by Perry Aylen
Lying still on the deck, she grew very cold. Gradually she began to drift in and out of fitful sleep. She was jerked back to full wakefulness by a sudden commotion on board, a flurry of activity and shouting, although she couldn’t tell what had caused the alarm. However, with everyone distracted, it seemed a prudent time to sit up and see for herself what was happening. Bruised and half frozen as she was, it was as much as she could do to raise herself to a sitting position. Her skates were still fastened to her feet. She peered around groggily, then shrank back as she looked up at a burly man, standing almost on top of her, one hand gripping the rail of the boat, the other a hefty, gleaming sword, held poised and ready. He wasn’t looking at her however; he was leaning outwards, staring purposefully ahead at something on the ice. Elya leaned forward to peer beneath the rail.
Converging on the two pirate boats were three black-sailed vessels, fierce looking beasts with iron-clad prows. Elya saw men lining the rail, armed like the one in front of her, with swords, glinting in the light of the fast-sinking sun. Once again, she shrank back, afraid, pressing herself into the planks of the boat, her heart thumping hard against her ribs.
Everyone started shouting at once. There were loud thumps and the boat shuddered beneath her, and then the rasp and clash of metal on metal as swords struck. They had been boarded. Men were jumping down onto the deck in front of her. Blades flashed and struck, bodies collided. Above the shouting and the cursing, rose cries and a scream of pain. Somebody stumbled backwards. Elya tried to crawl out of the way, but a man’s body crashed against her heavily. He swore loudly as he righted himself and lunged forward again with his sword.
As suddenly as it had all started, the commotion ceased. Elya raised her head again and looked round fearfully. It seemed the newcomers were the victors, although she recognised no one and all the men milling about the deck looked as savage and dangerous as each other. Three bodies lay prone on the deck. Elya had no idea which side they belonged to. Another four men had been herded against the rail at sword point. Two of them had blood soaking through their coats. A bearded man with a bundle of rope was tying the prisoners’ arms behind their backs.
‘Who are you?’
Elya jumped. A dark, stocky man with a heavy moustache prodded her with his foot, regarding her with a look that was half puzzled, half amused. Before she could answer, he raised his voice, shouting across to the dark-haired man tying the prisoners, ‘There’s a girl here.’
‘Tie her up. We’ll sort them out when we get back,’ called back the bearded man, tossing a length of rope across the deck. ‘Get these boats turned round and head back for the harbour before we lose the wind.’
Elya moaned as the man tugged her arms behind her.
‘Teach you to steal our boats,’ he said, pulling the rope tight around her wrists with practised efficiency.
‘I’m not a raider,’ protested Elya, but the man was not listening; he had already turned his back on her, and was conferring with one of his colleagues.
Elya leaned back miserably and closed her eyes. She had no idea who these men were, but she was now more of a prisoner than ever. Her head ached, her body hurt all over; she was cold, exhausted, thirsty, sick, and very frightened. Worst of all, she was alone. Aulf and Ingar and the warm, cosy cabin of the Aurora were now no more than a distant dream.
Chapter 50
Sunset was creeping over the ice as the undulating lines of an island finally broke the flatness of the horizon. Staring at the dark humps silhouetted against the darkening sky, it seemed to Elya that the island hunched resentfully, as though it did not welcome their arrival. Dark, brooding hills, Ingar had once said, and Elya, remembering her words, was sure that this land they were approaching must indeed be Thorland. It was not a cheering thought. In all her time on Hexult, Elya had never once heard a good word spoken about Thorland. A wild place, people called it. Untamed and inhospitable. Thorland, she recalled, was where Aulf’s father had met his death.
As they drew closer, Elya saw a land of rugged hills, densely cloaked with deep, dark green forests that looked black and forbidding in the failing light. But, as the boats sailed into the harbour, she was surprised to see a smart, well laid out quay, not dissimilar to Orking Do, with the main town clustered on the hill, rising away from the ice. She had imagined that somehow Thorland would be wilder, emptier, less civilised, and yet the houses, the shops, even the people, all looked familiar.
