Chapter 70 - The Red Wake

Hugin's wings were still beating in Jon's ears when he returned to his body behind the screened wall. He opened his eyes, waited for the stone to stop seeming so close, then rose and went down to the gate.

The crow landed ahead of him with blood on his beak and a letter tied beneath his leg.

The crow shook a scrap of flesh onto the wall and began wiping his beak against the stone. Something small had died in the hills while he waited with the scouts. Jon held out his left wrist.

"Alasdair. The thread."

His guard worked the knot loose. Below the broken wall, Norren's men watched the southern track through gaps in the scrub. Nobody had come up it. That empty ground had begun to trouble Jon almost as much as a column of shields would have. Rolo had sent men south. They had gone somewhere.

The letter was short, the writing cramped to save paper. The two scouts had found a sheltered hollow above the western stores. Men bearing Vhalar's colours held Moreo's fort and watched the ships below it. The upper track was clear as far as the hollow. A man who had fled the fighting told them Moreo was dead.

Jon read the last line again. The fort had changed hands, and Vhalar's men now guarded the ships and wealth Jon had come to take. He could hear Hewyn's objection already. Thirty men might rush a gate. If they found it shut, they had neither the tools nor the numbers to break it.

The first scout had brought the carpenter back earlier. The carpenter was with Norren now, showing the optio where the track divided. Jon turned to the sea. A red sail moved across the narrow opening between two roofs; beneath it, the sound of horns rose and died.

He wanted Arthur beside him. He wanted Malcolm's men back, and Brus's swordsmen still asleep in the yard. Out beyond the roofs, another horn sounded. Rolo would not stay occupied with Vhalar forever.

"Have Brus brought to the gate," he told Alasdair. "And tell Hewyn I have the report."

By the time Jon reached the courtyard, the sailors Denys had released were climbing the lane. Twelve of them, with bundles of cordage and tools carried between them. One had slung a sailmaker's bag over a shoulder that had already bled through his shirt. Jon stopped him long enough to ask whether he could use the arm.

The man raised it, scowling. "Aye. Just don't ask me to carry your chests."

"Brus will find someone else for those."

Ten of the freed rowers waited nearby. An eleventh had come as far as the gate and changed his mind. Brus pointed him back towards Rymond without argument. The man stood uncertainly for a moment, then went downhill. Nobody called him a coward. Jon saw the others watching him go, and was glad he had stayed to see it.

Hewyn had the scouts' letter in his hand when Brus joined them. He read it, looked once at Jon, and passed it to the swordsmen's centurion.

"Thirty swords," Hewyn said quietly. "If Rolo breaks through at the landing, I'll need those men to drive him back."

"Brus may take Moreo's ships and bring them up behind Rolo."

"May. I know where I can use his men here."

Jon pointed seaward. "The merchants have to pass those red sails. We could hold this fort until dark and still lose them all on the water. Brus goes west."

Hewyn looked towards the swordsmen waiting by the gate. His mouth tightened, but he gave a short nod.

There would be hills between them soon. A letter might reach Brus quickly; a reserve would not. Jon watched the centurion reading. Once Brus passed the gate, Jon would have to trust his judgement.

Brus finished reading. "We'll look over the fort before we go down to it."

Jon nodded. "And if it cannot be taken, you tell me. Don't spend thirty men proving it."

"I won't."

Corwyn stood with the swordsmen, shield on his arm and a javelin in his hand. One of Brus's men was showing a sailor how to lash his bundle high enough to clear his knees. Another checked the strap beneath his neighbour's shield. They looked ready. Jon distrusted how much comfort that gave him.

Jon took the pen Alasdair offered and signed the reply to the scouts with his left hand. The scouts were to wait in their hollow for Brus. Alasdair tied the paper to Hugin's leg. The crow went back onto the wall while Jon withdrew behind the stair. When he reached for the bird, the courtyard opened beneath him, and the men he was sending west became black heads and upturned faces.

He carried the letter over the ridge himself.

When he returned to his body, Hewyn was giving the last orders. Brus passed through the gate. Corwyn followed among the shields, then the sailors and the men whose wrists still showed the marks of the irons. The track took them uphill until the scrub hid the last man's bundle.

Jon stood long enough to hear their feet fade.

Then Garon came running from the seaward wall.

"My lord. The red-axe flagship is moving."

* * *

The messenger's boat came up from the landing beneath Rolo's castle and pulled alongside his flagship.

He watched its bow rise beside the galley. The messenger waited for the next swell before catching the rope, then came over the rail on his belly. Sensible. A sailor who had tried jumping from a boat earlier was still having his ankle bound.

"All eighty men are ashore below the castle, my lord."

"And the way inland?"

"Our scouts found soldiers with black shields guarding the spring. More behind them, building up the walls beside the path to the eastern fort."

Rolo looked towards the ridge above the eastern fort. The black bastard had guarded his inland approach too. Rolo's men would have to fight through those walls before they could fall upon the landing from behind. He rubbed the dried blood below his ear until the skin stung.

"How many?"

"They could not get close enough to count. A watcher came down from the western hill while we were landing. Vhalar's fleet has left Moreo's harbour. The watcher reckons only fifty of Vhalar's men are holding the fort."

Fifty. Rolo turned towards the northern ships. Vhalar had gathered his longboats behind three hulls; the other two were struggling to keep their places. He would run soon. With strangers in his eastern fort, where else could he go but back to the old man's harbour?

"Take the eighty west," Rolo told the messenger. "Twenty more from the castle guard go with them. I want Moreo's gate and the ships beneath it."

The man caught his breath. "All of them?"

"The sound ones. The chests. Whatever Vhalar left men to guard. Tell your captain he can have first choice of the silver if he gets there before that cunt." Rolo pointed towards Vhalar's banner. "Keep a watch on the water. If he comes home, I want a welcome waiting."

The messenger repeated the order. Rolo made him repeat where the twenty were to come from, then sent him back over the side. His boat shoved clear, the rowers bending south. The men in the hills would have their work. He had his here.

Vhalar's galley had begun to turn behind her fellows. The longboats were moving with her. A man amidships waved a shield, trying to bring the farther galley round.

No. Rolo had spent too much of the morning watching other men decide where to fight.

"There. His stern."

The first mate followed his pointing axe. Water opened between Vhalar and the battered galley nearest him. A narrow gap, growing wider as the two ships pulled apart.

"We can reach him," the mate said.

"Then fucking reach him."

The stroke quickened. Men left room along the centre of the deck as Rolo went forward. His shoulder hurt where the shield had caught him aboard the watch ship. He rolled it once and tightened his grip. Vhalar had men at his rail now, pointing towards them. Rolo could see the broad shield lifted upon the raised stern.

He grinned. Look at me, you old thief. Look what is coming.

The battered galley swung across his bow.

Her surviving oars pulled out of time, blades striking the broken shafts still dragging beside her. She had only the narrow gap to cross. Her bow swung into it, and her crew raised their shields along the rail. Rolo saw the man beside her steersman and struck his axe haft against the wood.

"Drazen."

Behind the intervening hull, Vhalar was disappearing.

The first mate bellowed for the rowers to slow her. Rolo's galley shuddered. She turned just enough to scrape along the other ship instead of driving straight into her side. Oars snapped beneath them. A handle flung a rower backwards from his bench, and the rails came together with a crash that rattled Rolo's teeth.

He caught himself upon the bow timber. Drazen had stolen the opening. The bastard could barely row and had still found enough strength to get in his way.

Hooks struck wood. Men pulled the two ships close while bowstrings snapped behind Rolo. An arrow passed beneath his arm. The pirate next to him sat down abruptly, staring at the shaft in his belly.

Rolo stepped over his legs.

There was Drazen, above the crowded benches, posting three shieldmen at the foot of the steps to his raised stern. Blood had darkened the side of his coat. He kept his sword low and waited while his men met the first boarders.

Vhalar's second. His oldest captain. Rolo felt his anger loosen into something far more pleasant.

"Drazen!" he shouted. "Losing another ship for him?"

The old captain turned his head. Rolo raised the axe so he could see it.

"Come and take her," Drazen called back.

Oh, gladly.

Rolo crossed the locked rails behind two of his shieldmen. The first man took a spear in the shoulder and went down between the benches. Rolo caught the shaft before it could be drawn back, hauled its owner against the rail and struck him above the collar. The dead weight dragged at his weapon. He wrenched it free as his men crowded past.

