Elliott, Kate - Crown of Stars 3 (126 page)

At a stone's toss from the wagon, he saw a pale-haired figure in an Eagle's cloak standing beside her horse. Hanna was safe across the river.

Off to the east, thunder still rolled, distant now, as if the storm had passed them by. Below, they could see the Quman pressing Sapientia's troops backward toward the ford.

"We'll never make it," said Ermanrich. "We're cut off."

"Nay, lads" said the old Lion. "Don't wait for us. If you run for it—"

"Can't run—" gasped Baldwin.

"Are you hurt?" demanded Ivar.

"No. Just—can't run anymore."

"Look there," said Ermanrich. "There's a bit of a fosse up ahead. We'll hide there and then make a run for the ford in the middle of the night."

"The Quman will post a guard," said Baldwin. "They'll kill anyone they find. We'll never make it."

"Now here's a lad who believes in God's grace," said the old Lion with a rattling laugh.

"It's true," added Baldwin philosophically, "that death will free me from my wife."

"At least Sigfrid and Hathumod are safe," said Ermanrich. "And we might be as well, if we don't despair. That's a sin, you know."

Ivar knew it was a sin, but his hand was really hurting now and he just wanted to lie down and rest. But he pressed on with the others toward a ditch lush with reeds and bushes, sheltered from the river by the steep, almost clifflike slope of the hill and by two stark ramparts, their faces slick with mud and, curiously, shale. Hauling the unconscious Lion gave him something to concentrate on as first Ermanrich and then the old Lion slid into the shelter of the ditch. Ivar and Baldwin shoved the unconscious man over the lip, and he tumbled down into a hand's height of water. Ermanrich quickly got his face free of water, although even the rough jostling hadn't woken him. Maybe he was already dead.

Behind them, up at the height of the hill, a thin light began to glow.

"Ai, God!" whispered Baldwin. "Look! It's the Quman, coming with torches to search us out!" He flung himself down into the ditch, and Ivar slipped and slid in his wake, so utterly filthy by now that another layer of mud seemed to make no difference. The rain had slackened and the clouds on this side of the hill had pressed southward, leaving them with the waxy light of a full moon and that eerie, lambent glow from the crown of the hill.

Bounded on one side by the earthen dike, the ditch had become a pool because of the steep precipice on its other side where a stream of water coursed down the cliff face. The falling water had exposed two boulders capped by a lintel stone embedded in the hillside, which were mostly hidden by a thick layer of moss, now shredded and hanging in wet tendrils over the great stones as water trickled through.

Ivar cupped his hands and drank, and the cold water cleared his head for the first time since he had lost his fingers.

"This must have been the spring or cistern for the old fort," he said as he traced an ornate carving still visible beneath the moss on one of the stones: a human figure wearing the antlers of a stag. He pushed away the hanging moss. "Look!" Baldwin slithered up beside him. A tunnel lanced away into darkness, into the hill. Without waiting, Ivar slipped behind the green curtain. It was narrowly cut, but he could squeeze through. Inside lay black as black, and water lapped at his knees, but it seemed safe enough. "Baldwin!"

Ripples stirred at his knees, and then Baldwin brushed up beside him. "Ivar? Is that you, Ivar?"

"Of course it's me! I heard a rumor that the Quman fear water. Maybe we can hide here, unless it gets too deep." He probed ahead with one foot but the unseen bed of the pool seemed solid enough, a few pebbles that rolled under his boots, nothing more. No chasms. He plunged his arm into the black water and found a stone to toss ahead. The plop rang hollowly, then faded. He heard a drip drip drip—and a sudden scuffling, like rats.

"What was that?" hissed Baldwin, grabbing Ivar's arm at the elbow.

"Ow, you're pinching me!"

Then they heard it, a wordless groan like the voice of the dead, an incomprehensible babble.

"Oh, God." Ivar clutched Baldwin in turn. "It's a barrow. We've walked into a burial pit and now we'll be cursed!"

