by Watson Davis
“Mitta?” a woman’s voice said behind her. “Give me a hand.”
She turned, keeping herself small so the crate would protect her from the arrows thudding into the wooden planks on either side of the crate, whistling through the air above her head into the hulls of the ships behind her. Angrid held onto a pylon, reaching out for help.
Mitta threw her hand out, her fingers wrapping around Angrid’s wrist, and Angrid’s fingers wrapping around Mitta’s. Mitta yanked her up onto the pier, saying, “The Shrians have brought monsters with them. We have to—”
Angrid’s eyes widened, looking past Mitta, over Mitta’s head, her right hand yanking a handful of arrows from her quiver, nocking one into her bow. Mitta threw herself to the left, into the middle of the wharf, arrows flying from her bow as a monstrous sword swept down, its edge blunt and nicked. The black blade stained with dried blood and flesh cleaved into Angrid, splintering her collarbone, her shoulder.
Angrid growled, trying to hurl an arrow at the creature with her good hand, even as the life fled her eyes and she slipped limp back into the water. Mitta put two arrows through the monstrous creature’s head and he collapsed, following Angrid into the lapping waves.
Mitta counted twenty of the monstrous things on the pier. Her mind told her body to flee, to follow Nikot’s example and run. But an arrow struck her foot, an arrow unlike any she’d seen, with a thick black shaft. The onyx point sliced through her boot, through her flesh and bone, into the wooden plank below, pinning her. She pulled at her foot, but could not move it, lacking the right leverage, lacking the time. Another arrow grazed her shoulder.
She smiled and, nocking an arrow to her bowstring, yelled, “Come and get me, then, you butt-ugly boggles!” She released arrow after arrow after arrow as they approached, swinging their rough clubs, their stone axes, and onyx-pointed spears. She bobbed and weaved as much as she could to make herself harder to hit. More arrows thudded into the deck around her, the onyx arrowheads slicing her arms, her legs, and her body.
An Onei passed her on her right, an axe in each hand, reminiscent of Kilil, with two more Onei passing to her left. Arrows flew over her head, coming from behind, sailing up to the ship and finding their mark in Shrian archers.
“Mitta?” Someone knelt beside her to her right.
She aimed her next shot, catching one of the monsters in the cheek, not stopping it, not even slowing it down. “Damn those bastards.”
A woman set her bow down to Mitta’s left. Mitta glanced right—Lirden Furutson—and left—Peira Icefang. Mitta pulled a handful of ill-fletched arrows from the Shrian quiver on her back, saying, “Leave me. Get in the fight.”
“Shut up, Clan Leader.” Peira drew her dagger, grabbed the thick shaft of the arrow impaling Mitta’s foot, and began hacking at the wood. Lirden reached out, helping Peira steady the shaft.
Mitta flinched, each pass of Peira’s dagger shaking the arrow, tearing Mitta’s flesh. She drew her bow once more, watching the warrior with the axes dance, watching him spin from one foe to another, howling with rage, his axes hacking into the monsters. She realized the man was Tethan Gartanson.
She loosed an arrow, hitting a monster in the temple, the point entering what should have been a brain. The creature staggered back, turning its massive head to stare at Mitta, giving her a perfect target for the next arrow, a killing shot.
“Go help Tethan, dammit,” Mitta grunted.
# # #
Simthil climbed up the side of the ship, hand over hand, the ropes cutting into his fingers, his arms trembling from holding up his weight, his feet silent on the hull of the ship. He reached the top to find two of his warriors, Noben and Dalara, waiting for him, hands outstretched, helping him reach the top. He scrabbled over the railing, commanding them, “Don’t worry about me! Kill the Shrian bastards.”
Noben turned and whipped his axe from his belt. Dalara waited a moment more, checking on her clan leader before grabbing her bloody axe from where it rested against the railing of the ship and sliding a throwing knife out from one of the sheaths in her bodice.
Simthil paused, surveying the battlefield, catching his breath. Shrians fought from the riggings of the ship, the ropes and the masts, trying to capitalize on their superior numbers, but they were being easily repelled. Many had retreated to the foredeck and below decks, the commanders and mages having congregated on the quarterdeck.
