The Ghostfaces (23 page)

chapter
thirty-six

T
his time, the current was with them and they sent the canoe flying downriver, the banks flashing past them with amazing speed as the light strengthened and a new day dawned.

Around mid-morning, Thorn came to a decision. “Simsinnet and Hal, you two rest for a while. Stig and I will keep paddling. Then you can relieve us.”

Gratefully, Hal brought his paddle inboard and stowed it. His shoulders and upper arms were burning with the effort of driving the canoe through the swift-running water. He was fit and young, but the action of paddling was an unfamiliar one, calling for a different set of muscles from rowing—which he was more accustomed to. There was no room to stretch out in the little craft, but he slumped forward on his seat, letting his head and arms hang
loose and his body relax. Simsinnet, he noticed, was doing the same thing.

“Let me know when you want us to take over again,” he said.

Thorn gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, don't worry. I will.”

Their speed was reduced with only two of them paddling, but they still managed to move downriver at a respectable rate. They continued in that fashion for the next six hours, with two resting and two paddling. As dusk closed in on them, Thorn ordered a halt while they ate a quick meal of dried meat, washed down with cold river water from their canteens. But even then, they didn't pull in to the bank, letting the swift river current sweep them farther along toward the ocean. Simsinnet kept his paddle across his knees as he ate and drank, occasionally using it to keep the canoe heading straight downriver and out in the middle of the current.

“Right, let's get paddling again,” Thorn ordered as they finished their hasty meal. “We'll give it another three hours, then we'll stop for a few hours' proper rest.”

“You think we're far enough ahead of them?” Stig asked.

Thorn inadvertently glanced back over his shoulder at the dark, smooth water behind them. “I think they're probably still back on the beach,” he said. “It'll take hours for them to repair their canoes. They'll have to repair the frames you smashed, then cut patches of new bark to cover the holes and stitch them in place. Then they'll have to seal the stitches somehow. What'll they use for that, Simsinnet?” Had they been in Skandia, they would have used molten pitch for the task. Here, he wasn't so sure.

“Wax,” Simsinnet replied. “They'll melt wax and smear it over the join to make it completely waterproof.”

Thorn grunted. “And then they'll have to wait for that to harden,” he said. “It'll all take time. But in the meantime, let's put a few more leagues between us and them.”

He paused, paddle raised, and waited for Simsinnet to call the stroke. The four paddle blades dipped into the water. The canoe seemed to hesitate for a second as its prow turned back on course, then it shot away at speed, the ripples beating a rapid tattoo on the hull.

They continued that way as the sun set and darkness settled over the river. The tree-lined banks were dark and featureless. Only the smooth, black water stretching out in front of them was discernible in the dim light of the stars. But the river was free of snags and shallows—at least any section shallow enough to impede the canoe, with its minimal draught. Simsinnet kept them out in the center, where the current was strongest and visibility was clearest, and they kept paddling, the silence broken only by the light splash of their paddles, the burble of water along their hull and the rhythmic grunting of the four paddlers as they set their blades into the water in an unvarying pattern.

When the three-quarter moon rose over the tall trees flanking the river, it came as something of a shock, with the abrupt flood of light striking them with an almost physical impact. Suddenly the river was bathed in its cold, pale light and the water changed from black to silver. Close to the horizon as it was, the moon appeared to be huge. Hal gave an involuntary grunt of surprise at the sight of a massive, white orb hanging just over the treetops. Simsinnet turned from his position in the bow as he heard the skirl's exclamation.

“The moon is a goddess to us,” he said quietly.

Hal nodded in appreciation. “I can see why. It's beautiful. It seems to be alive.”

“Save the poetry for later,” Thorn called crisply. “We'll keep paddling until the goddess has gone past her zenith.”

The bright light of the moon threw the shaded banks into a starkly contrasting darkness. It was almost impossible to make out any features. The moon soared high above them, gradually diminishing in size as it moved farther and farther away from the horizon. Eventually, Thorn called a halt.

“Take us into the shore, Simsinnet,” he ordered, and the Mawag warrior swung the canoe toward the bank, where he could just make out the white line of a small sandy beach. The prow grated ashore and they stepped out into the shallow water.

