The Coastal Kingdoms of Olvion: Book Two of The Chronicles of Olvion (46 page)

Only about half of his archers escaped the inferno, and many of those were now badly burned and unable to fight.  Now the eastern flank of the battle lines was open and controlled by the enemy.  Lampte quickly drew men away from the barricades and shifted them to guard against an attack from that direction.  The cries of the injured men added to the confusion at the barricades.  They had assembled almost no medically trained people to attend to their wounded because they had not expected to need any.  Up until now, all attacks upon the island went no farther than the approach to the harbor where their defenses had stopped all aggressions cold.

The pirate Governor looked to the harbor approach and smiled.  At least that had gone according to plan.  His plan.  The chain barrier was doing its job exactly as he had envisioned.  The invading ships within the channel were adrift now and would soon find the submerged reefs.

And, Lampte reminded himself, he still had the firetrap laid out on the field of battle before him.  He allowed himself a smile.  Now was the time to show these outlanders how to die.  He gave the signal to advance.

With the warehouse no longer a concern, Jo-Dal decided to keep his forces protected behind the buildings of the city and watch his enemy.  If they were smart they would remain behind their defenses and wait for dark.  Their superior knowledge of the town, and the island would allow them opportunities to launch harassing actions against the Olvionis.  Their lack of basic combat knowledge had already lost them the warehouse and a large number of archers.  If given enough time it was possible they might commit another helpful blunder.

Now he raised his brows as he watched hundreds of the pirates forming up into a skirmish line.  Jo-Dal smiled grimly. 

***

Taggart continued his efforts to wrench death away from the love of his life.  He was unable to stop.  No possible chance could be ignored.  Miracles were possible, his presence here was proof of that.  Anger grew within him.  How could he be expected to withstand this?  To be given the greatest blessing of his life, a woman that he adored and would die for, then be snatched away from her only to be returned and find her like this.  He searched her face after delivering another breath into her lungs.  Her beautiful face.  The face of the only woman he would ever love.  Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted.  Outwardly he was silent, but within his mind he shouted; “No.  Not now.  I have done all that has been asked of me.  This you cannot do!”  He bent forward again and breathed for her.  He would do so throughout the night if need be.

The two Mountain Children by her head began to tremble.

Tears fell from Dayel’s eyes as she accepted what seemed inevitable.  She stopped rubbing Dwan’s arm.  She took the woman’s hand in hers and started to place it gently upon her abdomen.

She stopped abruptly.  Something…something had happened.  Or was it her imagination?

***

Lampte readied his forces.  He had designated five hundred of his men to act as the lure.  It was few enough to entice them into an attack, but enough to hold losses to a minimum.  They would advance upon the Invader’s positions and draw them into a battle.  They would hold for a time then pretend to be driven back and retreat until all had crossed back behind the treated hay and the enemy was on top of it.  Then the trap would be sprung.  The hay would be fired, and the outlanders would burn.  Hundreds of them.  They would die screaming.  Then Lampte’s forces would fan out and attack their reduced numbers and forever end this challenge to his right to lead this island town.

At a signal to his lieutenant, Lampte’s town guard advanced.  They were armed with wooden shields and spears.  Their heads were helmeted and their arms and chests were protected by chain mail.  They employed an advancing tactic that Lampte had devised.  They would take a stomping step forward and then chant “Death!”  The rear leg was then dragged forward.  This they continued with each step.  Lampte was proud of the tactic and imagined it would strike terror into the hearts of any enemy who saw his people coming at them.

The pirates were arrayed in five rows of one hundred each.  Jo-Dal looked at the man standing next to him.  The warrior was nearly as tall as he was, but this man had a set of magnificent bushy and overgrown eyebrows.  Palto was Jo-Dal’s second in command.  He studied the reactions of the older man as the pirates advanced, each step punctuated by five hundred men shouting “Death” in unison.  After a moment of observing the spectacle Palto turned to his commander and laughed loudly.  He then walked back to his station over to the east while shaking his head.

The rows of advancing pirates moved across a hundred yards of open territory.  The first row stepped on and through the treated firetrap.  They moved on, followed by the second row and so on.  When the last row of pirates moved into the wide firetrap Jo-Dal waved his sword in a circle above his head.

The Warrior Commander’s forces were still tucked safely behind and within the rows of residences and commercial buildings which fronted the harbor area.  Upon seeing their leader’s signal, three hundred arrows were set alight and sent high into the sky.  The flaming shafts made for a remarkable sight as they arced out over the heads of the first row of advancing pirates and dropped down behind them onto the treated strips of hay.

The town guard of Kylee had done well in their setting of the firetrap.  The hay and other gathered sticks and dry vegetation had been thoroughly soaked in combustible liquids.  They caught fire and spread at once.  The last two rows of stomping, shouting pirates were immediately engulfed in flames.

All shouts of “death” were abandoned in favor of screams of pain and pleas for assistance from their brethren.  The first three rows of attackers had largely been spared the conflagration.  Since their boots and trouser legs were saturated with the flammable liquids, they were reluctant to risk sharing the fates of their doomed comrades by getting close enough to help.  The noisy and menacing advance of the “bait” had halted as two hundred of their number screamed in agony while they shed their burning clothes.  Now, the remaining three hundred pirates found themselves cut off from any avenue of escape by the flames at their rear.

Before the surviving members of the pirate “trap” could regain their composure, Palto, now deployed with three hundred warriors off to the east side of the harbor led them forward.  Just before the two sides met, a volley of two hundred arrows streaked in to the pirate lines from the west.  What would have been a meeting of two evenly-numbered groups of fighters now became three hundred well-trained and disciplined warriors against just under two hundred pirate crewmen.  The seamen were given just enough time to adjust their lines to face Palto’s warriors, then Jo-Dal led another two hundred fighters in an attack on their western flank. The battle was bloody, and it was fierce, but it was over quickly.  The entire body of five hundred pirates were cut down in under eight minutes.  Blood ran in rivulets back to the flames causing them to sputter when the fluid flowed over them.

