'Just one last raid,' he said to the indignant hilfmann. 'I'll go mad if I sit here behind this desk any longer. I need to be back at sea.'
Reluctantly, Borsa conceded the point. He had never been the warrior type himself. He was an administrator and he was very good at his job. He never understood why the big, ruffian-like sea captains who were invariably elected Oberjarl didn't share his passion for studying figures and detecting undeclared income. But he knew they didn't. Even Ragnak, in the early days of his rule, had continued to go on occasional raids. It was only later, when he became lazy and a little avaricious, that he found enjoyment in remaining at Hallasholm and counting his riches, over and over again.
Erak then sent for Svengal, his former second in command who had taken over the helm of Wolfwind, and informed him that he was assuming command again, for one more raid.
Some men might have been displeased by the prospect of being demoted to first mate. But Svengal was delighted to see Erak back in control. The two men were good friends and Svengal knew that Erak was by far the better navigator.
So here they were, off the Arrida coast, approaching the small trading town of Al Shabah.
Al Shabah was one of the towns that provided supplies, equipment, timber, cordage and rope to ships entering the Constant Sea. It was an unremarkable place, built on a promontory above a small beach, with a man-made harbour on the northern side, accessed by stairs. At this time of year, ships of the trading fleets had begun to make their way into the Constant Sea in increasing numbers, Stringing trade goods from the islands to the south-west in the Endless Ocean.
As they came, they stopped at Al Shabah, or one of its sister townships, to replenish water, food and firewood and to repair any damage caused by storms. When they sailed out of the harbour, they left behind a bewildering variety of gold coin and bullion they had used to pay their bills. Every so often, in response to a secret message from the town, an armed caravan from the inland mital of Mararoc would arrive and collect the treasure from the towns, taking it back to the Etntikirs vaults. The first caravan of the year was due in another two weeks, Erak knew. The schedule was a closely guarded secret, for obvious reasons. If potential attackers had known whether the treasure had been removed or not, it reduced the risk of attack. No right-minded pirate would risk his life in the hope that there might be treasure in the town's strongroom. Secrecy and uncertainty were Al Shabah's best defence — particularly when, the alternative would mean maintaining a large and expensive garrison for the entire year.
But secrets can be uncovered, and a week earlier, eighty kilometres down the coast, Erak had paid an informant forty reels of silver to gain a copy of the schedule. It told him that while other towns had already been emptied of their riches, Al Shabah's coffers were still temptingly full — and would remain so for some days to come.
There was a small standing garrison in the town — no more than forty men. Forty sleepy, overweight, comfortable Arridi townsmen, who hadn't fought a real engagement in twenty years or more, wouldn't provide much resistance to thirty yelling, fiendish, bloodthirsty, gold-crazed Skandians who would come screaming up from the beach like the hounds of hell.
Peering though the darkness ahead, Erak could see the lighter patch of land that marked a small sand beach at the foot of the promontory. High above, the white buildings of the town itself were also becoming distinguishable. There were no lights, he noticed. No beacons or even torches to illuminate the path of the sentries who must be patrolling. He shrugged. Not a bad idea, he thought. A burning torch might make a sentry feel safe and secure but it ruined his night vision and made it almost impossible to see anything beyond the few metres illuminated by the torch.
Once again he recognised the wisdom of his decision to approach from the inland side, with the sail lowered.
He could hear the gentle breaking of waves on the beach now. There was no surf to speak of, just small wavelets tumbling over themselves. Swinging the tiller smoothly, he set the ship on a forty-five-degree approach to the sand. He raised his free hand, palm up, in a prearranged signal and sixteen oars rose dripping out of the water. There was an occasional grunt of exertion as the rowers lifted their oars to the vertical and then carefully lowered them, to stow them alongside the rowing benches. One or two clattered noisily, the sound seeming to be magnified by the silence around them. Erak glared at the offending oarsmen. He'd speak to them later — when he could speak more forcefully than the present situation allowed.
