Horace saw the cavalry lieutenant who assigned the sentries each day. The man was patrolling the wall in the opposite direction to Horace and Gilan, making sure the men were alert. Horace beckoned to him, and the officer approached and came to attention, straightening his shoulders a little and raising his forefinger to the brim of his helmet.
“The men on the midnight-to-dawn watch,” Horace began. “How are you selecting them?”
The lieutenant thought about the question for a second or two. “Usually it’s a punishment for the odd minor offense, sir,” he said. “Dirty equipment or an untidy sleeping space.”
Horace nodded several times. “I thought it might be something like that. In future, just assign it on a routine schedule. Don’t have the same man pulling that duty two or three days in a row.”
The lieutenant hesitated. He looked doubtful. “Yes, sir,” he said, but his tone indicated that he didn’t understand.
“Those hours before dawn are where we are most vulnerable,” Horace explained. “If a man is put on watch as a punishment, he’ll be resentful and he’ll tend to think about how hard done by he’s been. That’ll make him less attentive to his job.”
The lieutenant’s face cleared. He hadn’t considered that. In the three years he’d been in the army, being assigned to the dawn watch had been a traditional punishment for minor infringements. And since men who were lazy or untidy often infringed more than once, they were often put on the dawn watch repeatedly.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” he said, straightening a little more.
Horace smiled at him. “No harm done. Just change things up in the future.”
He dismissed the officer with a casual gesture, and he and Gilan continued their pacing along the walkway. He sniffed the air experimentally. “Nothing like the smell of frying bacon in the morning,” he said.
Gilan shrugged. “Enjoy the smell. There’ll be precious little of it to eat.” Several days previously, Horace had cut their rations, trying to eke out their limited supplies of food.
The tall warrior nodded, a worried look on his face as he thought about the inevitable day when they would run out of provisions. He moved to the wall and rested his elbows on top of the logs, peering down at the enemy camp below them. Gilan joined him.
The Red Fox camp was coming awake, just as the men in the hill fort were. Smoke from their rekindled fires could be seen at half a dozen points. There was no wind yet, and the smoke streamed up vertically until it dissipated. Men were moving around the camp with the lack of urgency and energy of early risers who still wanted to be in their blankets.
“No shortage of bacon there,” Gilan commented.
Horace grunted in reply.
“What do you think their next move will be?” the Ranger continued.
Horace pursed his lips. “They don’t really need to do anything,” he said. “They know they’ve got us trapped here and they must realize we’re short of food. They can afford to wait us out. Of course,” he continued, “they’ll probably try the odd night attack, trying to catch us napping. If nothing else, it’ll spoil our sleep and keep us awake at night.”
“That’s no good,” Gilan replied. “When I’m asleep is the only time I don’t feel hungry.”
“You’re lucky,” Horace told him. “I dream of food when I’m hungry.”
“You dream of food when you’re not hungry,” his friend said.
As if prompted by their discussion, Horace’s stomach rumbled mightily.
Gilan feigned shock, stepping away from the big knight. “My god! I thought we were having an earthquake there,” he said in mock alarm.
“If we don’t get some food soon, we may well have one,” Horace replied.
“There’s always the spare horses,” Gilan pointed out.
Horace snapped around to look at him. “Are you suggesting we slaughter some of them for food?” he asked, the anger evident in his tone.
Gilan shrugged apologetically. “Well, it has been done before,” he said, then, seeing the stubborn set of Horace’s jaw, he continued. “But I don’t think things are as bad as all that yet. What I was thinking was that we might let the spare horses go, drive them out through the gate. That way, the grain and fodder we have for the rest of them will last twice as long.”
Horace’s angry expression faded. “It’s a good thought,” he said. Then he frowned. “Mind you, telling a cavalryman to abandon his horse is a hard thing to do.”
“Better than eating it,” Gilan pointed out.
“That’s true. We’ll see how things go. One thing’s for sure, we don’t need remounts while we’re stuck here.”
They studied the enemy camp for some minutes in silence.
“They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to lure us here,” Gilan said thoughtfully.
“I’d say they planned to kill us,” Horace said.
“Precisely. But why go to all that trouble? What else did they have in mind? Surely they didn’t just say, Let’s trick Horace and Gilan into coming north and then we’ll kill them. There must have been some further part to the plan.”
“Like taking Castle Araluen?” Horace said.
This was the conclusion they always came to when they discussed the situation, and Gilan sighed in frustration. “I can’t think of anything else they might have in mind. Can you?”
Horace looked troubled by the question. “No. I can’t. But the castle is no easy mark. It’s virtually impregnable. Even Morgarath knew that, and he had thousands of troops with him.” He paused. “And Dimon is a good man. Even with a small force, he’d manage to keep them out.”
“Unless they trick their way in,” Gilan suggested, but now Horace was more definite in his rebuttal.
“They wouldn’t fool Cassandra,” he said, then added a little ruefully, “I’ve never managed to do it in nineteen years of marriage.”
“Still, they must have something in mind. I can’t help wondering what it might be.”
“I guess we’ll find out when we send that lot packing.” Horace jabbed a thumb at the camp below them.
