Chapter 71 - The Narrow Ground

The axeman would not let go of his weapon. Corwyn felt him wrenching at the head caught between the shields, saw the tendons stand out in his neck, and thrust beneath his raised elbow. The point struck mail. He drove harder. Beside him, the older swordsman shoved forward with a grunt, turning the pirate just far enough for Corwyn's blade to find the opening.

The man fell against them, dragging Corwyn's sword down with him. Corwyn braced a foot and tried to wrench it free.

"Let him drop, ser."

Corwyn pulled free and stepped back into the passage. The corpse slid from the shields. Another man came over it, putting a boot upon his companion's back, and the older legionary cut at the knee before Corwyn could lift his sword again. The pirate screamed and fell across the first.

Already there was scarcely room to move his feet. The passage opened partway up the lane: Brus fought at its foot, Moreo's gate stood above it. Corwyn had chosen the passage for cover; now its walls robbed him of every long stroke he knew. He kept his elbow close and the point forward. Beyond the two corpses, sunlight caught a spearhead above the press. Men he could not reach were trying to kill him over the heads of those he could. His visor smelled of his own breath. Someone struck its side hard enough to ring his ears.

"Back a pace!" he shouted.

They gave ground together. The next pair of swordsmen stepped up behind them, ready to take their places. Corwyn could hear Brus below, bellowing the same short order until it carried through the lane.

"Close ranks!"

The red-sashed pirate had turned his men from the gate. He was no longer trying to shout over everyone. He caught shoulders, struck helms with the flat of his axe and shoved men into a line facing downhill. Shields settled beside shields. The first shock had killed some and frightened the rest; it had not emptied the lane.

The brief pleasure of the ambush drained away. There were still too many.

An arrow came down from the tower. It struck a pirate high in the back and drove him onto one knee. Another shaft broke against a shield above Corwyn's head. So much for saving Vhalar's garrison. The bastards on the wall were shooting at anyone who gave them a clear mark.

"Under the eaves!" Corwyn pulled his left shoulder back. "The bowmen can see us."

The older soldier glanced up and obeyed. Corwyn wanted to ask his name. The man had caught his shield before he could charge out alone, and Corwyn had almost shaken him off. He had been more careful to learn the names of his uncle's dinner guests.

The red sash moved nearer.

"There!" the pirate shouted, pointing his axe towards their passage. "Drive them out of that passage!"

Three men broke from the uphill crowd. One had a long spear. He stayed behind the other two and thrust between their shoulders, making Corwyn give another step. The spearhead scratched along the wall beside his helm. He could not reach its bearer. When he tried to strike the shaft, the man drew it back and thrust at the legionary beside him instead.

"I'll pin the spear," Corwyn said. "Kill the man behind it."

He turned the crab towards the spear and let the next thrust come. The head struck near the rim. Corwyn bore down upon the shaft, trapping it against the stone, while the swordsman beside him cut the forward pirate's hand. The fellow recoiled. Corwyn's companion thrust through the space he left and caught the spearman beneath the chin.

The shaft went slack. Corwyn shoved it out of the passage.

One of his men laughed, a single disbelieving sound. Then a stone from the tower struck the store's shallow loading steps behind them, scattering chips across their legs, and the laughter stopped.

Below, Brus's front rank had halted. Corwyn could see black shields through the legs and swinging weapons ahead of him. They were close, much closer than when the fight began. Yet the pirates had room now to brace themselves against the slope. A man at the rear dragged the battering spar away from the doors and tried to turn it across the lane.

If they got that timber between themselves and Brus, the centurion would have to climb it under their blades.

Corwyn leaned forward. The older soldier caught his shield again.

"I see it," Corwyn said, too sharply. The man's hand stayed upon the rim. Corwyn looked towards Brus. "We wait for his word."

Only then did the soldier let go.

Brus shouted for his optio. Five shields came out from behind his line and crossed to the store opposite Corwyn's passage. Keeping below the fighting, they reached its lower door, tore it open and vanished inside.

For a few breaths Corwyn could make nothing of it. Then something struck the shutter across the lane. It burst outward. A swordsman leaned through the opening and hurled one of the pirates' abandoned javelins into the men trying to move the spar.

The nearest turned his shield towards the window.

"Now, ser!" Brus roared.

Corwyn went out with the older soldier beside him. This time the men behind knew he was going. They followed close, shields striking the pirates' flanks before those men could turn back from the window. Corwyn hit a round shield with his own and drove until the man holding it stumbled against the spar.

The timber dropped upon somebody's foot. The cry was lost beneath the crash of Brus's line coming uphill.

Corwyn saw the red sash between two helms. Its wearer had understood. He was trying to get behind Corwyn's men, towards the mouth of the passage they had just left.

Corwyn turned with him.

The axe came low. He caught it on the shield, felt the hooked edge drag his arm down, and saw the pirate's knife coming for his throat. He jerked back. The point scraped the lower edge of his visor. The man smelled of onions and hot leather.

There was no room to swing his sword. Corwyn struck with the pommel instead. Once against the cheek. Again, harder, as the pirate tried to turn his face away.

The knife cut Corwyn across the wrist between glove and sleeve.

He shouted, more angry than hurt, and shoved his shield into the man's mouth. The pirate staggered. A black shield struck him from the other side, pinning his knife arm against the store wall. Corwyn shortened his grip and drove the point beneath the breastbone.

The red-sashed man seized his sleeve. For an instant they stood together, close enough to embrace. Then the fingers loosened.

Corwyn let him fall. He dragged his sword free and found he was still shouting, though the man beneath him had stopped moving. He shut his mouth. His wrist hurt now, a hot wet sting beneath the glove.

"Shields up! Hold the lane!" Brus called.

Corwyn looked downhill. Pirates were climbing through a broken shutter, dropping onto the low roof beyond it. Others had found room between Brus's men and the outer wall. One threw his shield away to squeeze through. A legionary turned after him.

"Leave him!" Brus caught the soldier's belt. "Keep the lane."

Corwyn stared at the escaping men. They were running towards the southern road, towards other red axes somewhere beyond the hills. He wanted them stopped. He had seen what they meant to do to the gate; he had felt the knife at his throat.

Then he saw what pursuing them would leave. Eight men beside him, one with blood running into his boot. Brus's ranks stretched across the slope. The towers above them still held bowmen.

He faced uphill again.

The sack of tarred rope had caught fire.

Flames climbed the heap pressed against the gate. A pirate stamped at them and set his own shoe alight. He went stumbling down the lane, beating at his leg. Someone upon the wall emptied a bucket. Water struck the stones short of the fire and ran beneath the bodies.

"Down with your weapons!" Brus shouted to the pirates trapped at the doors.

A man thrust at him over a companion's shoulder. Brus knocked the spear aside and stepped back beneath his shield as an arrow came down.

"Or stay there and burn."

One sword fell. Then a shield. The men nearest the flames pushed those ahead of them until three came sprawling into the lane with empty hands. Brus's soldiers dragged them clear and shoved them against the store wall. Others followed. One tried to hide a knife beneath his thigh; the optio kicked it away and put a sword against his neck.

Corwyn looked for the older swordsman. Blood showed at his collar, but he shook his head when Corwyn pointed.

"Not mine, ser."

"Your name?"

"Edden." He tilted his shield towards the tower. "Mind that one."

Corwyn moved beneath the eaves. "I owe you."

"Calling the spear helped," Edden said. "Keep telling us before you move."

Corwyn had hoped he would speak of the captain. He nodded instead. When Edden stepped beside him, Corwyn raised his shield to cover them both. The older man kept his eyes upon the tower.

Above them, a man shouted from the tower for the black shields to stand back. Brus lifted his head.

"Tell your bowmen to stop shooting and we'll put that out."

The man disappeared. Another arrow struck the lane.

"Back into cover," Brus said. "They can think about it."

He sent a soldier back up the hillside to the hidden sailors. The younger scout was to stay with them; the older was to return to the hollow and watch for Jon's crow. Everyone else waited until Brus called.

Corwyn went with his men beneath the store roof. Through the smoke, Vhalar's blue banner cracked once above the gate. Edden eased the glove off Corwyn's wounded hand and checked the binding beneath it. Corwyn held still for him and watched the doors. He wanted them open before another shaft found one of his men.

* * *

The first arrow struck the water short of Rolo's boats. Jon watched the little splash disappear beneath a lifting oar.

"Wait," he said.

