Chapter 69 - The Iron Shore

The red axes kept coming.

Jon moved beyond the arch to keep the approaching ships in view. Another red axe appeared between the masts, then another, sunlight flashing along their wet oars.

"Who flies the red axe?" Jon asked the prisoners guarded by Malcolm's First Spears at the gate.

"Rolo," one answered. The man turned to look out to sea.

Rolo of Myr. The man who had taken Vhalar's southern beach. Two of his smaller ships were continuing north, beyond the fighting, towards the water Jon needed to get his people home.

Bastard. He was going round them.

Vhalar to the north, Rolo coming from the south and reaching past him. Four hired merchants trapped between men who would be glad to take them. Jon forced himself to count the rest: two captured galleys needing guards, one needing a tow; his own damaged consort taking water. Every gain had become another demand upon Denys, his acting admiral.

Four hundred and fifty fighting men had come with Jon to Bloodstone. Three hundred and sixty had been assigned to the landing, Arthur and the officers counted among them; ninety soldiers and bowmen had remained with Denys. The sailors were another reckoning. Hewyn's last report had taken seventeen dead and thirty-one men unable to fight from the shore force, and the men in the tower had not yet yielded.

Years of money and drill had gone into those men. Jon had armed them, fed them, watched them learn to trust the shield beside their own. Now seventeen were dead. One broken position, one panicked rush to the boats, and he could lose the legion here.

Find a way. He had come for wealth and ships, to build strength for the wars ahead. Losing the legion would leave him weaker than when he sailed. Rolo was not going to give him time to solve this. He would have to take it.

A black hull hid a laden boat. When it appeared again, it seemed scarcely to have moved. Move, damn you. People sat too low to see over its gunwale, trusting those ships to keep the red axes away. Denys needed a shore worth coming close to.

Behind him, the beam struck the kitchen door. Someone shouted to strike again.

"Garon. Stay where you can see the water. If those two turn towards the merchants, send straight to the steps."

The boy nodded, still breathing through his mouth. Alasdair waited beside Jon with the household guards. Jon handed him the glass.

"Watch the galleys coming from the south. Count them again."

He crossed the courtyard as a crash sounded from the upper landing. Vhalar's men had shoved the broken table towards Brus's swordsmen and were coming over it. Arthur stepped into the space beside the doorway.

The first pirate drove a spear at his face. Arthur caught the shaft against his shield and thrust over it. His sword entered the man's throat. He pulled it free as the pirate dropped, turning towards an axe already rising above the next man's head.

Jon's breath caught. The landing was too narrow to give ground.

Arthur went forward. The axe struck the upper edge of his shield; his sword cut beneath the pirate's lifted arm. He thrust the wounded man aside into the third attacker, followed close behind and turned a hurried sword stroke upon his own blade. His point went into the third man's open mouth.

The axe fell from the second pirate's hand. He folded across his companion's legs. Arthur drew his sword clear and faced the doorway again.

Three men down. Jon knew those movements from the practice yard, slowed for boys who still crossed their feet. He had never been able to make them fit together like that. Beside Brus, a legionary stared at the bodies with his mouth open.

"Arthur!" someone shouted from the stair.

"Ser Arthur!" Two more voices took it up. The man beside Brus gave a breathless laugh and raised his shield, his face suddenly fierce.

"With me," Arthur called. "Mind the door on your right."

The swordsmen went up behind him. One of Vhalar's remaining men flung his weapon out into the light; another backed farther into the hall. Arthur left Brus holding the entrance while a pair of soldiers brought the surrendering man down. They searched him upon the stair and took a knife from his boot.

Below them, a wounded legionary sat against the well, holding one hand beneath his breastplate. Jon looked from him to the dark doorway Arthur had entered. The cheering had helped the men. It had not made the next room safe.

Hewyn came away from the kitchen door. "It is splitting."

"Finish it. The room above the kitchen first. Keep men at the hall until the people are out."

The centurion looked seaward. "Do we bring the men down?"

"Not yet. Rennick holds what you take. Malcolm stays ready at the gate. I am going to the landing."

Hewyn turned back as the beam struck again.

In the lane, two soldiers carrying a wounded man had stopped to let another party climb. Jon waited against a doorpost. Blood dripped from the man's heel onto the dust. When he saw Jon, he tried to draw his feet beneath him.

"Stay with them. You are going to the boats."

He obeyed at once. That hurt more than a complaint would have. Jon had taught these men to trust him; this one had tried to stand because he was passing.

Keep your way out open. His old training supplied the words while he watched the bearers struggle downhill. Stop the boats and this lane would fill with men who could not fight or flee. He lengthened his stride.

At the steps, Rymond was trying to get a loaded boat away while sailors brought an empty one alongside. Jon waited until the first cleared.

Rymond pointed him towards Corwyn, who stood beside the translating woman counting people through the passage. The knight handed her his board and came over.

"I need an order written."

Corwyn glanced at the water. "For Denys?"

"Yes. Paper, if there is any in the storehouse. Ink."

A sailor brought paper and ink from the shore keepers' little room. While Corwyn tested the pen, Jon watched Vhalar's leading galley begin to turn. Rolo's two leading galleys were crossing the water ahead of her.

There. Let Vhalar face the man who had taken his southern beach. Denys could draw in while their bows were turned towards each other. The opening might last only minutes.

"Write this."

"The fort will be held. Bring the merchants and prizes closer by stages, as depth and room allow. Crews stay aboard. Keep the fighting ships clear to turn and go out again. Do not pursue Vhalar if he turns against the red axes. Give him no passage to our boats. Send word of the men you need from shore."

The pen scratched. Jon waited while Corwyn caught up.

"The damaged consort is not to take another collision. Do not let a prize prevent you saving one of our own ships."

Corwyn read the order back and hesitated over the damaged prize. Jon could see her broken oars catching at the water. Even damaged, she was a ship he would not have to buy for Dragonstone. He hated the thought of leaving her; he hated more the picture of Denys clinging to a tow while the merchants lost their cover.

"Leave it as I said."

"One more line. Fasten your reply to the crow and keep her beside you until she leaves."

He made a short, clumsy mark beneath the writing with his left hand and gave the pen back.

Munin had followed him down from the fort. She stood on the storehouse roof, picking at something caught beneath a claw. Jon clicked his tongue and held out his left arm. She came down with a clatter of wings.

Corwyn folded the paper small. A boatman gave him a length of thread, and he bound the packet to her leg while Jon steadied her. She struck once at his thumb.

"Mind your own claws," Jon muttered.

Aurane's boat waited below the steps, hemmed in by a ferry and a transport's stern. Beyond them, Denys's mast moved steadily across the other masts. Jon could not afford to have the order waiting here with the boats.

Jon lifted his wrist and sent Munin back to the roof.

"Corwyn, back to the count. Rymond, keep the landing moving."

He went behind the caulker's shelter, where Arthur had screened him earlier. Jon left his guard outside the gap between the stacked planks and settled where no passer-by could see his face.

Only then did he close his eyes. Munin's claws gripped the tiles; the paper brushed his leg as he lifted.

He rose over the roof. The ferry fell behind in a few wingbeats; sunlight ran along the crowded oars below him. Denys's flagship showed black shields at the rail. Jon took Munin round the mast and down to the afterdeck, clear of the men hauling there.

A sailor raised a hand to drive her off. Jon hopped her along the rail towards Denys and held the burdened leg clear. Denys caught the sailor's wrist. He bent over the crow, worked the thread loose and opened the paper.

Jon left Munin gripping the rail beside him.

The stacked timber pressed against his shoulder. Jon opened his eyes, steadied himself and came out to take the water his guard offered. The same boatman was still cursing the ferry below.

He turned to Rymond.

"Keep this passage open," Jon told the Fourth Spears' centurion. "No timber across the steps and no prisoners waiting upon them. I want the way to the ships clear even if we have to fight beside it."

"Are we staying?"

"Until we can leave without feeding those ships."

Rymond looked at the two fast ships drawing round the transports. They did not need to close the whole coast; a slow merchant trying to escape would give them something to chase.

"And the people already aboard?"

"Stay aboard unless Denys says their ship cannot be protected. We do not drag them through this twice because we have changed our minds."

A woman in the boat below cried out for her child. Jon waited until the child stood and she could see him.

Then he pointed to the timberyard.

"Fetch Gerralt. We need to make those approaches harder to cross."

* * *

The black ships were moving.

Vhalar leaned past the shield beside the steering platform. At first he thought their captain meant to turn across him. So. They would make him fight for that water too. Then the foremost vessel's bow came round towards the landing, and the ship behind her followed.

They were giving water.

