Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3)

by Reed, Grant T.

  Garrett sidestepped a punch that was aimed for his throat, detecting the reflection of light from the small blade the killer wielded. Both his hands shot out to latch onto his opponent’s wrist, as simultaneously his right leg lashed out sending a powerful kick that pinned the killer to the lighthouse railing. The man grunted and dropped the knife, as Garrett disarmed him. The assassin was quick to grab at Garrett’s leg and thrust him backward.

  Garrett would have fallen, but he clutched at the railing for support. In front of him the killer readjusted his stance and moved a step out from the railing. Garrett heard the man intake a calming breath and he braced himself for the imminent attack. Even prepared for it, he barely had time to defend the flurry of viper quick punches lancing at his face and upper body. Just when he was growing more confident in his defence, a leg sweep took him to the floor of the iron walkway.

  Garrett wormed his way back along the floor, as the man above him stomped down repeatedly. The iron lattice restricted Garrett’s movement and he took three solid stomps before he could push himself into a seated position. He was half up when he saw the younger man back up a step. The killer’s speed and power was such that Garrett never saw the flying knee until it connected with his forehead. He was thrown back, his senses scattered. He struggled to catch his breath, his body fighting to sit up, even though he made no conscious effort to do so. Images flashed through his mind; Coral in the park and Flower jumping on her with muddy paws. Garrett grunted and shook himself. A small part of him knew this was not the present and his life was in danger. Even so, he could not wake in time. Coral was replaced by a shadowy figure descending on him: Death.

  The figure before him glowed with immense power and screamed incomprehensible threats. Arms thrust wide, it waited to encompass him in its death embrace. It waited?

  Garrett struggled to rise, his senses coming to him as if awakening from a deep sleep. He hauled himself up on the railing, weak and disoriented. The killer advanced a step and Garrett kicked out feebly and missed.

  “I said drop it!” screeched a familiar voice. The Killer stumbled forward. It was then Garrett made out the figure of Merle hovering behind the man’s shoulder. Garrett pulled away from the frightening countenance of his friend. The dragon’s look was fierce; his wings spread wide, his teeth bared, and the shadows sculpting him into a demonic figure from legend. Blue flames raced over the dragon, the crackling of the current loud – the hum of peril unmistakable.

  The bright light from the lens flashed over the threesome and the assassin lunged at the dragon. Merle was already charged and a grand pop reverberated off the shell of the lighthouse, as an arc of blue flame once again engulfed the killer. The man stiffened and a gurgle escaped his open mouth. A second more powerful wave lit up the walkway and the surrounding sky. Garrett averted his eyes in the brilliance of the assault. When he opened them, the killer was gone.

  “You… you incinerated him?” he gasped. He clung to the railing for support, his disbelief etched in every muscle of his face.

  Merle flapped down and landed on the railing beside him. “Huh, I wish,” he said. “Still, I think that was an impressive enough display.” Awkwardly he adjusted his grip on the railing so he could peer into the darkness below. “Look,” he said excitedly, “he’s still smoking!” Garrett followed Merle’s pointing claw and nodded as he located the twisted body of the assassin on the rocks below. The man’s boot was on fire.

  Despite the pain in his head, Garrett was impressed. “Nice one,” he admitted.

  Merle shot his friend a grin and leapt onto the walkway. Waving Garrett forward, he opened the door to the lamp room. “Let’s go, partner,” he called flushed with excitement. “We’ll be heroes for rescuing B.S!”

  Garrett stared at the dead man sixty feet below. “Not everyone will see us as heroes,” he cautioned, but Merle was already inside the lamp room yelling a ‘Hello’ down the hatch to B.S. and did not hear.

  * * * *

  Kline felt an enlivening rush fill his body as he issued the order for his security team to attack. Instantly, Maury and Hector jumped toward the concealed figure at the end of dock. Something hit Kline hard in the chest and his body rocked backward into the wagon. His exhilaration turned to fear as he located the bolt protruding through the thick sable coat.