Drazen came down a step to meet them. His sword went over a lifted shield and into the face behind it. The boarder fell backwards into Rolo. He shoved the man aside and laughed at the old captain's expression.

"There you are."

Drazen's shield caught the first axe blow. He turned it as the edge struck, keeping the blade from biting deep, and thrust beneath Rolo's raised arms. Rolo twisted. The point tore his coat and scraped his ribs. He slammed the axe haft down upon the sword and drove forward, but Drazen was already behind his shield again.

Someone was screaming by the mast. A red-axe boarder tried to climb across a bench and was dragged down by two men beneath it. Rolo's fellows fought for the passage while he forced Drazen up the steps, one pace, then another. At the top the old captain stopped yielding.

Their weapons struck so close to Rolo's face that he smelt the old blood upon the shield leather. Drazen shoved him back with it. Pain ran through his shoulder. He snarled, caught the next sword stroke upon the haft and kicked at the captain's forward leg. Drazen drew it away. His return cut opened Rolo's sleeve above the wrist.

Blood ran over his fingers.

Rolo looked at it, then at Drazen. The laugh came out of him before he could stop it. A proper cut. The old bastard had some life left.

"Again," he breathed.

Drazen gave him no answering boast. He drew a short breath, and Rolo saw his elbow press against the stain in his coat.

There. He began to strike towards that side. Drazen caught the blows, saving his sword for the moments when the axe went wide. Rolo let the next thrust pass his shoulder and stamped forward, close enough to shove the haft beneath the shield's lower edge. Drazen broke the contact and cut at his hand. Rolo laughed again, though he had to snatch his fingers clear.

Below them, one of Drazen's men called for him. The captain glanced past Rolo, then set his feet more firmly. No boat coming for him now. No chest of silver worth carrying home. Rolo wanted to ask how much Vhalar paid for this, but Drazen's sword was moving and he needed his breath.

He struck high. Drazen lifted the shield, stepped to his left and answered with a thrust. Rolo turned to keep him in front and backed into the side rail. For an instant the point lay against his belly. Rolo knocked it down with the haft and threw his weight into the shield. The old captain grunted. His wounded side folded, only a little, but enough.

Rolo edged sideways until the raised timber beside the steering platform lay behind Drazen. He struck at the wounded side again, then crowded him before he could answer. One pace back, then another. Drazen's heel struck the timber. He stumbled, caught himself, and brought the sword up between them.

Rolo's axe broke his guard. The haft smashed into his mouth, and the shield sagged. Rolo struck the arm behind it, laughing through his teeth as Drazen went down upon one knee.

* * *

Drazen was on his knees.

Vhalar saw him between the lifted shields on the stern of Drazen's galley. She lay little more than an oar's length behind his own ship, with Rolo's bow locked against her farther side. Men were still fighting below the raised deck. A sailor climbed over a bench with a knife in his teeth; someone caught his ankle and pulled him out of sight.

"Bring us back alongside!"

His first mate caught his arm. Vhalar struck the hand away.

"You heard me!"

"Our oars will foul hers if we go alongside. Another of Rolo's galleys is coming round us."

Drazen still had his sword. Vhalar could see it moving beneath the broken edge of his shield. He had seen Drazen fight like that a hundred times. Short thrusts. Nothing wasted. Drazen had taught men half his age how foolish it was to reach too far for a kill.

Get up, you stubborn old fuck. Get up.

Rolo stepped aside from the thrust. He brought the axe down upon Drazen's sword arm, and the weapon dropped upon the deck. Drazen reached for him with the other hand. Rolo hit him across the face with the haft.

Vhalar had one foot upon the rail before his mate and the nearest bowman dragged him back. His ship was moving. Drazen's was not. Black water opened below him, stirred white by the strokes of his own oars.

"Loose!" he shouted. "Shoot the bastard!"

A bowman rose and drew. A shield lifted beside Rolo; the arrow struck it and hung trembling. The next man could find no clear shot through the men upon Drazen's stern. He loosed at the boarders below instead.

Rolo caught Drazen by the hair and dragged his head down against the rail. The old captain's hand struck the wood. Once. Vhalar could not hear what he said.

The axe rose.

"No."

It fell. Rolo hauled the head sideways and struck again. When he straightened, Drazen's body remained against the rail.

Someone beside Vhalar made a small, choking sound.

Rolo turned. Even across the water Vhalar could see his teeth. The Myrishman lifted what he held, higher, shaking it by the hair until the face turned towards them.

"Vhalar!"

His name carried over the fighting. Rolo was laughing. Men thrust and died upon the steps beneath him, and he stood above them with Drazen's head in his fist, delighted.

Vhalar could not make his hand open upon his sword. He had known that face before his father had let him command a boat. Drazen upon the afterdeck, unpicking a knot with his thick fingers while the old lord shouted that his son was useless with a rope. Drazen had passed it back when the shouting stopped. Try it again. Here. With that hand.

He could remember the fingers more clearly than the face. A nail split down the middle. Tar worked into the creases. Those hands were somewhere beyond the rail now.

So you watched them take my ships and ran.

He had said it with Drazen bleeding beside his table. Had moved the wine out of his reach and made him stand there. Your chests are aboard. The old man had brought the fucking silver home and Vhalar had made him ask for a drink.

"My lord."

Rolo lowered the head. A shield hid him. Vhalar moved along his own stern to see past it.

His mate came with him. "Look at the other ships."

"I'll have his hands cut off."

"We are losing the outer galley."

Vhalar turned upon him, ready to put the sword through anyone who said another word. The man did not step back. Blood ran from beneath his cap and down the side of his nose.

"There."

Beyond Drazen, two red-axe ships had caught the farthest of Vhalar's galleys. Her men were leaving over the shoreward rail. A longboat lay beneath it, crowded so low that a man climbing down put a foot into the water before he found a bench. Her captain was already in the boat, held upright by two of his own. Enemy shields crowded the abandoned stern.

Vhalar's other surviving galley had turned to cover the fleeing longboats. The southern watch galley drew away on the opposite side of his flagship, her bowmen shooting back at the pursuers. They were waiting for him to move.

Three. There would be three, if he let them get clear.

"Drazen held them," the mate said. "We have to go. There are too many."

Drazen had held them. As though that settled what was owed. Vhalar wanted to strike him for putting it so plainly.

A longboat bumped their side. Goro looked up from beneath the rail, one hand white about a rope. He had lost his axe. Blood had dried in a broad smear from his ear to his collar.

"Get these men aboard!" he shouted. "We cannot take another."

His eyes went towards Drazen's ship. He stopped speaking. For a moment Vhalar thought he had not understood what he was looking at. Then Goro bent to the man lying at his feet and hauled him upright with a violence that made him cry out.

"Climb," he said. "Come on. Climb."

Vhalar looked back. His father's banner was gone from the eastern fort. Drazen was dead. He could hear the old lord's contempt as clearly as when he had stood upon this deck alive: always reaching for more, never able to hold what was put into his hands.

He had taken Moreo's fort. Killed him before his own men. There was still something his father had never given him, something he had won with his own sword. Fifty men guarded it. Ships lay beneath the walls. He could gather what remained, mend what could be mended, and find Rolo when he was paying for this day's fighting.

But Drazen would not be standing beside the next chart. There would be no low, unwelcome voice telling him what he had forgotten.

He looked towards the axe above the enemy shields.

"I'll come back," Vhalar said. His voice shook with the effort of keeping it low. "I'll kill him. Him and every bastard who follows him."

The mate turned at once. "North! Keep the watcher with us. Give the others the signal!"

The horn sounded above Vhalar's head. His ship answered her oars. He could stop it. One word and they would hear him; one word would put them back against Drazen's dead men and Rolo's living ones.

He said nothing.

Goro came over the rail behind the last wounded sailor. He stayed crouched a moment, both hands upon the deck. Then he rose and went to help clear the passage for the men still climbing out of the second boat. No curses. Vhalar had never heard him move among his men so quietly.

The mate ordered the emptied longboats cast loose. They fell astern, bumping together in the wake. Whatever boats had failed to reach the three surviving galleys would have to find their own way out.

The other two galleys followed the turn. A torn banner lifted above the nearer stern, and a captain waved his sword to show that he had seen. His men were carrying a sailor from the oars while another climbed over him to take the empty place. On the watch galley, three shields rose together against a last flight of arrows.

Vhalar went to the forward rail. The red-axe fast ships north of them had begun to move across their way. He pointed towards the narrow space beside the shoreward one.

"Keep together. If he comes across us, put the bow through him."

