The Red Fox Clan

by John Flanagan

  A long banner rippled out from the tall sternpost and Maddie frowned. The device on the banner was a red hawk, stooping after its prey.

  “That’s your banner,” she said, slightly scandalized.

  To her surprise, her mother grinned. “Yes. Erak flew that banner on Wolfwind when he brought Will and Halt and me home. And Hal has continued the tradition, flying it from the Heron whenever he visits. They’re a cheeky bunch,” she added with a smile. She didn’t appear to mind that her personal insignia was being usurped.

  “Hal?” Maddie asked. She knew who Erak was. After all, he was the Oberjarl, the ruler of the Skandians. Everyone knew who he was.

  “Hal Mikkelson. He’s one of their most successful skippers—skirls, they call them. A brilliant navigator and shipbuilder. He designed that ship. Gilan sailed in it with them when they flushed out a band of assassins who were targeting me some years back.”

  Maddie wrinkled her nose. “It’s kind of small, isn’t it?”

  “It’s small. But according to Gilan it’s very fast and amazingly maneuverable. Something to do with the shape of the sail.”

  Dimon was watching the fast-approaching ship with interest. “So this is the famous Heron brotherband,” he said, almost to himself.

  “What’s a brotherband?” Maddie asked. “And how come this one’s famous?”

  “The Skandians train their young men in groups of ten or twelve,” Dimon said. “They learn to live together, fight together and handle their ships. A brotherband becomes the basis of a ship’s crew when they graduate. They stay together for life.”

  “And this one is famous,” Cassandra chipped in, “because they’ve traveled from one end of the known earth to the other. They pursued a pirate named Zavac down the Dan River to the eastern end of the Constant Sea. He’d stolen a precious artifact from Hallasholm, their capital. They caught up with him, sank his ship and killed him. After that, they fought and defeated the assassin cult I mentioned in the eastern part of Arrida. And they rescued a group of young Araluens who were taken by slavers in Socorro.”

  “They’re even rumored to have discovered a new land way to the west. But that’s probably a myth,” Dimon put in.

  Maddie noticed a slightly dismissive note in his voice as he made the last comment, almost as if he was reluctant to sing the Skandians’ praises too enthusiastically.

  Maddie turned her gaze back to the pretty little ship that was drawing up to the jetty. She heard a command shouted from the stern, and the sail suddenly collapsed and slid down the mast, crewmen hurrying to gather it in. The ship turned slightly to run parallel to the jetty, speed falling off her. She had almost stopped as she reached the structure. A tall figure leapt lightly ashore and passed a hawser round a bollard, looping it twice round the worn timber for purchase. He set his heels and slowly brought the ship to a halt. The bow swung in against the jetty, the impact absorbed by cane fenders that were hanging over the sides of the ship. Another crewman jumped ashore to do the same thing at the stern end. In the space of half a minute, the ship was secured snugly to the jetty.

  “Come on,” Cassandra said, grinning widely. “Let’s go say hello.”

  She slipped down from the saddle and strode toward the jetty. Maddie hastened to follow her. Behind them, Dimon paused uncertainly, then turned to his trooper.

  “Mind the horses,” he said, and dismounted, hurrying to catch up with the two women.

  “Stig!” Cassandra cried, holding out her arms to embrace the tall Skandian who had jumped ashore first. “Welcome to Araluen!” He engulfed her in an enthusiastic bear hug, lifting her off her feet. Dimon started forward, then stopped as he heard Cassandra’s delighted peal of laughter.

  “Put me down, you great ape!” she said. Eventually, the Skandian did, and she turned to beckon Maddie forward.

  “Stig, this is my daughter, Maddie. Maddie, this is Stig.”

  Maddie studied him with interest. He was tall and broad shouldered and athletic in build. He reminded her of her father in the way he moved—gracefully and always in balance. He was handsome, there was no denying it, with sparkling blue eyes, even features and a short, neatly trimmed blond beard and mustache. His hair was blond as well and cut short. He shook her hand, grinning as he saw her wary reaction. She wasn’t sure that he mightn’t envelop her in a bear hug as well. Although, on reflection, she thought that mightn’t be altogether too unpleasant.

