“I’ve been thinking,” Erak said, “where else could the Temujai try to break through and make it to the sea? It struck me that Ice River might be such a place.”
“Hard to say,” Hal replied. “I’ve never seen it—beyond the entry to the sea. I’ve sailed past a few times, but that’s all.”
“Precisely,” Erak answered. “We know very little about it because nobody has ever explored it. But if I look at it on a map, it looks as if it could be a viable route down from the mountains. The river has carved out a valley and it’s possible you could get men and horses down here.”
He traced his finger down the narrow bank at the western side of the river.
“Looking at it on a map and actually making your way down are two different matters, of course,” Hal said. “Particularly if you’re trying to move an army down there. These three steep sections are probably impassable.”
He indicated three sections on the map where the banks narrowed and the mapmaker’s notations indicated that the river ran steeply down the mountain face.
“Still, I’m thinking that if I were the Temujai leader and I looked at this map, I might see this as a possible way to break through to the coast.” Hal looked skeptical, but Erak continued. “And the Temujai have a history of getting through places that other people have thought to be impassable.”
He traced his finger up the river valley to the mountain plateau high above it, where the map indicated unknown land.
“Nobody’s ever explored up here,” he said. “But that’s where the Temujai hold sway.”
“You want us to go up there?” Hal said, a slightly incredulous note in his voice. “We can’t sail up a mountain.”
“You’d need to make a portage at each of these three points,” Erak said, indicating the steepest sections of the valley. “Each one is less than a kilometer long and there’s a track off to the side where you could drag the ship.” A portage meant hauling the ship out of the water and dragging it bodily overland. It was backbreaking work, and Skandians loathed it with a passion. “The rest of the way you should be able to row, once the ice has cleared.”
He glanced at the young skirl. The stubborn set of Hal’s jaw told Erak all he needed to know about Hal’s opinion of the plan. He continued, in a more placatory tone. “The thing is, Hal, we need to know if it’s a possible route down from the mountains. We’ve always assumed that it’s impassable. But these days, we can’t afford that assumption. If the Temujai are cut off from Serpent Pass, I have to know if there’s another way they can come down from the mountains. This river valley may well be a dagger aimed at Skandia’s heart.
“And personally, I’d like to know where the river goes after it reaches the top of the plateau. I’d like to know what the countryside is like up there. Is it tree-covered? Or do the grass plains extend this far west and south? If that’s the case, the Sha’shan would find it a lot easier to assemble his army up there.”
“The Sha’shan?” Hal asked. The term wasn’t a familiar one.
Erak explained. “The Temujai ruler. Shan means leader, so Sha’shan means leader of leaders, or ultimate leader.”
Erak shifted uncomfortably. Usually, when he had a mission for Hal and his men, it was based on something more definite than a vague feeling of unease. And it was usually a little more exciting than an order to haul their ship bodily up a mountain.
“I’m sorry to load you up with this one, Hal,” he said. “But I need a pair of eyes I can depend on. And I’d like Thorn’s opinion of the terrain in the Ice River Valley. I really need to know if we should defend against a possible attack there.”
Thorn was an experienced warrior. His opinion of whether or not the Temujai could bring troops down the Ice River Valley would be a valuable one. Thorn didn’t look at a problem and say “too hard.” He looked at ways a problem could be overcome.
Hal was silent, staring at the map, trying to see in his mind’s eye the rough, overgrown terrain that was indicated by the bland markings and notations.
“Can you get your hilfmann to make me a copy of this chart?” he asked.
Erak heaved a silent sigh of relief. It hadn’t been likely that Hal would refuse the mission. But it had always been a possibility. Erak saw now that he was studying the first of the portage points.
“That’s another reason I’m asking you to do this,” he said. “Your ship is the smallest in the fleet, so it’ll be easier to handle getting it through the tight spots on the portages.”
