“That was the summer before I became a page,” Selwyn said. “I was so angry at missing it.”
“Be glad you did. Those Vyr women had been busy making little Vyrs. Warbands raided the whole length of the frontier. It was a mess but could have been a whole lot worse.” Reyhan motioned with his cup. “Get that down your gullet. As I was saying, it could have been a whole lot worse, if not for Wicke.”
“Really? I always thought him more a scholar than a fighter.” Selwyn downed the cup and held it out for more. Somehow, the fiery liquor did make him feel better.
“He hardly fought at all. Dexter let him take charge of planning. Old Wicke charted each raid as we learned of it, watching for patterns. Within a month, he was correctly guessing the next attack more often than not, and setting ambushes. We definitely bloodied that generation.” He raised his cup. “To Wicke, a terrible horseman, but a bloody great knight.”
Selwyn joined the salute, laughing even as his eyes misted. “He did sit a horse like a townsman.” He downed the cup and refilled it. “He was as much a father to me as mine own.” It was a moment before he could speak again, grief and brandywine searing the throat. “To Wicke. May he find joy in the endless libraries of the High King’s house.”
“Uukhoi! Though an endless library sounds more like the Abyss than the good place.”
The vigil went on for several hours, for that’s what it was, Selwyn realized, whether or not they had a corpse to watch. He hoped Leax had left Wicke’s body for the beasts of the savanna, but more likely he was already moldering in a hole somewhere. The two of them drained the brandywine, and Reyhan stumbled out and came back with another bottle. In time, they sat against the blackened walls of the room, too unsteady to remain upright on stools. Selwyn talked about his years squiring for Wicke, while Reyhan told tales of their fight against the Vyr, which seemed to grow as they drank. Through the alcoholic haze in his mind, Selwyn marshaled a thought. “Why are the Vyr attacking now? In such big numbers?”
“Because they’re savages?”
“But gen-gener-usually it comes with a new warrior set. Or a great chieftain unites some tribes. But this is the wrong year. And no great leader. Why?”
“Maybe it’s the new weapons.”
“New weapons?”
Reyhan nodded. “A courier from Dexter mentioned it to me. More steel this year. And better armor.” This was important somehow, Selwyn realized, but before he could grasp why, Reyhan spoke again. “What gesture are you making for Wicke?”
That caught Selwyn up short. He was the closest thing to a son that Wicke had, so it was his responsibility to make a gesture for the dead. “I should have saved him, Reyhan. We knew right where he was.” He downed a long swig of brandywine. “Do you think he saw me on that hill? Did he know we just left him to die?”
“You were right to leave him.” Reyhan spat on to the floor. “That was one of the first wise things you’ve done.”
“It doesn’t feel right.” His eyes winched shut and childish, hot tears ran down his cheeks.
“It doesn’t feel pleasant, but it was still the right choice.” Reyhan looped an arm around his shoulders. “Duty before Desire. Isn’t that what Wicke used to say?”
Selwyn nodded, choking back sobs.
“Then how are you going to honor him?”
What gesture can I make? He thought for a long while, liquor making his head feel heavy, chin falling to his chest. Suddenly he glanced up, wiping at his eyes. “I’m going to restore the Common — the Commonwealth.”
Reyhan made a strange face and Selwyn realized he was trying not to spew a mouthful of brandywine. His hearthguard swallowed with a gulp. “The Commonwealth. You.”
“Not, well, not the Commonwealth. Not the whole thing. Not yet. The Codex. As an example.”
With a groan, Reyhan stood and grabbed the brandywine. “You’ve had enough. The bottle and I are going to go and let you sleep it off.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. That’s what worries me. Sorry again about Wicke. Just realized you’ll probably have two bloody ravens haunting you now.”
Not really, Selwyn thought sadly. Even if the superstition were true, Wicke’s raven would be too philosophical to want something as crude as revenge.
The next day brought a dry mouth and searing headache. Selwyn forced himself out of bed and over to the basin. He wiped his furry teeth with a cloth and chewed some fennel. The smell of the herb turned his stomach, which seemed to be lodged somewhere in his throat. It was his first time suffering from ale flu.
