Landen drooped. Oh, my king. I know this better even than you.
‘There are slaves on that ship, my lord.’
‘And that is a great sadness. Killing the innocent too.’
‘It’s unbearable!’
‘Yes,’ Dahmis answered. ‘It is. All war is. There’s no escaping it.’
They stood on the sand together, near the lapping waves. Landen saw the moon’s train of silver on the sea.
I was a slave once, Dahmis. Until a child set me free.
Dahmis raised his eyes to the sky. Clouds were moving in. ‘My friend, though we wish with all the might that is in us, we cannot wish away this war. The time to act is now.’
As Landen looked at the grim face of the high king, he understood that Dahmis longed for peace as much as he did himself.
When night was thickest, Landen and his crew were assembled with their supplies. The small group of soldiers and members of his band huddled in a boathouse near an old, sunken pier of Castle Bay. Torches lit faces determined and wakeful despite the hour. The high king stood quietly against a wall, his presence lending grandeur.
Landen began by asking each man to verify that he could swim well, then outlined the plan.
‘You’ve volunteered for dangerous duty. The risks are high and the chances good that some of you won’t live through this task. Unless we work with perfect precision and absolute silence, our lives are over.’ He looked round.
‘We begin together, all in the large boat. It will carry forty coracles, our supplies and us. We’ll row in a half-circle south of and then past the fleet. The Sliviite ships are anchored in two lines about five miles out.
‘Then you’ll each act alone, taking a coracle, brace, auger, bucket of pitch, flint, tinder and waxed cloth.’ He swallowed. ‘Each man takes one Sliviite ship, approaching under the hull on the side away from shore. If the clouds keep up, the moon will be covered. We’ll carry no lights. Silence and darkness are our only chance to slip by the Sliviite lookouts.’
Avid, resolved faces listened.
‘As soon as you reach your ship, bore two holes with your brace and auger, low to the water. Paint as much of the side of the ship as you can reach with pitch, then fill the holes with the cloth wicks.
‘Right now, men are gathering wood for a bonfire on the beach. In about two hours, the bonfire will be lit. You’ll be on the west side of your ship, facing the ocean, probably unable to see the fire’s light. Listen for the sounds on deck above you, telling you the Sliviites have seen it. Then, strike your flint and set a spark to the wick.’
There was a collective exhale.
‘Now comes the real danger. Although the bonfire will provide distraction for a moment, unless they’re careless, they’ll spot the fire on the other ships even if they miss the fire on their own. Once they alert each other, they’ll look for us with their arrows.’
Wide eyes watched him. ‘As soon as you know your fire has caught, leave your coracle and swim to shore.’
Uneasy silence greeted him. ‘It’s quite a distance but not impossible. The large boat will return to the dock as soon as we leave it. I thought of swimming back to our boat, but that way if we were sighted, we would all be one target.’
Landen tried to give his voice the ring of confidence. ‘Local fishermen say there’s often a rip tide out to sea from the bay in the wee hours. However, to the south it ceases. We’ll swim south until the tide no longer pulls. Each of you will have a log float to rest on. Remember to bring it with you. Swim with all your might across the tide, never against it. Once you’ve escaped the rip, drift south. There’s a beach of sorts a half-mile down from here.’
He could see the men measuring themselves against tide, darkness and danger. He plunged on.
‘The water will be cold. Your skin will adjust. Take off your boots when you first get into the coracles. Peel off heavy clothes before you light the fire. Then dive, and swim for dear life.’
He waited.
‘Uh, Bellanes,’ Andris put in.
‘Andris, you won’t be with us. We all know you’re helpless in the water.’
Tight laughter flared up.
‘Will you be going, then, sir?’ one of Dahmis’ soldiers asked.
Landen clenched a fist. ‘I will.’
There were muted sighs of relief around him.
‘I only meant to ask if the ships would catch fire,’ Andris said, sounding peeved. ‘Will they sink?’
Sweat started on Landen’s forehead. ‘Aye. The pitch will burn hot and hard, and the timbers catch. As the top burns, the keel will sink lower and be flooded from the holes we make.’
