The Ghostfaces

by John A. Flanagan

  “Yes, Thorn?” Ingvar was peering uncertainly at the tree line.

  Thorn moved forward so he could be seen more clearly. He pointed at the huddled group of Ghostfaces between them.

  “We’ve got them outnumbered. Attack now! We’ll take them from the rear!”

  Ingvar didn’t reply. Instead, he raised the voulge over his head and turned to the men around him inside the barricade.

  “Come on!” he yelled, and leapt onto the top of the palisade, scrambling down the far side and heading for the remaining Ghostfaces. Simsinnet was close behind him and the rest of the Mawags followed on his heels, rattling and clattering down the palisade with its close-knit screen of branches and saplings. Then Ingvar was charging into the small group of Ghostfaces, who turned, panic-stricken at the sight of him, to run.

  And saw Thorn’s men emerging from the trees behind them. Cornered, confused, they turned back to face the first attack. Ingvar was upon them almost immediately. This time, he used the voulge in full, arcing sweeps, smashing through the flimsy shields the Ghostfaces carried, batting their stone and wooden weapons aside, then withdrawing the weapon and lunging at them with the spear point.

  The momentum of his charge carried him through the small group, scattering them and leaving three mortally wounded. The Mawags behind him, led by Simsinnet wielding a long-handled wooden club, followed up on his attack. They put years of humiliation and frustration behind every stroke of ax or club, smashing into the enemy group, battering them and hacking at them with flint knives.

  Thorn turned to the right, heading for the trees where Lydia’s men were fighting off the Ghosts’ attack.

  • • • • •

  Lydia brought down another of the attackers with a dart. Then she stepped aside as Jesper and Stefan charged into the attackers, followed by the eight Mawags who had been manning the crossbows.

  Stefan smashed his ax into the enemy on either side of him, scattering them in panic. Jesper darted his sword in and out with lightning speed, proving the truth of Thorn’s oft-spoken dictum, Three centimeters of point is as good as thirty of edge any day. Their big round shields effectively protected them from the Ghostfaces’ attempted ripostes, and their razor-sharp steel weapons sliced and hewed through the light hide shields their enemies carried. Together, they carved a path through the attackers, with Lydia a few meters behind them, poised on a fallen tree trunk and ready to send a dart flying at any attacker who might look likely to break through their defenses.

  In truth, their attack was so effective that there was little for their Mawag comrades to do. They followed the two Skandians as they rampaged their way through the Ghostfaces, their weapons at the ready but so far unused.

  The critical moment came when Thorn and his men appeared behind the retreating Ghosts, with Ingvar and another group of Mawags close behind them. Stefan and Jesper let out a yell of recognition as the shaggy-haired old warrior hit the rear of the enemy’s ragged line with the force of a battering ram. Caught between two irresistible forces, the surviving Ghostfaces did the only sensible thing.

  They ran, skirting off to one side through the trees, heading for the beach where their canoes were drawn up, hoping to escape.

  A hope that was dashed when they heard the implacable pounding of feet behind them as the four terrible foreigners pursued them, accompanied by a large group of Mawags.

  Exhausted and terrified, the small party of Ghostfaces emerged into the sunlight that flooded the beach. Their canoes were still drawn up above the high-water mark. And now, they saw with relief, an additional three craft were pulling into the shallows, their crews spilling out into the ankle-deep water and turning to drag their canoes ashore.

  Farther out in the bay, a strange craft could be seen. It was the length of four canoes and sat much higher out of the water. Two canoes were tied to the stern of the vessel, and they could hear faint sounds of combat carrying across the bay.

  The new arrivals from the canoes looked at their panicked comrades in surprise as the latter dashed down the beach to greet them.

  “Back in the canoes!” one of them shouted, his voice high-pitched with terror. “The enemy are right behind us!”

  Fist of Stone, the lead paddler on the first canoe to land, laughed scornfully. The only enemy here were the Mawagansett, and they had never shown any effective resistance to the Ghostfaces in the past.

  Of course, the appearance of the strange ship cruising the bay was a matter of some concern. But the three canoes had effectively escaped its attack. The Mawags would be easy meat.