The bowman beside him lowered his hand. From the loft window, Jon looked across the timber yard to the sea. Stacked wood crowded its northern end; at the southern end, stone landing steps descended to the ferries. From the yard, the lane climbed between the houses to the fort stair. At the foot of that stair, a path branched off towards the landing steps, skirting the yard behind his defenders. Wounded men were still passing that junction. Below, Gerralt's men knelt behind the hauled-out hull and the timbers dragged across the yard. Beyond them, boats lifted and fell, shields covering the men crowded between the rowers.

Jon could see the tops of helms. Very little else.

The captured galley still carried Vhalar's banner. Her tow had brought her across the water beyond the landing, far enough out to keep her keel clear. Archers rose behind her rail. Jon ducked before the first shafts reached the loft.

One came through the shutter and buried itself in a roof beam. The bowman beside him swore. Below, a man cried out in the yard.

Rolo had found a use for the prize. Her high side hid the boats while the men aboard her kept Jon's archers looking through narrow openings. Jon could not see her towline now. It had done its work.

"Only the boats," he told the bowman. "Let that ship waste her arrows on stone."

"Aye, my lord."

The man waited, fingers resting upon the string. Jon kept looking beyond him, from the boats to Denys's hulls and back to the northern end of the yard. Rolo was spending men to get ashore. He would want something better than a pile of dead pirates for them.

At the landing steps, the last of the twelve islanders was getting into a ferry. Alasdair's four guards stood above them with shields raised. The older woman had made the men go first this time. She stayed until a sailor offered his hand, then climbed down without taking it.

Jon had been ready to send a guard down to hurry her. He let the order die. She had helped get the families out of his wounded men's way; she could have those last few moments on her own feet.

An oar struck the ferry's side. The boatman cursed, thrust it clear and pulled. Jon watched until the boat passed beneath the escort's bow, then forced himself to look back at the attackers.

The nearest boat turned towards the timber yard. A second followed. A third kept coming towards the landing steps, its bow crowded with shields.

"Now."

The shutters opened. Six bowstrings sounded close enough together to seem one noise. Along the fort wall, more archers loosed. A shield jerked in the nearest boat. One man toppled backward across an oar and was shoved down by those behind him.

They kept coming.

Jon went down the loft stair. Alasdair met him at the bottom, helmet on, shield in hand.

"Hewyn's below."

"Norren?"

"Still by the spring. Nothing moving along the upper track."

The upper track ran through scrub behind the fort, passing the spring above the northern houses. Norren held the walls beside it. Jon resented every shield kept from the shore, but pirates coming down that path could take his defenders from behind.

They reached the bend where the lane met the timber yard as the leading boat grounded.

A pirate jumped too soon. He went into water up to his breast and vanished beneath the shields lowered over him. Two men stumbled after him. A third waited until the boat lifted, then sprang into the shallows with his sword above his head.

"Hold!" Hewyn shouted.

The spearmen stayed behind the timber. Jon saw the urge to run in the way one man leaned forward. His neighbour put a hand against his shoulder and brought him back.

The last pirate found his footing in the shallows. He raised his sword, shouted back towards the boat, and came on.

He reached the first obstacle almost alone.

Three spears struck towards him. He caught one upon his shield and knocked another away. The third entered his thigh. He fell across the timber, clawing at the ground beyond it, while the men coming after him tried to climb over his body.

The bowmen loosed again.

For a moment Jon thought they would turn. He could see what the men in the boats could not: the waiting spearpoints, the swords behind them, Gerralt's shields covering the passage between the yard and the houses. There was no prize here they could simply climb aboard and take.

Then the second boat struck farther north, beyond the end of the timbers. Men spilled out beside the stacked lengths of wood. The stacked timber hid them from the loft's archers. Jon had used the same shelter when he landed.

Of course Rolo had seen it.

"Hewyn."

"I see them." Hewyn waved to Gerralt's nearer group. "Across to the timber stack. Keep your right flank beside the spearmen."

The swordsmen moved around the obstacle, shields facing the pirates climbing ashore. One caught his heel upon a plank. The man beside him took his weight without breaking stride, and Gerralt shoved them both into place. Jon had stopped drills for less. He watched the joined shields settle and felt a savage pleasure at the sight. Let Rolo try them. They had cursed Jon for those afternoons in the yard; he would gladly hear them curse him again on the voyage home.

He wanted the pirates driven back before the next boats arrived. Eighteen household shields waited uphill of the bend. He knew how quickly they could cross the yard; he had almost given the order when another boat's bow appeared behind the captured galley. Where was that one going? Keep a reserve. He had learned the rule in another life and drilled it into his officers here. Now Gerralt was paying for every moment Jon obeyed it. He kept his hand down and the eighteen where they were.

Hugin still had not come back.

The acknowledgement was waiting upon a bird's leg in the hills. Jon had sent thirty men to open his way off the island. A shut gate could leave Brus with nothing to show for the gamble while Rolo wore down the men Jon had kept. He needed to know. If the western attack had failed, there was still time to give another order.

"You have the yard," Jon told Hewyn. "I'm bringing in the scouts' answer. If Gerralt needs the reserve before I return, send for me."

Hewyn nodded and turned back towards the shouting.

Jon went into the little room behind the loft. A broken shutter lay across a flour bin. Alasdair stood in the doorway while Jon sat beneath the wall, pressed his left palm against his knee and closed his eyes.

Pine needles. A bare branch. The ache in his hand disappeared.

Hugin lifted his head. The hollow was empty except for the older scout, who sat beneath a tree with his spear across his knees. Far below, beyond the ridge, men were shouting. Jon could not tell whose voices they were.

He took Hugin above the pines. Smoke rose beside the western gate. Black shields moved among the stores below it; one vanished beneath a roof before Jon could follow. He banked once, trying to see past the eaves. Nothing. Brus's men had reached the fighting, but a crow's glimpse would not tell him who held that lane. Hewyn was waiting for an order on the other shore.

He turned the crow east.

The eastern shore opened beyond the hills, bright water crowded with hulls. He kept the crow low over the roofs and brought him to the loft. When Jon returned to himself, his jaw hurt from clenching it.

Alasdair let the bird settle upon his shield and untied the paper.

Brus had received the warning and was going to look at the western gate. Nothing more. The note had been written before the battle Jon could hear through Hugin.

Jon folded it and put it inside his coat. Black shields among the western stores: he could hold on to that much. Brus was still at his work.

Outside, Hewyn called for Jon. He rose, waited a breath for the dislocation of the flight to pass, and went out after Alasdair.

* * *

Rolo's boatman wanted to put him ashore beside the landing steps at the southern end of the yard.

"There are spears beside the fucking steps," Rolo said. "North."

The man hauled upon the steering oar. An arrow struck the shield above Rolo's head and made the fellow holding it grunt. Rolo pushed the edge higher with his axe haft.

"Keep it up. You can lie down when we're there."

The first boats had gone too close together. He could see their sterns knocking as the men ashore tried to haul them clear. A captain was shouting for another boat to come alongside, as though the beach were a quay and somebody might politely move to make room.

Rolo caught his boatman's sleeve and pointed past them.

"There. Beside the loose planks."

They went in at an angle. The keel grated. Rolo waited until he could see stones beneath the water, then climbed over the side.

The cold struck through Rolo's boots. His wounded wrist gave beneath the axe, and he caught the haft with his other hand. A pirate glanced at the bandage. Rolo held his stare until the man looked away, then flexed his fingers below the gunwale. Drazen again. The old bastard had made him earn that head; now he was making him earn every stroke that followed. Rolo grinned despite the pain. He had liked Drazen better at the end.

A spear came over the stacked wood.

Rolo knocked it aside with the axe and drove his shoulder into the pirate ahead of him, shoving the man behind the timber before the next thrust found him. The fellow turned, ready to curse, saw who had pushed him and swallowed the words.

"Good cover," Rolo told him. "Use it."

He crouched beside the stack. A boat scraped ashore behind him. More shields came over its side, wet men breathing hard, one bleeding from an arrow through the meat of his arm. Rolo caught that man before he could stumble past.

"Can you hold a shield?"

The pirate nodded.

"Then cover him." Rolo pointed to a bowman trying to keep his string out of the water. "Shield up. He needs both hands."

The man obeyed. Rolo looked round the end of the stack.

Spears waited behind timber, with black swordsmen in the gaps where the long shafts could not turn. Above them, the lane climbed between the houses towards the fort. A path branched off behind the black shields and descended along the yard's southern edge to the landing steps. Two men were carrying a third down it. They passed behind the fighting without stopping. No overturned cart, no press of fugitives trampling the wounded into the stones. He had been looking forward to that part.

"Red Axe!" someone shouted from the boats.