“Get some rest,” Thorn ordered gruffly. “I'll take the first watch.”

But Hal demurred. “I'll do it. You need sleep as much as any of us.”

Thorn looked at him for a moment without speaking, then nodded. “You're right,” he said. “I do and I will.” He spotted a fallen log at the edge of the tree line and stretched himself out beside it, using it as a pillow. He pulled his shabby old sheepskin vest a little tighter around himself and sighed contentedly as his eyes closed.

“Don't fall asleep,” he warned Hal, and promptly did so himself.

• • • • • 

Simsinnet had taken the final watch and he roused them. Stig stretched his stiff muscles as he rose, raking his fingers through his
unruly hair and swigging from his canteen. He eyed the water skin distastefully.

“What I could really use,” he said, “is a strong mug of coffee.”

“We've been out of coffee for weeks,” Hal pointed out.

His friend scowled at him. “Well then, even a mug of that wishy-washy tea the Mawags make,” he said.

Simsinnet grinned at the remark. “Better not let Tecumsa hear you say that,” he said. “She prides herself on her tea making.”

Stig grunted. “I'm going to have to find something we can roast to make a drink that's vaguely like coffee,” he said. “Maybe I can use corn kernels.”

“Good luck with that,” Thorn told him, and jerked a thumb at the canoe. “Let's get back on the river.”

They quickly repacked their bedrolls, stowing them in the canoe. The night had been cold and Hal found himself wishing he had carried an extra blanket. He was stiff and chilled, and his arm and shoulder muscles ached. But he shrugged the discomfort aside.

“I've been through worse,” he muttered, remembering the terrifying days and nights when the
Heron
had been smashed and battered and driven by the massive storm. It had seemed then that he would never be warm and dry again. With an occasional groan from the two younger Skandians, the four of them resumed their places in the canoe and shoved off. They continued downriver in the cold of predawn.

“Now my feet are wet,” Stig grumbled.

Thorn made a sympathetic clucking sound with his tongue.
“Poor baby,” he said. “When we get home, Uncle Thorn will tuck you up with a hot rock in your blankets.”

In spite of himself, Stig found himself grinning at the shaggy old warrior's cooing tones. “Would you really do that, Thorn?”

Thorn eyed him with a fierce smile. “Right after I bash you over the head with it,” he said.

They fell into the rhythm of paddling once more, and soon their muscles loosened and their bodies warmed with the constant exercise. The sky in the east began to lighten and pale ribbons of pink light stretched across it. Then the sun rose. Like the moon the night before, it soared into sight above the tall treetops lining the eastern bank and its instant warmth penetrated their bones.

“Not far to go now,” Simsinnet said, surprising them. Hal had assumed they would have hours more paddling to do, but he'd neglected to take account of the following current that was aiding their passage.

As if triggered by the Mawag's words, the river began to widen, and as they rounded one last bend, they could see the broad waters of the bay ahead of them. Involuntarily, they stopped paddling and sat back on the narrow wooden seats of the canoe.

It's good to be home, Hal thought. Then he smiled wryly at the idea that he could have come to think of this bay, so far from Skandia, as home. A voice hailed them from the riverbank and interrupted his musing. A canoe, a little smaller than their own and manned by three paddlers, was shooting out from the bank toward them. Without thinking, he dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, where it rested against his seat—it was too long to wear in the close confines of the canoe.

“They're friends,” Simsinnet said quickly, sensing his movement.

As the canoe drew closer, Hal could make out the now-familiar garments of the Mawagansett tribe. The three occupants were all armed, each one carrying one of the short bows over one shoulder, and a quiver of flint-headed arrows over the other.

Quickly, they drew alongside and smiled their greetings.

“Welcome back, Simsinnet,” the warrior seated in the stern called out as the two craft drew together. “Did you find the Ghostfaces?”

“Found them. Fought them. Our friends here”—he indicated the three Skandians—“wrecked their canoes and disabled half a dozen of the Ghostfaces.”

The paddlers looked at Stig, Thorn and Hal with new respect.

