Back and forth they went, Thor breathing hard, his arms and shoulders growing tired, until suddenly, as Thor slashed, the warrior did something Thor did not expect: he leaned back and kicked Thor in the chest.
Thor went flying, sliding on his back, along the walkway, all the way to the edge. He continued sliding on his slick armor, unable to stop himself, fearing he would slide off the edge.
Thor panicked as he slid over the edge, and began to fall.
Suddenly, the warrior was there, grabbing Thor’s ankle, holding him by one hand, preventing him from falling. Thor looked down over his shoulder and saw the raging ocean below. He then looked up and saw has reflection staring down, as if debating whether or not to help him.
“Help me,” Thor said, reaching up for him, upside down.
“And why should I?”
“I must see my mother,” Thorgrin said. “I have not come all this way to die so close.”
“And yet you lost in battle,” the warrior said.
“But I lost to myself.”
He shook his head.
“I am sorry,” the warrior said. “You are still not strong enough.”
Suddenly, the warrior let go.
Thor shrieked as he felt himself falling backwards, into the air, end over end, his screams echoing off the canyon as he plummeted towards the ocean, the rocks, and the sure death below.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The dawn broke unusually calm for the Upper Isles, as Reece, Stara, Matus, and Srog stood on board, facing east, watching the first sun creep over the horizon and greet the day. Behind them stood Commander Wolfson and his dozens of men, all on deck, all with weapons at the ready, all watching the horizon. The day was cold but surprisingly cloudless, the sky streaked with amber, and as the early morning darkness began to fade and the sun began to light the sky, Reece wondered what everyone else was surely wondering: when would the Upper Islanders attack?
The tension was so thick, Reece could feel it in the air. Now that dawn had broken, now that the stormy night was behind them, Reece was certain it was only a matter of time until Tirus’s ships arrived from the open sea and flanked them from behind. They had decided to dig in, and Reece knew their cause would be a losing one. With a mere dozen ships left of Gwendolyn’s fleet, there was no way they could defeat what would surely be dozens of ships, trapping them here in this harbor.
Reece examined the shoreline, and he saw the silhouettes of hundreds of Tirus’s soldiers lined up, arrows at the ready, prepared to fire flame onto the fleet if they came into range. They were trapped.
Srog stepped forward, hands on his hips, looking out at the sky. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, at the open sea, at the direction from which Tirus’s ships would surely approach.
“We must hold our position,” Srog said. “And yet, at the same time, if we sit here we shall be killed.”
Srog stood, thinking, and Reece stepped forward and surveyed the shores, thinking too. Reece knew Srog was right; he knew that something had to be done.
“What would your sister have us do?” Srog asked Reece.
Reece closed his eyes, thinking.
“She would not want us to wait and be killed,” he answered. “She would want us to attack—just as my father would want us to attack. He always cherished the element of surprise. A smaller force attacking a bigger one: that is something they would not expect. If we are all to go down, we should go down boldly, attacking, with swords raised high. Not sitting here, waiting to be destroyed.”
Reece opened his eyes and examined the shoreline.
“And since we can’t sail out to sea, my father would want us to attack the shore.”
Srog examined the shore, perplexed.
“But as we get into range, their arrows will set us all aflame,” he protested.
Reece nodded.
“But if we move quickly enough, they cannot get all of us.”
“And if we turn and sail out to sea?” Srog asked. “We could confront Tirus’s fleet.”
Matus stepped forward and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “My brother’s fleet dwarfs ours. They are well armed and well trained. It would be a slaughter.”
“It seems it will be a slaughter either way,” Srog observed.
Reece examined their options, staring, thinking hard. He came to a conclusion.
“Better to die on land than at sea,” Reece said.
As they stood there, debating, suddenly a sailor high up on the mast called down urgently.
“My lord! They have arrived!”
All heads turned, and they rushed to the far side of the ship and looked out: the horizon was filled with the outline of ships, all sailing right for them. Tirus’s fleet, on way to trap them in the harbor. To sandwich them between their ships and the shore.
Reece could feel the vice getting tighter.
Wolfson nodded, decided.
“Sail to the shore!” he commanded. “It is time to attack!”
* * *
Reece ducked as a flaming arrow sailed by his head, heart pounding as it just missed. All around him the boats filled with the panicked shouts of men, as their fleet sailed for shore, right into the army of flaming arrows flying for them. To speed up their attack, dozens of men rowed with all their might, trying to bring the ships faster to shore.
It was a slow, grueling effort, despite the crashing waves and current helping them toward land, and all around Reece, the air was punctuated by the screams of men, as flaming arrow after flaming arrow pierced them—and worse, began to pierce the sails and the wood.
Reece and the men scurried about, alternately rushing to put out the flames as fresh arrows landed, and firing back. Reece glanced out at the other ships, and he saw that some of them were on fire, the arrows having hit the sails too high, sending their ships into flame. Reece looked around with dread as he noticed that already several of their ships were flame, a flaming flotilla sailing into shore. Reece wondered how much of their fleet, if any, would even be left by the time they reached shores. If they ever did.
Reece turned and looked out at the sea, at their escape route, and spotted Tirus’s fleet getting closer; he knew that they had to make shore. It was just a hundred yards—but they would be bloody.
Beside Reece, Stara fought bravely, not even ducking as she stood at the rail and fired off arrow after arrow at the shoreline, taking out men left and right. As a flaming arrow whizzed by Reece’s head, he dropped his oar, stood, grabbed a bow, and joined her, firing back. He landed a perfect shot, from nearly a hundred yards, and he heard the cry of one of Tirus’s men in the distance and watched him drop to the sand.