The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Thorn gestured toward the alley with his club-hand.

  “Then lead on. Stig, go with him. Stay ten meters ahead of us but don’t get out of sight. Stop at every corner or twist in the road until we’re up with you. The rest of you, two files, either side of the street. Three meters between each man. Don’t bunch up and make an easy target.”

  As it turned out, their progress to the town square was anticlimactic. Whatever Magyaran forces were left in Limmat were fully occupied by the Skandians and Barat’s men, advancing on them in a pincer movement. The Herons encountered only a few scattered groups of two or three pirates, who, seeing the disciplined formation of armed men approaching, took to their heels.

  The more immediate problem became the townspeople of Limmat themselves. As they realized the invaders were fleeing, they began to pour out onto the streets to welcome and embrace their liberators. Thorn, in the lead, shoved his way through the well-wishers, the Herons following in his wake.

  The first large party of armed men they encountered was in the town square itself. Stig and the Limmatan guide reached the end of a narrow cross street that led to the square and stepped out into the open ground. Stig stopped, shield coming up, ax going back. Behind him, seeing the warning posture, Thorn urged the rest of the small force to close up.

  There were more than thirty armed men on the opposite side of the square, emerging from a similar side street. Seeing Stig, the first of them also fell into a combat-ready pose. Then both sides relaxed.

  “They’re Barat’s men,” the townsman with Stig said. He advanced across the square, laughing and calling greetings to his countrymen. At the sight of him, they lowered their weapons and moved forward, embracing him and laughing in their turn. Stig waited till the rest of the party had joined him, then they moved out into the square together, meeting their allies halfway across.

  The two groups mingled together for a few minutes, exchanging jokes and accounts of the battle so far.

  Jonas, the Limmatan second in command, moved to where Hal stood and shook his hand gratefully.

  “That was great work!” he said enthusiastically. “You drew their forces completely away from the east wall. We simply climbed over with nobody to stop us. Any Magyarans we’ve seen since then ran like rabbits.”

  Inside the counting house, Rikard and his small band peered fearfully out at the sight of their enemies laughing and joking together. Rikard cursed his luck. He had waited too long to escape to the ship, unsure where Zavac and his men had gone and suspecting that they might return at any minute. Now, it was too late. The enemy were outside.

  “Must be forty or fifty of them,” Rikard muttered.

  One of his crew, who was not renowned for fast thinking—or, indeed, any sort of thinking—fingered the edge of his heavy cutlass.

  “Will we attack, chief?” the man said. He was used to attacking unarmed and helpless civilians and, as a result, expected any enemy he faced to turn and run.

  Rikard looked at him with disdain.

  “Attack? Are you insane, or just stupid? They’re all armed men out there. They outnumber us four to one and they’re looking for revenge. We need to find a back way out of here. We’re getting away to the ship. And keep the noise down!” he added, in a savage whisper.

  Quietly, the remaining men of Stingray’s crew made their way to the rear of the counting house. By chance, they used the same back exit Zavac had chosen. Then, stealthily, they headed down the alley toward the quay, continually glancing back over their shoulders to where they could catch brief glimpses of the townspeople and Herons mingling together.

  In the square, Barat pushed his way through the laughing jam of warriors. He could see Stig’s tall form, standing head and shoulders above those around him as he talked with Jonas. The Limmatan commander shoved through to them, coming to a halt with his chest thrust out, a few centimeters from Stig’s.

  The Heron’s first mate held out his hand in greeting.

  “Barat,” he said. “Good to see you.”

  Barat slapped the friendly hand aside. His face grew dark as he looked at the young, smiling face.

  “You and I have a score to settle,” he said. The men around them stepped back uncertainly. The Herons who had heard his words looked angry. His own men looked uncomfortable at his ungracious and threatening words.

  Stig eyed him carefully. With a great effort, he held his own temper in check. Thorn, watching closely, marveled at how Stig had matured. A few months ago, Barat’s action would have provoked an unthinking, aggressive response from Stig. The boy was growing up fast, he thought. Maybe it was something to do with the added responsibility he had shouldered as Hal’s first mate, and as Heron’s helmsman when she went into battle. But there was a limit to how much his barely restrained temper would bear.

