The Fork-Tongue Charmers (22 page)

He grabbed a bucket with each hand. “Let's go, Folly. Gather some of the others and load up a pony. There's no time to waste.”

“Meet back here at the farmhouse,” Folly called to Rye as she and Quinn hurried off. “If your mother's back before you, not even the Shellycoats will be able to protect you from her.”

Rye glanced out over the cliff one last time before
running for Wick. The ships were moving rapidly with the wind. Pest had run out of time.

She was too hurried to notice the uneasy mist stirring on the surface of the water. The Salt had begun to rise.

Rye pushed through the crowd of Belongers, searching for Waldron, Harmless, or even Rooster's father. Unsuccessful, she ran up an embankment between two village houses, scuttling up the craggy hillside to get a better view of the sea.

Dull shadows of a gray twilight settled over Wick even though night had not yet fallen. The eastern horizon was now entirely obscured by the gloom of the Salt, the bruised sky an impenetrable curtain that draped the tops of the waves. Rye extended her spyglass. The ships were nowhere to be seen!

Rye flushed with hope. Perhaps the Salt had done its job. She lowered her spyglass and called out to the skies.

“Yes! Thank you, Shellycoats!”

She saw a twinkle of light amid the fog, then another, as if they were answering her. Then the lights began to form the outline of a shape. Two shapes.

Rye's face fell.

The warships emerged from the Salt, lanterns blazing from the decks and portholes, lights strung from the masts so as to light their way through the darkness.
Somehow they had found their way through.

The lead ship was the smaller of the two but still massive. So close now that even with her naked eye she could see the flag of the House of Longchance flying atop its tallest mast. She put the spyglass back to her eye.

Its figurehead ran the full length of the bowsprit. The dense black elm was carved into the form of an outstretched forearm and clenched fist, an eel-like hagfish coiled around its wooden wrist. Valant clutched the rails atop the highest deck, studying Wick with simmering eyes under his crimson hat.

Rye heard a familiar, booming voice. It was Waldron's, barking orders to men at the catapult on the nearest seawall. She hurried down the embankment and along the wall amid a flurry of Belongers, the burly men and women too preoccupied to take notice of her. She stopped, out of breath.

“Waldron—” Rye said, grabbing his thick hand.

“Riley!” he cried, his voice awash with anger and surprise.

“The third ship,” Rye gasped. “It's not out in the harbor. It's gone north. I think they mean to land elsewhere on the isle.”

Waldron's face changed and Rye knew he understood exactly what that meant. He grabbed a Fisher by the shoulder and shouted in his ear. The Fisher nodded and hurried off.

“You've done well, Riley,” Waldron said, placing his enormous palms on each of her cheeks. “We'll send men to the eastern shore. But now you must be off. Get back to the farm without delay.”

Rye just nodded without debate. He pulled her tight, kissed her atop her head so hard she thought she might get lost in his fiery beard, and gave her a not-so-gentle push to send her on her way.

She turned and started back across the rocks toward Wick, but that was when the first flaming missile from Longchance's ships crashed into the seawall.

Rye spun at the sound. She gasped as she saw Waldron fall to his knees, then lost sight of him behind the smoke.

T
he ships' projectiles created more smoke than fire, disorienting Rye as well as the Belongers. The haze made her lungs heave and her eyes water. With the distraction, the larger warship rammed through the barricade of fishing boats, scattering the smaller vessels that now piled harmlessly against its hull like driftwood. The huge ship moved as far into the harbor as it dared, just to the opening between two seawalls. Any nearer and it would risk grounding itself.

Valant's warship, with its clenched-fist bowsprit,
trailed just behind it. As the smoke cleared, Rye saw that the harbor had filled with longboats and skiffs launched from the closest ship. Longchance's soldiers scrambled out onto docks, stretches of beach, and the seawalls themselves, pushing forward wherever armed Belongers weren't waiting to meet them.

Rye heard the clash of swords and axes. The roar of battle rang in her ears. She sprinted through the confusion along the seawall, calling for Waldron. Ahead, a team of Longchance soldiers pressed themselves against the catapult until it tumbled down the rocks and into the harbor. She thought she heard someone yell her name, but when she turned toward the voice, she was knocked off her feet. A soldier stood over her, a sharp cutlass in his hand and a crazed grimace on his face. Rye threw her hands up to protect herself.

As the soldier raised his blade, a heavy wooden staff caved in his helmet, sending him toppling into the water below.

Waldron extended a large hand. “Let's get to shore,” he said. “This wall's no place for an old man and a young lady.”

They huddled close together to steady themselves as they hurried over the uneven boulders. But soon their path was blocked by a thick company of men in Longchance tartan. Rye looked to Waldron for an answer
but jolted in pain before he could reply.

“Ow,” Rye shouted, and buried her fingertips into her hair. It felt like her scalp was being seared by tiny, ferocious mites.