Not much. Their decks still crowded with armed men, the ships stayed close enough to support one another. Beyond them, people climbed from a boat into a merchant vessel, hauled up by hands reaching over the rail.

People, not fighting men.

Vhalar's gaze went to the fort. His banner still hung above it. Then why withdraw?

A shout from the bow answered him. Two of Rolo's galleys had drawn ahead, crossing the water Vhalar needed to reach the black ships. Their bows were coming towards him. Behind them, two more began to close.

The first pair meant to check him. The next would make the check a battle. Rolo had chosen where he was to fight before Vhalar had given a single order.

Of course.

He had taken the western fort. Moreo was dead upon the old man's own steps. Vhalar had done that, with his cheek split and his men dying around him, and for a little while the victory had belonged entirely to him. Now his eastern landing was full of strangers, and Rolo was coming to profit from a morning's work he had not done.

The young butcher would stand among other men's dead and call himself lord of the island.

Vhalar looked south. He could not see the castle, but he knew its walls: Daemon's great stronghold, larger than either fort. His father's men had once watched those approaches. Rolo's stood there now. A failure. His father's contempt came back more clearly than the shouting on deck. You'll lose the lot. Vhalar pressed his tongue against his torn cheek. He had killed Moreo. Taken his fort. What more would have been enough? Drazen had already learned what it cost to challenge Rolo without enough strength.

There would be no rebuilding while Rolo waited at his shoulder.

Below the eastern fort, figures descended the lane in a steady, hateful procession. One boat drew alongside a merchant; another took its place beneath the steps. His people, his stores, whatever the thieves could carry. They scarcely seemed hurried. Men working beneath his walls as though his return had changed nothing. Vhalar wanted to put a sword through the first one he reached.

But they were preparing to depart. Rolo had brought men to stay.

A longboat rose beside the galley. Goro caught a rope thrown from above.

"The shore?"

Vhalar pointed with his sword. "There."

Goro studied the approaching galleys.

"He means to hold us here."

"The mad bastard means to take us here."

Goro spat over the side.

The nearest black ship still held between Vhalar and the merchants. Men watched from her raised stern. They could see Rolo's approach as clearly as he could.

"Keep the six boats behind us," Vhalar told Goro. "No landing. No running at those merchants. Carry word to Drazen and the others. We face Rolo."

Goro's eyes flicked towards the fort. "And them?"

"Let them carry."

The words tasted foul. He had given them leave to rob him, and Goro would carry that order from ship to ship. Vhalar watched for some sign that he thought it weakness. Goro was already shoving away, bellowing at his rowers before the rope had fallen clear. The familiar abuse carried across the water. Vhalar breathed more easily. Goro had work to do; he would do it.

"Bring us round," Vhalar told his helmsman. "Bow towards the nearer ship. Keep room for Drazen."

Men bent to the oars. Beyond the rail, Drazen corrected his course as Goro's boat approached him. The other two galleys followed more slowly, their captains needing time to understand what had changed.

The black ships could strike him now. Vhalar watched their bows while his own deck tilted through the turn. He hated having to wait upon that captain's choice, with his own men watching him for an order. Sweat ran into his cut cheek. They wanted to go back at the shore. So did he. But wanting his fort would not save it if Rolo broke his ships beneath him.

The black captain held his course.

Good. Keep your precious merchants.

Vhalar needed those ships afloat, drawing some of Rolo's attention. If the black commander escaped too soon, four galleys and six crowded boats would face everything Rolo had brought. He would have to hurt Rolo before that happened. Hurt him badly enough that taking the rest no longer looked easy.

The first enemy galley lifted over a swell. A bowman stood and loosed too early; his arrow fell short.

Vhalar lowered himself behind the shield.

"Steady."

His bowmen waited. The black ships slipped farther towards the landing. Vhalar let them go.

* * *

The kitchen door was down when Jon returned to the fort.

It lay across the threshold with the bar still fastened to one half. Rennick's men had dragged a dead pirate aside. Another sat beneath the lean-to, his wrists tied behind him, watching blood drip from his nose.

Hewyn met Jon at the doorway.

"There is a stair behind the hearth. Two men holding the top."

"The captives?"

"We heard them. The room is where he told us."

An axe struck above them. From the hall, Arthur called for the men behind him to press closer.

Jon stepped to the threshold. Burnt onions lay among the hearth ashes beneath a spill of greasy water. Beyond them, two legionaries waited with shields raised under the narrow stair. A spear point moved between the upper rails.

Rennick stood behind the leading shields of Second Spears. His first man climbed a step. The spear scraped across his shield and struck behind his heel.

"Hold there."

The second man put his shoulder beneath the first man's shield. They climbed together. When the spear struck again and caught in the wood, Rennick pushed a third man forward. They gained another step before the pirate tore it free.

A cry came from the room above. Jon moved towards it, and Hewyn's arm barred the stair.

"Let them have room, my lord."

Jon nearly knocked it aside. Then his right hand throbbed and he saw what Hewyn had seen: another body there would obstruct Rennick and turn a soldier from the fight to protect him. Two lives' worth of experience, and he had needed an arm across his chest to remember it.

"Tell them we are coming."

"Keep away from the door!" Hewyn shouted. "Back against the far wall!"

Someone inside repeated the warning in another tongue.

An axe came down. The first legionary's shield dipped, and the blade struck his breastplate with a flat, ugly clang. He sagged against the man supporting him. Rennick hauled him down as the next shield rose.

Jon knew the movement before he saw it. They had practised until they hated it; now neither man needed telling. For a moment he felt the clean satisfaction of seeing them do it well. The first soldier was still breathing below them. His fellows had given him the time.

A spear drove beneath the axe man's arm. He fell across the upper step. The defender behind him tried to hold, but Arthur's shouting came closer from the other side of the passage. He looked back.

The legionaries reached him while he was turning.

Jon heard a boot strike the wall, a shield scrape, a man choking. Rennick followed his men and called for the next pair. Hewyn let Jon climb only when word came that the passage was held.

Below, the soldier who had taken the axe was reaching for his shield. Hewyn made him wait until he could answer without gasping, then set him with the men holding the passage.

The air above the kitchen stank of sweat and stale food. A man lay against the wall with his hands upon his belly; another knelt beside his dropped weapon.

The captive room was at the end. Rennick tried the surrendered guard's keys while someone behind the door pleaded.

"Stand back," Jon told them. "We are getting it open."

The third key turned.

Rennick opened the door. For a moment nobody moved.

People sat crowded upon the floor. A woman held a strip of cloth against an older man's head. Two children crouched beneath the barred window; at the back, a young woman covered her mouth with both hands.

Jon lowered his voice.

"You are leaving this room. The soldiers will take you down."

The woman with the cloth looked at Rennick's bloody spear.

"Where?"

"Our ships. Away from here."

She spoke to the others. The young woman began to cry without uncovering her mouth.

"Two at a time," Jon told Rennick. "Carry those who need it. No one is to pull them along."

A soldier offered his hand to the older man. When he flinched, the soldier waited while the woman spoke to him. Then the man took the offered arm.

Arthur appeared at the passage entrance with two men. His black hair was wet against his forehead; a cut in his grey-white cloak showed the dark cloth beneath.

"They have fallen back into the tower. Brus is holding the door." He glanced into the room. "All of them?"

"We are counting."

Rennick waited until the last person crossed the threshold, then checked behind the door and in the recess where a bucket stood.

"Seventeen."

All of them. Jon closed his eyes and let himself believe it. Then the woman's scream at the landing came back to him. Seventeen alive here would not undo that. He opened his eyes.

"Get them down."

A girl stopped upon the stair when she saw the bodies. The woman with the cloth took her hand and drew her close. Jon followed them into the courtyard.

The father from the landing waited beneath Malcolm's guard. He had come up with men carrying empty stretchers, and Malcolm had kept him at the gate. At the sight of the girl, he pushed past the raised spear shaft.

"There!"

She turned. He caught her so hard that she gasped, then touched her hair and face, looking for hurts while she clung to his coat. A soldier asked whether she could walk. The father did not seem to hear.

Jon let them have the moment. The man's hands kept moving until his daughter caught one and held it still. Jon had boats to load, orders waiting, but for these few breaths he was content to stand out of their way.

Above them, someone in the tower shouted that he wished to yield.

A soldier beside Rennick spat blood onto the stones. The captive women watched the doorway from which they had come.

"Weapons down," Jon called. "One man at a time. Hands where we can see them."

"You will spare us?"

He wanted to go up and see which had turned the keys, which had dragged that girl into the room. They would beg now, with their knives on the floor and Arthur's sword at the door. The woman at the landing had begged too. His right hand closed inside its dressing, and pain caught his breath.

"You will live and work in chains. Come out."

