The Burning Stone

Page 153

There were shadows moving in the fire.
She almost shrieked, but she had honed her control over many years in the king’s schola, and the fear skittered over her like a thousand bugs crawling on her skin and then faded as her vision sharpened—as she began to understand what she was seeing.
“I have failed,” he added, speaking to the shadows within. He sounded close to tears. A slow drip, drip, drip of water serenaded them where moisture seeped off an overhanging rock. Beyond it, she could hear a distant waterfall—or was that the crackle of the fire, a whisper ….
“Do not worry, Brother, you have done your part well.”
Ai, God! Old secrets hoarded by certain Eagles, the ability to see through fire or stone, an old trick that had, so it was said, fallen into disfavor after the Council of Narvone. But such a trick remained useful to the regnant, kept secret among the Eagles by their pledge of loyalty to each other and to the king. How else could they bring their messages so quickly, know where they were going so clearly, and bring such exceptionally valuable intelligence when they arrived?
Wind moaned through the rocks. Within the fire the shadow moved, shifting like a person swaying before a large fire. A tiny light bobbed impossibly behind, a candle caught within the flames—or only the image of a candle, seen through fire.
“You discovered the one whom we all thought dead, who may yet be a threat to us. Armed with this knowledge, we can act. And despite everything, Brother, you found the girl.”
Wolfhere shook his head impatiently. Rosvita could not see his face, but everything she needed to know she heard in his tone. “Found her, and then lost her again.”
The wind tugged at her robes, as cold as winter, and she shuddered. Flames shivered in that wind, and for an instant she thought the branches and coals would be scattered. Then, inexplicably, the wind died. Wolfhere rested his forehead on his fists. In the silence Rosvita heard the voice clearly; not young, not old, it was without question female.
“Fear not. She is back in our hands.”
8
WAVES chop the hull of the ship as they drive north along the landward side of the island of Sovi. Oars beat the sea in a rhythm as steady as the drum of his heart. He shades his eyes against the glint of sun on the waters. Is that movement in the sound ahead? Or only the hump of a rocky islet?
“Ships!” cries the watchman. “To the north, near the fjord’s mouth!”
He had hoped to skate in down the long fjord waters and take them unawares, but Skelnin’s chieftain is no fool, and not unambitious on his own account. He has scouts, he has ears. He will not go down without a fight. He may even believe he can triumph this day—and it is possible he will. But unlikely.
The watchman tolls off the number: one, four, nine, twelve, fifteen longships in all, and a number of fishing skiffs that no one bothers to count. His own forces number only fourteen longships, but Skelnin’s ships come at him like sheep, bunched without order. They will fight with no plan beyond killing.
At his shout, his own ships are lashed together, three abreast like islets on which Skelnin’s warriors will run aground, with five to guard his flanks and strike at will where there is an opening. The cauldrons of hot oil are readied; stones moved; spears lowered.
He himself stands in the stern of the middle ship in the middle raft. The captain of each ship looks not at Skelnin’s ships but on Rikin’s chief. As the ships close the gap, he lifts his standard as a signal.
In each ship two poles are raised, each one capped with an iron hook. Each hook holds a cauldron filled with oil bled from the ocean leviathans and mixed with certain powders that intensify its burning. At his order, brands are lit from the fire boxes set by the lowered masts, and when fire touches the oil within the cauldrons, black smoke boils forth.
A rain of arrows showers down, and his own men loose a sheet of arrows in answer. A few warriors drop, those who have not tucked under their shields in time; one spins and falls over the side to vanish in the gray seawaters.
The first of Skelnin’s ships reach the platforms, grinding along broadside. Shields are locked and spears bristle to repel boarders as others knock away grappling hooks. The Skelnin RockChildren jeer and cry as they try to leap the gap, but he only watches; he can hesitate one instant more as two more ships move in against his own and as his other ships, too, are attacked.
He won this battle when the cauldrons were lit.
The first rocks fly, crashing against wood. The prow of his ship with its glaring dragon stem clashes with the proud boar’s head stem of the Skelnin chieftain’s ship. Now they are surrounded on three sides. He lifts the standard a final time.