Gilan looked at him in feigned surprise. “Are we going to send them packing?” he said. “How are we going to manage that?”
Horace patted him on the shoulder. “You’re going to come up with a masterful plan to do it.”
Gilan nodded several times. “I suppose I should have realized that.”
“That’s what you Rangers do. You’re plotters and schemers—and you’re very clever with it. I have every confidence you’ll come up with an idea. Just don’t leave it too long.”
“I’ll see what I can figure out. Maybe I’ll have a nap. I plot and scheme much better when I’m napping. In the meantime, let’s go and get some of that rapidly shrinking store of bacon.”
Horace pushed off from the parapet with both hands and turned toward the stairs leading to the compound below.
“Now, that’s a good plan. I knew I could rely on you.”
3
The Skandians had stripped the damaged wolfship until she was no more than an empty shell lying on the coarse sand of the beach, where her crew had beached her some days prior.
Weapons, shields, bedding and stores were all stacked well above the high-water mark. For the past hour, the crew had been busy removing the deck planking and setting it to one side. The mast, yardarm, sails and rigging formed another well-ordered pile. By now, the ship should weigh no more than half her original weight.
Hal Mikkelson stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the stripped hull. “All right,” he said. “Let’s haul her up to a more level spot.”
Wolfbiter currently lay at the water’s edge. Her crew took hold of ropes attached to the bowpost and to purchase points along the hull. Hal’s crew moved to the stern to add their weight to the effort of moving the ship.
“Ready?” Hal called, and r
eceiving no sign that they weren’t, added, “One, two, three, heave!”
The ropes came taut as the men threw their weight on them, their heels digging into the sand. For a moment, the ship resisted their efforts, then she slowly began to slide up the beach.
“Put your back into it, Ingvar!” Hal ordered.
The huge warrior gritted his teeth and bent almost parallel to the ground as he shoved with all his might. The ship began to slide more readily with his additional effort, moving with increasing freedom up the slight slope that led from the water’s edge until she was on level ground.
Hal held up a hand. “All right! That’ll do,” he called.
The two crews relaxed, letting the ropes fall to the ground at their feet and the ship heel over to one side. Jern Icerunner, the ship’s skirl, dusted off his hands and walked to stand beside Hal.
“You picked a good spot to beach her,” Hal told him, glancing round the narrow cove, whose tall headlands protected the beach and the bay from the worst of the wind.
Jern shrugged. “Luck more than judgment,” he said. “I could feel the hull flexing after we hit that rock and I just wanted to get her ashore as quickly as I could.”
Hal grinned. “Sometimes luck’s better than judgment anyway,” he said. Then he moved toward the ship. “Let’s get those props under her and get her level.”
Earlier in the day, he had supervised the men in cutting and trimming stout props from the trees that grew around the narrow inlet. Now he directed them as they pushed on the port gunwale to bring the ship upright, then placed four of the props under her to keep her there. Some of the crew took four more props and placed them on the opposite side, to prevent the ship tipping the other way. Hal studied the props closely, making sure they were well seated and the sand under them was compacted and firm. He shoved hard against the hull, trying to tilt it one way or the other but it remained solid.
Stig, Hal’s best friend and first mate, stood watching, a concerned look on his face. He knew what was coming next. He gestured to Ingvar, the largest man in the two crews, to come closer.
“Just stand by in case we’re needed,” he said.
Ingvar nodded, understanding.
Hal dropped to his hands and knees, peering under the propped-up hull. He raised one hand and ran it along the smooth planks, testing, pushing. The planks felt solid under his exploring hand. Then he crouched lower and scrambled in until he was well under the ship, feeling the weed and barnacle-encrusted timbers a few centimeters above him. He took a small timber maul from his belt and hammered it against the hull at different points.
Stig and Ingvar took an involuntary pace forward as he did so, watching for any sign that the ship might move, or that the props might be dislodged with the impact of his blows. Jern was watching anxiously as well, although his concern was more for his ship and what Hal might discover than for Hal’s well-being or safety. He knew Hal was an experienced shipwright and he’d done this sort of thing before.
Hal scuttled farther aft, duck-walking on his heels. He stopped at a point about a third of the way down the ship’s length. “Jern? Is this where you struck the rock?” he called. He prodded experimentally at the hull.
Jern screwed up his face as he considered the question. “Pretty much, Hal—as far as I could tell.”
“Hmmm,” Hal said thoughtfully. He hammered again on the hull. This time the sound was slightly different. It sounded duller, somehow. Hal hit the planks twice more, swinging the maul awkwardly in the cramped space.
Ingvar had his hand resting lightly on the side of the hull, and he felt the vibration of the blows. “Wish he wouldn’t do that,” he muttered, glancing at the nearest prop.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Stig replied, although it sounded more like a statement of hope than reassurance. “Good. Here he comes,” he added.
Hal scuttled out from under the beached ship. Stig stretched out a hand to help his friend stand. Hal grinned at him, dusting sand off the knees of his leggings.
“Mother hens,” he said, including Ingvar in the statement. “I know what I’m doing.”