His bowmen crowded forward. The fast ship kept turning across the opening. Behind Vhalar, the rowing master's count faltered.

"Keep pulling!" Vhalar roared. "Bring the watcher closer!"

His mate waved her in with a shield. The count resumed. The watcher drew close behind his stern. The enemy's side was before them now, near enough to see men bracing for the blow.

"Hold her straight."

Vhalar's steersman held. At last the fast ship stopped turning across them. Men upon her deck stumbled as her rowers pulled her back. Water opened before his bow. Arrows hissed past. One rang against Vhalar's shield. He stood behind it until all three galleys were through.

The northern point lay ahead. Beyond it was the long coast to Moreo's harbour. Vhalar looked back once, searching the clutter of hulls for Drazen's stern. Another sail crossed it. He could see only Rolo's red axes and the black ships nearer his stolen fort.

He turned away before either fleet could see him wipe his face.

* * *

By the second ridge, Corwyn would have given a silver stag for the horse he had left on Dragonstone.

Sweat ran beneath his collar. The javelin Brus had given him caught in every thorn that his shield missed, and the track had narrowed until men had to turn sideways between the rocks. Somewhere below lay the sea, bright and level and quite useless to them. Corwyn shifted the shaft to his other hand. Ahead, a swordsman ducked beneath an overhanging branch without breaking stride.

He had imagined a rather different visit when his uncle brought him to Dragonstone. Arthur Dayne in the practice yard, perhaps an invitation to dine beside him afterwards. Ardrian had found him polishing a nick from his sword and asked whether the wine sent ahead would receive half so much attention. Corwyn had scarcely heard him. He had been deciding what to ask the Sword of the Morning without sounding a fool.

Arthur was out upon the water, and Corwyn was climbing a hill with a northern centurion who had made certain his javelin was sound before letting him take it.

"Wait for my order to throw," Brus had told him. "We have one apiece."

Corwyn had trained with throwing spears. He knew how much room a man needed to cast one. He had yet to understand how thirty of them were meant to take a fort.

The path fell away into a gully. A man near the front slid on loose shale and caught himself with his shield; those behind stopped at once. Nobody shouted for him to get on. A second soldier climbed down beside him, felt the ankle through his boot and helped him put weight upon it. Corwyn waited, hunched against the steep bank with his sword hilt digging into his ribs. Below them, one of the freed rowers began to breathe noisily through his mouth.

"Sit that rower down," Brus called back. "Water, a little."

"We shall lose the light at this pace," Corwyn said when the centurion reached him.

Brus looked along the file. Twelve sailors and ten freed men followed the swordsmen, carrying water, rope and the things they would need if the western ships proved worth taking. The rower had folded onto a stone, knees drawn up, while a sailor loosened the bundle across his shoulders.

"He came out of a slave galley this morning," Brus answered. "Have yours while we wait."

Corwyn almost said that he did not need it. Then he remembered the sweat running into his eyes and drank. The water tasted of warm leather. He passed the skin to the swordsman below him, who took it with a nod and measured his swallow carefully.

The pause lasted less time than Corwyn had feared. The stumbling swordsman came up with his javelin again, walking without a limp. Another man had taken his shield until the track widened. At the gully's far lip a soldier held out a hand to Corwyn. He accepted it and hauled himself onto firmer ground.

"Mind the edge, ser. It gave way under him."

Corwyn planted his next foot farther in.

They found Norren's two scouts beneath a stand of crooked pines. One had stripped bark from a dead branch for Hugin's perch. The perch was empty.

"Sent the crow back with our report," the older scout told Brus. "We stayed here so he could find us again."

The carpenter had gone east with the third scout. The remaining pair had seen the western roofs from the ridge beyond. Men still held the gate. They had been unable to get close enough to count them without showing themselves on bare ground.

Brus crouched beside them, asking about the last stretch. Corwyn lowered his pack and listened. Below the trees, the hill descended through scrub towards a pale shelf of rock; beyond it rose another ridge. Everything smelled of pine sap and hot dust. He could no longer hear the fighting at the eastern anchorage.

"Is this his doing?" he asked quietly.

Brus looked up. "What?"

"Taking Moreo's ships. Coming behind Rolo. I heard the orders, but—" Corwyn stopped. He had been about to say that Jon was twelve. Brus knew his lord's age.

"He gave them."

"Arthur had no part in it?"

"Arthur was at sea when Lord Jon chose us." Brus pulled a thorn from his sleeve. "Hewyn wanted more men kept at the landing. So did I. The ships won't come round the island because we wish for them, though."

Corwyn could still see Jon looking at him when he asked to go, the bandaged hand held against his body. The boy had made him wait for an answer. It had annoyed Corwyn then; he had mistaken the silence for uncertainty about a knight's proper use. Thirty swords to find their way through an island full of enemies and put ships behind a fleet. He had wanted a chance to fight beside Arthur. Jon had given him something rather more alarming.

* * *

Denys knew which red-axe galley would come for him before she broke away.

Her captain had been easing her out of the line, a little with each stroke, while the others held their positions. Now her bow came round towards the flagship. Along her rail, men stood with shields over their heads. Forty, perhaps. Behind Denys, the wounded were being lifted from a boat into a merchant ship; farther astern, the consort's pumps kept spilling water over her side. A rich enough prospect for a man who thought he could take the ship guarding them.

"He sees the pumps," his mate said.

"He sees us looking after them." Denys watched the approaching oars dip together. The captain had kept his rowers fresh. This was not the crippled galley they had struck earlier. "Warn the merchant. She is to hold her course."

His mate hurried away. Denys could turn across the enemy's approach, but his stern would sweep towards the boat beneath the merchant. He could back away, but that would leave the consort exposed. He glanced at the people crouched in the boat, then at the growing line of shields.

"Malcolm. Starboard. Keep them off the hatch."

The centurion brought his men across without crowding the sailors hauling in the loose gear. Thirty-six still fit from the forty Jon had sent him. Beside Malcolm, Arthur settled his helm and tucked the torn grey-white cloak beneath his belt. Denys remembered the folded cloak under the dead soldier's head that morning.

Come, then, you greedy bastard.

A horn sounded beyond the approaching ship. A recall pennant jerked up. Her captain looked towards it, plainly enough for Denys to see the turn of his bright helm. Then he faced Denys again and lifted his arm.

"Bows!"

Denys's archers rose behind the shields. Their arrows met the enemy's above the narrowing water. One struck the steering platform with a hard knock; another hung from the mate's sleeve, pinning cloth to the rail. He tore himself loose and went on shouting. On the other ship, a bowman folded backwards into the men waiting to cross.

"In starboard oars. All the way in."

The starboard oars slid in beneath the rail. Men at the last benches struggled with a shaft caught under its neighbour. Denys sent two sailors to help, then ordered the other rowers to check their stroke. The flagship shuddered as she slowed. Across the water, the enemy's oars on the side facing him slid in almost together. Her captain knew his work. He meant to lay his forward deck beside Denys's mast and force enough men across to split the defenders.

A grapple struck, skittered and caught. Another followed. An axe parted the first rope; the second tightened, dragging a broken rail inward. More hooks came through the arrows. The hulls struck with a crash that threw Denys against the steering platform. Someone below screamed. The ships ground together, the enemy's bow lifting beside the mast.

"Hold there!" Malcolm bellowed.

The first boarder jumped into a spear and fell between the hulls. The next landed behind a great round shield, took a thrust upon it and drove forward. Two more came over his shoulders. A black shield dipped as its bearer stumbled over the broken rail. An axe struck the man at the side of his neck, and suddenly there were pirates on Denys's deck.

Six. Eight. Too many to push straight back.

Malcolm pulled the nearest men across the hatch, barring the way below. A sailor ran aft with blood down his face. Behind him a legionary went to one knee, his right leg dragging, while the pirate who had stabbed him lifted a hooked spear to finish it.

Arthur stepped past the withdrawing sailor.

His shield caught the descending shaft low, carrying the hook clear of the wounded man. He went in along it, so close the spearman had to pull his hands back. Arthur's pommel struck his mouth. The man reeled; Arthur cut across the exposed side of his face and was already turning as an axe rang upon his shoulder.

Denys's stomach clenched. The armour held. Arthur had turned with the blow, letting it slide, and the axe man found himself too close to lift the weapon again. Arthur drove his shield against the man's chin and put his point through the gap at his collar.

"Take him!" he called.

