The Final Voyage of The Canticle
Commander Orken climbed the last of the twenty-seven steps to the gate-tower battlements of the walled North Dock. He paused at the top of the stairs and acknowledged his captain, Ionn Acker, who had been leaning on a merlon of the wall watching the Temple ship, Canticle. The slender redheaded soldier straightened himself when he noticed the commander.
“Sir, what are they doing? The ship is going to be destroyed,” said Ionn.
“I told the Grand Gothar exactly that,” said Orken. “His reaction was to threaten to have me removed from my command for disobeying the will of the Temple. He said he was not going to be questioned by a lowly ‘brown boot’ like me. It got to a point where I could not protest any more or stop him without using force.”
“So, he threatened a commander of the City Guardsmen, to allow him to sail against the wind and current, at high tide, while under fire from an enemy vessel and with enemy troop galleys so close? Has the Grand Gothar lost his mind?”
“There was so much bluster out of him, I thought the wind had changed direction into my face,” Orken replied. “I don’t know why I relented and commanded the gate to be open – maybe I wanted him to be anywhere else other than screaming at me. Even with the gates open I was sure no self-respecting captain and crew would be willing to sail. I was wrong.” Orken focused his weak eyes on the Temple ship.
He felt helpless watching the frantic crew failing to catch a wind in the sails, as the hundred oars dragged the overweight ship windward and against the tide. Temple soldiers manned the ballistae aft and bow. Amid the flurry of activity on the main deck, Orken could make out the rotund and silver-crested figure of Grand Gothar Theck shouting, his arms outstretched before him, grasping a stone over a smoking cauldron on the bowsprit of the ship. It was as if he were directing the power of Oln against the enemy. One of the towers launched a flaming sphere at the ship but it fell far short of its mark. The towers ceased their barrage.
The ship lumbered forward, the towers still. The thought occurred to Orken that perhaps Grand Gothar Theck had indeed used the power of Oln to stay the enemy’s hands, or Oln himself had intervened on behalf of his dedicated servant. The thought was short lived.
As soon as the ship cleared the entrance of the North Dock, the towers unleashed their massive ballistae. The pointed shafts smashed into the hull along the oar deck. Even as the trebuchets launched a flaming sphere, Grand Gothar Theck gestured as if to push the projectile aside mid-flight with his will alone.
The sphere impacted on the foremast, exploding flame and oil in all directions, engulfing the cleric. The mizzen sail and foresail erupted in fire. The ballistae and Temple soldiers at the bow were swallowed by flames. Still with his arms raised to the sky, already beginning his journey to Oln’s side, Grand Gothar Theck could be heard screaming as his blackened body disappeared in a flash of white and orange flame.
Roslind stood in silence, as did many of the others watching the North Dock. The first of the rounds from the towers at the Southern Docks screamed over the knight’s head and smashed into the buildings behind the wall, before exploding into a ball of flame, scattering soldiers and igniting parts of several buildings.
Roslind called down to warn the men still placing spiked wooden posts and debris. A sphere smashed through a large group before impacting the ground short of the wall. Wood, stones and dust erupted into the air.
“Get behind the wall!” screamed the knight. Some of the uninjured men ran for the gate, while others ran to their comrades to help. Roslind bound to the bottom of the stone stairs.
“Wait,” shouted Thorn and Hrókar. Roslind ignored their calls.
The knight ordered several men to follow her as she ran for the portcullis gate and rushed out. Approaching the large metal ball in its crater, a shiver went down her spine. She increased her pace to the gruesome scene. There was no time to be horrified by the destroyed bodies and dismembered limbs.
Some of the injured were screaming in agony, others unconscious and still. On their own or in pairs, the uninjured soldiers began lifting or dragging the wounded men toward the gate. Roslind helped one of the injured and screaming Slithers to stand. Then she realised the man’s right arm was being held to his shoulder by the cloth of his tunic and rings of chainmail.