He reached up and took hold of the ship’s rail, hauling himself up and over it and lowering himself into the hull.
There was more hammering and banging from inside the wolfship, the noise echoing in the empty hull. Stig and Ingvar relaxed. There was no chance now that a dislodged prop could send the ship crashing down on their skirl.
Jern, however, was still concerned as he waited for the verdict. Wolfbiter was the assigned duty ship for the year—the ship provided to King Duncan of Araluen by the Skandian Oberjarl to patrol the coast, pursue pirates, smugglers and slavers, and carry urgent messages. Some two weeks prior, she had come to grief in a fierce storm, being driven close inshore and hurled onto an uncharted rock. Jern had heard the sickening crunch as she made contact and felt the hull flexing badly. Fearing that the keel was broken, he had hurried to beach the ship before she broke in two.
The accident happened to coincide with the arrival of Hal’s ship, the Heron, at Castle Araluen. Hal was on an unrelated mission, but when word came that Wolfbiter was seriously damaged, he had hurried back to the east coast to provide assistance. Jern counted himself extremely lucky—Hal was possibly the finest shipbuilder in Skandia.
But that luck might not hold. If the ship’s keel was in fact broken, Jern knew that there would be no repair. They would have to abandon her, burn her and find their own way back to Skandia. It would also leave Araluen without a duty ship until another crew could make their way to Araluen across the Stormwhite Sea. That would take months, and word would get around among the smugglers and slavers who infested these waters that the coast was unpatrolled. They would quickly begin their predations once more. Bad news traveled swiftly.
The hammering stopped, and Hal’s face appeared at the railing. With the decking removed, he had to heave himself up so he could roll over the gunwale.
Jern took half a pace forward, not wanting to hear the worst.
But Hal smiled at him reassuringly. “Pretty sure the keel is sound,” he said.
Jern let go a breath that he had been holding for too long. Then he frowned. “But I could feel her moving and flexing as the waves passed under her.”
Hal nodded. “Two of the frames are badly cracked. You couldn’t see them until we took up the decking and unloaded the stores. But they would have caused the movement in the hull that you could feel. Shouldn’t take too long to put them right.”
Jern’s shoulders sagged with relief. It was the sort of news he’d been hoping for—although he hadn’t allowed himself to hold that hope too strongly. He was superstitious, as were many sailors, and he believed that if he hoped for a good result, it wouldn’t happen.
“That’s great news,” he said now. “Thanks, Hal.”
Hal shrugged. “I’m glad it’s fixable.”
Stig tilted his head to one side, regarding the wounded wolfship with a critical eye. “Can you repair her here—on the beach?”
Hal shook his head. “Not properly. We’d have to strip off the planking, take her back to her basic framework skeleton, remove the cracked ribs and shape new ones. Bit of a big task here in the open.”
Jern’s face fell. He thought Hal had said the ship could be repaired.
Hal patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We can do a perfectly good temporary repair here—one that’ll get you home again. Then you can find a shipyard to do a proper job.” He scratched his chin as he thought about the task ahead. “We’ll mend the cracked ribs with a fish,” he said. Then, seeing the confused expression on Jern’s face, he explained. “We’ll shape timbers to fit either side of the rib, then screw them tightly together—like a splint on a broken leg. I’ll draw up a template for you so you can shape them. I suggest you do that back at the village below Castle Araluen where there’s a good
carpentry shop. Then you can bring the pieces back here and screw them in place.”
“And that’ll hold?” Jern asked.
Hal nodded. “In the short term. Enough to get you home again. But the longer you leave them, the more they’ll work loose—and then she’ll start flexing again.”
He glanced up at the sky. The sun was already behind the hills to the west of the beach and there was a smell of rain in the air.
“It’s nearly dark. Let’s roll her farther up the beach. I suggest you leave four or five men here to keep an eye on her. I’ll ferry the rest of you back to Castle Araluen tomorrow.”
* * *
• • •
As the tide started to come in the following morning, the two dozen sailors from Wolfbiter who were accompanying the Herons back to Castle Araluen picked up their weapons, shields and seabags and trooped down the beach to where Heron was drawn up on the edge of the water. Heron was a much smaller ship than Wolfbiter, and there was a few minutes’ confusion as they clambered aboard and found space to stow their gear. Then they settled themselves along the center of the deck as Stig and Ingvar shoved the ship off the beach and into the water. There was the usual clatter of wood on wood as the Heron’s crew unstowed their oars and ran them out through the rowlocks, then they backed water and the neat little ship slid away from the beach, into deeper water.
Hal threaded his way through the crowd of men sprawled on the decks and took the tiller. He nodded to Stig, who was on the stern oar, and the tall sailor called orders to the rowers.
“Back port. Ahead starboard!”
Under the opposed thrust of the two sets of oars, the ship pivoted neatly in her own length, until her sharp prow was pointed out to sea.
“Ahead together! Pull! Pull! Pull!” Stig ordered, setting the pace for the rowers.
Jern moved to stand beside Hal at the steering platform. He watched appreciatively as the little ship gathered way, the sides of the cove slipping past them with increasing speed.
Duel at Araluen Page 2