The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  “What about Ingvar?” Ulf asked. “Are we just going to leave him?”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Edvin said immediately. But Hal shook his head. Thorn had often impressed on him the fact that speedy treatment of battle injuries gave the injured man a better chance of survival.

  “I want you with us in case someone’s injured. Stefan, you can stay behind and keep an eye on Ingvar.”

  It was a good compromise. Aside from Edvin, Stefan was the least skillful with weapons. He was the one they could best spare from the coming fight. As he realized that he’d be two men short, Hal breathed a sigh of thanks for the presence of the Limmatan warriors. That would help even the odds against them.

  “I’ll keep shooting as we go in. That should keep their heads down.” He looked at Ulf, Wulf and Edvin. “Keep loading as fast as you can. Thorn,” he said, and the burly one-armed man looked up at him. He was occupied changing his false arm—replacing the grasping hook with the massive, studded war club. “Once we’re on the beach, you lead. You’re the battle commander.”

  He looked round the circle of faces, some anxious, some eager to fight.

  “Do you all hear that? Thorn’s in charge once we’re off the ship. Follow him. Do as he commands. All right?”

  There was a mutter of acknowledgment.

  Thorn pulled the restraining strap tight across his forearm and looked around at his troops.

  “When the twins have knocked the gate down—or what’s left of it—we move fast. I’ll lead, Hal on my left and Stig on my right. We’ll form a wedge. The rest of you, get behind us and widen it out as we drive through the enemy. Remember what I’ve taught you about not over-hitting. Odds are the ground underfoot will be tricky, so stay in balance.”

  He paused expectantly. After a brief interval, there was an affirmative growl from the assembled crew. They were all watching him intently, wondering if they’d forgotten something vital, wondering how they would acquit themselves in this, their first battle.

  Thorn sensed their uncertainty and smiled at them.

  “You’ll do fine,” he said. “Just remember what I’ve taught you. I’ve done this hundreds of times. There’s nothing to it. Just keep your head, and follow my lead.”

  He looked around, saw a measure of confidence returning to their faces and grinned reassuringly.

  “Any time you’re ready, skirl,” he said to Hal.

  chapter thirty - eight

  They’re coming!”

  Petrac, the Magyaran commander at the beach gate, yelled the warning. Not that there was any real need to do so. Every eye on the palisade was fixed on the little ship lying off the beach. She had been hove to and drifting for some minutes, presumably while her crew conferred. Now he saw the sail hauled in and she gathered speed and swung toward them.

  Where are those archers Zavac promised, he thought bitterly. But in his heart, he already knew. They weren’t coming. There were no archers. Zavac had tricked him and abandoned him.

  A man he’d sent down to inspect the damage to the gate scrambled back onto the catwalk now.

  “It’s not good,” he said in answer to Petrac’s unspoken question. “The gate’s badly burned. The timbers were dry and some were even rotten. Worst of all, the locking beam is pretty badly burned in the middle.”

  The locking beam was a solid timber bar that sat in brackets on either side of the gate to hold it closed. The oil and flames had spilled through the gap between the two halves of the gate and done serious damage to it. Petrac’s face set in a worried frown.

  “Maybe we should get down to the gate and get ready to hold them out,” one of his men suggested. But Petrac shook his head.

  “We’re better up here for the moment. We’ll try to keep them back—throw anything we’ve got. Spears, rocks, axes. When they get close, we’ll get down to the—”

  He was about to say “gate” but he was violently interrupted.

  Something large and heavy smashed into the upright pine poles that formed the palisade. Splinters flew and the missile, whatever it was, cartwheeled end over end over the top of the wall, hitting one of his men and hurling him backward off the catwalk to the street below.

  “Down! Down!” Petrac yelled, and threw himself flat on the planks of the catwalk. His men followed suit as another projectile smashed into the wall, a few meters to the left of the first. This one hit the small gap between two of the upright poles and penetrated for twenty centimeters before coming to rest. It sent more splinters flying, which wounded another man. Its sharpened point was reinforced with iron strips, Petrac saw.

