The Forlorn(59)

There was a moment of silence. Then every glass and tankard in the house was raised. The tumult was overwhelming.

The quayside meeting had been wary and fearful at first. But within five minutes Cap had them raring to fight, and beginning to believe they could win. Then he split the mob into sections and assigned various duties. Beywulf was set to a weapons inventory, sorting out the usable from the trash, and selecting archers for Leyla and Shael to take in hand. S'kith was demonstrating swordsmanship, assisted by Keilin.

Cap was questioning the skipper and some of the sailors off the Garfish, as well as several other senior captains. "You're sure this is where they're bound?"

"Nowhere else to go, sir. There's sea cliff for thirty miles to the southeast and another forty or more northwest," Garfish's skipper replied.

"And coming in here? Where can they beach?" Cap pointed at the harbor.

"Only inside the harbor sir. There's a mean reef just outside the mole. It breaks at low tide, and at high it'll rip the bottom off anything deeper'n a dinghy. I suppose you could jump off onto the moles as you come in, too."

"I see," said Cap slowly. "Tell me . . . what sort of wind do you have most evenings?"

The seamen looked at him in some amusement. "Why, it's allus offshore at this time of year, sir. That's the way it works. Land gets hot and breathes out at night. Then the hills get cold and suck air off the sea in the early morning."

"And what time is the tide? And how soon can they be here after dark?"

"It's rising now, sir. She'll be full at about three. They'll have to tack in an' row the mole. Mebbe ten o'clock? It'll be about full low, then."

"Hmm, right. This is what I want done." He detailed various tasks, and sent a sailor running to fetch Beywulf.

"Lot of bows, but light stuff. And some fair shots, too, from what Leyla says. There's a marsh a few miles away and a lot of the townsfolk go after waterfowl. The swords are rubbish and they've no one worth calling swordsmen either. S'kith'd have killed someone by now if the boy wasn't with him. They'll do one hell of a lot better if they stick to gutting knives. There's hardly a man or woman in the town that hasn't got at least one, an' most of 'em have those ten-inch filleting knives, too."

"Right. I want pikes, fifteen-foot ones. Tell that rascally blacksmith if he makes another so-called sword, I'll gut him. If there aren't enough spearheads, get the seamen to lash knives on poles. Tell S'kith to start them on pike drill instead. I want two hundred men who'll stand. I don't want a single runner, Sergeant-Major. Pick them for steel. Take the skipper of that barque over there and put him and his first mate behind them. He's a murderous old bastard. Tell him to cut the head off the first man who breaks ranks. We want a hundred for each mole, so you'll need to find another sea captain like that. Don't worry about the lightness of those bows. The sea wolves don't have armor. You drown too easily in the stuff. And they won't have to shoot far. Now, I want you to round up a couple of carpenters. Should be easy enough in the boatyards, and make me at least one Brunhilde capable of throwing a hundredweight cask from here into the channel."

Beywulf nodded. "A piece of cake. It's not above a hundred yards."

"Go to it, soldier. Oh, and send a local to me. Somebody who's no use to the militia but who knows his way around. I need to find a couple of masons and some chemicals."





CHAPTER 11


The night was quiet. Too quiet. All that could be heard was the sea's constant crash and whisper. Keilin knew his were not the only ears straining to hear the creak of a rowlock, or any other ship-betraying sound from the sea. He knew that up on the clifftop many anxious eyes were peering seawards, wishing desperately for more moonlight. That didn't stop his stomach twisting itself into knots. What the hell was he doing here? If he slipped off now he could be a good few miles away before morning. His reading had lead him to believe that battles were glorious, and he'd often imagined himself leading the heroic charge. Now it was coming. And he was scared.

Something touched him on the shoulder. He whirled, assegai at the ready. It was Shael.

"Kim! I mean . . . Princess. I'm sorry. I . . . I wasn't expecting you."

There was a glimmer of a smile. "It's all right. Even Beywulf's jumpy. They've spotted them from the clifftops. I . . . just came to say goodbye, Cay, and . . . I'm glad you still think of me as Kim."

"Habit. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. For everything. I absolutely hate you. Good luck." She turned and fled.

Keilin was left to reflect about his scant knowledge of what made women tick for the next few minutes. He also spent some time regretting a certain missed opportunity. But he hadn't known he might be going to die quite this soon. Then the first Hashvilli galley came cautiously nosing in between the moles, the rowers putting their muffled oars carefully into the water.