Another sphere whooshed over their heads into the hourdes of a tower, sending beams of wood and shattered stonework showering down on them. Then the sphere exploded. Roslind threw herself over the injured soldier to shelter the man from the falling stonework, some of which she could feel bouncing off the shield on her back. She looked up to see the ropes of the wolf-teeth mechanism burn and snap, causing the wooden frame to crash to the ground, crushing the three soldiers so close to her that she was sprayed with their blood.
A dense cloud of black smoke billowed across their path as she helped the injured soldier around the debris and through the gate, catching the breath in their throats and blowing hot dust into their eyes. Roslind stumbled over something on the ground, and someone or something hit against her, causing her to drop the wounded man and spin.
She was unsure where anything was. All around her was dark, loud, burning or screaming. Disorientated and coughing, the young knight was assaulted by the sounds of warning calls, shouts, and screams. Instinctively, she looked to the sky, but the thick black smoke betrayed nothing of the larger world. She could not see the flaming sphere hurtling toward the area she was in. She reached for the shield slung on her back but did not have time to remove it. The sphere pounded into a blacksmith’s forge to her side, obliterating it and consuming the surrounding buildings in flames.
The knight felt a wave of heat from the impact which caused her to stumble as she turned away. Roslind felt as if her face and neck under her right ear had been clawed at by a hawk with flaming talons, as the pain convulsed through her, caused by white-hot shards of iron filings from the blazing forge.
Collapsing to the ground, Roslind released a half-stifled cry and covered her head. She dared not open her closed eyes in case they burned in their sockets. Was she on fire? She couldn’t say. She also felt like her teeth had been knocked out and her ears had burst. She squeezed her eyelids as tight as she could. Her mind scattered to the winds. She was dizzy and could not concentrate on anything except the pain. The focusing techniques she had spent years learning at the academy evaporated. She felt like she was somewhere else entirely and the pain was happening to someone else. There was a pounding in her chest and ears, and the thumping sound of her rushing blood blocked out all noise.
She could not tell if it was due to the smoke and ash, or if her own body was shutting down, but her breathing had become rapid and shallow; her left arm tingled, and her throat had tightened. She was struck with a fit of coughing which only sent more pain coursing through her body. Her stomach was turning, the vomit rising as she groped for a path out of the darkness.
“Roslind!” someone roared. A hand grasped hers. She tried to pull away from it. A warm calm eased her scattered mind and churning stomach. “I am here, riddari. I have you,” said Thorn. “Just breath. Keep your eyes closed. I need to wash off the ash.”
Cool water flowed over Roslind’s face and neck. The relief was almost as unbearable as the pain at first.
“You can open them,” said Thorn. When she did, Roslind could see the blurry silver-green of Thorn’s eyes reflecting the fires. The smoke was still swirling around them but not as thickly. The knight remembered the injured soldier and went to move.
“The men, we need to get them to –” said Roslind, struggling.
“We have them. We need to move before the next volley. Can you stand?” asked Thorn. Roslind nodded, and with a loud grunt and as much support as Thorn could give her, she stood, her legs still shaking. She noticed Thorn looking at her neck and face.
He saw the redness, swelling and blistering on the knight’s skin, the singed patches of hair and the black scorch marks on the armour. “Are you a knight or just a girl, pretending?” he chided her. “Your injuries could have been avoided had you not been so foolish to forget your helmet like some bumbling squire. I will not let you and your father die on the same day.”
Roslind was in too much pain to argue with the cougari. After several steps she felt the pressure of his guidance on her arm ease. “You will live, but you need to think about what you do,” said Thorn. “Let us get you tended to.” The sternness had left his voice.
A silence had descended on the fortified North Dock. All but the masts of the Canticle disappeared below the line. Patches of water were still on fire where the residual oil or floating bodies burned on the surface. Commander Orken imagined that all who had witnessed the destruction were silent, in anticipation of survivors breaking above the waves. The only sounds were the consistent gusts of wind and the relentless crashing of the tide against stone and rock.
