The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Hal gestured to the tub where the five remaining fire bolts were stored.

  “Get two ready and lit when the time comes,” he said. “Ingvar is going to have to reload fast. Once we’re stopped, we’ll swing up into the wind in a few minutes. When that happens, I won’t be able to train the Mangler round far enough.”

  He paused, wondering if he’d left anything out. “Another thing, Edvin. You’ll have to look after it by yourself. Lydia is going to be busy picking off the people shooting at us.”

  Edvin’s brows knitted as he thought over the actions he would have to take. “That won’t be a problem. I think I’d prefer it if she’s keeping their heads down.”

  “All right. Places, everyone.” Hal turned to call back to Stig and the twins. “Let’s get moving!”

  As the sail was hauled in, Stig let the Heron fall off from the wind. Within a few seconds, she was carving a smooth white wake through the sea again.

  Barat stopped at the foot of the palisade. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, but that was the result of nervous tension, not exhaustion. Incredibly, he and his men had covered the forty meters of open space along the beach without any alarm being raised.

  He turned back now and called quietly, “Grapnels! Climbers! Go!”

  Four grapnels soared up over the palisade, each one trailing a snakelike length of rope behind it. He heard the four thuds as they hit in rapid succession. Then the throwers hauled back on the ropes, dragging the three-pronged hooks back across the walkway until they bit and held fast against the vertical logs that formed the three-meter-high palisade wall. One broke loose and came tumbling back down. As the handler cursed quietly and gathered it in for another throw, Barat gestured to the other three.

  “Climbers! On your way! Don’t wait for that one!”

  The men who had thrown the grapnels now leaned their weight back against the ropes to hold them taut. Two more men moved to stand under each rope, holding a thick spear handle between them. As the first climber began to swarm up the rope, he put his foot on the spear handle and the two men heaved him upward, boosting him up so that his hands closed over the top of the palisade. Taking care not to snag himself on the sharpened ends of the upright logs, he vaulted lightly over onto the catwalk beyond. Two more climbers joined him almost immediately. They drew their swords, swung their shields around from their backs, and moved down the catwalk to form a defensive line, while their comrades swarmed up over the palisade.

  Barat came up with the second wave. He glanced quickly around. The catwalk was empty on either side. There was no sign of any defenders.

  We’ve taken them completely by surprise, he thought. Then he leapt back in alarm as the fourth grapnel soared over the palisade and clattered on the planks of the catwalk, missing him by centimeters. He kicked the grapnel over the inner edge of the catwalk so that the prongs caught on the timbers there. The rope drew tight as the unseen attacker below heaved back to set it. Then it began to vibrate as a climber mounted it.

  “Alarm! Alarm! The enemy’s on the wall!”

  The shouting voice reached him from the town below. He looked down into one of the narrow, winding streets that ran away from the palisade toward the open plaza in the town center. Three Magyarans had just rounded a corner and seen the Limmatans gathering on the walkway above them.

  The pirates started toward the palisade, then hesitated as they saw the numbers of men already on the catwalk. Realizing they were seriously outnumbered, they turned to run, shouting the alarm as they went.

  “Stop them!” Barat shouted. One of his men stepped forward and hurled a spear. It took the nearest Magyaran in the upper leg and he twisted and fell to the ground, calling out for his comrades to help him. They took one more look at the crowd of armed men on the catwalk, turned and disappeared round a corner in the street, yelling the alarm as they went.

  Barat hesitated a second. The palisade was undefended on this side. Hal had been right, he thought. The bulk of the Magyarans would be in the watchtowers, or in the town center itself. He gestured toward the steps with his sword.

  “Down to ground level!” he yelled. “Head for the town square.”

  The planks of the catwalk vibrated under his feet as he led the thirty-eight men running toward the stairs.

  Near the western watchtower, the Skandians had formed into a wedge shape, with Svengal at its head. They smashed into the disorganized Magyarans, axes rising and falling in a deadly rhythm. The pirates, stunned and demoralized by the sudden onset of the watchtower fire, eyes streaming from the smoke, had no chance against the charging Skandians.

