Chapter Nineteen
Matowick could see well enough for himself that the searats were putting ashore a sizable attack force north of him. This presented an entirely new set of problems for his battered battalion.
Spread out the way they were now, there was no way they could present a united front to defend themselves against a searat offensive. But, if they grouped themselves into any kind of proper military formation, they'd be easy prey for the catapult-launched blasting kegs. This was putting them between a rock and a hard place, all right, and once again Matowick found himself mentally lauding and cursing the unknown searat captain for his strategic and tactical prowess.
Lieutenant Perricone had by this time managed to get her injured leg adequately splinted, and she came stumping across the sand toward him. "Hear we got some trouble coming our way, Captain?"
Matowick lowered his long glass and nodded. "About a hundred searats landing to the north. Probably set up a skirmish line, unless they decide to just attack us straightaway ... "
"We're in no shape for that," she said, brow creased with worry.
"Not at the moment, no," Matowick agreed. "And we dare not form any of our usual shooting lines. Looks like we'll hafta do this in a more guerilla fashion."
"Right, sir. What do you want me to do?"
He glanced at her splinted leg. "You're staying here, Perri. You'll be no good in any hit and run fighting, which this might turn into pretty fast. Take as many of the injured south that you can, and put any squirrels who can still shoot straight between them and us. If those rats do make
it down this far, drop as many as you can."
"Of course," Perricone said. "I'm still Gawtrybe, even if I can't move too fast right now." She hefted her longbow to emphasize the point.
"Good. Luck be with you, Perri." Matowick jogged north among the scattered remnant of his forces. He observed with silent approval that some of the shrews had been venturing out among the dead one or two at a time to scavenge blades and bows and arrows and slings that would be of no use to their former owners. Half the woodlanders' force might be dead or wounded, but those who could still fight would be very well armed - the shrews had seen to that.
It was a pity none of those killed in that wholly unanticipated searat bombardment could be properly buried, but right now the survivors had all they could do to stay alive themselves. As much as it gnawed at Matowick's sense of duty and honor, his slain comrades would have to be left for the gulls and sandbugs to pick over.
He rounded up the first three uninjured squirrels he encountered and gave them orders to move north as far as they could without directly engaging the searats there. "Here's what we're gonna do - since we can't get together in any large groups, we'll set up a skirmish zone of our own in widely spaced teams of two or three each. A single Gawtrybe squirrel working with a full quiver can take down between ten and twenty enemy beasts, so just a few teams should be able to thin out those searats enough so that we can take care of the rest, even if it comes to paw-to-paw combat."
"Yeah," said a squirrel named Nixalis, glancing around him, "if we can find a sheltered spot to shoot from." The coastal plains, even up here in the higher dunes, were sparse and treeless, with only the very occasional rock outcrop interrupting the vast stretches of sandy soil. Other than that, small scraggly shrubs and tufts of grass and the dunes themselves would be the only cover any ambushers would have.
"Well, do the best you can," Matowick encouraged him. "Maybe rub some sand in your fur, so you don't stick out as much. Just do whatever you can."
"Aye, sir!" The three of them saluted their captain and raced off to meet their destiny with full quivers and the indomitable warrior's spirit of the Gawtrybe.
As he strode across the sand to assemble another uninjured trio to send north, shaking his head in a futile attempt to rid it of the lingering ringing, Matowick came across the otter Tourki with whom he'd exchanged words earlier.
"You say you wanna fight searats, friend?" he asked the former slave. "Well, steel yourself, 'cos you might be getting your chance very soon."
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As the otters swam within archery range of the searat ship, they flipped the logboats over so that they could stay completely under them. The rat archers unleashed several volleys at the approaching attackers, but their arrows stuck harmlessly in the upturned hulls of the capsized logboats. The otters didn't even have to expose themselves to danger when they came up for breath, since they could make use of the air pockets trapped beneath the overturned logboats.
Almost as one, the inverted logboat fleet clunked heavily against the port hull of the Sharktail. With their implements of destruction in paw, Saybrook and his fellow otters swam under the wide bulk of the searat dreadnought and set to work boring and hacking at the hull planks.
