Return of the Temujai

by John Flanagan

  But there were simply too many attackers. As the Herons beat back two or three of them, four or five more took their place and the defenders were becoming hard pressed. Stig had been wounded twice—minor injuries, but ones that would eventually sap his strength as the fight went on. A saber point had opened a long, shallow gash in Thorn’s forehead. It too was a minor wound, but like all scalp wounds, it bled profusely and blood poured down into his eyes, half blinding him. He smashed and slammed with the club, seeing the enemy warriors vaguely through a red mist. His left hand held his saxe and he used it to cut down any who got inside the reach of the club.

  But for every man he smashed down, there were two more to take his place. The Temujai had seen how the line was weakened and rushed forward to deal with these stubborn Skandians. Their commander realized that there were only a few warriors left to defy him. In typical Temujai fashion, he poured more and more of his men into the attack, disregarding the losses inflicted on them.

  And the ruthless tactic was working. Thorn slammed yet another scrambling Temujai swordsman with his club, snapping his slender blade at the hilt and crunching into the man’s shoulder. As the Temujai went down, Thorn stepped back to gain a few seconds’ respite. But a few seconds was all he got. More of the eastern riders were scrambling up the slope to confront him. Wearily, he raised the massive club once more, just managing to deflect a sword that was thrust at him.

  But before he could counterattack, a spear thrust past him from behind and to his right, slamming into the small shield of the suddenly terrified attacker. The Tem’uj reeled back under the impact, taking two of his companions with him. Along the wall, there were sudden cries of alarm from the Temujai troops as more and more Skandian warriors appeared—as if from nowhere—dozens of fresh warriors who went at the Temujai with swords, axes and spears, driving them back in confusion.

  Thorn looked round to see Rollond’s grinning face a few meters away.

  “Hal said you might need a little help,” Rollond said.

  chapter thirty-eight

  With Rollond’s crewman, Torval, helping Edvin on the pump, the flow of water over the side was constant. And they cleared it at a much faster rate. But Hal could feel the ship wasn’t responding as he thought she should. The only answer was that, as the hull flexed and twisted, more planks worked their way loose and the influx of water increased to a point where the two men pumping the water out couldn’t match the volume coming in. The ship grew heavier and more reluctant to rise to the waves. And the extra weight she carried was obviously having an adverse effect on the damaged keel.

  Nervously, Hal edged her in, closer to the shore.

  “If she looks like sinking,” he muttered to himself, “I’ll run her ashore and we’ll make it back to Hallasholm on foot.”

  The prospect of her sinking was becoming more and more likely with each passing minute. He realized it was going to be a race against time.

  As an added complication, the extra weight of water in the bilges meant that from time to time she didn’t rise soon enough as a new wave swept in. Instead, she would wallow heavily and the wave would break over her, flooding the decks and the bilges with seawater, replacing most of what they had laboriously pumped out of her.

  Pa’tong was a nervous onlooker as the two Skandians worked at the pump. Hal had considered keeping him working too, but Edvin and Torval were more adept at the job. Pa’tong was clumsy and nowhere near as efficient as either of the others.

  Kloof remained stretched on her belly on the central deck, her chin on her paws, keeping her unblinking gaze fastened on Pa’tong. He was still uncomfortable around the giant dog, but seemed to have accepted that he was probably safe from her—so long as he didn’t annoy Hal.

  So, the Heron wallowed on, rising and falling sluggishly as the waves swept under her. Now Hal was sure he could see the deck twisting as she crested the larger waves and floundered down the reverse side. Gaps were starting to form between the deck planks. He could only imagine what was happening to the hull planks below the waterline. In some places, the rope-and-tar mixture that sealed irregularities in the decking could be seen working loose.

  Torval, who had just finished a ten-minute spell on the pump, came back to the steering platform, casting a critical eye over Heron’s staggering progress. He had been on board her before and knew that this was nothing like her normal light, soaring action.

  “Is she going to make it?” he asked Hal.

