To the north and south, Nokvi’s ships were floundering under the weight of superior numbers, many floating without a crew, empty but for corpses. Of his own fleet, one of Raufirit’s ships had capsized and a Ringarin ship lay in flames.
The wind at their backs grew to a gale. Seawater slapped the side, and foam sprayed his face. He lifted his standard for the final time as the first sheets of rain lashed down over them.
His fleet closed. Shields locked, men braced themselves. As the two fleets neared, Nokvi’s warriors swarmed to the fore of their ships. The strongest of them loosed their arrows, but wind had reached such a pitch by now that not one flight came close to Rikin’s platforms before the arrows were spun harmlessly into the water. His own warriors shot flight after flight, as steady as the rain. Missiles struck across the length of the enemy ships, passing well over the wall of shields that ran back from each stem.
The heavy clouds swept in, and the day darkened as the first of the great platforms ground together, and the real fighting began in the middle of a violent storm. Yet it affected his own men less than Nokvi’s. It was Nokvi’s men who had to fight facing into the storm. Their vision was battered by the squall. They could barely stand up against the screaming wind while his own ships drove again and again hard against the wooden walls of their enemy and his soldiers cast stones across the gap, as plentiful as hail.
The cauldrons of pitch swung wildly, spilled smoke and hot pitch down shields and into the sea, where it sizzled and died. In this wind, fire gained him little. But it gained Nokvi less. He saw Nokvi at last, standing on the raised afterdeck of his ship, a brawny RockChild with a golden cast of skin, pure as the skeins of a SwiftDaughter’s woven skirts. He wore a multicolored girdle of silver, gold, copper, and tin, a magnificent pattern that echoed the intertwined circles painted onto his chest. Was it possible that he had taken the gods of the humans as well as their magic?
Stronghand touched the wooden Circle that rested against his chest, drew his finger around it in the remembered gesture. It is well to know your enemy, even to learn from him, but foolish to believe that he is right. With such an admission, you have only seeded the ground for your own destruction. As Nokvi had done, all unknowing.
Now, at last, Stronghand gave Namms Dale’s chieftain, Grimstroke, the longed-for signal. To Grimstroke he had offered the privilege of revenge.
They laid their ships broadside. Spikes cracked the boards of Nokvi’s ship, and all along the line ships crashed, but the creaks and groans of wood strained to their utmost was soon covered by the cries of the RockChildren who leaped the gap and set about themselves. Grimstroke pressed forward with the strongest of his men, those who had been absent when Nokvi and his Moerin brothers attacked Namms Dale and burned alive the war leader and his followers in their own hall. Fury was a great goad. Grimstroke flowered with it, such that none could stand before him. He used a wooden club lined with stone blades, and as it fell first at his right and then at his left, he crushed shield and helm, arm and skull.
But when Nokvi saw Grimstroke clearing the deck as he plowed forward, striking to each side, he himself leaped forward with his spear. As Grimstroke raised his club to strike again, Nokvi struck a handsome blow, swift and sure: he caught Namms Dale’s chieftain in the throat. But as he fell, Grimstroke swung one last time, with his dying strength, and his club caught Nokvi’s right hand at the wrist and severed it with such force that hand and spear flew over the railing and into the sea. Then, with a gush of blood, Grimstroke ceased to move.
All but the rear of Nokvi’s ship had been cleared. Running forward from the afterdeck, Stronghand saw in the battle all round him that victory was at hand. Other ships fought on, but they would yield or run as soon as they saw their leader fallen.
He let his warriors clear the way before him. He had no illusions about his prowess in battle; he was not a great warrior, nor had he ever wanted to be.
He wanted to be king over all the RockChildren. Not even Bloodheart had gained that much power.
“Kill them all but Nokvi,” he cried, and his good strong Rikin brothers made quick work of the last of Nokvi’s fine Moerin host until only Nokvi stood, lashing out with a dagger while spears prodded him back.
Stepping up between his troops, Stronghand thrust with his spear at Nokvi’s chest with all his might. The thrust pinned Nokvi’s good arm to the rudder, and he roared furiously, helplessly, as Stronghand took an ax from one of his brothers and cut off Nokvi’s other hand.
His warriors cheered, and from the afterdeck he saw the battle die, as the wind died.
He wrenched the spear out of the rudder, and swiftly, with the haft, upended the spitting and flailing Nokvi until he lay helpless, bent backward over the railing. The sea boiled at the aft of the ship where the merfolk gathered, slick backs churning the bloody waters.