The legionary still on his knee thought the words were for him and tried to rise. Arthur braced his shield against the wounded man's shoulder until another soldier took his weight, then parried a sword coming over the dying axe man's shoulder. Steel grated. The wounded man went back between the black shields. Arthur stepped back with him, drawing the swordsman forward, then stopped with his point raised.

The pirate's own hurry carried his face onto the point.

Denys had been reaching for his sword. He found it half drawn and pulled it free. There was work enough for him without staring like a boy at a tourney.

"Keep the bowmen aft. Shoot along their deck. Mind our men!"

A thrown spear struck a legionary beneath the arm as he raised his shield. He fell beside the hatch. Malcolm put another man over him and advanced the line. The pirates had thought they were through. Now they had shields before them, their own dead underfoot and Arthur coming along their flank.

A pirate swung at Arthur's knees. Arthur drew his leading foot back, let the cut pass and struck the forearm before it could recover. A second pirate rushed his open side; a legionary's spear stopped him. Arthur moved with that spear, filling the space beside its bearer. He was never where Denys expected him to remain. Yet he never took the place another man needed.

"Arthur!" a sailor shouted.

"Ser Arthur!"

Malcolm's men took it up as they drove the surviving boarders against the rail. A pirate tried to climb back, caught his foot and hung there. His companion shoved him down between the ships to make room. Arthur killed the shoving man before he reached the other deck.

The enemy captain was at the crossing now, a long sword in his right hand and a shorter blade in his left. He struck aside one of Malcolm's spears with the short blade and cut its bearer across the fingers. When the wounded soldier withdrew, the captain pointed his longer sword at Arthur and called something that brought his men forward again.

Denys knew the kind. A captain whose men had seen him win often enough to stake their own necks upon it. He had picked his place well on the higher deck of the enemy bow. Any man crossing from the flagship would have to climb into those blades.

"Can we cast off?" Denys demanded.

His mate looked down the locked rails. "Three lines forward. One under their bow. We'd have to send a man between them."

Across the rail, the captain kicked a body out of the crossing and called up two fresh shields. Men rose from shelter behind the bow. Denys looked astern. The merchant had drawn past the worst of the danger; the boat followed beneath her shelter. If those fresh men crossed, Malcolm would have to clear the flagship's deck all over again.

"Malcolm! Take her bow. Keep a way back."

The centurion heard. Two shields locked at the rail, sheltering a third man as he thrust across. The enemy captain turned the spear down with his long sword and pressed its shaft across the nearest shield. Arthur came beside them, put a foot upon the broken rail and crossed while that blade was still low.

He landed close. Too close for that long blade to rise cleanly. His shield struck the captain's breastplate, making room for the first two legionaries, and the captain yielded a pace without losing his feet. The shorter sword caught Arthur's thrust and turned it away. His long sword came down upon Arthur's raised shield, biting into the upper edge.

A good stroke. Denys saw the force in it, the captain's feet set to follow. Arthur let the shield fall outward with the blade. The captain pulled his sword clear and cut back at Arthur's head.

Arthur stepped inside it.

The long blade swept behind his shoulder. His shield rim crushed the captain's left fist against the man's breastplate; Arthur's sword, drawn close beside his hip, went up beneath the man's jaw.

The captain stood a moment, mouth open above the steel. Arthur pulled free and let him fall.

Denys heard himself shout with the others.

Arthur was already calling for the shields.

Malcolm crossed with the next file. Arthur turned from the body to cover him, and the black shields spread across the captured bow. They did not pour down among the benches. They held the passage above the rowing benches while the bowmen on Denys's ship swept arrows towards the enemy's stern. Men who had been running forward ducked beneath the rail. One dropped his sword and held up both hands.

With Malcolm's shields across the bow, Denys looked back at the dead captain. Two blades ready and men at his back; Arthur had gone through him in the time Denys needed to draw breath.

Cries for quarter rose from farther aft.

Denys sent his mate over with sailors and six more soldiers. "Steering gear first. Leave the rowers where they are. Anyone reaches for a weapon, put him down."

He stayed where he could see the merchant, the consort and the men still fighting near the enemy's mast. One pirate tried to rally the others there. Arthur advanced behind a shield, and the fellow threw his axe away before he reached him. Two more followed. Farther aft, the men guarding the steering platform backed down when Malcolm's spears came level.

Denys lowered his sword. His hand ached from gripping it.

The enemy's oars remained drawn in. Faces watched from the benches, angry and frightened. There were no chains upon the rowers. One of them began demanding his wages until a soldier told him to hold his tongue. Denys sent his steward across to sort the surrendered fighting men from the sailors. Weapons in one heap; fighters bound; rowers kept at their benches under guard until the mate had counted them and found who could be trusted to speak for them. He promised none of them a place amongst his own crew.

Arthur returned while they were passing the wounded aft. Black hair clung to his brow when he took off his helm. A fresh dent marked his shoulder; his cloak had come loose and hung dark with another man's blood.

"Your arm?" Denys asked.

Arthur rolled the shoulder once. "It will bruise."

Malcolm came behind him, looking towards the bodies beside the hatch. "Two dead. Four more cannot fight."

Denys had watched both men fall. Hearing the number still struck him. He looked at the wounded legionary Arthur had brought out. The man was conscious, shivering beneath a cloak, with two sailors holding his splinted leg as the bearers lifted him. A little farther forward, a boy was trying to wipe blood out of the seam between two planks. He had no hope of getting it all.

"Send their names to shore. All six."

Malcolm nodded and went to his men. Across the rail, the steward was arguing with a bearded sailor who kept pointing towards the dead captain. Denys thought he knew the complaint. Another man wanting his wages from a dead captain.

The bearded rower stooped to take the dead captain's cloak. A spear came down across his chest, and he straightened with both hands spread.

"For his arm!" He pointed past the captain now, towards the prisoners. "Look at the blood."

One of the bound fighters had sunk against a bench. His sleeve was black from elbow to wrist; blood dripped from his fingers. Denys could see the wetness spreading beneath him. The steward glanced towards the wounded being carried across the flagship, then back at the man.

"Wait your turn."

The bearded rower said something in his own tongue. Three rowers rose behind him. The guards lowered their spears, and Denys put a foot upon the rail.

"Sit down!"

A man came out from behind the captured galley's mast before Denys could cross. Denys knew the bloody face. One of his sailors, sent over to help clear the ropes. He had a knife in his hand.

"That one. He did this."

Arthur went over first and caught his wrist before the knife reached the prisoner. The sailor drove forward against him, swearing, trying to get his free hand about the bound man's throat. Arthur forced the knife hand against the bench. Two more rowers stood. The knight could hold the man or turn towards them; he could not do both.

"Denys."

Denys crossed. "Two men here. Take him."

The soldiers pulled the sailor back. His knife stayed in Arthur's hand. The sailor stared at Denys with blood in his teeth.

"You saw what they did."

"I saw."

He had seen the axe go into the legionary's neck. The man had made a small, foolish movement afterwards, trying to lift the shield that could no longer help him. Denys wanted the sailor to stop looking at him. He wanted the prisoner to bleed somewhere he need not watch.

"Take him back to our ship. Have his face bound. Keep him there."

"And this bastard?"

Denys looked at the wounded pirate. He was listening. His bound hands twitched against the planks.

"Alive, if he can be kept so."

The sailor spat between Denys's boots as they took him away. Arthur handed over the knife and leaned briefly upon the bench. At Denys's gesture, the standing rowers sat.

"Who is he to you?" Denys asked the bearded rower.

"My wife's brother."

The man did not claim him innocent. Denys was grateful for that much.

"Can you stop the bleeding?"

"With cloth. His hands must come round in front."

The mate shook his head. "Loosen one and they'll all ask. I need these men guarding the rowers."

Denys looked at the two soldiers holding the gangway. He had meant to bring them back. The merchants still needed shields; every man left here would be missed somewhere else.

"Those two stay. One watches him while the bonds are changed. The other watches the remaining prisoners." He pointed to the captain's cloak. "Use that."

The bearded rower knelt. Arthur helped turn the wounded man while a soldier worked at the knot. Neither could manage it gently; the pirate cried out, and the rowers stirred again, but they stayed upon their benches.

Denys waited until the first strip of cloth was tight. Then he touched the bearded man's shoulder.

"Tell them I need her to row."

The man looked at the bandage, then at the soldiers staying beside it. He called down the benches. Hands went to the oars, slowly. Several men still watched Denys as though they expected the knife to come back. Denys took Arthur back across the rail with him, leaving the two black shields at the gangway.

