The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  “Back water!” he shouted. The oarsmen strained against their oars as they reversed their thrust. He felt the Raven check suddenly and he stumbled a pace forward before regaining his balance.

  “Back port! Forward starboard!” he ordered and, as the two banks of rowers pulled and pushed frantically in opposing directions, the Raven lurched in a hard turn to port, heeling steeply as she did so, so that water ran in over the port gunwales.

  From the shore, he hoped, it would appear that he had noticed the log boom at the last moment and thrown the ship into an emergency stop.

  “Slow forward,” he ordered, and the rowers settled into a smooth rhythm once more.

  The shouts and jeers from the watchtowers redoubled as the Raven, seemingly thwarted, began to move away.

  “What was that all about?” Andras asked.

  Zavac smiled. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  His second in command shook his head, perplexed. “Do you expect them to do anything different tomorrow?”

  “Oh yes. Tomorrow, they’ll welcome us with open arms,” Zavac said, then added, with a shrug, “Well, with an open boom, at least.”

  “Ship coming! To the south!”

  The lookout in the eastern watchtower bellowed the report. Instantly, there was a stir among the men around him as they leapt to their feet to join him at the wooden balustrade. He heard movement inside the small hut that provided shelter for those who weren’t on duty, then the watch commander emerged, hastily buckling on his sword belt. Done with that, he brushed crumbs from his tunic as he joined the lookout at the balustrade. He’d obviously had his lunch interrupted.

  Tension among the guards was high. Their numbers had been doubled since the pirate ship had been sighted the day before and they were ready for an attack.

  “Is it that black ship we saw yesterday?” the commander asked.

  The lookout shook his head, pointing. “No. Much smaller. A trader, I’d say. And she’s in a hurry.”

  The commander followed the pointing arm and frowned. She was a small, neat trading ship and she was definitely in a hurry. Her eight oars beat the water rapidly. Even from this distance, he thought he could sense a feeling of panic in their movements. They weren’t rowing smoothly in a coordinated rhythm. Rather, it looked as if each oarsman was simply thrashing his oar at the water as fast as he could manage.

  “She’s in a hurry, all right,” he muttered, squinting his eyes in an attempt to make out more detail. But the distance was still too great.

  In addition to her eight oars, the little ship had her square sail set and it billowed out with the following wind. As they came closer, the commander could see that the sail was an old one, stretched out of shape by years of use. Sails were expensive and most trading skippers would choose to save money by not replacing them, or having them re-cut, as they lost their efficient shape. They’d save money right up till a day like today, when the ship had to race for its life from danger.

  And there was the danger now. Two kilometers behind the trading ship, a dark, sinister shape eased over the horizon.

  “That’s what’s got her panicked!” the commander said, pointing.

  “It’s that pirate!” someone shouted. “The black ship that tried to attack us yesterday!”

  “Pity he saw the boom at the last minute,” the lookout muttered. He’d been on duty the day before when the black ship had headed at full speed for the harbor mouth, only just managing to halt her headlong progress when she sighted the boom. The garrison had watched eagerly as she approached, hoping to see her shatter her bow against the huge logs that barred the harbor entrance. There had been cries of disappointment when she managed to stop, just in time, then slink away with her tail between her legs.

  Obviously, she had gone in search of easier prey, quartering the ocean over the horizon for a ship heading for Limmat to trade.

  “She’s gaining!” a soldier shouted. No need to say which ship he meant. In contrast to the jerky, spasmodic actions of the trader’s oarsmen, the black ship’s twin banks of oars moved down, back, up, forward and down again in perfect time. She was streaking across the water, rapidly closing the distance to the trading ship.

  “There’s another!” the shout went up as a third ship slipped into view over the horizon. Her hull was dark green and she was nearly as long as the black ship.

  “Another pirate, I’ll be bound,” said the watch commander. But the new arrival was too far astern to affect the outcome of the desperate race before them. He looked back to the trader. He could see more detail now. The sides of her hull were festooned with arrows and there were several bodies sprawled unmoving on the deck.

