"How many? And watch your step. Come this way." Arlen escorted him inland past a set of odd pits and dirt mounds.

The sentry nodded toward the horizon. "At least nine sails, some of them big!"

The soldiers murmured. Arlen had gotten over eighty adult men willing to stand and fight in his new style, enough to form a line two men deep. Plus another forty men who refused most of the training and boasted they'd prove themselves in their own way, ie. as screaming maniac spear fodder. Arlen wished them luck. And then there were the other assets. He grimaced.

The enemy saw Opaline's people not cowering but forming up on the beach, clashing weapons and shouting. Normally there wouldn't even be this much time to react. He stood on a tree platform, squinted, and counted ten ships. As the warriors aboard them came into view he blinked. They were abnormal. Hairy, sharp-toothed, hunched over with shields and knives and hatchets.

The morning sea-breeze was carrying them right to shore with little rowing. Arlen then sighted a different boat. "One from Decim?"

The chief had joined him on the platform to watch. "Here to watch, maybe. This isn't a random raid; Thoko probably ordered it. But it's not his full power, not at all."

"Then I'll be happy for the practice. Let's go."

They shimmied down a rope. Arlen had wanted to stay up high to give orders and be out of melee range, but the chief had gently made it clear nobody would take him seriously. So Arlen was there right behind the Shell line of battle, next to the chief's Crown unit.

The first arrows flew before any raiders got their feet wet. Mirefolk preferred melee and used their shields as they jumped out, but a few of them shot back with little effect. They came right at the troops who'd dared to line up on the beach for them, instead of trying anything smart. But they were big! Hulking, wide-shouldered, some with a misshapen cast to their brows or an uneven pair of eyes and ears. Their weapons varied too, from iron hatchets to heavy obsidian-bladed clubs resembling chainsaws. The group came on as a wave of snarling, dripping jaws smelling of swamp and the blood they'd rubbed onto their faces.

Arlen was glad there were some brave people in front of him. Even so, he and everyone else took a step back. He shouted, "Cages!"

Two young men had been hiding behind dirt mounds. Now they yanked a pair of ropes and started running. Concealed cages dropped open and hungry shockjaws stepped out, snarling and facing toward the invaders. The undisciplined warriors on Arlen's side were about to charge in from the left, but when the beasts came out they hesitated.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The Mirefolk paused for only a second, then charged at the shockjaws. The animals didn't have time to run and had to fight for their lives. Snarling and leaping, they caught a man's arm and knocked someone else down.

It was enough of a distraction for the warriors to strike them. Their choice. Arlen said to his group, "Step back, like we planned!"

The two soldier squads saw their chance to strike and rushed forward into blind melee, breaking formation. Arlen lashed out with a punch that sent icy shards into the Mire swarm, and joined in with the chief in yelling at the men, "Back, idiots! Back!"

The raiders seemed to enjoy the novelty of defenders doing a shield wall. They were ripping through, then starting to turn to strike from behind. In a moment there'd be panic. But the chief threw a knife right into a Mirefolk shoulder and Arlen dared to jab with his spear. It was enough to get the attention of the ones breaking through. Narrow, bloodshot eyes focused on him. One man licked a set of fangs.

Only then did the defenders start stepping back as ordered. The Mirefolk were suddenly in front of them again, turning side to side. Then the disorganized warriors were on them. A lone raider broke through again and went for Arlen. He jabbed while trying to dodge. The guy was fast, getting inside his range. Arlen tripped right into a shallow pit and crashed, yelping. He barely protected his skull with one arm and an awkward swipe of his spear. The guy who'd targeted him came running for the kill. Arlen shouted and rolled aside. By some instinct he clawed his way forward and up over the pit's edge just in time to avoid a hatchet swing. Now he was up and stabbing down, into a man's neck. He didn't want to; it was right there, though, exposed for half a second. The stone point found its mark and sank in with a nasty squelch Arlen felt. He stepped away, queasy, releasing the spear.

The raider party was falling back to the beach. They'd had enough. Still hissing and cursing, they plowed into the water and their blood stained the waves and sand. Each boat carried a man who'd held back, who didn't have the mutated, hunchback look. Or in one case a woman who scowled while waiting at the tiller. Nearby, the small force of Decim Island men watched in anger until someone aboard called out an order and they turned to escape.

Opaline's fighters chased them to the beach, clubbing two of them. Arlen limped closer, thinking they could be captives, hostages to trade. But the troops kept beating them, and the pair kept trying to get up and fight.

"Enough!" said Arlen.

The chief ran one of them through with a spear and a lieutenant gave the other one last heavy blow to the skull. "Yes, enough. This is good. Healers, come up."

"We had them alive."

The chief said, "We don't keep Mirefolk. Not worth it. When they catch any of us, they never return."

The soldiers and the wilder warriors cheered, while the men and women trained in healing magic and ordinary bandaging hurried to tend the wounded. Arlen was banged up but mostly needed to sit alone in his hut and shudder for a while. By any military standard it was a victory among people who'd expected a bunch of crazed bullies to rampage through town. Opaline's folk hadn't needed to run or hide. Arlen mostly remembered how it'd felt to stab a man, and he didn't eat for the rest of the day.

The chief proclaimed him "War-Chief of the Free Islands" and pointed out how the visitors from other isles had begun asking for more training. Arlen tried to steel himself; there was more fighting ahead.