  “Settle down, Barat,” Stig said in a calm voice. “We’ve just had a victory here. It’s no time to start fighting among ourselves.”

  Barat let out a short bray of laughter. “I’m sure you don’t want to start fighting now. Not when I’m ready for you! That’s not your way, is it, you coward?”

  Stig’s face began to flush red. The Limmatans around them muttered uncomfortably at Barat’s insult. Jonas stepped forward and laid a restraining hand on the battle commander’s forearm.

  “Barat, this is wrong. These Skandian boys have done us a great service today.”

  “Have they? They left the greater part of the fighting to us! Nice of them to turn up when it’s all over!”

  Jonas shook his head, perplexed.

  “We were virtually unopposed!” he pointed out. “There were no defenders on the walls because Hal and his men drew them off. We’ve had minor injuries to two of our men. Do you call that leaving the greater part of the fighting to us?”

  His comrades began to close in, voicing their agreement with Jonas’s words with increasing force. But still Barat would not be placated. He jabbed his forefinger into Stig’s chest.

  “No matter what you say, Jonas, I have a score to settle!”

  A deep voice interrupted him. “Then you’ll settle it with me.”

  Thorn pushed his way through the crowd to confront Barat. His left hand jabbed forward and he shoved the Limmatan back with surprising force. Barat recoiled several paces before he recovered. When he did, he found that Thorn had followed him, stepping close to him, thrusting his face into the Limmatan’s.

  “You preening idiot,” Thorn continued. “I’ve just watched these boys fighting for your precious town. And nobody fought harder or better than Stig. Now, we don’t have time to waste with you at the moment. We’re after Zavac. But once we’ve got him in the bag, I’ll be delighted to come back and split your skull for you. Just wait right here for me.”

  He brandished the massive studded club-hand under Barat’s nose. Thorn’s hair might have been gray and his clothes shabby, but he was a big man, massively built by Limmatan standards. The heavy club, and the ease with which he wielded it, was a daunting sight. Barat blanched. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it.

  Thorn turned away contemptuously. “Herons! Let’s go! We’ve wasted enough time here and the job’s not done yet!” He looked around, saw the Limmatan who had acted as their guide. “You! Which way to the quay?”

  The man pointed to a broad street on the western side of the square.

  “That’ll take you straight to it,” he said. “Do you want me to show you?”

  Thorn studied the long, straight street. “I think we can find it,” he said. Then, signaling for the crew to follow him, he strode purposefully across the square.

  As they neared the harbor, Thorn heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting ahead. Axes hammered onto shields, swords rang against each other. And over all, there were the sudden high-pitched cries of the wounded. He quickened his pace, settling into a steady jog, with the Herons behind him in two loose files.

  With the collapse of the watchtowers, Magyaran resistance had largely collapsed as well. S
vengal and his men had crossed the harbor, using the boom as a makeshift bridge, and climbed onto the eastern quay.

  The survivors from that tower’s garrison had seen them coming and fled before them, breaking into small groups and disappearing into the winding, narrow streets of the town. Svengal paused, then split his men into three squads to pursue the scattered Magyarans. Two of these, he sent off into the town itself. The third, he led down the quay. He could see the Raven moored deep inside the harbor. Stingray, the green ship, was moored alongside the quay only a hundred meters away. As he watched, a tongue of flame leapt up her mast. He could see several figures running away from the ship, heading down the quay toward Raven.

  “Come on!” he yelled, and led the charge after them.

  And that was the moment when Rikard and his ten men chose to emerge onto the quay in front of them.

  It was ten against ten. So, as Svengal later recounted, it was no contest. He had the enemy outnumbered three to one.