Hal nodded, imagining the difficulty in hauling a fifteen-meter wolfship through the twists and turns in a mountain track. With the Heron it would be difficult. With a full-sized wolfship, nigh on impossible.
“I’d better warn the lads,” he said. “They’ll be delighted to hear how easy it will be.”
Erak let him have the last word. He thought he owed him that.
PART TWO
ICE RIVER
chapter eleven
It was good to be at sea again.
There was a fresh wind blowing offshore and Heron bowled along at an impressive speed, rising and falling as she swooped over the waves like a gull. Occasionally, an out-of-phase wave would smash into her bow as she was still swooping down over the previous wave’s back. She’d smash into the new wall of water before she could soar over it, and silver spray would shower over the deck.
As ever, Hal was exulting in the sheer feeling of the ship as she sped along the coast. To him, she was more than an inanimate mass of wood and canvas. She was a living thing. He could feel the life in the rhythmic movement of the deck beneath his feet, the slight vibrations through the tiller as the sea pressed against it, trying to resist his controlling hand. He could almost believe that she spoke to him. The fin keel had a slight vibration where it passed through the watertight seal in the keel box. It set up a low-pitched hum that reverberated through the hull, using the hollow wooden structure as a sounding box. He knew it was a fault somewhere in the structure of the keel box, but to him it was a happy mistake. He laughed out loud.
“This is better than riding a horse,” Stig said, standing a meter away from him and leaning back against the sternpost.
“Better than walking too,” Thorn put in, from his position a little for’ard of the steering platform.
Hal grinned happily at his two friends. “We may as well enjoy it for now,” he said. “We’ll be rowing before too long.”
“We?” Thorn repeated, raising one eyebrow derisively. Hal, as the skirl, wouldn’t have to take part in the rowing, although his friends knew that he often did, handing the tiller over to Edvin to give one of the other rowers a spell. On this trip, however, as they were heading into unfamiliar territory, he would probably stay at the tiller himself, ready to respond to any surprises that they might encounter.
A wave burst over the bow, and silver spray glittered in the sun as it showered down over the ship. Kloof barked and snapped at the flying water, her massive jaws snapping together like a bear trap as she tried to catch the elusive salt spray. She was beside Hal, and her heavy tail thumped his leg as she swept it back and forth. It was too ponderous an action to be described as mere wagging.
“Settle down, girl,” Hal told her. She slammed her tail into his leg several more times. Obviously, she was affected by the holiday atmosphere that had gripped them all. Hal glanced at the sky. It was bright blue, with white clouds scudding high overhead. For the moment, the weather was fine, but inland, over the mountains, he could see dark clouds gathering. They could well be in for a late snowfall, he thought, even though winter was behind them.
“There’s the river!” Jesper called from his perch on the bow-post lookout. Hal leaned out and craned down to see over the starboard bow. The green coastline was only a few kilometers off the starboard side as they ran parallel to it. Looking ahead about a kilometer, he could see a white line of breaking waves in close to
the land. That would be the river mouth. There would undoubtedly be a bar of some kind there, formed by sand carried downriver and out to sea, where it piled up in an obstacle. That would be where the waves were breaking, he thought. They’d need to reconnoiter before they tried to go inland, making sure they could find a safe way around or over the bar.
“Breakers!” Jesper called, confirming Hal’s judgment. Hal called back an acknowledgment and eased the tiller over, angling the ship in toward the coast. Ulf and Wulf adjusted the sail accordingly.
They skimmed in toward the land. Once they were a few hundred meters from the breaking waves, Hal ordered the crew to bring the sail down and switch to oars. For the moment, they used four oars only, with Ulf, Wulf, Stefan and Ingvar manning them.
“Bring her in easily,” Hal ordered them. “I want to see how deep the water is over the sandbar.” He gestured to Stig to take the tiller. “I’m going for’ard,” he said.
