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laundress—and her clutch of younger children. “Raiders are coming! Save yourselves and run to the fortress! Quickly!”
    The villagers scattered like chickens, some screaming and heading for the cliffs, others turning back for loved ones or possessions despite his instructions. Many of the men headed for their boats, but already the raiders were filling the bay. They came through the gray sheets of rain, silent, deadly, and swift, and poured into the bay. As Lord Pace had predicted, some of them even came through the gap where part of the old seawall had crumbled and fallen, leaving only the foundation stones standing a few feet beneath the water’s surface.
    A corner of Talmor’s mind observed the display of magnificent seamanship as they steered through the tricky currents that eddied through and around the gap, the rowmen managing the long oars perfectly. But Talmor had no time to waste admiring the skills of his enemy. He and his men were already too late to defend the wall.
    He drew rein abruptly and wheeled around to face his men, his mind rapidly trying to come up with an alternative course of action.
    Meanwhile, the raiders went first for the fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the harbor. Swarming the small, sturdy craft, they destroyed sails and nets, while others stove in the sides at the waterline. The sounds of muffled thuds and splintering wood echoed across the water.
    Howls of anguish rose from villager throats. Men ranfoolishly into the water, swimming out in a vain attempt to save their vessels. Laughing, the raiders clubbed them to watery deaths and continued their work. Already many of the vessels were sinking.
    Along the small wharf, yesterday’s catch glinted on the wooden racks where fish—gutted and skinned—hung in thin slivers to dry. Nets lay across the drying racks to protect the catch from marauding gulls, but nets would not hold against the skull folk.
    Grimly, Talmor turned back to his men. Their faces were fierce with anger. They held their weapons in readiness.
    â€œYour orders?” rasped out Sir Moule as he drew up his mail coif.
    Talmor hastily pulled up his own, remembering that he’d almost left it off this morning. He longed now for his helmet and his shield, but with sword and dagger he must make do.
    â€œThey’ll land on the beach in the next few minutes,” Talmor said. “We’re too late for the wall.”
    â€œThen we should retreat to the hold,” Sir Feil said. “And man it as strongly as we can.”
    Talmor had already estimated the force coming against them. Durl’s knights were outnumbered perhaps four to one. “When they land,” he said grimly, “they’ll be at their most vulnerable. We’re on horseback. We have armor and all the advantage of our training. We shall hold the beach.”
    Sir Feil’s eyes bugged out. “Look yon, sir! They’re more numerous than fleas on a dog. I say we retreat to where we can do good.”
    His protest infuriated Talmor, for it undercut his authority with the others, but he held his temper. “We are the first line, and we shall hold it!” he said boldly. “We’re knights of Durl, sirs.”
    They cheered at that.
    Talmor lifted his sword. “We’re worth a dozen such savages apiece. If any of you doubt that, you’ve no place with me.”
    They cheered again, and Talmor wheeled Canae around and sent the big horse galloping across the sand to meet thefoe. The raiders were coming in fast now, their oars flashing faster as though to meet his challenge.
    Five-and-thirty men against three hundred, possibly more, Talmor thought as he leaned low over Canae’s whipping mane. And only forty additional warriors behind them to defend the hold and fortress. He felt his heart sink anew, then swiftly bolstered his courage. Trained knights could hold these barbarians.
    It had been his intention to charge Canae into the