  Cassandra continued with introductions. “Stig, this is Dimon, captain of my guard.”

  The Skandian stepped forward, smiling and offering his hand. Maddie was somewhat surprised to see Dimon hesitate momentarily, then take it. She put it down to his overprotective attitude toward her mother.

  “Good to meet you!” Stig said cheerfully.

  Dimon replied, a little stiffly, “Welcome to Araluen.”

  Maddie had no further time to reflect on Dimon’s awkwardness. Her mother was drawing her attention to two more of the Skandians, who were advancing up the jetty, their faces wreathed in smiles.

  “And here are two more old friends: Hal Mikkelson, skirl of the Heron, and Thorn, the biggest rascal you’re ever likely to meet.”

  24

  At the last moment, Gilan changed his point of aim. Somehow, it went against the grain to kill an unarmed, unsuspecting man—even an enemy.

  However, the swimmer had to be stopped and the target area he offered was small. Only his head and shoulders showed above the surface of the river. Gilan selected his right shoulder as an aiming point and released.

  He heard the other four bows shoot almost at the same time, following his lead. His arrow plunged down in a shallow arc and struck the lead swimmer in the right shoulder. The man let out a cry of agony and stopped swimming. Almost immediately, he sank beneath the water, only to surface again a meter downstream, churning the water to foam with his left arm and crying out in pain. His comrades on the riverbank stared at him in panic for a few seconds. Then, as his cries continued, they began to haul in on the rope, dragging him back toward the bank. He turned on his back in the water, feebly kicking with his feet, thrashing the surface, in an attempt to get back to the bank.

  The other archers didn’t have the luxury of choosing to wound their targets. Gilan was a superlative shot, and he could aim at the swimmer’s shoulder with confidence. His companions couldn’t hope for that sort of accuracy and the swimming men offered them only small targets. One of them was hit in the chest, the arrow plunging through the water almost unimpeded to strike him twenty centimeters below the surface. He cried out once, threw up his hands and sank without a further sound. The rope handlers hauled on his rope and he reappeared after a few meters, lying on his back, limp and unmoving as they pulled him back to the bank.

  The third swimmer yelled out in fear as three arrows whipped viciously into the water around him. One of them was close enough to graze his arm with its razor-sharp warhead, and blood started reddening the water around him. In response to his frantic cries, his companions began dragging him back through the water as fast as they could. A sizable wave built up around him as the current ran over his fast-moving body. Inevitably, some of it went into his mouth, and he began coughing and gagging.

  “Stop shooting,” Gilan ordered quietly. “Stand down.”

  There was no point in wasting further arrows. The swimmers had been turned back, and once again the enemy were in disarray. The men tending the ropes shouted to their comrades to cover them with their shields—a request their friends weren’t overly keen on fulfilling, since they planned to stay protected by the shields themselves.

  Seeing an opportunity to demoralize the men further, Gilan loosed an arrow at the group on the bank, targeting one of the rope handlers. The arrow hit him in the leg and he fell awkwardly to the grass, clasping both hands to the wound and appealing to his friends for help. They ignored him, working harder to drag the injured swimme
r to the bank. As he rolled into the shallows, two of them dashed forward and, grabbing him by the arms, began to drag him backward toward the tree line, heedless of his cries of pain.

  The second swimmer, hit in the chest, was obviously dead when he grounded in the shallows. He made no move to rise, and his arms and legs moved weakly in the current. His rope handlers, after a moment’s hesitation, cut the rope attached to him and ran for the trees, one of them pausing to assist the man with the leg wound. The current continued to move the dead swimmer until he gradually drifted away from the bank and downriver. He rolled over once so that he was floating facedown. Then he was lost to sight as the river took him round a slight curve.

