But even though there had been a few calm breaks in the past few days, none of them lasted for long and there was always the risk of being caught on the open sea when the storms resumed. They could always practice rowing in the calmer waters of Shelter Bay. But such an exercise would be rather pointless. They had been around boats and ships all their lives and their rowing technique was sound. To simply row up and down the bay would not hold their attention for very long.
While he was musing about this, he became conscious of a very faint sound. A voice? No, two voices.
He stood up and gazed down the beach. Sure enough, the distant figures of Hal and Ingvar were looking back toward the camp. He could see the pale ovals of their faces. Then they raised their hands to cup them around their mouths, and a few seconds later, he heard the faint sound again, carried on the wind.
“Tho-o-orn!”
“About time too,” he muttered. He waved to them, letting them know he had heard them, then tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. He was setting the mug down when a thought occurred to him. Edvin might spot the remnants of his coffee in the pot. He tipped water from the pail of fresh water standing by the fireplace, swirled it around until there was no trace or smell of coffee left, and threw it out.
Then he walked briskly to the tent where the boys were relaxing—some talking quietly, several snoozing and others working on repairing torn or damaged clothing and equipment. Those who were awake looked up as he approached. He jerked a thumb toward the beach.
“If any of you are interested,” he said, “the great inventor is ready to show us his latest work.”
That definitely got their interest. Since they had seen the success of Hal’s revolutionary sail design, the Herons tended to treat Hal’s inventive skills with great respect. Thorn and Stig, who had seen one or two of his brainstorms go disastrously wrong over the years, were a little more cynical.
But now, as the boys tumbled eagerly out of the tent, heading for the beach in a ragged group, Thorn felt a small tingle of anticipation. Most of the time, Hal’s ideas worked, and worked well. Without realizing it, he found himself quickening his pace to catch up with the boys.
Whatever Hal had to show them, he didn’t want to be the last to see it.
chapter ten
It’s a crossbow,” said Stig, shaking his head in wonder as he stared at the device.
“Biggest crossbow I’ve ever seen,” Edvin commented.
The massive crossbow crouched on a wooden carriage before them. It was a meter and a half in length and the limbs of the bow were almost a meter from tip to tip. They were made from several layers of wood, laminated together, glued and bound with deer sinew. Thorn nodded thoughtfully as he noted them. In the past week, Hal had been successful in shooting several deer for food. Obviously, he’d wasted nothing from the carcasses. He must have boiled the hooves down to make glue—Thorn recalled a dreadful smell emanating from the workshop a few days ago.
Hal indicated the limbs of the bow. “I’ve used different types of wood for these,” he said. “Sapwood on the outer side of the curve for flexibility and heartwood on the inside for strength and rigidity.”
“How will you shoot it?” Ulf asked. “You could never lift it.”
“I’ll shoot it from the carriage,” Hal said. He indicated a wooden ratchet gear on one side. “I can elevate it with this.” As he spoke, he turned the ratchet and the crossbow angled up on its carriage.
“Ingenious,” Stig said, and he grinned at his friend in admiration. “You’ve tested it? It does actually shoot?”
Hal regarded his friend with an icy smile. He’d been waiting for the inevitable question about small details and suspected this might be a prelude to it.
“It shoots all right,” he said. “We’ve been testing it this morning. It’ll throw one of these for almost four hundred meters.”
He held up a heavy hardwood projectile, half a meter in length. The point had been sharpened and hardened in a fire, and it was reinforced with four iron strips, fastened around its edges and tapering to a point. At the far end, three thin wooden vanes, triangular in shape, were set around the shaft like the fletching on an arrow.
“Although for practical purposes, we’re saying the range is three hundred meters. We’ve been graduating the sights while you lot have been snoozing,” he added.
Stefan stepped forward to study the huge weapon more closely. “It’s magnificent,” he said. He seized hold of the heavy cord that stretched between the two bow limbs. It was made from plaited birch creepers. He tried in vain to haul it back. He could manage to move it no more than a few centimeters.