  The sail, old and misshapen as it was, was further affected by a large split that ran down one side, allowing the wind to spill out.

  He glanced back to the black pirate ship. She was definitely gaining, but the trader was getting closer and closer to the harbor mouth. It was going to be a near-run thing, but after a few more minutes, he could see that the trader would just make it to safety in time.

  He turned to the men leaning on the balustrade beside him. Some of them had begun shouting encouragement to the small, stricken ship limping toward them.

  “Get down to the mole!” he shouted. “Get the boom open and let her in!”

  The tower vibrated from the rush of feet as the men poured down the ladders to obey him. He followed, lingering a few minutes to measure the relative speeds and distance of the two ships engaged in the life-or-death race.

  The trader would make it, he saw. But they’d have to move smartly and close the boom again before the pirate reached them. He ran out onto the quay and seized the signal horn from its bracket, blowing a long blast to alert the guards on the opposite mole. His own men were already unfastening the huge shackle that held the eastern end of the boom in place. As they did so, he waved frantically to the men across the harbor.

  The incoming tide began to swing the log barrier away from the mole. Then the soldiers on the far side manned the massive windlass set there and began to drag the boom open even faster. As it went, his men paid out the heavy cable that they would use to haul the logs back into place again. As they let it out, it sank below the harbor surface, where it wouldn’t impede the approaching ship.

  The watch commander looked up from the opening boom to see the trader was only twenty or thirty meters away and now rowing with far more purpose and coordination. But instead of heading straight into the harbor, she was angling for the mole where he was standing.

  And suddenly, a terrible doubt assailed him. The trader had been under attack by the black pirate and its consort. That much was obvious from the dead bodies on deck and the arrows that bristled along the hull. They must have been fighting at close quarters—perhaps a hundred meters or less. So how had she managed to escape? And how had she built up such a lead over the black ship?

  He dashed forward as he realized what was happening, gesturing to his troops to man the windlass on this side of the harbor mouth that would bring the boom shut again.

  “Close the boom! Close the boom! It’s a trick!” the watch commander shouted, his voice cracking with the tension of the moment. But it was too late.

  The trading ship was already nosing into the gap, angling toward the harbor mole. She ran alongside the stone wall with a splintering crash and suddenly men were swarming up from her decks and onto the jetty—more men than she could possibly have in her crew. He also noted that the sprawled, seemingly dead sailors on board had come to life as if by some dark magic and, weapons in hand, were clambering up onto the mole, screaming threats and battle cries.

  He drew his sword and ran to try to drive them back. Already his men, caught by surprise, were falling. A few managed to rally together and mount a defense. But they were pitifully few.

  He saw a tall, swarthy man hanging back and shouting orders to the pirates and changed direction toward him. If he could kill their leader, the town might have a chance. From the corner
of his eye, he could see the black ship looming closer to the open harbor mouth. He’d have to act quickly, he realized.

  The pirate leader was facing away from him and he drew back his sword to strike.

  A few seconds before the Viper crashed alongside the harbor wall, Zavac threw open the cargo hatch and yelled to the men crouching below.

  “Come on!”

  There was an answering roar from the twenty men concealed belowdecks and they poured out of their hiding place, following him as he ran to the bow to scramble ashore. Two of his men, detailed for the job, were lashing the ship to a mooring ring set in the harbor wall.

  As he made it to the jetty, Zavac stood aside and let the first rush of men behind him go past. Shouting and screaming, they fell on the disorganized garrison members, some of whom had begun to try to operate the giant windlass and bring the boom closed again. Zavac drew his long, curved sword and waved it at them.

  “Stop them!” he shouted, and half a dozen of his own men angled off toward the windlass, cutting the garrison members down before they had a chance to defend themselves. He waved the rest forward to where a small knot of defenders were standing together, desperately trying to stem the tide of pirates as they swarmed along the jetty.