“So they're not coming?” the youngest of the three asked. “They've turned back?”

But Thorn quickly stifled his hopeful suggestion. “Oh, they're still coming,” he said. “They'll be along in a few days. What are you three doing here?” he continued, although he thought he knew the answer.

“Mohegas posted us here to watch for your return. Or the Ghostfaces,” the first speaker said, adding the second comment after a short pause.

“Just in case we didn't make it?” Thorn asked.

The warrior grinned a little sheepishly. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Well, keep an eye out for them,” Thorn replied.

They watched as the sentries turned back toward their
concealed observation post on the bank. Then they took up their paddles once more and sent the canoe surging out onto the broad waters of the bay.

Hal felt his heart surge as he saw the neat little ship moored on the opposite shore.

That's home, he thought, no matter where in the world I find myself.

chapter
thirty-seven

N
ow that they had reached their destination, they eased the pace and sent the canoe gliding across the bay toward the
Heron
. They beached the little craft close to the ship and hauled it up onto the sand. Hal glanced around.

“The lads have been busy,” he said. The palisade was gone, and the sleeping hut, as well as Lydia's separate accommodation, had been dismantled and removed. Walking up the beach, the only sign he could see that the area had been occupied was the blackened rocks where Edvin had sited his cook fire. Even they had been scattered, so that there would be no clue to warn the Ghostfaces that people had been camping here.

Thorn glanced around the empty former camp and nodded approvingly. “They've done well,” he said. “I assume the palisade
has been moved to the village and reassembled there.” He indicated the narrow opening in the trees that marked the path leading to the Mawag settlement. “Let's go see.”

They had been rowing for hours, day and night, and they made their way wearily through the shadows under the trees. They reached the Mawag village to find a scene of bustling activity.

Jesper, Stefan and Ingvar were working with a group of Mawag young men, putting the finishing touches to the palisade, which stretched in a wide semicircle to enclose the village. One of the new crossbows was assembled on the meeting ground in front of the village, and Lydia was instructing another group in the art of aiming and shooting—and the equally critical art of reloading. Like the Mangler, Hal had designed the new bows with extended cocking levers to give the loader as much mechanical advantage as possible in drawing the thick bowstring back to settle it over the trigger mechanism. One of the Mawags was bent over the bow, with Lydia beside him, coaching him as he lined it up on its target—a tightly bound bundle of branches standing fifty meters away. As they watched, they heard the wooden slam of the trigger releasing and the bow's arms springing forward. A bolt flashed away from the bow, streaking across the intervening space to smash into the bundle of branches, hurling it backward for several meters. Lydia slapped the shooter on the back in congratulation. The young Mawag grinned and stepped reluctantly away from the bow.

“Next shooter,” Lydia said crisply, and another warrior stepped up eagerly, reaching for the cocking handles. “Help him,” Lydia ordered and a third Mawag took one of the levers.

The two tribesmen heaved on the levers and drew the cord back, the arms of the bow and the cord itself creaking under the strain. Then they settled it snugly over the retaining pegs protruding above the body of the bow.

“Bolt,” Lydia ordered, and the second man reached down to a small pile of heavy hardwood projectiles, placing one in the shallow trough cut along the top of the bow, and engaging the notch at the back with the cord. Hal stepped forward curiously. There was something unusual about the bolt. It had no fletching, he saw.

Lydia glanced up and saw him approaching. Her face lit up in a smile—welcome tinged with relief. “You're back,” she said.

Hal grinned, looking down at himself, as if to make sure he was really there. “Apparently, we are,” he said. He indicated the bolt loaded into the crossbow. “No fletching?”

Lydia shook her head. “I decided to speed things up,” she said, unclipping the bolt from the crossbow's cord and handing it to Hal for him to study. Instead of the three vanes that he placed on the back end of his bolts, there was a large feather attached by a short piece of cord. Lydia took it and held it out behind the bolt.

“The feather streams behind the bolt as it's released and keeps it flying true, without toppling,” she said. “It's not as efficient as fletching, but it does the job. We'll be shooting at pretty close range and we don't need pinpoint accuracy.”

Hal nodded reflectively. “That's true,” he said. “Good thinking.”