The harshness stopped the nearest prisoner upon the stair. Jon pointed him towards Hewyn before he could say worse. He had spent too long making soldiers of these men to teach them that surrender lasted only until their commander grew angry. The pirate would live. Jon could endure the sight of it.

Arthur remained beside the upper doorway while Brus received the surrendering men. Hewyn sent soldiers to search each before allowing him down.

Jon turned to Malcolm.

"Take those people to Rymond. Seventeen alive. The father goes with his daughter."

The girl had begun to shake. Her father wrapped his filthy coat around her, and Malcolm cleared the gate.

Only when the last captive had left the courtyard did Jon look towards the tower.

The prisoners were still coming down.

* * *

The nearer watch galley tried to turn north before Rolo's ships reached her.

Too late. One of his galleys came up outside the turn, forcing her towards the second. Her oars rose unevenly. Half cleared the water; the rest vanished beneath the approaching hull, throwing men from their benches. Rolo struck the rail with his palm at the crack of breaking wood.

"There!"

The watch galley's bow swung away from the collision. Her men crowded forward, shields lifted towards the nearer attacker. They were still watching that ship when the second closed against their other side.

Hooks went over.

Rolo leaned out so far that his first mate reached towards his belt, then thought better of touching him. The watch captain ran aft to meet one boarding party, then turned as another came over the forward rail. What a busy man. A whole deck to defend, and only one pair of hands.

"They will take her," the mate said.

Rolo was already calling for a boat.

His flagship held astern of the struggle. The boat carried him beneath the nearer attacking galley's stern, where a rope ladder came down. By the time he crossed her deck, the boarders had stalled against shields upon the watch ship's raised afterdeck.

He shoved past a man clutching his forearm and stepped across the locked rails.

"Move."

A spearman thrust from behind the shields. Rolo knocked the point aside with his axe haft and crowded in before the man could draw back. The hooked blade caught the shield's upper edge. He wrenched it down, brought the axe free and drove it into the exposed neck. Blood struck his lips. The man fell against him, heavy and kicking; Rolo shoved him off and dragged the blade loose.

A sword came at his head. He ducked late. Steel touched his ear, and the sting brought a wild bark of laughter out of him.

"Again!"

The swordsman tried. Rolo caught the next cut upon the haft, drove a knee into him and struck as he doubled. The axe bit through cloth into his back. Rolo set a boot against him to pull it free, laughing harder now, fighting for breath between the bursts. The man was still moving. Rolo lifted the axe again.

A shield hammered his shoulder. He staggered against the rail, boots sliding in blood, and his laughter broke into a snarl. He wanted the man who had struck him. Wanted him looking when the blade came down.

One of his boarders caught that shield and hauled its bearer sideways. Rolo swung into the opening. The man dropped; the next two defenders recoiled down the steps and found Rolo's other boarding party behind them.

There. No room left. Rolo advanced with the axe low, grinning at the captain between them.

The captain let his sword fall.

Rolo's hands tightened. One more blow. He could feel it waiting in his shoulders, could see the bare place beneath the man's jaw. The bastard had been brave enough a moment ago.

"Alive, my lord?" a boarder asked.

Vhalar. Rolo wanted Vhalar to see this man rowing beneath his castle. He lowered the axe until its bloody edge rested against the captain's chest.

"You heard him. Tie him."

He searched the deck for another raised weapon. None. Men knelt among the benches, hands spread. It left him sour and breathless. He had scarcely begun to enjoy himself.

His boat took him back to the flagship while his men bound the survivors. Farther north, four of his galleys had reached Vhalar's four. The longboats waited behind them. The bastard had learned to keep his boats clear. Rolo scraped blood from his lip with his thumb and looked for the next weakness.

The other watch galley was escaping through water that should have held black hulls. Rolo straightened. The black warships were drawing towards the landing, leaving the passage to Vhalar open. Their armed decks still faced the sea. Behind them, a laden merchant moved shoreward.

"He is bringing them in."

The mate followed his gaze. "They cannot all beach there."

"He is not beaching them."

Men carried timber towards the shore approaches. Others passed back to the boats, with shields between them and the water. The black commander meant to load his spoils while the island's owners fought over the sea. Rolo could almost admire the insolence. As though he had brought a fleet to keep Vhalar busy for the thief.

He rubbed the haft of his axe. The merchants were slipping behind the escort, towards shore bowmen. But a low, crowded boat still laboured beneath the nearest merchant's stern. Which would the black commander save if Rolo reached them together?

One of the boat's passengers stood up. Hands reached to pull him down. Frightened already. He wished he could hear what they were promising one another. Safe aboard the great ship, perhaps. Almost there.

"Recall the two nearer fast ships. I want their captains close enough to hear me."

The signal rose. When they came within hailing distance, Rolo pointed towards the merchant.

"One presses her. The other goes wide enough to trouble the escort. Board her if her guards leave her. Otherwise make them turn. Keep your bows off the beach."

He made certain both captains heard.

"And no fire. Burn the taking and it comes out of your share."

The two fast ships farther north still worked against the transports' escape. The remaining pair held seaward. He left them there. Vhalar had to be broken while the black ships were still penned against their landing. Let him keep a fleet and he would come creeping back beneath Rolo's walls. Rolo wanted him brought ashore in chains, where every captain could see him.

The watch galley's torn banner came down. His men began passing their wounded across to the supporting galley. A broken oar knocked against the captured hull. They would have to drag the damned thing clear.

He called the boatswain. Guards aboard, their own wounded brought off, one ship to take the tow while the other returned to line. The boatswain repeated the orders and climbed into the message boat.

Northward, the second watch galley reached the passage the black ships had surrendered. Vhalar would have her after all.

Rolo turned towards the landing, pressing his tongue against the blood at his lip.

"Come on, then."

His fast ships were beginning their approach.

* * *

Denys had had time to read. Jon went back behind the caulker's shelter and left his guard outside. When the man's shadow moved clear of the gap, he closed his eyes and reached for Munin.

Tarred rope lay beneath her feet. A new packet touched her leg, and Denys stood close by with one hand on the rail. Jon lifted her into the wind. The flagship dwindled behind him; the storehouse roof rose above the boats. He landed beside Corwyn's counting board.

Jon was back in the yard when Corwyn brought the letter. The knight glanced from Munin to the crowded water.

"She found his ship among all those? And brought this straight to me?"

Jon held out his hand. "Is it his answer?"

"Aye." Corwyn glanced back at the crow. "Gods. How long did it take to teach her that?"

"Long enough. Let me read."

Corwyn surrendered the paper. Munin pecked at his counting board, and he moved it aside for her with unexpected care.

Corwyn's writing was on one side; Denys had used the other. The letters grew smaller where he had reached the edge.

Denys could bring the merchants closer, though not all beneath the shore bowmen. The water by the ridge had to be sounded first. Drazen's carrier and the prisoner galley would come behind the escort; the carrier had a working crew but damaged rail and rigging. The other prize needed towing. Their damaged consort would take her allotted station and keep pumping.

All ninety soldiers and bowmen left aboard were still at their duties. Jon read that line a second time. For once, a number that had not grown smaller.

The last lines were a request for soldiers.

Aurane came up from the steps while Jon was reading, Hugin perched upon his good wrist. Denys had sent the other crow back with him. Jon called Hugin onto his own arm, then sent him up beside Munin on the roof. Bowmen followed Aurane, their bowstrings wrapped against the spray.

"How many?" Jon asked.

"He says forty fit men would give him something he can use. More if you can spare them, but forty first."

Forty. Jon looked up the lane, already feeling the gap their departure would leave.

The fort gate was open. Rennick's spearmen held it now, and Hewyn had begun sending the men who had finished searching the upper rooms down to the courtyard. Those men had fought up the hill and through the doors. Some had sat where they stood when the order to halt finally came.

"Not the men who came out of the tower. I will give him men who can still lift their shields."

Aurane nodded towards the storehouse. "The six bowmen I brought are Elyas's. Denys wants them in the loft."

"Rymond holds the passage. Tell them not to waste arrows beyond their reach."

"They know."

Jon glanced at Aurane's bound arm. "And you? Stop pulling oars with that."

"I was climbing."

Jon smiled despite himself. Aurane could still find breath to be offended.

"Show me where Denys means to put the first merchant."

Aurane pointed beyond the wall. A boatman was lowering a weighted line ahead of the first merchant. The others held back while a black galley covered her approach.

Jon had served aboard ships in his first life. He knew the helplessness of water that offered no room to turn. Denys was preserving that room. Jon made himself study the gaps between the hulls instead of counting enemies again.

"That space stays open," he told Aurane, pointing. "No ferry waits there because the steps are busy. They wait farther in, or they come back to us."