  The fight was short and sharp and vicious. Rikard saw the massive Skandian leader bearing down on him and shoved one of his own men between himself and Svengal, backing away in fright. The Magyarans were not prime fighting men. They were more accustomed to attacking relatively small crews of unarmed ships or making sneak attacks on an unprepared town like Limmat.

  Faced with professional, and thoroughly eager, warriors like the Skandians, they had little chance. Svengal simply bowled over the man Rikard had tried to use as a shield, then cut down Rikard himself. Some of the pirates tried to stand against the wild northmen. They were either struck down by the flailing axes, or simply shoved off the edge of the quay into the harbor.

  By the time Thorn and the Herons arrived at the harbor front, there were only three of the Magyarans left. They were on their knees, pleading for mercy. The Skandians, who had never been cold-blooded killers, granted it reluctantly. Some of them urged the Magyarans to pick up their weapons and try their luck once more. The pirates might have been cowardly, but they weren’t stupid. They declined the invitation. The Skandians consoled themselves by delivering hearty kicks to their enemies’ backsides, sending them sprawling.

  Behind him, the Stingray was now fully aflame. It was too late to save her. The fire ran up her tarred rigging and spread along her hull, feeding off the tar-soaked wool that caulked the gaps between her planks.

  Svengal spun round warily as he heard running feet approaching. Then he relaxed as he recognized Thorn, Hal and the others.

  “You’re late,” he boomed.

  “Seems as if you’ve got things under control,” Thorn said. “Except for that, of course.” He gestured to the Stingray. For a moment, the spectacle of the burning ship held them all, with a kind of horror. It was a sight no seaman could ever enjoy, even if the ship had belonged to an enemy.

  Thorn glanced around at the bodies and the cowering survivors. “Is this all that’s left?”

  Svengal gestured toward the streets behind them. “The others have scattered through the town. I’ve sent men to winkle them out.” He glanced to Hal and Stig. “Your boys did well,” he said quietly. “Especially young Hal.”

  “They did,” Thorn agreed. Then he looked around the quay. “Did you come across Zavac at all?”

  Svengal shook his head. “Haven’t seen him,” he replied. “He’ll turn up eventually. I’m looking forward to that.”

  “I think you might be disappointed,” said Lydia, pointing down harbor. Unlike the others, she didn’t have the same emotional reaction to the burning ship and she’d been looking around the harbor for signs of damage to her hometown.

  Thorn and Svengal followed the direction of her pointing finger. At the bottom of the harbor, thirty meters from the shore, the Raven was hauling in her anchor. As they watched, a bank of oars appeared on either side of the black hull, as if by magic. They began their rhythmic rise and fall, and a small ripple of a bow wave formed at her prow.

  “She’ll never get out,” Svengal said with satisfaction. “The boom is closed.”

  But Thorn was already looking in that direction and he could see the massive logs drifting in toward the western mole with the incoming tide.

  “I think someone’s just opened it,” he said.

  chapter forty

  Curse him!” Svengal snarled. “That boom was our way back to Wolfwind!”

  He looked around frantically, seeking another route to the far side of the harbor. The boom had obviously been cut loose and there was no way they could close it again and use it as a makeshift bridge.

  “We can use the Sea Lion!” Stig shouted, pointing to the small ship Zavac had used as a decoy in his attack on the town. It was still moored alongside the mole, just inside the harbor mouth. But even as they began to run toward it, flames shot up its mast and rigging and spread rapidly along the hull.

  Hal looked back down the harbor. Zavac’s ship was moving slowly as he picked his way through the moored fishing boats and barges that filled the inner harbor.

  “We’ve got to get back to the Heron,” he said.

  Thorn looked at him for a brief moment, then nodded. He glanced at Svengal.

  “Are you coming with us?”

  But the skirl shook his head. “We’ll go round the bottom of the bay and back along the other side to Wolfwind. We may just make it in time.”

  He and his men started to run, spreading out in a line along the quay as the faster ones among them pulled away. The Heron crew hesitated, then Hal looked at the Raven again and felt hope surge in his heart.

