The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  Errol’s throat closed around his warning. Stay down. Stay down.

  The watchmen rose as the second volley arrived. Three men went down. The rest loosed their arrows in the face of withering fire.

  “Their commander’s good.” Rale nodded toward the cog. “He doesn’t make the same mistake twice.” He turned to the two watchmen with longbows. “Can you make that distance?”

  The first, tall and blond-haired, nodded. “It’s about three hundred paces. I can make the distance, but it’ll be a lucky shot if I can land it on the ship, much less hit anything. I’ve only got a dozen shafts. The percentage will improve if we can move a bit closer.”

  A hail of arrows flew back and forth between the other ships. The longbows fired faster, but there were more crossbows, many more.

  Rale strode over to Salo, who clearly was not inclined to move any closer to the cog, but in the end he bellowed the order as Rale returned. “The captain will provide a few paces, the rest is up to you. Distract them as much as you can.”

  The two men stood side by side. As one they fired, nocked, pulled, and fired again. Errol marveled at their smooth efficiency. He watched in fascination as pairs of arrows flew across the distance. He’d never dreamed a bow could shoot so far.

  The first volley splashed into the water to port. And the second.

  The third hit the main deck between the fore and aft castles. The fourth found the water again, but the deed had been done. A roil of confusion rippled through the crossbowmen, and the cog’s crew turned its attention from the longboat to Salo’s ship. After dodging a rain of arrows from the longboat, the crossbowmen turned and fired a volley in the direction of Salo’s ship. Errol watched it come.

  Rale’s voice cracked through the noise of men, wind, and water. “Everyone down!”

  Watchmen and crewmen threw themselves behind the bulwark. Errol pressed himself against the rough wood of the deck and waited. A bolt lodged itself in the main mast. Another flew overhead. Errol peeked over the rail. It appeared the rest had fallen short.

  No more missiles came. Beside him Rale cursed. “He knows what he’s about.” He pointed. “We’re nothing more than a distraction, and he’s returned all his fire to the longship. Now it’s a matter of luck.”

  Errol watched, horrified. It was like no battle he’d ever seen or heard of. Time stretched as the two ships fought in silence, the air filled with bolts and arrows. Absent were the sounds of steel and staff. He heard no screams. Most of the noise from the combatants was carried away by the wind.

  The rate of fire from each ship had slowed. Only five bowmen loosed arrows from the longship, and twenty crossbows still fired from the cog. It seemed the watchmen were losing. “Who’ll win?” Even as he asked, his stomach sank with a swell.

  “Tough to say, lad. A good man with a longbow can fire three times as fast as a man with crossbow, but the numbers are against our friends out there.” Rale turned to the two watchmen with bows. “Garrigus, Molney, how many arrows do you have left?”

  Garrigus, the lieutenant Errol had challenged on his arrival to Erinon, answered. “Six each.”

  “How close do we have to be for a high-percentage shot?”

  Garrigus ran a hand through his hair. “Do you want us to kill someone specific?”

  Rale shook his head. “No. Just take out a few more of those crossbows.”

  The two bowmen conferred. “A hundred and fifty paces.”

  Salo had returned to outracing the cog. Their distance was close to two hundred fifty.

  Rale studied the battle over the aft rail and again went in search of Salo, his eyes filled with dire choices. Errol followed. His shoulders twitched in expectation of a bolt. He glanced at the sky, searching for the black streaks.

  Salo handled the wheel, casting quick glances at their pursuers and making minute adjustments to their course, striving for speed and distance.

  “Can we get away, Captain?” Rale asked.

  Salo shook his head. “They’ll have us as soon as they finish off the longship. Their captain doesn’t distract easily.”

  Rale nodded once. “Furl the fore sails, Captain.”

  Salo glared, his bushy dark brows nearly hiding his eyes. “Is there some reason you want to die soon rather than late?”

  “We need to close the gap again. They’re focused on the last dregs of the longship and, with Deas’s help, won’t see us furl the forward sails. I’m hoping by the time they notice they’re within range of our bows, we’ll be able to kill enough of them to buy us another day.”

  “That’s a lot of hoping, landwalker,” Salo said. “No, I won’t do it. Once we lose that distance, we won’t get it back.”