  Hal set his jaw stubbornly. “She’ll make it. We’re only a couple of kilometers from Hallasholm now.”

  Torval pursed his lips skeptically. Wishful thinking wouldn’t keep her afloat, he thought.

  A few seconds later, Hal relented. “Better get a few small kegs ready to use as floats,” he said. “Just in case.”

  Torval nodded and went for’ard. There were several kegs lashed in place in the bow, holding ready supplies of drinking water. He tapped the bungs in and emptied the water over the side. A coil of light rope was hanging close by. He cut several two-meter lengths to use as lashings for the kegs in case they were needed. He placed them on the deck next to the Sha’shan.

  Edvin looked at him curiously.

  “Hal’s idea,” Torval said. “In case we sink.”

  Edvin nodded. He could swim, like all the Heron’s crew. But he wasn’t a strong swimmer, and he was sure Torval couldn’t swim at all—few Skandian sailors could. Neither could Pa’tong. Hal, he knew, could swim like a fish. At a gesture from Torval, he relinquished the pump handle and the Wolfrunner crewman took over the work. Water continued to gush overside, but they both sensed the Heron was settling deeper into the water.

  Kloof rose, shook herself and ran to the bow, standing on her hind legs, with her forepaws on the gunwale. She began barking furiously.

  Edvin turned his weary gaze forward. His heart leapt with hope as he realized he could see Hallasholm—a cluster of low timber buildings, with smoke curling from a dozen chimneys. They were barely half a kilometer away from safety and he could see the gap in the harbor wall, and a glimpse of the little beach behind it.

  He turned to call the news to Hal, but the skirl gave him a tired wave.

  “I see it,” Hal said.

  With safety so close, Edvin grabbed the pump handle from Torval and put on a burst of high-energy pumping. Water gushed and foamed out of the pump. Torval, after a few minutes, took the handle back and maintained the high speed that Edvin had set. Then Edvin took a turn again.

  It seemed their sudden burst of energy was having an effect as they passed the pump back and forth between them. Pa’tong watched them anxiously. Even he had been able to feel the sluggish response of the ship over the past fifteen minutes. Now he could see that the Heron was riding lighter, responding more easily to the helm and the pressure of the sail.

  “I’ll turn toward the harbor mouth shortly,” Hal called to them. “When I do, let the sail out completely. We’ll run in with the wind directly behind us.”

  Edvin signaled that he understood. They would have to turn left once more when they passed through the harbor mouth, but they should have enough residual speed to reach the beach. Torval slumped back from the pump with a groan of exhaustion, and Edvin grabbed the handle and started pumping again. Up for’ard, Kloof began barking excitedly.

  Judging the moment, Hal shoved the tiller right over. Heron swung to port, heading at an angle for the harbor mouth.

  “Now!” he yelled. “Let the sail right out!”

  Edvin scrambled to release the sheet and the sail swung out to port, driven by the wind. As soon as it was at right angles to the hull, he hauled the sheet tight and she accelerated for the gap.

  But at the very moment that the sail took effect and sent her lurching forward, a rogue wave hit her starboard quarter, throwing her off line and heading for the stone mole itself. Hal hauled desperately on the tiller to swing h
er back. As the conflicting forces of wind, wave and tiller hit her, the damaged keel finally let go. They flashed past the mole, into the harbor itself, and the ship sagged horribly, just for’ard of the mast. Only her speed was keeping her afloat now, and Hal headed her for the beach, feeling her sinking beneath him as the finally shattered keel ripped open more planks and seawater poured into her ravaged hull.

  Her prow hit the sand just as she lost the last of her buoyancy and settled beneath the water. As she grounded, she twisted one final time. There was a loud CRACK! from below and she was left lying on her side—with the forepart of the ship tilting to port and the aft section to starboard.

  With tears streaming down his face, Hal stroked the smooth timber of the tiller.

  “Good girl,” he said softly. “You got us home after all.”

