“What happened?”
“They scaled the cliffs.” Fiona shook her head as if unable to quite believe it. “We only ever had a token force on watch up there. We always thought the threat would come from the sea. We never thought it would come from the other direction. We have to get everyone to safety!”
Conall nodded, his mind racing as he scanned the area. “Gerald, take a group and reinforce the east side. I’ll take some men and push them back from the west. Fiona, can you hold the center?”
“I can hold it,” Fiona said firmly.
Conall clasped her shoulder briefly. “When we’ve cleared a path, lead the women and children down to the harbor. We have to get them out of here.”
“How?” Fiona asked. “The boats have been torched!”
“We’ll find a way,” he replied, hoping he wasn’t lying. “We have to.”
Fiona stared at him for a moment. He could see the worry for her people, her home, reflected in her eyes. But there was a hard determination in them as well.
“I’ll get them there. Just clear us a path. Men! Follow Conall and Gerald!”
“Let’s move!” Conall yelled.
Gerald and his group dashed off towards the east side, shields and spears at the ready. Conall led his own group towards the west, sword clasped in a sweaty palm.
Not for the first time he wished his sword-brothers were with him. What he wouldn’t have given right now for Oskar’s ferocity, Kai’s cocky confidence, Magnus’s calm focus, Emeric’s unparalleled skill with a bow. But he was alone. He had brought this trouble to the people of Lanwick—it was up to him to protect them.
Up ahead, he could see the raiders spilling through the streets, their weapons flashing red in the light from the fires. Seeing the villagers, the raiders let out an animal howl and came running, weapons raised.
“Form up, lads!” Conall yelled. “Sheild wall! We willnae let these bastards through!”
Fiona’s men let out a fierce battle cry as they surged forward, their shields forming a wall against the raiders’ swords. The raiders slammed into them and Conall’s line was pushed back a pace, but they held. These men might be smugglers and fishermen but they were also well-trained in defending their homes—Fiona had seen to that.
“Hold them, lads!” he bellowed. “Stand yer ground!”
He didn’t know most of the faces around him but they responded as though he’d been their commander through many struggles. With a roar, they pushed forward, shoulders against shields, shield locked with the ones either side. The raiders battered against them, swords clashing against the round wood-and-metal shields, but the line held firm then shifted forward, pushing the raiders back a step. Then another, and another.
Conall cast a glance over his shoulder. People were streaming from the Trading House and from their homes. Women, children and the elderly, surged through the gap that Conall and Gerald had created, hurrying down to the harbor.
He turned to a man at his side. “What’s yer name?”
The man’s lips were pulled back from his teeth in a snarl and his bearded face was bright red from exertion. “Ardal.”
“Well, Ardal, ye are in charge now. Hold the line for as long as ye are able. When ye canna hold it any longer, fall back in an orderly retreat towards the harbor. Understand?”
Ardal scowled. “And where the bloody hell are ye going?”
Conall ripped his shield out of the wall, pleased when those to either side immediately closed the gap. “I’m going to find us a way out of here.”
He turned away from the fighting, cast a quick glance at Gerald’s men on the other side of the village, and allowed himself a moment to catch his breath. Sweat was pouring down his face and his shoulders were heaving as he sucked in great, noisy breaths, but he didn’t have time to rest.
Turning on his heel, he sprinted downhill towards the harbor. He overtook some of the shambling oldsters and mothers herding children, but they were few, as Fiona had managed to organize them into an orderly line as they hurried onwards. He burst through the last of the houses and skidded to a halt on the dockside.
It was worse than he expected. The women, children and elderly of the village had stopped fifty paces back from the water’s edge, staring in horror. The raiders hadn’t left any warriors down here, to Conall’s surprise, but as he took in the scene in front of him, he realized why. They didn’t need to. There was no escape for the villagers this way.
The boats were blackened husks. Many had sunk and those that hadn’t were little more than charred bundles of sticks that would not be carrying anyone anywhere.
He’d harbored a desperate hope that some of the boats might have escaped the fire, that there would be some way to get these people to safety. He’d been wrong. The raiders had known their job too well.
“What do we do?” Fiona asked, striding over to him. She clasped a sword in one hand and from the blood smearing the blade, it looked like she’d seen action.
Fiona’s eyes were blazing. She was one of the Order of the Osprey’s most valued agents—even though she was a smuggler—and Conall could see why. Not an ounce of fear in her face, just a hard pragmatism.