  The lucky ones among the enemy were those who were simply buffeted aside by the heavy wooden shields.

  Some, blood streaming from their wounds, tried to crawl away from the fight, crying piteously. Others lay where they fell, ominously still. Svengal found himself facing one of the few Magyarans who seemed capable of putting up a fight. They circled each other warily. The Magyaran was armed with a heavy spear, which he held underarm, balanced at its midpoint, and a round metal and wood shield.

  He jabbed the spear toward the massive Skandian. But Svengal was watching his eyes and something there told him the move was a feint. He held his ground and smiled at his enemy.

  “Have to do better than that,” he said. Then, seeing Wolfwind’s bosun, Hendrik, looming up behind his adversary with an ax, he snapped, “Leave him be!” Hendrik reluctantly moved away, seeking another foe.

  In an all-out melee, it was every man for himself, and Svengal and his men would strike out at any target that presented itself. But the Magyarans were broken and defeated and this was single combat. The man was a brave and capable warrior and Svengal had no wish to see him cut down from behind.

  Skandians lived for fighting—although it must be said that some of them died for it as well—and single combat, man-to-man, was the ultimate form.

  The spear shot forward again. This time it was a genuine thrust and Svengal flicked it aside with the head of his ax. He saw a shadow of fear in the other man’s eyes then, as his opponent saw the casual ease with which Svengal handled the heavy weapon. Most warriors wouldn’t be able to match the speed and precision of Svengal’s move.

  The Magyaran, suddenly wary, retreated a pace. Svengal advanced, his eyes still intent on the other man’s. He saw the warning of another thrust there, a fraction of a second before it began, and launched his own attack instead, forestalling the other man’s lunge with a mighty overhead cut from the long-handled ax.

  The Magyaran got his shield up in the nick of time and the blow slammed against the metal, cracking the wood beneath it and beating the pirate to his knees. But he sprang to his feet almost instantly and lunged again, with the strength of desperation. Svengal decided it was time to forget finesse. He caught the spear square on his massive shield, absorbing the force behind it with flexed knees, feeling the head bite deep into the wood—and jam there.

  The Magyaran panicked as he tried in vain to withdraw his trapped spear. As a result, he never saw the roundhouse stroke from the massive ax that ended the fight for good.

  Svengal stepped back. He looked around. Some of the Magyarans had escaped, heading back around the harbor to the town. Most of them were lying, still and silent, under the burning tower. Ash and glowing cinders drifted down on them like hot rain. Hendrik caught Svengal’s eye.

  “We’d better get out from under here. That whole thing could come down at any time.”

  Svengal stooped and tugged a cloak free from one of the bodies, wiping the blade of his ax with it, then tossing it to one side.

  “Time to get across to the other tower,” he said.

  chapter thirty - five

  Hal sat behind the huge crossbow as the Heron headed toward the shore once again. He leaned back, forcing himself to relax, watching the regular rise and fall of the bow as each wave passed under the ship, attuning himself to the rhythm and timing of the movement. He estimated that they were around two hundre
d and fifty meters from the tower. He could see the small figures lining the balustrade, waiting until the Heron came in range.

  Then a thought struck him.

  The Mangler had a range of over three hundred meters. Of course, range was only one factor. Accuracy was another matter. On the rising and falling bow of a moving ship, Hal had found that he needed to be a hundred meters or less from his target to have any chance of hitting it. But that was a target that was a meter square. He was looking at the platform itself, a boxlike structure some six meters long and three meters high, perched on top of the wooden framework. He could hit a target that size easily from two hundred meters, he thought. The shots would be random. He wouldn’t be able to place them precisely, but he’d already seen how deadly the pine splinters could be. And the sudden arrival of a meter-long bolt slamming into the woodwork would play havoc with the defenders’ nerves. He turned quickly to Ingvar.

  “Cock it and load a normal bolt, Ingvar. Let’s give them something to think about while we’re heading in.”

  Ingvar looked puzzled for a moment, then he nodded. He reached for the twin levers and heaved the cord back until it clacked into place. Then he positioned a bolt in the groove.