Dead Shrian sailors littered the deck, with only Lida the Bard down of his warriors. She crawled toward the clear part of the deck, out of the battle, blood covering the left half of her face and her right leg trailing behind her, missing everything below the knee. Simthil darted forward, keeping his eyes on the Onei and Shrians fighting around him. His axe in his right hand, he grabbed Lida by the collar of her shirt and dragged her out of the worst of the melee, settling her against the railing.
“Wrap your belt around your stump,” he told her.
She nodded, her breathing fast and shallow, her lips quivering with shock, but she reached down and unfastened her belt.
A Shrian staggered through the line of Onei, shaking his head, and Simthil leapt forward, taking the man’s head off with a mighty swing. Bellowing “Greathouse! Follow me!” Simthil threw himself into the fray, his axe chopping left and right, up and down, hewing Shrian sailors like the avatar of Death harvesting the souls of the unworthy. He was hacking his way to the stairs leading up to the deck when Finun Numishason tackled Simthil, knocking him down into the doorway nestled between the stairs to the rear deck. A ball of magical fire blasted down from above, the flames devouring Finun’s body from the middle of his chest down.
Simthil landed safely on his ass, crashing through the door. He sat in the doorway, dumbfounded, watching Finun gasp for air, confusion in Finun’s blue eyes. Simthil leaned forward and touched the man’s cheek, saying, “I’ll see you in the Great House.”
Finun smiled and his eyes closed.
Simthil surged to his feet, peering up at the lip of the deck above him. Another ball of fire blew down the other stairs, the flame engulfing Lahsek the Tailor, who screamed in rage as he pulled himself up the stairs only to collapse at the top. The rest of Simthil’s Onei backed off, snarling like cornered icefangs, a cackling laugh taunting them from the deck above.
To Simthil’s left, through the doorway, through an extravagantly decorated room, tall windows looked out onto the sea behind the ship, tall windows showing another ship tilting and sinking quickly into the bay, with Onei diving from its deck into the water. Simthil sprinted through the room, dodging a desk piled high with maps and papers and a table with the remains of a meal.
At the rear of the room, he pushed one window open and peered out the stern of the ship, up toward the deck above. Hooking his axe to his belt, he climbed out on the ledge, and then shimmied up the back of the ship and over the rail.
Two officers stood nearest to Simthil with four magicians in front of them, the magicians’ arms gyrating, their hands forming arcane signs, magic swirling around them like whirlwinds of fire.
All six of them were facing away from Simthil.
He launched himself into the two officers, hurling them forward to smash into two of the mages, to tumble over the railing onto the deck in between the two stairs, the very place Finun lay.
“Greathouse, to me!” Simthil cried.
One mage stared down at the officers and his comrades, but the other whirled toward Simthil, casting his magical attack as Simthil swung his great axe. The mage’s fire seared Simthil’s right side, charring his ribs and his shoulder. Simthil’s axe sliced through the magician’s forearms lengthwise, the magic backfiring, immolating both the caster and Simthil in a column of swirling cinders and crackling heat.
The mage shrieked and died.
Simthil dropped his axe and threw himself to the deck to roll across it, trying to quench those flames. He scurried to his feet and peered across the deck at the other mage, now too far away for him to get to quickly.
His beard burning, he gritted his teeth and glared at that last mage, preparing his soul to enter the nether realms to be judged, hoping the judgment wouldn’t be too harsh. He bellowed and charged forward. “Do your worst, you bastard!”
But Simthil’s Greathouse Onei swarmed over the mage, killing him three times over before he could cast his spell.
# # #
Gartan swam through the warm water, arms churning, the harbor water foul in his mouth, the sea salt stinging his eyes, burning in his wounds, but he swam toward that ship with the man he had convinced himself was the commander of the Shrian forces. His clansmen swam in the water around him,and to their right, much closer than the commander’s ship, another warship headed toward Gartan, toward his men.
The prow rose above him, the water along the bow rising up, pushing him forward, driving him out of its way, but he fought his way against the current toward the ship, his hands sliding along the huge planks of wood of the hull, splinters ripping at his fingertips, until he hit a Skybear, Natham, holding onto a gap in the wood.
Gartan clamped his arms around the man, and soon other Skybears were holding on as well, arms wrapping around Natham, around Gartan. Tayna climbed up Natham’s torso, clambering up the hull, finding a handhold further up. She dug herself in, tensing, screaming, “Next one up!”