The cry passed along the water. Men straightened behind their shields. Rolo could feel them waiting for him to go first, the eager ones and the men who had seen what happened to a captain who asked for his share too soon. He bared his teeth at them.

"Bring the next boats here. No more at those steps."

The boatman lifted an oar to signal. Nearly two hundred men had been ordered into the landing boats. Some still waited behind the captured galley, sheltered from the black archers. Others would never leave the shallows. His first mate remained aboard the flagship to keep the merchants penned in. He would not have the captains chasing plunder ashore while the loaded ships sailed away.

An arrow struck the timber a finger's breadth from his face.

Rolo laughed. He could smell the split wood. "That one wants me. I always get the shy ones."

His bowman peered over the stack. Rolo pulled him down by the collar.

"Find a gap. Don't give him your whole fucking head."

Farther south, a pirate tried to haul himself across the barrier by a spear shaft. The spearman let go. The pirate fell backwards among his fellows, and their rush stopped.

Rolo watched where they looked next. Towards him. Towards the boats. Anywhere but the spears.

He could drive them into the spears again. The eager lads would go first, and the clever ones would let them. Rolo knew that trick; he had lived by it before he had ships of his own. He pressed his thumb against the wound above his wrist and looked for another way. He wanted those black shields broken while he still had men fit to hunt the fools who dropped them.

Then he saw the open-sided shed behind the stack. Boat ribs hung from its roof. Beneath them lay loose planks, a rolled sail, coils of rope and a shallow trough dark with pitch.

"Get that sail."

Two men looked where he pointed.

"Up here. Between the stacks."

They dragged it across the stones. Rolo set them holding it upright with poles and broken oars, a filthy wall of canvas that hid the movement behind it. A shaft punched through almost at once. Another. The men flinched, but the bowmen above could no longer choose a face.

"Keep the bottom off the ground," Rolo said. "I won't have you tripping over the fucking thing."

He sent the next boatload round the northern end of the stack towards the houses, under cover until the first wall. The black swordsmen shifted after them. Rolo watched a man at the end of their line turn his head to see whether his neighbour had followed. There. A captain could order courage into a man all day; Rolo wanted him looking over his shoulder when the axe came.

One pirate came crawling back with blood running from his mouth. Rolo put a boot beside his hand.

"How far did you get?"

The man pointed towards the houses, coughing.

"Water for him," Rolo told the nearest sailor. "I need him talking."

A black shield appeared at the end of the stack. Its bearer had come to see what they were doing. Rolo sprang up before the man could draw back.

His axe caught the shield's rim. He jerked it down. The soldier braced himself, good feet, weight low, and thrust his sword towards Rolo's belly. Rolo turned the blade upon the axe haft. The point tore his coat. He stepped in close enough to hear the soldier breathe and drove his forehead into the man's face.

The headbutt jarred Rolo's own skull. He laughed through his teeth and smashed the flat of the axe head into the soldier's face. The man's knees gave and his shield dropped. Rolo drove the blade into his neck.

Blood thinned in the wash around Rolo's boot. He wanted the next man already. The dead soldier's companion stood just beyond the fallen shield, staring at the cut in his neck. Rolo lifted the axe slowly, letting him see what clung to its edge.

"Come and fetch him."

His men roared. The black swordsman shifted forward. Rolo felt himself lean to meet him, hungry for the moment the fellow forgot the shields beside him.

Another soldier caught the man's shoulder. A fresh black shield filled the gap, and the dead one stayed in the water.

Rolo spat blood from a bitten lip and pointed his axe towards the northern houses.

"Through the houses. Get behind them. I'll keep the spearmen fighting here."

* * *

The man upon Moreo's wall had a strip of cloth tied round his head. Blood had soaked through it above the ear. He stared down at Brus as though the centurion had asked him to open his own belly.

"You put that fire there."

"The red axes put it there," Brus said. "Their dead are lying in it."

Corwyn stood beside him with his shield raised against another arrow. Smoke rolled across the gate, thin where the wind caught it, black where the tarred rope still burned. They had pulled their wounded into the storehouse. Two swordsmen would not get up again. Three others could no longer stand in the line. The older man who had fought beside Corwyn was still on his feet, holding a cloth against the cut in Corwyn's wrist until Corwyn took it from him.

"They came to take your fort," Brus continued. "We came for the ships. Stop loosing at my men."

"Whose men?"

"Lord Jon's. Dragonstone."

The man's eyes moved to Corwyn's shield.

"Celtigar," Corwyn said. "Ser Corwyn Celtigar."

For once he was glad of the painted crab. The man above knew what it meant, even if he knew nothing of Corwyn himself.

"Vhalar will come back."

"He may," Brus said. "That gate is burning now."

A voice called from behind the parapet. The wounded man turned to answer, then vanished. Corwyn looked at Brus.

"If they bring more water—"

"Let them."

"We could get the ladder up while they're at it."

Brus glanced towards the bodies beneath the tower. Some wore red axes. Some wore nothing that named them. A broken ladder lay across three of them.

"You saw what happened to the last men who climbed."

Corwyn said nothing.

The centurion wiped sweat from his upper lip. There was blood upon his knuckles, rubbed into the creases. "We have the stores. We have the way to the water. They can't come down without passing us. Give them a moment to count who is left."

Corwyn had counted their own. Twenty-five of the thirty who had fought in the lane could still fight, himself and Brus among them. The two scouts were unhurt. The sailors were still hidden above it. If the men upon the wall knew that, their answer might be different.

Above the gate, the wounded man reappeared.

"Our captain's dead."

Brus waited.

"You let us go out with our weapons. We leave you the house."

"No weapons."

"Then we stay."

The gate gave a sharp crack. Both men looked towards it. Only the outer face was burning, but smoke had begun to creep through a seam beside the iron strap.

Corwyn looked towards the store loft facing the tower. Two of Brus's men stood at its window with shields and a bundle of recovered javelins. Neither threw. Above the gate, a bowman kept turning between them and the smoke rising beneath his feet. Corwyn had resented losing those two shields from the lane. Now he watched the bowman fumble a shaft against the stone and kept his own men under the eaves.

The wounded man looked across at that window. He licked his lips.

Behind him, a bowman called for shafts. Someone answered angrily that he had been given the last of them. The wounded man turned his head, listened, then looked down at the bodies beneath the gate. When he spoke again, he had stopped asking to keep his weapons.

"My lads live."

"Lay down your weapons and my men leave you alive," Brus said. "Your wounded get water."

"And after?"

"You answer to Lord Jon."

"Slaves?"

"Westeros has no slaves."

The man's eyes went to Corwyn. "You heard him, knight."

"I did. Lay them down. I'll see your wounded get their water." Corwyn kept his shield raised. The man looked at the crab again, then back at his face.

Someone behind him was weeping, quietly enough that Corwyn had not heard it before the bowstrings fell silent.

Brus turned away first. "Bring the wet sacks. Wait beneath the store roof until they call."

Corwyn went to fetch the men. In the storehouse, a swordsman clutched his wounded thigh while one companion held his shoulders and another tightened a leather strap above the wound. He had been quiet in the lane. Now he cried out.

"We'll get you aboard," Corwyn said.

The man looked from the crab upon his shield to his face. "Keep my sword, ser."

"It's beside you."

"Don't leave it."

Corwyn picked it up. As he straightened, the man let go of his leg and reached after the hilt. Corwyn bent again and laid it beneath his hand; his cut wrist left a smear upon the worn leather.

"It goes aboard with you."

The fingers closed. Corwyn eased the blade clear of the good leg before he rose. He could remember every blow he had struck at the red-sashed captain, but not where this man had stood when he was hurt.

A shout came from the gate.

The weapons went down first. Spears were lowered from the tower, then bows, then a rope with a bundle of swords tied to it. Brus made them stop while his men carried each bundle out of reach. Only then did he send the wet sacks forward.

Corwyn worked beside the soldiers, beating at the tarred rope while smoke forced tears beneath his visor. The heat had blistered the gate planks without burning through them. They dragged the sack downhill with a boathook taken from the stores and smothered it beneath wet grain. Steam rose around their boots.

Inside, men lifted the bar.

The doors opened a hand's breadth. Brus stood to one side and ordered the first defender out empty-handed. Then another. Corwyn counted seventeen who could walk without help. Nine more came slowly, leaning upon companions or carried on doors. None looked ready to defend a castle.

The man with the bloody headcloth was last. He had kept a knife. He drew it with two fingers upon the blade and put it on the ground before Brus.

"Water," he said.

Brus pointed towards the jars being brought from the store. The man walked past him without another word.

