The Towers of the Sunset - L. E. Modesitt [193]
“If you say so, ser.”
Creslin twists the winds again, and another line of lightning hammers upon the towers of the newly built keep.
“. . . darkness save them . . .”
“Look out for the ships!” The warning comes from the trading pier as the Dawnstar shivers into position, her crew leaping to the wooden pier and roping the schooner in. The raiding squads are already swarming across the gangways of the three-masted Hamorian brig and the Nordlan schooner.
“Pirates!”
“Get the bastards!”
The watchstanders on the traders yell their warnings, barely audible above the crash of thunder and the violence of the storm.
Thunk! Creslin’s concentration on the winds breaks momentarily as an arrow vibrates in the railing beside him.
“Get the Storm Wizard!”
“Take over!” Creslin orders Thoirkel and the reserve squad. As he speaks, he edges behind the stern castle to his knees, putting the heavy timbers between himself and the archers on the Hamorian ship.
Thunk!
He edges farther sternward and attempts to hold the storm center above the White-held keep. Above him, Freigr and the helmsman drop behind the low timber shield that half-encircles the helm.
More yells, curses, and muffled sounds of combat echo along the pier as the squad assigned to the Hamorian ship overwhelms the handful of archers. Creslin eases forward to where he can see more clearly.
On the Nordlan ship, which had been essentially uncrewed, the prize crew is already beginning to make ready for departure. On both of the Lydian ships, the ship’s crews—or some of them—appear to be working with the prize crews.
“Offf . . .”
Thunk, thunk, thunk!
“Thanks . . .” Creslin looks up from the deck at the arrows and then at the concerned face of Thoirkel. He takes a breath and gathers himself back together.
“Best be careful, ser.”
How can he be careful when his mind is split in so many directions? Still, he drops behind the superstructure as he again twists the storms. Rain lashes across his face, and intermittent sheets of water cascade along the pier.
No more arrows fall on the Dawnstar, and the Griffin has been tied alongside the Nordlan ship. Two squads race for the shops detailed on their maps. Another races for the grain warehouse.
Creslin takes a deep breath, then releases his hold on the warm winds that carry the fog, but he remains shielded by the stern castle. He can sense that a whiteness is moving toward the harbor.
“Thoirkel, you’d—”
Whhssttt!
A firebolt flares through the lower, unfurled sail of the Dawnstar.
Creslin touches his harness to ensure that his sword is in place, then steps toward the railing. A small squad of White warriors has appeared on the avenue heading toward the pier. Behind them are two points of white that Creslin feels rather than sees.
“Let’s go.”
“Yes, ser!”
Creslin twists a small fragment of the nearest thunderstorm, directing it toward the head of the pier and the force there, even as he trots down the gangway. Somehow, Thoirkel is in front of him.
Another set of firebolts hisses past them.
Creslin pulls harder on the winds, and cold air rips through his hair. He stumbles but catches his balance, unsheathing his sword as they near the squad of White guards. Three more of Thoirkel’s men charge in front of him.
“Oooo . . .”
One of the charging Recluce troopers staggers and collapses as a white firebolt turns him into a cinder.
Creslin yanks the forces of the winds into a funnel before him, hurling rocks of hail into the midst of the White guards.
“Get—”
“Kill the silver bastard!”
Creslin’s sword flickers, almost automatically, as he forces the ice chunks against the White Wizards. A White guard staggers, then is hurled aside by Thoirkel.
Now the firebolts are directed upward, as if to melt the icy arrows flying into the rear of the White guards.
“That’s it . . .” gasps Thoirkel.
A handful of White guards are scrambling uphill, up the avenue and away from the storm.