Banad scrabbled up and grabbed the railing, and Skybears climbed up and over onto the deck.
Gartan hugged Tayna’s waist, one of her daggers digging into his cheek, but he reached down with his seared right hand, the blistered skin of which ached. He snatched Natham’s hand and pulled the man up, an arrow skipping off the hull next to his face. Natham scaled up Gartan, then up Tayna, leaping to grab the rail when a dagger thunked into his back. Gartan climbed up Tayna, reached up and clasped hands with a grimacing Natham, his other hand helping Tayna scuttle up and over the rail, only to see her tumble to the deck with an arrow in her shoulder—an arrow she broke off, leaving the arrowhead.
Gartan rushed up the rest of the way, reaching the deck of the ship without a single weapon in his hand, but with Natham at his side.
A single mage stood upon the upper deck chanting, an archer by his side pulling an arrow from his quiver. A greenish web of shimmering light flashed out from the mage’s gesticulating hands, the web stretching from him to ensnare Nohel, Henok, and Lethya.
The three Onei toppled to the deck, squirming among the Onei and Shrian corpses around them. The Shrians moved toward them, striking at the Skybears with belaying pins and whips, with wood and metal clubs, tearing out bits of flesh, but without coordination, the Shrians got in each other’s way, ruining each other’s attacks. Tayna lunged toward the sailors, striking at them with her axe, trying to drive them away from her clanmates.
“Take the archer!” Gartan screamed, yanking a belaying pin from the rail and hurling it toward the mage.
“I’ll get him!” Natham ducked his head and sprinted across the deck, flinging Shrian sailors out of his path with a sweep of his arms. The archer’s eyes went from Gartan, to Natham, and back to Gartan, before loosing his arrow.
Gartan’s belaying pin smashed into the mage’s mouth, breaking his spell and a few teeth. The mage staggered backward, the green shimmering of his spell whipping around in a spiral, flying up toward the sky.
The magical spell broken, Nohel kicked out, snapping a Shrian sailor’s knee, then snatching a billhook from the deck and hurling it into a sailor’s face, the sharp blade cutting through the man’s cheek, through his eye, killing him.
Henok flung his feet up into the air, rolling himself on his back and, getting his hands on the deck, pushed himself into the air, landing on his feet and flinging his arms out to his sides. One forearm smashed into a sailor’s face; his other fist smashed another sailor’s windpipe.
Lethya whirled on the ground, spinning to her feet, grabbing a sailor by the hair on his head and tossing him into another sailor, the two of them crashing to the ground. Her fist whipped out to smash one sailor’s face, her foot arcing out to sweep two more sailors from their feet.
The archer’s arrow grazed past Gartan’s left shoulder, the arrow’s head slicing his skin. Gartan snatched another belaying pin. The archer’s hand flew to the quiver on his back, his eyes wide with fear.
Natham leapt up the stairs and over the rail, screaming in rage, and threw himself onto the archer. He ripped the bow from the man’s hand and flung it aside.
Gartan ran up the stairs to the upper deck. Natham, lost in his rage, pounded on the archer with blood-soaked fists. The mage clung to the ship’s wheel, draped on it, his head hanging low, blood streaming from his lips into a puddle on the deck. A sailor stood at the wheel too, his eyes wide, fingers gripping the wheel, pulling at it, his knuckles white. A man in a spectacular uniform leapt over the back of the ship into the water.
Gartan hurled himself upon the mage, smashing his skull with the belaying pin. He looked up to find the steering wheel dropping to the deck, the sailor somehow having disconnected the wheel from its moorings, the round grips along the edge of the bottom splintering beneath the weight of the wheel. The sailor sprinted toward the rail along the back of the ship, the rail to which the commanding officer had fled.
Angry, Gartan threw the belaying pin at the sailor. The bloody pin bashed into the back of the man’s skull and the sailor collapsed in a heap, sliding on the deck into the railing on the back.
Gartan jumped to his feet, the scorched skin on his neck aching as he turned his head around, searching for the ship he had wanted, the ship with the man he was sure commanded this force, now fleeing toward the mouth of the bay. A fireball rose up from that ship’s rear deck, smashing back down onto the collection of longboats speeding toward it.