Nearby, Longchance's men took up what looked like a painful, twitching dance. Rye realized that the Fiddlers on the opposite seawall had launched their burning sand from the other catapult. The soldiers had taken the brunt of it and were now desperately digging into the seams of their light armor trying to get it out.

“Fiddlers!” Waldron cried, to no one in particular. “Wait until
we're
off the walls!”

Of course, no one at the other catapult could hear him. Rye pulled the hood of her coat over her head while the Fiddlers reloaded. At least they'd cleared a path through the soldiers.

Rye and Waldron rushed down the seawall as fast as Waldron's old legs would allow him. He swatted away another soldier with his staff but tried to avoid the intensifying skirmishes. Rye suspected her grandfather wouldn't have shied from the fight if he wasn't seeing her to safety. But when they somehow found themselves on Wick's main road unscathed, Waldron had reached the limits of his energy. Rye helped him into the shadows of a dead-end alleyway between two houses. The battle had now reached the streets of Wick. Masses of
Belongers and soldiers stretched before them, just an arm's length from where they sat catching their breath. It wouldn't be safe to stay idle for long.

Rye looked out at the harbor just as the Fiddlers launched a flaming cask from the catapult on the westernmost seawall. She watched hopefully as the cask hurtled through the darkened sky toward the lead warship, but cringed as it sailed over its bow and landed with an uneventful splash in the harbor just beyond it. The cask sizzled and smoked as it bobbed on the surface. Rye clenched her fists in frustration.

“Waldron, the soldiers are gaining ground.”

Waldron's face was grim. Rye saw him try to regain to his feet, but his chest was still heaving and she knew that they would never be able to navigate their way through the mobs in the street.

“Wait here,” she said, and darted from the alleyway before he could protest.

Rye ran to the road, ducking between the slashing and pummeling of Belongers and soldiers. She scanned the streets and alleyways for a clear path or shortcut that might lead them to safety, but every time she saw an opening it quickly filled with soldiers and grappling bodies.

A second cask launched from the Fishers' catapult, the burning, twisted rag that served as its wick dangling
behind it like a tail. This time its path remained true, and the cask crashed through one of the warship's masts. The cask and broken mast, together with its heavy sail, tumbled to the ship's deck with a great crash. But the Fishers' initial cheers stopped abruptly. The rag had fallen out during its flight and the cask did not ignite.

Longchance's men overran the seawall as the Fishers attempted to roll another cask into the enormous contraption, and the Belongers were forced to abandon the remaining catapult and flee for the shore.

Rye realized that there would be no further launches. The situation in Wick was growing bleaker. Not wanting to leave Waldron any longer, she hurried back to the alleyway.

Waldron was gone.

“Pigshanks,” Rye cursed, and spun around, calling for him. Her heart sank as the masses grew thicker around her, bodies closing in on all sides.

It was then that Rye noticed a flurry of activity on the recently abandoned seawall. A cluster of Belongers streamed behind a solitary figure as he fought his way through Longchance's troops. Despite the impossible odds, soldiers seemed to fall in their path as the small group advanced down the rocks. Rye squinted. Their leader's white hair flowed behind him, two short swords flashing in his hands.

Harmless!

Her father sent two soldiers into the water. He ducked the strike of a third and flung himself at another who stepped in front of him. By the time they'd run their gauntlet, only Harmless and two Belongers remained, but at least they'd made it safely to the catapult. Rye didn't think the three men would be enough to load another cask into position, but her jaw dropped when she realized what Harmless had in mind.

Harmless sheathed his swords and climbed into the basket of the catapult. From his belt he removed a flask and examined it. He took a long swig, followed by a deep breath, and settled himself as his companions readied the trigger. He raised his hand and then dropped it by way of a signal. The catapult lurched up and forward.

Rye craned her neck and gawked as Harmless hurtled awkwardly through the air. She held her breath, fearful that she would see her father bashed on the rocks or splattered against the side of the hull. But good fortune was with him, and the mainsail swallowed him up. Like an enormous nightshirt falling from a clothesline, it billowed and tumbled to the deck, trapping several stunned sailors beneath it.

Rye dashed to the harbor's edge for a better look. The downed sail rustled and fluttered as bodies struggled
to free themselves. Then she spotted Harmless—staggered but apparently unbroken—a sword in one hand, the flask still in the other. Rye clapped her hands in relief.

Harmless ran to a jib—one of the sails stretching from the bowsprit to the foremast—and paused to take a mouthful of spirits from his flask. But instead of swallowing, he sparked something in front of his mouth and spit forth a plume of fire, setting the sail ablaze.

The ship's crew rushed to the burning sail, trying to contain the blaze. Harmless weaved through their ranks, pausing at the base of the mainmast. Rye saw him take hold of a pulley, slash at a rope in the rigging, and quickly take flight again—rocketing high up the mast. He perched there for a moment, pausing to examine the scene below him.