"She'll row," the mate called. "Steering's sound. Enough hands, if we keep spears on them."

Denys looked along his new galley's side. A sound hull, with both banks of oars intact. She was fastened to him already, her fighting men beaten and his own men aboard. He would keep her while they sorted the ropes and set guards who knew their business. He would not go a ship's length out of his way for another.

"Bring her with us. Slowly. We stay beside the merchants."

The mate grinned. Denys found he could answer it. Then he put his sword away and called for a fresh cloak for the shivering legionary.

* * *

By the time Jon had Denys's account of the captured galley, the blood on the landing steps had dried brown.

Fresh water ran over it from a split bucket. The sailor carrying the bucket cursed and set it down beside the wall; farther out, men upon the new prize were hauling a red-axe banner beneath the rail. Jon watched it disappear. He had wanted ships. There was one more, won within sight of the people she had come to take.

Two more of his men were dead.

Aurane had brought their names with the report, and four names beneath them for men who could no longer fight. Jon held the paper against the wall with his good hand.

Aurane touched the first name. "Harl. The one with the torn ear."

Jon remembered him at once. Only that morning he had watched Harl help lift a freed woman into a boat. The man had held her arm until she found her footing, grinning at something she said. Jon saw the smile now, absurdly clear, and had to look away from the boats. He read the name again.

"Arthur?"

"Alive. So is Malcolm." Aurane looked back at the flagship. "I saw the end of it. They were cheering him on both ships."

Jon could hear something of that cheering still. A name rose across the water, broken by distance and the creak of the ferry's tackle. Men upon the landing had stopped to listen. He let them have the moment before he sent them back to the boats.

"Tell Denys I have his report."

A runner came up from Rymond before Aurane could leave. Two families had come out of the houses above the landing and asked to go with the ships. Twelve people. They were waiting by the storehouse, carrying what they could. The older woman spoke for them.

"She says they washed clothes and sold fish to the garrison," the runner told Jon. "They've been shut in a cellar since the fighting started."

Jon looked down the lane. He had come for the pirates' wealth, and every hour another person needed something from him. Twelve more mouths, more room in the boats. He could tell them to go back to their houses. They had survived under Vhalar; perhaps they would survive under Rolo. The thought was mean enough that he disliked hearing it in his own head.

"Have Rymond search their bundles and count them separately. They can come. The wounded still go first." He turned to Aurane. "Tell Denys about them. And that I expect them treated as passengers."

The runner went back down. Aurane watched him a moment, then resumed his report.

"Denys wants the wounded taken off his flagship before he shifts the prize. He has her rowers apart from the fighting men, but he'll need guards aboard her."

"He keeps the guards he needs. Rymond will have the boat ready."

Aurane went down the steps. Jon waited for the boat to clear, then sent the names to Hewyn.

The sea had changed while he watched the shore. Vhalar's ships were pulling north, three galleys moving together through the wreckage of the larger fight. Rolo's men were clearing the deck of a galley they had taken from him. A body hung from her side, caught by something Jon could not see. He lowered the glass before he could make himself look for its face.

Vhalar was leaving him.

The water between the fleets was widening. Every free red-axe deck would soon be looking this way. Denys had one more ship to guard, and Brus was still on foot in the hills. Jon called for Alasdair.

He called to the bowman Elyas had put in charge of the loft above the landing. "Keep your men under cover until they can hit something. I don't want a man showing himself to loose at a distant sail."

The bowman passed the order through the loft. Jon went up the lane with Alasdair beside him. At the gate, Hewyn listened as Jon repeated Aurane's account, then looked towards the path Brus had taken.

"Still no sign of Rolo's men on the inland track," he said.

"I'm going to have another look."

Alasdair stopped at the turn in the stair. Jon went on alone to the screened stretch of wall, where Munin had returned to wait. He sat with his back to the stone. For a moment his right hand beat painfully beneath the dressing, and he found himself resenting the bird for the ease with which she could leave it all behind.

Then he was looking down upon the fort through Munin's eyes.

The southern landing lay beyond the headland. Jon kept Munin high until the castle's shadow reached beneath her. The two fast ships were there, close inshore. Men moved upon the beach, but the shields he had followed earlier had gone inland. He found them by the dust rising where a low road crossed bare ground.

They were marching west.

Jon took her across their line of travel, circled, and went lower. Red cloth hung from a spear near the head of the column. Men carried axes and short ladders. A few lagged behind with sacks slung between them; the officer at the rear cuffed one and sent him hurrying after the others. Too many for a handful of scouts. Near a hundred, though scrub kept swallowing sections of the road before he could finish counting.

They were going to Moreo's harbour.

Of course they were. Vhalar had brought his strength east, and Rolo wanted the island. Jon had not been the only man to notice what that left behind.

Brus could come down out of the hills into those shields, with Corwyn and the sailors behind him. Jon had to get the warning to him before the centurion left the scouts' hollow.

He turned Munin back.

Hewyn was waiting below when Jon came down. Alasdair took one look at his face and reached for the writing things.

"Rolo's landing party has not come up the track," Jon said. "Why should he send them against these walls when Vhalar has emptied Moreo's harbour for him?"

Hewyn looked west. "You think he's after the same ships?"

"And cutting off Vhalar's way home. Warn Brus to allow for a hundred men if Rolo adds any of the castle guard to those he landed. He must learn where they are before he descends."

"Call him back?" Hewyn asked.

Brus would have to cross the same hills to return, while Rolo gathered his ships off the landing. A recall would not put him back in the yard before the next attack. Jon looked at Alasdair's waiting pen.

"Tell him what is coming. He is to keep the sailors out of sight and see the ground for himself. If he has to withdraw, he withdraws."

Alasdair wrote, his paper braced upon the flat of a shield. Jon watched the warning take shape.

"That is enough."

He added his name with his left hand. The first letter sprawled. He made the others smaller, his jaw clenched against the pain in his bound hand.

During a lull before Aurane's arrival, Jon had brought Hugin back from the scouts with a second note. They were still in the hollow above the stores, waiting as ordered. He had kept the crow at the fort while the landing demanded him. Now he wished he had sent him back sooner.

Alasdair tied the warning to Hugin's leg. Jon carried the bird to the stair, left his guard at the turn, and sat down again. A horn sounded out at sea. He forced himself to leave it for Hewyn.

The ridges passed beneath Hugin, green scrub giving way to pale rock, then scrub again. In one hollow a goat lifted its head and bounded away. Jon searched the next rise for the twisted pine the scouts had marked in their letter. He found the tree, then a shield held low beneath it.

Brus had reached them.

Jon brought Hugin down onto the bare branch the scouts had stripped for a perch. The swordsmen's centurion reached for the packet. Corwyn stood beside him, dust upon his face, looking from the crow to the hills behind it.

Jon waited until Brus had the letter open. He could not stay in the bird while his men at the landing waited for orders. He let Hugin go.

Back against the stone, he opened his eyes to the horn sounding again.

* * *

They brought Vhalar the count after the three galleys had drawn beyond bowshot of the pursuing ships.

The first mate had sent a boat between them while the crews caught their breath beneath the shelter of the northern headland. Now he stood beside the steering platform with a strip of bloodstained cloth wound around his forearm. Vhalar had not seen him take the wound. He could not remember whether he had ordered that boat out or merely watched it go.

"A hundred and seventy-five who can still fight," the mate said. "Across all three. Sailors besides."

Vhalar looked at the nearest galley. Men sat with their backs against the rail, heads bent. One was holding a shield across his knees as though he had forgotten how to put it down. They had hauled survivors aboard until the rowers scarcely had room to work, and still there had been hands reaching after them.

"And the hurt?"

The mate gave him that count too. Vhalar made him repeat it. A man with a bound arm might stand in a gate. A man whose belly had been opened would only die more slowly aboard a crowded ship. He hated himself for making the distinction while Drazen's blood was still wet upon Rolo's axe.

Drazen would have known which hull could take another wounded man without sending a boat twice. Vhalar almost spoke his name before he caught himself.

The mate waited for his orders. Beyond the headland, Rolo's larger ships were turning back towards the eastern landing. Vhalar stared until he could distinguish the captured galleys among them. Somewhere amid those hulls lay what was left of Drazen. He had no ship to spare for fetching it.

"Moreo's harbour," he said. "Keep together round the northern coast."

"We left fifty there."

"I know what I left."

The mate shut his mouth. Vhalar looked away first. He could not keep punishing the man for having survived long enough to speak to him.

