Wild Watchtower: Shield & Claw Book One

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Awful Aftermath

A/N: As it's #werewolfweek on Wattpad, I thought I'd give you another chapter of this as it's been a while!

Our fleet limped back to the caverns where Blúirín waited to ensure we all reached either our anchorage or the wharf safely. Out of the twenty ships we'd taken out, only two frigates had made it back unscathed, The Silver Pearl and The Forager, although most of our ships remained sailable and our carpenters and sailmakers would work around the clock to get them back up to standard. Fortunately, we'd also only lost one galleon, Tide Chaser, and she could be replaced either by the extra ships my shipbuilders already had under construction, or by the ships we'd taken from the enemy.

As for the enemy... In addition to the ship upon which I'd wrought devastation with magic, it's two burning neighbours had also succumbed to their damage, sinking into the inky abyss of the Muir Dorcha. The two galleons whose rudders took the brunt of cannon fire had been claimed as well; towed back to port where we could fix them up and put them to use under our own colours. Céillí had also captured an enemy frigate, and it was a good outcome considering our foes had attacked with more galleons than we had out there, and easily as many frigates. It was a victory. We'd started this new war with a victory.

Yet I didn't feel victorious.

As soon as the hands had The Stormbringer's mooring lines in place, I climbed down from my flagship and raced along the makeshift wharf to where further crew tied up The Iron Dragon. The harbourmaster was waiting for me too, but I barely looked at him as I ordered, "We have prisoners coming in from the boats. If you and Aoibhinn haven't had a chance to enchant manacles yet, perhaps there's something else you can do to ensure none of them have access to any malignant magic. They had spell-casters with them..."

"Of course, Lord Cróga. I'll have it seen to and the prisoners placed in the cells..."

I missed the end of his agreement as I scrambled onto Father's vessel in a daze, my hands too numb to grip the ladders properly and my brain barely processing that my injured leg no longer wanted to take my weight, shaking and straining under me. Yet I didn't seem able to stop myself from running along the deck, even though I stumbled.

"Where is he?" I demanded of Cadóg.

"In sick bay, Admiral. He's still in sick bay."

I didn't bother replying and instead hurled myself towards the stairs that took me down to the infirmary. Yet when I got there, the sombre lull in the surgeon's room seemed unnatural. Aboard The Stormbringer, injured men moaned and whimpered if badly injured, or bothered the surgeon with a thousand impatient requests and demands if they weren't. The surgeon shouted orders to his mate, and often at his patients too, adding to the noise. Yet on The Iron Dragon, barely anyone spoke. They sat on their gurneys or against the walls, their expressions drawn and their tongues still. Even the doctor gave his orders in a whisper as his world went on around the body of a man who deserved so much more than this end.

Father lay on the floor, no longer needing the doctor's table but not removed to lie next to the other dead either. Maybe the crew had been too occupied to move him. Or maybe, like me, they weren't ready to accept that Lord Láidir Túrfaire was gone.

Gods... Why did he look so much smaller than he'd done in life?

He appeared so much more fragile that I remembered, even though he hadn't been fragile. He'd been the strongest person I knew. But I guessed anyone would look fragile with their shirt torn open, revealing an expanse of mottled, purple-blue bruises. The stain covered his side, colouring the slack skin which hung over a depression where ribs should have held their form but no longer did. Blood coated his flesh where his skin had ruptured at the impact of something heavy, and I wanted to wipe it away, to make it so none of this had ever happened. I wished I could erase the abrasions and swelling that altered his familiar face, and mend the break that twisted his arm into an unnatural position. How could I place him in the sanctuary where we stored our dead until their funerals, especially like this? How could I let my mother see him in such a state, especially whilst with child?