The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away. You’ll have to forget him for the time being, he thought. Then he clapped his hands together decisively.

  “Right! Let’s get under way. We’ve got a gate to burn!”

  They hurried to their new stations. Stefan and one of the Limmatans hauled the sail in, so that it hardened to the wind. Stig heaved on the tiller and the Heron began to move once more, cutting through the water as they headed for the beach gate, swooping up and over each successive wave.

  Hal took a final look at the two watchtowers. The guardhouse and platform on the western tower had collapsed in a shower of sparks and flame. The supporting framework was still pretty much intact, but now there was nothing on top of it.

  On the eastern side, it was a different story. The fire had taken hold and had burned through the support structure at the point where Hal’s bolt had struck it. The upper platform now leaned crazily to one side as that corner of the framework gave way. It looked as if a strong wind would send the whole thing tumbling. On the ground below, he could see men fighting, and others running along the harbor front toward the town.

  Svengal and his men had crossed the boom, Hal thought. The attack was going well.

  Now it was time to give them a hand.

  Hal stood beside Stig as they made the short trip to the beach gate. Then he went forward to take his place behind the Mangler. He could see men on the palisade above the gate. Occasionally, the sun glinted off their weapons and armor. But there was only a handful of men visible. The greatest number of the pirates had been stationed in the watchtowers, and they were now retreating down the quay, pursued by Svengal and his Skandians. Other defenders had been drawn off by Barat’s men as they had surged over the palisade and into the town. The invaders’ numbers were being stretched by the multiple points of attack and there were precious few available to defend the beach gate—which had largely been forgotten in the afternoon’s confusion.

  Two of the defenders had bows and they began to shoot, sending arrows hissing into the water and clattering against the bow post and shields once more. They weren’t very good shots, but one of them might get lucky and Hal couldn’t afford any more casualties.

  “Lydia?” he said. “Can you take care of them?”

  She nodded as she studied the situation through narrowed eyes. The shooters weren’t bothering to conceal themselves. So far, they had experienced no return shots from the ship and they were a little cocky, she thought. It occurred to her that they probably hadn’t witnessed the Heron’s attack on the watchtowers and had no idea of the danger they were in.

  She selected a dart, checking to see how many she had remaining. She’d made extra for today’s engagement and now she had sixteen left. She fitted the dart to the atlatl, stepped clear of the mast, sighted and threw. As soon as the dart was on its way, she slipped a second from her quiver, fitted it onto the thrower and sent it whipping after the first.

  The advantage of the atlatl was that it was difficult to see what the thrower was doing. An archer was more obvious, as his bow could be clearly seen. But the thin darts and relatively small throwing handle couldn’t be easily distinguished from a distance. The first the Magyarans knew about it, one of their archers went reeling back from the wooden parapet, transfixed by a razor-sharp dart that seemed to come out of nowhere. A few seconds later, his fellow archer suffered the same fate. The men around them hurriedly ducked below the parapet, out of sight.

  Hal had been studying the gate and he noted with relief that the bulging oil bladder was still in position. The thought that it might have been discovered and removed had been preying on his mind all day.

  “Get one of the fire bolts ready, Edvin,” he said. Now that Ingvar was settled, Edvin had returned to his station by the Mangler. He busied himself with the tinderbox, and in a minute or so Hal could smell the acrid smoke from the burning fire head.

  The Mangler was already cocked. Edvin soaked the front section of the bow once more, then placed the smoldering bolt in the loading groove. The flames hissed against the damp wood, sending steam wisping into the air.

  Hal frowned as he stared down the sights. Although Heron was stationary, she was rising and falling gently on the swell. For the first time, he realized how small a target the oilskin was. It was a simple pig’s bladder, filled with oil, and it was considerably smaller than the meter-square targets he had practiced on. He frowned, wondering if he could hit it.

  “One way to find out,” he said. He bent forward, intent on the sighting picture. Thorn stood ready with the training lever.

