She could smell smoke. That was never a welcome sensation when one was deep in the forest, among thousands of resin-laden pines that would flare up like so many torches if a fire swept through. Nervously, she scanned the trees around her. She could see no sign of a fire, but the smell was stronger now and the wind was blowing from the direction of Limmat town itself. Frowning, she rose to her feet, slipping the atlatl into its sheath beside the skinning knife, and left the deer carcass where it lay, taking long strides up a small incline to her left, to a ridge that she knew led to clear ground, overlooking the town below.
Now she could see a column of smoke rising beyond the trees. The fire was definitely coming from the town. And now there was something else. Faint, almost inaudible, but carried to her on the breeze. Voices. Shouting voices.
Well, shouting was logical if there were a fire, she thought. And from the growing density of that smoke column, there was definitely a fire. Then she heard voices raised in a higher note. There were people screaming. Women screaming.
She topped the ridge and looked down. Below the steep drop, the town of Limmat, with its harbor and its palisade, spread out below her. The fire drew her attention first. It focused on the garrison building on the inner end of the quay. The building was burning fiercely, and several smaller buildings close by—houses and shops—had caught fire as well. Smoke and flames poured from them.
But nobody seemed to be trying to bring the fires under control. As she looked, she saw men running along the quay, spreading out into the streets that led to the inner town. She saw sunlight flashing on weapons and her heart jolted with fear. The people of Limmat lived with the worry that the secret of the emerald mine, just outside the palisade, in the face of the ridge that rose steeply behind the town, would one day be discovered. When that day came, invaders and pirates would not be far behind it.
And it seemed that the day had indeed arrived.
Casting her glance wider, she saw a foreign ship in the harbor—a long, lean black ship that was tied to the inner wharf. Looking back to the watchtowers and the boom, she made out a smaller ship, moored at the point where the boom should close. And another warship, this one dark green, was beached at the inland end of the harbor.
“Pirates,” she muttered to herself. Then, suddenly fearful, she looked toward the section of town where her grandfather’s house stood. For a moment, she could see nothing. The narrow streets restricted her view of what was going on. Then she made out figures running and saw weapons rising and falling. The invaders had reached the part of town where she lived. Several smaller fires began to spring up. One of them looked to be ominously close to the street where Tomas’s house stood. But she couldn’t be sure. From this angle, the streets were too narrow and too jumbled together.
One thing she did know. If the attackers had penetrated that far into the town, her grandfather would be one of the first to run into the street to try to drive them back. But he was an older man now, and the speed and power that he’d enjoyed years ago had left him. He’d be no match for a young, fit, blood-crazed pirate.
She had to get down the ridge and help him.
She hesitated. The drop directly before her was too steep to negotiate. There was a path running down to the town, winding back and forth down the steep hill. But it was several hundred meters away, to the east.
There was no time to lose. She set out, running smoothly along the ridge, her long, even strides eating up the distance to the point where the path began its downward route. The beginning of the path was a shadowy entryway between the trees and she barely checked her pace as she plunged into it and began the long, twisting way down.
She stumbled once, barely managing to stop from falling and ending up hard against a pine. She realized that too much speed was counterproductive. If she fell and injured herself on the path, she’d be no use to her grandfather. She slowed her pace to a jog, chafing at the necessity to do so, but knowing that it must be done.
Branches whipped at her face as she continued down. In places, the path was barely wider than her shoulders and secondary growth and creepers grew across it, clutching at her and trying to slow her descent. But she forced her way through, her mind’s eye picturing the horrifying sight of her grandfather slowly sinking to his knees beneath a pirate’s sword, blood welling from between his fingers as he tried to close a massive wound in his body.
Stop, she said to herself. That kind of thinking won’t help Tomas. She sped up again. Fell, rolled, picked herself up, continued, the image still horribly clear in her mind.
At last, the path was widening and the slope was decreasing. She burst into the clear at the foot of the hill and paused to gain her bearings.
The palisade was directly ahead of her. To her right, about three hundred meters away, was a secondary gate. The main gate, which led out onto the beach, was farther away. But it was in the direction of Tomas’s house. So, after a moment’s hesitation she turned left and began to run again.
The noise of fighting inside the town was much louder now, interspersed with screams that could only have come from women. She lengthened her stride.
Then, behind her, she heard a shout.
She turned. There was a group of half a dozen men running toward her. She had time to register the bandannas around their heads, the heavy boots and the curved swords and small, round metal shields.
Magyarans, she thought. Pirates. And they’d seen her. She started running again, blindly, with no idea where she might go to escape. The pirates were behind her. And there were more of them in the town ahead.
Something hit the ground to one side and she started violently. It was a spear, thrown by one of the men chasing her. They had obviously gained on her when she looked back, slowing her pace. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of stopping and sending three or four atlatl shafts hurtling at them. But three or four darts wouldn’t stop them all. And she’d be overwhelmed and taken.
The shouting redoubled and she increased her pace, trying to draw away from her pursuers. But a quick glance to her right told her they weren’t shouting at her, but to their comrades, on the palisade surrounding the town. She could see heads and shoulders there, and weapons being brandished.
