38

The Last Push

Joron was bloodied. A glancing blow to his forearm had opened it up and now Farys, dear Farys, was working with needle and thread to bind the wound. Arrows were coming, but in the dusky gloom they were badly aimed, falling randomly. Meas brought torches, lit them and threw them out on the ground before their defences to confuse the archers’ aim further.

“How is the arm, Joron?” said Meas. She had blood on her face. Not her blood.

“Well, Farys will never be a tailor but she does the job.”

“Sorry, D’keeper,” said Farys.

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Farys,” said Joron. “I’ll take quick over pretty.” And he would – his heart beat fast and he longed to return to the fray, for the enemy to come at them once more. To pay back the cut to his arm many times over. Farys finished, biting the twine off and he pushed his way to the edge of the defences, staring out at the forest where it seemed a thousand torches burned.

“They light far more torches than there are deckchilder,” said Meas. She raised her voice. “They wish to frighten us. But are we frightened?” A rousing shout of “No!” in return. Meas nodded in the dark, then leaned in close to Joron and spoke quietly. “They have nearly all of those we saw at the beach up here now, Joron. We can hold maybe one, two more attacks before they overrun us. How is the gullaime?”

“It still sleeps.”

She nodded. “They will come at us with their full strength next. It will be a struggle to hold them but if we do then you must find some way to wake the gullaime before they come again.”

“I do not know how, Shipwife.”

“I did not ask for excuses.” She glanced away as a roar from the enemy filled the air. “Unhook your blade, Joron, this will be a hard one.”

It was a hard one, a vicious one. A screaming, crying, cutting one. The pain in his arm forgotten as he slashed, struggling to hold on to his small shield as a man grabbed it. Fighting to pull it away from him and let the woman by him in with her blade. Would have died had not Cwell saved him. Would have died had not Farys saved him. Would have died had not Tirof saved him. Would have died would have died would have died so many times. But his was a fleet ship’s crew, and they acted as one, fought as one. Came together to plug the holes in the hull of their defences. Screamed in the faces of their attackers. Fought and fought and fought and in the firelight women and men became monsters.

He saw a face among the enemy in the flickering light, recognised it.

Saw a blade, knew it.

His blade.

Then moving through the fight, pushing through waves of violence down the line to reach the enemy shipwife. Shouting words only for them to be lost in the fray.

“That is my sword! My sword!” He saw it lifted, trailing a stream of blood and saw the face of the man who wielded it turn to him. “Barnt! That is my sword!” Then he was blocked by a man with a shield. A screaming face before him. A boarding axe swinging at him and he was fighting for his life.

Then fighting nothing.

The enemy had withdrawn once more. Joron’s legs threatened to collapse. He was weak. Struggling for breath as the adrenaline drained from his system. Being moved back from the front line and into the clearing behind so fresher bodies could take his place.

“Joron.” Meas striding over as arrows fell around them. “We have lost ten so far. They seek to tire us and wear us down with these short attacks and it is working. We need the gullaime and if you cannot wake it then we must make a break for the cave soon no matter what.” He nodded. “When they come again we will hold them while we can, then draw back to the secondary defences around the spire to concentrate our line.”

“Very well.” He looked around for the two windshorn. Found them, stood together on the edge of the battle lines. Shorn’s robe wet with blood. Madorra’s feathers soaked in it. Even they had joined the fight. “You two, come, we must wake the gullaime somehow.” Madorra nodded and Shorn jumped up and down on the spot, screeching and yarking before running over to Joron.

“Not wake! Not wake!”

“We must,” said Joron. He strode toward the windspire, Shorn fluttering in front of him, holding out the wings beneath its cloak. “We will all die otherwise, Shorn.”

“Make sick! Make sick!” it screeched. Then Madorra was in front of it, chirping something in the gullaime’s own language and Shorn slowly lowered its wings, nodded its head. Cwell strode past him, her blade drawn and he grabbed her by the arm.

“You can help me more by holding the enemy at our defences than you can by being here.” She stared at him, eyes full of defiance. Then gritted her teeth, turned around and walked back to where Meas stood with Narza, watching him.

“What did you say to Shorn?” said Joron to Madorra.

“Better sick than slave,” replied Madorra, and it led them on, over the meagre lines of the secondary defence and to the windspire. As Joron knelt before the gullaime he heard the roar of the enemy advance, loud enough to be heard over the roar of the windspire’s music in his head. Knew it would not be long before Meas withdrew. Within the windspire he hoped for movement but the gullaime only slept, curled up on itself. He turned to Shorn and Madorra.

“You can wake it?” Shorn hung back, but Madorra bobbed its head in acknowledgment.

“Sing awake,” it said. “Not good. But can.”

“Do it,” said Joron. He glanced back. Saw the shine of blades in the firelight. Heard the screams of rage, of pain, of death.

“May not work,” said Shorn, the creature sounded desperate. “May not—”

“Magic stop,” said Madorra. “Wake early. Sometime no magic. Lazy gullaime. Bad gullaime. Minds weak.”

“Do it anyway,” said Joron. “And quick.” Shorn bobbed its head in assent, then the two windshorn lowered their heads, lifted their wings and began to sing to the gullaime. This was not the song Joron was used to from the creatures – this was a strange, almost painful, discordant song. The windshorn did not harmonise, instead they sang across each other and within the discord Joron also heard the song of the island that had been a constant clawing in his mind. The gullaime, lying curled into a ball within the cave of the windspire, batted at the air with a wingclaw. Shorn glanced over at Joron. Was there some guilt in its body language as it opened its mouth once more to sing? Or was he imagining it? He could not tell. The song continued.

The gullaime’s head moved.

