It felt long, but it was probably only an hour before the sentries heard riders approaching. Tirlav stood ready to meet them as Vien from the High Tir contingent arrived, guided by Glentel. Tirlav counted fifteen warriors, a disappointment. It was possible the High Tir contingent had no more available close by, or that they were fearful of leaving their own coast unguarded. Would he have done the same? He wasn’t sure. The odds of more than one landing occurring simultaneously were small. . . Still, this was what he had to work with. Less than eighty against two hundred.

  “Is the High Tir plume here?” Tirlav asked Glentel.

  “He would not leave his coast,” one of the High Tir rider said, “But we have spared all we can.”

  “My thanks,” Tirlav replied. “There are somewhere around two hundred humans digging an embankment on the beach.”

  “What are your orders?” the High Tir rider asked.

  Tirlav looked around. The plan to strand the humans ashore had succeeded, at least for now. But what to do now? Tirlav wondered where Hormil was; he knew that the captain must be somewhere to the west, but his movements were unpredictable. Hormil continually patrolled between the contingents, usually arriving unexpectedly.

  Was there any reason to attack? The humans could hardly have much food on the beach, even though like mindless beasts they ate the flesh of birds and fish and animals. If those aboard ship could not mount a rescue, starvation must come eventually. What’s more, there was no fresh water on the beach. The humans might gather from the rain, but not enough for so many. Could humans drink salt water?

  Tirlav called up into the tree, asking whether there was any movement from the ship. His sentry above called down that the ship remained at anchor and nothing moved.

  A soft drizzle of rain started to fall, and Tirlav felt irritated by it, though he’d known it was coming. Dawn was still hours away. Tirlav could leave the humans alone, defending against a counter attack but letting time weaken them. It would likely be safer to do so, but what would Hormil say? Surely, the humans would attack or beg for mercy before dying of deprivation on the beach. No quarter could be given interlopers into Findeluvié; they all must die, either way. The question was how to preserve his vien. If he waited for Hormil, would the commander be pleased, or irritated at his inaction? Some of the locals kept dugout canoes for paddling out to harvest fresh kelp, but Tirlav did not know how many humans remained aboard the carrack, or what chances they might have of boarding it. He knew nothing about ships, a problem he realized he must remedy.

  “Liel?” Glentel asked. He was still mounted with the newcome riders from the High Tir.

  “Go to the tir and find me a local who knows about ships or boats,” he said.

  Glentel sang to his vaela, darting away into the night once again. The tir was a low hill three miles inland where a few hundred Vien dwelt. Such settlements were scattered throughout the groves, but it was the nearest. It would take Glentel at least an hour to return. Whether it would make a difference, Tirlav didn’t know. At least it gave the impression of a plan.

  “Cut branches of thorn and pile them across the trail,” Tirlav commanded. “Prepare for assault.” The short thick-spined Vien blades would serve the purpose well. When not used for killing, the curved swords functioned to help the Vien companies manage in the dense Mingling.

  Tirlav tried to keep track of the goings on along the shore as best he could, keeping his skirmishers crawling back and forth beneath the thorns. An hour after he had sent Glentel away, Tereth emerged from the thicket, his silks torn.

  “Liel,” he said. “We think they are building a raft, and others may be trying to repair one of the boats. We cannot see well because of their breastwork, but they keep cutting and stripping the larger hawthorn stems.”

  A raft. What kind of raft could move so many from the beach? They would have to go in turns. If they could repair one of the boats as well, the beach could be empty after a few hours. Letting the humans escape after they had trodden on the sacred shores of Findeluvié was unconscionable. He could have repulsed before they ever touched land. Tennla would likely be alive if he had, and Yol unwounded, but he had chosen against it, hoping to strike a blow. Now his foolishness might end in embarrassment for Aelor. He pictured the ground in his mind.

  “What of the rocks to either end of the beach? Can we take them?”

  “The humans have bowmen among the rocks.”

  “But could we attack with enough force through the thickets to drive them away?”

  As if summoned, another vien crawled out of the thicket, blood dripping down his leg from a broken arrowshaft.

  “They have the advantage now,” Tereth said, looking at his wounded comrade. “We can barely kneel to shoot within the thorns, and they have not been idle in piling rocks.”

  “Fall a little back,” Tirlav said. “Watch, but not close enough for danger.”

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  Tereth nodded, slapped his chest, and slipped back into the thicket.

  On the beach, the humans had the advantage in more than just defenses. The vien trained to fight in close quarters in the dense thickets and trees of the Mingling, where shields and spears and longer weapons were a hindrance. They used short blades and short bows not meant for a pitched battle on open sands. While their arms were longer than a human’s,the humans carried longer blades and steel-bound shields.

  Two hour before dawn, Glentel returned with a few locals jogging in his wake, carrying machetes as if they expected to join in a fray. Slipping from his vaela, Glentel motioned for one of the locals.

  “This is Lorl,” he said. “He knows the seas.”

  Lorl gave a slight bow. It was not easy to gauge the age of a Vien by looks, but this one carried his head in such a way, and moved with such slow grace, that Tirlav suspected he was old, indeed.

  “What is it you wish to know, Liel?” he asked.