Gartan slammed his palm on the rail. “Dammit!”
Lethya winced, rubbing at her right shoulder, and shouted, “What now, Clan Leader?”
Natham crouched over the dead archer, his breath heaving grunts, blood and ichor dripping from his blackened fingers. Lethya, Tayna, and Nohel sprinted up the stairs, slowing down upon seeing a lack of enemies, looks of disappointment on their faces.
“Onei!” a voice called out from a ship sliding in beside them. Kalo Autut stood at the wheel, her mages, Mian-on and Dyuh Mon, behind her, moving their hands, chanting, directing the winds into the ship’s sails. The ship slid up to within a few feet from the Shrian ship. Kalo motioned for Gartan and his men to join her.
Gartan grinned. “And now we chase that Shrian scum down and make a lesson of him.” He ran toward the starboard side of the ship, leaping to the rail, launching himself from it, laughing as he flew through the air to land on Kalo’s deck.
# # #
Gartan stood beside Kalo, panting to catch his breath, concentrating on the parts of him that didn’t hurt, that hadn’t been burned or slashed or punctured or scraped, thinking about Shrian words and how to put them together.
Gartan pointed at the ship that had escaped him, already out of the harbor and heading to the open sea, saying to Kalo in his best attempt at Shrian, “That boat.”
She smiled, nodding, her eyes peeking up at him. “Yes.” She said other things, looking him up and down, but the words slipped past Gartan. He shrugged his lack of understanding.
Natham hunkered down on his knees before the ship’s ornate wheel, his eyes closed, his mighty chest heaving, blood-drenched fingers curled into claws, his bloody forearms resting on his thighs. Lethya, on the prow of the ship, held onto one of the ropes connected to the bowsprit to balance herself, twisting around while Henok and Tayna peeled away bits of the leather armor on her back to clean the wound there. Nohel waited beside Gartan, his face black with bruises, one eye white, the other a dark red slit, the socket swollen almost shut.
The Nayen ship resembled the Shrians’ ships, but with more elegant lines and sails of many types: square, triangular, and batwing. The low draft was more similar to a longboat, and like a longboat it skimmed over the waves pushe
d by the winds summoned by Mian-on and Dyuh Mon, making up the distance to the Shrian ship as it tried to flee from them.
“Weapons?” Gartan asked.
Kalo glanced at him, took one hand from the wheel, and pointed at a chest.
Gartan limped to it, opened it up, and found it held several harpoons. He pursed his lips and shrugged.
Another damned fireball flew up from the Shrian ship, the largest one Gartan had seen so far, the ball coming directly at them.
“Well, they know we’re coming for them.” Gartan stared at Kalo, expecting some reaction, expecting fear, expecting her to twist at the wheel to try to dodge away. Gartan tapped her shoulder and, receiving her attention, pointed up at the fireball with a shrug, raising his eyebrows.
She nodded once, a short, curt nod.
Nothing more.
The fireball grew larger and larger. Nohel edged toward the rail, his eyes following the flight of the fireball, and Gartan limped over to Nohel’s side.
“It’s going to plow into the wheel, I think,” Nohel said, “Perhaps we should tell Natham to move, maybe join us up front with the others?”
Gartan nodded, preparing to speak, but Mian-on’s eyes flew open. He stepped forward, stomping around the wheel, positioning himself before Natham with his right foot forward, his hands flying around, weaving in and out in a confusing series of arcs and gestures, his voice growing louder, the content of his chanting changing. He threw his hands forward, palms out.
A sound, a whoomph, shocked Gartan, an unseen force pushing him back a step, his ears ringing as an invisible wave flew forward, rippling through the sails. The Nayen sailors, perhaps aware of what was coming, had secured themselves, wrapping their arms around the yardarms, around the masts, moving away from the railing.
Gartan staggered back, grabbing Nohel’s arm, the two of them watching as the shockwave radiated out, latching onto the fireball, sending it back and away from Kalo’s ship, sending it speeding over the tops of the waves, to crash into the rear of the Shrian vessel. It exploded with impressive force, knocking the ship’s back end to the side, rocking the whole thing. The ship came to a rest in the water, the sea waves pitching it to and fro.