The Barons' War
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 13
The Silent Isles
The sand turned black where Marrow’s Bane struck, slicing through shell and pale flesh. The worm bucked, thick as a man’s thigh and thrice the length, and convulsed, spilling ichor as it died. Another segmented horror scuttled sideways across the wet sand, its lamprey-like mouth gaping, lunging toward a gap between two sailors.
William pivoted, the heavy hand-and-a-half sword twisting and turning as if it were a light training blade. The steel caught the creature in its side. It screamed as bone and plate gave way. William reversed his blade and struck again, severing its head from its body.
His men, what few remained, formed a broken crescent along the shore. Fewer than seventy now, crouched behind shields of wreckwood and driftwood. They held the line where water met sand, spears and axes braced for the next wave of creatures. Most blades bounced off of the worms’ armored hides. The men tried to stab into the creatures’ mouths, a dangerous attack, but the only one that worked for their weapons save the one lucky strike by a now dead soldier who managed somehow to get his blade in between the narrow gaps in a creature’s plated hide.
Near the center of the line, a creature had slipped past a poorly timed spear thrust, clamping onto a sailor’s leg, dragging him down. The man shrieked as hooked teeth tore through leather and flesh. Two of his friends tried to save him, hacking at the creature with axes, the blows skittering off its hide.
William cursed and ran towards them, boots kicking up sand and water. He reached the breach as the worm began to pull the screaming man away, bringing Marrow’s Bane down in a two-handed blow, severing the creature just behind its head segment. The front part kept gnawing, teeth buried deep, while the longer tail section writhed like a decapitated snake. William kicked the head away and plunged his sword into the thrashing tail until it stilled. Two sailors were already dragging their injured comrade back into the line, his leg a ruin of blood and bone. With a wound like that, he would still likely die.
The attacks were coming in waves. The worms emerged from the dense tree line that bordered the beach, slithering across the fifty yards of open sand like grotesque, armored eels. That was the only reason they’d survived this long. The creatures didn’t seem to be able to burrow into the sand, probably because a few feet down, there was only mud and water, giving his men something to actually fight instead of sudden, hidden death.
William moved constantly along the defensive perimeter, shouting encouragement to the men and attacking as many of the creatures that got through their shields as possible.
It had been three days of this and he was exhausted to the point where it didn’t seem possible he could keep going.
The men were just as tired, but still they fought on. They used the heavy driftwood shields not just to block, but to push, shoving the slithering bodies back, creating space for spear thrusts. A big man with a red beard, a deckhand named Jorn, roared as he slammed his shield edge-on into a worm’s side, staggering it long enough for the man beside him to drive a spear deep into its open maw. The creature spasmed, its teeth snapping shut on the wooden shaft, splintering it, but the damage was done and the beast slithered back to its friends at the trees.
More replaced it. Another wave surged forward and a gap opened on the left flank. Before William could reach it, two worms slithered through. A man went down, clutching his torn throat, blood bubbling between his fingers. Another stumbled back, tripped, and was overcome before he could rise. Their screams were short, brutal punctuation marks in the ongoing chaos. William prevented any more from breaking through, pushing the beasts back, but the line was forced to retreat once again.
They were practically in the water now, the shallow waves swirling around their ankles.
William slew another worm, then another, then a third, and it didn’t seem to matter. They never seemed to stop. Soon, they would be in the sea itself.
“Captain!” William yelled, not taking his eyes off the nearest worm as it tested the shields. “Captain!”
It took a moment, but the man came. He looked as bedraggled as the rest of them, dark circles beneath the eyes, clothes sweat-stained and sea-worn. The past weeks had taken a toll on all of them.
“We launch now,” William said, pointing toward the ship.
“My prince, we’re not ready. We are close, but the sailcloth, there’s only one full square and half another. We’ve got no spare timber lashed. We’ve loaded only a third of the salted meat. Water barrels are half-full. We’ve patched what we can, but the lower hull still leaks. If a storm hits, she’ll crack. Even a bad tide could peel her open.”
Another scream sounded up the line. A man fell, dragged screaming under a pile of armored plates and coiling bodies. William didn’t look.
“They weren’t here three days ago,” William said, pointing at the tree line. “Now there’s three times the number that were here yesterday. They charge when the tide’s low and stay back when it’s high. They’re testing us. And the tide is dropping.”
“But...”
“Will she hold water?”
The man hesitated. Then gave a slight nod.
“Then she sails. Now.”
William didn’t wait for another response.
“Push her into the water! Take only what we need, tools, weapons, rations. Leave the rest!”