  “You’re women!” he sneered. “Women who run in fright from a few Mawagansett! Step behind us, little women. We’ll protect you. After all—”

  His voice died away as a group of warriors burst out of the trees and stopped, surveying the beach. Fist of Stone had fourteen men with him, not counting the terrified group who had just joined them. He estimated that there were approximately twenty warriors facing him. They were mostly Mawagansett, but four of them were pale haired and pale skinned. Not four, but five, he realized as he caught sight of a slim figure behind them. Then his surprise mounted as he realized the fifth stranger was a girl.

  “Form a battle line!” he ordered his men, gesturing with his wooden club to indicate where the line should stand. As they hurried into position, he raised the club defiantly. He felt a vague twinge of unease at the sight of the men facing him. Ghostfaces were used to fighting with overwhelming numerical superiority. If anything, they were slightly outnumbered here. Still, the majority of their enemies were Mawagansett, whom he dismissed as frightened rabbits, useless in a battle. He turned to voice the thought to his men.

  “Kill them!” he ordered. “They’re only Mawagan—”

  He got no farther as he felt a tremendous blow in his side, just above his hip. He looked down in surprise to see a meter-long dart had hit him there, and blood was coursing down his left side.

  • • • • •

  Lydia had an uncanny knack for spotting an enemy commander, and as her target sank to the sand, there was an uneasy murmur of fear from his men. Thorn turned to Jesper, Ingvar and Stefan.

  “Arrowhead,” he said quietly, and they formed up behind him, Ingvar on one side, Jesper and Stefan on the other, so that they created a V formation, with Thorn at its head. Thorn’s face set in an almost blissful smile as he uttered his favorite command.

  “Let’s get ’em.”

  The four paced out down the beach, followed by the ragged formation of Mawagansett warriors. They didn’t run. They advanced steadily at walking pace, and that was all the more terrifying for the Ghostfaces who awaited them. The sand squeaked under their boots, and bright sunlight glinted off their weapons.

  As they came closer, the Ghostfaces began to shrink back, instinctively gathering closer together—a movement that merely restricted their own ability to use their weapons. The Skandians were a terrifying sight and some of the Ghostfaces recalled the story they had heard of demons. A low wail of fear rose from the tightly packed Ghostfaces, and Thorn recognized that this was the moment to strike.

  “Now!” he roared, bounding over the last few meters and bringing his mighty club-hand smashing down on one of the warriors in the front rank. The man’s knees buckled and he went down. Beside him, Thorn saw Jesper slashing at another enemy, sending him staggering backward in a desperate attempt to avoid the sword as it sliced through his lightweight shield.

  “Use the point!” Thorn growled, slamming his club into another warrior’s ribs and hurling him to the side. At the same time, Stefan crashed his ax down through a Ghostface’s utterly inadequate defenses and into the warrior himself, then jerked it free as the man screamed in pain and fear and sank to the ground. Jesper, suitably chastened, lunged and took his man in the midsection.

  Ingvar needed no direction from Thorn. His voulge darted in and out, alternately stab
bing, hooking and chopping at the enemy.

  In a matter of seconds, four of the Ghosts’ best warriors were dead or disabled. Coupled with the startling loss of their leader, it was all too much for the remaining invaders. A cry of terror swept through them and they turned and ran. Thorn stood back, gesturing after them to Simsinnet and the other Mawagansett, eager for revenge on their hated enemies.

  “Go get ’em,” he said.

  The Mawagansett force surged forward, clubs, lances and axes raised, and hurled themselves upon the retreating Ghostfaces.

  Thorn turned and smiled at his companions.

  “I think our work here is done,” he said. Then he glanced out to the bay. “Wonder how Hal is doing?”

  • • • • •

  Hal, Edvin, Ulf and Wulf stood shoulder to shoulder across the raised center deck of the Heron as the Ghostfaces scrambled aboard. There were nine men in the two canoes and they bunched up in the narrow space where the stern of the ship tapered down to a point.