So intent were they upon their task that none noticed the specially-configured stern doors slowly opening, or the iron monstrosity that came lumbering out into the sea from its rear berth compartment. The Sharktail had just given birth to a nightmare contraption that would catch the otters completely by surprise.
The otter Imbert, working with his prybar toward the stern of the mighty warship, was the first to encounter Rindosh's second secret weapon. Noticing an incongruous movement out of the corner of his eye, Imbert glanced aside, and gasped near fit to drown at what he saw. A dark globe of steel, like a giant pufferfish at full inflation, wobbled through the murky water toward him. Or perhaps it was more like an ungainly undersea hedgehog, for it bristled at every quarter with barbs and blades of every imaginable shape and size. It looked both comical and deadly, an improbable mix of the absurd and the threatening.
Momentarily struck by indecision, Imbert was wondering how to react when two harpoons shot out from the front of the ridiculous iron vehicle, one taking him through the belly and the other impaling him through the chest. Imbert died still debating what he was supposed to do.
Another otter named Dorota looked down from her prybar labors just in time to witness Imbert's slaying. She was part of Saybrook's team that had marched with the Gawtrybe from Salamandastron, and had been with the otter captain in lower Mossflower the previous summer when Urthblood had discovered the searat submarine, so the sudden appearance of this strange underwater craft did not startle her as much as it had Imbert. Giving into her first impulse to seek vengeance for her comrade's murder, Dorota pushed herself toward the bizarre vessel, prybar gripped tightly in her paw.
The Butcher Buoy was in many ways similar to the searat submarine that now resided in the paws of the Mossflower otters with whom the Guosim had left it, but it had its fair share of differences as well. For one thing, it was a much smaller craft, carrying a crew of seven in its cramped confines - four strong rats to crank the propeller shaft, one pilot, and a pair of weapons officers. For another, it was capable of completely submerging, which allowed it to dive under the Sharktail now to engage the otters without fear of scraping its top hatch against the keel of its host ship.
But the biggest difference was in their intended purposes. The captured rat craft had been an unarmed infiltrator, designed to collect slaves or to land an assault team of twenty rat fighters far inland. The aptly named Butcher Buoy, by contrast, was little more than a floating weapons platform, its sole mission to mete out death to anybeast unlucky enough to find itself sharing the same waters with this stubby little killing machine.
Dorota came in from the side so as to avoid any more harpoons that might be waiting to shoot out at her. As she closed on the craft, however, she saw that virtually every part of the steel hull bore armaments of some kind or another. And a line of portholes ran down either side of the vessel, peering out from between the various spears and blades, allowing the searats within to look out in all directions. For all Dorota knew, there may have been viewing ports and weapons installed on the bottom of the craft facing downward as well, but she was in no mood to go investigating just now.
The avenging otter chose a spot by one porthole that seemed relatively free of hazards, and began hammering at the glass with her prybar. If she could break the window, she reasoned, they would have no choice but to surface to avoid being flooded, and would thus be rendered incapable of harassing the otters further.
There were two things Dorota hadn't counted on. One was that the portholes were made of a type of clear crystal that was highly resistant to shattering under impact. The other was that the narrow slot in the hull beneath the window she was battering concealed a giant curved blade, like an oversized scythe, mounted on a powerful spring arm held under immense tension that could be released with the single push of a lever from within the Butcher Buoy.
Dorota saw a flash of movement below her field of focus, and felt a heavy blow against her midsection, one that rocked her sideways in the water. Although the pain was dull, she could tell from the wrenching of muscle spasms throughout her body that something terrible had happened to her. Glancing down through the blood-clouding water, she could see the wicked curved blade, longer than her tail, that had suddenly sprung from the side of the hull. And she could see the lower half of her body, sliced off cleanly at the waist, drifting slowly down into the darker depths, legs and rudder still twitching in protest.
Dorota's eyes glazed over as the rest of her began to sink as well. Her last thought was the hope that others in her team would have better luck dealing with this bringer of death than she had.