Aurane went to speak to the boatmen.

Gerralt brought a carpenter from the yard. Jon pointed out the stacked timber, but the man shook his head.

"Those hold the long pieces. Shift them and the pile comes down. The short lengths are loose."

Jon had wanted a proper obstacle, something he could trust. There was no time to get the heavier beams free.

"Use the short ones. Across the approach from the houses. Leave the way to the steps open, with room for bearers."

Gerralt sent his optio for a work party.

"And the beach?"

"Keep your men there. Move the loose boat higher if it blocks them. We need a place to fight, not a heap they cannot see over."

"We cannot make a wall with that," the carpenter warned.

"A man climbing it cannot run at a spear. That is enough for today."

The first beam struck stone and split. The carpenter swore at the soldiers trying to lift it by the thin end, shoved them into new places and made them heave again. Above their bent backs, Gerralt's swordsmen kept their shields turned towards the water.

Jon squeezed into the lane behind them. At the first turn, a pair of soldiers had laid a beam across it.

"Not there. How will Malcolm get past you?"

They lifted it again.

Jon remembered boys stumbling over camp ditches in the North, their fellows laughing until Hewyn found his voice. He would gladly buy every one of those wasted afternoons again.

He sent Garon to Norren with orders for Third Spears to improve what cover already existed along the spring approach, without pulling his watchmen back into the houses. Norren was to send word of anyone moving inland, even if the men did not come towards the fort.

"Water."

Jon turned towards the storehouse passage. Rymond had put his prisoners beneath guard aboard the sounder captured galley as ordered. The men remaining ashore were those newly taken in the tower. They waited against the wall with bound wrists, separate from the people passing towards the boats.

One of the prisoners had lifted his head from the wall.

Rymond's nearest soldier looked towards Jon.

Jon remembered the dead woman's hand around the knife. This man had stood inside those walls while she suffered below them. Had he heard? Did he even remember? Jon wanted to tell him to choke on his thirst. The soldier still waited for an order.

"Give them water," he said.

The soldier fetched the bucket. Jon waited until it reached the bound men.

"Where does Rolo put his men ashore?" he asked the prisoner.

The man swallowed before answering. "South. Under the great castle. Daemon's castle."

"He holds it?"

"And the landing beneath it."

Jon looked towards Norren's path. Bringing the ships closer would not stop men coming inland.

"And Moreo?" Jon asked. "If a man crossed from here to his landing, would he pass that castle?"

The prisoner shook his head. "Not if he went above the spring. There are paths through the high ground."

The prisoner had never used the paths. Jon called the carpenter over.

"A track west, above the spring?"

"Woodcutters use it. Goes down to Moreo's stores."

"Can armed men pass?"

The carpenter looked up the hill. "Men can. A cart cannot. You would have to carry what you brought back."

Jon looked up at the ridge. Rolo's swift ships could watch the water all day; they could not stop men walking behind that high ground. But captives and chests would never come quickly back along such a path. Any ships they took would have to bring them.

"How long?"

"Most of what is left of the day, carrying shields. Less for men travelling light. I cannot tell you who is on it now."

"Show our scouts the way."

The carpenter's face closed. "I am not going down to Moreo's gate."

"Far enough to show the track. One man brings you back; the others go on."

After a moment the man nodded.

Garon had returned from Norren. Jon gave him orders for three scouts, one who could write. They were to take the carpenter, learn who held the western landing and find an approach. If the track was held, they turned back. No fighting for a better look.

Corwyn wrapped paper, ink and thread while Jon settled Hugin upon a carrying perch.

"These go with Garon," Jon told Corwyn. He turned to the boy. "At the first ridge, and each halt after it, Norren's man writes what they have learned and ties it to Hugin. Take him with you until he flies. Then wait in cover for his return. If the bird fails them at the western landing, one scout brings the report back; the other keeps watch."

Corwyn tested the wrapping, put the parcel in Garon's satchel and helped him take the perch. "You had better be worth the trouble," he told the crow.

Jon watched Garon climb the lane. Hugin would show him where the scouts had reached; their letters could tell him what the bird could not. They would not have to walk the whole road back before he could decide.

Vhalar had returned with ships, but Jon knew nothing of the men left behind. Moreo might still hold his walls. There might be two garrisons tearing at each other, or one victorious force too strong for anything he could spare.

Corwyn brought over the last of the kitchen captives' names. Jon waited while he checked a mark with Rymond, then asked him for another sheet.

"Ask Denys what sailors he could spare for a party going west on foot. Men who can rig and steer a captured galley. They stay at their work until he releases them. He is not to weaken the escort for it."

Corwyn looked towards the fight. "You mean to take more ships?"

"If we can bring them away. First I need to know what taking them will cost us. Get that to Denys."

Corwyn caught Aurane at his boat and gave him the message. Jon looked for Munin upon the roof. She could reach the western landing long before his scouts. He meant to see it himself as soon as he could leave the shore in steady hands.

Denys still waited for forty men. Norren held the inland path; Gerralt and Rymond covered the boats. Keep a reserve. The old rule pressed hard upon his eagerness. There was no fresh company waiting out of sight.

He left Rymond with the prisoners and climbed to the loft.

Norren's answer reached him at the loft: the three scouts had gone with the carpenter and Hugin. Six bowmen were taking their places among the shutters. Elyas had sent a man who knew his work; he kept two windows closed and shifted his fellows away from the light until they were ready to shoot. Jon watched him point out the passage below and the nearest ship.

The first merchant was reaching her station when the bowman nearest Jon pointed south. Rolo's two fast ships were coming towards the landing. Jon stayed at the shutter, following the nearer bow. Munin would have to wait.

* * *

Drazen's galley ground against an enemy ship. Broken oars jumped in their fittings; one shaft bucked between two men and sent them stumbling apart. Below his rail, a man kept screaming for someone to lift something off his leg.

Vhalar could spare no one. Another red-axe galley held his own vessel fast, her boarders fighting for a place upon his forward deck.

"Pull her away!"

His rowers strained, but two grappling ropes held. One stretched across the forward rail. The other vanished beneath the bodies at the boarding place.

A pirate in patched mail hauled himself over. Vhalar struck the fingers gripping the wood. The man fell backwards into those following him, and Vhalar drove his shoulder against a shield to make room for his spearman.

An axe bit the rail where his head had been. He trapped its shaft with his shield rim; the spear went beneath the attacker's raised arm. Vhalar stepped back, breathing hard, and shoved another shield into the gap. His sword was too long for the crush. Let the spears reach the men trying to climb.

Across the water, Drazen shouted with one hand pressed to his wounded side. His damaged oars could no longer answer every movement of the ship beside him. Rolo's captain kept pressing. Of course he bloody knew; every checked stroke advertised Drazen's weakness.

A horn sounded nearer the shore. Vhalar saw a familiar bow coming through the open water, her captain waving a shield above his head. One of his southern watch galleys. The black ships had yielded that passage, and she had used it.

"Here!" he roared, pointing towards Drazen.

Her bow turned. Relief came so sharply that he distrusted it. He wanted to shout the captain's name, to believe he had been given enough. His eyes went south instead.

The other watch ship had not followed. Rolo's men had passed over her rail, leaving her oars hanging unevenly. Taken, but not yet another ship coming at him. They would have to clear her decks, sort the surviving crew and mend what they had broken.

Five ships against the four Rolo had committed here. Five, if Drazen's could still be called a fighting ship.

Goro's longboat bumped against his quarter.

"I can put men across."

Vhalar's boarders had gained the enemy's forward rail, but could not push far enough to clear the grapples. Every moment there invited another arrow.

"One boatload. Not all."

Goro's mouth tightened. "There are men waiting."

"And there will be men needing boats. Keep room for them."

He pointed towards Drazen's damaged oars. Goro nodded and brought the boat beneath Vhalar's hull. The swell lifted a man's face level with the rail, then dropped him away beneath his reaching hand. Ropes went down. Reinforcements climbed wet and swearing, their shields hauled after them. Vhalar caught one by his coat and sent him towards the fighting before they could bunch beside the ropes.

Their weight told. A shield went over the enemy rail; another man followed. Someone began chopping at the forward grapple while the others held around him.

A cry rose from Vhalar's stern. He turned, expecting another ship.

His banner was falling.

Above the houses, the cloth descended from the fort's staff. It caught for a moment, hung crookedly, then disappeared.

A man was shouting beside him, but the words would not come through. His father had looked up at that banner from the yard. Vhalar remembered wanting him to see something worth approving of when he looked back down. Now the staff stood bare. You'll lose the lot. Even with men fighting at his rail, he wanted to answer. Tell the old bastard what he had won in the west. Make him listen, for once.

