Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [118]
“Missed, dammit!” cursed the king. “Again! Fire as fast as you can!” Before the second volley of missiles was launched, the king had left the catapults and hurried to the archers.
A second longship followed the leader through the breakwater, but this one took a flaming bundle in the center of the hull. The oily pitch spattered across the boat, and in seconds the fire had claimed her midsection. Northmen leaped overboard, struggling to the breakwater, or else sinking like stones from their weight of weapons and armor. The boat drifted against the breakwater as the fire spread throughout the vessel.
Yet a steady stream of longships approached the harbor mouth. The artillerists kept a steady rain of flaming pitch upon them, igniting three more, but an equal number slipped through the firestorm.
“Archers!” called the king. “Now!”
Showers of arrows soared from behind the straw bulwark and the ridge of the warehouse. Many of them found marks among the rowers of the enemy king’s longship. King Kendrick stared in disbelief as several of the missiles struck that leader himself, only to be jerked from the wounds and cast scornfully away. The pace of his driving advance slowed, however, for many of his crew suffered hits from the arrows.
Black smoke now obscured the mouth of the breakwater as the burning longships drifted aimlessly. A fifth, and then a sixth longship emerged from the smoke as the raiders drove steadily closer to the docks.
Leaving the archers to their own commanders, the king ran back to the druids. Only two remained at the ready. Quinn Moonwane looked up at the ruler’s approach.
“We have marshaled our strength as best we can,” Quinn Moonwane stated grimly. “Dierdre of Dynnatt Grove is lost to us.”
The king noticed that the druid who had collapsed while creating the windstorm lay, pale and unmoving, at the rear of the docks. For a moment, a pang of anguish crossed the king’s face, but he turned to Moonwane with authority.
“Do your best. Try to damage the longships in the harbor. We’ll have a better chance if we can force them to land outside of the town.”
“Very well,” sighed the druid. He and Edric of Stockwell – a stout druid of middle age – stepped to the edge of the dock. The king could now see five longships driving toward them – the sixth had caught fire. These five were within a hundred yards of the waterfront.
Quinn stood facing the approaching vessels while the other druid moved several paces to the side. The dark-haired druid raised his hands, closing his eyes in concentration. He called upon the might of the goddess, marshaling her strength from within the earth, turning it to magical energy. Selecting one of the ships as a target, he unleashed the power of the goddess through the tool of his magic spell.
The enchantment seized the long beam of the longship’s keel. The wood bent to the will of its Mother, warping and twisting along its entire length. Nails sprang from the oaken board of the hull. Shrieking and groaning in protest, the twisted keel broke loose from the longship, destroying the vessel. In seconds, the ship became a spreading circle of wreckage and swimming bodies on the surface of the harbor.
The other druid called forth a storm of fire that surged across the water to spill against the hull of the longship carrying the northmen’s king.
That king still stood boldly at the prow of his vessel, and as the fire licked against the sides of the ship, he cut his hand through a curt, chapping gesture.
Instantly, the flames sizzled away. At the same time, the druid who had cast the flaming spell clutched at his chest and doubled over. With an earsplitting shriek, he toppled off the dock and splashed into the water. Quinn started, turning to stare at his comrade in growing anguish and