‘So,’ Andris said. ‘The Sliviites will drown.’
Landen looked round at the men. ‘If the vessels burn quickly and sink fast, yes, they’ll drown. If they have their wits about them, they’ll take to their longboats and head for shore. For all we know, they may be planning to invade us in the boats tonight.’
So much depends on timing we know nothing about. If they’re on their way towards us as we row out to them, what then?
‘I believe if we get there in time to start the ships burning, the Sliviites will try to save their vessels,’ he said. ‘Without ships, they have no way to return to their own lands. It’s also likely some of them can swim as well or better than us. But if they swim encumbered by weapons, they’ll have hard going. And they may not know about the tide, which can weaken the strongest swimmer, and slow the most powerful oarsman.’
‘Sir,’ Bangor asked, his sweet tenor voice contrasting with the scarred mask of his face. ‘The Sliviites who get in the boats and make it to shore – what about them?’
Bangor was one of six in the band, including Landen, able to swim.
‘Since we’ll swim south at first, instead of towards shore, we’ll likely miss them in the water.’
‘But Castle Bay?’ Bangor persisted.
‘Castle Bay is at risk of attack,’ Landen answered.
‘So if the Sliviites jump in the boats because of us—’
‘We may provoke the invasion sooner,’ Landen finished for him. ‘But if we don’t act tonight, we lose surprise and our forces will be slaughtered.’
‘How do we defend the beach, swimming south?’ Bangor asked.
Landen looked at the Angel-Devil with affection. ‘We don’t.’
The high king stepped forward. ‘You’ll do your part with the ships. My soldiers and I stand ready to guard the beach. When you reach shore, drag yourselves to the south camp and get warm. For you, the fighting will be over.’
‘Once in the water,’ Landen told them, ‘look out for yourselves. Never swim into the rip tide, even if you think it will save a comrade. If you do, you’ll exhaust your body and won’t be able to make it to shore.’
He folded his hands, wondering how many of his friends would come back. He told them they could stay on land if they liked, now that they knew what was in store. No one backed out, so he drew a map of the fleet and began assigning ships. Then he went over the plan again.
As the men moved to leave, the high king addressed them. ‘What makes this possible is your courage. Before you go, please accept my honour and thanks. The future of many kingdoms lies with you.’
Chapter Eight
Clouds covered the moon as Landen’s crew set out, their oars gliding through black water. The men rowed in stoic silence, watching the boat captain’s arm rise and fall in place of a drum, coordinating their oar strokes.
Before long they could see the Sliviite vessels, opaque outlines against the dark sky, looming up from the shining darkness of the ocean. Darkness over darkness.
The massive ships, anchored in two long rows, crammed the horizon. Landen lifted his eyes, trying to fill his heart with the great sky, the vastness of eternity. As they neared the fleet, the night reached out to them, carrying Sliviite voices. Landen froze. The Sliviites must be getting ready to invade. With two hours until dawn, only their lookouts should be awake.
He wished there were some way to lasso time, to make the minutes obey his will so he and his friends could reach the great ships before they were too late. Pushing the sea under his oars was the only outlet for his urgency.
Now they were past the ships, rowing frantically. When they reached a point west of the fleet, they stowed their oars, the men shaking with the effort of silence. All eyes were on Landen as he signalled in the gloom. He watched as one by one they slipped into the water in their coracles and paddled away.
Then it was his turn. His coracle was lowered and he dropped into it. The light craft, made of hide and green branches sewn together with leather thongs, bobbed on the swells of the ocean’s surface. Landen saluted the boat captain and floated off. The pull of the tide was intense as he guided the coracle towards his designated ship. The closest ship, since he was last to start. He had to fight hard against the water with his paddle, trying to keep quiet.
He felt naked and exposed, sitting in the tiny makeshift circle of the coracle, approaching the bulk of the Sliviite warship. It seemed the soldiers on her deck must be able to hear his heart, and if they looked down, would they be able to see him? Would he look like a spot of ink moving in the waves? Or like what he was, a young man bent on destruction?
