The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Zavac looked at the dagger in his hand, seemed to come to a decision and re-sheathed it. He sighed deeply, looking up at the sky, rather than at the surly figure of the captain on the deck in front of him.

  “You know,” he said in a musing tone, “I wonder how many ships I’ve taken and sunk over the years. One hundred? Two hundred? Probably two hundred is closer to the mark. And I have to wonder why, in just about every one of those cases, the captain told me that there’s no gold. There’s no strongbox. There’s no hidden compartment on his ship. They say the same thing every time. And do you know what?”

  Now he let his gaze fall on the captain. The man was still nursing his injured cheek, although the blood was starting to congeal and wasn’t flowing as freely. The captain looked up at the pirate with fear in his eyes. Zavac prompted him to answer his question.

  “What?” said the captain.

  “They were all lying. Every one of them. So, why should I think you’re any different?”

  “I… ,” the captain began. Then he fell silent. He sensed it was useless talking to this man. He knew his life was forfeit and the only possible revenge he could have was to deny Zavac the knowledge he was seeking. Zavac looked at him with mock pity. Then he made a dismissive gesture.

  “I can see you’re not going to tell me,” he said. He turned and walked away, heading back toward the bow. He hadn’t gone more than three paces before he turned back to his two big henchmen.

  “Torture him,” he said briefly. “Call me when he’s ready to talk.” He considered his statement, then he amended it. “On second thought, when he’s ready to talk, keep torturing him for another five minutes. Then call me.”

  It took fifteen minutes for the Gallican skipper to give in. Then, as instructed, the torturers continued their ghastly work for another five, before Zavac called a halt.

  The captain was barely recognizable now. His face was a mask of blood and more blood stained his shirt. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing, as was his left ear. There was a deep cut under one eye. It was this that had finally convinced him to give in. Even though, logically, he knew he was going to die, the thought of losing that eye had been too horrible.

  Zavac surveyed him with professional interest, then smiled at his two heavily muscled assistants.

  “Amazing what you can achieve in a few minutes with just a couple of sharp blades,” he said. Then he dropped to one knee beside the captain, who was lying facedown in a pool of his own blood, breathing noisily past a broken nose.

  “Now,” said Zavac. “The strongbox.”

  He had to bend closer to hear the reply, slurred and breathless with pain as it was.

  “False panel… behind anchor cable…”

  Zavac slapped the man heartily on the shoulder.

  “That’s better!” he said. “I’m sure the truth has purged your soul of wickedness.” He rose and started toward the bow. One of the torturers stopped him.

  “Will we finish him off?” he asked, but Zavac shook his head.

  “Wait till we see if he’s telling the truth,” he said. “I may have to ask him more questions.”

  But the strongbox was where the captain had said, concealed behind a false panel. There was no lock. The hiding place was considered security enough. But when Zavac pried the lid open, his eyes grew wider with avarice.

  There was gold there, of course. And plenty of it. But nestling in a small compartment of their own were nine magnificent emeralds—the biggest and finest that Zavac had ever seen.

  “Hello,” he said quizzically. “Where do you suppose these came from?”

  He repeated the question to the captain, who shook his head wearily, unable to summon the strength to answer. Zavac was tempted for a moment to hit him, to shake him and force the answer from him. But he sensed this would be the wrong approach. Instead, he dropped to one knee, leaned close and whispered to him.

  “Tell me where the emeralds came from. And I’ll make the pain stop.”

  The blood-rimmed eyes rose to meet his and he nodded encouragingly. Finally, the Gallican summoned his strength.

  “Limmat. They came from Limmat.”

  Limmat was a trading port to the south of where they now were. Zavac frowned. He’d never heard of emeralds in that part of the coast.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he warned, the smile fading from his face. But the Gallican shook his head doggedly.

  “True. There’s a mine in the hills behind the town. Hidden. Secret.”

  “Hidden? How is it hidden?”