  “Kill them!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”

  He glanced over his shoulder. The Raven was almost at the harbor mouth. As he had been instructed, Andras would secure her alongside the jetty farther inside the harbor and send the rest of Raven’s men ashore in a rush. Once the tower garrison had been disposed of, Zavac and his men would head down the mole to join up with them.

  Stingray, the dark green ship he had recruited at the Magyaran meeting point up the coast, would land her men in a few minutes and any further resistance from the Limmatans would be futile.

  He drew breath to call another order, then sensed movement behind him. Instinctively, he dropped to a crouch and felt a sword blade whistle close, just above his head. Without looking, he pivoted on his right foot and thrust viciously with the long curved blade in his hand. He felt it strike a momentary resistance, pause, then penetrate.

  Only now, he looked, and saw his sword deep in the belly of one of the garrison—an officer, judging by his clothes and armor. Zavac’s thrust had gone just below the highly polished breastplate that the man wore. The officer’s eyes were wide-open with shock. His mouth gaped, moving soundlessly. Then his legs collapsed under him and he fell sideways, supported for a moment by Zavac’s blade, deep in his body, then falling as the pirate jerked it free.

  “Bad luck.” Zavac smiled at him. “Nearly had me there.”

  Then the smile faded and a black rage came over him, directed at this small-town nobody who had so nearly ended Zavac’s life with a lucky swipe of his blade.

  He put his foot against the fallen soldier and rolled him to the edge of the pier and into the harbor.

  chapter seventeen

  The deer stepped daintily into the clearing, paused, then advanced a few paces to a clump of thick, lush grass. It paused, head turning, ears pricked for the slightest sound, nostrils twitching to detect any foreign scent borne to it on the light breeze.

  But Lydia was downwind and no trace of her scent reached the animal. It lowered its head to the grass, began to graze, then suddenly jerked upright again, searching the trees lining the clearing to the right of the spot where Lydia stood, motionless, in the shadow of a tree.

  The deer was in excellent condition, plump and fit looking. It had obviously fed well since the weather had improved over the past few weeks. It was half grown and Lydia guessed that this was its first season away from its mother. Its meat would be tender and delicious, she thought, not tough and stringy like that of a full-grown adult. And she knew her grandfather would welcome the addition of twenty kilograms of prime venison to their larder. Things had been difficult for him since he had lost his small ship to pirates two seasons past—and with it his son and daughter-in-law.

  He relied now on his meager savings, and whatever he could manage to earn doing odd jobs at the boatyard in Limmat. His wife was dead many years now and the one bright spot in his life was Lydia. Although, paradoxically, while he treasured her company, he felt the responsibility for her well-being as a burden.

  In the last few seasons, Lydia had contributed to the household larder and income with the fresh meat she brought in. She was an expert hunter and she was able to provide meat for their own table as well as extra to sell to the vendors in the market. Rabbit, hare and game birds all sold well. But the most popular of all among the citizens of Limmat was venison—particularly tender meat from a young deer like the one that stood twenty-five meters away. She’d keep the choice cuts and sell the rest, she decided.

  She smiled wryly. First kill your deer, she thought, then you can count the money you’ll make selling it.

  Lydia was sixteen. She was slightly taller than other girls her age, possibly because of years of activity and exercise in the woods. She could outrun most of the boys in town and she was a far better stalker than any of them. She was slender, with long, well-muscled legs and slightly broader shoulders than most girls—again, probably the result of a lifetime of exercise.

  Sixteen-year-old girls in Limmat tended to primp and preen and protect the softness of their delicate hands and features, shielding them from the sun and from the rigors of hard work. Lydia had little time for that. She reveled in the freedom of the timbered hills and cleared fields. She was tan and fit, and moved with the same grace and economy of motion as the animals she hunted.