"Iss i-it you?" The voice was unfamiliar, high and light and oddly distorted by the stone and the dripping water. "Iss i-it Ermanrich-ch'ss friendss?"

"L-Lady Hathumod?" stammered Baldwin.

"Ai, t-thank the Lady!" They couldn't see her, but her voice was clear, if faint, blurred by stone and echoes. "Poor Ssigfrid wass wounded in the arm and we got losst, and—and I prayed to God to show me a ssign. And then we fell in here. But it'ss dry here, and I think the tunnel goess farther into the hill, but I was too afraid to go o-on."

"Now what do we do?" muttered Baldwin.

Because of the cold shock of the water, he could think again. His hand throbbed like fire, but he knew what they had to do, even if it meant the risk of awakening the ghost of some ancient, shrouded queen.

"Let's get the others, and then we'll go as deep as we can into the hill. The Quman will never dare follow us through this water. After a day or two they'll go away, and we can come out."

"Just like that?" asked Baldwin, disbelieving or awestruck.

"Just like that," promised Ivar.

THE fleet gathered north of Hakonin, in the bay known as Vashinga, and from there they sailed north around the promontory of Skagin and on past the Kefrey Islands, known also as the Goat Brothers. A few ships put in for provisions where various small villages of fisherfolk nestled in the inlets, and there they fetched up barrels of dried herring and slaughtered what goats they could catch.

But Stronghand kept his gaze on sterner prey. His scouts brought him news of Nokvi's fleet, and when they sailed into the great bay of Kjalmarsfjord, they found their enemy anchored in the gray-green waters. A reef complicated their approach, and furthermore Nokvi had positioned his ships between two small rocky islands called Little Goat and Big Serpent.

No matter. Nokvi only had seventy-four ships in his fleet. He still believed that the magic of the Alban tree sorcerers would bring him victory.

From the afterdeck of his ship, Stronghand surveyed his own fleet spread like wings out to either side: fully ninety-eight longships and a score of attendant skiffs for fishing the wounded out of the water. In their wake ran the rippling currents that marked the host of the merfolk, come to feed. Their backs skimmed the surface, glittering, graceful curves that vanished into the deeps as they sounded. A wind had come up from the south, chopping the waters into white froth. It blew hot and damp, and in the south clouds rolled up over the headland.

All along the line of his fleet, sails were furled. Oars chopped at the sea as they formed into battle array: the ships of Hakonin and Jatharin on the northern wing, those of Vitningsey and the Ringarin in the southern wing. Stronghand placed himself with the Rikin ships in the center, with Namms Dale ships to his left and his newest allies, Skuma, Raufirit, and Isa to his right where he could keep an eye on them.

He ordered the masts laid down. Hide drums beat a rhythm for the stroke, and the fleet rowed forward.

"Stronghand." Tenth Son of the Fifth Litter gestured toward the sky at their backs. Rain-laden clouds followed them, and streaks of gray mist tied the clouds to the sea. "It is ill fortune to attack under a dark sky."

"That is the work of the tree sorcerers. It will hinder us less than it will hinder the chieftain they seek to aid. Their magic is nothing more than a shadow beneath the midday sun."

His ship cut the water deep, prow dipping low at each swell. His craftsmen had hammered iron plates at the stem of his ship and bearded the prow with iron spikes. As the storm closed, a strong wind came up from the south, pressing them toward Nokvi's line. At the center of his fleet Nokvi had ordered his warriors to lash together groups of ships into greater platforms, little islands for fighting. His lighter ships he had spread to his flanks, for mobility, and at his rear bobbed a few rounder boats with unfurled sails and uncanny masts, still green and bearing leaves. In these vessels, the Alban tree sorcerers would watch the battle and ply their trade.

But it would avail them nothing. Indeed, he has already seen Nokvi's downfall in the magic Nokvi relies upon for aid.