  He had little time to think about this any further as a third projectile hit the top of the palisade, smashing and splintering more poles, then cartwheeling high into the air before dropping to the ground below. This one caused no injuries, but the sound and the violence of the impact caused Petrac and his men to hug the ground even closer.

  Now some semblance of reason returned to him. The projectiles were coming at intervals of about fifteen seconds. He signaled to one of his men.

  “After the next one hits, get up and see where they are. You’ll have about ten seconds before they can shoot again.”

  The man shook his head emphatically, refusing to meet Petrac’s eyes.

  “I’m not poking my head up to have it knocked off,” he muttered. But the commander grabbed his sleeve and jerked on it, forcing the man to look at him.

  “Do as I tell you,” he snarled. “There’s a gap between shots while they’re reloading. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Yet another bolt glanced off the wall and cartwheeled up and over with an eerie, whimpering sound.

  “Now!” Petrac yelled, and the man, galvanized by fear of his leader, suddenly leapt to his feet to see how close the ship was.

  “They’re almost—” he began, then immediately reeled back, a sixty-centimeter-long dart buried in his chest. His eyes looked at Petrac, accusing him, for a second. Then he toppled off the catwalk and thudded to the street below. Shocked, Petrac hugged the ground a little closer. Having seen that, none of his men would be willing to show their faces above the palisade, he thought. He came to an abrupt decision.

  “Down to the gate!” he yelled. “We’ll stop them as they try to break through!”

  Hal felt the Heron’s bow grate gently onto the sand of the beach.

  “On your way!” he yelled. Already the crew members were spilling over the bulwarks and into the shallow water, running up the beach toward the gate. Thorn was one of the first to go.

  “Fan out!” he ordered. “Don’t group together!”

  Ulf and Wulf carried the massive ram between them, stumbling in the soft sand under its weight. Lydia went over the rail half a second behind them, landing catlike on her feet and beginning to run for the gate almost immediately.

  Hal had a final bolt loaded in the Mangler. He spread his feet either side of the carriage and traversed it by “walking” the weapon from side to side.

  Thorn and the others were almost up to the gate now. Still there was no sign of anyone peering over the top of the palisade. Hal’s hand clutched the trigger lanyard, ready to release the heavy bolt the moment he saw someone.

  But there was nobody. Finally, seeing the twins and Lydia were nearly at the gate, he aimed at a random section of the palisade above the gate and released. The bolt streaked out. There was the usual splintering sound of wood and a cloud of sharp-edged fragments flew. Then, grabbing his shield, he slipped over the edge and dropped to the sand.

  The soft sand grabbed at his ankles, hampering him, making him a perfect, slow-moving target for any archer who might be lurking on the catwalk. But there were none and he reached the relative safety of the gate overhang, puffing and panting, partly from the effort, but also from nervous tension.

  “Glad you could join us,” Thorn said. “Are you ready?”

  Hal held up a hand, regaining his breath.

  “Just… a… moment,” he gasped. Then, after several
deep breaths, he straightened and nodded.

  “Ready,” he said. His shoulders still heaved, but he was almost recovered. By the time Ulf and Wulf smashed in the gate, he’d be fine. Hal gestured at the gate.

  “I imagine they’re waiting for us,” he said. “There’s nobody on the wall now.”

  “I imagine you’re right,” Thorn replied. “And that’ll be just too bad for them.” He gestured to the twins, then to the gate. “All right, boys, away you go!”

  Holding the ram by the looped rope handles on either side, the twins set their feet and began swinging it back and forth, gradually building momentum.

  Thorn stepped lightly forward and pointed to the small gap between the gates, at a point about a meter and a half from the ground.

  “Hit it about there,” he said. Ulf and Wulf nodded, their brows furrowed with concentration. They gave one last backswing, then smashed the ram forward into the gate.

