Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [117]
Then, the youngest druid – a woman of two score years – clutched her throat. With a strangled gasp, she toppled forward to lie motionless.
“My lord!” Quinn Moonwane, druid of Llyrath Forest, turned to King Kendrick and spoke harshly.
“We cannot maintain the wind much longer! If you do not let us rest, we will be useless when they finally land, as they will do!”
The king stood very still, staring at the druid. Murderous rage seethed within, but finally he turned away and stalked off along the waterfront.
He passed the men of the Corwell Company, which was led by the Lord Mayor Dinsmore himself. That pudgy captain, a shiny brass helmet perched ludicrously upon his bald head, waddled after the king.
“My lord! We cannot let them enter the harbor! We simply must have more wind! You must speak to the -”
“Be quiet, you imbecile!” roared King Kendrick, sending the mayor scurrying back to his company. “Ready yourself to drive them away when they land!”
One of the king’s loyal lieutenants, a lean swordsman called Randolph, approached. Frustration showed everywhere in the warrior’s mien.
“Damn these shortsighted fools!” Randolph snorted, “They have no sense of the stakes of this battle – all they can think about are their petty territorial squabbles.”
“Koart and Dynnatt?” asked the king, staring at the clear waters of the firth.
“Yes. They are here with their companies. Now, they argue as to who will strike the first blow when the raiders come ashore. Each seems certain that the battle will end there, before the other can share in the ‘glory’.” The captain’s voice was heavy with disgust.
“The halflings?”
“They have evacuated Lowhill. A small company of archers came to the town – the others have fled past Caer Corwell with the refugees from the east.”
But the king had ceased listening. He squinted into the haze of the firth and stared. “They’re coming,” he said. “It will not be long now.”
As if on cue, the mist seemed to part, and sleek, dark shapes emerged from the haze. More and more of the looming objects appeared, and soon Thelgaar Ironhand’s entire fleet, released by the inhibiting breeze, swept toward Corwell. The sails of the longships remained furled upon the masts, but the long banks of oars dipped and rose with deadly precision.
As the druids marshaled their strength for battle, the wind died completely away, allowing the fleet to glide across calm water.
King Kendrick climbed to the top of a wooden bulwark that had been hastily erected on the dock. It masked two slender catapults and their crews.
“Have you got the range?” demanded the king.
“Aye. We’ve sighted on the harbor mouth, sire,” replied one of the band.
The king sprang down to the dock, and came to another bulwark, this one made of straw piled to shoulder height.
“Are the archers ready?” he asked, spying a bowman peering over the straw.
“Yes, my lord! We’ve a hundred of us back here – and half that number of small folk have arrived with their bows from Lowhill.”
“Good. Send them to me.”
The longships drew steadily closer, as the king installed the halfling archers on the roof of a small warehouse beside the docks. By the time the last defenses had been prepared, the enemy vessels had narrowed into a column, and the leading ship neared the narrow gap in the breakwater that gave access to Corwell Harbor.
The lead vessel advanced quickly, her rowers driving her forward with rhythmic strokes. A white wave foamed from her bow, and the tall prow loomed higher and higher as the ship darted through the gap. The king could see a northman – probably the enemy king – standing at the prow. The raider was a huge man, bristling with a white beard and long hair of the same color. Even at this distance, the fanatical intensity of his gaze made him look like a madman.
“Now!” cried King Kendrick.
At his command, the artillerists released