“Sail ho!”
Temar’s head snapped around at the look-out’s bellow, jaw dropping in disbelief. Jostled by eager sailors, he forced his way to the rail to see a three-masted ship around the far headland, a full load of sail rigged.
“Who is it?” a voice rang out from behind, frustrated at not being able to see.
“Looks like the Salmon!” came the reply, supported by noises of agreement and delight all round. Temar squinted at the fast approaching vessel, looking for the rune at its bow, all but obscured by flying foam, cheers all around as the sailors waved and whistled.
“Temar! Temar!” Guinalle’s frantic shout dragged Temar back away from the side of the ship. He pushed his way up the steps to the stern where Guinalle stood wringing her hands next to the captain. The sailor was starting to frown, a hand shading his deep-set eyes as he peered at the rapidly closing ship.
“They’re not flying any flag at all, not even their pennant. I’d expect a signal too, given the situation.” Grethist murmured, doubt coloring his tone.
“I can’t reach them, Temar,” Guinalle caught at his sleeve, “something’s desperately wrong on board that ship!”
Temar looked past her toward the captain. “I can see our lads, plain enough,” Grethist went on slowly, “but they’re not working the lines, nor managing their sail.”
“Every mind on that ship is closed to me, Temar,” Guinalle insisted. “I know some of that crew, I should be able to reach them from here!”
“Run a signal, Meig!” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Can’t they see we’re at anchor?”
A flurry of disquiet ran through the waiting crew as the long looked-for ship continued to come up the estuary at a reckless pace.
“Temar!” Guinalle shook his arm, a gesture of fear and frustration in equal measure.
“They’re going to broadside us, if they—” The mariner shook his grizzled head in disbelief. “Meig, cut the anchor! All of you, get some sail aloft, we’ve got to get underway— brace yourself, my lady.”
The captain jumped down from the aftcastle as the crew scrambled to get their ship moving, the second vessel swooping down on her with predatory intent. Temar grabbed at the rail with one hand, reaching for Guinalle with the other as the ships collided with a shattering crash. Guinalle was knocked clean off her feet and Temar to his knees, and several men went plummeting from the rigging into the foaming waters, yells of shock lost in the mounting clamor in deck. Temar struggled to his feet as the boats swung apart, tossing wildly, sails flapping in confusion. As he looked for any explanation of this turn of events he saw the men of the Salmon dropping like clubbed beasts, other forms leaping up from the waist of the ship to cast grapnels and ropes across the gap, hauling the vessels together. A sailor clinging desperately to the rail was crushed between the tall wooden walls, his scream of agony lost as howling figures in black leather leaped across the rails, short swords and axes naked in their hands. The sailors grabbed whatever was at hand to defend themselves with, belaying pins and rope spikes, belt knives raised in desperation.
Temar vaulted over the rail of the aftcastle, drawing his long sword and catching several of the invaders unawares, their blood making the decking treacherous beneath his feet as they fell beneath his wrathful blade. The others drew back a little, cold blue eyes assessing him as Temar looked for his own opening, glaring at flaxen heads pale above studded leather armor. These were soldiers, Temar realized belatedly. Where were they from?
“Cut the ropes!” Grethist’s bellow lifted above the tumult, a roar to rise above the direst of storms. Temar darted forward to protect a handful of sailors as they sawed desperately at the taut hemp holding the clinging irons fast, jumping to avoid an attacker falling at his feet in agony, a rope spike embedded in one eye. Temar sent the metal deep into the man’s skull with a heavy stamp of his boot and kicked the corpse aside. As more assailants pressed on over the rail, Temar dodged and weaved, skills born of long practice saving him from anything worse than a stinging scratch to one arm as a blade ripped through the linen of his sleeve. That reminder of his lack of protection sobered Temar a little, though with his leather jerkin and buff breeches, he was still better off than the sailors in their sailcloth tunics and trews. Even a spent blow could rip through the fabric and every bleeding cut would weaken.
He hacked at a questing axe, shoving the haft aside to open the man’s defenses. With a deft thrust he caught the unbalanced soldier at the angle of neck and shoulder, the keen blade contemptuous of studded leather, biting deep into bone and flesh. The axe fell to the deck, the clatter lost in the uproar as the man stumbled blindly to fall over the side.
“Ware feet!” Temar yelled as he kicked the loose weapon backward to arm any sailor who could grab it. As his next victim fell away in a flurry of gore, legs cut from beneath him, two more came at Temar abreast but he had the reach on them with his longer blade and soon felled them for an eager pair of sailors to finish with their belt knives. Further assault broke and faltered on a rapidly improvised barrier of spars and captured weapons as the crew rallied to support Temar, bringing all the savagery of dockside brawls to bear in the battle, kicking, gouging, spitting, biting as the sailors dodged to get inside the reach of swords and axes and bring their own crude weapons to bear with devastating effect. A shudder ran through the vessels as the Eagle fought to pull free.
A yell from behind hauled Temar’s head round. One sailor had managed to free a grapnel, gouging his hand grievously in the process. Now he dropped to his knees, screaming as he clutched at his head, eyes stark with terror and pain. A second fell, convulsing, howling. Temar spared them a horrified glance before looking around wildly for any explanation of this unexpected turn of events.
“Temar!” Guinalle’s shout tore through the chaos. He found her instantly, on her knees on the stern deck, skirts all stained and bloodied to the elbows as she tried to help a dying sailor. Temar looked frantically for any black-clad figure threatening her but could see none.
“It’s him, that man, up in the prow. He’s the one with the Artifice!” Guinalle shouted, her voice hoarse with effort. She shrieked abruptly, her own hands rising to claw at her eyes before she managed to control them. Falling forward, she lay there, panting for a moment that seemed an eternity to Temar before dragging herself upright again, jaw set, eyes huge in her white face. “Kill him!” she screamed, shrill as a stricken hawk.
Temar looked at the motionless figure high in the prow of the entangled Salmon and took a breath to assess their situation. The crew of the Eagle were holding their line, the air thick with curses. A flutter of color overhead caught Temar’s eye. Aloft in the rigging, Meig and a couple of others were raising a signal to bring the longboat back with reinforcements and weapons. The bastards, Temar realized with sudden, impotent fury; they had been standing off behind that headland, waiting until the Eagle was weakened by the departure of half her complement. Guinalle might not have been able to see them but somehow that bastard in the long cloak had been spying on the Tormalin ship as he held the strings of the marionettes he had made of the innocent colonists. Just as Temar thought this a hapless figure fell headlong from the ropes above his head, Meig making no move to save himself with nerveless hands as he crashed to the deck to lie motionless in a broken huddle.
Temar lifted one foot on to the swaying rail, one hand reaching up for a rope as the ships struggled against each other, planks splintering, lines creaking under the strain, canvas snapping overhead. His sword was ready in his other hand, the razor-sharp edge showing silver through the clotting blood choking the fuller.