  “A barn. Built at the base of a hill. It hides the mine entrance.”

  Zavac rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to hide it,” he mused. The captain drew in another shuddering breath before replying.

  “They don’t want word to get out.”

  Zavac’s smile returned. “I don’t blame them,” he said. “If it was well-known, it might attract the wrong sort of people.”

  He rose, a thoughtful expression on his face. He’d need more men if he was going to take Limmat. It was quite a large town and its inhabitants would presumably be ready to fight to save their emerald mine.

  But Zavac knew where he could find reinforcements. There was a bay a few leagues away on the coast that served as an assembly point for Magyaran ships. It was standard practice for pirates to call there on their outward journeys, checking for word of a plum target like this one. Any captain who had come across such an opportunity and needed more men could find willing reinforcements there.

  He’d go there, he thought, and see if any of his countrymen were there. If not, he’d wait a few days. At this time of year, with the hunting season starting, a ship would almost certainly call there in the near future. He began to pace away, deep in thought, when the captain called after him.

  “You promised…”

  Zavac turned, frowning. “I promised? Promised what?”

  “Stop the pain…” The man held out a beseeching hand. With two fingers missing and caked in rapidly drying blood, it reminded Zavac of a bird’s claw more than a human hand.

  “Did I?” he said, then he smiled as he seemed to remember. “So I did.”

  He turned back to the captain and, drawing his curved sword, ran the man through.

  “And I’m a man of my word.”

  Then he turned to his accomplices and jerked a thumb at the dead captain.

  “Throw that overboard.”

  chapter fifteen

  In oars,” Hal said. The Herons hurried to comply with the order. Then, anticipating the next command, Jesper and Stefan moved to the halyards, preparing to raise the yardarm and sail. As they did so, Ulf and Wulf moved to the sail trimming sheets.

  The ship was riding the waters of Shelter Bay like a gull, some fifteen meters offshore. Soon, they would see if Hal’s new fin worked or not.

  The fin itself was poised at the top of the keel box. Thorn stood by, ready to push it down so that it extended below the hull.

  “Starboard sail,” Hal ordered, and Jesper and Stefan sent the starboard yardarm and sail soaring up the mast. The wind in the bay was moderate, but still strong enough to set the sail billowing out to starboard. Without needing to be told, Ulf and Wulf hauled in on the sheets and tightened the sail to the wind. As the ship heeled, with the starboard gunwale coming close to the water, they eased off and she came more upright.

  Hal felt the accustomed moment of excitement as the ship came to life, surging across the bay, the tiller vibrating slightly against his hand. The water slapped against the hull, and he could feel the small impacts through the soles of his feet. As the Heron gathered speed, he nodded to Thorn.

  “Let it down.”

  Thorn leaned his weight on the fin and pushed it down through the keel box and into the water below. The padding and baffles that Hal had added to the inside of the box made it a snug fit. A few splashes of water came up through the box, displaced by the fin as it went down.

  Instantly,
Hal felt the difference as the fin began to bite. A shallow-keeled boat like the Heron tended to drift downwind, and the hull would skid slightly as she turned. Now the extra resistance of the fin took effect, so that as he pushed the tiller to starboard, the boat responded instantly, pivoting round the resistance of the fin with virtually no sideways skidding motion.

  He glanced at Stig, who was watching him anxiously from the port-side rear-rowing bench.

  “How is it?” Stig asked. Hal’s huge grin told him the answer. But the young skirl beckoned him to the steering platform.

  “See for yourself.”

  As Stig bounded up to join him, Hal called to Thorn.

  “Raise the fin, Thorn.” He wanted Stig to feel the difference as the fin was lowered and took effect.

  Thorn grunted with effort as he raised the fin. Hal felt the downwind drift begin again almost immediately.

  “That’s a snug fit,” Thorn said. “What did you line it with?”