  “Left… Left… left just a little… hold it…”

  He waited for the bow to rise on the swell, taking the foresight up with them. Just before they reached the top of the rise and settled on the oilskin, he tugged the lanyard.

  SLAM!

  He sat back, watching the now-familiar trail of gray smoke. The shot looked good, but he was off by about half a meter to the left.

  He frowned. He had only two fire bolts left. He drummed his fingers nervously on the carriage of the crossbow, thinking furiously. They’d have to go closer. But any minute, the Magyarans might find more archers to man the palisade. Lydia touched him lightly on the arm and he looked up at her.

  “Well,” she said, “now that we’ve seen you can actually hit the equivalent of a barn door with that overgrown crossbow, could I make a suggestion?”

  “Please go ahead,” he said. She drew another dart from her quiver and set the back end into the hook on her atlatl.

  “Why don’t I split the oilskin for you? The oil will gush out and all you have to do is hit the gate somewhere below it. Even you should be able to do that.” She added the last with no hint of a smile.

  He considered the idea. All this time, he’d been thinking that he’d have to hit the oilskin with a burning projectile. But she was right. If she punctured it and the oil flooded down the gate, a fire bolt anywhere would set it aflame. He gestured toward the distant gate.

  “Go right ahead. Just wait till I give you the word,” he said. She smiled briefly at him. He turned to the twins and Edvin.

  “Load another fire bolt,” he said.

  Once more, Ulf and Wulf wrestled with the cocking levers to set the bowstring. Edvin placed another smoldering fire bolt into the groove. Then, directing Thorn on the training lever, Hal lined the Mangler up on the gate below the oilskin. He leaned back and looked up at the slim girl, standing ready with the dart in her hand.

  “Now,” he said. She nodded, and her arm went back, then forward. The dart sailed away. He lost sight of it against the sky and looked instead at the oil bladder hanging near the top of the gate.

  He saw the dart almost immediately as it curved in and punctured the bladder. A jet of oil started coursing out down the gate. He could see the dark stain against the weathered gray timber.

  “Blast. I hoped to split it wide-open,” Lydia muttered, reaching for a second dart. As Hal leaned down and adjusted his sights, she prepared for a second throw.

  SLAM!

  The fire bolt arced away, thudding into the gate below the oil bladder, but just to one side of the stream of oil running down the timber. Lydia cast again, grunting with extra effort this time. Again, Hal lost sight of the dart as it flew and focused instead on the gate. He saw a flicker of movement as the dart smacked into the oilskin. The bladder, weakened now in two places, ruptured completely between the two points and the rest of the oil poured out in a flood, reaching the burning bolt fastened in the wood and the dry kindling below.

  There was a brief pause, then a sheet of flame engulfed the gate.

  chapter thirty - seven

  Barat led his men at a steady jog through the twisting, maze-like back streets toward the town center. The half-dozen escapees who had made their way to the swamps in the past few days had reported that Zavac and his henchmen had taken over the counting house, a sprawling, two-story building that took up most of one side of the town square.


  Barat and his force were in the older part of the town, where the streets were winding and haphazard, without any semblance of logic or order. Twice now they had run into resistance, at points where the Magyarans had hastily thrown barricades across the narrow street and attempted to throw their attackers back.

  But the Limmatan attackers had a significant advantage over the Magyarans. They had been born and raised in this town and they knew the intricate side streets and alleys like the backs of their hands. As they came to each barricade, parties would split off to the left and right, following twisting alleys and paths so narrow that at times their shoulders brushed the walls of buildings either side. Then they would emerge behind the barricade, taking the surprised Magyarans in the rear while Barat and the rest of the force assaulted them from the front.

  With each of these encounters, the pirates’ numbers shrank as the defenders were scattered. Some managed to withdraw to the next defensive position but others took to their heels, abandoning the fight and searching for hiding places in the cellars and attics of the houses.

  In the counting house, Zavac looked up as yet another messenger arrived, this time from the eastern gate.