  * * *

  • • • • •

  “And you say you’ll be able to call off the current attack?” Borsa asked, eyeing the Sha’shan shrewdly. Borsa was Erak’s hilfmann, or chief administrator. His hair and beard were white and he had spent a lifetime judging people, assessing whether or not they were telling the truth. He sensed that the Temujai leader was.

  “Only if you return me to Ice River within the next day or so,” Pa’tong replied evenly. “Any longer and those who would seek to replace me will be able to convince my people that you’ve killed me. Then there will be no treaty.”

  “And what’s to say that I can rely on your word?” Erak said aggressively. It seemed to him they would be taking an awful lot on trust if they simply returned the Sha’shan to his people.

  Pa’tong switched his gaze to the burly Oberjarl. He took no offense at the question. He would have asked the same in Erak’s place.

  “I will swear an oath on the skull of the Great Horse Spirit Mori,” he said simply.

  Erak raised an eyebrow. He often swore to minor Skandian gods. He often swore at them as well. He knew such oaths were not binding. They were usually only conversational gambits.

  But Borsa had made it his business over the years to study the Temujai and their beliefs, as well as those of other potential enemies.

  “No Temujai would break that vow,” he told his Oberjarl. “It’s their equivalent of our Vallasvow.”

  Erak sat back a little. A Vallasvow was something different from his everyday oaths. It was definitely not something that was lightly taken. If a Vallasvow oath-taker broke his word, he would die within seven days. It was such a powerful oath that Erak didn’t even like talking about it. As far as possible, he even avoided using the word itself. He looked at his hilfmann.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Borsa nodded emphatically. “Definitely.”

  Hal sat silently by, watching the discussion unfold. It was out of his hands now. In the hours since he had beached the wreck of the Heron, things had moved quickly. The little ship had been dragged up above the high-water mark. Erak and Svengal had appeared on the beach, where Hal had explained Pa’tong’s willingness to sign a peace treaty with the Oberjarl. He had also explained the urgency involved, and the situation at Ice River, where the Herons and Wolfrunner’s crew were holding off the attacking Temujai. Erak had dispatched another wolfship to reinforce them, and Pa’tong and Hal had been conducted to Erak’s Great Hall, where they were now sitting at a large pine table, settling the details of the treaty.

  “So, you will guarantee not to take any offensive action against Skandia, either at Ice River Valley or at Fort Ragnak?” Erak said now.

  The Sha’shan nodded. “You will have my solemn vow.”

  “For a period of five years?” Erak continued.

  Pa’tong raised an eyebrow in his turn. “Three years,” Pa’tong corrected him, pointing to the draft of the treaty on the table between them. “As your hilfmann has noted.”

  “Right. Three years,” Erak said, shrugging slightly. It had been worth a try. He looked down at the parchment where Borsa had written out the terms of the treaty. They were simple enough—no hostilities between the two nations, no encroachment on each other’s territory for the agreed period. Simple was best when it came to treaties, Erak believed. That way there could be no prevarication, no pettifogging legal interpretations that would allow one side or the other to break the terms. He cleared his throat and jerked his head at Borsa and Hal, indicating that he wanted to talk to them privately. He rose from the table.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Sha’shan,” Borsa said as he rose to follow his Oberjarl. Pa’tong shrugged and made an assenting gesture with both hands. Hal rose as well and followed his two countrymen to a spot a few meters away, where they could talk without the Sha’shan overhearing them.

  “What do you think?” Erak asked in a hoarse whisper. Speaking in lowered tones didn’t come naturally to him. He was looking at Hal as he asked the question.

  The young skirl shrugged. “I think it’s the best we can get. We’ll have three years without having to worry about a Temujai attack.”

  Erak sniffed. “But it will give him three years to gather his forces and get ready to attack us.”

  “His forces are already assembled. What more can he do?” Hal pointed out. “And by the same token, we’ll have three years to fortify our position in Ice River Valley.”