Across the courtyard beyond the gate, Moreo's house stood open, already half stripped. Cushions lay slit upon benches; a chest stood open with its hasp torn out. Someone had piled cups, candlesticks and folded cloth beneath the stair. Vhalar's men had begun the work before their captain took his main strength east. Corwyn saw a pair of silver basins and thought, absurdly, of washing his hands.

"Nobody fills a purse," Brus said behind him. "The wounded first. Find the people they locked up. Then we see what can float."

The younger scout came through the gate with the sailors. The ten freed volunteers followed, looking from the weapons upon the ground to the men sitting beneath the wall. One stopped so abruptly that the fellow behind struck his shoulder.

A prisoner had recognised him.

Corwyn saw the smile leave the prisoner's face. The volunteer stared a moment longer, then went past without speaking.

Below the house, they found the locked rooms.

The first man out tried to take the keys from Corwyn.

He caught Corwyn's wrist with both hands, speaking too quickly for him to understand. Behind him, people pressed towards the light. A woman called from the back. The man's grip tightened until Corwyn felt his cut open beneath the binding.

"Let go," he said. "I'll open them."

The man kept talking.

Corwyn put his sword upon the ground where it would not frighten him and held the keys up. "All of them."

One of the volunteers came forward. He listened, then pointed across the courtyard. "His brother's locked in that room. He wants you to open it."

Corwyn picked up his sword and went to the next door.

They found thirty-eight people in the rooms below the house and the locked store beside them. Some had been Moreo's captives. Others had been taken from the house when Vhalar came through the gate. There were servants still insisting that a mistake had been made, that they had wages owing, that somebody could tell these soldiers who they were.

Brus listened long enough to understand what they feared.

"Nobody here is being sold," he said.

The volunteer translated. An old man laughed once, bitterly, and asked something. The volunteer looked away before answering.

"He says they've heard that before."

Brus took the keys from Corwyn and gave them to the volunteer. "Then show him."

The man went back among the captives. Corwyn stayed until the brother came out. He could walk, though he leaned heavily upon the doorframe and kept asking after a shirt somebody had taken from him. His brother put an arm around him and began to laugh and weep at once.

Corwyn found himself waiting for the brothers to look towards him. The thought shamed him as soon as he recognised it. The elder had begun searching his brother's hair with trembling fingers, finding some hurt Corwyn could not see. Neither man had another glance for the knight with the painted shield. He left them together and went out into the courtyard.

* * *

Denys held his flagship between the merchants and the red-axe galley. For the third time, the pirate captain raised his hooks without throwing one.

The first time, Malcolm's men had come hard against the rail. The second, Arthur had ordered them to stay back far enough to leave the bowmen room. Now the hooks rose again, sunlight catching their curved points, while the rowers slowed the galley just beyond grappling range.

"He doesn't mean to board," Malcolm said.

"He means to keep us here."

Denys kept watching the space beyond the pirate's stern. Two more red sails lay farther out, with room to turn towards the merchants if he chased this fellow. On the northern water, the pair of fast ships still held their watch. Their oars rested above the surface. Fresh arms waiting for him to turn away.

Arthur stood beside the steering platform, his damaged shoulder lower than the other. He rested his shield's rim upon the rail. Someone else's blood had dried between his fingers.

"Can we get close enough to shoot at the men landing?" he asked.

"If I take us after those boats, her fellows can reach the merchants."

Arthur studied the gap, then looked back at the red-axe galley. "If he comes in again, I'll put arrows among his rowers."

The ferry carrying the last islanders passed close beneath their stern. The woman aboard it had one hand braced against the gunwale and the other upon the bundle in her lap. Denys pointed the boat towards the merchant receiving the families, then watched until a sailor upon her deck caught the line.

Another boat followed with a wounded man lying across its benches. Beyond it, smoke began to rise from the timber yard.

Whenever Malcolm's men shifted, Denys could see the broken rail where the last boarders had crossed, and the stain beneath it. He wanted this captain dragged across that rail. Let him look before Arthur cut him down.

The boat with the wounded man passed across his sight, low in the water. Denys watched its bow rise and settle while the pirate captain waited for him. If he closed, the second red sail could reach the merchants before he cut himself free. He kept his hand down, though Malcolm was watching for an order.

"Back us half a ship's length," he told his mate. "Leave room for the ferries beside the captured galley."

The mate looked towards the galley Arthur had taken. Her fighting prisoners were bound below the raised deck, apart from the paid rowers who remained at their benches. The two soldiers guarding the wounded pirate still stood near the hatch. They could not guard the whole vessel as well.

"Malcolm. Twelve to the prize. Keep the rest here."

"That leaves this rail thin."

"I can't bring the ferries alongside her with only two guards."

Malcolm looked towards the ferries, then chose his men. Denys had a boat brought alongside and waited while shields and bows went down. Across the water, the sailor in charge of the prize waited beside the steering platform.

"Bring her inshore of us," Denys called. "Slowly. I want her bow towards the merchants."

The sailor cupped a hand behind his ear. Denys repeated it, louder, and waited for the answer. Malcolm's first two men climbed aboard the prize while the others steadied their boat beneath her rail.

"Guard the steering oar and the hatch," Denys told the centurion. "Don't let the prisoners get at the boats."

Malcolm went forward to pass the order. The last of the twelve climbed aboard the prize, and their boat pulled clear. Denys watched the benches. He had taken the ship; whether he could use her was another matter.

When the sailor called for oars, the bearded rower stood. Denys could not hear what he said to the men nearest him, but he could see the gesture towards the bound wounded man and then towards the waiting oars.

The oars went out.

One stroke. A second, ragged along the after benches. Her bow began to turn inshore as ordered.

Denys let out a breath through his nose. A ship he could use a little, under watch. He would settle for that.

He pointed the next wounded ferry along the prize's inshore side. Her boatman saw the shelter and pulled towards it, ducking as an arrow struck the galley's outer rail.

The red-axe captain saw the movement. His galley edged closer, seeking a clear shot at the ferry. Men at his bow lifted shields. Behind them, a horn sounded once.

"Hold our stroke," Denys said.

An arrow struck the rail. Another passed over Arthur's head and rattled down among the benches. The knight did not look after it. He moved to the forward deck and pointed two of Malcolm's bowmen towards the enemy's exposed rowing side.

Their arrows made the pirate's forward shields turn. Denys brought his bow a little farther round. If the pirate kept coming, he would have to pass beneath the bowmen on Denys's forward deck.

The pirate captain slowed his rowers.

As the enemy bow sheered away, the wounded ferry slipped past the prize and reached the merchant. Men leaned down to take her line. Denys let himself smile. Let the bastard do some watching of his own.

"You could take him," the mate said quietly.

"Aye. And his friends could take the merchants." Denys pointed beyond the galley. "Watch the one with the torn topsail. He's waiting for us to turn."

Upon the shore, the smoke thickened. Denys could see men moving through it beside the stacked timber. A black line gave ground towards the houses, then stopped. He searched for Jon and found only helms and roofs.

Aurane came aft with a fresh strip of linen wound about one palm. He had caught it upon a splinter passing the last wounded man across. Denys had seen him hide the blood from the fellow being carried.

"Take word ashore," Denys told him. "The northern watchers are still there. This captain is holding us in place while Rolo lands. I can guard the boats, but Jon mustn't count upon me coming onto that beach."

Aurane looked towards the smoke. "Where do I find him?"

"Rymond will know."

Aurane turned to go. Denys caught his arm.

"If the steps are lost, you come back."

"I'll keep the boat off until I see who's holding them." Aurane glanced at the hand upon his arm. "And bring you an answer if I can."

Denys let him go. Arthur had returned from the bow. He watched Aurane climb down, keeping his bandaged hand clear of the rail.

"He knows boats," Arthur said.

"Aye." Denys had chosen him for it. He watched the boat clear their oars before turning back to the galley.

The enemy hooks rose again. This time nobody upon the flagship hurried to meet them.

* * *

From the lane's bend, Jon saw thin grey fingers of smoke crawl beneath Rolo's sail screen. Then the canvas bulged in a gust, showing the red glow behind it.

Rolo was burning the rubbish in the boat shed. Rope ends, shavings, scraps of wood dark with old pitch. The wind carried the smoke through the yard and into the faces of the men defending it.

Jon coughed. He could taste it upon his tongue.

"Back from the timber!" Hewyn called. "To the marked stones by the lane!"

Gerralt's men began to withdraw from the northern stack. They had to turn sideways between loose planks and the hauled-out hull. A pirate followed too quickly and took a sword through the face. The next kept behind his shield and waited for his fellows.

They were learning.