By afternoon, the world was back on a stable axis and he could once more string words together. He summoned those bannermen in camp to plan the convoy raid. If Sir Norval’s news turned out to be true, they needed to be ready. Once everyone had gathered in the shade of an acacia, Selwyn turned to old Mazun Lindon. “These are your lands, my lord. Where can we best intercept a convoy?”
“The nearest ford is at Oxcross Village. About a day’s ride north.”
“How wide is the river at that point?” Reyhan asked. “Shallow is good, but we need it narrow as well.”
“Perhaps three hundred paces. No more.”
“That’s as narrow as we can hope for in these parts,” Lord Hewland said. He’d been a mariner before succeeding his father. “The channel is likely no wider than fifty paces. Our task will be to fall on the ships before they spot us and drop anchor. If they stop in deep water, short of the ford, it will turn into a siege, and they’ll have plenty of supplies to wait us out.”
Selwyn pictured the situation in his mind. How best to stop the ships without giving warning? An idea came. “With any luck, some of the village’s roofing timbers will be intact.” That drew curious glances. “For the caltrops.” He took up a stick and began to draw in the dirt. “This is how we can stop them.”
The next morning, Selwyn and the bulk of the army left for Oxcross, leaving behind enough men to harry any soldiers who strayed from Leax’s camp. It was Selwyn’s first visit to the village, though he remembered passing it on journeys to and from Wicke’s keep. Either reivers or residents had burned it to the ground, and it was difficult to tell where one house ended and the next began. So much for roofing timbers. Fortunately for his plan, the savanna grass was only burned out to the west. Wind must have blown strongly that direction the day of the fire.
While the army pitched camp, Selwyn appraised the rolling landscape for any thickets of trees, but the good folk of Oxcross had long since stripped anything larger than a sapling.
Instead of building caltrops, could they pile river rocks high enough to blockade the Belgorshan convoy? He stepped down to the ford, kicked off his boots, and waded into the rushes sprouting in the shallows. They grew thick near the village. Selwyn grimaced as he realized it was likely thanks to the village’s chamber pots.
Once through the rushes, he waded out to the channel, which did turn out to be shallow, no more than five feet deep. Unfortunately, the bottom was silty, and the only rocks were small and smooth. Useless for building a dam. A galley would power through it without even trying.
He needed stout logs, bound into caltrops and lurking just below the waterline. Placed correctly, they would dig deeper into the river bottom the more Leax’s boats tried to force them.
Selwyn spotted Lord Lindon near the riverbank. “Where is the nearest timber in these parts, please?”
The old man narrowed his bushy white eyebrows and stared at Selwyn for a long moment. I probably look like a child playing in the river, Selwyn thought ruefully.
“There’s a watering hole perhaps a league to the west, Your Grace. I’ve made use of it many times. It has a good stand of sunburst thorn trees.”
A league. And no telling when the enemy might show up. “Then there’s no time to waste. We need to gather every ax in camp, free up the sumpter horses to haul logs, and have every second man ride for that watering hole. Please tell your subordinates, and I’ll inform the other lord
s.”
“At once, Your Grace.”
Surprisingly, Reyhan took charge of the project, driving and cajoling the men into action. As things took shape, Selwyn was thankful again to have Reyhan for a hearthguard. The knight was coarse, sarcastic, and smelled alternately of either brightleaf or brandywine, but he had a knack for implementing Selwyn’s ideas. Soon teams of men hacked at tree trunks, others stripped branches and thorns from fallen logs, and still others tied them behind horses to be dragged to Oxcross. With only a few axes in camp and time short, Reyhan set up work details rotating day and night.
Meanwhile, Selwyn plotted out how best to ambush the convoy. By themselves, the ships would be easy to surprise, but how to outwit the escort troops? With any luck, they would arrive in the night, easy to ambush, but he had learned not to rely on luck. The rolling hills would provide a measure of cover, but it wouldn’t be enough on its own.
Two days later, yeoman scouts returned with news of a large flotilla, nearly a hundred boats in number. “These weren’t ordinary barges either, Your Grace,” their leader reported. “They had built-up areas on the front and back, armed with triggerfish. And we saw at least two river galleys as well.”
Lord Hewland frowned. “Sounds as if they’ve added forecastles and aftcastles to the barges. As I said, this could turn into a siege.”