  Rale drew his dagger and pressed the point against Salo’s neck. “Captain, that wasn’t a suggestion. Furl those sails or die now.”

  Salo’s eyes bulged. His hands stilled on the wheel, and he strained to see the dagger at his throat. “Filthy landwalkers. I hope they kill you first. At least I’ll have one last laugh before I die.”

  The knife didn’t move. If anything, Rale pushed it a little harder against Salo’s neck. A bead of blood appeared. “For your sake, I hope we don’t hit an unexpected wave, Captain.”

  Salo managed to yell down the length of the boat without moving. “Fulke, take in the forward sails.”

  Fulke relayed the order, and a trio of sailors scrambled in the rigging to wrap the canvas. Deprived of one-third of their speed, they slowed and the other two boats leapt at them. Rale sheathed his knife, strode to the edge of the deck, and nodded for the bowmen to be at the ready.

  As he turned his attention to the other ships, Rale blinked, bowed his head. “Brave man.” Errol turned to see what had caught his attention. The distance between the longboat and the enemy ship had lessened so that now only fifty paces separated them.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “The only thing he can if he’s to break their pursuit. Any man can handle a crossbow, but men on the longbow are raised to it. They’re much more accurate. The captain of the longship knows that. If he can keep the rest of his bowmen alive long enough, they’ll slaughter the men on the other ship.”

  Errol swallowed, tasted the salt on the air. “But how long can they last at that distance?”

  “Not long.” Rale hailed his two bowmen. “Gentlemen, fire as soon as you’re assured of hitting your target.”

  The watchmen on the longship nocked and fired without pause, filling the space between the two ships with a steady rain of arrows. Errol’s heart exulted to see their attack. The cog’s bolts flew wide and disappeared into the sea and then stopped altogether. The longbows continued to shoot, raining death on the elevated decks of the other ship.

  Then at some signal, the twang of a score of crossbows firing at once came across the water. Bolts sprouted from the flesh of the bowmen like quills. The longbows stilled.

  Except one.

  Protected by the mast, a single archer continued to draw and fire.

  “We need those bows, gentlemen,” Rale shouted. “Their attention will be on us soon.”

  Garrigus and Molney each nocked, pulled the bowstring to their cheek, and waited, bodies swaying with the movement of the ship. Molney loosed first. The arrow shot from the bow, flew low over the deck of the other ship until it sprouted in a man’s throat.

  Rale nodded. “Nice shot.”

  “Luck, or nearly so. Bound to hit something shooting down the length of another ship like that.”

  Garrigus loosed. The shaft sped across the distance, punched into a crossbowman’s shoulder, and didn’t stop until the broadhead erupted through the other one. Furious shouts came from the cog, and all the crossbows on the foredeck turned to aim at the new threat. The lone longbow still fired, but more weakly now, and a handful of bolts from the aft deck kept its owner pinned down.

  Molney loosed another shaft, then slumped to the deck. A short bolt stuck out from his chest. He plucked feebly at it with one hand. Then his ey
es glazed and the hand fell away.

  A muscle twitched in Garrigus’s cheek, but he fired as if nothing had happened. “I’ll need someone to bring me his arrows.”

  Errol ducked into a crouch, stepped over Molney’s body, and grabbed the four remaining arrows. He put them within Garrigus’s reach, then ducked back behind the aft mast. The watchman nocked, paused, and let fly. On the longship, the sole remaining bowman still fired, but the shots came infrequently now, and they barely cleared the distance to the other vessel.

  A scream overhead pulled Errol’s gaze upward. One of Salo’s sailors clutched a bolt stuck in his abdomen, lost his balance, and plummeted to the deck headfirst. Errol turned away, squeezing his eyes shut against the crunching sound.

  Garrigus hissed. Errol opened his eyes to see the watchman’s bow on the deck, his left hand pressed to his right bicep, blood leaking through his fingers.

  “Can you fire?” Rale asked.

  The watchman shook his head. “But I can work a sword with my left if someone can bandage this.”

  Errol cupped his hands around his mouth. “Rokha!” Ru’s daughter broke off her study of the battle, came running.

