyes swept across our fishers, who, ignorant of the Norl tongue, stood unafraid.
I said quickly, “They’re ours.”
“I know. Surgeon!” Scurrying steps. A curtain parted. A lanky boy peered out. Coth snapped, “Help my friend!”
The boy disappeared behind the cloth. Coth slapped Rust’s knee in comradely salute.
“Thank you.” I nodded, almost a bow, as a burly Norlander threw open me curtain. He wore a smock stained red.
“This one too, he’s hurt his face again.” Coth felt for his sword, made sure it was in his scabbard. “Fare thee well.” He extended knuckles, to rap with mine. Jahl and his crew watched openmouthed as he stalked out.
The surgeon bent over Rustin, unbelted his sheath, cut off his jerkin, peered at the bloody flesh. I gritted my teeth. He called for water; the boy scurried in with a wooden bucket. The surgeon thrust me aside, splashed it over Rust’s torso. I flinched. Rust’s breath caught, but he kept his eyes closed. The surgeon touched me wound gently. “Not deep. Long cut.” He placed his ear to Rust’s chest. A nod of approval. “Must be from loss of blood. He’ll need be sewn or—” A word that meant nothing to me, but his hands explained. “Bound. Tight.”
“Bind him.” I had a horror of sewing, made no less so by the ghostly memory of my injury. I felt for the cloth I’d used earlier on my cheek, quietly tied myself while the surgeon’s eyes were elsewhere.
Peering at Rust, he seemed dubious. “Sewing would—”
Outside, a commotion. A Norlandic sailor peered in. “Ayut ko!” Help him.
The surgeon peered outside. “Bring him in!” He swept clear another table, returned to Rustin, darted behind the curtain, brought back long strips of torn cloth. Behind us, sailors dragged in a sallow man with a shattered arm. The boy ran back, emerged with a saw.
Jahl and I helped support Rust while the surgeon wrapped his torso several times around. “Inside, there’s bedding. What about you?” He reached to my bandage.
I tried to sound modest. “Later.”
He turned immediately to the other table. We carried Rustin into the chamber beyond, one I knew well from days past. We set him down on cushions. From the next room, a moan.
Cautiously Rust opened his eyes. “I told you it was a scratch.”
A scream.
I said, “Lie quiet; they’ll hear—”
“Oh!” His eyes flitted from mural to portico. It was his boyhood home. His expression clouded. “Can we not—elsewhere—”
I’d never know what possessed me. I bent and kissed his forehead. “Be silent, sir. I beg thee.” Jahl and his crew saw it all. I felt the rising warmth of my blush.
Rust’s eyes filled. Abruptly he turned to the wall. His fingers sought mine.
Thirty-four
SOMEWHERE, A COCK CROWED. Wearily, I stretched.
The airy chamber in which we’d romped as boys was crowded with wounded, moaning men. I’d guarded our corner, speaking as few words as possible.
Rust, awake, lay still and rigid. Twice, I’d brought him water; dutifully, he’d drained the cup.
The sadness in his eyes caused me profound unease.
Of our sailors, only Jahl remained. His crewmen were gone. Hours earlier, while night still prevailed, I’d whispered my plan and escorted them to the postern gate, now firmly shut. I snapped orders in Norl, bid the guard open, sent them on their way. As if entitled, they trudged along the coast road, heads down, to the nearest avenue into the town. There, they merged into shadows, to wend their way toward their half-abandoned fishing village. But Jahl, fearing interrogation and arrest, had chosen the illusion of my protection.
Once, during the long night, I’d stepped outside to stretch and take fresh air. The Keep was, after all, not heavily manned. What few guards there were clustered at the southern wall, eyes toward Stryx. The northern wall, past the breakwater, was unlikely to face attack.