The oarsmen brought the ship in parallel to the breakers, about forty meters out. They crept along the line of the breaking waves, and Hal stepped up onto the for’ard bulwark, holding on to a stay and peering over the side at the green water covering the bar. The tide was halfway in, and there was plenty of water over the sand—at least for a small ship like the Heron. He moved back to the steering platform and took the tiller once more.
“Plenty of water,” he told Stig. “At least two meters below us.” He nodded to Thorn. “Bring up the fin keel, Thorn,” he said. The bladelike fin jutted down a meter below the keel. Once it was raised, the Heron needed little more than a meter of water. “We’ll ride a wave in just to make sure,” he told the others, and took the ship out in a long arc to approach the sandbar at right angles. “Thorn, Stig, on the oars, please.”
The two extra oarsmen scrambled down to the rowing benches, sliding their long white-oak oars out through the oarlocks.
“Easy all,” Hal ordered, and the rowers rested on their oars, the ship rising and falling gently as the waves passed under her keel. Hal glanced around, making sure everything was ready. Lydia crouched with Kloof on the port side of the ship. She smiled at him as she caught his eye. Edvin moved aft to stand beside Hal. He knew that when they caught a wave over the sandbar, the ship would need to keep its stern down. Jesper left his post on the lookout and moved aft as well.
“Give way,” Hal ordered, and the rowers bent to their oars, heaving the little ship forward. Stig called the stroke, setting a rapid pace. Hal felt the tiller come alive in his hands as the water rushed past it. He straightened the ship’s course so that they were heading directly toward the sandbar, swooping and sliding once more as the waves passed under the ship. When they were twenty meters from the bar, he glanced over his shoulder and saw a wave building behind them.
“Now pull!” he called, and the rowers heaved on the oars with renewed energy. The little ship shot ahead. Her stern came up as the wave gathered beneath it.
“Pull!” shouted Hal, and as the rowers redoubled their efforts, the ship rode up onto the wave and accelerated, her bow wave slicing high on either side as she knifed down into the water ahead of her, stern high and bow down.
“Belay rowing!” Hal yelled, as he saw they were well and truly gripped by the wave. “Everyone aft!”
The crew were ready for the order. They slid their oars inboard and scrambled aft, huddling together in the stern section of the rowing well. The sudden change in weight pushed the stern down and the bow up.
Jesper let out a whoop of exhilaration as the ship planed forward, passing over the lighter green water that covered the sandbar and slowly losing speed as the wave died away and she slid into the deeper water behind the bar. Hal felt a grin spreading over his own face. Sometimes this life could be a lot of fun, he thought. He glanced around and saw Lydia. The girl was pale-faced and gripping tightly to a cleat set in the deck. Her knuckles were white, and he realized, with some surprise, that she had been nervous as they rode the wave across the bar. He shrugged. Lydia was relatively new to ships and the sea, whereas he and the rest of the Herons had spent their lives afloat since they were toddlers.
She caught his eye and shook her head. He grinned at her.
“We weren’t in any danger,” he told her.
Lydia let go a deep breath that she had been holding. “So you say,” she replied. But she was prepared to believe him. Nervous she might have been, but she trusted Hal’s seamanship and skill implicitly. She knew there were things that might bring her heart to her mouth—like that sudden headlong rush down the face of the wave—but as long as Hal was at the tiller and in control, she had faith that things would turn out all right.
“Oars,” Hal said briefly, and the six rowers scrambled for’ard again, taking their positions in the rowing well and waiting while Stig called the stroke. Then they all pulled at once and the Heron gathered way again, heading for the small beach at the western side of the river.
The river was about eighty meters wide here, with a low, flat bank on the western side and steep hills rising on the eastern side, behind a narrow section of flat land no more than three meters wide.
“Oars in,” Hal called as they closed on the beach and steered the little ship in on an angle, running her prow up to grate on the coarse sand.
“We’ll have a meal and coffee,” he told Edvin. “Then we’ll head inland. Stig, take Ulf and Wulf and make sure we’re alone.”
