Hal turned back to check their pursuers. The six riders he had first seen had stopped along the crest. But now they were joined by another three, then six more. Then another six. They fanned out along the horizon in an extended line, and as he watched, their numbers grew alarmingly.
“There must be a full Ulan there,” he said. He looked once more to where Stig and Thorn were dragging the Sha’shan between them. They were only a few meters from the shore, and Heron was nosing in to meet them, the rowers bringing in the oars as she slid into the soft mud at the bank. Stig and Thorn floundered out through the reeds and mud, hoisting the Sha’shan high, to where willing hands were reaching over the gunwale to lift him aboard.
Ingvar seized hold and lifted the Sha’shan bodily out of their grip, depositing him in a heap on the deck. Then he reached over and hauled Thorn aboard as well. As he did so, Stig gripped the rail and heaved himself up and over with one convulsive movement. Then he glanced back to where Hal and Lydia were waiting, watching the pursuing horsemen. He measured the distance they had to cover to reach the ship, and the distance between them and the riders.
“They’re not going to make it,” he said.
Farther back up the slope, Hal had come to the same conclusion. The horsemen were starting forward now, moving at a walk in their long, extended line. The grass tops brushed the bellies and shoulders of their horses and the jingle of harness carried clearly to where Hal and Lydia waited. Hal unslung his crossbow and placed a bolt in the loading groove.
“Run,” he said quietly to Lydia. “I’ll keep them off you.”
But she shook her head. “I’m not going without you,” she said, readying a dart on her atlatl. “I can shoot three times as fast as you can.”
The Temujai riders moved to a trot now. They weren’t using their bows, Hal noticed. But each man had a long, slender lance held upright. He felt the cool air of the breeze on the back of his neck, and an idea struck him.
He dropped the crossbow and grabbed his flint and saxe once more, frantically striking the flint against the steel blade and sending showers of sparks cascading into the long, dry grass. Lydia caught on to the idea and took out her own flint and her dagger, copying his actions. She dropped to her knees, blowing on a small, smoldering section of grass. In a few seconds, a tiny tendril of flame licked up. Then it grew until there was a rapidly spreading pool of fire at her feet, fanned by the breeze.
Hal looked up at the riders. They were much closer now and beginning to move faster. It was going to be a race against time—to see if the small wall of flame that they were building would spread faster than the Temujai could ride. He scattered more sparks into the grass, watching as the breeze fanned them into flame, letting it spread until it was ten meters wide and moving toward the approaching horsemen.
As is the way with fire, the stronger the flames grew, the more they created their own draft of air, spreading the flames and driving them toward the approaching Temujai. All of a sudden, the fire front was fifteen meters wide and rapidly growing wider. The flames themselves were licking as high as a man’s head and smoke curled over the grassy slope. Hal judged that they had done enough.
“Run!” he shouted. He looked for his crossbow, but it was concealed somewhere in the long grass. Abandoning it, he turned and ran, blundering down the slope, slipping and falling but simply rolling to his feet once more. Behind him, he could hear the growing crackle of the fire, the pounding of hooves and the shouting Temujai. Then another sound emerged, the panicked scream of horses as the fire surged toward them. Lydia was running beside him, perhaps half a meter ahead of him. He chanced a look over his shoulder, nearly losing his footing as he did so, but somehow managing to stay on his feet.
Behind them, the wall of red fire and black smoke hid most of the horsemen from view. He could see several vague shapes as the riders tried to force their mounts through the flames. But the horses were having none of it. They reared and plunged, and their panic was infectious.
Now he could hear the shouts of his crew as they urged the two runners to greater efforts. He glanced back again, lost his balance and fell, rolling over several times before coming to his feet and blundering on. Some of the riders had realized that they couldn’t force their horses through the flames and were riding to flank them—to go around the fiery barrier and then set off after the two fleeing Skandians again.