A spearpoint emerged from the smoke without its owner. It wavered, struck a black shield and disappeared. The spearman beside the shield bearer thrust towards it. His blade met timber. Somebody behind the smoke laughed.

"Don't stab at shadows," Hewyn shouted. "Let them come where you can see them."

The household reserve stood across the lane behind Jon, eighteen men whose faces he knew better than those of most of the boys he had grown up with. One was fastening a companion's chinstrap. The other tried to turn towards the fighting; the man caught the helmet's rim and pulled him back. Jon had seen him do that before a hundred drills. Down in the yard, a gap was opening between the retreating swordsmen and the spears that still held its southern end.

Thirty swords beyond the hills, eighteen shields behind him. Jon could have kept Brus and made Rolo pay for every foot of this yard. Then what? The transports would still have to pass those galleys. He had wanted Moreo's wealth badly enough to divide his legion for it; the ships in that western harbour might yet get the rest of them home. He would not let Rolo make the choice for him now.

An arrow struck the stones beside him. Alasdair lifted his shield and pushed Jon closer to the wall.

"My lord."

"Stay with me." Jon kept his eyes on the gap. "Hewyn. Take the household to Gerralt. Cover the spearmen while they fall back."

Hewyn turned. "All eighteen? That leaves us no household reserve."

"All eighteen. Keep them together." Jon pointed to the southern spears, their rear file bunching against the men retreating from the timber. "Make room for the spearmen to turn." He met Hewyn's eye. He could keep those eighteen safe behind him until the gap split his army in two. "Go."

The household men went down at Hewyn's call. Jon recognised a voice among them and could not place the name before smoke swallowed the speaker. A heartbeat later their shields struck into line beside Gerralt's.

The gap closed. Jon sent Garon up the lane to the houses overlooking the yard. The bowmen needed their upper windows, above the smoke. He caught the boy's eye until Garon repeated which houses, then let him run.

"Norren's runner," Alasdair said.

The man came down the lane at a stumbling trot. He had an arrow shaft tucked through his belt, cut short, its head black with pitch.

"Men coming uphill through the gardens behind the northern houses. They tried the wall below the spring."

"How many?"

"A score, perhaps more behind. We drove the first ones back."

Jon looked from the shaft at the runner's belt to the smoke. Rolo wanted him watching the yard while another party climbed behind it. He had left Norren upon the path against precisely that danger; hearing that the first rush had been beaten back brought a flash of satisfaction through his anger. The pirate would have to find another way round him.

"Tell Norren to hold the spring," Jon said. "Send word if they attack again. Nobody follows them downhill."

The runner went. Alasdair watched Jon a moment before turning back to the yard.

Hewyn's horn sounded twice. The southern spears began to give ground by files, passing through the space the household had kept open. They came out coughing, eyes red, carrying one of their own between two shields. Jon counted the shields without meaning to. He lost his place when another arrow hit the wall.

Rymond limped up the landing path to the foot of the fort stair. Jon went up the lane to meet him. An arrow shaft stuck from the outside of the centurion's calf.

"The steps are clear," he said. "Aurane's come."

"Sit down."

"There's a boat waiting—"

"Your optio can load it. Sit down, Rymond."

The centurion looked almost offended. Then his leg gave, and Alasdair caught him beneath the arm before he fell. Jon knelt beside him while a guard cut away the cloth around the wound.

Blood filled the heel of Rymond's boot. The guard pressed cloth against the wound, and the centurion's fingers dug into the paving. Even then he was trying to look past Jon towards the steps. All morning Jon had sent people down to him. Another family, another wounded man, another boat that could not wait. Rymond had found room for them. Jon put a hand upon his shoulder and kept him seated while the guard bound his leg.

"It missed the bone," Rymond said through his teeth.

"You'll tell me that again when someone has looked at it properly."

Aurane came up behind the guards. He gave Denys's message while the wounded centurion tried to stand and was made to stay down.

Rolo's two fast ships still blocked the northern route. Denys could cover the boats. He could not come onto the beach.

Jon looked towards the water. Denys had judged it as he would have; that left him no easy order to give, no ship he could call ashore without putting the transports at risk. Rolo had divided them neatly. Jon felt a cold anger at the thought of the pirate enjoying it.

"Tell Denys the landing steps are still ours. The yard is contested. He keeps the merchants close to shore, with room between them to turn. No pursuit if the galley facing him draws back."

Aurane repeated it.

"And take Rymond with you."

"My lord—"

Jon looked down at the centurion. "You've kept them moving all morning. Your optio knows his work. Let him do it."

Rymond shut his mouth. He watched the guards bring a door from the empty house beside them, then reached up and caught Jon's uninjured sleeve.

"Keep the way down open."

Jon put his left hand over the centurion's fingers. "I know."

A roar came from the yard.

The black line had bent where the yard narrowed into the lane. Jon rose. Through a gap in the smoke he saw a red-haired man wrenching an axe free from a fallen shield. Men surged around him, shouting the name Jon had heard across the water.

Red Axe.

Rolo was shorter than Jon had imagined. Broad through the shoulders, dark with sweat, the bandage at his wrist almost black. He laughed as a spear scraped his mail and struck its shaft aside so another pirate could get at the bearer.

Then the smoke closed, and Jon could see only the axe rising again.

"Alasdair. Back to the bend."

They reached it as the first wounded men came through. One had lost his helmet. Blood ran from his hair into both eyes, and he held his shield out before him like a blind man feeling for a wall. A household guard caught him and led him past.

Gerralt was drawing his swordsmen across the lane's mouth. His own shield hung crooked from a damaged strap. Each time he lifted it, the lower edge swung away from his leg.

Rolo's gaze dropped to Gerralt's exposed leg.

The pirate came in low, axe aimed beneath the shield. Gerralt jumped back. The blade bit the stone where his foot had been, throwing a bright chip against his greave. A legionary thrust over Gerralt's shoulder, forcing Rolo to turn. Rolo caught the sword against his haft and drove forward with both hands upon it, laughing again, a hoarse delighted sound that made Jon's stomach tighten.

Jon looked for a bowman with a clear shot at that open mouth. There was none. Black helms kept passing between Rolo and the windows, and the archers were still moving through the upper houses. His bandaged hand had closed without his noticing. He forced it open and looked uphill towards the fort stair.

Behind Gerralt, the lane narrowed between the loft and a stone store before climbing to the fort stair. A side passage descended beside the store from the houses below the spring. Jon had carried water down it. Sixteen spears could wait there out of sight while Hewyn drew the household up the lane. If Rolo followed, they could strike his flank. If he stopped, Jon would still have given his exhausted swordsmen room to withdraw. He looked at Gerralt's hanging shield and chose.

"Garon!"

The boy had returned from the bowmen. Jon caught him by the shoulder and pointed uphill.

"Norren sends sixteen spears down the passage beside the stone store. The sixteen stop at the corner until Hewyn calls. The others keep the spring."

Garon's eyes went to the fighting.

"Say it."

He said it. Jon let him go.

"Hewyn!"

The old soldier came back through the household line with his sword bare. He listened while Jon spoke, looking once towards the opening beside the store.

"He might stop short," Hewyn said.

"Then he stops while Gerralt gets his wounded through."

Hewyn looked back. The centurion was trying to lift his damaged shield again. "He'll want to bring his whole line back at once."

"You bring them. Slowly. The household covers them." Jon waited until Hewyn faced him. "Keep the passage clear for Norren's men."

Hewyn wiped his sword against his breeches. "Bowmen aren't all there yet."

Jon looked towards the shuttered windows. He wanted every archer there. He wanted Rolo farther uphill and Norren's men already waiting. Below, Gerralt's rear rank tried to lift a man whose legs kept folding beneath him. Jon could hear the centurion shouting for room. They would have to fight with what was ready.

"Once Norren's men are in place, bring the household forward. Don't wait for the bowmen."

"They won't need much persuading to believe we're tired."

Hewyn went down the lane and caught Gerralt's shoulder. The centurion listened, spat something red upon the ground and began to give the order.

Jon backed onto the lowest steps of the fort stair. Alasdair stood before him while the black line withdrew up the lane.

Jon had made them practise this with stones marking a doorway. He had walked down the ranks, pushing shields apart where they crowded and making men leave room for the wounded. Now a soldier fell at the lane's edge. His head struck the paving, and the line shuddered around him.

Jon started to shout. Gerralt was already calling for the rear rank to open. Two men dragged the fallen soldier through by his belt; another filled his place. Jon closed his mouth. The centurion had them.