The prisoners were unloaded onto the quayside. One of the men unfastened Elya’s skates and hauled her to her feet, where she promptly buckled to the deck under her own weight. Her captor regarded her expressionlessly, and, without a word, hefted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
‘Please put me down!’ she begged as her face bumped uncomfortably against his fur-clad back, but he seemed not to hear her. He clambered down onto the dockside and deposited her without ceremony onto the back of a waiting ox cart, among a stack of crates and a pile of wool sacks.
The cart set off from the harbour, up the hill through the town, the raiders in tow, still with their arms bound, and the Thorland sailors, now looking relaxed and pleased with themselves, laughing and chatting together, as they ferried their prizes away from the harbour.
The houses petered out as they neared the top of the hill, replaced by towering outcrops of rock, with the road winding between. Elya frowned to herself, wondering where they were being taken. The similarity of the harbour town to the other islands had led her to expect a town hall at the top of the hill, with the customary mayor to receive them, but the town was behind them now, replaced by boulders and scraggy heather. The wagon rounded a sharp bend and her eyes widened with surprise. There in front of her was a castle, squatting defiantly, compact, square and stout, on the crest of the rocky hilltop, with four solid stone walls and a sturdy stone tower in each corner, hardly taller than the walls.
As they pulled up in front of the steep stone steps that led up to a vast, iron-studded door, she realised that the castle was older than anything she had yet seen on Hexult, but there was no time to study it further because, at that moment, the man who had deposited her in the cart on the dockside, reached into the wagon and hauled her back over his shoulder, as though she were one of the wool sacks on which she had been perched.
They bumped up the steps and a smell of damp stone enveloped her as they entered the castle. She was aware of the sallow light of oil lamps, and a sense of dankness, and then they were descending more steps. She could see little from her undignified, upside down position, but she could smell the atmosphere growing staler.
Men’s voices were speaking again, barking short commands.
‘In there! Move! Shut up and do as you’re told, scum!’
Iron hinges creaked, keys clanged in locks and heavy iron bolts thudded home. The man carrying Elya passed through a solid stone doorway and dumped his burden onto a straw-filled mattress on a wooden cot. Without a word, he unfastened the ropes that bound her wrists, turned his back on her and went out through the doorway. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind him and Elya heard the key turn, and two bolts shoot home. Frightened, she looked around her. She was in a small cell, but as the only light entering the room came through a long diagonal slit in the wall, more like a chimney than a window, she could see little else. She sat and shivered, perched on the edge of the cot. Then the door opened again, and two men entered. One carried a lantern and a pile of coarse woollen blankets and the other a wooden tray with a steaming bowl of food and a jug of water.
‘I’m not a raider,’ Elya said, in desperation.
The man with the tray looked at her, not unkindly. ‘You’ll get to speak to the chief in the morning,’ he told her. ‘You can tell him then.’ He leaned forward and peered at her more closely.
‘That’s a nasty lump you’ve got on your head. I’ll come back in a bit with something for you to put on that.’
Elya raised a hand to her head, feeling for the first time the enormous s
wollen mound where her head had hit the ice. The men put down the tray and the blankets, but they did not leave the lantern. Alone in the dark, Elya drank the water, but did not eat the food, then she pulled the blankets around her, lay down on her cot, and cried herself to sleep.
She did not wake again that night, but when she opened her eyes in the morning, she found a small pot of liniment where the tray of food had been. A fresh jug of water had been left for her, and a small loaf of bread wrapped in a square of cloth. The liniment smelt of witch hazel. She rubbed some gingerly on her temple. She had removed her boot and rolled up her trouser leg to examine her damaged knee, now puffed and purple, when she heard the door opening again.
A tall man stepped into the cell, ducking his head beneath the low stone doorway. He was powerfully built, clad entirely in black, with a wild mane of hair, as dark as her own. He wore long leather boots, and around his broad shoulders hung a heavy woollen cloak, lined and trimmed with fur. He towered, alarmingly, like a great black lion, with a forbidding frown drawing down his heavy black brows, and addressed her in a deep, reverberating growl.
