“I’ll take the tiller as soon as you go!”
Feeling a surge of power, the elf leaped toward the rocky shore, making a balanced landing on a flat-crested rock, dry and sunlit above the surging breakers. Another spring took him to the nest of chains that bracketed the end of the boom in its cradle.
Behind him the mainsail snapped taut, and Mouse clutched the tiller, as the boat strained against the multiple lines connected to the boom.
Kerrick grabbed the lever, the metal cold and rough under the skin of his palm. He pulled and strained, feeling the metal, creaking and reluctant, begin to move. His flesh, stiffened by the power of the ring, was corded wire, his will a furnace of determination.
Slowly, the mechanism began to open. Chain spilled through the sprocket, at first one link and then a breathtaking pause before the next. He heard another sharp clack, then another, finally a steady cadence of moving chain. Faster, then, like the pounding of his heart, the metal links tumbled past until the gear was spinning free and the boom lunged outward eagerly, free from anchor.
A great splash of water rose across the stern, drenching Mouse and releasing Cutter. The boat sprang forward, pushed by the wind, dragging the massive weight of the boom through the seas swelling into the narrow harbor mouth. Across the harbor, Mouse saw the tower watchmen waiting to lash the boom in place. The sailboat strained and moved slowly closer, as some of the men waded into the cold water, reaching with gaff hooks to haul the heavy barrier into its socket. The boom stretched fully across the anchorage now, steel spikes here and there jutting above the surface of the water, a menacing line vaguely suggesting a formation of underwater pikemen.
Kerrick looked to sea then, saw the looming prows of the two galleys, each cutting a white swath through the rolling swells. A momentary hatred seized him, making him tremble. He wanted to hurl himself against those ships, his weapon being his own flesh. It took all of his will to check the impulse and keep his feet planted on the slippery rocks.
The ogre king, Grimwar Bane himself, judging by his golden breastplate, stood on the deck and glared at the harbor. The elf grinned fiercely, imagining his enemy’s displeasure. Would the galleys try to charge through? If they did, would the boom hold? It had to hold! Furiously, he thought of leaping into the sea and reinforcing the boom with his own enhanced strength.
Only then did he realize his foolishness and immediately pulled off the ring. It was cold and deceptively light in his hand, yet it had almost overcome him with its seductive power. He felt immeasurably weak now, sapped by a depression that tempted him to collapse, to rest and sleep. All his body called out for him to lie here on these rocks.
At last his mind took over, reminding him that there was plenty more work to be done. Stumbling, taking great care with his balance lest his enfeebled legs betray him on this rough ground, he made his way along the shore, past the great stone mount where the boom was secured, and into the fragile security of Brackenrock’s port.
“Sire! We must turn!” Argus Darkand shouted over the din of the rowing drums, as the galley surged forward.
“By Gonnas, we will not!” roared Grimwar Bane, glaring at his helmsman until that veteran ogre sailor nodded his acquiescence. “Take us forward, through that toothpick of a barrier!”
The king squinted for a better look, not entirely sure what the elf and the humans had just done. He saw a long shaft floating in the water, sensed that it had been pulled across like a gate. Surely there was no threat in that, nothing that could harm his mighty flagship!
He stood above the great gap running along the center of the deck, looked down onto the shoulders and backs of his straining oarsmen.
“Row, you louts!” he bellowed. “Row like the wind-show these humans the power of ogre brawn!”
The ship made another surge, but once again Argus Darkand found his way to the king’s side. The helmsman was nervous, his normally florid flesh now grown pale. Angrily the king pushed him away, strode back to the bow.
“My husband, consider.” He recognized his wife’s voice, but was so preoccupied he didn’t turn to acknowledge her. “Have patience, Sire. We can win this fight in good time-we do not need to take a rash risk now, in the opening movement.”
He saw the metal barbs, waves lapping just over the tips. They were arrayed with their points jutting toward his ship. Possibly Goldwing could smash through that boom with only a few scratches, but what if he was wrong and one of those stout shafts punched through the hull?
“Slow!” he roared, and immediately Argus Darkand echoed the command to the rowers. The cadence of the drums fell off. “Stand off!”
Grimwar Bane scowled at the vast hooked timber that floated, just below water level, across the mouth of the bay. He had scuffed his ship on a rock, once, and it had taken a whole summer to repair the hull-he could vividly imagine what damage those barbed links might wreak on the planks of Goldwing’s hull.
“Come around the point. We anchor off the beaches below the citadel farms and attack by land,” he ordered. “The humans have bought themselves another few hours. I hope they enjoy them, for they will be their last hours upon Krynn.”
The lookout on the high tower blew his trumpet, three long, braying notes that meant the best news Moreen could hope for, under the circumstances.
“They’re quitting the harbor!” she cried.
Once again the Lady of Brackenrock stood atop the highest tower of her citadel’s gatehouse. She looked down into the great courtyard, where her people were running back and forth in well-ordered chaos. “Archers, bring the extra arrows up to the walls!”
She spotted a lithe farmwife coming through the gate directly beneath her. “Martine, start bringing the people up from the lower terraces. We’re closing the gates, but we’ll leave the sortie door open until the last minute. Tell everyone they have to get up here now!”
“Yes, m’lady!” called Martine, and immediately raced off on her errand.
“They’re coming for real?”
Moreen recognized Bruni’s Voice and turned around with relief. The big woman emerged from the stairwell. “Yes, the signals say ‘two ships,’ but also that the boom stopped them at the harbor mouth. So they’ll be coming by land-which gives us a little time. Are the Highlanders ready?”
“All six hundred, including Strongwind’s heavy axemen. That’s fifty more strong, big men. Gustav the White was here with a load of gold from his mine, and dozens more came in his caravan. They’re anxious for the chance to fight some ogres.”
Moreen smiled grimly. “That will come to pass soon enough,” she said. “If we’re lucky, we match them in numbers now, but that counts our women, children, and elders, while they are seasoned warriors and brutes under a king who will not tolerate defeat. What about their secret weapon? Do we know anything more about it?”
“Not yet,” admitted Bruni, “but Dinekki continues to cast her bones.”
Moreen looked to the north, toward the deceptively peaceful waters of the Courrain Ocean. Sunlight reflected from the waves in shimmering patterns, and the blue sky mocked her with its promise of a beautiful day ahead. It had been a day like this, eight years before, when the ogres had attacked her village with disastrous results. Now all of these people were gathered in this cherished place, and all she could think was that the stakes were so much higher and it was her responsibility to command. If she lost this fight, it would not be just a small tribe that suffered. She was keenly aware that the stakes were nothing less than the future of all humans in the Icereach.
12