Orken lowered his head. He could no longer look upon the scene, a disaster he felt responsible for. When the ship had been destroyed, the commander’s thoughts turned again to his son, Owen.
Orken’s three grown sons had all joined the City Guard when they were old enough. When gathered with their children, Orken’s wife, Mila, would always jokingly ask how the ‘family business’ was going. The eldest son, Fíacra, a sergeant in the City Watch, was with him at the North Dock; the youngest, Dufan, had become a member of the baron’s House Shield, which was a source of tremendous pride for his father. Owen, however, had not taken too well to the soldier’s life, having many problems with his superior officers and being routinely disciplined for numerous infractions. He had been at ‘The Exile’ when it was attacked, and a solemn messenger had arrived later to inform him his son had been killed.
Commander Orken cleared his throat and looked back to the towers. They were repositioning to resume their bombardment of the Dock Walls, having obliterated the Temple ship. It was not the time to grieve and yet he did, anyway. It was time to think of the brave men under his command, and yet he spared a moment for his dead son and another for his wife and living sons. Orken had since assigned Fíacra to the Great Watch House high on Herrnan’s Bluff and out of harm’s way. He had placed him in charge of a squad of signalmen who had been relaying what they could see across the Sonton Bay, using large mirrors or whistling message arrows.
The fortified North Dock walls were holding. Most of the flaming spheres had landed in the water, leaving only bubbles in their wake. Others had struck some buildings outside of the walled dock or had impacted against the ten-foot-thick bulwark with little or no damage caused. Orken thought it strange that the aim of those operating the weapons had been so poor against them, and yet so precise against the Canticle. Sooner or later, however, he knew the weapons would find their targets.
He was about to descend the steps of the battlements to return to his cover when an arrow screeched overhead from the Watch House. Then came another and a third, the signal for approaching enemy ships. The commander had been warned of the gathering of enemy galleys, but they had halted their advance. The signal meant they were once again sailing for the dock.
At first, the ageing commander could see nothing so far out across the waves other than the blurry towers; but then dark shapes began to appear like black mist. Orken strained and squinted but could not be sure what he was seeing. The answer came abruptly from one of his captains, Ionn. “Enemy galleys, Commander.”
Orken made his way to the captain. He cleared his throat again. “Damn my ageing eyes, tell me what they are doing.”
“They are forming a battle line,” responded the captain. “It looks like they are all lowering the ramps on their bows. The ramps look tall enough to top the walls,” Ionn continued before coughing.
“They are making ready to storm the dock,” said Orken. The commander called to a signalman, who promptly presented himself, his brass signal horn unslung. “Get the men out of their cover and to their posts on the wall,” said Orken. The signalman complied, sounding two long notes which echoed from the wall, gates, and cliffs. Orken watched as his soldiers hurried up the stairs and scrambled into their defensive positions. The air smelled like three-day-old eggs, which the commander presumed was caused by the destruction at the Southern Docks and whatever fuel the enemy were using in their spheres. He needed to cough; the inside of his throat felt like it had been scraped dry. He swallowed a few times. “When they get in range, target as many of them as possible with the ballistae and mangonels, and let us pray Oln sends the rest of the bastards on to the reefs and Fish Hooks. We will be in for the fight of our lives. We must stand strong for Aks–” Orken’s words were interrupted by a fit of coughs.
“Tell the other captains…” he coughed. “Tell them to report to me for orders,” he finished, recovering his breath.
“Are you in good trim, sir?” Ionn asked. He could see his commander’s face was flushed and the man was sweating.
“I’m fine,” snapped the commander, still attempting to clear his throat. His head had also started to ache. “Maybe some water,” said Orken.
Ionn slung up a waterskin and removed it from over his shoulder. As he handed over the skin, he could feel something agitating his own throat and coughed.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Orken, handing the waterskin back to him.
