Thick and fast they came. Soon the bank was full of struggling, fighting men. Keilin had no time to think, just react.
Then, when the water was black with topknotted heads, a sharp whistle sounded. Teams of fishermen on the quay began the rhythmic hauling they did every day.
A three-hundred-yard seine is heavily weighted with lead balls along the bottom line and sweeps with force along the seabed. A wading man in deep water is less than agile, and the net ripped inwards faster than a man could swim. On the quay the sweating, heaving men pulled as they'd never pulled before. And the topknotted raiders in the water tumbled like skittles as the sweeping lead line knocked their legs out from under them.
The net worked as well for men as for fish. A few clung to the top line and slashed at it vainly. It had been reinforced with light anchor chain, with extra buoys to keep it up. Most of the raiders simply tumbled over each other. Struggling bodies rolled and sprawled along the meshes. The rip of the net dragged them inexorably into the bag. The bag . . . where the head- and foot-lines were sewn into a reinforced pouch that could take seven tons of fish. When the bag slid into the deep hole near the shore the teams slowed, almost stopped. The few men who were not in the net bag scrabbled over the top to freedom. But the rest . . . well, the pieces of old iron tied on to the bag of the net kept it down, and when the net was finally hauled to the edge of the mole, the fishermen methodically speared any bodies that still twitched.
On the South Mole now, the raider captains saw that their only hope was to crack the spear wall. And now they set to it with discipline. The pikes held . . . And then, under the barrage of thrown axes, the channel-side flank folded. Two men turned to run.
Four of the Hashvilli were up. Standing on the breastwork stones. Cutting at the unprotected heads below. Making a gap.
With a bellow that echoed above the din, Beywulf leapt into the fray. The two-handed sword swung in an unstoppable arc.
The frail flesh and bone of eight legs were no obstacles. Then he jumped up onto the breastwork. He hurled back those who would take the weakened place. Cap bounded up beside him, and turned to face the panicking pikemen, not the assault.
"Hold, damn you! You bunch of bloody gutless bastards." Such was the power of that voice that the wavering spears steadied.
In front of them Beywulf cut a one-man sortie into the raiders' ranks. And then, having hewed down all before him, he retreated, scrambling under the spears, back to safety. In his wake lay carnage. And there was no eagerness to try again.
The sea wolves were milling about in confusion when the catapults flung another tub of fire brew. The catapult crew had attempted to adjust their aim to help the endangered folk on the mole. They were partially successful. The barrel struck the inner wall and shattered into staves. The greasy liquid spewed out across the white stone. The Hashvilli were a running, yowling mob even before the mess took flame. They were jumping from the pier head, sharks or no sharks, and swimming for the galleys still offshore.
On the northern mole, the flame wash had eased enough for another captain to put more men ashore, before his ship also caught fire, as catapults flung fresh fuel. The raiders had seized a still-burning mast spar and used it to ram the pikes aside. It led to a vicious and wild melee. Gutting knives clashed against cutlasses and boarding axes.
Keilin flung himself into it.
Cut. Thrust. Parry. With the clockwork strokes of S'kith guarding his back. But it was all coming apart. Some took to their heels. In two minutes it had gone from strategy to chaos.
Then came Beywulf's familiar battle bellow. At the head of the surge, Cap and Beywulf flung a party of South Mole defenders into the rescue. Somehow the tall man rallied them all. He called order out of confusion, discipline out of chaos. In minutes the tide of the battle was reversed, and the raiders were flung back in full retreat.
Keilin leaned exhaustedly on S'kith, surveying the body wall around them. The Hashvilli were dropping weapons and jumping for flotsam. A flood of topknotted heads was swimming out to the remaining galleys. And being pushed off and cut at, as the five remaining vessels began hoisting sail, running for the open sea, with a last few arrows from the shore pockmarking the moonlit water behind them.
* * *
It was morning. A cold, crisp, unforgiving morning. The bright new sunlight stabbed at his eyes. Keilin wanted to turn over and avoid it, but there was something heavy lying half across his chest. With difficulty his dull aching head ordered his eyes to open again and focus on whatever it was. It was not going to be easy, but it beat trying to move. Moving sent waves of nausea washing up from where his stomach had once been.
Reluctantly he opened his blurred eyes again. It was an arm. And a breast. An extremely large, naked breast. For a few moments, he lay there hypnotized like a rat staring helplessly into the swaying cobra's eyes, watching how the brown nipple moved as the woman breathed. Interest's snake stirred . . . and then nausea jumped up and beat it to death. He struggled out from under the imprisoning arm and thigh. She stirred, and with a small sigh settled back to sleep.