“Where did you see them?” Selwyn asked.
“Near the meeting of Claywallow Brook and the Green Lady, Your Grace.”
“That places them, I should reckon, perhaps a day upriver,” old Lord Lindon said. “Does that give us enough time?”
“It will have to be enough,” Selwyn answered. “We’ll focus on the center of the channel and hope the lead boat keeps to the middle. What about their land escorts?”
“Thousands of them, Your Grace. Maybe nine thousand, mostly peasant levies backed up with a few mercenaries. And maybe two hundred heavy horse.”
It’ll be costly, but we can take them, so long as we keep the surprise. “Do you think they noticed you?”
The scout grinned. “It’ll be a sad day when treeblind outlanders can spot us, milord. We know how to hide and keep still. I’ve got the ant bites to prove it.”
“Nicely done. Go see the Quartermaster for double rations.”
The next day, the enemy arrived under a blazing sun, but Selwyn felt none of its heat. He lay submerged among the rushes, cooling in river mud with only his clay-covered face exposed. He wore nothing but smallclothes and carried a short sword and javelin. Every soldier who could swim was doing the same, about eighty troops on each side of the river. Unfortunately, Reyhan had never learned to swim and was riding with Batuhan Switt during the engagement. The air was thick with smoke; scouts had warned of the enemy’s approach a half-hour before, and Selwyn’s troops had set fire to the grass, blinding the enemy outriders.
Movement drew his eye. A pack of crested river drakes swam downstream, their spiny crowns and back fins cutting through the water. He worried the damned great lizards would climb on the caltrops and sun themselves, or else take a bite of one of his soldiers. Happily, they swam on and nothing larger than black flies and leeches drew blood from his men. But as the first boat came into sight a few minutes later, he knew that was about to change.
A river galley sailed point for the convoy. It was a sleek, modern craft, with around a dozen oars on a side, a short forecastle, and a high aftcastle topped with an oversized triggerfish. A man stood on the prow, probing the river for depth. Through the smoke, Selwyn could see an array of keelboats, cogs, and flat-bottomed barges, some with oars, others helped along with quant poles. He spotted a grand river galley at the center of the convoy. That would be the Amber Stag, Leax’s personal boat. It had called in Chimkant during his time as a page.
He gave a quiet splash to get his men’s attention. It was time to hide. They slipped beneath the water, lay on their backs, and breathed through lengths of sweetgrass reed. He could hear oars muscling through the water, but they seemed to take forever to arrive. The wait was terrible, all nerves and pounding heart and smoky air coming in through the reed pipe. Finally, he heard a warning shout and then the wrenching sound of a boat crashing into the caltrops.
Selwyn turned over, pushing off with the javelin and charging the lead galley. Around him, fellow Jandari were doing the same. He called out the ancient battle cry as he struggled through the water, reeds, and mud. “Uukhoi! Uukhoi!” Others took up the call. This was the signal for Switt and Hewland to charge the enemy escorts on each bank of the river.
Arrows whistled through the air, striking all around him. Men screamed as some of them flew true. A loud k-thunk sounded from the galley and something struck nearby, fountaining water into the air. Before the water got too deep to throw easily, Selwyn loosed his javelin at one of the galley archers. Not waiting to see the result, he dove and swam the rest of the way with powerful strokes.
On his third breath, Selwyn neared the galley’s hull. He surfaced and found purchase in the silty bottom, then took a moment to survey the battle. Several men had already reached the enemy boat, some climbing up the caltrops and then scaling the prow of the galley, others using the oar ports as handholds to mount the sides. On either bank of the river, Jandari horsemen were engaging the enemy.
So far, so bloody good.
Selwyn helped a young warrior up the side. The man reached the top but fell back with a bloody gash across the head. Selwyn began climbing. A hand on the oar port. Another on the nameplate of the boat. Queen Bethany. Straining upward. A foot into the oar port. Someone leaned out over the side and jabbed downward with a spear. The tip grazed Selwyn’s hand, breaking his grip and sending him backward into the river.
Resurfacing, he saw Jandari troops swarming the galley, men clambering over one another and piling on to the deck. Others floated dead, the current bobbing them against the caltrops. He began climbing again, those below giving a push. Ignoring the pain in his hand, he reached up, grabbed the gunnel, and pulled himself over the side of the boat.