Lydia continued. “The bows have been relatively easy to construct. Ulf and Wulf have done a good job and the Mawags are good carpenters. But the bolts were holding us up. Setting the
vanes in place is a fiddly job and we need as many bolts as we can manage.”

Hal handed back the projectile. “Let's see,” he said, gesturing toward the bow. Lydia placed the bolt in the groove once more and signaled for the shooter to take his place. The bow sat on a framework of four legs and was mounted so that it had only a small amount of traverse and elevation travel. But that would be sufficient for the job they had to do. The shooter crouched behind it, nestling the butt of the bow into his shoulder and peering at the target.

“I put a simple V backsight and blade foresight on it to help them aim,” Lydia explained. “There's no adjustment but they're getting used to allowing for drop over the distance.”

Hal nodded and glanced at Stig, who had joined them and was watching with interest.

“Looks like you're not the only inventor anymore,” Stig said, and Hal nodded.

“When you're ready, Harowatta,” Lydia said. The Mawag's hand tightened around the trigger lever. The two pins slipped down into the body of the bow, releasing the cord, and the tensioned arms slammed forward.

The bolt shot away and Hal saw that Lydia was right. The big feather streamed out behind the heavy wooden bolt, keeping it flying true. Like its predecessor, the bolt slammed into the bundle of branches being used as a target. There was a splintering sound as it drove through the thin branches, smashing some and pushing some aside. This shot was dead center and the target skidded back on the hard-packed ground for a meter or so.

“Nice work,” Hal said to the shooter, who grinned appreciatively. Then, turning back to Lydia, he asked, “How many bows are ready?”

“Six,” she replied. “With another two that should be finished today. We've been training all the shooters on this bow. It was the first completed. By now, they're getting pretty accurate.”

“So I saw,” Hal said. He waved a greeting to Jesper and Stefan, who had just noticed their arrival. Stefan turned and said something to Ingvar, who was lugging a bundle of long, sharpened stakes that would be set facing out from the palisade. The big lad looked up, saw Hal and waved, a huge grin spreading over his face. Hal waved in reply, then turned back as Lydia spoke.

“Did you see the Ghostfaces?” she asked.

Hal nodded. “I figure they'll be along in about three days.”

But Simsinnet wasn't prepared to let it go at that. “Did we see them?” he asked. “We didn't just see them! Hal, Stig and Thorn took on six of them and just”—he hesitated, holding his hands out uncertainly as he sought the correct word—“
demolished
them!” he concluded.

Lydia grinned. “Yes. They're good at that,” she said, glancing affectionately at Stig. “Particularly Mr. Muscles here and the dreaded Hookyhand.” She used a term that Thorn had applied to himself several years previously, when introduced to the king of Araluen.

Simsinnet was a little taken aback at her casual acceptance of her shipmates' prowess. “Hal too!” he insisted excitedly. “He killed one and knocked another cold, in a matter of seconds. I've never seen anything like the three of them!”

Hal and Stig shrugged diffidently as Lydia turned to them. “Wait till he sees Ingvar in action,” she said and they both nodded. Then she turned back to the waiting group of shooters clustered around the crossbow. “Well, I'd better get back to it if the Ghostfaces are on their way,” she said.

Hal nodded agreement. “And we'd better report in to Mohegas, and make sure everything will be ready for our guests.”

They crossed the gathering ground, heading for Mohegas's hut. The older Mawagansett had been informed of their return and met them halfway, reaching out to clasp the arms of each of them in greeting.

“It's good to see you safe!” he said, smiling. “Did you find the Ghostfaces?”

Hal reported on the location of the enemy and the actions they'd taken to slow them down. Again, Simsinnet enthused over the fighting skills his three companions had demonstrated.

“So perhaps this won't be a one-sided battle this time?” Mohegas said. Hal, Thorn and Stig all shrugged, but Simsinnet agreed heartily with the tribal elder.

“Believe me, Uncle,” he said—
Uncle
was a term of respect among the tribespeople—“this time, the Ghostfaces are going to get the shock of their lives.”