Do no one harm. The tenet of his childhood came echoing back. Landen turned his thoughts to the other men in the water with him. He imagined them crouched on their knees like he was, the smell of pitch mixed with brine heavy in their noses, pushing against the tide towards the ships.
His heartbeat was the drum commanding his progress. When he slid into the shadow of the ship’s hull, the coracle moved rapidly. Though he tried to slow down, it bounced against the ship’s side. Landen searched for something that would hold him against the great vessel, but there was nothing to grab but smooth wood. He wondered about the other men, as he realized he’d have to get into the water and use the trace and auger there.
He pulled off his boots, while the coracle swirled and bumped. He drew out a bootlace, tying one end to his wrist and the other to the frame of the coracle. A moment later he was in the cold sea, intent on fixing the brace against the hull, boring with the auger, praying no one heard him, that no one chanced to be on the other side in the hold. He twirled his auger with all his might, while the tethered coracle tugged at him.
The timbers were thick, solid oak, and resisted his strength. At last, they yielded a hole and Landen started on another. When he had two holes, he passed the lace from his boot through them, tying the coracle. He heaved his dripping body into the tiny craft, almost capsizing it. Dipping a thick brush into the bucket of pitch, he painted with a frenzy, in and round, above and through the cavities he’d created. When the pitch was gone, he stuffed paraffin rags into the holes.
He sat and waited, shivering, trying to smother the sounds of his frazzled breathing. The soft thudding of the coracle against the ship seemed to make a furious clamour, beckoning the Sliviites to find him.
How were the others? Did they find a way to use the brace and auger and keep their coracles close by? Would they all have time?
Landen stripped off his wet clothes, dropping them in the bottom of the coracle. He listened to the night, straining to understand the voices from the ship. Some sounded near, as though soldiers stood directly above him on deck. He huddled, every nerve crying for the release of action. The beach fire was supposed to draw the Sliviite lookouts with its glow. Was it lit? Should he start his wick?
Suddenly, the air was filled with shouting. He heard running footsteps on deck. The Sliviite outcry echoed from ship to ship.
Landen struck his flint and tinder and watched the spark catch on the paraffin. The little flame ate away at the wick, then burst into crackling life when it reached the pitch.
Just before he dived, he saw answering flickers from other ships. Taking a huge gulp of air, he plunged deep into the waves, swimming south. As soon as he got a little away from the ship, he felt the grip of the tide, sucking him out to sea as if he were no more than a leaf travelling a rapid watercourse. With an effort, he kept his head, and swam across the rip, not against it. He had forgotten his flotation log; it lay in the bottom of his coracle, shrouded in his sodden shirt. Impossible to go back for it now.
When he surfaced, the tide had sent him fifty yards west of the Sliviite ships. He trod water for a moment, while the surging current moved him further away. He could see the blaze he’d ignited, burning with ravenous heat, eating away at the ship. In its light, dazed foreign faces stared over the deck. Shouts blasted the air and fire roared.
The tide was carrying him so fast he would soon be too far for their arrows. He thought of the men who had torched the eastern line of ships. The tide would move them into the path of the western row. Landen searched the orange sea, bright in reflection of the foundering ships. A head surfaced near the ship closest to him. He pounded the water, trying futilely to stop the gaining tide. The man went under again, reappearing twenty yards from the ship. Arrows hurtled through the night as the man dived again.
Landen tried to reach his comrade, forgetting his own advice about fighting the current. There was a splutter in the water only a few feet away, and Bangor’s one good eye stared at him.
‘What are you doing, man?’ the Angel-Devil shouted. ‘You told us never to fight the tide!’
Landen gazed at the flickering, strangely lit ocean. The inferno silhouetted men on deck, like black figurines on a stage. He could see Sliviites struggling to lower boats from the stern. Archers shot at the ocean. As the blaze lapped higher, a few soldiers leaped pell-mell into the water. The next ship in the row was listing badly, her side consumed by towering flames.
He felt an iron grip on his shoulder. Bangor shook him.