“Hold them!” This call from Meas. Joron heard the furious roar as the attackers battered at the defences. He wanted to run toward the fight. To become a part of that fury and anger, but he could not. That was not his task. He turned back. The windshorn still singing.

Screams.

The beat of sword and spear on shield.

The gullaime moved again, its head twitched. Its beak opened and a thin stream of saliva fell from its mouth to pool on the floor of the windspire. Joron glanced over his shoulder. Saw their pitifully thin line, illuminated by torches. They could not hold much longer.

“Come on,” said Joron under his breath.

“Not be hurried,” said Shorn.

“We will all die if you do not,” hissed Joron, but Shorn was no longer listening, it was once more singing that terrible discordant song.

“Break!” Meas’s voice, cutting through the night, and at the same time the gullaime shuddered awake. Shook its head and lifted it from the floor of the cave.

“Away go,” it said weakly. Then all was lost to noise as Meas, the remaining seaguard and deckchilder leaped over the defences, picking up the bows and crossbows that had been hidden under the gion stalks and immediately loosing arrows from the clumps stuck into the ground. It was enough to stall the attackers, but only for moments. At the same instant the gullaime sat upright, long legs stretched out in front of it, opening and closing its beak. Behind him the clash of weapons. Joron glanced over his shoulder. The fighting was fierce – a deckchild fell. A woman pushed through their lines and there was no one to stop her. She saw Joron, ran forward. An axe in her hand, but it was not Joron she was interested in – she looked beyond him at the gullaime and drew her hand back. Threw the axe. Joron could do nothing. It was too fast, too quick. The axe spinning through the darkness and he knew, from the look in her face, from the way the day had been going, that it was well aimed. The gullaime was still sat, as if in a daze, bereft of its usual fast reactions. It was an easy target and Joron was too slow.

Shorn was not.

The small, sad, loyal little windshorn threw itself into the path of the axe. The weapon hit it hard enough that it thrust the light body through the air, smashing it against the windspire. The woman ran forward, unhooking her curnow, and the fury that had been bound up within Joron, that fury which had been denied the fight, rose within him. He pulled himself up from the floor, unhooking his own curnow. The woman came forward, intent on the gullaime. He swung his blade, cutting into her side and felling her.

He turned. Shorn was cradled in the wings of Madorra. The axe had cut deep into its chest, blood ran from Shorn’s beak and Madorra was cooing to it in their language. Then it turned to Joron, bright anger burning in its one eye.

“Why it do this?” it spat. “Why do this? Gullaime bad. Spoiled. Cruel.” And Joron could not answer, did not know and could not argue against what Madorra said. The gullaime had treated Shorn badly at every juncture. Shorn reached up with a shaking wingclaw and touched Madorra’s scarred face. Pulling it round so Madorra looked at the mortally wounded creature.

“Windseer,” it said, and Joron was sure he heard happiness in its voice.

“No,” said Madorra. “No.”

Shorn nodded its head. “Windseer,” it said and there was a definite satisfaction in its voice, as if death was welcome. “Protect, windseer,” it said, and then Shorn’s spirit was gone, flown to wherever gullaime spirits went when they left the creatures’ bodies. Madorra opened its beak, as if to speak but was interrupted.

“Gullaime!” It turned. Meas stood above them. The gullaime opened its beak, shook its head as if to push away sleep. “We need your power and we need it now.”

“Tired!” called the gullaime, then it fell forward on its face.

“What is this, Madorra?” said Meas, turning to the one-eyed windshorn, her gaze briefly resting on the body of Shorn and he saw her nod a little to herself, chalk up another corpse on her slate. “We need its power, we cannot hold them again.” The scarred windshorn shrugged.

“Need hours wake properly,” it said.

“What?” said Meas.

“Need hours.”

“You did not tell us this.”

“Sometimes does not happen.”

“We do not wage war and risk lives on sometimes, creature,” said Meas, and for a moment he thought she would lift the blood-smeared straightsword she held in her hand against the windshorn. But the gullaime spoiled her moment, dragging itself forward as it pointed a wingclaw at Joron.

“Caller,” it said, then rolled over onto its back, letting out its yarking laugh. “Caller,” it said again in a sing-song voice.

“Of course,” said Meas. “Joron, is it true what they whisper of you? That at Safeharbour you called the tunir?”

He stopped, unable to think, the noise of the battle seeming to recede. Those events back on Safeharbour had felt so unreal, so dreamlike. He had almost come to believe it had not happened.

“Yes,” he said.

“Then I need you to do it again.”

He raised a hand, touched his throat. “I cannot,” he said, the harshness in his voice betraying why, but Meas did not seem to understand. He ran a finger across the scar on his neck. “My voice, it is gone. Gueste’s cord took it from me.” Meas grabbed his shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she hissed. “We are surrounded, Joron. They have brought nearly every woman and man they have against us. We need a distraction to get away.” She stared into his eyes. “We have no time for self-pity. I need you to bring the tunir again.”

“I cannot . . .”

“No.” Their gullaime, seeming drunk, swaying before them. “Song not here.” It touched Joron’s throat. “Song here.” It touched his chest. “Sing! Sing!” Then it fell over, yarking and rolling around as if had heard the most wonderful joke.

“Joron,” said Meas. “We must try, do you understand? It is the only way.” She leaned in, nearer to him. “My mother will want me taken alive. If you need time I may be able to hold them by talking a while.”

“And our gullaime, Shipwife.”

“What of it?”

“They want it also, or want it dead at least. The woman I killed came for the gullaime.”

Meas nodded at that. “Well, maybe that is another chip I can bargain with. So you sing up death for me, Joron, for if you cannot we are all lost.”