  “Don’t give them room to move,” Hal ordered. “Keep them cramped in the stern.” Then he gave the order he’d always wanted to issue.

  “Let’s get ’em, boys!”

  He and his three companions surged forward, pinning the boarders back into the confined space of the stern, smashing into them with their shields, then swinging freely with axes and swords as the Ghostfaces desperately tried to get out of one another’s way and find room to wield their weapons.

  Within a few seconds, the numbers were more or less even as each of the Herons dispatched one of the enemy, leaving four Skandians facing five Ghostfaces. Now the fighting became more difficult as the Ghostfaces had room to swing their clubs and axes. But still, the superiority of the Skandians’ weapons gave them an advantage. They battered, stabbed and hacked at the enemy, forcing them farther back into the cramped triangular space at the stern. One of the Ghostface warriors slipped past them, hurling himself in a forward somersault that carried him under their weapons. He rose to his feet behind them, a massive war club ready, his eyes alight with triumph as he measured the distance to Ulf’s unprotected back.

  Then he screamed as Kloof leapt, hitting him in the chest with her forepaws, her teeth and jaws slashing and snapping at him.

  He rolled across the deck, desperate to escape her. He came up on one knee, and as Kloof gathered her hindquarters under her for another leap, he chose the path that so many attackers had chosen before him.

  With a desperate leap, he sprang to the bulwark and vaulted over it, landing in the sea overside with an enormous splash. Kloof, barking furiously, stood on her hind legs, her forepaws on the bulwark, snarling after him as he splashed awkwardly away from the ship, sheer terror lending him the ability to swim.

  Two more of his comrades sank to the deck, wounded. The remaining pair hesitated, then dropped their weapons and scrambled back over the side, dropping into one of the canoes tethered there, setting it rocking wildly. Water poured over the low bulwarks before they managed to right it and shove themselves clear of Heron’s side. Their floundering companion, the warrior who had only just evaded Kloof’s jaws, called to them for help. But they ignored him, seizing paddles and dragging the half-swamped craft sluggishly back toward the river mouth. Gradually, his cries died away, ending with a bubbling groan as he sank beneath the waves.

  “Let ’em go,” Hal said. Then he saw with a start of alarm how close to the rocks Heron had drifted during the brief but desperate fight. He leapt toward the tiller, signaling for Ulf and Wulf to take the sail under control once more. Edvin, unbidden, seized one of the long oars from its rack and hurried forward, in case he needed to fend the ship off the rocks.

  As it turned out, they brought her under control seconds before this was necessary—although it was a matter of only a few meters. Hal, heaving a huge sigh of relief, swung the Heron’s bow toward the beach, where he could make out the distinctive figures of Thorn, Lydia and Ingvar. Jesper and Stefan had stayed with the Mawagansett to hunt down the retreating Ghostfaces. He could see a struggling group farther along the beach where the Ghosts were making a last, desperate stand. As he ran the bow up onto the sand, the struggle ended. Three of the Ghosts were left alive to surrender.

  Hal leapt down from the bow of the ship onto the sand and embraced his friends. Thorn gestured to the bay, where the wrecked hulls of several canoes were slowly drifting out to sea with the falling tide.

  “That seemed to go well,” he said.

  Hal nodded. “A few got past us,” he admitted. Then he looked around, seeing Stefan and Jesper trudging wearily up the beach to rejoin them. Stefan had a slight wound in one leg and had his arm around the smaller youth’s shoulders for support. A cold hand seized Hal’s heart as he realized someone was missing.

  “Where’s Stig?” he asked.

  chapter forty-two

  Stig sped through the village, running light-footed and barely noticing the weight of his ax and the heavy shield on his left arm. He took a direct route, hurdling over the fireplaces and stools that stood in front of the huts and turning down the central lane that led to the hut where he knew Tecumsa and several other women had taken refuge with some of the children.

  His heart skipped a beat as he saw the hut—and the three Ghostface warriors outside, hammering at a makeshift barricade of branches, bed frames and stools that had been erected in the doorway by those inside. As he watched, the central Ghostface, a stocky, heavily set warrior with a huge barrel chest and thick muscular arms, tore the last of the impediments aside, opening the way into the hut.