Then something snaked over the wall and dropped to the ground. A rope.
Almost immediately, one of the pirates on the palisade walkway heaved himself over the edge and began to scramble down the rope to the ground outside. A second followed, and a third. They were trained seamen and they moved down the rope skillfully, running toward her to cut her off as soon as their feet touched the ground.
She angled away to the left, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She had no idea where to go, how to escape. All thought of reaching her grandfather’s house had gone now. She was hopelessly cut off from that direction.
She plunged into the trees again and, forcing her mind to function, realized that she was heading for a narrow creek some fifty meters ahead of her. It would effectively bar her way, leaving her as easy prey for the men pursuing her.
Unless!
She remembered that Benji, a boy with whom she had a nodding acquaintance, sometimes left his fishing skiff drawn upon a tiny beach somewhere along this creek.
But where? Where was she now, and where did the small sandy beach lie in relation to her current position? She wasn’t sure, but her innate sense of direction and hunter’s instinct told her to the right. She angled that way, hoping beyond all hope that the skiff would be there. The creek was suddenly ahead of her, and she went right again, paralleling its banks. Behind her, she heard shouts and the sound of heavy bodies crashing through the undergrowth. Sobbing now with exertion, and doubled over with an agonizing stitch in her side, she blundered along the creek bank, her eyes searching the bushes and trees ahead of her.
There it was!
A small skiff, barely three and a half meters long. But heavily built of pine planking. It was drawn up well clear of the water, above the point where the high tide would reach. Her heart s
ank as she saw the distance she would have to move it to get it into the water.
She staggered breathlessly onto the beach and hurled herself at the boat, shoving and heaving with all her strength to move it. She might as well have tried to move a tree. The boat remained still.
Then she realized that she should pull it to the water, lifting the blunt stern to clear the sand so that it would move. She ran to the other end, seized hold, lifted and pulled. The boat slid half a meter before she was forced to let it drop.
Again, she lifted and heaved, this time maintaining the effort until the boat had moved a full meter and a half before she had to drop it once more.
The voices and the sound of running feet were closer now. Terror gave her extra strength. Sobbing with effort and fear, she lifted and heaved, staggering four paces, five, six, with the boat sliding behind her, moving more easily as she reached the firm sand below the tidemark.
Perspiration flowed into her eyes, stinging them and blinding her. She set the boat down. Lifted and heaved again, felt water around her ankles and realized she’d reached the creek. Now the boat began to slide more easily as the water took the weight from her. She slid it out into the creek, into knee-deep water, as the first of the pirates came blundering through the trees, barely ten meters away. He saw her and stopped, turning to shout to his companions.
“This way! This way! I’ve got him!”
It registered dully with her that, dressed as she was in a deerskin jerkin, tights and cross-bound leggings, they had taken her for a boy. Not that it mattered. What mattered was getting away. The pirate’s action, pausing to call his comrades, was what saved her. If he’d simply run after her, he would have caught her before she reached deeper water. But now the skiff was well and truly afloat and she vaulted into it.
There were two oars lying in the bottom of the boat. She fumbled to set them in the oarlocks and get the boat moving. But she was exhausted and they were heavy and unwieldy. And now the pirate realized his mistake. He plunged down the bank onto the sand and ran after her. She heaved on the oars, missing her stroke with one and crabbing the boat sideways. Then he was waist deep and almost up to her. The deeper water slowed him, and for a moment, she thought she had escaped. Then he grabbed hold of the stern, stopping the boat from moving.
She unshipped one of the oars and jabbed it at him, aiming at the hand that clutched the stern. He yelled in pain, releasing the boat. But then he grabbed the oar and began to haul her in, like an angler reeling in a fish. She heaved back on the oar, trying to wrench it from his grasp.
For a second or two, they struggled for possession. He was stronger than she was and he hadn’t run down the mountain before they’d begun their deadly race.
Gradually, he was winning the contest, hauling the skiff back to shallower water. In desperation she released her hold on the paddle, giving one last push against it, and him, as she did.
Surprised, he staggered back and fell, going completely under. Under the impetus of that final push, the skiff glided away into deep water. The pirate floundered to the surface, cursing and spluttering, and saw that the little boat was now a dozen meters away. His companions emerged from the trees now and shouted threats after her, waving weapons in the air. She was relieved to see they had no projectile weapons. No bows, or throwing spears.
But she did.
Quickly, she drew a dart from the quiver, took the atlatl from its sheath on her belt, and fitted the two together.
She took quick aim at the man who had nearly caught her, then cast. His comrades were startled as he screamed and threw his arms up, then fell backward again into the water, going beneath the surface once more. When he resurfaced, they saw the dart buried deep in his chest, and the banner of red blood drifting away on the water.
In a panic, they turned and blundered out of the water, shoving one another aside as they strove to put distance between themselves and the figure on the skiff.