Two of them made it around the wall of flames now and urged their horses into a gallop, thundering through the long grass as if it weren’t there. A third rider emerged around the end of the barrier of smoke and flame.
Hal raced on. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, and there was a violent stitch in his side. Behind him, he could hear the pounding hooves getting closer, and his shoulder blades instinctively cringed, awaiting the impact of the steel lance head that he knew was coming.
SLAM!
The familiar sound impinged itself on his consciousness. Someone, he realized, had shot the Mangler from the bow of the ship.
Although he knew it was a mistake to do so, he turned to watch the rider pursuing him. As he did, a giant hand seemed to pluck the man from his saddle, hurling him backward, sending him crashing into the rider following beside him and bringing down both horse and man in a tangle of arms and legs.
The third rider swerved his horse wildly to avoid his two comrades, then hauled its head back, sending it pounding toward Hal. Exhausted, defeated, knowing he couldn’t escape, Hal stood, awaiting his fate.
Vaguely, he heard Lydia’s defiant shout behind him. Then something whipped through the air, hissing like a snake, as it missed him by less than a meter. The rider suddenly jerked back in his saddle as the heavy atlatl dart slammed into his chest. He threw both arms out wide, letting the lance drop to the grass, then somersaulted backward over his horse’s rump, crashing to the ground behind it.
“Come on, Hal!”
Lydia’s voice was close behind him. He shook off the inertia that had overcome him and turned to run the remaining forty meters to the ship. Lydia was ahead of him. Ingvar reached down, seized both her arms and heaved her up and over the railing in one smooth movement. Hal staggered after her, coming up against the dark green timbers of the hull and stopping, exhausted and drained.
“Give me your hands!”
It was Stig’s voice, coming from above him. He looked up and saw his friend’s face over the railing, both his hands stretched down for him. He put his hands up and let himself be whisked up and over the rail. He landed awkwardly on the deck and his knees gave way, so that he went facedown. He lay there for some time, his face against the smooth deck planks, surrounded by the sights and sounds and smells of his own familiar world.
Stig was yelling commands now, and he felt the ship moving, sliding back from the soft embrace of the mud at the lake’s shore. Wearily, Hal rose to his feet and lurched to the center of the deck, leaning heavily against the stumpy mast. Ingvar, Ulf, Wulf and Stefan were on the oars, heaving the ship back from the bank, then pivoting her and sending her flying out into deep water. A hand dropped on his shoulder, and he turned to see Thorn beside him, a grin on the old warrior’s bearded face. A little beyond him, the Sha’shan was sitting on the deck, cross-legged and disconsolate.
Then Stig was calling more orders, and the oars slid in and the sail handlers took their positions. Hal and Thorn moved aft to be out of the way. Lydia was already there, standing close to the steering platform where Stig had the tiller. Hal met her eyes and smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. “That last one had me for sure.”
She nodded gravely, glancing back to the shore, where the roiling bank of fire and smoke rose above the undulating grasslands.
“Couldn’t let that happen,” she said, then smiled in her turn. “We need someone on board who can steer a straight course.”
Stig sniffed indignantly. Hal moved beside him and the tall first mate
offered him the tiller.
“Do you want to take her?” Stig said. But Hal waved the offer away. For the moment, he was content just to be here, running his hand along the smooth, familiar timber of the starboard rail.
“It’s good to be home,” he said softly.
chapter thirty
They spent the rest of the morning moored beside the island, while Hal made several preparations for their journey past the Temujai at the lake’s mouth.
The crew cut down and trimmed three long saplings, then used them to raise the height of the port railing, nailing them in place and then arranging the shields above them. There was now a substantial shelter on the port side of the ship. Hal was gambling that the Temujai hadn’t crossed to the western side of the river, so that no extra protection would be needed there. But with the addition of the saplings and the shields, the crew could now stand erect in the rowing wells and still remain undercover.
It was an untidy solution, but an effective one.
