Batal stayed behind the stone wall but peeked out to see the small burning shapes far below. The Northern Horde’s fleet sat covered in flame, smoke billowing up high into the pinkish air above Skye Stone.
Drago passed the eyeglass to Batal. “The decks are burning, but the amount of smoke is not right. There is something underneath that protects the vessels. And still no crews.”
Smoke and steam mixed and rose in thick clouds. A distant hissing sounded from the sea. Forty-one low-slung ships disappeared under the choppy surface. A cheer erupted, followed by a rhythmic thumping along the top of the wall. Longbows striking the stone floor in unison.
Still, something was wrong. Like a great school of sharks, the shadows of the horde fleet remained just below the surface. Even from a hundred meters above, Batal watched the shapes change. They grew under the sea. Whatever these crafts were, they evolved before the eyes of the Guardians. Now longer, leaner and positioning themselves fifty meters from the base of the wall.
“Ready the stones!” Drago ordered. The thumping bows fell silent. Wooden chutes pushed out, just below the top of the wall, a few meters beneath the Guardians’ feet. Workers loaded round rocks at the top of each chute. A simple trigger system would release the rocks, smashing enemy troops landing below. But the Northern Horde’s vessels remained a few meters beneath the sea and continued to spread out no closer than fifty meters from the wall—just out of range of the stones.
“They’re rising!” Batal shrieked, his voice higher and louder than he intended.
Forty-one elongated vessels broke the surface, each covered in pieces of burnt timber with a dull metallic layer glowing beneath. On each stern, a long iron catapult lay parallel with the surface of the water. The split masts no longer protruded toward the sky, but now lay flat on the starboard and port sides, stabilizing the boats.
Drago spun left and yelled to the Guardians on the wall. “Take cover! Prepare to return fire.” He then turned to his right and repeated the command.
Each Guardian moved out of their open notches and behind the stone merlons and waited to see if the catapults could reach their lofty perches. A single round, wooden sphere ran down the arm of the center ship’s catapult and came to rest in the bucket at the end. Batal watched in terrified fascination. A snapping sounded, followed by a splash off the bow of the ship as the arm flashed up with tremendous force, stopped, released the sphere, then snapped back into the water. Similar spheres ran down the catapult arms of every ship, coming to rest and waiting.
Up the orb flew, rising hundreds of meters in seconds. The sphere was high above the wall but looked to fall far short of entering the town. It reached its zenith, then split into pieces like a protective shell and released an object.
A sail, Batal thought as the mottled material spread and filled with air, a humanoid form dangling below it. It was flailing its arms like a marionette from the weekly Saturday morning show put on near Skye Stone’s market. It’s controlling it from below. Incredible. A shaft then whistled downward from the descending figure, and a Guardian fell from the wall.
“Short bows! Fire!” Drago roared. Arrows released, turning the airborne Horde soldier into a bloody pincushion that drifted toward the cobbled pathways below.
The crack of wood hitting steel filled the air. A wave of spheres flew from the sea and climbed high above the wall. Batal unslung his bow, nocked an arrow, and waited for the nearest shell to release its contents. Before the first wave of orbs reached its maximum height, the catapults launched another. Pieces of wooden spheres dropped from the sky and patchwork materials unrolled then filled with air or fell like stone. But alive or dead, the Northern Horde was clearing the walls of Skye Stone and descending into the streets.
A projectile hammered the stone next to Batal’s face, splinters gouging his neck above his leather armor. He raised his bow toward the sky, anger taking his fear, then loosed his arrow. The tip entered his target’s and exited the other side of the man’s head. A small crossbow fell from the sky and clanked off the stone near Batal’s feet.
Drago slapped him on the back. “See, your last name is Spartan!” He then twisted around, gutted a dark form landing behind him, and turned back to Batal. “It’s in your blood!” Drago pointed to the rope leading to streets of Skye Stone. “Go help my sister!”
With only the slightest hesitation, Batal shot another of the Northern Horde from the sky, tore off two strips of cloth from the dead Guardian near him, wrapped his hands, and grabbed the rope. As he repelled down the wall, the snapping of cloths as they filled with wind continued to sound in the sky above. The bloodthirsty horde of the north was raining down upon the people of Skye Stone. Guardians, bakers, farmers, sons, daughters, and fishermen all unsheathed their short swords or leveled their bows.
Once Batal’s boots hit the ground, the stench of the Horde overpowered him. He dry-heaved, steadied himself, then drew his sword. A shadow appeared by his feet, and he dove to the other side of the path. An armored sack of flesh exploded on the stone—its fluids splashing across Batal’s chest—a second before a waxed cloth filled with holes settled over the mess. In moments, Batal was up and running toward his home, his mother, and Danu.
Barking sounded from the smashed doorway to his home. Ten meters ahead on the pathway, two of the Horde appeared from around a corner and leveled their crossbows. The skin around the invaders’ necks hung in layered folds, resting on some kind of leathery chest plate. Batal fought the need to release his bladder as they fired their crossbows. A bolt sliced across his left forearm, opening a flowing wound. He moved left, another bolt skidding off the wall to his right. A guttural roar came from the doorway followed by more barking, as the rotting figures worked to reload their crossbows.
Batal’s blade moved across the neck of the man on his left and the head tipped backward, attached only by loose skin. Following his momentum, he spun and drove the blade down, cutting through the thin leather on the back of the other man’s legs. Steel hit bone and stuck. A terrible bellow erupted, and the man fell. Before the invader hit the cobblestones, Batal drove the point of his bow through his back.
Unable to pry his sword from the dead man’s leg, Batal ripped his bow from the corpse’s back and raced into his home through the shredded doorframe. There was no barking, no screams, just silence. “Mother!”