Inside the Butcher Buoy, the weaponry officer cranked back the heavy scythe blade so that it might be ready for the next victim who ventured within its range, even as the turnscrew rats slaved and the pilot steered toward more of the enemy.
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Two more otters died, and several others suffered injuries, before Saybrook signaled the remainder of his team to break off the assault. Huddled together with some of his fellows under one of the overturned logboats for a rapidfire emergency strategy conference, Saybrook blew the water off his whiskers in enraged frustration.
"Gah! These searats're unreeling nasty surprises at us faster'n we c'n sort 'em out! Who'da guessed they'd have somethin' like that t' cover their underside? Can't get near it t' cause it damage without gettin' sliced or stabbed, an' it won't leave us alone long enuff t' breach th' big ship's hull like we came out 'ere t' do! We got no choice but to retreat. At least we'll be able t' lend a paw to Matowick an' the rest ashore with fightin' those searats who landed. Pass th' word t' every otter - we're gettin' outta here 'fore we're all chopped inta fishbait!"
And so, sheltering under their capsized logboats to protect themselves from searat arrows, the otters beat a hasty and ignominious retreat back toward shore. The Butcher Buoy didn't pursue them; its speed could not match that of the powerfully-stroking waterbeasts, and besides, it had done its job.
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Up on the deck of the Sharktail, Captain Rindosh could not see the blood clouding the waters, since the battles between his attack submersible and the otters took place directly underneath the pirate dreadnought. But he could see well enough the results of those clashes, as the capsized logboats that were nosed up against his ship's port hull suddenly took off toward the shore. A few of his archers loosed shafts at the departing enemy, in hopes of catching a leg or tail that might be sticking out from under their logboat shields, but mostly this was a symbolic sendoff. Clearly, the otters had been dealt a decisive defeat. And now that this threat had been repulsed, it was time for Rindosh to return his full attention to what was happening on the land.
"Haul up the anchors!" the searat captain bellowed. "Turn us about and bring us in closer to shore - close as we were when we attacked th' logboats yesterday! It's time we make those cowards hidin' in th' high dunes shake with our thunder again!"
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Ditching their logboats on the beach above the high tide line, the otters ran in a widely scattered procession back up the sand to rejoin their fellow woodland warriors. Saybrook immediately sought out Matowick. He knew the Gawtrybe captain wanted to keep his officers separated for safety's sake, but Saybrook felt it was important for him to report directly to Matowick since they might be under attack from the fighters to the north at any moment.
The otter commander found his squirrel counterpart redeploying his healthy archers in small teams to form a patchwork defensive line against the rats north of them. Saybrook hunkered down alongside Matowick behind the dunes. "Them blighters still ain't attacked yet, huh?"
The squirrel was surprised to see the otters back so soon. "What are you doing here, Saybrook?"
As briefly as he could, Saybrook described their losses under the onslaught of the armored attack craft. Matowick's eyes went wide with amazed horror.
"Fur and damnation! Is there anything those murderous seascum don't have?"
"They got enuff, an' that's for shore." Saybrook poked his head up to take in the searat ship. "Hey! What're they up ta now?"
The Sharktail had by this time pulled up her anchor and turned her prow out to sea. At first it looked like the dreadnought was about to sail away, leaving the shore party behind, but it soon became apparent that she was turning in a wide circle that would leave her catapult-laden port side once more facing the coast.
"They're maneuverin' t' get themselves closer," Saybrook observed.
"And that can only mean one thing," Matowick concluded through clenched teeth. "They're gonna bombard us again, and they're moving inshore so their catapults can hit us on this high ground."
"Well, we could always confound 'em an' all rush back t' th' waterline," Saybrook mused.
Matowick shook his head. "Then those rats who're already ashore could move down and engage us, leaving us pinned between them and the water - no problem for you otters, but a bit of a pickle for us squirrels and shrews."
"Aye, that's true. But d' you really think they'll try another bombardment with that smoke 'n' thunder stuff? Spread all over th' way we are now, they'd be lucky t' hit one or two o' us with each shot."
"We don't know how much of that stuff they have aboard," Matowick pointed out. "Could be they have enough in their hold to pulverize every step of this beach, from the tideline to the foothills."