“The question is, how do you load it?” he said, frustrated.
“I don’t,” Hal said. “And I doubt any of you could. But Ingvar can.”
He gestured for Ingvar to demonstrate. The big boy stepped forward, smiling, and a little pleased to be the center of attention. There were two levers, one set on either side, angled forward and coming up just below the string. They were joined by a rod running through the carriage, under the body of the bow.
He pulled the levers up and back, and as they swiveled, the levers caught the bowstring and began to draw it back.
“Hold it a moment, Ingvar,” Hal ordered, and the young giant let the levers back down to their original position. Hal glanced at Stig.
“Why don’t you try it?” he suggested.
Stig shrugged and stepped forward.
“If you say so,” he said, smiling. Ingvar moved to one side to give him access to the bow and he took hold of the levers and heaved on them.
And stopped.
The smile faded from his face as he realized he had moved the string only halfway back before he could move it no farther. He strained mightily and the string moved another centimeter. Then, shaking his head, he let the levers back down again and gestured to Ingvar.
“Show us how it’s done,” he said. He suspected that Hal had arranged the demonstration not to make fun of him, but to indicate Ingvar’s unique ability to his shipmates. Ingvar stepped in again, seized the levers and hauled them all the way back in one smooth movement, until the string engaged a latch set in the body of the bow and was held tight, fully cocked. He replaced the levers in their original position, below the main body of the bow.
There was a mutter of appreciation from the assembled Herons. Stig was stronger than any of them—aside from Ingvar. If he couldn’t manage to cock the huge crossbow, they knew that none of them would be capable of doing so. Hal caught Stig’s eye and nodded at him, confirming Stig’s earlier suspicion.
“I just wanted you all to see that,” Hal said. “Without Ingvar, this bow would be useless. He’ll load the bow for me when I’m shooting.”
Thorn moved closer, studying the massive weapon. There was a definite air of menace about it, he thought. The effort required to cock it indicated that it would fire its projectiles with enormous power and speed. But he wasn’t sure how Hal intended to deploy such a heavy piece of equipment in a battle.
“Just how do you plan to use it?” he asked. Hal’s proud smile widened.
“I’m going to mount it in the bow of the Heron,” he said, “on a swiveling platform. Then, when we catch up with the Raven, we can stand off a hundred meters or so and knock great big holes in her. I doubt that they’ll enjoy being peppered with these beauties.” He held up one of the heavy projectiles and they all looked at it, imagining it slamming into the relatively light timbers of a ship’s hull.
There was a general chorus of approval and enthusiasm from his crew. It was a truly radical idea—but they had come to expect radical ideas from their skirl. Even Thorn looked impressed.
“You plan to arm the ship,” he said. It was something that Skandians had never done. They used their ships as a way to reach a battle, not a way to fight it.
“That’s right. The ship becomes our weapon. If we get too close to the Raven, she’ll ram us. This way, we can keep our distance and pound h
er.” He looked at Stig. “You’ll have to take the helm when we’re fighting her,” he added.
Stig grinned and nodded. “My pleasure.”
Hal looked at the others. “Stefan, Jesper, you’ll take charge of raising and lowering sails. Ingvar can help you if necessary. We won’t be shooting if we’re tacking or wearing the ship. Ulf and Wulf, you’ll be on sail trimming and sheet handling. Edvin, you’ll stand ready to assist Stig, and to pass on my signals. Once we can put to sea again, we’re going to have to drill constantly to coordinate all our actions—steering, sail handling and shooting—if this is going to work.”
He turned his gaze on Ulf and Wulf. “And that means you two are going to have to work together without your usual bickering,” he said firmly. “Our lives are going to depend on cooperation. If you two can’t get on, I’ll have Ingvar throw you overboard.”
“And I’ll do it too,” Ingvar said very seriously. The crew sensed that Ingvar would do anything that Hal asked of him. And, having seen the recent display of his amazing strength, nobody doubted his ability to carry out such an order.