There was a grating sound from for'ard and he felt a dragging vibration through the soles of his feet as the keel ran onto the sand. Four men were poised on the bow gunwales, about to leap into the shallow water and make the ship secure.
'Go easy, line handlers!' Sven al whispered hoarsely.
The men, who would normally have dropped noisily to the knee-deep water, remembered at the last moment and lowered themselves carefully. Taking two bow ropes with them, they ran up the beach, feet squeaking on the sand, and hauled the ship a little further up onto dry land.
They secured the bow ropes into the sand with hinge-laded sand grapnels, then faced inland, hands on their battleaxes, alert for any sign of attack.
Erak peered up at the town above them. Still there was no sound of any alarm, no sign of guards or patrols. The whitewashed buildings, looking almost ghostly in the pre-dawn light, loomed silently above the wolfship.
More men were lowering themselves over the bow now, and others were carefully unstowing shields and battleaxes from beside the rowing benches and passing them down to others, who took them with exaggerated care and piled them on the beach above the high waterline. The shields, which were kept stowed on the outer gunwales along the length of the ship, had been covered with dark cloth to make them less conspicuous. The men now stripped this off, found their respective weapons and stood ready for their captain.
Erak passed his shield and axe down to one of the men standing in the shallow water, then lowered himself over the gunwale as well. He stretched down to arms' length and released his grip, falling only a few centimetres before his feet hit the wet sand. He took his shield and axe back from his crewman and moved to where the thirty men of the attack party stood lined up. The four line handlers who had been first to land would remain with the ship.
Erak couldn't help smiling as he felt a small thrill of adrenaline course through him. It was good to be back, he thought.
'Remember,' he told the raiding party, 'keep the noise to an absolute minimum. Watch where you're putting your feet. I don't want you missing your step and sliding down the hill in your own personal, avalanche. We want to get as close as we can before they spot us. With any luck, and from the look of things, we'll be inside the town before anyone raises the alarm.'
He paused, looking round the tough bearded faces before him. There were a few answering nods. Then he continued.
'On the other hand, if we are spotted, all bets are off. Start yelling to raise the dead and go at 'em. Make 'em think there's an army out here come to see them off.'
Often, he knew, a sleeping garrison could be paralysed by fear at the sound of a yelling, screaming body of attackers. Sometimes, he'd even known garrisons to desert their post and run terrified into the night.
He looked around. There was a rough path at the foot of the hill, winding up towards the silent, sleeping town above them. He gestured towards it with the head of his axe.
'There's our way to the top,' he said. Then, hitching his shield up on his left shoulder, he uttered the time-honoured Skandian leader's call to action.
'Follow me, boys.'
* * *
Chapter 5
* * *
The path was narrow and uneven, and the climb was steep. But the Skandians, in spite of their bulk, were all in excellent physical condition and they maintained a brisk pace behind their leader. There were a few grunts of exertion from time to time and occasionally a stone would be dislodged from underfoot to go rattling down the hillside.
But on the whole, the thirty raiders made little noise as they jogged up the path towards Al Shabah.
Everything was a compromise, Erak thought. Just as he'd taken the lesser of two risks by approaching along the bay's coastline, now he had to balance speed against stealth. The longer they took to reach their objective, the greater the chance became that their presence would be discovered. That would make the fight a lot harder. By the same token, if they rushed up the path full speed, they'd also increase the chance of being heard.
So the best way was to steer a middle course, maintaining a steady jog.
Their sealskin boots thudded softly on the sand and stone underfoot. It was more noise than he would have liked, but he estimated that it would remain unheard even if there were listeners at the top of the cliff.
There was a bad moment when one of the men immediately behind Erak lost his footing and tottered, arms waving desperately, at the edge of the steep slope leading down to the sea. Fortunately, his axe was in the carry loop on his belt, otherwise his arm-waving might have separated some of his friends from their heads.