Mohegas studied the three Skandians for a few seconds. They weren't boastful or arrogant, but he could see a calm confidence about them. They knew their own capabilities and they trusted their skill in fighting. Simsinnet could be right, he thought. These were trained warriors and ten of them would make a big difference in the coming flight. Ten of them, he thought, and eight of the
massive crossbows that he'd seen constructed. As he had the thought, they heard the
SLAM!
of another shot and a ragged cheer from the warriors practicing their skills. Obviously, that one had gone home as well and done more damage to the target.

“I'm glad you're with us,” he said simply.

Thorn replied with a wolfish grin. “Let's make sure the Ghostfaces aren't,” he said.

• • • • • 

Satisfied that preparations were proceeding satisfactorily, the four travelers rested for the remainder of the day, catching up on the sleep they had lost during their arduous journey downriver. Hal awoke refreshed the following morning, but his arms were still stiff and his shoulder muscles were aching. Stig was in the same condition. Thorn seemed immune. His powerful muscles seemed to be able to take any exertion in their stride.

“It's the result of clean living,” he said, in a superior tone.

Hal raised an eyebrow in his direction. “It may be the result of many things,” he said. “I doubt clean living is one of them in your case.”

Tecumsa produced a powerful-smelling salve that she rubbed into Stig's and Hal's arms and shoulders. The liniment had a burning effect, but it soon eased the cramps and pains that assailed them. Thorn sniffed the air close to the two friends, a pained expression on his face.

“Maybe you two should try clean living in the future. You smell like a stable full of donkeys.”

Many years before, on a raid in Iberion, Thorn had seen and, more importantly, smelled donkeys. The memory lived on. Stig and
Hal, however, stared at him, uncomprehending. Donkeys were an unknown quantity in Hallasholm.

“What do donkeys smell like?” Stig asked.

Thorn shook his head, trying to dispel the powerful aroma that wafted from his two young friends. “Like you two—but not as pungent.”

It was a little disconcerting to have Thorn, who was not the most fragrant of people, commenting on their personal freshness. But Tecumsa's salve had a wonderful healing effect on their stiff muscles, so Hal decided it was worth the insults.

“Let's take a look at where the boys have placed the crossbows,” he said.

Lydia, Ingvar, Stefan and Edvin took them on a tour of the site. They had set the eight crossbows up in two batteries, one on either side of the village, inside the tree line facing the palisade, with each set at a forty-five-degree angle to it. From those positions, they would be able to enfilade the attacking Ghosts as they tried to storm the palisade, raking them with bolts from two angles.

Each crossbow had a respectable pile of heavy bolts set next to it. Hal picked one up and examined it. The shaft was hardwood and there was a sharp flint warhead bound to the tip. As he had seen previously, the other end was equipped with a large feather to stabilize the bolt in flight. Each crossbow had a dozen bolts lying beside it, ready to shoot.

“That's nearly a hundred shots we can take at them,” Hal mused. “And chances are, each bolt will account for more than one of them.”

“Chances are, once we start shooting, they'll turn back and attack us,” Thorn pointed out.

Hal nodded. “We'd better build some defenses here as well,” he said. “A hedge of sharpened stakes pointing outward should do the trick.” He glanced at Stefan. “Can you organize that?”

Stefan nodded. “I'll get some of the Mawags onto it immediately.”

Hal turned to Lydia. “You can take command of things here. Thorn, you take the other battery.” He gestured to where the other four crossbows had been set up in the trees. Lydia and Thorn both nodded assent.

Stig tilted his head curiously. “Where do you want me?”

“You take command at the main palisade. And have a force of half a dozen Mawag warriors ready as an emergency squad, in case the Ghostfaces break through at any point along the defenses.”

“Where will you be?” Lydia asked.

Hal gestured in the direction of the beach. “I'll take Ulf, Wulf and Edvin with me. We'll hide the ship inside the north headland and get among the Ghostfaces' canoes once they're committed. We'll ram and sink as many as we can.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I'll have to wait until all the canoes are out of the river and in the bay. Then I'll attack them from behind,” he said. “That means you'll have to cope with probably half the attacking force—the ones who make it to the beach before we can attack them.”