Ulf and Wulf exchanged a look and came to an understanding.
“We won’t let you down, Hal. You have my word on it,” Ulf said.
“The same goes for me,” Wulf added. “And it’s not just because of Ingvar’s threat—although we know he could do it.”
“And we know he would do it,” Ulf agreed. “But we also know you’re right. All of our lives will depend on quick sail handling and teamwork.”
Hal looked from one to the other, looking deep into their eyes. He could see that his message had gotten through. There was a new look of determination about the twins.
“Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.” Then, as Ulf raised a tentative hand, he went on, “Yes, Ulf, what is it?”
“I’m Wulf,” the twin said, frowning.
Hal made a how-am-I-to-know gesture. “If you say so. What is it?”
“Do we have to stop bickering when we’re not fighting the Raven? I mean, at normal times like this? Do we have to stop bickering now?”
“We’re not bickering now,” his brother pointed out.
“I know that! But we could be, any minute now!” Wulf replied.
“Maybe, but—” Ulf began, but Hal cut him off.
“It would be nice if you didn’t bicker,” he said. “But I suspect that might be a bit too much to ask.”
“I think so,” said Ulf, who Hal had formerly assumed to be Wulf. “We’re kind of… used to it, I suppose.”
“Just wouldn’t seem the same without it,” Wulf agreed.
Hal sighed deeply. “Then you’re exonerated from your promise during normal times. Sorry about that,” he added, casting an apologetic glance in the direction of the other crew members.
“I must say, I’m relieved,” Stig said. “It wouldn’t be the same if they weren’t constantly sniping at each other.”
“Yes, it wouldn’t be the same,” Edvin agreed, “but it would make a pleasant change.” He said it in a mock-weary tone, but there was an underlying sense of good humor and the others chuckled quietly at his words.
Hal looked keenly around the ring of young faces. The expressions were serious as they all realized that they would eventually be facing a very dangerous enemy and fighting for their lives. But there was no fear there. There was a sense of confidence, and a growing sense of trust in their shipmates.
Thorn coughed expectantly and they looked at him.
“Which is all very well and good,” he said. “But none of it will matter if this monstrous mangler of a machine doesn’t work.” He jerked a thumb at the huge crossbow, crouched on its carriage like a bird of prey with its wings spread. “Do you think you might be able to show us what it can do?”
Hal nodded and moved to stand behind the huge weapon. He crouched and sighted quickly down its length, then glanced up at Ingvar.
“It moved offline after the last shot,” he said. “Get the lever, would you?”
There was a long trimmed branch lying a few meters away. Ingvar moved round the crossbow to fetch it. It was about three centimeters across and two meters long, but he hefted it as easily as if it had been a broomstick. He stepped back to stand beside the crossbow while Hal peered down the length of it.
“Move it a little left,” Hal said.
Ingvar dug the end of the wooden pole into the sand beside the right-hand side of the crossbow’s carriage. Then he heaved slowly against it to swing the weapon to the left.
“A little more,” Hal said, still intent on the line of sight.
Ingvar began to tap the end of the lever with the heel of his right hand—short, sharp blows that moved the crossbow a few centimeters at a time. Finally, Hal raised his arm and Ingvar stopped.
“That’s it,” Hal said. He stood back and turned to the others. “When I have it on a swiveling mount, it’ll be a lot easier to move it from side to side,” he told them. “For the moment, we’re making do with Ingvar’s muscle power.” He smiled at the big boy, who grinned back.
He’s enjoying having a purpose in life, Thorn thought. Then his eyebrows raised in surprise as another thought struck him. Just as I am. Hal was still speaking and the old sea wolf brought his attention back to what he was saying.
“. . . graduated the sights to those targets down the beach this morning. We paced out the distance and set them up at fifty-pace intervals. The nearest is one hundred paces away.”