He would not turn back into those red sails. The thought hurt almost as much as the leaving. A hundred and seventy-five men could die very quickly if he fed them to Rolo's whole strength; they could still kill a great many people if he chose where to spend them. He rested his hand upon the rail until the shaking stopped.

"Water for the wounded before we move. And have the captains watch my ship. Nobody goes ahead alone."

The mate went. Vhalar stayed at the stern, looking east, until the headland hid the red axes.

* * *

Corwyn watched Brus read the warning.

Hugin sat upon the bare branch, cocking his head at the men beneath it.

"How in the seven hells did he find this place?" Corwyn asked.

"He flew back to Lord Jon from this tree, ser," the scout answered.

Corwyn had seen ravens come home to a castle. This bird had come to two men beneath a tree.

Brus frowned over the warning, then handed Corwyn the note.

Rolo's landing party had not come against the eastern fort. Jon feared they were making for Moreo's fort instead. Brus was to allow for a hundred men if they had brought any of the castle guard with them, keep clear of the lower road and learn where the pirates were bound. The hand was the same neat one Corwyn had watched Alasdair use in the yard. At the foot Jon had added his name, awkwardly formed.

Corwyn read it again. "A hundred."

"And thirty of us." Brus took the paper back. "Better to learn it here than meet them on the road."

He had the scouts show him where the woodcutters' track bent away from the road. While one marked the turn in the earth, the man carrying their ink wrote a short answer against his shield. They would keep to the high ground and stop beneath the last wooded ridge. The scout bound the reply to Hugin's leg and settled him on the perch again.

Corwyn glanced back at the bird as they left the hollow. Hugin watched them go, the roll showing pale against his feathers. Brus was already sending the scouts ahead. He warned the sailors to stay close, then went to help the exhausted rower shoulder his bundle.

By the time they reached the last ridge, the trees' shadows stretched far across the track. Corwyn's thighs trembled whenever he stood still. He was pulling his helm straight when the nearer scout came back at a crouch.

Brus raised his hand. The file stopped among the trees.

Then Corwyn heard the shouting.

* * *

The linen slipped through Rolo's fingers. He caught the end between his teeth and pulled until the cut above his wrist burned. Drazen had left him something to remember him by after all. Every time he gripped the axe, warm blood crept beneath the wrapping.

Across the water, men were hanging black shields along the rail of the galley his captain had just lost.

His galley. His rowers, his rigging, his good sound oars. The dead captain had been saving coin for a younger wife. Now some black-cloaked bastard would have the purse as well.

"You watched him go over?"

The captain who had come across in the boat nodded. His first mate waited beside the rail. Two other captains stood by the mast, waiting for their landing orders. The visiting captain's ship had been nearest when the fool broke away to attack the black ships. He had not followed, which had pleased Rolo until the man began explaining why.

"They had a knight aboard."

"Oh, a knight." Rolo spat the linen from his teeth. "Fetch every purse, then. We must buy him off."

The captain's face darkened. "I saw him fight."

Rolo held out his arm to the sailor waiting with fresh cloth. The man wound it tight. Too tight. Rolo let him.

"Tell me."

"Took an axe on his shoulder and kept coming. When our lads got across, he was in amongst them. Never hurried. They kept shouting his name." The captain glanced towards the black ships. "Arthur. That's what they called him."

"And our brave husband?"

The captain touched the soft place beneath his own jaw.

Rolo pictured it. A man who did not hurry when steel was coming at his face. Drazen had been like that before the wound in his side began to drag at him. He flexed his fingers; the sailor flinched and stepped away.

"You should have gone to help," said Rolo's first mate.

"And left another ship for him?" The captain rounded on him. "You were near enough to row."

Rolo laughed. Both men stopped.

There it was. Another hour and every captain would remember how he could have saved the day, if only some other bastard had done his part. They would quarrel over the prizes, over the wounded, over whose tired rowers must tow whose broken hull. Beyond them the black ships would creep away with everything worth carrying.

"Leave the knight my ship for now," Rolo said. "I'll take her back with the rest."

The mate looked towards the galley they had lost. Rolo caught him by the shoulder and turned him the other way, towards the nearest galley taken from Vhalar. Men were still dragging splintered oars from her side.

"That one. Have her brought across our bows."

"She's barely worth the tow."

"Then you won't mind putting her nearest their arrows."

The captured hull would do useful work before anyone asked him to pay for her repairs. There was room behind her high side to gather boats; the black archers would have to move to see his men climbing into the boats. Rolo watched the thin flag hanging above her deck.

"Leave Vhalar's colours where they are."

The mate grinned. "Think they'll let her in?"

"I think they'll look twice." Rolo shoved him towards the steps. "Move." He took up his axe as the mate went down.

The visiting captain stayed where he was. "My men have earned a turn ashore."

Earned. Rolo's ribs stung beneath his shirt. He wanted the boats away, and this bastard had decided to haggle with him in front of half the deck.

"Yours can still pull a full stroke. Keep her seaward of those merchants. I want their knight watching you while we land."

"While the others have the stores?"

Rolo looked past him. The sailors had stopped passing shields down to the boats. Even the man holding the bloody cloth was listening.

Then Rolo smiled. "Aye. You've earned it. Go ashore."

The captain let out a breath. "My men will remember—"

Rolo caught his shoulder and drove the axe into the side of his neck.

The blow tore at Rolo's wounded wrist. He laughed through the pain, holding the captain upright for a moment while the man's fingers scrabbled at his coat. The body sagged. Rolo let it fall, planted a boot against the breastplate and wrenched his axe free.

The captain's first mate had pressed himself against the rail. His hand hovered beside his sword.

"Go on," Rolo said, still smiling.

The hand fell away.

Rolo stepped over the body. "You've got his ship. Will you obey my orders, or are you going to fucking whine too?"

"I'll obey."

"My lord."

"I'll obey, my lord."

Rolo turned towards the watching men, the bloody axe hanging at his side.

"I'll hear no more talk of treasure or sailing home until we've killed those black-cloaked bastards! I want their heads on stakes along this shore!" He thrust the axe towards the eastern fort. "The black bastard's beside his fucking knight's!"

"Red Axe!" a pirate roared.

Another took up the cry, beating his axe against his shield. Men crowded the rail, shouting towards the black ships, and the deck shook beneath their stamping feet.

"Red Axe! Red Axe!"

The two captains by the mast exchanged a glance. Rolo caught it. Neither had joined the shouting.

"Something to say?" he snarled.

One shook his head. The other glanced at the body between them, then raised his fist and bellowed with the crew. Rolo watched until the first followed him.

"Then get your men into the boats. Wait for my signal."

Rolo turned back to the new captain and shifted the axe into his other hand. Fresh blood showed through the bandage.

"Keep her seaward of the merchants. Watch my stern. When the bowman lifts his shield overhead, bring your men to the rail with their hooks. Make that knight think you're coming aboard."

The man nodded quickly.

"Say it."

He repeated the orders, stumbling once when his eyes dropped to the body. Rolo waited until he had finished.

"If the black ships try to leave, sound your horn. Keep clear of their hooks. I've given the bastard one galley today. Don't give him another."

"No, my lord."

"Then get off my fucking deck."

The two waiting captains were already climbing down to their boats when the new captain hurried after them. Rolo turned upon the sailors still staring.

"Those shields won't carry themselves."

They went back to work. Two men dragged the body clear of the steps. Rolo rested the axe against his shoulder and looked towards the shore, his smile lingering as the boats filled beneath him.

Out on the water, a towline tightened. Vhalar's captured flag lifted in the wind.

* * *

The first boat went down from Rolo's flagship with shields already aboard it.

Jon watched through the glass while men climbed after them. Another boat lay alongside the neighbouring galley. Beyond those two, crews were clearing wreckage from a captured vessel, hauling broken oars out through the same places where they had been driven in. Rolo had won himself work as well as ships. It would not occupy him for long enough.

"How many?" Hewyn asked.

"I can't see the boats behind the hulls."

That was the answer to too much today. He could fly over them and count, perhaps, while another man made the decisions at his shoulder. Hugin had not yet returned from the west. Munin rested upon the battlement with her head tucked beneath a wing. Jon felt the ache behind his eyes and lowered the glass.

"Enough to come ashore."

Vhalar's blue banner lifted above the captured galley. For a moment Jon could see it clearly against the water, then the hull turned and hid the boats again.

"Vhalar?" Garon asked.

"His banner." Jon followed the towline to the red-axe ship drawing her forward. "Rolo has the galley."