He watched until the shields joined again. Years of pay, steel and patient, infuriating repetition, and these men were still holding for him. Rolo would gladly spend them until Jon had nothing left. The thought brought a hatred so clean that he could almost enjoy it. He would take the pirates' ships and their wealth and carry this legion home. Moreo's silver would train the men who came next; it could not teach them what Gerralt's soldiers knew now.

He let Gerralt give up the last stretch of yard and watched the side passage.

Rolo followed.

* * *

The black swordsmen were still fighting as they gave ground. Rolo had to grant them that. One stumbled over a fallen man and another caught his belt without lowering his shield. Their officer's shield strap had broken, yet he kept the useless thing high enough to make men aim at it.

Rolo went for his legs again.

The officer turned the blow upon his sword and stumbled sideways into the store wall. Rolo saw pale skin beneath the helm. His hands began the cut. Then a household shield struck across his path, and another man took the officer by the belt and dragged him clear. Rolo's axe crashed into the shield instead.

He twisted the haft, pulling its bearer towards him. His own man stabbed beneath the lifted rim. The soldier fell against the wall. Rolo wrenched his axe loose and looked past him for the officer. Let him see what his fucking rescue had cost.

"Come on!" Rolo roared. "They've no fucking room!"

His men crowded behind him. Too close. A shield struck his wounded wrist and sent pain up his arm so sharply that his fingers loosened.

"Back from me, you bastards!"

They gave him a little space. He rolled the axe in his grip and looked up the lane.

A boy stood behind a shield on the lower steps of the fort stair. Dark hair beneath the helmet, white linen round one hand. The guard before him was watching Rolo with the patient hatred of a dog that had finally seen what was scratching at the door.

"Lord Jon, up to the fort!" someone shouted.

Jon. So the little cunt had a name.

Rolo grinned at him. The boy did not grin back. He was looking past Rolo, towards the corner of the stone store.

Rolo stopped with his leading foot upon the threshold of a ruined shop. Above the stone store, a shutter opened. A bowman leaned into the gap. Farther up, another appeared at a window where there had been nobody a moment before. Other shutters remained closed. The boy's archers were still finding their places.

"Shields high!"

The first arrows struck as his men lifted them. One entered the side of the fellow beside him. The man made a small surprised sound and sat down upon the paving, still holding his sword upright.

Rolo looked towards the side passage. Black spearpoints moved in its shadow. He had followed the damaged shield because he wanted the officer under his axe, and the boy had let him. Fresh men were coming down beside the lane. Rolo's grin tightened. He could still reach Jon if he drove straight through—but his men were packed behind him, unable to turn their shields towards the spears. Another rush at Jon would leave those spearpoints at his back.

Jon was still upon the stair. For an instant Rolo wanted to throw the axe, to see the calm leave him as he ducked behind his guard. Too far, with a shield between them. Rolo spat at his feet and turned towards the nearer danger.

"Block that passage!" he shouted. "Shields towards the spears!"

The nearest pirates obeyed. Those behind could not see the new threat. They kept pushing uphill, certain the black soldiers were still retreating.

A short horn sounded.

The household line came forward.

Rolo met the first shield with his axe haft across his chest. The impact drove him back half a pace. He planted his foot, struck over the shield and felt the edge catch the man's helmet. The soldier sagged but did not fall; his companion held him up. Spearmen behind the swordsmen thrust past their shoulders.

Rolo knocked one point wide. Another caught his mail above the hip. He twisted away from it and laughed, the sound bursting out between clenched teeth. There was no room to draw a proper breath. The next man trying to kill him was close enough for Rolo to see a pale scar through his eyebrow, and for a moment he wanted nothing else in the world but to put the axe through it.

Then the waiting spearmen came out beside the stone store, into his flank.

A pirate turned too late. The first thrust took him beneath the arm. His falling shield struck Rolo's leg, and for an instant he could not move. He kicked free, caught the next spear shaft upon his axe and dragged its bearer towards him. The man let it go before Rolo could pull him out of line.

Another spear replaced it.

"Back to the yard!" Rolo roared.

Nobody moved.

He struck the nearest pirate across the chest with the flat of his axe head. "Back, you deaf shit! Keep facing their spears!"

The man stumbled, understood and began shoving those behind him downhill. Rolo stayed at the corner while two shields settled in front of him. A spear passed between them and scraped his ribs. He chopped through the shaft, then backed behind the two shields as another spear reached for him.

His men found room to move.

A sailor at the rear turned to run. Rolo bellowed his ship's name. The fellow looked back; so did the men beside him. They began shouting it themselves, dragging their shipmates downhill and holding shields over the ones who stumbled. Rolo backed with them. He could threaten a man tomorrow if he lived; for now he needed the bastard beside him.

Rolo backed downhill with his men, three steps, then a stop to knock another spear aside. His wrist had gone wet beneath the bandage. The blood made the axe haft treacherous. He wiped his palm upon his coat while the shields before him took the blows meant for him.

At the bend where the lane opened into the yard, the black line stopped.

One young soldier tried to follow. His officer hauled him back so violently that he nearly fell. Rolo had already shifted his weight to meet him. Now he eased back behind his own shields, cheated of the kill. Even that much, the boy would not give him.

The captain who had led the next boatload came up beside him, breathing hard.

"More from the ships?"

Rolo looked at the bodies in the lane. New men would have to step over them before they could reach the same spearpoints. The sea still lay behind him, and the merchant ships remained beyond his reach.

"Bring the wounded down to the boats. Hold this end of the yard." Rolo hooked a thumb into his collar and pulled the wet cloth away from his ribs. "No more men up that fucking lane. If they want us gone, they can come down and bleed."

"We can try the houses again."

"What stopped your men?"

"With another boatload, we could—"

"What stopped them?"

The captain's eyes dropped to the axe. Rolo remembered the men watching while he killed the last captain who had argued. This one had watched too. He was waiting for a safe answer to occur to him, and somewhere beyond the houses black soldiers were using the time.

Rolo lowered the blade. "Tell me what you saw."

"Spears," the captain said. "Behind the wall below the spring. My lads came back down."

"Want another try? You can lead it this time."

"The wall's too high."

"There. You do know something." Rolo jerked his chin towards the boats. "Get the wounded down."

Rolo wiped his axe upon a dead man's cloak. A ferry drew alongside a merchant ship. Men leaned over the rail to help those aboard it, and he looked back at the shields barring the lane. The boy would have to put his fighting men into boats eventually. Rolo knew the moment he wanted: the last few shields ashore, a boat too crowded to come back quickly, men turning their heads at every splash behind them. He let the axe rest against his leg. He could wait for that. He would enjoy watching them begin to understand.

Rolo looked towards his flagship and raised his axe until the signalman aboard could see him. He pointed seaward, then towards the merchants. His first mate answered with a lifted shield and turned to shout aft.

"Wait until his soldiers start boarding," Rolo told the captain. "Then we attack the men covering them."

"And until then?"

Rolo pointed to the space between the timber stack and the houses. "Bowmen there. Shoot at the landing steps whenever a boat comes in. Make them carry their wounded under our arrows."

The captain looked towards the lane they had just left. Rolo caught his sleeve before he could go. "Put shieldmen in front of the bowmen. If Jon comes down that lane, they hold him."

Above the roofs, the fort's black cloth lifted in the wind. Rolo wiped his mouth upon his sleeve and watched for the next ferry.

* * *

Jon found the dead household soldier beside the store wall. His shield lay across his legs, the torn strap tucked back through its buckle. Those hands had fastened another man's chinstrap before Jon sent the eighteen down. He crouched and reached for the shield. For an absurd moment he expected the man to take it from him.

"We have him, my lord," Alasdair said.

Jon held it while the bearers got their hands beneath the body. The dead man's mouth was open. He knew how that mouth had looked sulking over another drill; he could hear the complaint more readily than he could accept the silence. He wanted Rolo brought up this lane under guard. He wanted time alone with him. Beyond the bend, another wounded soldier called for help.

"With our dead," Jon told Alasdair. "His things go home."

He handed over the shield and stepped aside for the bearers.

Hewyn came back from the bend. The pirates held the outer yard around the northern timber stack, their boats drawn up beside it. Jon's shields barred the lane at the bend. Behind them, bearers could still turn down the landing path. Norren's sixteen stayed beside the stone store until the new line could be made firm; the rest still guarded the spring.

"They've stopped coming for now," Hewyn said.

For now. Jon looked towards the blackened shed. He could still hear men beyond it, dragging wood, calling for water, quarrelling over something hidden by the smoke. Rolo had not gone back to sea.

"How many?"