  “As soon as I shoot, load again,” Hal said.

  Ingvar nodded, then moved to the training lever behind the crossbow.

  Hal bent over the sights. “Right… right. Left a little. Steady.” The Mangler was now trained at the middle of the balustrade.

  He put the range at a little more than two hundred meters. A splash in the water ahead of the boat confirmed it. The defenders were shooting but the ship was still out of arrow range.

  He let the ship come up on a wave, watching the foresight, lining it up slightly above the two-hundred-meter mark. As the bow steadied for a moment on the crest of the wave, he tugged the trigger lanyard.

  SLAM!

  The Mangler bucked wildly and the bolt shot away. Instantly, Ingvar leapt forward and recocked the crossbow, dropping a bolt into place. Then he was back at the training lever as Hal directed him to bring the Mangler back on line.

  As he did, Hal was winding the elevating cog, so that the target point was now a little below the two-hundred-meter mark on his rear sight. As before, he waited till the ship steadied momentarily, then shot.

  SLAM!

  As the second bolt streaked away, he saw the first shot hit in an explosion of splinters on the balustrade, just below the top of the railing and to the right of center. The defenders scattered from the spot in panic.

  Then Ingvar reloaded and was training the weapon once more as Hal wound on the elevating wheel to bring the sights down.

  The bolt he had just fired hit the target at that moment and he saw another shattering strike on the balustrade. This time, a large section of the top rail tore away and went spinning.

  “Right… left a little. Steady…”

  SLAM!

  Another shot. He checked the range and saw they’d have no time for a fourth. But the salvo of three rapid shots had done their work, causing panic and confusion on the tower. He could even see several figures hurrying down the ladder underneath the platform.

  “Light those fire bolts, Edvin,” he called. He hadn’t seen the third bolt strike but he thought it had been a good shot. He was sure it had hit somewhere. Now the defenders were creeping back to their positions. An arrow struck the bow post, quivering. Then two more rattled against the hull. Ingvar was recocking the Mangler and an arrow only just missed him.

  “Thorn!” Hal yelled. Instantly, the ragged old sea wolf leapt to his feet behind the bow post. He had the two shields ready, and as Hal watched, Thorn performed one of the most amazing feats of skill and coordination the young skirl would ever see. Years later, surrounded by his grandchildren, he would speak of it in a voice hushed with wonder.

  Thorn began to use the two metal shields to block or deflect arrows as they hissed toward the boat. He ignored the shots that were going wide, concentrating on those that were on line.

  Left hand. Right hand. Left. Left. Right.

  The two shields moved in a blur as he caught or punched or deflected arrows in rapid succession. It was obvious now why he had elected to use the smaller shields. He could never have moved a large, heavy shield with such dexterity and precision. His hand-eye coordination was simply amazing. His vision was superb. And his reactions were like lightning. The air was filled with the clang and rattle and whir of deflected or blocked arrows. Now, seeing this, Hal began to understand how this man had won the Maktig title for three years in succession—and why nobody else had done it, before or since.

  “He’s incredible,” Lydia said quietly, from close beside him. Occupied as he was, Thorn heard her and had time to respond.

  “That green-shirted nuisance is back again. Stop gawking, girl, and take care of him.”

  Clang, whirr, clack, rattle. Four more arrows were deflected. Lydia, galvanized by Thorn’s jibe, drew a dart from her quiver and hooked it to her atlatl. Sheltered by the mast, she watched for the green-shirted archer, seeing him appear at his old position, on the far left of the platform. He drew, aimed, shot, then stepped back around the guardhouse into cover.

  Lydia began counting aloud.

  “One, two, three, four.”

  A fraction after “four,” the archer stepped back out again, raised the bow, shot again, then stepped back into cover.

  “One, two,” counted Lydia and on the count of “two,” she stepped clear of the mast, her right arm going back, her left foot forward. As Thorn flicked the arrow into the sea with his left shield, she hurled the dart at the spot where the archer had been, in one fluid, powerful action.