While the crew were busy doing that, Hal took several planks from the Heron’s small store of spare timbers and built a shelter around the tiller, so that he could steer the ship and be protected from Temujai arrows.
Not that there’d be too many of them, if his plan worked. But the Temujai Ulans usually had at least one designated sharpshooter among their numbers, and there was always the chance that while their comrades would be reluctant to loose an arrow storm at the ship, for fear of hitting their Sha’shan, the sharpshooters might try for the helmsman.
He surveyed the results of their work, satisfying himself that they had done everything possible to protect themselves. Then he ordered Edvin to prepare them a substantial meal, having no idea when they would have the chance to eat again. During the night, the inventive healer-cum-cook had caught several lake fish, and these made a welcome addition to the dried and preserved rations they had been eating. Finally, when the sun was well and truly past noon, they cast off from the island, ready to set sail for the south end of the lake.
He made one diversion, however. Before he set course south, he steered the ship back to the eastern bank and went ashore, trudging uphill and hunting through the long grass below the point where he had started the fire until he found his crossbow. At least now, he thought, he could shoot back if someone targeted him.
Unfortunately, the breeze had shifted late in the morning and was blowing steadily out of the south. They’d have to go down the river under oars, as it was too narrow for long tacks into the wind. But for now, they could relax, and let the sail take them swooping over the small waves on the lake, heading for the south shore and the river mouth.
They were still several kilometers away from the south end of the lake when Kloof raised her head and sniffed the air, emitting a low, grumbling growl. The Sha’shan, who was sitting on the deck, still tied hands and feet, glanced nervously at her and shifted away a meter or so.
“Relax,” Hal told him. “She’s not growling at you. She can smell something.”
“Smoke,” Lydia said, noticing the scent a few minutes after the dog had. “Campfires. The wind is blowing it toward us.”
As she said it, Hal realized he could make out several thin columns of smoke from the shore ahead of them. For a moment, he wondered if they were part of the grass fire he had started that morning, then realized that it was well behind them, to the north and east of their current position. Then the familiar acrid smell became apparent as they drew closer.
“It’s the Temujai,” he said. “They got here before us.”
That was no surprise. They had expected as much. And now he could make out movement on the lakeshore where the river ran out. Thankfully, all the movement was on the east bank. Apparently, the Temujai hadn’t managed to cross to the west side of the river yet. That was a blessing, he thought.
“Sail down,” he said quietly. When the sail handlers brought the yardarm down and gathered the sail in, he ordered Stefan, Jesper, Ulf and Wulf to man their oars. “We’ll go in under oars,” he told them. “We’ve got more control that way. Stig, Thorn, stand ready to man extra oars if we need them. Lydia, stay undercover but keep an eye out for those sharpshooters.”
They moved smoothly on, slipping through the water under the steady stroking of the four oars. As they grew closer, Hal could make out more detail. He could see a cluster of yurts on the shore, and riders moving among them. There must be nearly two hundred Temujai here already, he estimated. As he watched, a group of sixty formed up on the lake’s shore, next to where the river ran out of the mass of water. They were on horseback and in formation—two lines, facing the oncoming ship.
Hal glanced at Thorn, then indicated the Sha’shan. “Let’s have His Nibs up and tied to the bow post where they can see him.”
Thorn nodded and grabbed the Sha’shan by the elbow, lifting him from the deck and shoving him for’ard. Hal considered telling Thorn to untie the man’s ankles, then thought better of it. The strong probability was that he wasn’t a swimmer—swimming was not a common skill among the Temujai, after all. But if he could swim and his feet were untied, he might just take the chance of throwing himself overboard and swimming ashore. With his feet fastened, such a course would hardly appeal to him. Odds were, he’d sink like a stone with his legs bound together.
Quickly, Thorn tied the portly little man to the bow post, placing the Sha’shan’s hands high so that he stood on tiptoe, fully visible to those ashore. The red-brocaded jacket that Hal had selected back in the wagon-yurt stood out clearly. Hal had seen the man wearing it when he and Lydia had first scouted the camp. He hoped it was a familiar sight to his men—one that would help them recognize him.