  “Can you bandage his arm?” Errol asked.

  Her dark hair, cut short, waved in the wind. “I have supplies below.” She pushed Garrigus to a sitting position against the ship’s protective wall and ran for the hold.

  Errol stared at the bow. There were four arrows left. Rale stood on the aft deck speaking with the captain. The longship drifted now, a derelict. No more arrows came from it.

  He’d never used a longbow before, had rarely shot the shorter versions hunters used around the Sprata. But how different could it be? Errol nocked an arrow and pulled. He clenched his teeth, straining. How did men do it? He grunted with effort and finally managed to get the bowstring a handsbreadth from his cheek, where it stopped, refusing to go any farther. He loosed. The ship was so close, he could hardly miss it.

  He didn’t. The arrow stuck fast in the side, useless. A bolt whizzed by, close enough for him to hear its passage. Errol drew and fired again, aiming a little higher this time. A short scream came across the water. Salo shouted an order to unfurl the forward sails, but it would be too late. The other ship was only twenty paces away. In another moment grappling hooks would fly across the space to haul them within boarding distance, and then they’d fight.

  Errol aimed for the men holding crossbows—got lucky enough to hit one, completely missed another. All the arrows were gone.

  11

  Boarded

  CROSSBOW FIRE kept them pinned to the deck. Errol hugged the bulwark while grappling hooks pulled the two ships closer. The hulls thumped together with a hollow booming sound. Behind the foremast, Rale held up a hand, signaling Errol and the rest to wait. When the first man from the enemy ship landed on the deck, he yanked his arm down.

  Errol dove away from the ship’s rail, his staff tight in his hands. Stray crossbow bolts still whined through the air. He rolled to his feet, the wood buzzing in the air. Merakhi, dark-skinned and dour, swarmed over the rail wielding heavy, curved swords.

  The boat’s rocking confused his footwork, and he almost stumbled into the point of a sword. He parried a thrust, stabbed the end of his staff into his attacker’s throat.

  “’Ware!” Garrigus yelled behind him. Errol dropped to the deck, felt a rush of displaced air, and thrust at the source. A grunt, followed a heartbeat later by a scream, started his heart beating again.

  A hand hauled him back to his feet. Garrigus. Blood spatters covered the blond watchman. A pace away a Merakhi warrior screamed, tried to hold the stump of an arm.

  “Back to back,” Garrigus ordered.

  Errol turned, met the charge with a swing of his staff as the deck canted and pulled his feet from underneath him. Behind him, Garrigus swore. With a flurry of sword strokes he dispatched his man and bought Errol enough time to get to his feet.

  “Short strokes,” the watchman yelled. “Keep your balance.”

  Time stretched into an endless series of thrusts and parries. Errol’s world contracted to the face and sword of the man in front of him. Blood slicked the deck. Screams tore across his hearing, and he tried in vain to identify owners—friend or foe?

  The swordsman in front of him feinted. Errol sidestepped to his right to counter, put his foot in a pool of blood and went down. His opponent pressed in. Errol tripped him with his staff, but the man fell on it. As Errol fought to pull it from underneath the man’s weight, the swordsman rolled toward him, blade flashing.

  With a flurry of sword strokes, Garrigus dispatched his opponent with a cut through the chest. With an overhand cut, the watchman struck Errol’s attacker across the throat. Fresh blood wet the deck. Errol regained his feet and his staff. Thick streams of red ran from Garrigus’s side. Errol’s rescue had come at a price.

  Before he could voice his concern, they were set upon again. Twice more Errol lost his footing on the deck. Each time he fell, Garrigus bought him the time he needed to rise and keep fighting.

  Then the fighting stopped.

  Bodies lay everywhere. Blood and salt water flowed across the deck. Errol turned to thank Garrigus, but his smile wavered and collapsed at the sight of the watchman. Garrigus stood, his hand pressed against his side, trying to staunch the blood that leaked through his fingers. His smile stretched his bloodless lips. “Are you well?” His voice barely rose above the sounds of the ocean.

  Errol nodded.

  Garrigus slow-blinked twice, then crumpled to the deck. His chest stilled.