As the fleets closed, Stronghand hoisted his standard, and the Hakonin ships and the Vitningsey ships swung in to strike Nokvi's flanks. At once, fighting surged fiercely from deck to deck, and as it spread, he raised his standard again for the second flank attack to commence, more ships swinging even wider to grind hulls against their enemy and sweep the ships clean. His center he held steady, shipmen gently backing their oars to hold their distance just beyond an arrow's flight. But he could hear Nokvi's men calling out taunts and insults. Yet neither did Nokvi order the advance; he had already readied his ships, oars pulled in, hawsers tight. He waited for the storm. At his back, Stronghand felt the wind rise. On the left flank, one of Isa's ships ground up upon the reef, and a Vitningsey ship drifted aimlessly toward Big Serpent island, cleared of its crew. But some of Nokvi's ships were floundering, too; one had caught fire, and another had but a dozen men defending the afterdeck.

The wind blew with greater strength now. The deck rocked gently under him, a reminder of the sea's power. Hakonin's ships had driven hard into Nokvi's flank.

Stronghand signaled, and the cauldrons were readied as his warriors rose with a great shout, eager to plunge into the fight. Black streams of smoke rose from the center of Nokvi's fleet; he, too, planned to use fire. Cables snaked out from ship to ship, lashing together those which would strike head-on into Nokvi's center. His own dragon-prowed ship he kept just to the rear of the foremost Rikin platform, three ships abreast.

To the north and south, Nokvi's ships were floundering under the weight of superior numbers, many floating without a crew, empty but for corpses. Of his own fleet, one of Raufirit's ships had capsized and a Ringarin ship lay in flames.

The wind at their backs grew to a gale. Seawater slapped the side, and foam sprayed his face. He lifted his standard for the final time as the first sheets of rain lashed down over them.

His fleet closed. Shields locked, men braced themselves. As the two fleets neared, Nokvi's warriors swarmed to the fore of their ships. The strongest of them loosed their arrows, but wind had reached such a pitch by now that not one flight came close to Rikin's platforms before the arrows were spun harmlessly into the water. His own warriors shot flight after flight, as steady as the rain. Missiles struck across the length of the enemy ships, passing well over the wall of shields that ran back from each stem.

The heavy clouds swept in, and the day darkened as the first of the great platforms ground together, and the real fighting began in the middle of a violent storm. Yet it affected his own men less than Nokvi's. It was Nokvi's men who had to fight facing into the storm. Their vision was battered by the squall. They could barely stand up against the screaming wind while his own ships drove again and again hard against the wooden walls of their enemy and his soldiers cast stones across the gap, as plentiful as hail.

The cauldrons of pitch swung wildly, spilled smoke and hot pitch down shields and into the sea, where it sizzled and died. In this wind, fire gained him little. But it gained Nokvi less. He saw Nokvi at last, standing on the raised afterdeck of his ship, a brawny RockChild with a golden cast of skin, pure as the skeins of a SwiftDaughter's woven skirts. He wore a multicolored girdle of silver, gold, copper, and tin, a magnificent pattern that echoed the intertwined circles painted onto his chest. Was it possible that he had taken the gods of the humans as well as their magic?

Stronghand touched the wooden Circle that rested against his chest, drew his finger around it in the remembered gesture. It is well to know your enemy, even to learn from him, but foolish to believe that he is right. With such an admission, you have only seeded the ground for your own destruction. As Nokvi had done, all unknowing.

Now, at last, Stronghand gave Namms Dale's chieftain, Grimstroke, the longed-for signal. To Grimstroke he had offered the privilege of revenge.

They laid their ships broadside. Spikes cracked the boards of Nokvi's ship, and all along the line ships crashed, but the creaks and groans of wood strained to their utmost was soon covered by the cries of the RockChildren who leaped the gap and set about themselves. Grimstroke pressed forward with the strongest of his men, those who had been absent when Nokvi and his Mo-erin brothers attacked Namms Dale and burned alive the war leader and his followers in their own hall. Fury was a great goad. Grimstroke flowered with it, such that none could stand before him. He used a wooden club lined with stone blades, and as it fell first at his right and then at his left, he crushed shield and helm, arm and skull.