  “We need more men!” he shouted. “That ship has sailed around to the beach, and they’ve set fire to the beach gate.”

  Zavac uttered a curse. The strange, innocuous-looking ship, with a crew of less than a dozen men, had battered the two tower strong points into smoldering wreckage with some kind of infernal weapon mounted in its bow.

  Zavac glared at the man. “Who’s in command on the palisade?”

  “Petrac,” the messenger told him. “He says we need more men. Particularly archers—as many as you can spare. He’s convinced they’ll be attacking soon.”

  Zavac thought furiously. Reports had been coming in to the counting house over the past hour, and as he heard this latest one, he realized how seriously he had underestimated the threat to his position.

  With the watchtowers reduced to smoldering wreckage, a band of Skandians had emerged from the marshes, crossed the boom and were pressing hard from the harbor side of town. A Limmatan force had stormed the eastern palisade unopposed, while he had sent men to belatedly cope with the Skandians. Now he was being squeezed between the two forces, and it seemed that a third was preparing to join the battle.

  Most of those killed in the fight for the towers were from the Stingray’s crew. But six of his own men had been lost there as well. He’d sent a dozen back to the Raven to make sure she was safe. The rest of them were gathered here at the counting house, while the crews of the Viper and Stingray fought a series of delaying actions at the harbor front and in the town itself.

  Finally, he appeared to come to a decision. He nodded several times, studying a map of the town, tracing the path back to the beach gate with his forefinger.

  “Very well,” he said firmly. “Get back to Petrac. Tell him I’m sending twenty men—and as many archers as I can get together. Just tell him to hold out until they get there.”

  The messenger nodded gratefully and headed for the door, breaking into a run as he reached the town square outside.

  Andras stepped forward, a frown on his face.

  “Are you mad?” he said. “Twenty men? That’s nearly half the men we have left!”

  Zavac looked around, checking that the messenger had gone, and shook his head. “I’m sending nobody,” he told his second in command. “But if Petrac knows that, he’ll fold like an empty coat. Get the men together. But do it quietly. We’re heading back to the Raven and getting out of here.”

  In truth, there was no reason for him to stay any longer. They hadn’t conquered Limmat in order to occupy it permanently. They were staying here for as long as it took to bleed the maximum amount of treasure out of the emerald mine. Now it was time to take the considerable amount they had already and fade away.

  And if that meant leaving their allies from Stingray and Viper to cover their backs while he made his escape, so be it.

  Andras left the inner room Zavac was using as an office. He went to one of the larger central halls in the counting house, where the Raven’s men were awaiting orders. The room was virtually bare of furniture. In normal times, it was used for assemblies, ceremonies and public audiences. On the far side of the room, ten men from Stingray were gathered together, including the ship’s first mate, Rikard. He was in command of the Stingray now. Her captain had been in the east watchtower when it burned and collapsed. The two pirate crews might be working in collaboration, Andras thought, but there was little love lost between them.

  Rikard looked up now and strolled across the hall as Andras began to gather his men together.

  “What’s happening?” he asked. Andras jerked a thumb in the general direction of the beach gate.

  “Message from Petrac. There’s an attack massing at the east gate and he’s asked for reinforcements. We’re going to sort things out. Care to join us?”

  He had no doubt that Rikard would refuse the suggestion.

  “Might be better if we kept an eye on things here,” Rikard said evasively. “Just in case we’re needed.”

  Andras pretended to consider this point, then nodded. “Maybe that’s best,” he said eventually. “We’ll see you later.”

  Rikard nodded. Once Andras and the Raven’s crew members left, he thought, he’d give them time to get clear. Then he and his men would head for the Stingray, moored against the quay in the inner harbor. Let Raven’s crew do the fighting, he thought. They could keep the enemy occupied while Stingray slipped away. His only regret was that his missing captain had never told him where he was hiding Stingray’s share of the emeralds. Still, they’d taken plenty of other booty when they captured the town. It would be enough to escape with that—and his skin.