"Yeah, but they can't launch more'n four of 'em at a time. That gives us time t' scatter before each incomin' salvo."
"Problem is, we've got a lot of wounded who can't move that fast, and those seavermin must know it. This is just like back at the lumber mill ... only this time, if those of us who're still fit run away to try and draw those searats after us, the ones who've landed north of us will sweep down through here and slit the throats of every injured beast we leave behind."
"Unless we flee north."
Matowick stared at his otter companion. "You mean, try to make a run around them through the foothills and along the shore, so they'll be split between going after us and the injured ... "
"Not 'xactly what I had in mind, Matty matey. Not go around 'em - go through 'em!" Saybrook smacked a fist against his open paw. "A full frontal attack with all we got. Hit 'em fast an' hit 'em hard, wipe 'em out 'fore they know what's smashed into 'em."
"That'd be risky. We'd lose a lot of beasts ... "
"Mebbe. But my lads 'n' lasses are game if you are. We got a lot of our blood spilled out under that ship jus' now, an' we're up fer spillin' a little searat blood t' return th' favor. Way I figger it, they got us boxed in to th' north an' to th' west, an' there's mountains to our east. Looks like they're tryin' to force us south ... which'd leave our wounded helpless, like you said, since we'd hafta leave 'em behind. Prob'ly wouldn't be expectin' us t' make a drive north, right inta their midst ... which is th' best reason why it might work. We'll catch 'em completely by surprise. An' here's another thing: those rats out on their ship won't be able t' fling their explodin' kegs at us if we're grapplin' paw t' paw an' nose t' nose with their soldiers ashore ... they'd end up killin' as many of their own as they would of us."
"Knowing those barbarians, I don't know if that'd stay their paw any."
Saybrook threw another glance seaward. "Yah, well, whatever ye're gonna do, Matt, y' gotta make up yer mind sharpish, 'cos that ship's almost completely 'round, an' she'll soon be droppin' anchor again an' lobbin' those fire boomers our way."
Matowick looked up at the clouds. It was hard to judge through the overcast blanket of gray, but he supposed the sun was about halfway down the sky - still too much daylight left to wait for a night assault on the searat positions. Of course, it made sense that the searat captain would want to squeeze in at least one more bombardment while it was still light, even if their intended targets were widely dispersed - for all its savage, all-obliterating ferocity, this fearsome new weapon would be rendered even less effective by the dark than his own squirrels' bows and arrows would be. Whichever direction they chose, they would have to be on the move almost at once.
North, or south? One thing was certain: the injured beasts wouldn't be going either of those ways ... which gave Matowick at least one concrete course of action to pursue immediately. "Hold that thought, Captain," the squirrel told Saybrook, then sprinted across the sand behind the dunes as fast as his legs could carry him, footpaws kicking up sprays and tail switching furiously.
"Perri!" he said breathlessly, skidding up to his hobbled lieutenant. "The searats are repositioning their ship for another bombardment, and they'll be able to hit up here behind these dunes. Use your shrew runners to spread the word for every injured beast who can still walk to get up into the higher foothills, as far up into the mountains as you can. Keep yourselves scattered as you go, so that they won't be tempted to target you, and hopefully you'll be okay."
"You don't think those rats to the north might try a flanking move of their own through the foothills to the east?" Perricone worried.
Matowick shot a glance skyward, where his falcon scout still circled high overhead. "I'm counting on Klystra to warn me at once if they try anything like that. You should be safe for now. Or as safe as any of us can be on this coastland."
"And where will you go, sir?"
"Either north or south - I haven't decided yet. Saybrook thinks we should attack to the north in an all-out offensive, and I'm leaning that way myself. They'd not be expecting it, and I've already got a lot of our archers deployed on that front, so the work's half-done. Just look to the injured, Perri, and save as many of yourselves as you can."
"Aye, Captain. And good fortunes to you, in battle or in flight." Even as Matowick rushed off to rejoin Saybrook, Perricone was already dispatching shrews to spread word of the evacuation, stumping across the sandy ground on her splinted leg.