Ionn nodded and took a deep draught from the skin. He was about to leave the battlements when his commander was struck with another fit of coughs so violent he needed to steady himself against the bricks.
“You are ill, Commander. Let me help you from the wall,” said Ionn.
All Orken could do was nod his head in acceptance. It was only when the commander, aided by Ionn, descended the stairs of the battlements that he noticed two of the three gate-horses were lying dead in the dirt. A horrifying thought occurred to Orken. “The ships?” Orken asked with a strained voice.
“Don’t worry, Commander, we will be ready,” responded the captain.
Coughing again, the commander shook his head. “What are they doing?” he managed.
Ionn moved back up the stairs to the edge of the battlements to investigate. “Nothing,” he called. “They are holding position.”
The commander’s heart sank in his painful chest. He looked to the men nearby on the walls, some of whom were also coughing and spluttering. Now he knew the galleys had moved closer and lowered their ramps to keep the men at the walls. The commander began scanning the docks, unsure of what he was looking for. The pain in his head had intensified, making it difficult for him to keep his eyes open. Then he noticed the water. Where the many spheres from the towers had landed, there were still hundreds of bubbles popping on the surface, long after there should have been. The commander had his answer.
“Poison,” he called as loud as his agitated throat would allow. “Abandon the walls.” This time the coughing doubled the commander over and he was left with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. “Run,” Orken croaked.
Ionn began ordering the soldiers to move and make for the city, while slinging the commander’s arm over his shoulder and helping Orken to walk.
“Sound the retreat. Now!” Ionn shouted to a signalman nearby. The Slither raised the winding horn to his lips and blew three long blasts.
Ionn could feel a sharp pain in his head. He was getting close to the city side wall, but it felt like he was hauling a sack of stones on his shoulder, if a sack of stones could vomit and violently cough. The gates were thankfully open, and he was surrounded by other soldiers, some running, others stumbling, one of whom aided him with the commander. He noticed other men being carried to the gates and some who were beyond help, lying by the water with twisted, agonised faces.
A convulsion of coughing halted him in his tracks for a moment, but the sight of the dead soldiers urged him onward, determined to survive. He glanced back to see if there were any soldiers left on the defensive walls and was relieved when he could see none. A Slither fell to his knees and emptied his stomach in front of the captain. Ionn stopped again to pull the young man back to his feet and dragged the soldier with him, his own stomach turning. His legs were exhausted and the pain in his head was unbearable.
Just a little farther, Ionn thought.
Passing through the gate, the captain could taste the difference in the air. The smell of rotten eggs and smoke he had passed off as the smell from the burning Southern Docks was absent. After a few breaths, the pain in his head eased but he continued to struggle onward away from the docks, amid the throng of the other soldiers.
The young guardsman he had been towing fell to the ground for a second time and gasped for breath. It was only then that he noticed the Slither who had been helping him with the commander was no longer beside him. Ionn struggled to the side of the flow of men, searching for a place to put his commander. He needed the break but also wanted to check on the older man before he moved deeper into the city with him. He turned and lowered Orken to the ground in the doorway of a nearby building. A stream of bright red, bubbling blood came from the commander’s mouth. Panicked, Ionn attempted to wake his commander, shouting at him before reluctantly slapping the old man’s face. He drew his dagger and placed the metal blade in front of Orken’s mouth and nose…no fog formed on the blade. He wiped it and tried again. There was no change – Orken was dead.
Ionn had lost his commander and the city had given up the North Dock without the loss of a single enemy life. The captain sat in the doorway for a moment, contemplating this fact. A sergeant passed by the door, aiding two soldiers who were ill. “Captain, can you help me?” he said. Ionn nodded his agreement.
“Swift journey,” he uttered to the fallen commander. He unclipped Orken’s scabbard from the commander’s sword-belt. “I will see your blade to your heir,” said Ionn, laying his hand on the dead man’s shoulder.