Our raid had been a wild success, and I ought to be elated. Dozens of ships were wrecked, or near so; sailors drowned and burned, the harbor near blocked. Why, then, was I near tears? Exhaustion, perhaps, and the sight of Rustin’s scored flesh. Fleeing to the Keep had been no inspiration; Rustin’s gloom became mine. It was his father’s treason troubled him. What, finally, was I to do about Llewelyn?
I snorted. Judgment on Rustin’s parent was premature. Any moment I might be unmasked and slaughtered; even were we to escape I could boast no army, no refuge, no hopes. Yet, we’d had, finally, an unmistakable victory, one that would at least check Hriskil’s thrust. No doubt Sarazon would call for reinforcements and fall back on Stryx to secure his position.
That might relieve Groenfil and Soushire, or at least prevent Hriskil from augmenting his force there.
So, then, why did my eyes sting?
What I sought in Rustin wasn’t corporal. I was steadied by his resolve, his justice ... his love of my soul, even before my crowning, when no others could see my worth. Yet, when the crimson stain oozed down his flank, my heart near sundered. Were he child of my flesh, I could feel no greater pain. Was this love? Would I feel so for Tresa, were she mine? What feel I now? She was gone to me, most likely dead or made a Norland soldier’s bawd. Did my heart sting?
Yes, but less so. Was it distance eased the pain? Anavar too was distant. I gritted my teeth, knowing he was too proud to surrender Verein. By now, he was dead. Whom did I mourn with dampened cheeks? Tresa? Anavar? Rustin?
I crouched anew by the bed.
Slowly, with daylight, the Norland foe restored order. The gate was thrown open; night fears had passed. I yearned to survey the harbor, but didn’t dare.
A Norland officer passed through the Keep, seeking names, sending men to their regiments. My command of their tongue wouldn’t bear close scrutiny; thrusting aside my revulsion, I painted my bandage in a dead man’s blood, feigned unconsciousness. Jahl managed not to be seen. When the officer had gone, I allowed myself to waken.
Rustin regarded me quietly. “What now, my prince?”
I whis
pered, “You’re regent; what say you?”
“I defer to my liege.” Grunting, he pulled himself to sit. “Oh, that smarts. By what stratagem will we leave the Keep?”
“I’ll decide at the time.” Unparalleled arrogance, I realized too late, but he merely nodded as if he understood.
Jahl looked uneasy. “You don’t know?” He kept his voice low.
“One never knows. One seizes the chance.” It didn’t reassure him. “It’s true even of Hriskil,” I said. “Kings know no more than churls.”
“Oh? Then by what right do you rule?”
I bristled, opened my mouth to deliver a stinging rebuke, realized I had none. “I don’t know.”
Rustin smiled. “You ought be a counselor, Jahl.”
Outside, the clatter of hooves. I peered past the portico. A rider flung himself off his mount, ran to the dwelling’s guest-gate.
After a time, the heat of day permeated the room. Brushing away flies, I dozed.
More riders. The sound of distant horns.
“Roddy!” Rust was careful not to be overheard, though the chamber now held only a few grievously wounded, and ourselves. “Something’s amiss.”
“What?”
He shrugged. “I don’t speak Norlandic.”
Rubbing my eyes, I got to my feet, wandered outside.
Clumps of soldiers stood about. Listening, I edged toward a squad of guards.
Wild rumors flew, as they had during the night. Verein had not surrendered; Sarazon’s thousands were in retreat. A fierce Caled army had fallen on his caravans; the road from Stryx to the hills was a deathtrap. Caledon had a great navy, hiding just south of the harbor; tonight it would disgorge untold thousands. Sarazon would abandon the city.
I trudged back inside. “The usual nonsense.”
“More.” Rust sat, head back against the wall, eyes shut. “They’re worried, I don’t need their speech to know that. And too many riders come in haste. Dispatches, I’ll warrant.”
“This is their headquarters. Of course riders—”
“Can he walk?” The surgeon. Lord of Nature, if he’d heard us speaking Caled ...
I struggled to assemble my Norl speech. “If not, we can carry—”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 46