Jo-Dal and Palto immediately led their warriors back to their protected positions behind the town constructions.  They carried their dead and wounded with them.  They’d lost thirty six warriors.  In military theory it was a good trade, even a great one.  In a commander’s mind, every loss was heartfelt.

***

Lampte stood on the wagon watching the carnage, his jaws agape.  Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. Five hundred men, all seasoned fighting men.  All dead.

It had taken the outlanders mere moments to turn their own trap against them and slaughter a significant percentage of their numbers.  Lampte fumed.  First the warehouse, now this.  He looked about and saw many of the pirates and the town guard glaring at him.  Though Lampte was not a trained military commander he was wise enough to know that they were already losing faith in his ability to lead them.  He would have to do something to regain their trust, and he would have to do it now.

***

Jile watched as his ship drifted sideways toward the submerged reefs.  Thankfully, the wind to that side was barely noticeable, and their speed was minimal.  The sea anchors were delaying their total destruction on the rocks.  He estimated that they had a half hour until their hull was breached.  The initial impact would not penetrate it, but the constant pounding of the waves driving them against the reef over and over would eventually splinter them.

Jile opened his scope and examined the chain again.  It was being guarded on the island side by eleven pirates.  He considered putting a boat to sea and mounting an attack on them.  He knew that the pirates would see them coming and bombard them with arrows before they could reach land.  No, they were seamen, they’d take their chances on board.

He examined the windlass that the pirates used to tighten the chain.  He followed the obstacle all the way across the harbor channel to the point on the small islet where the other side was secured.  If only they could reach that islet they could release it from that end, but they would hit the rocks before any rowed boat could reach it.

Jile sighed and took a last look at the windlass.  He was about to collapse his scope when he saw movement on the rocks above the pirates. He re-focused the scope.  Then he smiled.

Fauwler had sent Mal and Baynor to continue the efforts to convince their friends and acquaintances not to join in the fight against the town.  He had seen the warriors in action, and he did not want his fellow citizens to be on the receiving end of that kind of destructive energy.

Fauwler was on his way to the western part of Kylee to urge the townspeople there to stay indoors until the fighting had stopped.  He took the most direct route which required him to climb down the side of the hills lining the harbor channel.  Now he crouched behind a shrub watching the eleven pirates who were laughing, talking and passing a clay jug as if a battle for control of the island was not happening.  The guards were not important.  Fauwler saw the chain and the bunched ships within the channel.  The breeze was sweeping them all toward the reefs.  If nothing was done they would crash upon the rocks, and many onboard would die.  Worse, the entire plan of a two-pronged attack to take the island would be ruined.

He looked up at the hill that he’d just descended and all around himself, hoping to find someone to summon help.  There was no one.  He looked back at the ships.  The men onboard were there because they had listened to him and agreed with his vision of what Kylee could become.  They had put their faith in him.  Now they would die, not in battle, but crushed against the unforgiving rocks which guarded their home.

No.  Fauwler could not let that happen.

Captain Fauwler drew his sword.  He measured the distance from his shrub to the windlass.  There was no way that he would be able to reach them without being seen. 

The young captain took a moment.  He breathed the fresh air of the sea, filling his lungs over and over, savoring the smell of the brine.  He listened to the squawks of the seabirds drifting effortlessly on the winds above.  The sound of waves crashing on the shore reached him.  Fauwler had never been one for formal worship, but he did believe there was
something
that created the beautiful things in this world.  He expressed his appreciation for the years of freedom that he had spent experiencing those things.  He asked to be forgiven for deeds he’d committed that had been less than noble. 

Then he stood and started down the hill.

At the windlass, Barl, the First Mate of the Necromancer, was watching the slow drift of the invading ships toward the reefs.  Movement caught his eye and he was astonished to see Captain Fauwler at the base of the hill.  The captain was charging their position.  Barl laughed, his large facial scar puckering with the effort.

“Here now, Lads,” he shouted to the other ten guards.  “Take the captain’s head and we will each share fifty pieces of silver.”  Barl did not inform his comrades that Lampte had offered a hundred pieces of silver for the head of the leader of the invasion.

The men formed up behind Barl.  Three were archers and, at Barl’s direction, loosed their arrows at Fauwler.  Two of the shafts passed harmlessly over his head.  The third grazed the side of his left hip, a painful wound, but not life threatening.

Then he was crashing into Barl.  The broad blade of the pirate’s sword was deadly, but it never reached its intended target.  Fauwler judged the arc of the weapon and sidestepped at the last moment.  Barl’s weapon missed the captain’s face by the width of a whisker.  He never had a chance to make a second attempt.  The slim blade of Fauwler’s rapier slid easily between the pirate’s ribs, skewering his heart.

Fauwler did not wait to see the man fall.  He pivoted three hundred and sixty degrees and slashed his blade across the face of another pirate.  The wound was massive and bone and meat was exposed.  The man dropped his spear and used both hands to hold his face together.

Fauwler felt a burning pain in his back and whipped his sword around to open the throat of a pirate who had planted a dagger there.

Three pirates were now down.  Fauwler shuffled backward, putting distance between himself and the remaining eight.

A man with a spear hopped forward, thrusting his weapon at the captain.  Fauwler was able to grasp it with his left hand and use his sword hand to deliver a killing thrust to the chest.  He kicked out with his forward foot and caught another attacker on his knee.  The joint folded in backwards, and the man fell screaming in pain.