Garon nodded, but someone farther down the wall had already shouted Vhalar's name. Jon heard the name repeated below, then a woman's cry. The twelve islanders were still waiting by the storehouse. A man saw the blue cloth and started down the steps, clutching his bundle. His family followed; the other family crowded after them.

Rymond shouted for them to wait. The ferry was still coming alongside. Those crowding onto the steps could not see that; they could see only the backs of those ahead, and Vhalar's banner coming towards the shore they had meant to leave.

Jon handed Hewyn the glass. "Keep watching those boats."

He went down with Alasdair. Halfway along the lane a wounded legionary lay upon a door, waiting for the sling. His bearers had set him against the wall to let people pass. Now one stood over him with his shield turned sideways, trying to keep feet away from the injured leg. The wounded man swore whenever somebody touched it. A little girl had been squeezed against his other side; he caught her sleeve before she fell beneath the crowd.

Harl had caught the woman's arm like that. Jon swallowed and looked for a way through to the girl.

"Back up!" Rymond roared from below. "The boat isn't in!"

A sailor had his boathook braced against the stone, holding the ferry clear while another struggled with a rope. One man tried to jump the gap. Rymond caught his belt and hauled him back onto the steps. The man struck out at Rymond, sobbing with anger.

Jon felt his own temper rise. He had given them leave to come. He had asked only that they wait while his wounded were carried down, and now—

The little girl cried out. He saw her mother trying to reach her through a wall of bodies, heard the terror in her voice, and the words he had meant to shout stuck in his throat. He had been a father. He knew what she could see of this battle.

"Alasdair, four men. Clear that doorway behind us. Bring the people at the back through it."

The household captain sent his nearest guards into the storehouse. Jon climbed onto the low stone beside the wounded soldier, steadying himself with his left hand. A helmet struck his bandaged fingers as someone turned below him. Pain flashed up his arm.

"Stop pushing! The boats are coming back."

Few looked up. The older woman who spoke for the two families was pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make herself heard. Jon caught her eye and pointed towards the space Alasdair's men had opened.

"Take them that way. Away from the steps."

She shouted in another tongue. An older man answered furiously, pointing at the blue banner. She shouted back, then thrust a hand towards the wounded legionary. Whatever she said made two men near him turn. One bent to take the end of the door. The other pulled a sack out of the way and pushed it beneath the soldier's head.

Space opened by inches. The wounded legionary let go of the girl's sleeve as her mother reached her. She dragged her daughter close, kissing her hair while she scolded her. Rymond got the man who had tried to jump onto the level ground. His hands stayed open when the fellow struck him again.

"Give him room, Rymond," Jon called. "Let him breathe."

He had practised moving men through narrow passages in another life, with lights above them and instructors waiting to stop the exercise. Here the walls pressed close, the words were wrong, and frightened people could hurt one another while he worked out what to say. His trained men could give ground together. These people needed somewhere they could see to go.

The household guards brought them into the open storehouse. The woman went among them, pulling one man back from the doorway, making another sit. Jon stayed on the stone until the way below was clear enough for the bearers to lift their door. Two of the islanders took the front corners without being asked.

"That one's first," Jon told the boatman.

The woman looked up sharply. "They think you will take your soldiers and leave them."

"I am staying here." He pointed to the mother. "She and the child go with him. Then the boat comes back for the others."

The woman translated. She watched until the mother was seated in the ferry before turning to the people in the storehouse again. Jon could not blame her for wanting proof.

Rymond came up the steps with his lip bleeding. "I could use those four until they're aboard."

Jon looked towards Alasdair. The captain nodded once.

"Keep them," Jon said.

The ferry pulled clear at last. He watched it pass beneath the bows of the nearest escort, painfully slow with the wounded man lying along its middle. Rolo did not have to kill everyone upon this landing to beat him. Frighten them badly enough, make the boats stop coming, and all the ground his men had taken would become a place to die.

Jon climbed back towards Hewyn. His hand throbbed with every step. Behind him, the woman was calling the next people forward, one family at a time.

Below the fort, Rymond's men had taken the last bound pirates off the landing. The wounded from Denys's ship were already aboard the merchant receiving them. The water between the steps and the nearest hull looked temptingly narrow. A man could begin to believe that getting everybody across it was the whole of escaping.

Then a fast ship moved in the north, red cloth showing between her mast and the sun. The pair guarding that water had not gone away.

Jon went down the wall to where he could see the streets below. Men looked up as he passed. Some straightened; one stood too quickly and had to catch the parapet. Their faces were grey beneath the dirt. He knew the feeling. There was always another thing to do before a man could lie down.

"Water up here," he told a runner. "Give them bread if there is any left in the kitchen."

He stopped beside the man who had nearly fallen. The legionary had a shallow cut beneath his eye, clotted dark against his cheek.

"Can you hold your place?"

"Aye, my lord."

Jon waited. The man drew a breath, set his feet properly and lifted his shield. That would have to do. Nobody ashore was fresh enough for the fight Jon would have preferred.

At the gate, Alasdair had the household close, black shields scarred pale where the paint had been struck away. Beyond them Norren's runner waited for Hewyn. The spring and upper track remained quiet. Rolo's hundred had gone west, but the men still afloat were turning towards the boats Jon needed to leave.

He had wanted to make the pirate divide his strength. He had succeeded. Now he had to live long enough for it to matter.

"Tell Norren to hold his men where they are until we know where Rolo means to land," Jon said. "Rolo can still send men up that track and come in behind us."

Hewyn sent the runner. Below them, Gerralt called his swordsmen off a cart they had dragged across one of the lower approaches. They knelt behind it with their shields propped against the timber.

Jon looked west. There was nothing to see but the ridges.

Brus had the warning. He would be looking at the ground now, hearing men shout whom Jon could not hear, deciding whether the risk had become an opportunity or a grave. Jon wanted the ships and the wealth. He wanted Corwyn back with something better to say of his service than that a boy lord had sent him into a hundred axes.

More than anything, he wanted another hour.

A shield rose above Rolo's stern. Out beside the merchants, a red-axe galley turned her bow towards Denys's ship. Men crowded her rail with shields and grappling ropes. Along Denys's facing rail, black shields rose to meet them.

The boat beside Rolo's flagship shoved clear. A second followed. Their oars rose white, dipped, and began carrying them towards the eastern shore.

Jon turned to the men at the wall.

"Stand ready."

* * *

The first dead man lay across the lower wall with his boots still on the outside.

Corwyn could see the backs of his legs through a break in the scrub. Flies had settled upon the bare strip above one boot. Farther along, a second body lay in a spill of grain beneath a split sack. Someone had tried to carry off the grain while men were fighting over the storehouses.

The fighting had reached the gate above the stores now.

He eased forward beside Brus. Below their hiding place, a low wall enclosed the western stores and the open ground above the moorings. The road entered at its southern end. Men with red axes painted on their shields were passing through that opening, turning uphill between the buildings. At the head of the rising lane stood two square towers and an intact gate. Behind them, beyond another wall, Corwyn could see the upper windows of Moreo's old house.

"Vhalar took all this," he murmured.

Brus nodded. A horn sounded from the gate, three ragged notes almost drowned by a crash of wood.

A long spar struck the doors again. The men carrying it staggered back as a stone came down from one tower. It missed the spar and hit a pirate's shoulder. He fell sideways, dragging the man behind him down. Above them, a defender leaned between the merlons and thrust his spear at a ladder just appearing against the stone.

Corwyn had feared seeing red axes above those towers. The march had seemed endless after Jon's warning. Yet Vhalar's men still held, and the pirates who had beaten them here were spending their strength against the doors.

One of the scouts crawled close enough to whisper. "We saw near fifty of Vhalar's men fall back from the stores when the attack began. Fewer now."

Vhalar's colours still flew from the western tower. Corwyn watched a man beneath them draw his bow, loose into the packed lane, and bend for another arrow. The gate shook. Something heavy slid against it from within.

"It will hold a while," Brus said.

"You are certain?"

"They've no room to draw that timber back properly."

A knot of pirates near the foot of the lane were shouting at those ahead to pull back. Nobody did. The wounded man beneath the tower tried to crawl, only to be kicked onto his side when the spar came down again. From their flank, Corwyn could see how tightly the attackers had crowded between the walls. Men at the rear strained to learn what was happening at the gate. One stood on a barrel, his axe held high, bellowing for more shields.

There were too many. Even with the dead upon the ground, far too many.

