into their hulls.
It was good to be back at sea. Qirum could hear men calling across the water, pilots passing bits of information, the crews mocking each other as fighting men always would. He could hear the horses too, their frightened whinnies carrying over the water. He relished the smell of pitch and resin, of the men’s wine and salted meat, even their earthy stink of piss and vomit, and above all the sharp salt scent of the air that lay over the ocean. Even to bring his army so far, to assemble such a fleet, was a huge achievement. And at this key moment, with the first landing on Northland soil imminent, it was Qirum’s ship that led, Qirum himself who guided it, he who would be the first to spring onto Northland soil, the first to fight, the first to kill.
But that landing had yet to be made, that moment of glory yet to come. For now Qirum and his force were still at the mercy of the sea. Huge oceanic waves forced their way into this great throat of an estuary, and the boat creaked as it rose and fell. The men, most of them warriors from the eastern countries, looked uneasy, queasy, and more than one had emptied his guts over the side. At least the wind was strong enough for them to use their sails, but it blew too hard, driving the ships too fast for the comfort of the pilots, and it brought a bite of cold too on this unseasonably chill midsummer day.
It was just as well, Qirum thought, that few of the men knew of the invisible traps that the Northlanders had planted all along the shore.
Now the traitor came back the length of the ship to speak to him. He had to step carefully past the twin ranks of rowers, twenty-five men in each, their gear stowed beneath their benches, their weapons to hand, their oars shipped. The man, arrogantly dressed in the Jackdaw-feather cloak of his ceremonial office in Northland society, himself looked unsteady; he was no sailor. But he smiled at the Trojan’s discomfort. ‘You’re doing well, Qirum. Just hold your course.’
Qirum snarled, ‘I don’t need pats on the head from the likes of you, Bren.’
‘Of course you don’t. But nevertheless-’ He glanced up at a sunless sky. ‘A midsummer day, a clear still morning. The weather is kind, believe it or not. You should see the storms that ram their way up this estuary in the winter.’
Qirum glanced to the shore to the north. It was a strand of empty shingle beach, with a blur of forest in the distance. To the south, nothing could be seen but water. This estuary was so wide that you could not see one bank from the other. ‘I see no walls. Where are the mighty Northland walls, as I saw in the north?’
‘There are some on the south coast, but nothing to match the structures in the north, like the great Wall that shelters Etxelur itself. Here the issue is the management of the great rivers, and the tidal washes, whose flow is diverted and channelled to keep them from tearing at the land. Look over there.’ He pointed to a section of coast that looked as if it had been undercut and slumped into the water. The exposed landscape, under a sward of green, was chalk, white as bone. ‘Without conscious management this very land would be cut away by the sea, as you see over there. You must understand that Northland is not just a question of walls. It is a system of water engineering that spans a whole country, a system designed and evolved to-’
‘So this precious land has been saved from the sea. I’ve heard all this before. To what end?’ He peered at the empty shoreline. ‘I see no people here.’
‘But there are signs of them. See the ruined boat?’ An oval shape on the strand. ‘And there is a fish rack, abandoned. And there, that black scar is an old hearth. They know you’re coming, Trojan. And they have laid their traps.’
Bren had revealed the Northlanders’ hidden defences to their enemy, underwater, concealed in the sand and shingle, and had no doubt already saved the fleet from disaster. The problem was Qirum could see none of it, and nor could his men. Qirum was a fighter by nature, not a thinker. He longed to be on those beaches, splashing through the last of the surf, wielding his sword against the foe — but there was no foe to be seen here, nothing but empty beaches, and air.
Best not to think about the enemy and his cunning. Best not to let his mind get addled by twisted words from manipulative scum like Bren. Best to think of his own strengths, and purposes. He was already thinking ahead, as a great king should. When he had built his kingdom in Northland, when the time came to strike at the Hatti and their lizard-queen in high Hattusa, it would be an overland expedition, by river valley and mountain pass, the like of which the world had never seen…
There was a cry of alarm, floating over the water. The crew craned to see, and Qirum turned, holding the steering oar steady. One of the ships, a big pentecoster laden with horses, had broken from the loose column and was driving for the shore, its sail flapping. Qirum bellowed for the pilot to right his course, but he was surely too far away to be heard.
Beside him, Bren plucked his sleeve. ‘That’s the Gryphon.’
‘I can see that.’
‘There’s no point shouting. The man hasn’t forgotten the course he’s supposed to keep. He’s lost control of the craft altogether. Look at him.’
And indeed, Qirum could see the pilot of the rogue ship hauling at his steering oar to no effect. As the ship listed horses bucked and neighed pitifully. The men scrambled to bring down their sail and tried to ship their oars, but their movements were an uncoordinated tangle in the heaving bilge and they got in each other’s way. Still, for a moment hope flickered in Qirum’s heart. The beach here was shallow, and Greek ships were designed to be driven far up the shore. If the Gryphon encountered no obstruction perhaps most of the crew could survive the landing — and the horses, which were more valuable than the men.
But long before the ship reached the shore something seemed to reach up out of the water, a blackened claw that pierced the hull and dragged at the vessel as it passed. The Gryphon tipped over onto its right-hand side, its mast dipping to the water almost elegantly. Men and horses tumbled into the water screaming, their oars and weapons and bales of clothing and food falling with them.
And then a swarm of arrows flew into the air from the shore, like bees. They seemed to come out of nowhere. They fell on the men and animals struggling in the water, and the screaming intensified. There were shouts of anger from the other ships. Shields were raised, and a few arrows were loosed in return, to fall uselessly in the water.
‘So there are defenders,’ Qirum snarled.
‘A tree stump,’ Bren murmured.
‘What?’
‘A tree stump. That’s all it was — all that was needed. Upended, stuck in the beach, the roots sharpened. Covered over by the sea at high tide, they knew we would have to come in on the high tide, and it would rip open the hull of any ship trying to land. Simple but effective. And then the defenders on the land just pick off any survivors. I told you it would be like this. All the way along the coast.’
Qirum snarled, ‘Except for the one weak point you will guide us to.’
‘Not far now.’ Bren smiled, utterly confident.
And Qirum’s eye was caught by a spark of light, rising into the air from the green coast. It was like a firefly, but he had seen no such insects in this part of the world.
Erishum called from the prow. ‘Fire! Lord Qirum, it is a fire arrow!’
Qirum could do nothing. The arrow fell, swooping straight down towards the Lion, and hit the sail. The woven fabric began to burn immediately. The men yelled and scrambled.
‘Cut it down!’ Erishum, fast to react as ever, strode forward, yelling. ‘Cut the sail down! Get it over the side!’ He slashed at the rigging with his own sword. It was a chaotic scene for a few heartbeats as the men hauled at the burning cloth and kicked it into the river. At last the sail was overboard, still burning, drifting on the water’s surface.
Qirum, breathing hard, stood amidships and surveyed his crew. None had been lost, and only one seemed badly burned. And there were no more arrows coming; there was no need for the shields. ‘Back to your stations. To your oars! No more sails. Who needs the strength of the wind? From now on we drive ourselves hard and strong all the way to our landing on the Northland shore!’
He was rewarded with a roar of anger and determination. The men moved to their places, scrambling for their oars in the bilge. The drummer took his place in the prow, and, facing the men, began a steady one-two beat. It took only a few strokes for the men to settle into their rhythm. Soon the oars were cutting into the water, and the Lion surged forward.
Erishum came back to speak to Qirum. ‘We were lucky.’
