The Stratton Weaver slipped ahead a few dozen yards, and the longship, with no one abovedecks to steer her, did not compensate. The vessel crossed close in the galleon’s wake, though, close enough so that her right bank of oars splintered on the great warship’s stern, close enough so that three crewmen aboard the galleon were able to drop a barrel of flaming oil onto her deck.
That threat was ended, but the other Huegoths came on side by side, ten longships working in perfect concert. The catapult crew worked furiously, the ballistae fired one great spear after another, and another Huegoth vessel was sent to the bottom, a third damaged so badly that it could not keep up with its brethren.
Archers lined the rails, and their volleys were returned by Huegoth arrows and spears, many tipped with flame. Luthien had his bow out, too, and he took down one Huegoth right before the man could heave a huge spear the galleon’s way. Oliver and Katerin and many others, meanwhile, worked at tending to the increasing number of wounded, and at putting out the stubborn fires before they could cause real damage.
Captain Wallach seemed to be everywhere, encouraging his warriors, calling out orders to his helmsman. But all too soon, the great galleon shuddered under the force of a ram, and the awful sound of cracking wood came up through the open hatches of The Stratton Weaver’s deck.
Grappling hooks soared over the rail by the dozen. Luthien drew out Blind-Striker and ran along, cutting ropes as fast as he could, while archers bent back their bows and let fly repeatedly, hardly taking the moment to aim.
The young Bedwyr could not believe the courage and sheer ferocity of the Huegoths. They came on without regard for their safety, came on with the conviction that to die in battle was a holy thing, a death to be envied.
There came a second shudder as a longship rammed them to port, then a third as another charged head-on into the Weaver’s prow, nearly destroying itself in the process. Soon there seemed to be as many Huegoths aboard the galleon as Eriadorans, and even more continued to pour over the rail.
Luthien tried to get to Wallach, who was fighting fiercely near to the prow. “No!” the young Bedwyr cried, and pulled up, staring in horror, as one Huegoth impaled the captain with the sharp prong of a grapnel. The rope went taut immediately, hurling the screaming Wallach over the rail.
Luthien jumped, startled, as a Huegoth bore down on him from the side. He knew the barbarian had him, that his hesitation in the face of such brutality had cost him his life.
But then the barbarian stopped short and turned to look curiously at a foppishly dressed halfling balancing along the rail, or more particularly, at the halfling’s rapier, its slender blade piercing the man’s ribs.
The Huegoth howled and leaped up, meaning to catch hold of Oliver and take the halfling over with him, but even as he found his footing, it was knocked away by the sure swipe of a belaying pin, cracking hard against the side of the man’s knee. Over the rail he tumbled, and Katerin managed to pop him again, right in the head, before he disappeared from sight.
“I do so like fighting better atop my dear Threadbare,” Oliver remarked.
“Think of the battle in the Ministry,” Luthien said to them both. “Our only chance is to get as many together in a defensive group as possible.”
Katerin nodded, but Oliver shook his head. “My friend,” he said evenly, “in the Ministry, we survived because we ran away.” Oliver looked around, and the others didn’t have to follow his gaze to understand that this time, out on the open sea, there could be no retreat.
The valiant crew of The Stratton Weaver fought on for more than an hour, finding their first break when they came to a stand-off. Luthien, Katerin, Oliver, and fifty men and women held the high stern deck, while a hundred Huegoths on the main deck below pulled prisoners and cargo off the badly listing galleon. The prospects for the Huegoths fighting their way up the two small ladders to the higher deck were not good, but then, with their ships fast filling with captured booty and prisoners and The Stratton Weaver fast filling with water, they really didn’t have to.
Luthien saw this, as did the others, and so they had to come up with the strength for a last desperate charge. There was no hope of winning, they all knew, and no chance of escape.
Then a brown-robed figure was brought forward and thrown to the deck by a huge Huegoth.
“Brother Jamesis!” Luthien cried.
The monk pulled himself up to his knees. “Surrender your sword, my friend,” he said to Luthien. “Rennir of Isenland has assured me that he will accept it.”
Luthien looked around doubtfully to his fellows.
“Better the life of a galley slave than the watery death!” peaceable Jamesis pleaded.
“Not so!” cried one Eriadoran, and the woman untied a guide rope, took it under her arm and leaped out, soaring heroically into the Huegoth throng. Before her companions could move to follow or to stop her, though, a long spear came up and stabbed her hard, dropping her to the deck. Huegoths fell over her like wolves. Finally she came out of the tangle, in the grasp of one huge barbarian who ran her to the rail and slammed her face hard upon it.
He let go then, and somehow the woman managed to hold her footing, but just long enough for another barbarian to skewer her through the belly with a long trident. The muscled man lifted her trembling form high off the deck and held the macabre pose for a long moment before tossing her overboard.
“Damn you!” Luthien cried, starting down the ladder, his knuckles white with rage as he clutched his mighty sword.
“No more!” wailed Jamesis, the monk’s desperation bringing Luthien from his outrage. “I beseech you, son of Bedwyr, for the lives of those who follow you!”
“Bedwyr?” mumbled a curious Rennin, too low for anyone to hear.
Looking back at the fifty men and women in his wake, Luthien ran out of arguments. He was partly responsible for this disaster, he believed, since he had been one of the chief proponents of sending a lone ship out to parley. The entirety of Luthien’s previous experience with Huegoths had been beside his friend Garth Rogar in Dun Varna, and that man was among the most honorable and reasonable warriors the young Bedwyr had ever known.
Perhaps due to that friendship, Luthien hadn’t been prepared for the savage men of Isenland. Now a hundred Eriadorans, or even more, were dead, and half that number had already been hauled aboard the longships as prisoners. His cinnamon eyes moist with frustration, Luthien tossed Blind-Striker down to the main deck.
Sometime later, he and his companions watched from the deck of a Huegoth longship as The Stratton Weaver slipped quietly under the waves.
8
Prospects
Luthien heard the whips cracking on the decks of other Huegoth vessels, heard the cries of the unfortunate Eriadoran sailors as they were shuffled belowdecks and chained to benches. Some of the prisoners on his own longship were treated similarly, and it seemed as if Luthien and his friends would find no escape. The grim prospects of a life as a galley slave loomed large before the young Bedwyr, but he was more afraid for his closest companions than for himself. What would the Huegoths make of Oliver, who was obviously too small to row? Would the foppish halfling become a source of entertainment, a longship jester subject to the whims of the brutal barbarians? Or would the fierce men of Isenland simply jettison him overboard like so much useless cargo?