He let out an involuntary cry and his shuffling feet released a volley of stones and rocks that clattered down the hillside. In the instant that he was about to follow up, an iron grip caught hold of the collar of his sheepskin and he felt himself heaved back onto firm ground by Oberjarl.
'Gods above! Thanks, chief ... ' he began. But a huge hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off further words. thrust his face close to the other man and shook him, none too gently.
'Get up, Axel,' he whispered fiercely. 'If you want to break your neck, do it quietly or I'll break it for you.'
He was a big man, one of the rowing crew. Rowers weren't regarded as the most intelligent people in a Ship's crew and he was about to tell Erak that there was no point in threatening to break his neck for a second time. It wasn't logical.
Then he had second thoughts. The Oberjarl, he knew, wasn't big on logic when he was angry. He was, however, good using his fists to settle a disagreement and, large as was, he had no wish to tangle with Erak.
'Sorry, chief. I just ... ' he muttered and Erak shook him again.
'Shut up!' he hissed. Then, releasing his grip on the other man's collar, he glanced anxiously towards the cliff-top, waiting to see if there was any sign that the rower's clattering and yelling had been heard.
The entire raiding party waited in silence for several minutes. Then, as there was no sound of the alarm being raised above them, there was a general release of tension.
Erak pointed upwards and led the way again, jogging steadily up the steep slope. A few metres from the crest, he signalled for the men to halt. Then, gesturing to Svengal to accompany him, he covered the remaining distance to the top in a crouch, cautiously peering over the crest as he reached it. Svengal, a metre or so behind him, mirrored his actions and the two big Skandians knelt side by side, taking stock of the situation.
Al Shabah stood some forty metres away, across a bare patch of ground. The town was surrounded by a low stucco wall, less than two metres high. Even if there were sentries patrolling, it would present no real obstacle to the Skandians. They were skilled in scaling walls like these. Two men would stand at the base of the wall, holding a length of an old oar handle between them, at waist height. The rest of the group would take a running start, one at a time. As each man stepped up onto the oar handle, the two men holding it would heave upwards, sending their shipmate soaring up the wall. It took practice to get the timing right but it was one of the skills all Skandians practised from boyhood.
Today, there would be no need for it.
There were no sentries on the wall. However, there was an arched gateway four metres to their right. The gate was open and the entrance was unguarded.
'Too easy,' grinned Svengal.
His captain frowned. 'That's what I was thinking,' he said.
'Where are the guards? Where are the lookouts?'
Svengal shrugged. In spite of the absence of any guards, they both were still keeping their voices low, speaking barely above a whisper.
'We've caught 'em with the back door open, chief,' he added. 'The guards, if there are any, are probably round the front of the town, facing the ocean. That's where I'd expect an attack to come from.'
Erak rubbed his chin suspiciously. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Wait here while I take a closer look.'
Rising into a half crouch, he moved across the open towards the wall. At every second, he expected to a challenge. A shout. Or an alarm bell ringing. But Al bah was silent. Reaching the wall, he edged his way to the open gate. With one fluid movement, he extended his massive battleaxe clear of its belt loop and dropped it in his right hand, then, moving with deceptive speed for someone so bulky, he sprang through the open doorway, quickly facing right then left, axe ready, shield up to protect his left side.
Flat-roofed white houses stretched away from him on a narrow street. The few windows were black in the whitewashed stucco. The doors were firmly shut.
Nothing moved. Nobody stirred. Al Shabah was deserted.
Erak hesitated a few seconds. It seemed wrong. There should be a guard. Even one man patrolling the wall. Then he shrugged. Maybe Svengal was right and the Arridi guards were concentrated at the seaward side of the town. Perhaps all the lookouts were straining their eyes for the first sight of an approaching ship. Or maybe they'd just grown complacent. It had been over twenty years since a Skandian ship had raided here. The secrecy surrounding the timing of the treasure caravans had kept the coastal towns safe. It was only the lucky acquisition of the timetable that had led Erak to plan this raid.