  The third swimmer, blood flowing down his arm, scrambled to his feet as he reached the shallows and splashed ashore. He wasted no time on his friends, setting out at a dead run for the safety of the trees. The rope trailed behind him, snaking through the long grass. Gilan sent an arrow hissing past his ears to speed him along. Surprisingly, the man found extra reserves of speed and redoubled his efforts to reach safety.

  Then the inevitable happened. The trailing rope snagged round a low tree stump and jerked tight, bringing him crashing to the ground. He rolled around frantically, yelling in fear and thrashing at the ground as he sought to cast the rope loose. Then, finally free, he lurched to his feet and took off again.

  The watching archers chuckled. Gilan narrowed his eyes, scanning the rope-handling party still on the far bank. Huddled behind their shields, they began to retreat slowly away from the river. He could see that they had no idea where the sudden hail of arrows had come from. None of them was looking at the row of bushes. They were all scanning the riverbank directly opposite them.

  He gave them a few more minutes as they retreated cautiously. As before, when no sudden hail of arrows eventuated, their confidence grew and they stood more upright, still with the shields in front of them as they backed away and began to move faster.

  “Walt, Gilbert, get going,” Gilan said. “Stay low and keep these bushes between you and them. When you reach your horses, walk them for the first twenty meters. Don’t suddenly gallop away or you’ll be heard.”

  The two archers grunted their understanding and, staying in a crouch, duckwalked on their haunches away from the bushes, staying low until they were inside the tree line. Once he was assured they were on their way, Gilan resumed his watch on the far bank.

  The enemy were milling around the two injured swimmers, now that they had assisted them back to the tree line. The one Gilan had shot looked to be in a bad way. They laid him on the ground, and he could see several medical orderlies bringing a litter for him. As before, their leader raged impotently. But after several minutes, sensing the silent animosity of his men, he moderated his behavior, trying to be more conciliatory.

  Nestor, the senior archer, moved up alongside Gilan to watch, and chuckled quietly. “Think they’ll try again, Ranger?” he asked.

  Gilan shrugged. “I don’t know how they’d go about it. They’re sitting ducks once they get into the water, and they know it. He’ll have a hard time persuading them to try it again. The only thing I can think of is for them to try to cross wearing armor.”

  “They’ll sink if they do,” Nestor replied.

  Gilan shrugged. “Maybe a heavy breastplate and helmet might keep a man on his feet,” he said. “If they can stop being swept away, it might give them a chance.”

  Nestor patted his quiver, where the feathered ends of his arrows rustled as he touched them. He withdrew one, fitted with a hardened, tapering bodkin point.

  “That is, until we put one of these beauties through his breastplate,” he said. Bodkin arrows were designed to penetrate armor. The archers carried a mixed selection of bodkins and leaf-shaped barbed warheads in their quivers.

  “True,” Gilan agreed. “They may not know we have armor-piercing arrows. We haven’t used them so far.”

  “Be another nasty shock for them, won’t it?” Nestor said. He sounded as if he was very pleased with the idea of surprising the enemy yet again.

  Gilan continued to watch the Foxes. Now that the first flurry of activity looking after the injured swimmers had passed, they appeared to be having an animated discussion. Faintly, the Ranger could hear shouted comments and voices raised in anger, although he couldn’t make out the words themselves. Whatever they were discussing, it was going to be a while before they could organize a further attempt on the ford.

  “Nestor,” he said, “you and Clete might as well get going. Remember, stay low until you’re in the trees. Then move off slowly once you’re mounted.”

  Nestor sniffed. “Happy to stay here with you if you like, Ranger,” he said.

  Gilan grinned at him. The old warhorse was enjoying this, he thought. But he waved him away. “I appreciate the offer, but you’d better be on your way. I can hold the fort here for a while longer.”