  Errol dropped to Garrigus’s side, tore open the watchman’s jerkin, and pressed his hands against two of the wounds on Garrigus’s chest. Talons of despair tore at Errol’s heart. “No, please. Not again.”

  Men kept dying. For him. He fingered the black armband Reynald had given him. Maybe he could use his authority to order the watchmen not to die for him. An instant later he cursed himself for a fool. They wouldn’t listen. Captain Reynald had gotten to them already.

  A cold knot formed in his chest. Valon would pay. Oh yes, Errol would make him pay.

  Footsteps drew close. “You carry death lightly, boy, or you drown.”

  Errol leaned forward to brush his hand across the valiant lieutenant’s eyes, laid the man’s head gently on the hard timber of the deck, and stood.

  His gaze locked with Rale’s. “I’ll kill Valon.”

  The farmer nodded, his eyes somber over the strong nose. “You know that won’t stop what’s coming.”

  It wouldn’t. He knew it wouldn’t. Killing Valon couldn’t make Rodran young again or conjure an heir the kingdom didn’t have. “Maybe it’ll keep them from killing the people around me.”

  Rale’s smile held grief in it. “I hope so, lad. I hope so. Come, I’ll need your help.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and jumped the rail to the enemy ship. With as much apparent feeling as a butcher, he moved from body to body and thrust his blade through the heart. The sound made Errol sick to his stomach.

  “Do you have to do that?”

  His teacher shook his head. “Probably not, but I’ve lost more than one man to an enemy that played dead only to spring up and fire an arrow at our backs.” He waved an arm at the scattered bodies. “Salvage as many of the arrows as you can. We’ll probably need them.”

  “Is it always like this?” Errol asked. He’d meant to say battle, but Rale seemed to understand his question even so.

  “No, usually it’s worse.” Memories shadowed Rale’s eyes as he spoke. “I’ve seen battlefields that stretched for hundreds of paces, the dead so thick you could walk from end to end without your feet ever touching the ground. The dead aren’t the worst of it.” He stabbed, rose, and moved to the next body. “It’s the dying—men or boys with gut wounds trying to hold themselves together, crying for water, crying for their wife or mother.”

  Errol tried to shake the spell of Rale’s words. He didn’t want to hear them, but he didn�
��t want to be alone, so he followed behind, waited until Rale struck, and then pulled the arrows he could. Many of the shafts had broken on impact, some had fouled the head, and others were stuck so deeply they couldn’t be retrieved. But by the time they were halfway through he held a thick armful of shafts that could be cleaned and used again.

  In the space between breaths he saw Rale bend next to a Merakhi with a single arrow in his back. The Merakhi rolled and thrust. By luck or skill, Rale caught the sword’s edge on his guard, but the man kicked out and swept Rale’s feet from beneath him. His teacher rolled, tried to get space, but the Merakhi was faster.

  Errol leapt across the space and took the Merakhi through the eye with one of the arrows. With a moan, the man’s bones turned to water, and he dropped to the deck.

  Rale straightened and gave Errol a grateful nod. “My thanks. Age seems to have dulled my sense of caution as well as my reflexes.”

  Errol followed him more closely after that, one arm wrapped around the arrows, the other ready to strike. After a half hour, supplied with crossbows, bolts, and arrows, they crossed back to their own ship. Salo’s crew set fire to the enemy vessel, Rale and the surviving watchmen cut the grappling lines, and they left the burning vessel behind.

  On the aft deck their captain employed the rough side of his tongue on Rokha as she stitched up a jagged cut on his arm. Ru’s daughter just smiled and yanked the thread holding his flesh together.

  “You evil woman! You did that on purpose. Don’t pull so hard.”

  Rokha flashed him a saucy smile. “I thought sailors were tough. You cry more than a soft-handed courtier, Salo.”

  Her words seemed to have the desired effect; Salo stifled his complaints in spite of Rokha’s obvious pleasure at employing more force on the stitches than necessary. When she knotted off the last one, she approached Errol, swaying with the movement of the ship like a dancer.

  Rokha moved in so close her breath brushed Errol’s ear like a caress. “I thought I’d give Captain Salo a little of his own back for your seasickness.” She moved on to the next injury, her hands clutching her pack.