Onshore, he saw the front rank of twenty-five riders dismount and step forward several paces. In a concerted movement, their hands went to the quivers at their backs, selected arrows and nocked them to their bowstrings, eyes fastened on the rapidly approaching ship. As yet, they didn’t raise their bows, holding them down and ready.
“Ease the pace,” Hal called to the rowers. Ulf called a slower count for the oarsmen, and the Heron slowed in her headlong rush toward the shore. “Let’s give them plenty of time to see him,” he added.
One man at the right-hand end of the line raised his bow, sighted briefly, then released. They heard the slithering clatter of the arrow as it passed over the bow, and Hal could watch its flight as it arced up and then plunged down on a forty-five-degree angle—maximum range, he thought.
The ranging shot, for such it was, raised a brief waterspout fifteen meters ahead of the Heron.
“Heave to,” Hal ordered and the four rowers backed water, bringing the ship to a halt before it reached the point where the arrow had cleaved its way into the water. “Hold her there,” he added, and Ulf and Wulf worked their oars to stop the slow drift forward and sideways, keeping the ship in its place.
“They still haven’t seen him,” Hal muttered. Or maybe, he thought, they have seen him and they don’t care if they hit him as well as the Skandian crew.
The man who had already shot selected another arrow, nocked it, raised his bow and shot again. It was a smooth, unhurried action that bespoke his skill and experience with the weapon. This arrow flirted into the water barely five meters from the Heron’s bows.
“Do you want me to take care of him?” Lydia asked quietly. “I’m pretty sure I outrange him.”
Hal shook his head. “Not now. But hold on to that thought.” If she shot back and hit him, he thought, that could lead to the other archers on the shore joining in a general exchange of shots. And that could get the Sha’shan killed, which was not an outcome that would help the Herons escape. “Thorn,” he called, “let them know who’s tied to the bow post, will you? But be careful. Don’t expose yourself too much.”
Thorn nodded. He was crouched behind the bulk of the Mangler in the bows. He sidled forward, staying low, and stood behind the S
ha’shan. He put his hook and his left hand under the man’s armpits and hoisted him up so that his feet were on the railing and he was fully exposed to the men ashore.
“Oi! You lot!” he bellowed. “Look who we’ve got here!”
The line of bows came up and Hal could distinctly hear the creaking sound they made as they were drawn to their fullest extent. Then the Sha’shan yelled something at the top of his voice. He spoke in Temujai and Hal didn’t understand him. But he caught the word Pa’tong repeated several times and it was obvious that he was identifying himself. A second later, a panicked voice from the shore yelled an order and the line of bows came down again. Hal breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close thing. Their prize hostage had been on the brink of being turned into a pincushion before his men realized who he was.
Hal glanced around and caught Stig’s eye, gesturing to the tiller.
“Take over,” he said. “I’m going for’ard. Keep her edging in slowly.”
Stig nodded and took his place behind the timber shield they had constructed earlier that morning. Hal dropped into the starboard-side rowing well, which was facing slightly away from the Temujai onshore, and scrambled for’ard, clambering up onto the deck in the bows.
“I’ve got him,” he told Thorn. “You get undercover.”
Thorn nodded and scrambled into shelter behind the Mangler. Hal heaved back, moving Pa’tong’s feet from the gunwale and letting him sink back to the deck.
“I want to talk to someone who speaks the common tongue,” he said in the Sha’shan’s ear. “Call out and tell them.”
Pa’tong began to call out in Temujai but Hal jerked him by the neck, cutting off the flow of words.
“In the common tongue,” he said roughly. “I want to know what you’re saying.”
“I’m not sure if anyone there speaks the common tongue,” Pa’tong prevaricated.
But Hal shook him roughly by the scruff of the neck. “Oh yes, you are,” he said. “Now call him.”
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