His tall first mate nodded and gestured to the twins to get their weapons and follow him.
“I’ll go with you,” Lydia said, slinging her quiver of darts over one shoulder. Stig nodded agreement. Lydia had keen eyes, and she was an expert tracker. Even if there was no current danger, she’d be able to tell if strangers had been on the beach or among the trees in the past few days. The area seemed deserted, but it was wise to make sure.
The four of them headed off into the trees that fringed the beach, staying several meters apart so as not to make a bunched-up target. Edvin busied himself lighting a fire. The rest of the crew stood ready, their weapons close to hand, until Stig and the others returned.
“All clear,” Stig reported. “Lydia says there’s been nobody here in the past week.”
“All right, everyone. Let’s relax for an hour. We’ve got plenty of rowing ahead of us.”
chapter twelve
An hour later, rested and refreshed, they shoved off from the beach and began to row inland.
The river current was strong and Hal had all six oars run out. The crew worked steadily at the oars, with the spare rowers spelling two of the oarsmen every hour.
Lydia moved to stand beside Hal at the tiller, and Kloof flumped down on the deck with a great exhalation of breath, her nose resting on her two forepaws, her eyes constantly moving as she watched Hal, making sure he didn’t suddenly disappear.
The river had narrowed, which served to increase the current. It was now barely fifty meters wide—not wide enough to make it worthwhile raising sail and tacking into the wind.
“What’s the point,” Jesper asked of no one in particular, but making sure that everyone could hear him, “of having a skirl who’s a brilliant inventor if he can’t figure out a way to sail directly into the wind?”
Ulf was mystified by the comment. He was, at times, a little slow on the uptake. “How would you sail directly into the wind?” he asked.
Jesper shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a brilliant inventor.”
Hal chose to ignore the comment. He was studying the river. There were large floes of melting ice rushing downstream with the current. Occasionally, when he couldn’t avoid them, they rumbled loudly against the hull as they brushed past. They were soft and mushy and offered no risk to the ship, but he kept clear of them as far as possible.
“The ice must be melting farther upriver,” he told Lydia. “In winter, the river is frozen over.”
She leaned over the
rail to watch a large mass of slushy ice drifting past them. “Could you bring troops down the frozen river?” she asked.
Hal considered the question, then shook his head. “The ice never gets that thick this far down. It seems solid on the surface, but the water is still flowing under it—it’s not solid enough to support large numbers of horses and men.”
A few soft flakes of snow drifted down around them, melting instantly when they touched their jackets or faces. He looked up. The black clouds that he had observed earlier had moved closer to the coast. He pulled his collar up, shivering as several snowflakes found their way down his collar and instantly melted into freezing water.
He checked the sandglass beside the steering platform. The last few grains were running out, and he turned it over.
“Change rowers,” he ordered. Ulf and Wulf, who were due for relief, handed over their oars to Stig and Ingvar. Instantly, as the two new rowers took up the stroke, Hal felt the ship speed up. She also began to veer slightly to port. Ingvar was on the starboard side.
“Ease up a little, Ingvar,” he cautioned. Sometimes the massive young man didn’t realize his own prodigious strength. Even with Thorn on the bench opposite him, he could still cause the bow to veer. Ingvar grunted and reduced the length of his stroke. The ship ran true again, and Hal could relax the countermanding pressure on the tiller.
Lydia smiled fondly at the big warrior. “I sometimes think he could row this ship by himself,” she said.
Hal nodded. “I’m sure he could.”
Ulf and Wulf lay back on the deck, their backs propped comfortably against the folded port-side sail. They had an hour before they were due to relieve another pair on the oars. Most crew members would have been content to use the time to rest and relax. But the twins found it hard to sit quietly for any length of time— particularly if they were sitting together. Neither of them could ever resist goading the other.
Return of the Temujai Page 8
