Chapter 20

Wyvern’s Tail, Stormhaven, Iron Keep

Garris walked down the rocky beach, looking at the land behind him and then back out to the sea, envisioning in his head where ships would come from and the best place to position his men.

Even in the height of summer, it was cold this close to the Icelands and Alchmara, the water pushing down from the Frozen Sea keeping the Bleakwater Straits frigid year-round. Technically, the Wyvern’s Tail, the isthmus that projected off the western side of Iron Keep and into the straits, was north of Sheildhome, the capital of the Duchy of Icelands, and was roughly on the same line as the frozen peaks to the far west.

Not that knowing that made the freezing winds coming off the straits any less biting. The land resembled the waters beyond it, the rugged coastline dominated by sharp rocky outcrops and the scattered scrub that managed to cling to life.

“Along here, from water line to water line,” Garris said.

“This is pretty far back, my lord,” Sir Odran said. “The archers will not be enough to push them back into the sea, and we will be too far to keep them from assembling.”

“The tail is a point. If we go too far forward, they’ll just sail past us, and then where will we be? We want them to land here, right at the end, and the only way to guarantee that is to make it an opportunity. Let them think we made a mistake and positioned too far to the rear.”

“Or we make a mistake and position too far to the rear,” Odran said, causing Garris to shake his head with a smile.

They weren’t as individualistic as the Icelanders, but there was an informality in Iron Keep that wouldn’t be allowed by Kingshearters or River Markians. In Iron Keep, it was almost expected. They might follow their leaders, but they would complain the whole time they did it. Of course, they chafed at being kept from the thick of the battle as well.

“That depression back there. Move all of your knights to it and split into two groups for when you are called upon. I don’t want the enemy to see you until I want you seen.”

“So we’re not even to join in the fighting. Do you want them ashore?”

“I do.”

“Are we even sure this is where they’ll be landing?”

“Yes. They were never going to take the Keep just landing down by the Sisters. It’s not enough and would take too much to push all the way down to the Shatterstar Mountains. No, for this to work, they’ll want to land here and probably in Everwood, by the plains just north of the forests. There are too many crown ships in the Bay to keep tabs on ships sailing for Everwood, but we control the straits. Between the scouts following them on the shore and the boats we’ve had tailing them, they’re landing here. And they’re landing here today. Now, go get your men situated.”

Odran grimaced but went to do as he was told while the sergeants got the men-at-arms in place, backed by what conscripts he could get together on the march here. It was organized chaos for a time, but the men were seasoned, having spent their lives fighting off Alchmara raiders and pirates.

So he waited, checking the men, making sure people were where he needed them to be. He ended up backing his line up even further, probably still visible, but seemingly out of position. He wanted to seal the idea that they were caught off guard, unprepared.

“Sir, a ship,” one of the men called out, pointing to the water.

Garris squinted, looking at the ship, but it wasn’t sailing to them. It was sailing past, not toward the tail. The closer it got, the easier it was to see, until finally, he could make out the symbol of a keep at the top of a mountain, the symbol of Iron Keep.

It was one of his scouts, sent to shadow the enemy. He’d had them watch the Iceland ports ever since the landings by the Darien Hills, knowing this day was coming. It had allowed him to get an army here in time and to know what direction they were coming. The only reason they would be ahead of the fleet now was that the enemy was almost here.

“It’s time. Everyone up. Get ready,” he called out.

He’d let the men relax while they’d waited, but now it was showtime. Time to show these northern bastards what happened when you stepped foot on the Keep without permission.

They didn’t need to wait for long. Fifteen minutes later, the first ships were on the horizon, spread out in a line, ready to land across the tip of the tail. They would see his men by now, too. It was hard to hide this many souls, even on land. Not in such a flat and desolate place as this.

“Sergeant, tell the men to advance to their positions. Quickly but in good order. We want the enemy to see us, to think us unprepared.”

As his troops moved forward, spreading out across the beach in a loose formation, Garris continued studying the approaching fleet. He counted at least thirty ships, a significant force, but not overwhelming. Although he’d learned over his many years never to underestimate an Icelander. They were bastards, but tough ones.

Garris was focused, watching the distance close as the ships neared the shore, measuring the distance in his head.

“Archers, on your targets. Release!”

A flag dropped, the sign for the captains of the separate sections of archers, one on the far left and one on the far right, to light their arrows and pull back. Even in the mid-afternoon sun, the sight of hundreds of flaming arrows arching through the sky was a sight to see.

The arrows were not spread across the whole fleet. They were aimed to either side of the fleet, striking the ships on the flanks of the enemy formation. Icelanders had a problem with icing on their sails and freezing planking, causing it to crack and shatter. They countered this by using a fair amount of pitch and tar to insulate the ships and the roping. It worked well but made their ships highly flammable.

A fact Garris was taking advantage of.

Flames caught in sail and timber as arrows began to strike their targets, the ships quickly catching light, the fires racing along the planks, following the path of the pitch and tar. The men threw buckets of water at it, trying to put it out, even as more arrows hit. It was a losing battle, and shortly had the boats on the wings sending warriors scrambling into the sea, hoping they could make it through the frozen waters to shore rather than burn to death.

Few would.

Another flight let loose. And then another. More ships burned and more men ended up in the water. Not enough to change the tide of battle, but that was as expected. Garris couldn’t think of any time archers stopped an invading fleet.

It did cause the remaining ships to shift to the center from either side, bunching up. Ships ground to a halt on the beach, disgorging warriors over the sides, their war cries carried across the sand as they formed up, clearly confident in their superior numbers and reputation.

“Steady. Steady,” he called out as the line wavered, seeing the growing force of screaming Northmen.

They waited and watched as more men got off the ships, growing their forces by the moment. And then a horn sounded. The Icelanders were fully committed now, their warriors forming shield walls as they advanced up the beach. Their outer ships still burned, forcing late-arriving vessels to come through the center, stacking up with the others.

“Begin moving forward, but keep your spacing,” Garris ordered.

Their own horns sounded, flags waving, signaling them to move forward. Sergeants shouted, yelling at their men to stay in line and together. They were good men, doing their jobs well. Starting this battle right was critical. If they attacked, screaming mass to screaming mass, they would lose; the enemy would overpower them and wipe them out.

Both sides accelerated as they ran into each other, the Icelanders spreading out to cover Garris’s whole line, but still bunched up in the center because of how they landed.

The Icelanders crashed into the line like a wave against rocks, his pike and shield men against axes and spears. The Northmen fought like demons, true to their reputation. They struck with savage efficiency, pressing and fighting, trying to force a gap in his line. His men were well-trained and prepared for this battle, the combination of pike and shield well-suited for keeping soldiers back, giving them reach and protection.

Men fell and died as the battle reached a fevered pitch. Everything in Garris wanted to join his men on the line, to fight with them, maybe keep some of them from dying, but his plan required more focus and coordination, which he could not do and fight at the same time.

“Signal the center,” Garris said.

Flags went up. The commanders of his center units had been watching for it, waiting, and they began to fall back, fighting every step of the way. It meant some of his men would be wounded and killed where they lay as the enemy passed over them, but it was what had to happen.