  “Oh, leather and some sheepskin,” Hal said distractedly. He failed to notice Thorn’s sharp look as he said sheepskin. Stig was standing beside him, eager to take the tiller. Hal handed it over and called to Thorn again.

  “Down fin, Thorn.”

  Thorn glared at him, then shoved the fin down savagely. Water splashed up out of the keel box.

  “Down through all that sheepskin, you mean?” he muttered darkly.

  But Hal was watching Stig’s face as he felt the fin take effect. A grin to match his own spread over his friend’s features.

  “That’s amazing!” Stig said. “She tracks much more truly! There’s hardly any drift!”

  “Try a turn,” Hal suggested. Once again, the new fin showed its value as Stig pulled the tiller toward him and the ship pivoted neatly and immediately, without skidding.

  “She was good before,” he said, his eyes wide with amazement. “But now she’s perfect.”

  They were farther out in the bay now and the wind was blowing more strongly. Hal took the tiller and called to the twins.

  “Bring the sail in hard.”

  They heaved on the trimming sheets. As the sail hardened and flattened, the Heron began to heel under the increased pressure. But it was balanced by the resistance of the fin below the surface. Ulf and Wulf were able to trim the sail in farther and farther. The Heron moved faster and faster through the water. Eventually, they reached a point where the water was only inches from the starboard gunwale, racing past the ship’s side in a froth of white foam. They eased the sail a little to prevent the boat from being swamped. Astern of the ship, the white wake showed the speed of her passage.

  Stig and Hal both shouted triumphantly.

  “Incredible!” Stig said. Hal was too delighted to say anything. His enormous smile said it all for him. Ulf and Wulf looked up at the steering platform. Ulf shook his head in disbelief.

  “Amazing!” he said. “We could never haul in this far before!”

  “Look at how fast she’s going!” Wulf said.

  Hal beckoned to Thorn.

  “Come and try it, Thorn!” he said. “Ease the sail, boys, and Stig, you bring the fin up!”

  Thorn and Stig changed places. Stig waited until Ulf and Wulf had eased the sail considerably, then heaved the fin up once more.

  As he did so, Thorn said meaningfully, “Careful. It’s quite a tight fit. Apparently somebody lined it with sheepskin.”

  Suddenly, Thorn’s preoccupation with the lining of the keel box registered with Hal and he looked guiltily at the old sea wolf.

  “Oh… ,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry, Thorn. I didn’t know it was your sheepskin vest… I sort of found it… and I…”

  “You assumed a sheep had died and left you its coat?” Thorn said with heavy sarcasm. “Just slipped out of it and left it lying around for you to find?”

  “Well, no. Not really. I just didn’t think…”

  “And we’re all used to that, aren’t we?” Thorn replied. He held Hal’s gaze until the young skirl dropped his eyes.

  Point made, Thorn thought. Then he reached for the tiller.

  “Right. Let’s see how this fin of yours works.”

  Once again, they went through the sequence of actions to test the fin’s effect, and like Stig and Hal before him, Thorn was amazed at the difference it made to the ship’s performance.

  “Well, you’ve done it,” he told Hal. “Speed and agility. You’ve got them both now, in large amounts.” Keeping tension on the tiller with his hook, he clapped his young friend on the shoulder with his left hand. “I suppose next you’ll be putting wings on her so she can fly?”

  Hal laughed. “I’ve been thinking about that. Not sure if I can get it to work… yet.”

  While testing the fin, they had been running back and forth inside Shelter Bay. Now they were heading for the entrance again. Hal studied the sea outside the bay. The waves were bigger, but nothing that Heron couldn’t handle. He glanced at Thorn.

  “Do you think this weather will hold?” he asked. Thorn glanced up at the sky, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  “I’d say it’s cleared now. We should be all right for a couple of days, at least.”

  “Then let’s head down the coast to that trading village,” Hal said. “I’ve got supplies I have to buy.”

  “Including a nice, expensive new sheepskin vest,” Thorn told him.