  Rikard waved in farewell as the other crew trooped out behind Andras.

  Zavac, who had left by a back exit, was waiting for his men in a side alley that led toward the quay. He had a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. Andras pointed to it.

  “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

  Zavac smiled fiercely. “Emeralds,” he said. “We’ll keep them safe for the others.”

  Andras nodded. “Of course. Good thinking. Be a shame to let the Limmatans get them back.”

  Both of them knew that the crews of the Viper and the Stingray had no chance of seeing any share of the precious stones. They could keep the attacking Skandians and Limmatans at bay while Zavac and his crew escaped in the Raven. Zavac studied the faces of his men for a few seconds, then selected one who had been with him for several raiding seasons. He was a man who had proved to be dependable on several occasions in the past.

  “Zoltan,” he said, “make your way through the alleys to the mole and cut the cable on the boom. And burn the Viper,” he added, as an afterthought. No sense in leaving a ship behind for his enemies. “Go south initially and you’ll avoid the Skandians. Then cut back west. We’ll pick you up as we head out. Stay on the mole and wait for us.”

  The man nodded. “Aye aye, Zavac,” he said. He hitched his sword belt up, turned away and ran south, into the maze of alleys and cross streets that led off the square.

  “The rest of you follow me,” Zavac said.

  There were several relatively broad thoroughfares leading from the square to the harbor but he chose to ignore them. Any minute now, a horde of Skandians could come yelling down one of them. Instead, he led his men through the back alleys, his innate sense of direction keeping them heading toward the harbor, no matter how the streets twisted and turned.

  They eventually emerged onto the quay a few meters from where Stingray was moored. Zavac peered out cautiously. There were several Skandians in sight, but the nearest was forty meters away. Others, seeing the quay was now swept clear of enemies—who had either died or withdrawn—had plunged into the network of streets and headed for the town center.

  There were three men left on board Stingray to keep an eye on things. Zavac jerke
d his thumb at them and spoke quietly to Andras.

  “Kill them. Then burn the ship.”

  The flames, which had burned so fiercely, were finally dying down on the gate. A thick column of greasy smoke hung in the sky. Above the blackened gate, the defenders clustered, looking down anxiously to gauge the extent of the damage.

  Heron still rode the waves some hundred meters off the beach. Hal had called a council of war and his crew had moved forward and crouched round him.

  “Ulf, Wulf,” Hal said quietly. “Have you got the battering ram?”

  The previous day, Ingvar had found a driftwood log on the beach and fashioned a ram from it, fitting rope handles so he could swing it into the burned timbers of the gate. Now the twins would be wielding it in his place.

  “It’s ready, Hal,” Ulf told him.

  Hal looked at them. “There’s bound to be a locking bar of some kind on the gate. The fire won’t have burned through it completely, but it will have weakened it. A few good thumps with the ram should finish the job.”

  Ulf and Wulf exchanged a glance and both nodded at the same moment. Hal turned his attention back to the gate.

  So far, there had been no sign of archers on the palisade. But that could change at any minute. Hal glanced round and caught Lydia’s eye.

  “Stay back and cover us while we head up the beach. Once we’re there, we’ll probably have their full attention, so you can join us.”

  She nodded, licking her lips nervously, then glanced up and saw Thorn grinning at her. She scowled. She didn’t want him thinking she was afraid.

  Hal was speaking to the twins once more.

  “Once you’ve broken through, move to either side. Thorn will be leading the attack through the gate. Stig and I will be with him. You two come after us. Lydia, find a vantage point once we’ve broken through and pick off any of the enemy who seem to be causing trouble.”

  Lydia pretended to examine the sharpened iron point on one of her darts. She had been concerned that Hal would try to keep her out of the battle. His plan made sense. She had no pretensions about her ability to take on any of the pirates in hand-to-hand combat. They were stronger than she was, and more skilled in close-quarter fighting. This plan made the best use of her principal skill—her uncanny accuracy with the atlatl and its darts.