Now, as the others looked in the direction he was pointing, they could make out a series of five wooden targets set up on poles hammered into the sand. Thorn squinted at the nearest. It was a square shape, made up of thick branches nailed onto a wooden frame. The sides of the frame looked to be about a meter in length.
“I figure the branches will offer about the same resistance as the planks of a ship,” Hal said. He took his position behind the bow again, peering at the target. Then he flipped up a flat piece of wood on the side of the weapon, marked with a distance scale. He pointed to the first mark and turned to the watching Herons.
“This indicates a range of one hundred meters,” he said. “When I line this mark up with the bead of the foresight, I have the right elevation for the shot.”
The boys leaned forward to peer at the weapon and they saw a wooden pin, surmounted by a small white bead, set ahead of the limbs, just clear of the line of flight that the projectile would follow.
“That’s like the sight on your small crossbow,” Stig said, recognizing the system.
“That’s right. I figured if it worked there, it’d work here. And it does.”
He crouched and concentrated once more on the sighting picture. He saw the bead of the foresight was in line with the target, but a little below the graduated mark on the rear sight. His hand went to the wooden cogwheel the boys had noticed earlier and he wound it slowly. The front of the crossbow began to rise as he did so. Then he stopped, checked once more and nodded to himself.
He picked up the heavy projectile that was lying on the ground beside him and set it in the shallow trough cut into the top of the bow, fitting a notch at its end into the thick cord.
“Stand clear,” he warned them, and pulled the trigger lanyard. It tripped the latch holding the string, and a fraction of a second later, there was a massive crash as the limbs released. The entire bow bucked with the recoil and the heavy projectile shot away on its shallow, curving trajectory.
Initially startled by the noise when the bow released, the crew followed the bolt’s flight with their eyes. A second later, they saw the target shudder under a massive impact. A cloud of wood splinters were hurled into the air and they heard the cracking sound of breaking timber. The pole holding the target lurched drunkenly to one side and the target itself hung loose on an angle, swinging back and forth from the force of the impact.
“No wonder it goes off line when you shoot it,” Stig muttered.
Hal didn’t reply. “Ingvar!” he called, and the giant bo
y stepped forward, seized the two cocking levers and heaved the string back onto its retaining latch. Hal placed another bolt onto the string, then crouched behind the sights. Ingvar had already retrieved his lever and he began to traverse the bow in accordance with Hal’s orders.
“Right!” Hal commanded and, as Ingvar began to heave the crossbow round to the right to line up with the second target, he continued in a singsong tone.
“Right… right… right… easy now. A little right. A little more. A little more. Stop!”
His arm flew up in a signal to stop. Ingvar laid the pole aside and stood by as Hal wound the elevation wheel and the front of the bow came farther and farther up. Hal peered at the sights, made another small upward adjustment.
“Stand clear!” he called. He pulled the trigger again.
Once more, there was the massive crash of wood on wood, and once more, the crossbow bucked with the recoil. This time, the watchers could follow the flight of the projectile more easily, as it flew through a greater distance and with a slightly higher arc of flight.
The second target lurched under the impact and there was a splintering sound as more wood fragments flew. This time, however, the impact was slightly off center and the target was wrenched bodily from the support pole.
The watching crew members cheered at the sight. Nothing like a little wanton destruction to get boys excited, Thorn thought, smiling to himself. But, at the same time, he felt like joining them. Hal had come up with a fearsome weapon in this giant crossbow. If they caught up with Zavac and the Raven, the pirates were in for a very nasty surprise.
Hal was smiling, relieved that the demonstration had gone so well. Stig stepped forward and slapped him on the shoulder.
“You’ve done it again!” he said. “This is brilliant—and no small details forgotten.” He added the last with a giant grin and another hearty slap on the back. Hal accepted both philosophically.
Stig ran his hand along the smoothed timber of the huge crossbow, admiring the workmanship that had gone into it. There was nothing ornate about it. It was simply a well-crafted piece of machinery.
The Invaders Page 8