"Of ours? Eight dead that we've brought in. Thirteen too badly hurt to fight, Rymond among them. I'll have the officers check again when the last bearers are back."

Eight added to the twenty already dead. Twenty-eight, before Brus sent his losses. Jon watched the bearers turn down the landing path. He had wanted to count captured hulls when this was over. Hewyn stood waiting for the next order.

"Can we get them into the next boats?"

"The men who can sit, aye. We'll need space for the others to lie down."

"Make it. Leave the chests against the fort wall if you must."

"I've told them." Hewyn glanced towards the landing steps. "Rymond's optio has the loads in hand."

"Good. Hold the bend. They may try to draw you into the yard."

Hewyn gave him a tired look. "They can keep the bloody yard."

Jon almost smiled. He left Hewyn to it and turned to Alasdair. "I need a quiet room."

They went into the house behind the new line. Its owners had left a meal upon a shelf: hard bread, a broken onion, a little dish with salt clinging to its rim. Jon set the stool behind the wall where no one passing the doorway could see his face. Alasdair closed the door and stood before it.

"Hewyn has the street," his guard said.

Jon closed his eyes.

Munin crouched beneath the eaves above the fort stair. He lifted her into the light. The smoke stung even up here, and the bird fought the gust that carried it over the houses. Jon turned north, away from the crowding masts.

The two fast ships still watched beyond the headland. He kept high enough that the men aboard remained small dark shapes. Beyond them the northern coast opened in folds of rock and scrub.

Three galleys moved along it.

He had seen those three leave the eastern fight. They were still together. Men sat crowded beneath the rails, and upon the after deck of the leading ship a blue banner stirred above the steering platform.

Vhalar.

Jon followed the line of the coast with the bird's eye. The galleys had not yet rounded the point north of Moreo's harbour. There was still time, measured in oar strokes and the distance he would have to carry a warning.

He could not count how many men remained fit upon those decks. He did not need the number to know what three armed ships could do to Brus's party.

He returned to himself with his left hand clenched around the stool's edge.

"Alasdair. Write."

The household captain brought out the paper. He had kept it wrapped inside his coat, away from the smoke and blood.

"Three of Vhalar's galleys are coming along the northern coast. He may reach the harbour before you have the ships ready. Put someone where he can see them. I need to know what can sail, and how many hands you have for it."

Alasdair's pen scratched across the paper. Jon waited while he read the words back, then added, "Keep a way down to the boats. Don't let him shut the whole party inside the fort."

"Shall I tell him to leave the silver?"

"No." Alasdair's pen stopped. Jon could see Moreo's chests as clearly as the paper: hulls bought and repaired, iron paid for, men kept through another winter. He had crossed the water to take that wealth. There were wars coming, and Dragonstone would face them with what he managed to build. He would not come home poorer in men and empty-handed because Rolo had frightened him out of his purpose.

Something struck the house wall. Both men listened. A shout followed, then Hewyn's voice, too muffled to make out. Alasdair still held his pen above the unfinished letter. Jon looked at the words he had already dictated. Brus would read them with wounded men waiting to be carried. He might obey too well.

"The men come before an unready ship," Jon said. "Or treasure they cannot get aboard. Write it plainly."

Alasdair took fresh ink. "He'll want to know whether to come back over the hills."

"He sends word before he leaves, if there's time. If there isn't, he chooses how to get his men out." Jon waited until the last words were written, then held out his left hand for the paper.

Hugin had followed them from the loft and settled upon the sill. Jon steadied him while Alasdair tied the folded note. Then his guard took his place by the door, and Jon went west inside the bird.

At the hollow, the older scout rose as Hugin descended. He untied the note, read it with his finger beneath the lines and looked down towards the harbour. His mouth tightened.

The scout put Hugin upon the carrying perch and gathered his spear. As he started downhill, the crow shifted against his fingers, impatient with being carried. Jon settled him and let go. Brus would have the paper and a bird to bring his answer; Hewyn needed Jon back behind his own eyes.

When Jon opened his eyes again, someone was knocking.

Garon stood outside with a cup. The water shook against its sides.

"Hewyn said you were to drink."

Jon took it. Garon watched the water, his mouth working once before he pressed his lips together.

"Did Norren keep the spring?" Jon asked.

"Aye. The pirates went back down. His men are still there."

Jon drank and handed it back half full. "Then take a breath and have the rest. You've done what I needed."

Garon glanced towards Alasdair, then drank so quickly that he coughed. Jon steadied the cup with his left hand. He remembered telling men to send the boy with messages because he was small and quick; now he looked at the soot caught in his lashes and wished the day had required less of him.

A shaft struck the doorframe as Jon stepped outside. Alasdair pulled him back beneath the lintel. Across the yard, one of Rolo's bowmen ducked behind the timber, and a wounded man halfway down the landing steps cried out for his bearers to hurry. Jon waited for the guards to raise their shields, then went down to Hewyn.

* * *

Corwyn waited while Brus set the guards.

The eleven red axes who had yielded in the lane sat beneath the store wall, six of them wounded. Vhalar's twenty-six survivors were kept apart, their wrists bound where their injuries allowed it. In another room they had found the twenty-two of Moreo's fighting men who had refused Vhalar that morning. One called through the door that he had no quarrel with Dragonstone. Brus set another guard beside the first and told them to keep the door shut.

A sailor called up from the harbour steps for help with the oars. One of the men beside the door looked towards Brus.

"Stay there," the centurion told him.

Corwyn loosened the shield strap at his wrist. "I'll go."

It took men to watch them all. It took more to carry the wounded, search the rooms and keep an eye upon the road. Corwyn could see their victory consuming the small force that had won it.

"The ones who ran," he said. "They'll bring others."

"Aye." Brus looked south. "Let's see what can sail."

At the head of the harbour steps, two sailors were levering the lock off a store door. The freed oarmaker pressed his shoulder against it. The fastening broke with a crack like a bowstring snapping. He staggered through as the door flew inward, swore, and waved the sailors after him.

Inside stood racks of oars.

He ran his hand along the first shaft, turned it to catch the light and shook his head. The second he passed out. Then another. Soon the men behind him were carrying them down in pairs.

"Your name?" Corwyn asked when the man came out for breath.

"Bero." He was looking at the galley beside the landing. "The oars at her stern are wrong."

"Wrong?"

"Too long. They'll strike the next oars when the men pull."

He went down to the ships without waiting for leave. Corwyn followed, carrying the next pair. His shoulder ached before he reached the bottom. Bero took one from him, sighted along it and called to a sailor aboard.

Vhalar's men had damaged what they could not take away. One galley's steering oar lay split near its fastening. Another had half a bank of blades broken short. A third still floated level, but the sailor who had gone below her deck came back shaking his head at the water he had found. Of all the hulls beneath Moreo's fort, the sailors thought only two worth trying to bring away today.

"That one first," their senior man told Brus, pointing to the smaller galley beside the steps. "Replace her steering oar. We've got a shaft in the store that may serve. She'll move with sixteen men a side. I won't promise what speed."

Brus looked at the people coming down from the house.

The man who had caught Corwyn's wrist stopped beside Brus and pointed to his brother. A volunteer translated. "He says his brother can't row."

"Then we'll find him somewhere to sit," Brus said. "Can you?"

The man nodded, but did not reach for an oar. He waited for his brother, put an arm about him and took him down to the smaller galley. A sailor helped the limping man aboard. Only when he was seated did his brother come back for an oar.

Others had watched. Twenty-four of the newly freed could row and still had the strength; they agreed to take the benches. They went down in little groups, still calling back to people on the steps. With the ten volunteers from the hills, they had thirty-four rowers: enough for the smaller ship and two to spare. The twelve sailors were needed for rigging, ropes and steering.

There were not enough for the second ship. Corwyn looked towards the house where Moreo's old fighting men were guarded. A little while ago he had been glad to hear the door shut upon them. Now he was counting their hands.

"The fellow who says he has no quarrel with us," he said. "He may know how to row."

"Fetch him," Brus told a soldier. "Leave his wrists bound." He turned back to Corwyn. "We'll hear him."

Back at the oar-store, Corwyn could see the lane beneath the blue banner. He had thought thirty swords a madness when they left Jon. Fewer remained, but they had won the ships.

"Would you have brought us here," he asked, "if the red axes hadn't come?"

Brus looked up at the gate. "No."

"Jon sent you to take the ships."

"He sent me to bring them back," Brus said. "I'd have found a boat or waited for dark. I wouldn't have climbed that wall for him."

"And if there was no other way?"

"Then I'd have told him that." Brus took the far end of the oar. "Lift."