  “She’s aground!” he yelled, pointing. As Zavac’s own first mate had feared some days before, Zavac’s lack of skill as a helmsman had come back to haunt him. He had misjudged a turn in the narrow channel and the Raven had run straight onto a mud bank. The mud had been exposed at low tide but the incoming flood had covered it with a few centimeters of water—enough to let the pirate ship run onto the bank for several meters before it stuck fast. They could see the evil shape of Raven’s ram above the surface—a heavy, iron-shod beam that projected from her bow—as she ran aground, and saw the mast tilt unnaturally as she fell off to one side on her keel.

  Men were running frantically on her decks as they tried to free her. Some tried to reverse their oar strokes and row her off. But she was too deeply fixed in the mud. Others took oars and tried to pole off the bank with them. But the mud was too soft and they could gain no purchase as they tried to shove her free—the oar blades simply sank into the stinking, semiliquid ooze.

  “She’s trapped!” Stig said delightedly. “We’ve got her cornered.”

  “Not for long,” Thorn told him. “The tide’s coming in. She’ll float free in ten minutes or so. But it does give us time to get to the Heron.”

  They turned and ran back down the wide thoroughfare that led to the town square. Behind them, the three surviving members of Rikard’s crew looked at one another, not believing their luck. Furtively, they retrieved their weapons and scuttled into one of the narrow streets running off the quay. Somehow, they felt safer in the dark, narrow alleys than they would on the broad main streets.

  But it was a false sense of security. They hadn’t gone twenty meters when they rounded a corner and found themselves facing a large crowd of angry townspeople, all armed with makeshift weapons—clubs, knives, cleavers and even kitchen stools.

  They were searching for Magyaran stragglers and they had several days of cruel mistreatment and brutality to avenge. After a few brief, violent moments, the townspeople moved on, leaving the broken, battered bodies of the pirates sprawled on the cobbles.

  Hal’s sword in its scabbard banged awkwardly against his side with each stride. His left arm was still encumbered with his shield, so he tugged his sword belt around until he could hold the scabbard steady with his right hand.

  Not ideal conditions for running, he thought grimly. But they pounded down the broad main street, gradually stringing out as they went, the thudding of their feet on the cobbles echoing back
from the faces of the buildings.

  Stig was in the lead, with Jesper close behind him. Hal and Thorn were next, with Lydia easily keeping pace beside them.

  They erupted into the square, drawing startled looks from the townspeople and warriors still gathered there. But there was no time to explain. Hal saw Stig hesitate, not sure which side street led back to the gate.

  “Second left,” Lydia called, pointing. Stig nodded and increased his pace again, Jesper on his heels.

  It was late afternoon by now and the alleys and side streets were all deep in shadow. The sound of their running feet and the rattle of their equipment bounced back with increased volume from the close-set walls and houses. Stig glanced back at Jesper and grinned.

  “Knew I should have run that race against Tursgud,” he said. During their training period, Hal had selected Jesper ahead of Stig for a footrace. It had rankled Stig and, although he had acceded to Hal’s decision, he had always believed his friend had made a mistake.

  Jesper glared at him. “Is that so?” he said, and clapped on the pace, drawing level with Stig, then ahead of him. Stig accelerated as well, but Jesper continued to pull away, widening the gap between them. Watching Jesper’s back draw farther away, Stig muttered to himself.

  “Or not.”

  The smell of burned wood reached them before they came in sight of the shattered gate. But then they rounded a final corner and there it was. Through the gap, they could see the trim shape of the Heron drawn up on the beach. The incoming tide had crept up past her bow and she was beginning to lift and stir restlessly on the wavelets as they ran in. Stefan, who had been left behind to tend to Ingvar, had put out a beach anchor in their absence.

  The crew poured through the gate onto the beach in a ragged procession. Jesper paused halfway down the beach to retrieve the anchor, hefting it with him as he grinned triumphantly at Stig, several meters behind.

  “You were saying about Tursgud?” he said.

  Stig contrived to shrug, then reached for the anchor. “Let me have that. You’re too delicate for such a load.”