  “He’s right, Erak,” Borsa pointed out. “If Hal’s description of the situation there is accurate . . .” He paused and glanced at Hal, a question in his expression.

  Hal nodded affirmatively. “It is.”

  Borsa continued. “In three years, we can make that position well-nigh impregnable.”

  Erak pursed his lips and thought over what they had said. Then, typical of the man, he came to a decision.

  “You’re right,” he said. He turned to Pa’tong and raised his voice. “All right, Sha’shan. Let’s sign that treaty. Then I’ll have Wolfwind take you back to your people.”

  The Sha’shan bowed his head in agreement.

  As Borsa sat at the table again and began to make a few final amendments to the document, Erak took Hal’s arm and drew him aside. He had seen the wreckage of the Heron where she had landed at the beach. A team of men had dragged the shattered hull up above the tidemark. Like all Skandians, Erak understood the deep bond that a skirl formed with his ship and the terrible sadness and despair that came when a ship was lost.

  “Well done, Hal,” he said simply. “I know what this has cost you.”

  chapter thirty-nine

  The two forces faced each other along the narrow bank of the Ice River. Since the arrival of Wolfrunner and Rollond’s thirty crewmen, the defensive rampart was fully manned. And the second wolfship dispatched by Erak gave them ample reserves in case of an attack. The Temujai realized this and had held off any further attempts to overrun the wall.

  From time to time, archers working individually or in pairs would snipe at the earth rampart and the row of shields—now augmented by those belonging to the Wolfrunner crew. The defenders had learned to remain undercover and had constructed covered walkways behind the wall so they could move about without risking being shot.

  The Temujai had also taken to lobbing arrows over the wall so that they fell into the space behind it. But the Skandians had quickly countered this by building shelters with thick timber roofs, under which they could relax in safety.

  So a stalemate existed.

  Thorn and Rollond were crouched behind the shield wall, peering at the enemy riders eighty meters away. Each day had brought new reinforcements to the Temujai. There were now several hundred bivouacked among the trees on the bank. But no matter how many of them there were, they could still only attack over a front of eight to ten men. Which meant the Skandian defenders could hurl them back easily.

  As the two Skandian leaders watched, they saw three archers step forward from the Temujai line and raise their bows.

  “Arrows!” Thorn called
, and any Skandians moving in the open space behind the wall hastily sought shelter. A minute or so later, a hail of half a dozen arrows plunged into the little compound they had built. But by then, the defenders were all safely undercover, and the arrows rattled harmlessly off the timber roofs and walls.

  “Wish we had a few of those Araluens with us,” Rollond commented. “It’d be nice to give those Temujai some of their own medicine back.”

  Thorn nodded. “They know we’ve got no projectile weapons,” he said. “They can stroll about in the open without risk.”

  “Ship coming!”

  The hail came from one of the lookouts by the riverbank. The two Skandians turned to see another wolfship coming upriver, its oars rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, looking for all the world like the wings of a bird.

  Thorn looked quickly around, measuring angles with his eye. As yet, the new arrival was concealed from the Temujai forces. And if she beached behind Wolfrunner, as she appeared to be about to do, she would remain so.

  “It’s Wolfwind,” he said. “Erak’s ship.”

  Wolfwind nosed into the bank behind the spot where Rollond’s ship was moored. As Thorn had observed, the curve of the river concealed her from the Temujai eighty meters away. As she began to disembark her passengers, he felt an unholy sense of joy. The first ten men to come ashore were a squad of Araluen archers, their longbows slung across their backs, and fully laden quivers at their belts.

  “Stig!” Thorn bellowed.

  Heron’s first mate had gone to the riverbank to welcome the new arrivals. Stig turned now as he heard his name called.

  Thorn waved to get his attention, then beckoned to him. “Bring those Araluens up to the shield wall!” he called.

  Stig nodded and called to the ten archers, leading them toward the wall, staying under the cover of a roofed walkway as they came. They filed into the space below the rampart, looking about them curiously. Thorn beckoned to their leader.