Corwyn lifted. His wrist stung; he shifted his grip before Brus could take more of the weight. He had wanted Jon to see a knight eager to fight, and still disliked the thought of coming back to him with nothing. At the water, the sailor pointed to a space beside the other oars. Corwyn laid his end there and went back for another.

By the time the older scout reached them, the sailors had laid the replacement steering oar across trestles and were shaving it to fit its mounting. Hugin rode upon the scout's perch with his claws closed upon the wood and his head turning sharply at every hammer stroke.

"From Lord Jon."

Brus took the letter. Corwyn waited while he read it, then saw the centurion's eyes go north.

"Vhalar?" he asked.

Brus passed him the paper.

Three galleys coming along the northern coast, perhaps before the prizes were ready. Corwyn read the order to keep a way to embark and looked at the men carrying silver down from the house.

They had just won the place.

He looked again at the last lines. Leave an unready ship if they must; leave treasure they could not get aboard. Brus was to judge for himself if there was no time to send again. Alasdair's neat hand made the words seem calm. Corwyn wondered what had been happening around Jon while he spoke them.

"Put a lookout on the ridge above the northern point," Brus told the scout. "I want warning before the ships round it and come into the harbour."

The younger scout took the duty. His fellow remained with the bird and the writing things. Brus dictated their answer: the red axes broken, the fort yielded, two dead and three unable to fight; thirty-eight people freed and fifty-nine fighting prisoners to guard; one galley being made ready, a second possible if they could find enough hands. Corwyn listened while the scout wrote. Hearing the day reduced to those few lines made him want to interrupt, to explain the passage, Edden's hand catching his shield, the wounded soldier asking for his sword.

There was no room upon the scrap for any of it.

The scout tied the answer beneath Hugin's leg. The crow pecked at the thread and then settled, waiting.

Corwyn stared at him. "How does he know when to go?"

"When he goes, I'm grateful," the scout said. "I haven't asked him why."

Brus had already turned back to the sailors. Corwyn stayed beside the bird for another moment. Whatever Jon had done to train it, he would have given a great deal to know it now. There were hills between them, a battle at the other end, and this ill-tempered little creature was the only reason the warning had arrived before the ships.

Hugin made a rough sound in his throat. Corwyn stepped away before he could be bitten.

Four men brought the silver down in a chest with its lid tied shut. They stopped at the foot of the steps to change their grips. Beside them, sailors aboard the smaller galley were clearing a place for the wounded while her steering oar was still being fitted.

The swordsman's bearers could not get past the chest.

"Set it down," Corwyn said.

One carrier looked towards the galley. "Here?"

"Against the wall." Corwyn took a corner of the door beneath the wounded man. "Let him through."

They moved the chest. He helped lift the stretcher aboard, holding steady while the sailors took its weight. The sword was tied along the man's good leg. His hand lay upon the hilt.

Up on the ridge, their lookout climbed towards the northern point.

* * *

Vhalar knew the western coast well enough to recognise where the shore bent out of sight. His father had made him name those points from beside the steersman, a hand resting upon the back of his neck. A wrong answer earned a cuff. Hesitation sometimes earned one too. He still remembered the flat little rock that vanished at high water, because he had missed it once and been made to name every turning twice on the way home.

Now three galleys answered his orders where there should have been more, and he could hear the old bastard asking him to count them. He kept his eyes upon the point. He had ships to save.

Goro came aft carrying a cup.

"Drink."

Vhalar looked at him.

"You've had nothing since the headland."

The captain's bandage had slipped over one eyebrow. He had lost the gold ring from his ear; the torn lobe was black with dried blood. Vhalar wondered whether he had noticed. He took the cup and drank. The water was warm and tasted of the cask.

Below them, a wounded man had begun calling for Drazen.

Nobody answered him. The same name came again, thinner, almost apologetic, as though he knew the captain was busy and resented needing him.

"Someone go to him," Vhalar said.

Goro sent a sailor. Vhalar watched the man kneel beside the wounded fellow and lift his head. He could still see Drazen reaching for the wine jug that morning, keeping his injured arm close, waiting while Vhalar demanded an account of every lost ship.

The old man had brought the money home. Vhalar had counted it before asking how badly he was hurt. He wanted to remember some other morning, Drazen complaining over bad wine, Drazen telling him there was time for another cast of the net. Instead he saw the jug moving away from the captain's hand and knew whose hand had moved it.

His thumb dented the thin side of the cup. He set it down hard enough that Goro looked at him, then turned to the other ships before the captain could speak.

"The other captains?"

"Holding with us."

"They stay there."

His first mate stood near the steering oar, his forearm newly bound. Vhalar had heard the men thank him for bringing them clear. They had fallen quiet when Vhalar approached. Now the mate watched the following ships, keeping all three upon the same course.

"You got us clear," Vhalar said, loudly enough for the men at the nearest benches to hear.

The mate looked up. A rower grinned at him. Vhalar regretted raising his voice.

"Keep the other ships with us."

"Aye, captain."

A hundred and seventy-five men could still fight. Vhalar left the mate at the steering oar.

The point north of Moreo's harbour drew nearer. Smoke lay beyond it, rising above the roofs of Moreo's house.

Vhalar went to the rail.

There had been smoke when he left. A cooking fire overturned, a store scorched while his men searched it. He had told Goro to stop them burning anything they might want to sell. This smoke was farther down, near the gate.

"Ease the stroke," he said.

The rowing master passed the order. Behind them, the other two galleys shortened their strokes to match.

Goro looked at the hill. "They may have been burning the dead."

"They may."

Vhalar held out his hand for the glass.

The upper gate came into view first. Blue cloth still showed above the tower, hanging almost flat against its staff. Below it, the lane dropped between the stores to the harbour steps. Men were carrying a chest down to the water. The familiar sight nearly made him lower the glass.

Then a shield turned.

Black.

He kept looking. Another beside the gate. A man upon the harbour steps with a red crab painted upon his shield. Bodies lay in the lane where Vhalar had fought Moreo that morning. Some had been dragged against the wall. Others were still where they had fallen.

"Turn out from shore," he told the mate. "Stay beyond arrow range."

The galley began to turn.

Goro had seen his face. "Rolo?"

"Black shields."

Goro swore. Vhalar wanted to strike him for finding so small a sound for it.

He had left fifty men here. He had climbed that wall himself, with his dead beneath it. The boy had taken the east while Vhalar was away, and now more of his black shields were carrying chests out of the west. The glass creaked in Vhalar's grip. He wanted the crab-shielded knight alive long enough to tell him how Jon had done it.

'You can take a thing. Can you keep it?' His father's voice again, sour with the pleasure of finding him wanting. Vhalar lowered the glass before he broke it. Behind him, a rower coughed until another man took his oar. The wounded lay where Goro had found space for them, and the two ships astern waited for his next order. He could put their men ashore and send them up the same lane. The black shields would be waiting above it this time.

He raised the glass again and looked north of the stores, where the rocks gave a boat somewhere to land out of sight of the gate.

"Boat down," he said. "Goro, take men you know. Go to the rocks north of the stores. Find someone who saw what happened. Stay clear of the harbour steps."

Goro looked towards the chest at the landing. "They could sail while I'm ashore."

"I can see them loading."

Vhalar had spoken too loudly. He loosened his grip upon the rail.

"Find what became of my lads. Ask whether the red axes have been here. Count the black shields if you can."

"I'll need a way back to you."

Vhalar looked at the rocks again. "We'll hold off the harbour. Come back if you find scouts."

Goro studied the water between the rocks and the galleys, then went to choose his men.

Vhalar returned to the glass. At the water's edge, the black soldiers had put the chest down to let a wounded man pass. He watched them lift the man aboard the smaller galley, careful of the stretcher.

Drazen had kept his wounded arm tucked against his ribs while Vhalar counted the silver. He jerked the glass away from the bearers and fixed it upon the ships beneath the fort.

Vhalar could bring the galleys closer and sweep those steps with arrows. The black shields would retreat behind the gate, and his own lads might still be alive in there. He wanted Goro's answer before he drove these bastards out of reach. The ships mattered too. He would be damned if he let Jon's men fire them and leave him more smoking planks.

Rolo was still in the east. The mad bastard would be hammering at Jon's landing, laughing while other men bled for his appetite. If he broke through, these black shields would have nowhere friendly to go. If Jon held him, he would still need the ships beneath Moreo's wall. Vhalar looked towards his own decks. Three galleys, with their oars out and men ready. Let Jon's captain try to bring his prizes past them while the boy fought for his boats on the other shore.

"Keep the three together," he told his first mate. "And watch their boats."