  Her hair and features were the despair of other girls. While they spent hours before their looking glasses, combing, teasing and applying lotions and scented oils, she simply brushed her lustrous black hair and tied it back with a black ribbon. And where they felt the need to apply shading and coloring around their eyes, hers were clear hazel and slightly uptilted. Her grandfather often mused that somewhere in her distant ancestry, a Temujai raider had bequeathed her those eyes. Her cheekbones were high—further indication of that long-ago Temujai—and her skin was unblemished.

  In all, she was a strikingly beautiful girl, although she was totally unaware of the fact. Her grandfather, Tomas, often told her so, of course. But she shrugged that aside. All grandfathers thought their granddaughters were beautiful. Or at least, they told them so.

  The deer, its fears allayed for the moment, lowered its head to the grass and began to graze in earnest. Moving with infinite care, Lydia fitted the dart she had been carrying into her atlatl, the throwing stick that gave extra force and speed to her casts.

  She had chosen the atlatl and its long, arrowlike darts as her hunting weapon after long consideration. Most of the boys in Limmat used bows. But boys tended to be heavier built and more heavily muscled, and Lydia couldn’t match their sheer strength. So a bow with a heavy draw weight was beyond her capabilities. She could, of course, have opted for a lower-powered bow, but somehow the idea of using an inferior weapon didn’t appeal. Instead, she had chosen the atlatl, a weapon that would reinforce her own natural ability to throw a projectile.

  Once she had selected the weapon, she had set about mastering it with her usual single-mindedness of purpose, practicing for hour after hour until she could hurl a dart with either hand and with surprising force and accuracy. The throwing stick was some forty centimeters long. A small, hook-shaped spur at one end fitted into a corresponding notch in the rear of the darts. When she cast the dart, the atlatl acted as a lever, multiplying the force of the throw many times over.

  The darts were sixty centimeters in length, with feathered flights at the end like an arrow’s, but slightly offset to make them spin in flight. The tips were razor-sharp iron, again like an arrow’s. She had ten such darts in the quiver on her back, which was padded with sheepskin to hold the darts firmly in place so they wouldn’t rattle and signal her position to her quarry. When hunting, she always carried an eleventh dart in her left hand, avoiding the need for unnecessary
movement, with its potential for noise, in drawing a dart from the quiver.

  She stepped smoothly out from behind the tree. Speed was essential now, as the deer would probably sense any movement. Sure enough, as her right arm went back, the deer raised its head.

  She saw the muscles in its haunches tighten as it prepared to bound away, then she brought the atlatl forward, accelerating smoothly as she threw, and stepping into the cast to put her body weight behind it.

  She could hit a rabbit at sixty meters. A half-grown deer at twenty-five was child’s play. The dart flashed across the clearing and, even as the deer began to turn and flee, the projectile thudded into its left-hand side, behind and above the foreleg, and penetrated to its heart, killing it instantly.

  The deer’s legs folded up and it collapsed to the grass.

  Lydia was already a few paces across the clearing as it fell. She had known when she had cast the dart that it was a good throw. The deer lay on its side, eyes open but unseeing. One leg trembled violently in a nervous reaction, but she knew it was already dead as she knelt beside it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. It was the automatic reaction of the true hunter. She had killed the deer for its meat, not for so-called sport, and not out of any form of sadistic pleasure. She regretted that the deer had to die but, at the same time, recognized the necessity.

  She carefully withdrew the dart from the deer’s side. The small amount of blood that flowed from the wound showed the heart had stopped pumping. She wiped the shaft clean with a handful of grass, then placed the dart in her quiver. Laying the atlatl to one side, she reached for the small skinning knife that hung from the right-hand side of her belt. It was balanced on the left side by a long, heavy-bladed dirk. If the animal had not been dead, she would have used this for a swift, merciful slash across the throat.

  She rolled the deer onto its back and prepared to make the first careful incision, prior to gutting it.

  Then she stopped, sniffing the air.