But Lydia wasn’t interested in sending more darts after them. She collapsed into the bottom of the boat. Belatedly, she realized that she had only one oar. She pushed it clumsily over the side of the boat, using it like a paddle. It was heavy and unwieldy and the boat responded slowly to her efforts. But it began to crab slowly downstream. The tide was ebbing, and after a minute or so, the skiff was caught up by it, moving with increasing speed toward the bay, as Lydia continued her awkward, ineffectual paddling. She was exhausted, mentally and physically, but the men who had been pursuing her were now out of sight as the skiff went around a bend. Dully, she realized that the tide would take her out of the creek into the bay, and then out of the bay into the ocean.
What would become of her then, she had no idea. But she brought the oar inboard and dropped it, rattling, on the floorboards of the skiff.
She’d worry about getting back later. For now, she had to get away.
chapter eighteen
Skegall was a small fishing village, half a day’s sail south of Shelter Bay. With the wind on their port beam, Hal set the Heron skimming down the coast. As they had found when they tested it, the new fin allowed them to brace the sail in harder, with considerably less lean, and the boat moved appreciably faster.
Stig had been studying the chart for several minutes. He emerged from under the small canvas shelter and moved to stand beside Hal. For a few minutes, he took in the motion of the ship, sweeping up the face of the waves that rolled in constantly from the west, then sliding down the far side, to slice into the green water and send spray flying high, either side of the bow. The crew, with nothing to attend to for the moment, lolled on the rowing benches, enjoying the sunshine. Only Ulf and Wulf remained alert, in case there was an unexpected need to adjust the sail. Stig inclined his head to them.
“Those two are behaving themselves,” he said.
Hal nodded. “They still fight like cat and dog when we’re ashore,” he said. “But neither of them wants to lose his position as a sail trimmer.”
After the helmsman, sail trimmers enjoyed considerable prestige aboard a wolfship and neither of the twins was willing to forego it. They were proud of their instinctive ability, and they were aware from past experience that Hal followed through if he made a threat. So if they bickered while the Heron was under way, they knew that at least one of them would be instantly demoted and assigned to other duties.
“I was looking at the chart,” Stig said. “Limmat is only another day down the coast, and it’s a much bigger town than Skegall. According to the sailing notes, Skegall is little more than a village.”
“That’s why I chose it,” Hal said. “I don’t want to advertise our presence in case the Raven is somewhere in the area. The more people who see us, the more tongues will wag about it.”
Stig considered the point, his face thoughtful. “True. But there’ll be a bigger market at Limmat.”
“A small market will serve our needs,” Hal said. “We don’t want anything exotic. Edvin wants a few staples like flour, salt and coffee. And I need rope, iron, nails and lumber.”
“And a nice new sheepskin vest for Thorn,” said a voice from beside the keel box, where the one-armed sea wolf appeared to be dozing, his eyes shut. Hal rolled his eyes at Stig.
“And a nice new sheepskin vest for Thorn,” he repeated.
Thorn’s eyes remained shut. “Just making sure you don’t forget it.”
“How could I?” Hal said, under his breath.
“Heard that,” Thorn called.
As Skegall came into sight, Hal had the crew lower the distinctive triangular sail.
“We’ll row in,” he said. “I don’t know if Zavac ever saw Heron under sail. But if he did, there’s no sense in letting him know we’re here.”
With the same thought in mind, Hal had Ingvar cover the giant crossbow with a tarpaulin, and lash it down tight.
They brought the little ship into harbor, the oars rising and falling smoothly. The fact that the wind was coming from onshore helped their subterfuge. Heron could
have zigzagged her way in, but a normal square-rigged ship would row. As they came in through the harbor mouth, Thorn hauled the fin up and stowed it behind the mast. Then he dropped a corner of one of the sails over the keel box.
“No sense in everyone knowing everything about us,” he commented to Hal, who nodded his agreement.
A few onlookers watched with mild interest as they beached the little ship. But the Heron, without its distinctive triangular sail visible, was nothing out of the ordinary. The crew gathered in the bow while Hal gave them their assignments.
“Ingvar, you come with me. I noticed a boatyard on the edge of the harbor as we came in. They should have everything we need. Ulf, you stay here and keep an eye on the boat. Wulf, give Edvin a hand buying the supplies. Stig, you and Thorn wander around the market. See what you can find out. Jesper, you and Stefan do the same. Keep your ears open for any news of the Raven. But don’t make it too obvious we’re interested in her. And Jesper, try not to steal anything, all right?”
“I just borrow things. I always give them back,” Jesper protested.
Hal wondered for a moment if he really wanted to be skirl of this group. Sometimes, he thought, handling them was like herding cats.
“Then this will save you the trouble,” he said. “No borrowing.” A thought struck him and he looked at Thorn.
“Thorn, it might be better if we all pretended that you’re the skirl. If Zavac is in the area and word gets back to him about a ship captained and crewed by boys, he might just put two and two together.”
Thorn nodded. “Good thinking,” he said. “I’ll also keep an eye out in the marketplace for a nice expensive sheepskin.”
Hal rolled his eyes. “You do that,” he said. He realized Ulf was frowning at him.
“How come Wulf gets to go with Edvin and I have to stay here?” Ulf complained.
Hal eyed him steadily for a few seconds, knowing Ulf already knew the answer. Then he replied, “Because we’re not at sea and if I leave you and Wulf together, you’ll fight.”
The Invaders Page 14