His teeth closed on his torn cheek. Blood filled his mouth.

The black bastard had finished.

A man began shouting that they had to go ashore before everything was carried away. Vhalar seized him by the shoulder. Mail cut into his fingers. He wanted to shake him until his teeth broke. Look what you have let them do. For a heartbeat he could not separate the man's alarm from his father's voice.

Then the enemy bowmen rose beyond the rail. Vhalar shoved him down behind a shield.

"Get down, you fucking fool! Shields towards that ship!"

Rolo's bowmen were aiming at the longboat. Arrows struck the raised shields like hard rain upon a door. One caught a man climbing from Goro's boat. He dropped between the hulls; two men snatched his belt as the galley lifted. Vhalar planted himself beside them, shield over their heads. They dragged the man across with his heels scraping the planks. Vhalar was shouting for the next shield before the rescuers had drawn breath.

His men looked to him again. The same rage, and beneath it the question he could not let them ask: where could they go if both fort and sea were lost?

He pointed to the ropes.

"Bring our men back! Cut the grapples once they are clear!"

The first men did not hear. They were roaring as they gained another pace. Vhalar pushed forward, struck a shoulder with his shield and dragged the man round by his mail. He shouted into his face until the order passed along the line.

The forward grapple parted. A sailor at Vhalar's rail chopped through the second as the last boarder stumbled back. His galley pulled clear with a wrench that sent men sprawling. Beside Drazen, the arriving watch ship checked the enemy's attempt to follow.

His first mate called for men to clear the broken oars.

Vhalar bared his teeth at the fort's bare staff. The black men could carry for now. He would remember the boats, the unhurried figures beneath his walls. He wanted their commander close enough to hear him ask whose fort it was. Instead he turned to the ships he could still command.

Moreo's surviving galleys remained in the west. He had left men guarding them, waiting for his return to divide the taking. His taking, paid for on Moreo's steps. Those hulls could replace what this fight was costing him, if he brought enough men out to crew them.

Red axes lay between him and the northern passage. His longboats would never make it alone. He had to bring the fighting ships clear together, with enough oars left to keep Rolo from running them down.

Someone was calling for help aboard Drazen's ship. Vhalar wiped blood from his mouth and turned towards the voice.

* * *

The first arrow struck the shutter beside Jon's face. A pale splinter spun past his eye and struck the wall behind him.

Alasdair caught his shoulder and pulled him down. A second arrow came through the opening and broke against the back wall.

"Stay below it, my lord."

Jon crouched beneath the window with his heart thudding in his wounded hand. The arrow had passed his eye. For a moment he had thought this life was ending too. The bowmen stepped round him, taking aim at the fast ship pressing the ferry and its companion threatening the outer merchant.

The bowman nearest Jon waited for a gap between the shutter and its frame, then rose and loosed.

The others followed at their own pace.

From below came Rymond's voice, ordering men away from the exposed end of the passage. Someone shouted that a boat was still at the steps.

Jon crawled to the stair rather than stand beneath the window again. His right hand struck the wall. Pain ran up his arm, sharp enough to make his eyes water.

He cursed and kept moving.

Outside, a ferry lay with its stern rope fouled about the lower post. A soldier was trying to free it while the rowers held her off the stone. There were wounded men in the bottom. One had begun struggling to sit up.

"Keep him down!" Rymond shouted.

The fast ship's bow swung towards them.

She could not reach the ferry without coming closer to the wall and crossing the space covered by the nearest black galley. Her captain was trying to make one of them move first.

An arrow hit the man at the post. He folded against the stone and slipped into the boat.

Rymond started down.

"Shields with him," Jon ordered.

Two spearmen followed the centurion. Their shields covered the lower steps while Rymond bent over the rope. He drew his knife, sawed once and let the boatmen haul the ferry clear. A man aboard caught the wounded soldier beneath the arms before he could slide over the gunwale.

The black galley outside them advanced.

Not far. Enough to put her bow across the fast ship's approach. Bowmen stood behind her forward shields; at the rail, sailors waited with hooks.

The pirate captain checked his oars.

The fast ship backed away, shooting as she went. An arrow struck a spearman high in the thigh; Rymond helped his companion drag him up the steps. The other pirate had failed to draw the escort off the merchant and was withdrawing too.

The ferry reached clear water. Jon let out a breath, then looked back at the fast ships. Their captains had seen the shutters open and the escort move. They were learning, and he would have to be ready when they returned.

"They will try again," Rymond said.

"Then mend what they found," Jon told him. "No rope left around that post. Put the waiting boats where the wall covers them, not at the end of it."

Rymond sent a man for another length of rope. Jon knelt beside the wounded spearman until the bearer arrived.

The arrow had entered above the knee. Blood ran into the man's boot while he tried to hold the leg straight. When he saw Jon, fear hardened into anger.

"I had him covered."

"You did."

Jon put his good hand upon the trembling shoulder. He wanted to promise that the leg would mend. He knew too little to say it.

"Did the boat get clear?"

Jon looked towards the ferry. She had reached the merchant. Men were lowering a sling.

"Yes. Stay still now."

The bearers lifted him. Jon stood and found Arthur coming down the lane with Malcolm.

Arthur looked first at the shutters, then at the injured men being carried past.

"The tower is searched. No one left fighting."

"Hewyn?"

"Putting Rennick at the gates and taking the wounded down. Brus has men resting in the yard. Hewyn has checked the shore roll: seventeen dead. Thirty-one unable to fight."

"Two more here," Rymond told him.

He turned to the man taking the injured spearman's shield up the lane.

"Tell Hewyn. Both men are going aboard."

Malcolm added, "They found the strongroom. Chests, plate and books. It is guarded."

Chests. Coin, perhaps enough to make this bloody venture worth the risk. Jon felt a fierce pleasure. He wanted the lids thrown back, wanted to see how much of Vhalar's wealth was coming home with him.

This was why he had come. Ships to move his men, wealth to keep building when trade faltered and prices rose. He could almost see the strongroom spent on Dragonstone: crews paid, grain stored, more men armed. He had been given another life; he meant to be ready for the wars in it.

At the steps, the bearers shifted their grip, waiting for room. Jon decided which load went first.

"Nothing comes down without Hewyn's leave," he said. "The lane belongs to the wounded until he has them clear."

Malcolm nodded.

"Denys needs forty men."

The centurion looked seaward, measuring the distance to the nearest fighting ship.

"I have them."

"From those who were held at the gate. Leave your optio with the rest. Hewyn takes over the reserve here."

Arthur's eyes stayed upon the ships.

"Which ship?"

"Denys will choose. He asked for men he can board with."

"Then I go with them."

Jon looked at him. Arthur had spent much of the morning fighting where Jon could not follow. There was blood dried along his sword arm, though none seemed to be his.

"You have just come out of the tower."

"And Malcolm needs men who have boarded before."

Arthur's certainty steadied Jon and irritated him. He wanted that sword aboard Denys's ship. He wanted it here too.

Jon turned to Malcolm.

"Can your men fight?"

"They have had water. They are not fresh, but they can fight."

"Leave anyone who cannot keep his shield up. Forty, counting you. Arthur goes with you."

Malcolm went to gather them.

Arthur waited until he was out of hearing.

"You mean to help Vhalar."

Four red-axe galleys were engaged in the north. Vhalar had gained one of his southern ships, but one of his original galleys was answering her oars badly. More of Rolo's ships waited to the south.

"If Rolo finishes him, every ship he has can turn upon us."

"Vhalar will remember what we took."

"Then let him hate me from the deck of a ship still fighting Rolo. I need him alive long enough to keep half those red axes away from our boats."

Arthur looked back towards the boats.

"What do you want Denys told?"

Jon wanted Malcolm's men near enough to call back and Arthur beside him. Give the objective. Let the man on the spot do his work. Easy to remember from his first life; much harder with the men already gathering at the steps.

"Keep the merchants covered. If he can strike one of Rolo's ships without losing that cover, he is to do it. A ship going to help in the north would serve. He does not have to take it. Stop it reaching the fight."

"And if there is no opening?"

"He keeps his ships together."

Arthur nodded. "I will tell him."

"Malcolm commands the soldiers; Denys decides where the ship goes. Neither you nor Malcolm chases a prize beyond Denys's support."

"I have heard you."

Jon glanced at the boats. The first was being loaded. "Stay a moment."

Munin waited on the roof. Jon led Arthur into the shore keepers' little room. Beyond the open door, Malcolm called another file down to the steps. Jon waited until they had passed.

"I need to see the western landing."

Arthur shut the door and stood with his back to it.