  CRASH! The gate shuddered under the impact. But it held.

  “Again,” Thorn ordered calmly.

  Once more, the twins swung the log back on the rope loops. This time they took three preparatory swings, then they smashed it forward, throwing all their weight behind it.

  CRASH!

  This time, the gap between the two gates widened visibly, and they heard a splintering sound from the far side.

  “Again,” Thorn said. The twins began their back-and-forth preparation. A surge of anticipation ran through the Herons and they involuntarily moved forward a pace.

  “Steady,” Thorn growled. “Hold your positions.”

  Hal, standing to his left and a little behind him, glanced up at him. The old warrior’s face was calm and unexcited. He sensed Hal’s gaze on him, turned to meet the boy’s eye, then winked slowly.

  “Let ’em have it, boys,” he ordered.

  Ulf and Wulf hurled the ram forward in one last, lunging strike. There was a splintering, splitting sound from the other side, then the left-hand gate spun off its hinges, breaking free where the fire had charred it and weakened the wood. The ram smashed through the gate’s locking at its midpoint. The two halves spun away. The right-hand gate gave as well, sagging on its hinges.

  The twins, who had stumbled with the force of that final thrust, recovered and stepped to either side as Thorn advanced.

  “Let’s get ’em!” the grizzled sea wolf bellowed. The Herons cheered and followed him, stepping up onto the shattered pieces of timber and into the breach.

  The Magyarans surged forward to stop them. Petrac was in the lead, sword drawn back, shield raised. He found himself facing a massively built Skandian, gray bearded and with shaggy hair caught up under a horned helmet. He had time to notice that the other attackers all seemed remarkably young, then noticed the massive studded club that had replaced the Skandian’s right forearm and hand.

  Thorn smashed the huge club down onto the Magyaran leader’s shield, splintering it and splitting several of the pieces of wood that comprised it. The pirate staggered, then Thorn slammed the small metal shield into his unprotected midriff and he gasped and doubled over. A rib-cracking jab from the club finished him, sending him sprawling.

  At Thorn’s side, Hal caught a defender’s spear thrust on his shield, slanting it so that the spear glanced off and the spearman, expecting to meet firmer resistance, stumbled forward, momentarily off balance.

  Remembering Thorn’s admonition—a few inches of point can be just as deadly as the entire edge—Hal jabbed quickly forward and saw the shock on the man’s face as the sword penetrated his defense and slid between his ribs. Then Hal withdrew his sword and shoved the badly wounded man aside with his shield, stepping over him and forcing his way farther into the gap.

  Behind him, Ulf shoved forward too, now armed with his ax and ready for battle. He was grim faced and determined, searching for a Magyaran defender. One of the pirates caught his eye and leapt forward, sword back for a violent slash. Ulf caught the blade on his shield, then swung his ax sideways. The hours of practice and instruction under Thorn’s eagle eye stood him in good stead. The ax took the man in the ribs. He fell, with a strange, sobbing cry. Ulf, still in balance, withdrew his weapon and used it instantly to parry another Magyaran’s sword. The pirate, hoping for an easy victory, blanched at the cold fury in the young Skandian’s eyes. He stepped back, impeding one of his companions, who shoved him forward again. Off balance, he never saw Hal’s lightning thrust coming at him from the side until it was too late.

  On Thorn’s right, Stig was a terrifying sight. The speed and power of his ax strokes sent the defenders reeling—much to Thorn’s chagrin, as he’d marked down several of those who retreated as potential opponents. Stig’s ax was a blinding circle of light as he wielded it. Thorn actually stopped for a moment to admire his young student’s strength and dexterity. Stig hammered down one man’s shield, then dispatched him with a whirling backhanded cut. Then he jabbed forward with the head of the ax, sending another lurching back.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all,” Thorn muttered, admiring the improvisation. Then he snarled as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, casually deflected a Magyaran’s cutlass with his small shield, then slammed the studded club-hand into the man’s helmet.