  “. . . three, four…” She continued the count without missing a beat.

  As she said “four,” the green-shirted man reappeared, arrow nocked, bow half drawn—

  And stepped straight into the plummeting dart she had just thrown.

  He threw up his hands, the bow went spinning away and he reeled, then toppled over the railing, hitting the support framework several times as he fell.

  “That’s sensational!” Hal screamed, his voice cracking with excitement. The rest of the crew cheered. Thorn continued to deflect arrows in the bow, but he called without taking his eyes off the incoming missiles.

  “Not bad. Told you she was a keeper, didn’t I?”

  “Just keep your mind on your own job, old man!” Lydia replied brusquely.

  Thorn cackled with laughter.

  Hal could hear Edvin hastily filling Ingvar in on what had happened, his words tumbling over themselves in his excitement. Ingvar finally put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Tell me later. I take it she did well.”

  It was time. Hal turned and held up a hand to Ulf and Wulf.

  “Let go the sheets!”

  They cast the sheets loose, letting the sail fly free. As the wind spilled from the sail, Heron began to slow. Ingvar and Edvin didn’t need orders. Edvin had the first of the fire bolts burning and ready. He laid it in the trough on top of the Mangler, setting the notch onto the bowstring. Ingvar took control of the training lever once more.

  “Get down, Thorn,” Hal called. He lined the sight up, setting his aiming point between the one-hundred and the one-hundred-and-fifty marks.

  “Come left. Come left. Left a little more. Steady…”

  He could see the junction of the three beams in his sights now. Heron rose on a wave and he wound the elevating wheel down, keeping the foresight steady on the point where the three beams met. An arrow thudded into the deck near his foot. He made a mental note that the rate of return shots, and their accuracy, seemed to have decreased since Lydia had picked off the green-shirted archer. He guessed none of the fallen man’s comrades were willing to show themselves above the railing for too long.

  “Right a little,” he said. Ingvar eased him to the right. The sights were on. He pulled the lanyard.

  SLAM!

  The moment the bolt streake
d away, he knew he’d missed his target. He hadn’t allowed enough for the slight delay between pulling the lanyard and the crossbow releasing. The thin gray trail of smoke sizzled through the air, passing just under the intersection of the three beams.

  There was a groan of disappointment from the crew. Already, Ingvar had leapt forward and heaved the cocking levers back, resetting the bow for another shot. Edvin, on his knees beside the bow, reached up and placed the second fire bolt in the trough. Wisps of smoke rose from it, and steam sizzled from the wet wood of the bow.

  “Missed,” Hal said, for Ingvar’s benefit.

  The big boy grunted. “Hit it this time.”

  Hal leaned to the sights. He frowned. The bow was dropping off to starboard as the ship tried to turn up into the wind.

  “Stig!” Hal called. “Keep her straight, for pity’s sake!”

  He heard Stefan repeat the order, heard Stig call an order to Wulf. There was a rattle of wood on wood as Wulf placed an oar in the rowlocks, ran it out and backed water several times. The bow swung back, away from the wind.

  Hal wound the elevation wheel again, watching the sight rising past the target. He was a little off line.

  “Right… right… stop!”

  He took a deep breath. He reasoned that the three rapid-fire shots, aimed at a much larger target, had affected his timing. He hadn’t needed the same precision. He forced himself to concentrate fiercely. The bow sank, then started to rise again.

  Behind him, he heard a sharp cry of pain. Ingvar, he realized, with a sense of shock. Then the deck planks vibrated under his feet as the big boy staggered and fell.

  He spun round, saw Ingvar writhing on the deck, clutching at an arrow that was protruding from his left side, close to the hip.

  “Ingvar’s been hit!” Hal heard Edvin’s anguished cry and started to rise, then stopped as he heard Stig order Stefan to tend to the fallen giant. Hal was torn between his concern for Ingvar and the need to get the last shot away while the Mangler was still roughly on line. Without Ingvar, he wouldn’t have a chance to reload for a second shot. Deliberately, he forced the image of the wounded boy from his mind, hating himself as he did so. He yelled to Thorn.