Then, cocking his head back, he filled his cheeks with one last swig from the flask and pitched it aside. With a final roar, he bellowed a stream of fire into the sails all around him.

The intense light of the blazing sailcloth illuminated the entire harbor. Even the soldiers on dry ground seemed to freeze at the spectacle, unsure of what to do. Harmless peered through the smoke, watching the terrified crew struggle to extinguish the flames below. Unfortunately, there was now no way down through
the inferno of burning canvas. His white wig smoldered and his cloak glowed red with sparks.

On his toes, he carefully maneuvered to the farthest end of the yardarm. Then he placed a hand on his singed cap, measured his jump, and plunged off, hurtling downward like a rock until he hit the harbor with a heavy splash and disappeared beneath the surface.

Rye couldn't believe her eyes. Harmless had managed to disable the enormous vessel. She hoped he hadn't drowned in the process.

Still, the conflict in Wick raged on. The Belongers were able to hold their ground while the soldiers turned to the threat on their ship, but the village teetered on the verge of being overrun. Valant's warship loomed in the harbor now, and she saw its crew ready more boats for launch. The Belongers would never be able to fend off more reinforcements. She feared the time had come for everyone to abandon Wick and make their retreat.

Clouds shifted overhead and the Salt made twilight look more like nightfall across the island. Rye had no idea how long she'd been trapped in the assault on the village. She turned toward the hills, hoping her mother and friends were well on their way to Westwatch.

Then she had to blink, for surely her eyes were playing tricks on her.

In the darkness of the hills, everywhere she looked,
eerie green lights dotted the highlands. There were so many, they all couldn't possibly be of Folly and Quinn's doing.

Suddenly an explosion boomed like a clap of thunder from a far-off peak. Rye jumped at the sound. For an instant, the Belongers and Longchance's men alike paused and peered into the distance. There was another loud boom, followed by several more all over High Isle. Their echoes rumbled throughout the valleys.

And then, as if on cue, the glowing orbs were in motion, charging down from the hilltops. It was as if the island itself had awakened. Rye watched, mouth agape. She knew of no potion that could make rocks and trees come to life.

“Shellycoats!” a Belonger howled in joy. “They've risen to protect the island!”

Longchance's soldiers all cast their eyes upward, staring in disbelief. An army of glowing shapes even larger than the Belongers' and soldiers' combined forces raced down the slopes and hillocks, on their way to Wick. It only took the first soldier to step back toward the harbor before the others joined in retreat.

Emboldened, the Belongers pushed forward, driving the soldiers to the edge of rocks and piers. The Belongers had already set fire to the soldiers' longboats, so no return to their ship was possible. Many of the soldiers
splashed into the water to swim for it but, weighed down by their cumbersome helmets and gauntlets, they were swept away by the currents. Faced with the choice of drowning or being slaughtered by unseen spirits, others threw down their weapons. The survival instinct spread quickly, and soon the soldiers were casting aside their arms and throwing up their hands in surrender to the advancing Belongers.

Rye quickly extended her spyglass and directed it toward the remaining ship. Valant was at the bow over the clenched-fist bowsprit, a grim look on his face as his crew awaited their orders. He seemed to weigh the new development carefully. Finally, he turned and marched from the bow and Rye lost sight of him.

Rye looked back at the village and the seawalls, where the Belongers now stood watch with pointed weapons over the surrendered soldiers. They remained at the ready, waiting for the assault from the second warship. Valant's ship loomed on the water. The next wave of longboats might be launched at any moment. It began to move; its enormous hull was creeping broadside, repositioning itself. Rye held her breath.

Yet, instead of launching another attack, it began to ease away. Could it be? Yes, it was retreating. Rye braced herself, waiting for whatever surprise Valant might have in store for them. But the warship headed for the darkness of the sea, leaving the harbor and sailing for open
water, where the only surprise waiting was an enormous jagged shoal hidden just beneath the surface. The ship lurched to a stop and its towering masts tilted at an irregular angle. It squatted lower in the waves, slowly at first, then rapidly as its hull took on water.

The Belongers thrust their cudgels and swords in the air when they realized what was happening, and Wick echoed in cheers even louder than the explosions that had set the Shellycoats in motion.

The lanterns of the Constable's ship went dark as it vanished beneath the waves, the ocean swallowing the massive vessel so completely it was as if it had never existed at all.

In the aftermath of the failed assault, Rye finally found Waldron, who was safe and speaking with some of the village elders. A Belonger rushed to meet them. He gasped and buckled over, as if he'd just run a great distance, but his face was beaming.

“The Salt has claimed the third ship on the reefs south of the Wailing Cave,” he reported breathlessly. “Fishers are on hand to greet any Uninvited who try to paddle to shore.”