North or south? The debate was still raging in his head when, halfway back to Saybrook, Klystra dropped out of the sky and landed in front of him. "What is it, friend?" the squirrel asked of the falcon.
"Searats digging in to north," the raptor reported, "but no sign of moving. Rats staying put."
"We're thinking of attacking," Matowick informed Klystra, "and if we do, we'll need your help to pinpoint their concentrations and ambush teams. How do things look to the south?"
"No rats south. But half day, day march, beach very narrow. No wider than this." Klystra spread his wings to demonstrate. "Mountain face steep, right up to sea. Not much room to walk."
"So that's their game!" Matowick bit off. "By landing their shore party to the north, they were trying to drive us south to where the beach narrows. We'd be sitting ducks ... um, no offense."
"No offense, bushtail," Klystra said amiably ... for a raptor.
"That decides things for us. Klystra, go scout those searat positions. I'm going to start assembling our troops for the assault. I'll meet you to the north with Captain Saybrook for your report. Good luck!"
Klystra took off, and so did Matowick, racing toward Saybrook once more. The few squirrels and shrews he passed on the way received his shouted notification of the attack plans, and themselves hastened to tell others. Slowly, the scattered army of the Badger Lord mobilized for their valiant last stand.
And on Matowick ran, fully expecting at any moment to hear the thunderous weaponry of the searats resuming its bone-shaking, ear-shattering punishment of their woodland enemy.
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Rindosh studied his adversaries through his long glass. All around him, the deck of the Sharktail bustled with activity as crewrats trimmed sails, lowered anchors and readied the catapults for a renewed volley of stormpowder casks farther inland.
Bodor stepped up onto the command deck to join Rindosh. "Whatcha see, Cap'n?"
"A lot of those woodlanders look t' be fleein' to higher ground. But it's mostly th' injured, by th' look of it - lots of 'em are bandaged 'n' splinted, leanin' on each other fer support ... see a few that're even bein' carried on makeshift litters, or dragged on blankets. We must've done 'em more damage than I realized."
"Well, ain't they gettin' outta range?" the first mate worried. "We won't be able t' hit 'em all if they get up inta them foothills ... "
"Oh, we'll hit 'em, all right - with swords and arrows. Those're th' wounded who're tryin' t' escape. Plenty o' time t' go after 'em an' clean 'em up ... after we've taken care o' the able-bodied fighters." Rindosh lowered his spyglass a fraction. "Who're still hidin' b'hind those dunes. As if that's gonna protect 'em!"
A cry from the starboard deck caught Rindosh's attention. "Butcher Buoy, surfacin'!" The searat captain folded his telescope and went down to the seaward-facing railing.
The stubby submersible bobbed and pitched alongside the dreadnought. Thapa, one of the two weapons officers aboard, emerged from the wavewashed top of the iron vessel, paws braced against the raised hatch portal. "Hey, Cap'n! You want we should come back aboard?"
Rindosh shook his head emphatically, waving his paw for good measure so that the rat in the water below wouldn't mistake his meaning. "Nay, Thapa! Once we start bombardin' 'em again, those otters might just get desperate 'nuff t' launch another attack! Keep th' Butcher Buoy out circlin' 'round an' under th' Sharktail on patrol. We might still need ya!"
"Aye aye, Cap'n!" Thapa flashed a paws-up sign and disappeared back inside his attack craft, dogging the waterproof hatch tightly. The Butcher Buoy sank beneath the winter waves once more, invisibly circling its mother ship like a sluggish, hungry shark.
Rindosh hastened over to the port side to oversee things there. "We're ready t' hit 'em again, Cap'n!" Bodor announced from alongside one of the catapult platforms. "Y' want we should fire some more wine casks fer target measurin'?"
"No need," Rindosh replied. "As long as th' gunners are confident they're aimed in th' general vicinity of those higher dunes, that'll do. Remember, we wanna get 'em runnin' south, where we can trap 'em on th' narrow strand of beach, up against th' rockface. This salvo's just t' get 'em movin' - any of 'em we kill will just be a nice li'l bonus!"