He shook his head. Maybe he was getting too skittish. Maybe the time he'd spent lolling around Hallasholm was making him behave like a nervous maiden aunt. Abruptly, he made up his mind, moved back to the gateway and signalled Svengal and the others to join him.
The soft thud of sealskin boots across the sandy ground awoke no response from the town. Svengal glanced inquiringly at his leader.
'Where to now, chief?'
Erak gestured with his axe. 'Town centre. We'll follow this street. It seems to be heading in the right direction. Keep your axes ready and your eyes peeled.'
He led the way again and the raiding party followed in two files, peering around them at the silent houses. From time to time, the last two men in the line would do a sweep, turning through a full circle to make sure enemy troops weren't coming up behind them, and studying the flat roofs of the houses that stood to either side of their path for a sign of enemies. But there was nothing to be seen.
The street wound its way towards the centre of the town, eventually opening up into a small square, where a larger building faced them, taking up one entire side of the square. This would be the town headman's official quarters, Erak guessed. He searched his memory for the name of the building — the khadif, he remembered. The equivalent of a town hall or a tax house in other towns.
Half a dozen narrow streets opened onto the small square. The buildings that formed the other three sides — probably shops, eating houses and inns — were colonaded with deep verandahs that would give welcome shade from the heat of the sun during the middle of the day. As he had the thought, Erak glanced to the east, where the sky was already lightening with streaks of pink.
The front of the khadif facing the square was also colonaded. The building itself was the only two-storey structure in sight. Like the others, however, it had a flat roof, hidden by a decorative facade designed to give an added feeling of dominance to the building behind it.
In the centre of the square stood a small fountain. Its reservoir was currently full of water but the mechanism which allowed water to flow from its central spout appeared to be turned off.
Erak stepped out into the square, his men following.
As they exited from the narrow street, they formed into a compact diamond formation, with the Oberjarl, Svengal and Axel at the lead point of the diamond. A few men swung their axes experim
entally as they crossed the two-storey building. Still there was a square of light towards the two from the town. The growing light cast their shadows in elongated, fantastic forms behind them. Erak stepped up onto the marble porchway before the khadif's big double doors. He studied them briefly. Solid, he thought. Hardwood with brass binding and a good strong lock. Still, Skandians carried their own keys for doors like this and he motioned to two of his brawnier rowers to step forward.
'Axes,' he said, gesturing to the door.
The men grinned at him. One of them set his axe down for a moment, spat on his hands, then seized the axe in a double-handed grip. Erak stepped away to give the man room for a good roundhouse swing at the lock.
'Stop right there!'
The command rang out, across the square and the Skandians turned in surprise. A figure had appeared from one of the side streets leading into the open space. A few of the raiders cursed in alarm. Erak's eyes narrowed and he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. It had all been too easy, he thought.
The newcomer was tall and slim, dressed in the ornate fashion of an Arridi warrior. Flowing white shirt and trousers, doubtless of fine linen, were covered by metal-studded leather body armour. A long curved sword hung at his side and a circular shield made of metal — probably brass — was on his arm. The shield, Erak noted, was equipped with a sharp central spike. It was a weapon of attack as well as defence. A simple acorn-style helmet, also spiked, surmounted a small roll of fine cloth that wrapped the man's head. Probably, Erak thought, it was designed to avoid the contact of sun-heated metal on skin during the middle of the day.
The helmet was highly burnished, and a shining silver curtain of chain mail depended from it, protecting the wearer's neck at the sides and back. That, and the highly polished metal on the armour, were enough to show that this was a senior officer.
As they watched, a double file of warriors, equipped in similar, if not as expensive, fashion quickly jogged out of the side street, fanning out to either side of their leader. Erak estimated that there were at least forty of them. There was a surge of movement from his own men as the Arridi warriors appeared.
ERAK'S RANSOM Page 3