Jon sat beside the bare table. A few minutes with someone he trusted between his helpless body and the world. He had been wanting them since the carpenter spoke of the track. He closed his eyes.

The storehouse dropped below Munin. Jon turned her inland, climbing above the spring and the scrub that hid the footpath. Ridge followed ridge. In the hollows he lost the track altogether; his scouts would have to feel their way through that ground. He could pass over it.

The western shore opened beyond the last rise. Moreo's walls stood above crowded moorings. Jon brought Munin lower. Hulls lay close together, some with broken rigging trailing into the water. Three galleys at the outer moorings rode level, their masts still standing. He went round them once, searching their decks. Men moved beneath an awning; others carried something through the shore gate.

Three worth looking at. Jon circled again. Men could reach these overland and come back by sea, behind the ships barring his departure. Let Rolo watch the crowded eastern landing. Jon wanted him looking there when another galley came upon his rear. He could almost hear Denys demanding to know who would crew her.

He wanted to go lower, to discover how many men watched the gate and what they had left in the stores. A roof swallowed the carriers; the wall hid the ground beneath it. Three level hulls did not tell him whether their steering gear worked or whether another fifty men waited indoors. His scouts still had work to do. He could send them towards something he had actually seen.

Jon turned Munin east. Wind pressed against her wings as he crossed the ridges again. At last the eastern fort rose ahead, its bare staff above the roofs. He brought her down to the storehouse before letting go.

Arthur stood at the door, listening. Outside, an oar knocked against stone.

"Last boat," he said.

Jon pushed himself upright. "Three galleys worth taking a closer look at. The men must find a way to reach them."

Arthur opened the door a little, checked the passage and let him through.

At the steps, Jon held Arthur's gaze. Come back, he wanted to say, as though the man could promise him that. He stepped aside.

Malcolm's men had gone in separate loads. A soldier with a torn sleeve still waited above the steps, arguing to follow; his blood-soaked dressing showed beneath it. Malcolm's optio sent him back to the wounded.

Arthur went in the last load.

He sat beside the stern with his sword between his knees. As the boat drew away, he looked up towards Jon once, then turned to the ship ahead.

Jon watched until they reached her side.

Beyond the boats, a red-axe galley pulled away from Rolo's southern group and made north. Denys's flagship began to draw out to meet her. A cheer went up along the wall. Jon turned at the sound; black shields crowded her bow.

At the steps, bearers waited with a wounded man while a boatman held an empty ferry against the stone. Jon heard the cheering and wanted, briefly and bitterly, to be one of the men making it. They could watch Arthur go out and believe that settled the matter. Jon still had to get that man off the shore.

"Wounded first," he told Rymond. "Lower him in the sling. Take him straight to the merchant."

Then he went to find Hewyn.

* * *

Goro's boats were in trouble.

Two lay beside Drazen's damaged galley, taking aboard men who could no longer stand. Another had been caught farther out, its rowers backing water while a grappling line dragged at its bow. Vhalar had held boats back for this. They were meant to get his men clear.

Goro was there, hacking at the line.

Rolo's nearest galley kept pressing. Beyond the ships already engaged, another enemy vessel was coming north. A fifth. If she reached the outside of the fight, the boats would have nowhere to go.

Vhalar sent a man to hurry his rowers. His galley began to draw round, but a shattered oar fouled the water beside her. The stroke broke. Men cursed below.

He needed his bow across that galley's approach, his shields between her archers and Goro. He could see exactly where to put her and could not make her go. The broken shaft dragged beside him, close enough to see, beyond anything his sword could put right.

Then the approaching galley's bow swung. Vhalar thought her captain had chosen to come straight at him, until her stern guards turned the other way.

A black ship was closing behind her. Beyond it the merchants remained covered. Their escort had sent one ship out and kept the others in place.

Fresh shields crowded her deck. Soldiers standing close, not sailors snatching weapons. A pale cloak lifted among them. Fresh men, while his own were being lowered into boats. How much had the black bastard kept back?

Rolo's captain continued his turn to face her, carrying his ship away from Goro's boats.

Now.

"Clear those oars!" Vhalar pointed at the galley whose grapple still held Goro. "Across that one's bow. Give the boats room!"

His men dragged at the broken wood. One stripped off his shield to reach farther, swearing as the galley rolled. The obstruction came free, and Vhalar's ship answered.

He brought her close enough to force the enemy's bowmen to attend to him. Arrows struck his forward shields. His archers rose behind them and answered.

He did not need another prize with Goro dead and those boats under water. He needed Goro away from it.

The grapple parted. Goro dropped his axe and struck a rower's shoulder with his open hand. The oars caught together. Another boat followed under cover of Vhalar's hull, loaded low with wounded men.

A pirate leaned far over his rail to cast another hook. A bowman beside Vhalar loosed; the man disappeared backwards before it left his hand.

"Keep coming," Vhalar muttered.

The boats scraped past. Goro scowled over the rower's shoulder as though he meant to frighten the boat into moving faster. Vhalar felt a grin pull at his split cheek. It hurt. He kept watching until the last boat was sheltered behind his hull.

* * *

Denys watched the red-axe galley's bow come round towards him.

Her captain was trying to deny him her side, turning hard enough that the outer oars flung white water behind them. Farther north, Vhalar's ships were in a knot of shields, broken shafts and crowded boats. Denys wanted this galley kept out of it.

Behind him the merchants remained covered. His nearest captain knew his orders: hold the passage, watch the fast ships, cover the flagship's return if needed. Denys had still made him repeat them like a boy on his first deck. He glanced astern, annoyed by the comfort it gave him.

A pennant lifted from the covering galley's stern. He faced forward.

"Bring her alongside the bow. Easy now. I want her rail, not her bottom."

The first mate relayed the order. The oars on the closing side came in; the others checked the ship's way. Denys felt her answer through his knees and grinned at his mate. There was pleasure in having a ship do exactly what he wanted. He had almost forgotten.

Malcolm stood with the leading shields. Arthur was beside them, his grey-white cloak tucked clear.

"Take the forward deck," Denys called. "Break the nearest oars. When I call you back, you come."

Malcolm lifted his hand.

Arrows struck shield and helm. Denys's bowmen answered, driving pirates back from the forward benches, but one crouched behind his shield above the crossing.

The hulls struck.

Denys caught the rail. Grapples went over while the ships were still grinding together. The enemy bow rose beside them, close enough for him to see pale scrapes in its tarred planks where another ship had marked them. Malcolm's leading man stepped across, drove his shield against a spear and slipped. The man behind caught his belt while Arthur crossed beside them.

Arthur struck the spear aside and shouldered through, bringing two shields after him. Denys saw black hair, bright steel and a pirate's blue sleeve twisted beneath a shield rim. Then Malcolm was over and the soldiers crowded into the opening.

The second rank stopped at his shout and turned to cover the boarding place. Denys let out the breath he had drawn to bawl for those shields. They were leaving a way back. He began to see what Jon had bought with all that drilling.

South of them, another red-axe galley was coming. Not close enough yet.

A shout drew him back. A spear had found a gap in Malcolm's shields. One soldier folded over it, clawing at the shaft in his thigh. His comrades caught him as it came free. On Denys's rail, a man rose to cover them and an arrow struck beneath his jaw. He dropped without a sound.

"Get him down."

A sailor dragged him clear. Blood spread between the planks. Denys wanted him lifted more gently; the thought came with absurd sharpness while men were fighting across the gap.

The nearest rowing benches lay abandoned, their oars still jutting through the side. Malcolm blocked the passage aft with shields. Two soldiers dropped behind them with axes.

Wood shuddered beneath the blows.

Rolo's pirates came at them with a roar. Arthur met the foremost behind a raised shield. A legionary reeled against the platform's edge; Malcolm hauled him upright by his harness as the next shield took his place. Arthur's sword flashed beneath an enemy arm. The pirate fell and checked those behind him.

Denys could hear the axes beneath the screaming.

One oar broke. Its outer length fell across the blade beside it. Another hung crookedly through its fitting. Men farther aft were still rowing, driving their own oars against the wreckage.

Enough. Malcolm's shields were gaining ground, and Denys followed them with his eyes. A few more paces and they might hold the whole foredeck. He could see how to do it; that was the trouble. The oars were broken. He had what he had come for.

"Back aboard!"

The call vanished beneath a crash of shields. Denys thrust a sailor towards the rail.

"Tell the centurion. We leave now."

The man bellowed until Malcolm turned. His hand went up. Most of the shields began to move, but one soldier was still pressing forward beside Arthur. Malcolm caught his arm and dragged him back. Arthur glanced towards the approaching galley, then covered the place the man had left.