  “There is a ship anchored half a mile off shore,” Tirlav said. “And two hundred humans stranded on the beach, trying to build a raft and repair a boat.”

  Lorl nodded, waiting for a question.

  “Is there any way to attack the ship? Will there be many left aboard?”

  There was a long pause as the vien looked at Tirlav without expression, thinking.

  “There will be some left aboard,” he said at last. “And they will see all that transpires upon the beach as soon as the sun rises. All we have to hand are dugout canoes. With enough numbers, the ship could be taken, but many lives could be lost. Fewer if the attack is in the clouds of night. They will fight for their ship.”

  Tirlav had no idea how much time he had, but there certainly was no time for an assault on the ship before dawn. To wait for dark meant an entire day, and by that time the humans might have managed an escape.

  “When will the tide be out?” he asked.

  “It will be most of the way out, already.”

  Tirlav did not know what to do. Yet, around him stood portions of two contingents hanging on his word, awaiting command. The rain continued in a constant drizzle, dampening other sounds. The breaking of the nearby surf was a dull pulse.

  “How many canoes are available nearby?” he asked Lorl.

  “Perhaps seven.”

  So few.

  Tirlav had seen the sort of canoes during his time on the coast, some with small carven arms projected off the side to a long piece of timber for balancing in the waves. They were not large. At most each could carry five or six.

  Yet why rush an assault on the beach when he could assault the ship? As if knowing his thoughts, Lorl added:

  “There is a small stream just to the east. We could launch from there.” Lorl looked upward. The rain continued to fall, and the treetops made a rushing sound as they moved in a wind. “The rain is early, tonight, and the onshore wind unusually strong. The surf will be rough. It will make it harder for the humans to break from shore, and longer for us to reach the ship.”

  “But you can still make it?”

  Lorl nodded.

  “Glentel,” Tirlav said. “You will assault the ship. Have the canoes made ready. I will select those who will go with you—”

  “Son of Aelor,” a voice interrupted. Tirlav turned and flinched as Hormil stepped close. His plumed helm was tucked under an arm, but now he donned it as those around him bowed and slapped their chests. Had he approached with his helm on, he would never have come so close without being recognized. The vien working to cut and drag thorn trees fell silent and stood still.

  As the initial shock passed, Tirlav felt a flood of relief, despite his beating heart. The responsibility was no longer his.

  “Liel,” Tirlav said, bowing his head and placing his hand upon his chest.

  “Son of Aelor, you will not assault the ship.”

  “As you say, liel,” Tirlav replied.

  “When the sun rises in the east, you will assault the beach. I have come with ten more riders from the Namian contingent. It will be enough.”

  Assault at dawn?

  “Liel,” Tirlav asked hesitantly. “Would not the darkness give us an advantage?”

  “Daylight,” Hormil said. “Wait until full daylight. You will bloody your blades in the flesh of these nereth’vanel.”

  Tirlav wanted to argue. He didn’t understand. Even should the attack succeed, many vien would die. As he hesitated to respond, he realized that the others were watching him. He bowed again.

  “As you say, liel.”

  Hormil nodded.

  “How do you want us to assault the breastwork?” Tirlav asked. He feared that Hormil did not know about the breastwork, or how many humans held the beach. He hoped mentioning the breastwork would cause Hormil to question the plan. The humans had over twice their numbers.

  “You may figure that out,” Hormil said. “I will return an hour after sunrise to honor your victory.”

  With that, Hormil turned and walked back through the grove to where an attendant stood at the heads of two vaela. Tirlav could hardly believe what he was seeing. This was a hero from the Mingling, chosen by the Synod to lead them, and he was walking away? He would not even watch the battle? Tirlav stared as Hormil mounted, swung his vaela aside, and sang him west through the shadows of the hackberry grove.

  “Liel?” asked Glentel. There was a note of concern in his voice that Tirlav could not help but notice, even though he felt it difficult to breathe.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you well?”

  “I am well.” Tirlav needed to act before his emotions got the better of him.

  The tide would still be out in two hours. The human breastwork did not extend to the low tide line. There may be bowmen among the humans, but how many? He should have found that out before. He called out a name and ordered the vien into the thicket to find Tereth and get a report on the number of bowmen.

  “Riders from the east!” a voice called down from the trees.

  “That will be Sholn with the riders from the next station,” Glentel said. He was correct. Another fifty riders tore into the hackberry grove, their vaela frothy with sweat.

  “Findel’s blessing,” Tirlav muttered.

  No more than twenty minutes later, the vien he’d sent into the thicket crawled back out. Perhaps thirty of the humans carried bows, but no more. Tirlav had little time to come up with ideas and also execute them. He ordered his fighters to back out from the thicket, left a cadre under Tereth to hold the new barricade across the trail, and split the rest into two groups of fifty, taking command of one himself and putting Glentel over the other. Briefly relating the simple plan, they divided, Tirlav heading east and Glentel west.

  During their first meeting together as commander and plumes, Liel Hormil had told them they were already dead. Tirlav would lead this assault himself, for to order it and not take part would be the deed of a coward. Sweat poured down his face and pangs of anxiety pierced his stomach as they moved through the thicket, hacking a path with their swords. He thought of Reniel, imagining how calm and composed his brother would be in Tirlav’s place.

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