Streaks of blood covered the floor, leading down the hall and toward their bedrooms. Batal crept forward, holding the point of his bow like a spear. “Mother?” There was no response. He stepped through the hallway, following the bloody trail that stopped at the door to his bedroom. Pushing the door open with the point of his bow, the light from the hallway illuminating his back, he whispered: “Mother?”
In the corner a shadow loomed, the light from the door showing a bloodied face and a raised sword. In front of his mother, covered in gore, stood Danu—her head lowered, hackles up, growling like a crazed beast, and her eyes glowing red in the filtered light. At the deerhound’s feet lay a gutted creature that held only the vaguest resemblance to a human, its damaged armor holding its remains together. Fractured bones, ruptured organs, and sinewy white strands glowed in the light and layers of muscle flayed open dripped blood into a growing pool beneath the body.
Bells sounded from the wall and the boroughs. We’ve beaten the Northern Horde, Batal thought. Danu’s growl deepened, her stance lowered.
“Danu, it’s Batal.” He laid his bow on the floor and went down to his knees. “It’s OK, girl.” The scent of the Horde, their blood mixed with his own, permeated the air. “Mother, are you injured?” She shook her from side to side, lowered her sword, but remained silent, the shine of her eyes resting on the silhouette of the dog.
Batal opened his bedroom door the rest of the way, letting the light shine in. He then turned sideways, vomited, and sat on the floor. Danu sprang forward and rubbed her wet muzzle against the side of Batal’s face. He put his arm around the deerhound, and his mother joined them. Like a dam bursting, Batal wept as his mother comforted him.
“AMIRA!” The voice boomed from the front of the house. “BATAL!”
“We are alive, little brother. We’re back here. Your nephew and his dog were very brave.”
Footfalls echoed on the stone. Batal wiped his eyes. “Careful, Uncle Drago. My deerhound doesn’t like surprises.” His hand rubbed the side of Danu’s muzzle.
A thick hand wrapped around the door frame, then Drago’s broad face appeared from the side of the opening. “Is it safe?” A blinding white smile appeared from the outline of his head.
Danu remained alert but laid her head in Batal’s lap, his mother’s hand resting on the dog’s side.
“She likes you, Uncle.” Batal fought to keep the tears from starting again. “I am happy you are alive.”
Drago slid to the floor next to them. Blood ran from multiple wounds. “Your arm looks in need of attention, nephew, and your neck has a splinter the size—”
“As does your side, shoulder, and head, Uncle.”
Drago leaned in until his forehead touched Batal’s. Amira leaned in to join them, while Danu rested in the center. “We lost many to the Horde.” His arms squeezed Batal tight. “We need to replace them, otherwise we are vulnerable.”
Batal swallowed hard. “Mother has a plan. There is a strong woman who may join me.”
Amira leaned back, still stroking Danu’s sticky fur. “The Akiro clan in the Hiroshima Archipelago has sent word through the spice traders. They have a twenty-year-old daughter without a single lesion.”
“Twenty?” Drago sat up straight. “She is older and healthy? How is she not partnered yet?”
“She has favored the life of a warrior and the path of choice. She is the Akiro clan’s greatest fighter and there are others who will come with her.” Batal’s mother then fell silent.
Drago looked to Batal, back to his mother, and nodded. “Then how, older sister, is Batal to gain the union of this fearsome warrior and why would the Akiro clan send others?”
His mother brushed Batal’s cheek. “The Akiros want the firstborn…and our blacksmith—”
Drago stood. “We can’t give them the best weapons-maker in all the isles!”
“Easy, brother. Skye Stone’s apprentices are ready to take over and we’ll double the size of the smithy. Their training is complete, and they’ll step up. As is our way.”
“But why’d this woman think of joining me, Mother?” Batal asked.
“You know her, my son, at least you did when you were a boy. And she has asked for you—”
Batal sat up straight. Danu’s tail wagged, her eyes moving from Spartan to Spartan. “Kaminari…” Batal said. “Yes, it must be Kaminari.”
Drago exhaled. “But this Kaminari is a warrior. Tradition will be followed.”
“Yes, Kaminari must submit to Batal in combat.” Batal’s mother extended a hand, and Drago pulled her to her feet. “Let’s mend our wounds and clean up.” She reached down to pet Danu. “That includes the bravest Spartan of us all. Then we’ll prepare for the coming journey.”
Batal got up, and both he and Drago began to speak—
“Shh, my family.” She looked at their puzzled faces. “Drago, you must go with Batal to the Hiroshima Archipelago. Continue to train him on the journey as you have done since his birth and make sure he can best her.”
“You are my elder sister, Amira. I will do as you say. What happens if this warrior of the Akiro Clan defeats my nephew?” Drago stated with a wide-eyed Batal nodding next to him.
“Yes, Mother, what if I lose this challenge? I am a fisherman after all.”
“You have never been only a fisherman, Batal. You chose that path when your father died.” She held his stare until he looked away. “But your last name is Spartan. You are many things at different times, but in your heart, you will always be a Guardian. If you lose, then it will not matter. You will be dead. Now, let’s mend our wounds and help the others.” She headed toward the kitchen and the medical kit.
Drago turned and faced Batal. “We will continue your training. I’ll do my best to make you a deadly Guardian. Your skill with the bow and sword-work saved your life today.” A smile appeared as he put a hand on each hip. “I may also bring the finest thespian in all of Skye Stone. The one you loved as a boy, Batal—the puppet master—to train you to plead for your life. Just in case.” He then marched toward the kitchen.
Batal looked down to Danu, who was leaning against his leg. “They’re marionettes, not puppets. And what’s a ‘thespian’? We’ve much to learn.” He ruffled her ears. “Mother’s right. You’re the bravest Spartan, and I know what you’re thinking, Danu. But, Kaminari would never hurt me… Right?”