The axe men climbed out. Their comrades passed the wounded soldier across first. Another had an arrow in his forearm and could not grip the rail. They caught him beneath the arms. A third fell as the ships rolled apart, his foot trapped between the rails. They pulled him clear, screaming.

Denys looked south. The galley was closer. Each cry behind him pulled at his attention.

"Cut those hooks!"

The pirates' grapples held them together. One line parted under an axe; another stayed taut while the last black shields backed towards the crossing.

Arthur struck a reaching wrist, turned the next thrust and came over after Malcolm. An enemy shield hit the rail where he had stood.

The last rope parted.

"Back water!"

His mate had the order ready. The gap widened beneath a rain of arrows. A hook struck the bulwark and fell short of catching. Denys watched it splash between the ships.

The red-axe galley tried to follow. Her forward oars struck the broken shafts, churning foam against her side. Men were dragging wreckage inboard. She would row again; she would not reach Vhalar's boats now.

Malcolm came aft, one hand upon the rail.

"All forty accounted for. One dead. Three cannot fight."

Arthur followed, breathing hard, his sword still bare.

The dead soldier lay beside the mast with the arrow beneath his jaw. Someone had put a folded cloak under his head as though he might wake with a sore neck. Denys could not stop looking at the cloak. Someone had found time for that.

The southern galley was still coming.

"Under our escort," he told the mate. "Keep the wounded clear of the oars."

He wanted the red-axe captain dragged across his deck. He wanted payment for the man by the mast and every sailor bailing water from the damaged consort. The four merchants waited behind him. For one shameful instant he resented them for needing him now.

He took his ship back to them.

* * *

The black ship withdrew, leaving Rolo's galley afloat, her banner flying and her men struggling with the damaged oars. The black soldiers had fought aboard and come away without the prize. They had chosen when to stop. Vhalar watched the water widen behind them with a hatred almost as sharp as envy.

Below him, Goro was binding his forearm. The last wounded men had been lifted clear of Drazen's rail. The black captain had bought them that much.

A bowman shifted his feet, following the black ship with his weapon. For a moment Vhalar wanted him to loose. He caught the man's elbow before he drew.

"Leave her."

The bowman looked at him.

"While she fights Rolo, leave her. Pass that along."

This had not been kindness. The black commander's merchants still lay beneath the landing; his boats needed water in which to move. He wanted Rolo occupied, and Vhalar's men were doing the occupying.

Heat climbed his neck. The bastard stripping his fort wanted him alive. Just alive enough, just strong enough to keep Rolo busy while the last of his wealth went down those steps. He had understood the choice and made it himself. That made the humiliation worse.

Goro was still fumbling with the binding. Vhalar wiped his own cheek too hard and felt the wound open again.

He called for Goro, then pointed towards Drazen and the watch galley. His captains were to watch him. He would decide when they moved, before Rolo or the black bastard decided it for them again.

There was room to draw his ships together.

Farther south, Rolo's remaining vessels were still coming.

* * *

The galley Rolo had sent north came back into view with a ragged gap in her oars. His banner still flew; men dragged broken shafts clear of the benches. But she had lost her place, and Vhalar's ships were drawing together while the black warship pulled away.

Rolo had brought his own bow round when the black soldiers crossed the rail. He had enjoyed that crossing. More of them, yes, crowd aboard and fight for the afterdeck. He would catch the thieves with half their strength upon a ship they could not yet sail.

Now they were going back.

His fifth galley should have reached the northern fight. Instead, her crew were clearing wreckage while Vhalar brought the watch galley into his line.

A messenger climbed aboard, wet to the thighs. Rolo heard him out.

"Another galley?"

"Her captain asks it, my lord. Until he can clear the benches."

Four were already committed north. Taking one out to nurse the damaged ship would give Vhalar still more room.

"He keeps his decks and clears his oars. Then he joins them. Tell him."

The messenger hurried back to his boat. Rolo bared his teeth at the black warship returning without a prize.

"You spiteful little shit."

A ship within reach, men already across her rail—and her commander had abandoned the taking. Broken a few oars and left Rolo to watch Vhalar recover. Rolo hated him more for that than he would have for stealing the galley. At least a stolen galley would have slowed the bastard down.

"They could not hold her!" a man near the mast laughed.

"They weren't trying to, you witless cunt. Look at the oars."

The man's mouth shut. Those beside him went still, waiting to see where Rolo's anger would fall. He could have kept them waiting. Instead he turned away. Vhalar was not going to stop while he made a fool of one of his own men.

Black shields lined the returning warship. The shore was feeding soldiers back into the ships. Fighting at the fort had stopped; the merchants lay closer to the landing, still covered by armed hulls. His fast pair had gained nothing. One hovered off the outer merchant beneath a warship's watch. The other had found men waiting behind the shore wall.

Rolo laid his axe across the rail. More soldiers were coming down from the fort towards a waiting boat, yet the shore remained guarded. He could use men who moved like that. Irritating to find them wearing another man's colours.

He could make their commander need them somewhere else.

"Bring those two back here."

The boatswain glanced north.

"The pair at the landing. Leave the others where they are."

The recall signal rose. Beyond the flagship, the captured watch ship laboured behind the towing galley, guarded and useless for the present fight.

Every ship Rolo sent north would make the merchants easier to move. Every ship he held here was one Vhalar did not have to face. He looked beyond the landing to the rising ground and laughed straight into his first mate's wary face.

He had been staring at ships. The black bastard had put half the fight ashore for him.

"Eighty," Rolo told the boatswain. "From us and the galley beside us. Boarders, not oarsmen."

"We will be short here."

"I know what eighty means."

Six hundred fighters had come with him. Some were dead, others hurt or guarding the prize. Eighty ashore would thin his fighting decks further. He caught himself choosing where he would stand if those black shields came over his rail, then counted the men he would keep. Enough. The thief could start spending his own.

"Bring that galley close enough to hail."

Rolo gave her captain his share of the levy while the fast ships came alongside. Ropes shifted, men cleared the rails. When both their captains could hear him, he pointed south.

"Forty in each. South to our landing beneath the castle, then inland. Find his guards before you commit. I want you behind his shore position, not dying in front of it. Send a boat back when the men are landed. And send word of what you find before you attack."

The captains nodded. Men crossed with shields slung and weapons held clear of the gap. They would still be finding their way through the hills when the next grapples went over.

One boarder grinned up at Rolo and raised an axe. He knew that grin: a man already spending his share. Rolo grinned back. He wanted the black commander watching his merchants when the shouting began behind him, having to call soldiers away from the boats.

And if the stubborn bastard held? Rolo looked towards the northern pair. He could offer him a passage. Draw the fast ships aside, let a merchant through. Men who would not leave a wall under threat might leave it eagerly enough for home. He imagined the last crowded boats pulling away, the warships turning to follow their charges. A lovely time to break a promise.

He ran his thumb along the axe haft. Vhalar would have to be dealt with first. He would not have the old bastard at his back while he reached for those laden ships.

Rolo waved the first fast ship away, then turned towards Vhalar's banners and ordered his own oars kept ready.

* * *

While Rolo was calling back his fast ships, Aurane returned to the landing. Jon could still see the pair beyond the boats. Jon watched a boatman rinse blood from the empty sling; the wounded spearman had been delivered to the receiving merchant, and the ferry was back for another load.

"Denys is back inside the escort," Aurane told him. "The galley he struck is still Rolo's. She will not catch anyone until they clear her oars. The carrier is in, and the captured longboats are towing the damaged prize closer. Slowly, but she is coming."

"Our men?"

"One of Malcolm's men dead. Three too hurt to fight. Ser Arthur is unhurt. Malcolm has sent a boat to take all four straight to the merchant receiving our wounded."

Aurane gave him the four names. Jon's first relief had been for Arthur; he was ashamed of how quickly it had come before the rest. He read the dead man's name twice, then passed the strip to Corwyn.

"To Hewyn. These are Malcolm's men."

Corwyn called one of Rymond's runners and sent him up the lane with the strip.

The flagship had returned without a prize. Jon had told Denys that was enough. He would not send men out again to make the death feel better by adding a captured hull.

"Can Denys spare the soldiers back ashore?"

"He wants to keep them for now. He says the next ship may come to him."

"He keeps them."

Aurane handed him Denys's answer about the west. Twelve sailors could be spared once the carrier's rigging was secure and the ferrying finished. None would leave their present work unfinished.

"Enough for three galleys?" Jon asked.

"To get their sails set, if the gear is sound. They will not row three galleys out of a fight."

Twenty-six men had been freed from the captured rowing benches. Some could scarcely stand; others might know those western ships. Jon would have to make them believe refusal was safe.

"Ask whether any of the freed rowers wish to go. Only those fit for it. Tell them there may be fighting."