‘Come, Bellanes! Swim, man!’
‘But the others!’
‘Leave be! They took their chance, same as you and me. Come, this tide’s murderous.’ Bangor shook him again. ‘Where’s your log?’
‘Forgot it.’
‘We share mine. Swim, man! If we don’t get across the tide, we’ll be meeting the sun coming up in the broad ocean.’
Landen tore his gaze from the ghastly scene and began to swim. Side by side in the cold sea, the two men pushed south with all their power.
A bleary-eyed Andris waited along a stony beach south of Castle Bay, scanning the ocean in the faint light of pre-dawn. The high king had assigned him to prepare camp for Bellanes and his crew; every other man available was needed to guard the bay. The tide was beginning to come in, so the big man started a fire well up on the gravelly sand.
The swimmers drifted in on rising breakers, clasping their flotation logs with numb hands, so exhausted they had to crawl through the shallows, helped by the faithful Andris. They couldn’t respond to his eager questions. Many were unable to make their way past the tideline to his fire, falling asleep by the water’s edge. Andris dragged them to the warming blaze and went to search for others.
The sun was up, a dazzling dance in the waves, and still no sign of Bellanes. Or Bangor, for that matter. Seven other men were missing as well, soldiers from Dahmis’ troops. Andris walked up and down the shore.
He couldn’t bear the waiting. A fishing boat was moored to the tangled roots of an ancient log. He tugged it into the water and jumped in.
Buffeted by large waves, it seemed he made no headway. At last he got beyond the breakers and squinted hard. Nothing.
He rowed farther out, till the beach was a distant line, his head wagging ceaselessly, seeking his friends. Still nothing but the blinding glint of sun on water. Tears rolled into Andris’ beard. He kept rowing, only because he had no heart to go back to shore. It seemed the ocean was an enormous bowl of endless water, met by an inverted bowl of endless sky, and himself a lost speck, consumed by the blue.
It was then he spotted a dark dot on the horizon. His heart pumped with renewed vigour. He strained to row harder. Slowly, how slowly the time went, and the ocean s
eemed reluctant to give up any distance between Andris’ boat and what he pursued.
At last, he was close enough to see. Two men. One seemed lifeless; the other hung on a short log, holding his companion’s head out of the sea.
Bangor. Bangor passed Andris the dead-weight of Bellanes and helped haul him into the boat. Then he heaved himself in, lying in the bottom while Andris pleaded with Bellanes to waken.
He pressed the unconscious man’s lungs, rocking the boat, till water squirted from Bellanes’ mouth. The young man coughed, and began shivering violently. When his eyes opened, he smiled.
‘Andris, am I dead? Because you look like an angel.’
When he tried to sit up, Andris pushed him down. Bellanes closed his eyes. Beside him, Bangor sprawled asleep. Andris summoned the strength to row again, lips moving in wordless gratitude.
Elation over saving his friends brought a burst of energy, but outraged muscles soon rebelled. The oars grew too heavy to move. Andris slumped on the bench, tired eyes groping for sleep.
Fierce rain woke Andris. He jerked upright. His body felt like it had been beaten. He stretched wooden arms and tried to ease cramped shoulders. Angry dark clouds held the sky hostage, but a glimmer of sun in the west told him it was afternoon. The tide had done its work, and he could see the beach perhaps a mile off. His companions were stirring; Bangor thrust out his arms as if to shoo away the pelting rain, while Bellanes sat up and looked out across the choppy water.
‘Thank you for coming after us, Andris,’ Bellanes said. He pulled himself to the bench opposite Andris, letting rain wash over his naked chest.
‘Aye,’ Andris said. ‘Had to.’
Bangor groaned as he scrunched to a sitting position. ‘Good man, Andris.’
‘So,’ Andris asked, grabbing the oars. ‘What happened out there?’
‘Eh, mate,’ Bangor grunted. ‘Some ships caught fire. Don’t know more than that. We was trying to save our lives, and swimming blind.’
Andris glanced at Bellanes. His leader’s face was pale through the rain, eyes dim.