  “That’s true enough,” Nestor agreed. He had no misconceptions about Gilan’s skill. He knew the Ranger was a better shot—a far better shot—than himself or any of his men. And Gilan was fast. He could send a hail of arrows, all aimed shots, whistling through the air at the enemy, making them think they were facing three or four shooters. “All right, Clete,” Nestor said, turning to the other archer. “Let’s make a move. Stay low now.”

  Like the others, they crept out of the bushes while doubled down on their haunches to stay concealed. Gilan watched them go, then looked back to the Foxes. They were still debating, still moving around uncertainly. There would be no further threat from them for some time, he thought. He settled down to wait, wondering what they would try next.

  When they did make a move, his earlier prediction, spoken half in jest, turned out to be correct. A group of five men, huddled behind hastily constructed wooden man-high shields, advanced on the riverbank. Among them was a man wearing a helmet and metal breastplate, and carrying a smaller, circular shield. He was a squat, stocky figure, made even more so by the fact that he was wearing the armor. Gilan assumed that there was a layer of chain mail underneath the breastplate. He selected a bodkin point arrow from his quiver and waited.

  The small group stopped a few meters from the riverbank. Hastily, one of them wound the end of a rope around the armored man’s waist, tied it off, then retreated behind the makeshift shield wall. Another stayed beside the would-be crosser, protecting him with a long shield.

  The shield bearer walked with him to the water’s edge, scanning the far bank anxiously, trying to see some sign of movement, some indication that they were about to be shot at. Then, as the armored man slipped into the river and waded quickly forward until he was waist deep, the shield bearer skipped back to the relative safety of the shield wall behind him.

  The armored man now raised the small shield he carried, so that it covered his head and upper body. He steadied himself, testing the strength of the current as it pushed at him, then took a tentative few steps forward.

  It appeared that Gilan’s supposition had been correct. The weight of the armor and helmet helped stabilize him against the fierce tug of the current. But that was somewhat offset by the uneven nature of the riverbed. Three times in the first ten meters, he had to stop to regain his balance as the river threatened to topple him. Then he continued, walking slowly, testing each step.

  “Mind how you go,” Gilan said softly. “If you fall, they’re going to have to drag you out in a hurry.”

  Three more paces. The man swayed, then recovered. He advanced farther. He was now a third of the way across the river, the shield held up in front of his face and upper body. Gilan nodded in admiration. This was a brave man, he thought. He was also an intelligent one. Unlike those who had gone before him, he wasn’t growing overconfident when there was no sign of opposition. He continued to move deliberately, expecting a volley of arrows at any minute.

  Halfway across.

 
Still he continued his steady, patient progress. Occasionally, as his footing became uneven, the shield would dip momentarily as he regained his balance. But it was impossible for Gilan to predict when this would happen, and there was never enough time to release a shot while the shield was down. He recovered quickly each time.

  Three-quarters of the way.

  The river began to shallow at this point and he crouched, staying low so that the water reached almost to his neck, with the circular shield protecting his exposed face and shoulders.

  On the far side, his companions shouted encouragement as they saw him wading closer and closer to the bank without any sign of resistance. Back in the trees, the rest of the Foxes joined in the chorus of support, cheering and whistling.

  He was in the shallows now, still crouching behind the cover of the shield. Gilan selected a second arrow from his quiver, holding it loosely between the fingers of his bow hand. Then, rising to his feet, he aimed and shot.

  The armored man was wading up the bank, water cascading from him, draining out of the metal breastplate. He stayed low, with the shield held protectively before him.

  Until Gilan’s first arrow hit it and knocked it sideways.

  The second shot was already on its way while the first was in the air. As quickly as the man tried to recover, bringing his shield back in front of his body, the arrow was even quicker. It slammed into the unprotected breastplate with the full force of Gilan’s massive bow behind it. At such a short range, the armor had no chance against the hardened steel point. It ripped through the breastplate and into the man’s body.

  He reeled back into the shallow water. As it reached up to his calves, it tripped him and he toppled backward into the shallows. The shouts of encouragement from the far bank fell silent as the Foxes watched their comrade lying still in the river.