Mayhem ruled the decks. The planks were slick with blood and water, while men shouted and grappled on all sides. Jandari were forcing their way up the forecastle stairs, while a cluster of armored Belgorshans held the aftcastle. Selwyn drew his blade.
A Belgorshan sailor elbowed his way through the press and thrust a dirk at his middle. Instinctively twisting aside, Selwyn bashed the pommel of his short sword into the man’s skull, then reversed grip and stabbed him in the back as he crumpled to the deck. The next several minutes were a red blur as he battled through to the aftcastle and joined a fierce melee to the top of the stairs.
When the last few Belgorshans begged for quarter, Selwyn came out of the battle rush enough to take stock of things. He bled from a half-dozen shallow wounds. Through the smoke, he could see clashes on both sides of the Green Lady. He whispered a prayer for victory.
Upriver the other boats had anchored in place, as anticipated. One boat had broken away from the pack, however, and was bearing down on the Queen Bethany. He recognized the Amber Stag. Did it have a ram? He couldn’t remember.
Selwyn turned to the large weapon mounted on the aftcastle. He had seen its like in a book once, a massive crossbow powered by two thick braids of silk so large that they extended down through the floor. He thought it was called a skein-bow. Wooden boxes filled with marble spheres lined the aftcastle walls. Ammunition. A hooded porthole allowed communication with the cabin below.
“You four, secure these prisoners,” Selwyn said to the Jandari around him. “The rest of you look in the cabin. You should see two spoked wheels with handles – wind them as tightly as you can.”
Selwyn grabbed one of the marble spheres and slotted it in the weapon. The round weighed at least twenty pounds. As he waited for his men to cock the bow, Selwyn checked on the rest of the boat. Temel, one of his knights, was corralling the surviving Belgorshan marines. “Sir Temel! What’s the situation below decks?”
“Secure!
The peasants were chained to their oars. We’ve killed the guards.”
A brown streak flashed past Selwyn’s shoulder and buried itself in the aftcastle wall. A triggerfish bolt. Selwyn yelled to Sir Temel, “The Amber Stag is closing! Get the men ready for boarding!”
The skein-bow sat atop a pintle mount, with mantelets to protect the shooter. Selwyn pivoted the weapon toward the enemy ship, as the silk braids began to twist and tighten, and the bow drew backward. The left mantelet cracked as a triggerfish bolt slammed into it. Finally, Selwyn heard the bow click into place. He sighted down the weapon. At least thirty armored marines stood on the deck of the Amber Stag. Selwyn aimed at their center and released the trigger bar. The weapon shuddered. An instant later, the marble round tore a grisly hole through the center of the enemy formation and ricocheted into the aftcastle. “Cock it again!” Selwyn called down through the hooded porthole.
He managed to shoot twice more before the Amber Stag drew abreast of the smaller Queen Bethany and dropped its hooked boarding ramps. Thanks to the skein-bow, the Jandari now had an advantage in numbers, but they were bare-skinned and fighting marines in plated mail. Sir Temel didn’t contest the boarding but allowed the enemy on to the broad galley deck where the Jandari could use their mobility advantage. The fight soon devolved into a dozen scattered engagements.
Selwyn clambered on to the wall of the aftcastle and leapt down upon a Belgorshan marine, bearing him to the deck. He wrapped the enemy’s legs with his own, locked the man’s left arm, and then slipped the short sword into his visor, ramming the point home. The angle made for a weak strike, so he stabbed again and again, trying to ignore the horrible squelching sound, until sure the man was dead.
A boot took him in the ribs. Selwyn rolled with the blow as best he could, but it still left him breathless. Kneeling on the bloody deck, he barely raised his short sword before a heavy blade crashed down on it.
A sweeping follow-up from the marine nearly took off his head. He blocked the worst of it, but the tip seared across his scalp. Someone grabbed the marine from behind. Selwyn got to his feet, blinking at the blood in his eyes. The marine broke free of the other Jandari, but Selwyn helped subdue him again. “Over the side!” They dragged the shouting marine to the gunnel and dumped him into the dark water. It was shallow enough to stand, but there was no way he was climbing back aboard in that armor.
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 32