  Frank appeared at his side, a look of concern gracing his muzzle. “Boss?” he stammered, “You alright?” Kline was uncertain of how to answer. Frank grabbed onto the crossbow bolt and tugged. To both their surprise, it was retrieved through the gangster’s furs with little resistance. Kline sighed, remembering the chain shirt Maury had insisted he wear. Struggling to rise, he pushed Frank towards the end of the dock where a struggle could be heard. “Help them,” he shrieked. “I’m fine.”

  A loud splash filled the night air followed by a ghastly bellow that reverberated off the surrounding bowl of the cliffs. Kline grabbed for the lantern and rushed toward the fray. Further terrible screams stopped him cold.

  “Hector!” bellowed Frank “I’m coming!” The thundering of the minotaur’s hooves on the planking intensified as he charged into the darkness. Again, Kline went forward, but slower this time, and more cautious. He arrived at the location of the splash and watched as Maury hauled his soaking frame from the cold water. “He moves like the devil,” groaned the ogre. He groped at his forehead where a gash was bleeding down the side of his face. “Caught me with his crossbow,” he said. He stood and wobbled. A second spray of water alerted them that someone else had been thrown into the harbour.

  “HECTOR!” Frank’s cry was almost hysterical. Kline pushed Maury forward and together they moved down the pier. They reached the end of the planking, where Frank kneeled at the lip of the dock surveying the dark waters. He looked up at them as they approached. “He stabbed him so many times!” sobbed Frank. “I couldn’t get in, he was too fast. Hector picked him up, but the assassin continued stabbing. Both of them fell in here.” Kline held up his lantern and Hector’s hairy body was visible, floating face down, ten feet out. Frank snorted and stood.

  “Wait,” yelled Maury, reaching out to Frank, but the minotaur shrugged him loose and leapt into the water to retrieve his friend. Kline and Maury watched in silence, both scouring the water for signs of movement. Kline spun a full circle, his eyes searching. Frank swam back to the dock, supporting Hector’s unmoving body.

  “Help me,” grunted Frank, and Maury reached down to haul Hector onto the planking. It was all the pair could do to lift the minotaur onto the dock. Kline glanced around nervously, a cold shiver dancing down his spine.

  “He’s not breathing,” groaned Frank, pulling his dripping frame from the water. Maury hovered over Hector and shook his head.

  “Let’s go,” said Kline with authority. “Load him onto the wagon with the chests.”

  “But Hector…” said Frank stubbornly.

  “We’re getting out of here now,” said Kline, pulling on Maury’s shoulder to get him moving. “I’m not leaving my money behind either.”

  “But Hector’s not breathing,” said Frank on the verge of panic.

  “That’s just one more reminder to move quickly,” snapped Kline. He marched toward the wagon.

  “What about B.S?” asked Maury, pointing at the lighthouse.

  “Just hope Garrett has done his job,” whispered Kline. “We’re not going anywhere near there. If the assassin isn’t floating somewhere under this pier, it will be the first place he returns to! Now get those chests loaded. We’ve done all we can.”

  21

  A Stroke of Pimoke

  Jack’s stomach clenched tight and the muscles in his legs ached from gripping the saddle. He resisted the urge to check the straps supporting the saddle again. ‘Stop it. They’re secured.’ Despite the reassurances his practical brain supplied, he caught himself glancing at the other griffons and the men riding alongside him. One of the injured men looked over and waved. The man smiled at Jack, and Jack nodded. He could not mus
ter a grin of his own. Glancing over his shoulder, he searched the grey skies for signs of pursuit. He saw no one.

  “They’re there,” warned Rowgar from behind him, as if he had read his partner’s mind.

  The heavy winds ruffled Jack’s hair and he concentrated on its cool breath, allowing his stomach to calm itself. Below them, the tree covered hills and gorges of southern Ponce were sprawled as far as the eye could see. Ancient rock deposits rose up through the evergreens, their stone faces barren and sparsely covered in spruce and pine.

  “How far to Temang?” asked Jack again.

  “Half a day’s ride yet,” returned Rowgar. “Look!” He pointed to a black line bisecting the hills in the distance. “The Pimoke River.”