"They have their passage already," Jon added. "Refusing changes nothing. If none will go, Denys tells me what the twelve can bring away."

Aurane tucked Denys's answer away again.

"He wants warning before the western party comes round the island. Their hulls will be strange to him. A letter by your crow will do, if it reaches him first. Otherwise they send a boat ahead and wait to be recognised."

"He shall have their instructions in writing. So shall Brus. The bird can bring their position and what they have taken."

Through the glass, Jon found two of Rolo's fast vessels drawing back towards the larger galleys. A transport's sail hid what they did next.

"Tell Denys those two have drawn in to Rolo. He is to watch what comes out again."

Aurane climbed back into the boat. The oarsmen pushed off before he had settled upon the bench.

Corwyn was waiting with his count.

"All seventeen are aboard," he said. "With the others, two hundred and sixty-three alive."

Corwyn's list kept the free passengers separate. Tero and Merra were together; the father and daughter had gone to the same ship.

"The woman?" Jon asked.

"Aboard. Wrapped, as you ordered."

He nodded once. Wrapped. A small, decent thing, and hopelessly less than he had meant to do for her.

"Give Hewyn this count as well," Jon told Corwyn, returning the paper. "The free passengers stay on their own list."

Corwyn tucked it away.

Two hundred and sixty-three living people aboard, the fort held, and room for Denys to move. Jon made himself acknowledge what they had gained as he climbed towards the gate. Along the lane, work parties were fixing short timbers across the approaches from the houses.

Hewyn met him beneath the gate.

"Two hundred and seventy-five available ashore," he told Jon. "That includes three scouting west and the six bowmen Denys sent."

"A hundred and twenty-one still with him."

Hewyn glanced at Malcolm's names on the strip and nodded.

Three hundred and ninety-six of the four hundred and fifty remained available. Eighteen dead; thirty-six unable to fight. The legion could survive these losses. Jon would not let his hunger for a greater victory turn them into its destruction.

Brus's swordsmen rested in the yard, shields within reach. One slept while his neighbour held both their water skins. Hewyn had forty gathered as his remaining reserve.

"Norren has seen no men coming from inland. He has his watch beyond the houses. The spring is held."

"Show the reserve's optio where to go if Norren calls," Jon ordered. "No looking for the path with the enemy upon him."

"The western scouts have Hugin," Jon told him. "Norren sent them above the spring, clear of the southern road."

Hewyn looked back towards the men resting in the yard.

"You want Brus."

"Thirty fighting men under him, plus the sailors Denys can spare."

"Those are the men I would send to Norren."

Jon looked at the reserve. Seeing those western hulls had made him hungry to send the order. It had given Hewyn no more men.

"They wait until the shore can spare them and the scouts have found an approach."

Corwyn came through the gate with his count as Hewyn called Brus over.

"You are to take Moreo's fort," Jon told the swordsmen's captain.

Brus glanced seaward. "I thought we wanted the ships."

"And his treasure. I will not leave a garrison above the moorings to shoot our sailors while they load it."

Moreo had robbed these waters for years. Jon wanted his hoard paying for the legion when they sailed home.

"Let me go with him," Corwyn said.

Jon looked at him. Ink marked the knight's fingers; his sword still hung at his side. He had kept the landing moving when men were shouting over one another and frightened people crowded the steps. Now he stood very still, waiting for Jon's answer.

"Brus commands."

"I heard you." Corwyn met his eyes. "I am asking to fight."

Jon held his gaze, then glanced towards Alasdair and the household men at the gate. His bodyguard would stay with him. He nodded. "Go with Brus. Give Rymond the count before you leave."

Corwyn gave a runner the count. His hand went briefly to his sword belt as Brus turned to include him.

"Twenty-eight swordsmen, you and Ser Corwyn," Jon told Brus. "One of your men must be able to write. Hugin is with the scouts; take paper and ink when you join them."

"And bring the prizes back here?" Brus asked.

"Keep the laden ships clear. If you can man a galley to fight, bring her behind Rolo. Denys will give you the course. If Rolo attacks our departing ships, strike his rear."

Thirty men gone from his defence, with no certainty Brus could take the fort or crew a fighting ship. Jon's stomach tightened. A delay could leave him choosing between those men and the transports. He had spent too much on this legion to gamble with it lightly.

Yet a galley behind Rolo might turn an attack on the merchants into their chance to escape. He could not let the bastard dictate every move. He needed those scouts before he dared commit.

His letters must tell Denys which ships could fight, who crewed them and where they waited. Brus needed word of any change in Rolo's position. Jon would bring the letters himself, reaching for Hugin at agreed halts. He would have to find the time and privacy for it here.

"And if we are driven off before he comes?" Hewyn asked.

"Denys gives him a place beyond the fighting and a time to wait. He takes the people and treasure there. The same if he cannot crew a fighting ship."

Jon sent Brus to feed and rest his men. He needed the scouts' report and enough time to get the party across the hills. Rolo was unlikely to give him either willingly.

From the wall, Jon could see Vhalar's five galleys drawing together behind their longboats. One worked unevenly. Rolo's main group still lay south; he could scarcely distinguish the fast vessels against their sides.

Munin had followed him back to the fort. She sat upon the gatepost, head turned towards Jon.

Jon took the glass from his guard.

"Keep the stair clear. I need a moment above."

Alasdair put one of the household at its foot. Beyond the turn in the wall, Jon found a place hidden from the courtyard and sat with the glass beside him. He waited until the footsteps below had stopped before reaching for Munin.

The sea opened beneath him.

He sent Munin south.

From above, the crowded ships separated. Two fast vessels lay beside Rolo's galleys. Men were crossing into them. Not prisoners: they carried shields and kept their weapons. One boat already sat lower in the water beneath its load.

He took her higher as the ropes came free. The vessels pulled south together, away from Vhalar.

Was Rolo sending them inland? Jon thought of Brus's waiting swordsmen and felt abrupt gratitude towards Hewyn. The man had made him wait. He would remember that when an objection next irritated him.

He followed as far as the headland. Beyond it lay Rolo's landing beneath the old castle. He could take Munin farther, but his men needed the warning now. He turned her back towards the fort.

Jon opened his eyes with a sick taste in his mouth. He took up the glass and went down to Hewyn.

"What of Rolo?" the centurion asked.

"Those two fast ships have men aboard. They are going south."

"His own landing?"

"I think so. He may be coming inland. I could not count the men."

"Send word to Norren. No chasing scouts into the trees. If men come, he is to keep them in front of him and send back at once."

Hewyn called the order to a runner.

Corwyn was tightening his sword belt beside Brus's men in the yard. Jon called Alasdair over and dictated the warning for Denys, adding that he must watch for the vessels returning. Munin settled nearby while Alasdair folded the note and tied it to her leg.

"Have Rymond warned as well."

Alasdair sent a household man towards the landing. Jon returned to his screened place on the wall. The guard remained below. Only then did he sit and reach for Munin.

The flight to the flagship took him above boats he had no time to count. Denys saw the crow coming and cleared a place at the rail. Jon waited until the paper was in his hand, then left Munin beside him.

Back in his own body, Jon heard Hewyn giving orders at the gate. He stood when the dizziness eased.

He left the strongroom under guard, with orders that nothing moved without Hewyn's leave, and took the centurion with him to Norren's position.

Norren met them beside the spring. His men had worked a few loose stones into the broken wall above it. Beyond them, two watchmen stood where the track passed into scrub.

Norren pointed above his watch. "They took that turn. One brings the carpenter back once he has shown the track. The other two go on. None back yet."

Jon followed the path with his eyes until the scrub hid it. Hugin was somewhere beyond those ridges. Soon he would need another quiet place, a few more minutes in which to find out whether the scouts had stopped to write.

"Who watches the southern road?"

Norren showed him the two men beyond the wall. They could see the lower bend without standing against the sky. Farther on, the ground dropped into a hollow. Jon could see how men might gather there unseen.

"Put another pair where they can watch that hollow. They fall back when men come. No fighting for the lookout."

Norren beckoned his optio and pointed out the ground.

A horn sounded below. Jon turned sharply, searching the strip of sea between the roofs. He could see a black bow, men along a rail, the red axe beyond them. No messenger came running up the path.

Jon turned back to the broken wall. Denys had his warning. Rolo's men still had to land and cross the hills; he would use what time remained.

Jon stepped behind the broken wall. He imagined Rolo's men coming up the track, then looked for the ground on which his own could meet them and still get away. His legion would leave this island. He still meant to take the pirates' wealth and ships with it. For now, he needed to keep the next man alive.

"Show me where your men fall back if they press you," he told Norren. "Then show me where we stop them."