  “You!” Stig challenged. “Stop right there!”

  The three white-faced warriors turned in surprise. They hadn’t expected to see anyone following them. They thought they had made their way into the village unnoticed by the main body of defenders.

  Now they found themselves confronted by one of the strange, pale-haired warriors they had seen assisting the Mawagansett. And they all knew by now how well these strangers could fight. The heavy-set Ghostface said something to his two companions, then plunged through the door into the hut, tossing the last of the improvised barricade aside.

  Stig heard a terrified wailing as the children inside screamed at the sight of the intruder. He redoubled his pace, charging at the two Ghostfaces who remained outside to block his path.

  Running full pace, he slammed his shield into one and sent him flying backward. The other lunged at him with a long lance and Stig parried it with his ax, beating the point down and to the side.

  Barely pausing, he swept the ax up and over into a vertical strike, a movement that required enormous strength and muscle coordination. But the Ghostface leapt backward just in time, and the ax blade missed him by centimeters. He withdrew his lance and was preparing for another lunge when Stig, recovering first, smashed the ax down onto the hardwood shaft, neatly severing it into two pieces. The Ghostface looked at his weapon in surprise. It was heavy hardwood and he had never seen an ax that could cut through it so easily.

  While he was still wondering, Stig swept the ax through a horizontal arc, slamming the side of the heavy head into the Ghostface’s jaw. There was an ugly crunch and the man dropped, unconscious, to the sand, where he remained unmoving.

  Stig turned to the hut. He could hear the screaming intensifying inside. Then he heard another voice. It was Tecumsa, shouting defiance at the warrior who had gone through the door. The sound of her voice galvanized Stig, and he started for the doorway.

  But some sixth sense warned him and he half turned, bringing his shield up to block the long flint knife that the first Ghostface, now recovered and back on his feet, lunged at him. The knife scraped on the wood, gouging a huge rent in the cowhide covering. Then Stig spun and delivered a killing blow with the edge of the ax, taking the man in the ribs and dropping him to the sand as well.

  He leapt through the door, clearing the tangle of stoo
ls and cook pots that had been used to block the entry. His eyes were unaccustomed to the dim light inside for a few seconds, and he hesitated just inside the door, peering owlishly around.

  Then his eyes adjusted and he gasped at the scene that greeted him. Eight or nine children and three older women were cowering back against the far wall of the hut. One of the women, he could see, was working with a knife to cut a rent in the tough deer hide of the wall so they could escape.

  Between them and the menacing figure of the Ghostface leader, Tecumsa crouched, a long, flint-headed lance in her hands, held parallel to the ground and darting out at the warrior’s legs, groin and then face, in a series of lightning jabs. As she jabbed the lance at him, she shuffled forward in small steps, constantly advancing and giving him no chance to reply. He parried her thrusts desperately, watching through slitted eyes for the moment when she would make a mistake and leave herself vulnerable.

  Stig’s heart lurched with fear. Tecumsa had the advantage for the moment, he could see. But he knew she was facing an experienced warrior and that advantage would be short-lived. His only chance was to distract the Ghostface, to turn the man away from Tecumsa to face him.

  “You!” he shouted. “Fight me, you coward!”

  But his attempt to distract the Ghostface had tragic results. Tecumsa, until now intent on the enemy warrior, heard the voice of her beloved Stig and looked toward the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Stig!” she cried, the relief all too evident in her voice. And, momentarily, she stopped the constant jabbing and lunging with the lance.

  The Ghostface reacted instantly, seizing the opportunity she offered. He swung his stone-headed ax at her, sweeping down to crush her skull.

  But Tecumsa was agile and young and she leapt to one side as the deadly weapon whipped down, so that it merely grazed the side of her head. Instantly, blood sprang from the wound, but Stig could see it was only a glancing blow, and not the death stroke the Ghostface had intended. Tecumsa gave a cry of pain and fright and staggered back. Before the fearsome white-painted warrior could follow up, Stig was upon him.