  Jack looked upon the dark river and felt relief at its familiarity. He had fished its waters many times in his youth. He knew the river bisected the nations of Ponce and Vellia. From this height, the Pimoke was little more than a snake in a field of green, but Jack knew the waters were extensive and fast moving. In some places it was two miles wide and its darkest depths had never been plumbed by any angler’s line.

  They rode on in silence for many minutes. The view of the river grew larger with each beat of the griffon’s wings. Jack felt Rowgar take the reins from his hands and he awakened from his thoughts. The river flowed south-westerly below them, whitecaps marring the normally glassy surface of the wide waterway. Jack risked another glance over his shoulder and shuddered at the discovery of several dark specks in the distance.

  “Don’t worry,” called Rowgar into his ear. “We’re going to even the odds.

  “How?” returned Jack, feeling sick to his stomach again.

  “With steel,” laughed Rowgar. When Jack did not share in his mirth, Rowgar poked him in the ribs. “With steel,” he repeated, “and with that.” He pointed to the landscape below and Jack followed the trajectory of his friend’s finger.

  “What is it?” asked Jack, looking at the ruins of a toppled building. He could see a stone chapel at the end of a wooden longhouse. The longhouse had collapsed in on itself, and two of the stone walls of the church were scattered across a grassy clearing.

  “Old Vellian outpost,” answered Rowgar. “There was a bridge across the Pimoke here. The site was destroyed by dragons in the Ponce civil war. The knights abandoned it over eighty years ago.” Rowgar whistled shrilly and waved his arm to get the other’s attention. He pointed at the ruins below them, and Jack saw Jonas, first mate of the Red Tail, wave in acknowledgment.

  Jack was wondering how to land the griffon when Rowgar tugged downward on the reins. The griffon’s left wing lowered, its right wing rising. The threesome entered into a descending glide that saw them sweep earthward in ever tightening circles. Jack looked up and was amazed to see the other griffons following suit.

  They touched down and Jack realised he had braced himself for more of an impact. Rowgar jumped down beside him. They waited for the others to gather around. “Quickly, men,” shouted Rowgar, waving them in. Despite their wounds, the soldiers responded to the commander’s order. “I want the seven least able-bodied men back in the saddles,” commanded Rowgar. “Jack is going to lead you to Temang and the safety of our homeland. The men did not verbally respond, but they were quick to act. Those most able helped their buddies back into the saddles. “The men who remain will keep the weapons,” continued Rowgar and Jack finally understood what was going on.

  “I’m staying, Chief,” he said forcefully, cutting off the commander’s next order.

  Rowgar looked at Jack and shook his head. “You will lead these men to safety,” he decreed. He turned back to his men, ignoring Jack. “Into the cavity of the building,” he ordered. “We have only minutes. We need to make it as defensible as possible. Barricade the opening and prepare to defend the site.”

  Jack grabbed onto Rowgar’s shoulder and spun his friend to face him. Rowgar’s good eye flashed dangerously, and Jack swallowed, but continued nonetheless. “I said I wasn’t leaving you behind,” he argued. “We’ve been through too much together.”

  Rowgar shook his head. “We’ve accomplished what we set out to do,” he said. “Now all that is left is to see these men home. You are not a soldier, Jack, though you have performed admirably in your duties. I want you to go home to your daughter now.”

  “I cannot do that, Chief,” said Jack defiantly. “How could I look my daughter in the eye and tell her I left wounded men here to cover my retreat. I am in better condition than that man,” he pointed to one of Rowgar’s men gathering weapons and the bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead. “I may not be a soldier, Chief, but I am a fighter and I am staying.”

  Rowgar exhaled. He called the wounded soldier over and took the weapons from him, telling him to mount the griffon behind Jack. The man did not argue, but nodded as he received his orders. Turning to Jack, he saluted and then mounted the griffon.

  Jack swallowed, not allowing himself to reflect on the fact that the men staying would not be returning home, but were now only buying time for the others. Taking the weapons from Rowgar, he ran to the ruined building as the men on the griffons once more took to the skies. A light rain began to fall as the last of the riders rose into the grey heavens. In the not so far distance, Jack could see the Ponce riders closing on their location. Beside him, the others hurried to pile as much rubble as they could into the opening of the longhouse.