Corwyn drew back into cover. The soldiers waiting behind him watched his face, then their centurion's. He made himself take his hand from his sword.

"If they turn on us here, they'll come up the slope after us."

Brus looked at the trees behind their party. "We won't stand here."

He went back to the sailors himself. Corwyn heard him give the older of Norren's scouts charge of the hiding place. The twelve sailors and ten freed rowers were to stay beneath the ridge with both scouts. If men came searching, they were to withdraw along the track. No one was to come down because he heard shouting.

The sailor carrying the rope looked towards the noise. "And if you need us?"

"I'll send for you."

"I have a knife."

"Keep it." Brus touched the coil. "I need you and this rope aboard a ship."

The man settled back, unconvinced but obedient. One of the freed rowers was rubbing the scars at his wrist. Corwyn wondered how much of the exchange he understood. Enough, perhaps, to know they were not being pushed towards another man's spear.

The rower caught Brus's sleeve as he turned away. Corwyn saw him release it at once, as though he expected a blow.

"The oars," he said. "You must find the oars."

"We have sailors for that."

"Aye. Tell them. When they lay a galley up, the good ones go under a roof. Leave them lying out and every boatman takes one." He pointed towards the buildings below. "They may have locked them away."

Brus looked back at the bundle of tools. "You know ships?"

"I shaped oars. Before." His fingers closed over the scar at his wrist. "A bent one will pull. A split one can break in your hands. I can tell which to leave."

Corwyn glanced at the harbour. He had thought of the ships as theirs once they could reach them. Now he imagined men dying while someone searched a locked store for the means to leave.

Brus called the sailor with the tool bag over. "Keep him with you when I send for you. Have an axe ready."

The rower nodded, then opened his hands and held them steady for the sailor to see. The man put the bag between them and showed him what Denys had sent. Corwyn left them arguing quietly over which tool would open a nailed door fastest.

Brus returned with his optio. They followed Corwyn along the ridge until they could look past the outer wall. A broad-roofed store stood nearest the hillside. Its upper door opened upon a loading platform reached by a few shallow steps. Beside the building, a narrow passage ran uphill between its wall and the next store, joining the lane partway towards the gate.

Corwyn watched a pirate run into it, bend out of sight, then reappear with a skin of water. No second man followed him. Whoever had taken the stores was thinking of the gate now.

"There," he whispered. "That passage puts us beside them."

Brus studied it. "It does."

"They'll have to turn from the doors."

"Or send those fellows to meet you." Brus pointed with two fingers.

At the lane's foot stood a group who had not joined the attack. Some were drinking, others examining their weapons. More than a score, Corwyn reckoned, though the corner of the store hid a few. A bareheaded man in a red sash walked among them, striking shields with the flat of his axe to make their owners look at him.

Corwyn had seen them without giving them enough weight. His cheeks warmed beneath the helm. "We wait until he sends them up."

"Aye. If he does."

Another crash came from the gate. This time wood broke. The shout that followed ran down the lane and brought the men below onto their feet. Corwyn leaned forward, but Brus's hand closed upon his arm.

Atop the tower, Vhalar's bowman reached for another arrow. A second man appeared beside him with a round stone and dropped it straight down. The attackers recoiled. A broken length of ladder came tipping out above their helms.

"The ladder," Brus said, releasing him.

Corwyn had thought it was the door.

They waited while the red-sashed man shoved two of his followers uphill. Only two. Corwyn's pulse beat against the leather beneath his jaw. He could not bear the thought of reaching those gates after Rolo's men had taken the towers and could turn their bows upon Jon's soldiers. Neither did he want to be caught halfway across the open ground because he had mistaken the sound of breaking wood.

Brus asked his optio a question too low for Corwyn to hear. The man answered with a glance along the buildings. The centurion considered it, then looked at Corwyn.

"Can you bring eight men through there?"

"Yes."

"Stay together. If you see a man running, let him run. When the pirates turn towards you, I want your shields across the mouth of that passage."

Corwyn looked again at the passage. Two men could stand abreast at its narrowest point; it widened where it met the lane. He pictured himself coming out alone, sword raised, and the pirates closing upon the black shields behind him.

"I will."

Brus gave a brief nod. "Watch for us at the foot of the lane. No shouting until I call."

The optio touched the men he wanted upon the shoulder. Eight moved towards Corwyn, carrying their javelins close against their shields.

"Five behind me," Brus told his optio. "As Lord Jon drilled us. They wait for my call."

The optio drew five aside from the remaining swordsmen and set them behind Brus's leading men. Corwyn lowered the last thumb of his visor and found that his mouth was dry again.

The oldest of his eight caught the lower edge of his shield.

"Mind that, ser."

The red crab on his shield showed between the branches. Corwyn turned the painted face against his thigh. The soldier let go without comment, then stooped to loosen a stone which would have rolled beneath the next man's boot. He set it carefully in the dust.

They descended behind the store. The roof hid the towers, but the shouts were louder here. Corwyn heard a man pleading, then a curse and the thump of the spar. Somewhere close, a wounded pirate breathed with a wet whistle. Corwyn found him beneath the loading steps, staring at the shaft through his belly. The man's eyes followed them. His lips moved, but no sound came.

A soldier pressed a hand between Corwyn's shoulders, urging him on. He moved. There was nothing he could do for the pirate in that passage; knowing it did not make the eyes easier to leave.

A low heap of broken jars barred the way. Corwyn stepped over them and turned to take the next man's javelin, so he could climb without striking its head against the wall. The soldier passed it across. By the time the last man joined them, Corwyn's gauntlet was white with lime from the masonry.

The end of the passage lay six paces ahead. Beyond it, men shouted up the lane. Corwyn crept close enough to see one pirate's back, sweat darkening the shoulders of a patched blue coat. A whetstone hung from his belt. He was staring uphill with his mouth open, unaware of the men within a sword's length of him.

Corwyn could kill him now.

He could almost feel the stroke. One quick step, the edge beneath the helm, and the man would never turn. His fingers tightened upon the javelin instead.

At his shoulder, the older swordsman watched the lane's foot through a crack between buildings. Corwyn looked where he looked.

Two pirates came out of the lower store dragging a sack of old rope that left a black smear upon the stones. A third followed with a lighted brand. At the gate, men were pulling the broken ladder aside to make room for them.

Corwyn smelled tar. They had tired of battering the doors.

The torchbearer crouched behind a raised shield while his companions hauled the sack uphill. An arrow struck the shield and made him flinch. He kept the flame low. Whoever commanded them had thought to give him cover.

Corwyn searched for Brus. The centurion was still behind the store corner. Surely he could see them. The pirates would burn their way in, and those crowded backs would disappear through the gate.

Above, Vhalar's bowman shifted to the nearer opening and drew upon the torchbearer. The man carrying the sack dropped flat, dragging his burden with him. Shouts came down for shields, more shields. The waiting men began to move.

The red-sashed man shouted back and waved his axe uphill. He seized one of his men by the collar and shoved him towards the gate, roaring for the rest to follow. They went reluctantly at first, then faster as those above called down. The blue-coated pirate joined them. Their boots scraped and knocked upon the stones. More shields crowded past the passage until Corwyn could see little beyond wood and iron.

He waited for Brus.

The last pirates started uphill. Below them, through the open space they had left, Corwyn saw a black shield appear beside the store corner. Another came level with it. Brus's men crossed the foot of the lane in a close, deliberate rush, their javelins drawn back.

One pirate turned. He saw the black shields and flung out his hand.

"Behind!"

"Now!" Brus roared.

Corwyn stepped into the lane and cast. His javelin struck the blue-coated man beneath the raised arm, turning him against the soldier beside him. More shafts flew past. A shield rang; another jerked backwards with a man attached. The pirates nearest the passage wheeled in a crush of shoulders and lifted weapons.

Corwyn drew his sword. A broad man with a hooked blade came at him, kicking the fallen javelin aside. Corwyn took the first cut upon his shield and thrust at the exposed thigh. The pirate stumbled without falling. Corwyn started after him.

"Close, ser!"

The word came from beside his ear. He checked his step. The shield on his left settled against his own as an axe struck where his shoulder would have been. He felt the blow through both men, hard enough to jar his teeth, and saw the axeman trying to wrench his weapon free.

"Next two, behind us!" Corwyn shouted to his men. "Hold here!"

He drove his sword over the joined shields.

Below him, Brus bellowed for the line to come on. Black shields struck the rear of the red axes, and the lane filled with men turning from the gate to meet them.