  Hal nodded several times. “Well, of course. That’s first on the list.”

  “Really? I’d like to see that list,” Thorn said.

  Hal tapped his forehead with one finger. “It’s all up here in my head,” he said. “But sheepskin vest is the first item there. Trust me.”

  “I did that once,” Thorn replied. “Look where it got me.”

  PART 2

  THE INVADERS

  chapter sixteen

  The town of Limmat was on the eastern side of a small harbor, situated on the western shore of a wide, deep bay. A wooden palisade surrounded the town.

  The harbor entrance was narrow and guarded by wooden watchtowers on either side. A heavy log boom ran across the harbor mouth, barring entry to strange ships. Any ship that tried to force its way through the boom could be raked by arrows and lead shot from archers and slingers in the towers. Inside, the harbor widened out to provide a sheltered anchorage. Any invading force approaching from the wide, open bay to the northeast would have to break through this palisade. A heavy gate was set into the palisade on the northeastern side, where a small stretch of beach ran from the gate to the waters of the bay.

  On the southwest shore of the bay, the ground consisted of low-lying, impenetrable swampland. The water was shallow, around waist deep, and the bottom was treacherous with shifting mud. Any attack from this side would quickly bog down in the marshes. It might be navigable by small skiffs or coracles, but it would take too many of them to carry a large force through the swamp. And even if attackers did manage to get through, they would be scattered during the approach and the town’s defenders would have ample warning of their coming.

  In addition, any attacking party that did manage to thread their way through the swamp and regroup would still find themselves on the wrong side of the harbor and the palisade that enclosed the inland side of the town.

  It was a well-situated, eminently defensible position, Zavac thought as he surveyed it from the steering platform of the Raven. The long, low ship cruised past under oars, four hundred meters offshore. He could see movement on the watchtowers as the defenders caught sight of her. She was obviously a warship, not a trader, and the alarm would have gone up.

  Looking to the narrow harbor entrance, he could make out a line of white water. He pointed it out to Andras.

  “The boom is closed,” he said.

  His second in command nodded. “They probably have it in place all the time,” he replied. He shaded his eyes and peered at the headlands on either side of the entrance. There would be winching devices somewhere that would allow the Limmatans to move the log boom b
ack and forth, opening it to admit those ships they wanted to give entry to and closing it again to bar other, less welcome visitors.

  “They’ve seen us,” Andras said to Zavac. “We’ve lost the element of surprise.”

  Andras was puzzled. If they planned to attack and overrun Limmat, it would be better if the defenders had no idea they were in the area. A night attack would be the best, he thought, slipping in under cover of darkness and assaulting one of the two watchtowers with scaling ladders. But now that Raven had been seen, there would be little chance of pulling that off. The defenders would be alert. Chances were they’d double the watch during the dark hours, expecting just such an attack.

  And a forewarned, nervous garrison was a much harder nut to crack than a complacent, sleepy garrison, feeling safe and secure inside their stronghold.

  Zavac smiled at him. “I want them to see us,” he said. “I want them to know we’re in the area. I have a different kind of surprise in store for them. Now, let’s give them a show.”

  He nudged the tiller and swung the Raven toward the shore. The rowers maintained their easy rhythm and the black ship glided through the water. As they came closer, he could make out the shouted cries of defiance from the men on duty in the watchtowers. Sunlight flashed on the blades of weapons as the garrison members brandished them.

  He aimed the Raven for the gap between the harbor promontories.

  “Faster,” he ordered, and the rowers increased their pace. Raven began to surge forward, her speed building. A white bow wave formed at her prow as she arrowed for the boom—four massive hardwood logs, linked together by short lengths of chain, floating just below the surface of the water. If it wasn’t for the small waves breaking across it, the boom would be all but invisible.

  He measured the distance. They were one hundred and fifty meters out now and the sound of shouting and clashing of weapons was louder with each stroke of the oars. Suddenly he threw up his arm.