  Rowgar strutted into the ruins and took a sword from Jack. He surveyed the men’s effort and nodded to himself. “We’ll make them pay for every inch,” he vowed. He motioned the three soldiers with crossbows to come forward. “I need you ready,” he told them. “We’re going to close up these gaps, but they will come at us with the griffons. They will try to take the building down on us or tear their way inside. If they get in with one of those creatures, we are finished.”

  Jonas came up beside Jack and nodded. The first mate carried a sword in his hand and his look was defiant. He licked his dry lips and listened as Rowgar continued his instructions.

  “If one of the griffons closes, I want two of you to fire bolts into its chest if possible. The third man is not to fire unless a breach is imminent. The rest of us will strike at the beast with our blades. I don’t want anyone putting themselves at unnecessary risk. Try to remain concealed. Use the debris for shelter and remember that one swipe of a paw will crush a man.

  Jack rubbed at the back of his neck and looked into the sky. The Poncemen were clearly visible now, and his fear was palpable. He counted eighteen griffons. He watched as their pursuers diverged into two groups. Twelve of the riders continued in their pursuit of the fleeing prisoners, while the remaining six began a slow descent to the grounds of the outpost. “That’s not so bad,” breathed Jack, “only six of them.” Beside him both Rowgar and Jonas remained silent.

  Three of the griffons touched down eighty yards away and spread out. They made no move to come closer. The remaining riders flew over the ruined shell of the church and landed behind the outpost. They too kept their distance.

  Rowgar turned to Jack, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Watch them. If they advance, call out immediately.”

  Jack nodded. “Yes, Chief,” he acknowledged.

  Rowgar turned to the others. “Somebody keep an eye on those riders out back. The rest of you keep filling the gaps with rubble. It looks like we have a small respite before their reserves arrive.”

  Jack closed his eyes and fought to calm himself. Of course, there would be more on the way. These six remained only to make sure they were pinned down.

  * * * *

  A piercing griffon screech deafened the men in the longhouse. An oversized paw swiped out, claws hooking into the flesh of a soldier’s leg. This time the scream was human and – to the men inside the ruined building –bloodcurdling. Jack dropped his sword and grabbed his comrade around the midriff, trying to pull the man back into the safety of the ruins. Beside him, Jonas swore loudly and stabbed out with his
blade. The sword pierced the griffon’s shoulder, yet still the beast did not release its hold on the man.

  “Damn it!” swore Rowgar, throwing his own sword to the side and grabbing onto the wounded man with Jack. “Crossbows here, now!” he shouted. Jack was sure that all three of them would be pulled from the opening – either that or the man’s leg would be ripped clean off. Jonas stabbed out again and the Griffon screeched in pain. One of the men guarding the rear of the longhouse scrabbled across the debris. He fired his crossbow from twenty yards out, the bolt sinking deep within the griffon’s flesh. The creature released its hold and scrabbled to safety across the roof of the longhouse.

  “They’re pulling back!” someone shouted from the rear of the enclosure. Jack hauled the wounded man into the darker depths of their shelter and laid him on a clean section of floorboards. Two other men were stretched out here, neither of them moving. The soldier whimpered and grimaced as Jack tore a strip from his shredded prison uniform. He tied the leg as best he could, and then retrieved his sword.

  “Report,” growled Rowgar, and Jack listened as one of the men from the rear of the longhouse called out.

  “They almost got through, Chief. They’re concentrating on tearing a hole in the wall now. I don’t think we’ll hold them next time.”

  “We’ll hold them,” said Rowgar sternly. Jack couldn’t see Rowgar’s face in the dark and he listened carefully, detecting no hint of deceit in his friend’s tone.

  Jack scratched at his thick beard and peered through an opening in the concentrated rubble at the front of the quarters. The light was fading fast now, but he could still see many griffons and a dozen men gathered not sixty yards away.

  Jack and the others had spent the first hour collecting stone and rubble from the depths of the longhouse and piling it defensively at the opening of the ruins. Not long after, a second squad of Ponce riders fell from the sky. Jack had stopped counting at thirty. The first attack had come less than ten minutes after that. ‘I should have freed the beasts from their pens while I had the chance.’