  Behind the advancing wedge, Lydia scrambled onto a pile of masonry that had torn loose with the gate. Her eyes scanned the struggling knot of men before her. At the rear of the pirates, she saw one man screaming orders and shoving others forward into the battle.

  “No, you don’t,” she said quietly. She fitted a dart, drew back and cast. The would-be commander was on the point of shoving another pirate forward to face the whirling axes and jabbing swords of the attackers. The heavy dart hit him in the chest, slicing easily through his hardened leather breastplate, the force of its impact driving him backward before he fell.

  Those around him saw him fall. Suddenly, they felt exposed. Then another dart took one of them in the upper arm and he whirled away, falling to his knees with the unexpected pain. His closest companion turned panicked eyes to where the slim girl stood at the rear of the attackers. They made eye contact and he saw her drawing another of those cruel darts from her quiver. And all the time she did so, her eyes were fixed intently on him.

  It was more than he could bear. He turned and ran for the shelter of a nearby alley. Another man, seeing him run, went after him. Then a third and a fourth did likewise.

  Hal, cutting and stabbing at a particularly persistent opponent, saw them going.

  “They’re running! They’re breaking!” he shouted.

  The man he was engaged with couldn’t help his automatic reaction. Fearing that he was being left to face these grim attackers by himself, he glanced quickly over his shoulder. He saw that his comrades were breaking away, just as Hal’s sword sank into his thigh and his leg gave out under him, sending him sprawling helplessly onto the broken timber and rocks underfoot.

  The fear of those at the rear of the defending force was contagious. Petrac, their leader, was dead. So was Agrav, the man who had briefly attempted to take his place. The diminishing number of men facing the Skandian attack were now stricken by the fear that they would be left unsupported.

  They, too, broke and ran.

  The cheering, triumphant Herons started after them, but Thorn’s huge voice stopped them in their tracks.

  “Stop!” he roared. “Stop now!”

  If they went streaming off into the narrow streets now, without formation or any real thought of where they were going or what they were doing, he could lose half of them. Better to let the Magyarans escape and run, and keep his young fighters in a tight-knit group.

  But not all the Magyarans escaped. Before they reached the haven of a narrow alleyway behind them, another of Lydia’s darts found its target and sent a pirate sprawling facedown on the cobbles.

  Gradually, the battle madness went out of the Herons’ eyes as they took stock. A few of them were slightly wounded. At their feet, half a dozen Magyarans were spr
awled, some dead, all of them out of action.

  All in all, Thorn thought, they’d handled themselves pretty well. He smiled at Hal.

  “You did well,” he said. “You and Stig and all of them. Very well indeed.”

  Hal nodded wearily. Now that it was all over, a shudder of fear ran through him. In his mind’s eye, he could see that first spear thrust again. Only this time, it slipped past his shield and into his body. He closed his eyes for a second or two, dispelling the image. Then he opened them and looked at Thorn, hefting his Gallican shield higher on his left arm as he did so.

  “Let’s find Zavac,” he said.

  chapter thirty - nine

  Thorn assessed his troops. They’d done well so far but he was conscious of the fact that they were a small group and any Magyaran band they met would probably outnumber them. There was no way of knowing what lay ahead, he thought warily, or what weapons the Magyarans might have waiting for them. It would be necessary to keep discipline tight. They’d have to move as a cohesive unit, not straggle through the town.

  He beckoned to one of the Limmatans. “Which is the quickest way to the waterfront?”

  The battle was obviously going against the invaders. The small number of men at the beach gate, and the lack of reinforcements, tended to point that way. If Zavac was like most seamen, he’d be heading back to his ship. That was where he’d feel most secure as things turned against him. Thorn, a veteran of countless raids, knew that feeling all too well.

  The townsman paused, gathered his thoughts, then pointed to an alley on the left.

  “That’ll take us to the town square,” he said. “The main street to the harbor runs off the square.”