None of the cannons on Snarlsson’s ships were firing. Even after coming under fire from the guns and arrows that Conall’s paltry fleet had managed to cobble together, Snarlsson hadn’t returned fire. The ships had maneuvered as if they meant to, coming stern side on so the cannons were pointing squarely at Conall’s fleet, but nothing had happened.
And behind them, his father’s own ships—sleek galleys that could be rowed or sailed—had come about, also aiming their cannons. But not at Conall’s ships.
At Leif Snarlsson’s.
Even as he watched, his father’s cannons coughed, plumes of smoke erupted from the ends, and lead balls ripped into the hulls of Snarlsson’s fleet. He could hear people bellowing on Snarlsson’s ships, desperately trying to get their own cannons to fire. But they didn’t.
Conall had no idea what was happening. He couldn’t make any sense of what he was seeing. He could feel his heartbeat tap, tap, tapping against his ribs, thundering with a mixture of adrenaline and fear. But mostly fear. Molly was up there, right in the middle of it.
He might not understand what was going on, but he understood one thing: he had to get to her. It was a single imperative ringing in his brain, as fundamental as breathing. She was up there on one of Snarlsson’s ships, the one that Alice had arrived at the Pinnacle aboard. Conall had heard her scream his name across the water when they’d first engaged the fleet and for a second, one fleeting, exhilarating second, he thought he’d seen her at the rail, her red-brown hair flying.
He’d ordered his fighters not to fire on Alice’s ship and for the most part he’d been obeyed although a few overzealous men had fired in that direction. Conall could only pray that Molly had been somewhere safe when they did. If anything happened to her...
He knew he was taking a risk coming here, breaking his agreement with Alice, but he also knew that when Alice and Snarlsson had no more use for Molly, they would kill her. He could not allow that to happen. Not while he had breath in his body.
He glanced around at his rag-tag fleet. Like him, most of them were watching the sea-battle unfold with confused expressions on their faces. When he’d arrived, lathered and exhausted in Lanwick, it had not taken much to convince the people there to come to his aid. To Molly’s aid. They were still hurting from the raid on their settlement and jumped at the opportunity to exact some sort of retribution.
The ships, however, had been another matter. Lanwick’s own fleet of vessels had been burned in the attack and it had taken all of Fiona’s considerable influence to commandeer vessels up and down the coast, either through negotiation or downright threats, and these along with Thurso’s own ships who had come out in its defense, meant they’d been able to offer some sort of resistance to Snarlsson, no matter how paltry.
The fact that Fiona had been as good as her word and had managed to secure a shipment of long guns had helped as well. They had no hope of winning, of course. A ragged collection of cogs, patched-up birlinns and fishing skiffs had little chance against his father’s sleek galleys and Snarlsson’s Norse vessels. All they’d hoped to do was put up resistance for long enough that they might think twice about attacking Thurso and go elsewhere to find an easier target and thereby, hopefully, giving time for the Order of the Osprey to arrive.
Now, with the sight of his father’s ships attacking Snarlsson’s, he didn’t know what to think. Around him, his fleet bobbed in the water, not knowing what to do either. He glanced over at Fiona. She was standing in the prow of a battered old birlinn floating off Conall’s port side. The red-head was squinting through the smoke, an intense expression on her face.
“We need to retreat!” she shouted over at him. “If we get in the middle of that, we’ll be cut to pieces!”
She was right, of course, but Conall still didn’t give the order. If this was some sort of trick...
Suddenly, Snarlsson’s flagship began to turn. Rather than manoeuvring in order to bring its cannon to bear against the Sinclair ships, it was moving out of formation, breaking for the open sea.
They were trying to flee. And Molly was aboard.
Conall flew to the tiller and began bringing his little boat about in order to catch the wind.
“What are ye doing?” Fiona yelled, hands cupped around her mouth. “Ye canna go into that! It’s suicide!”
Perhaps it was. But it woulddefinitelybe suicide to let that ship get away. If he lost Molly, it would be the death of him. He could not live without her. He didn’t know when he’d come to the realization but he knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. She had become the lynch pin on which his life rested, the axis around which he turned.
“Get everyone back!” he yelled at Fiona. “Get them out of range! It looks as though Snarlsson’s cannons are disabled but we canna count on that!”
And despite what he’d seen, he didn’t trust his father. What if he decided to turn on Fiona and the fleet?Hiscannons were certainly working.
“Regroup by the islets! I’ll be back as soon as I can!”
As soon as I’ve got Molly, he thought.And if I don’t get her? Well, I doubt I’ll be coming back.
Fiona’s reply was lost in the snap of the wind against the sail as Conall’s boat sped forward. He kept his eyes trained on the fleeing ship, trying to drown out the chaos all around him. To the starboard side one of Snarlsson’s ships was taking on water and listing dangerously. Conall could see men jumping over the side. Another’s mast had snapped and the sails had come down in a tangle of cloth and rope, with sailors desperately trying to fight their way out of the clinging shroud. The cough and boom of cannon fire was all around him and sheets of smoke obscured his view, but he kept his sight fixed ahead, on the retreating shape of Alice’s ship.
I willnae leave ye, Molly,he thought.I promise.
A high-pitched whining noise alerted him a split second before his ship exploded. Something slammed into its side and it went up in a detonation of wood splinters. Conall found himself flying through the air before he slapped into the water with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. He went down. Blackness choked him. Water rushed into his mouth. Shocking cold pierced his body.
Then he broke the surface and coughed out the water filling his lungs, taking in big wheezing breaths. The wreckage of his boat bobbed around him, splintered bits of wood no longer recognizable as anything other than firewood. Smoke billowed across his face. He trod water, trying to clear his ringing head.
Through the smoke he saw a huge shape approaching. He paddled away from it, frantically trying to get out of its path, but it was no good. It bore down on him, huge and imposing.
But then the ship’s momentum stalled and it halted perhaps twenty yards from where he bobbed in the waves. There was a hissing sound and then a rope came coiling out and landed in the water less than an arm’s span away.
“What are ye waiting for?” a familiar voice bellowed. “Grab the bloody rope!”