The sailors not on the line ran to obey. Others dropped what they carried and began rocking the vessel forward, inch by inch, dragging it across rollers that had been placed under it as it was rebuilt, removing the blocks that had kept it from rolling out to sea from their makeshift beach shipyard.
The men on the beach continued to fight. The defensive line buckled but held. The worms pressed harder, slithering over their own dead and wounded, as if they sensed they were about to lose their prey. The perimeter shrank again. Men fought shoulder-to-shoulder, tripping over bodies, human and inhuman. William saw a worm rear up, its maw wide, aiming for Drummond. He lunged, slicing it almost in two before it could strike. Drummond gave him a grim nod before turning back to the fight.
Slowly, agonizingly, the ship began to move, scraping over the sand. The dropping tide helped, lifting the stern slightly. Men shouted, half in effort, half in triumph, as the vessel slid into the shallows. Water reached the keel.
“Aboard! Get aboard!” the captain yelled, waving frantically from the ship’s railing.
The launch became a frantic scramble. Once it was afloat, the dropping tide wanted to carry the ship back out to sea. Men threw sacks of provisions onto the deck before grabbing wounded men and hauling them through the waist-deep water toward the ship. Sailors already aboard threw down ropes, pulling their comrades from the surf.
“Retreat! Fighting withdrawal!” William commanded, stepping back, sword ready. He, Drummond, Eskild, and a handful of the best fighters formed a rear guard. “Move in stages! Into the water!”
They fell back slowly, facing the enemy, shields locked, spears jabbing. Worms snapped at their heels, some even lunging into the shallow water after them. Marrow’s Bane flashed again and again, cutting down the most aggressive pursuers. One by one, the defenders turned and splashed through the waves, grabbing outstretched hands and ropes, scrambling up onto the deck.
Drummond went, then the others, until only William and Eskild remained in the churning surf. Eskild hesitated, looking at William.
“Go!” William shouted, slicing the head off a worm that writhed at his feet.
They were coming in the water now, desperate not to lose their meal. Eskild nodded once, turned, and hauled himself aboard.
William stood alone for a moment, waist-deep in the cold gray water, the waves breaking around him. The entire beach before him, from the tree line to the water’s edge, was a writhing carpet of armored beasts. Hundreds of them, with more spilling out of the trees every minute. They slithered over each other, a grotesque, undulating mass. He felt a profound weariness settle deep in his bones.
A rope snaked down beside him. Eskild’s tattooed face peered over the railing. William grabbed the rough hemp, found purchase on the hull, and let the men above haul him aboard, collapsing onto the deck, gasping for air.
Hands helped him up as men frantically worked the stiff, resin-covered replacement sails, hauling ropes, trying to catch the stiff offshore breeze. The ship groaned in protest as it wallowed in the swell, but it moved. Slowly at first, then gathering a little speed, they pulled away from the cursed shore.
They had survived the Silent Isles. Now, he had to hope the ship would survive the trip to Werna.
Valemonde, Lynese
Isolde was tired. Tired and cold, even though they were still weeks away from winter. She had spent a month in this damp cell, unable to sleep most nights and with nothing to do most days. It was enough to crush her soul.
She had been up for hours, sitting on her thin pallet, legs tucked beneath her, listening to the city stir earlier than usual. Today was Founder’s Day, marking the day when King Jacme unified the majority of what would become Lynese back in the tenth century. It was a day of celebration, feasting, and parades across the empire, one she’d loved participating in when she was a girl.
This year’s celebration would hold a special significance, though. This year, the high point of the celebration would include a public execution in front of the palace.
Her execution.
She ran her fingers over the iron shackles on her wrists. The metal had rubbed her skin raw in the first weeks, but now her flesh had hardened beneath it. Much like the rest of her, she supposed.
Her trial had lasted two days, a performance choreographed by Lord Agravaine to give her death a veneer of legitimacy. In spite of the testimony he’d given, her heart went out to poor Count Janir, who stood before the court with one eye swollen shut, dried blood still caked beneath his nostrils. His testimony had been damning. He confessed to helping her drug her father, to manipulating his feeble, poisoned mind into naming her the heir instead of her brother.
Not that he had a choice in speaking Agravaine’s lies. The man had a family, and she was sure they were equally as threatened.
Other witnesses followed with similar tales, each more outlandish than the last. By the end, she stood accused not only of usurping her brother’s rightful place but of poisoning her father as well.
Throughout it all, Isolde denied every charge. Not that it mattered. Each time she spoke, she was cut short. It wasn’t a trial, and the verdict surprised no one.
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