Ferf clutched the edge of the boat and spewed into the swirling blue waters, again. His seasickness was quite unhelpful given his profession, though conscription took a lot of the choice out of that, he supposed. Ormes, his platoon leader, clapped him on the shoulder “We’re almost there lad, look ready.”. Ferf nodded weakly and straightened himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and picking up his spear.
Land was slowly approaching, a soft tide tugging the boat forward. The island spread for miles to the left and right, the sandy dunes gleamed in the sunlight, dotted by hundreds of shadowed figures, sun to their back, high overhead.
Soldiers and sailors scrambled over the deck, Ormes shouted orders. Ferf got into position with his squad, thankful that his ship was in the back half of the fleet. And then it was still, water lapped peacefully against the prow, and the platoon nervously stared across the serene bay, not a rock in the water nor a cloud in the sky.
The serenity was abruptly broken by screams. Both sides had begun firing volleys of arrows. Hev, three soldiers to Ferf’s right, took an arrow through the neck, gurgled briefly then fell to the deck with a thud. Ferf grimaced, but inwardly admitted it was a bloody impressive shot. The islanders, scattered over the beach and rolling dunes, continued to fire patchy groups of arrows, with little order or structure. In contrast, the fleet fired in consistent, regular barrages, targeting the denser pockets of the messy forces on the beach.
The arrows slowed to a meagre effort as the first wave of rowboats disembarked with a distant warcry. The sand and shallows were soon splashed with patches of deep red as the invaders clashed with the sparsely clad islanders. As the beach grew closer, Ferf could get a better look at the defenders, they wore only leather and wielded spears and axes, with no shields or armour, though they otherwise looked remarkably similar to his countrymen. Ferf’s platoon, like the rest of the infantry in the fleet, were armoured in hardened leather, with iron chainmail, armed with a mix of spears, shields and swords. The islanders fought well, moving deftly across the beach in their bare feet, seeming to move both more quickly and striking more powerfully than the landing soldiers.
Ferf’s squadmates began to shuffle nervously, chainmail clinking, watching with wide eyes as the defenders cleaved down three soldiers for every one of their own that fell. One islander, presumably the leader, stood at the crest of the tallest dune, alone. Every other defender was haphazardly firing arrows at the landing soldiers or engaging them in the shallows, there were no visible reinforcements. Ormes rounded the front of the squad “Focus up boys, we have superior numbers and blades. We’ve endured five days bobbing along on this damn piece of wood, it’s time to do what we came to do. One squad to a rowboat.” With that, Ormes began ushering each squad towards their respective rowboats. Not a very reassuring speech thought Ferf as he began towards the side of the ship.
The rowboat rocked unsteadily as Ferf dropped into his spot along the wooden bench. He watched the shore intensely as the boat lurched into motion, the fighting had not slowed, he would likely have to fight. Ferf jumped as a corpse knocked against the boat, the eyes staring lifelessly upwards. He peeled his eyes away from the body and surveyed the beach and surrounding waters, most rowboats were in the water, but less than a quarter had disembarked. The islanders looked to have lost a third of their numbers, it looked like the superior numbers of the fleet would win the day. As they approached the shallows, Ferf found himself staring at the lone islander on the top of the dune. He still stood there, not moving at all, unarmed. Perhaps Ferf was wrong, this figure was giving no instructions, nor did he have any guard, perhaps this was not the leader. Then he noticed the arrows, three protruding from the man, two in the chest and one in the leg, though they did not seem to bother him.
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Ferf was holding his breath as the rowboat in front began to disembark, the waters here were littered with bodies and the odd arrow splashed into the water around him. Behind the action he noticed the lone figure, he had crouched down and brought both hands to the ground. A deep grinding sound suddenly arose from the water, the rowboat buckled and Ferf was tossed awkwardly into the water. He surfaced to a different world, gone were the calm waters, replaced with vicious, churning tides, accompanied by screams and desperate yells. He struggled to stay afloat in his armour but managed to scramble into shallower waters and cling to a nearby rock that stabbed out of the waters. The awful grinding noise dimmed, but the fleet was in disarray, the crushing water had made quick work of the rowboats, not one remained upright and manned. He glanced backwards, the ships had not fared much better, two-thirds were in the process of sinking, the remainder were desperately trying to manoeuvre against the swirling waters and avoid the craggy spires of rock protruding from the ocean.
Minutes passed, slowly, Ferf was sobbing softly, shivering against the rough rock. The islanders had defeated the soldiers on the island and had begun wading into the waters to finish off the men and women who were desperately trying to swim to the shore or stay afloat in their armour. The screams were cut off one by one as an arrow, axe or the ocean claimed the soldiers. Distant, foreign chatter and the heaving ocean were the only noises, Ferf had stopped sobbing, he just clung to his rock, not daring to move and alert the islanders. He was surprised by how unscathed the beach was as he watched the islanders celebrate their unlikely victory. The man atop the dune was once again crouching, with both hands on the ground. The celebrating on the beach quietened as the terrible, deep, scraping sound renewed, Ferf watched with held breath as deep gashes ripped through the sand on the beach, swallowing men whole. Ragged columns of rock burst through the sand before collapsing, each crushing multiple men. Two dozen survivors dashed up the dunes towards the lone figure, making good progress until the dune churned, becoming like liquid, flowing rapidly downwards, tripping and burying most of them. The last survivor made a desperate attempt, scrambling on his hands and knees. A barb of rock burst from the dune and skewered him upwards, he struggled briefly before going limp, dangling two metres in the air on the spire. Ferf watched, horrified, as the lone figure casually walked down the dune, paying no heed to his dying brethren laying crushed and crumpled around him. The sun still shone overhead, accompanied by the gentle sea breeze, but the beach was otherwise unrecognisable, torn and messy. Ferf withdrew into his armour, staring dully at the stormy waters around him, petrified.
A hand reached down, offering to help him up, Ferf looked up at a man punctured with three arrows, with a wide smile and friendly eyes.