‘And who are you?’
She swallowed hard. ‘My name’s Elya. I’m not a raider. Who are you?’
He seemed surprised by the question, and then amused.
‘My name’s Isambard,’ he replied, after a pause. ‘I’m the chieftain of Thorland.’
* * *
Elya went to stand beside him now, on the foredeck of the Voyager.
‘You sent for me,’ she said.
He was staring at her, as if he had forgotten he summoned her. She wished he wouldn’t look so forlorn. It made her feel guilty that she would be leaving him. She was longing to see Jacob again, and Aulf and Ingar, but she knew she would miss Isambard and Thorland, and everything that had happened in the last few months.
‘I have a gift for you.’ He lifted the lid of a small locker on the deck beside him, and took out a long, slim package, wrapped in oiled cloth. He opened the wrappings and drew forth a small sword in a worked leather sheath, and a matching belt. Elya’s eyes widened as he pulled the blade from the scabbard and it caught the sunlight, and shone with a gold lustre. It was bronze, with intricate swirling patterns engraved on the polished blade and coloured stones set into the pommel. It was an object of undeniable beauty. He held it out to her.
‘This was mine. When I was a boy.’ He saw she was about to protest and forestalled her. ‘Please. I’d like to think that you have it. I hope we shall always be friends and that I will still see you often, but Hexult is a difficult place, and who knows what the future will bring. So, please take this as a token of my gratitude and esteem for all that you have done for Thorland.’
‘It’s beautiful!’ she told him, as she took the weapon from his hands.
‘Wear it. See how it feels.’
Isambard helped her attach the sheath to the belt and she fastened it around her waist with inexpert hands. It felt heavy and unfamiliar, but she wore it to please him.
One of the crew gave a warning shout. Isambard’s head snapped up, and he followed the direction of the man’s pointing finger.
‘We’re close,’ he said. ‘That’s the fair on the horizon. But it looks like there might be trouble. See the smoke? And there’s a light, flashing. It has to be a signal. See, there it goes again.’
Elya peered hard in the direction of his finger. He was right. There was a light, and it was certainly flashing a message of some description. Her heart jumped at the realisation that Jacob, Aulf and Ingar were almost within reach. But she too was worried by the thick column of smoke she could see rising into the clear sky, a spreading grey smudge against the blue.
Her lips spelled out the words as she read the bright flashes of light in the far distance. She sucked in a sharp breath.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Raiders! It says raiders are attacking. Over there.’
She looked at him to gauge his reaction. She saw him hesitate and knew what he was thinking. Why should Thorland rush to the aid of those who had rejected it for so long? She could read the thought in his face, and knew he was justified in thinking it. He was looking at her, with that same mixture of warmth and sadness.
‘Helmsman!’ he commanded in his loud, clear voice, his decision made. ‘About to starboard!’
Chapter 51
It had taken Ingar only moments to realise that the latest fleet of boats, heading in from the direction of Orking Do, was not in fact the Horde. The ships were sailing in a formation too neat for raiders, and she could just begin to make out the emblem on the black sail of the leading boat. A silver castle. She gave a yelp of relief and jumped up and down on the deck, before recalling that she had left Jacob, below, in despair.
‘It’s not the Horde,’ she yelled down at him, shaking her head excitedly. ‘They’re Thorland boats!’
She saw hope dawn on Jacob’s upturned face.
‘That’s why Elya didn’t want picking up. Signal them!’ he called up urgently. ‘Ask them for help!’
By the time the raiders saw the threat bearing down on them, the Thorlanders were closing fast, the wind behind them. Big but sleek, their prows clad in iron, the Thorland ships were a fearsome sight, spread out across the ice like armoured beasts, to cut off the attackers’ escape.
Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, the raiders had little choice but to turn tail and run downwind, but most of them had stolen vessels in tow and had to waste precious time cutting free the extra craft before bringing their own boats around.
Weaving through the abandoned vessels, the Thorland boats lost no speed. With splintering force, the Voyager’s iron-clad prow rammed a shuddering blow into the beam of a pirate boat. The stricken vessel was carried sideways, the mast tumbling in a tangle of sheets, sails and spars.
‘They’re escaping!’ yelled one of Isambard’s crew, leaning over the rail to point at the desperate raiders, scrambling free of the wreckage and making a hasty bid for freedom, over the slippery ice, towards one of their own boats.
‘Stay here!’ Isambard commanded Elya, and shouted a perfunctory order at another of his men to stay with the Voyager, then summoning the remaining crew to follow him, he vaulted the rail and landed lightly on the ice, sword in one hand, knife in the other.
Her heart in her throat, Elya watched in fear as the Thorland crew caught up with the escaping raiders in a clash of swords and shouting. She heard another hefty, splintering crash and looked up to see another raider boat rammed by a Thorland vessel. More men were joining the melee on the ice. She heard angry yells and the grating clang of sword on sword. The ice was treacherous. Men slithered and fell, and crimson smears stained the whiteness.
A strangled gasp from behind caused her to spin round in alarm, just in time to see the crewman left on guard lurch towards her, eyes wide and gaping. She jumped out of the way as he hit the deck with a sickening crunch, and a deep red stain spread across the back of his coat. Lifting her eyes, she saw two raiders, with knives in their hands. Even as she registered what was happening, the foremost man raised his knife hand and moved towards her.
Afterwards, she wondered when she had drawn her sword. Had it been in her hand when Isambard jumped overboard, or had some subconscious instinct caused her to pull it from its sheath when she saw the crewman die? Yet, somehow, it was in her hand. She felt the unexpected weight on her arm and had to seize the handle of the sword in both hands in order to hang onto it. Her eyes had closed of their own accord. She forced them open and jerked back hard on her weapon, dragging it free only with difficulty. The raider made a strange gurgling noise in his throat and crumpled. There was no time even to think or wonder at what she had done, because the other raider, taken by surprise by the resistance from this unexpected quarter, had already recovered his wits. She heard him growl like a dog as he lunged across the deck. Her own mouth opened in a silent scream as the knife blade flashed close to her face, and the world spun away
from her in a suffocating black mist.
From the top of the tower, Ingar saw it all, the big, iron-nosed Thorland boats sailing straight into the middle of the escaping raider convoy, the raiders’ boats rammed and splintered, men battling on the ice. For a short time that felt like an eternity, she could not make out who was winning; there seemed to be bodies sprawled all over the ice, and boats and bits of boats scattered far and wide. Only gradually did she make sense of the chaos. Four of the surviving raiders’ boats, including the barge, had been rounded up by Thorland boats and appeared to have surrendered. Two that had broken away were heading across the open ice with several Thorland boats giving chase. The men on the ice were no longer fighting. They were bringing back prisoners to their own ships, dragging them roughly, and others were hauling back bodies. Leaving the rest of the fleet to clear the remains of the battle, the largest of the Thorland vessels was once more on the move towards the fair. It was over. Ingar realised she was trembling.
She had been shouting down a running commentary as the battle unfolded, and word had shot through the fair like cracks through the ice. At least it calmed the rising tide of panic. But initial relief was soon superseded by questions. Why were the Thorland boats here? Had they been invited or had they come to sabotage the fair? Had they saved the boats stolen by the raiders and would they now claim them as salvage? Where were the sheriffs? Where were the mayors?
The fair was emptying as anxious people hurried back to their boats to check that they hadn’t been stolen or burned. Some of the undamaged vessels on the fringes were already moving away, heading for the safety of home, and one of the sheriffs’ boats had finally worked its way free and was heading out to meet the oncoming Thorland vessel. Sheriffs’ men on skates had moved to the far side of the fair and were trying to clear a space around the boats that were still on fire. The Aurora was there, lending a hand, towing undamaged boats away from the flames. They could not save the vessels that were already burning, but, if they could prevent the flames from spreading, the damage would be contained.