The Ghostfaces

by John A. Flanagan

All around him, the crew were being greeted and welcomed by other members of the tribe. The largest group was around Jesper, with everyone wanting to take his hand, pat his shoulder or slap him on the back. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour. And Hal, thinking of how he had stood up to the bear, decided that Jesper deserved all the praise and adulation he was getting.

  Then a loud voice cut through the hubbub that surrounded them. But the speaker didn’t use the common tongue. He spoke in Skandian, with an accent that told them this was his first language.

  “Thorn! One-handed Thorn! By the great Warbling Walrus of Skod! Is that really you?”

  chapter twenty-four

  The ranks of the Mawagansett parted to allow a figure to pass through them, his right hand held out in greeting.

  With the exception of the young woman who had so enthusiastically welcomed Hal, the tribespeople tended to be short and stocky in build. This newcomer was at least a head taller than the majority of them. He was dressed in the hide overshirt and leggings that the men wore, and his hair was parted in the middle, to hang in two long braids on either side.

  But, where the Mawagansetts’ hair was black, his was gray-blond, and his face, while tanned and weathered by years of sun and wind, wasn’t as dark as theirs.

  His eyes were a startling blue and his mouth was curled in a smile of welcome and surprise as he reached Thorn. He went to grasp his right hand, realized there was only a wooden hook there and clumsily switched to his left hand, seizing Thorn’s arm halfway up the forearm and pumping it exuberantly.

  “Thorn One-Hand!” he repeated. “I never thought I’d see you here.” He paused and considered, then added, “In fact, I never thought you’d still be alive! Last time I saw you, you seemed determined to drink yourself to death.”

  “Well, as you can see, I stopped,” Thorn said, taking no offense. At one stage in his life, that had been his intention. He peered closely at the lined face in front of him, but try as he might, he couldn’t place the owner. “You must be Orvik?” he said, remembering that Mohegas had told them the name of the Skandian who had come out of the sea some twelve years prior.

  Orvik beamed. “Haven’t been called that in too many years,” he said. “But how did you get here? Did you sail from Skandia to find me? And who are all these boys?” he added, looking curiously at the youthful faces that surrounded them. The Herons had crowded around to see this mysterious Skandian.

  Thorn held up his left hand to stem the tirade of questions.

  “Just a moment!” he said. “You have the advantage of me. You seem to know me. But I can’t recall you—although your face is a little familiar.” He frowned, trying to imagine the face some twelve years younger, with fewer lines and a shock of blond hair instead of the dirty gray color that it was now.

  “I was called Eelcatcher back then,” the gray-haired man told him. “Orvik Eel—”

  But Thorn, with a rush of memory, interrupted him and finished the statement. “—catcher! Orvik Eelcatcher!” he said, and the man’s face broke into a beaming smile.

  “That’s right!” he said, delighted to be recognized—or at least, remembered.

  “You were in Arnulf Sharkfighter’s crew,” Thorn said slowly, as more details emerged from his foggy memory.

  Orvik nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right. Third oar on the old Wolf Foot.”

  “Wolf Foot,” Thorn said slowly, his brow furrowed as he recalled more facts from the past. “She went raiding one summer and never returned. Everyone assumed she’d been lost at sea.” He looked around the faces that surrounded them, searching for more familiar features. “Did any of the others survive? Are they here?”

  The beaming smile faded from Orvik’s face and he shook his head sadly. “I’m the only one,” he told them and Thorn regretted his impulsive question. Of course, Mohegas had made no reference to other Skandians living with the tribe.

  “What happened?” Hal asked, seeing Thorn’s momentary embarrassment.

  Orvik looked at him curiously, noticing the young face and the clear, intelligent eyes. He glanced back to Thorn. “Who’s this?” he asked.

  Hal smiled to himself. Skandians weren’t renowned for polite conversation. They tended to come straight to the point. Evidently, Orvik hadn’t lost that tendency in his years with the Mawagansett.

  Thorn, who had been asked this question many times before, placed a hand on Hal’s shoulder in a sign of affection and respect.

  “This is Hal Mikkelson,” he said. “You remember Mikkel, don’t you?”

  “Indeed I do!” Orvik replied instantly. Mikkel had been one of Skandia’s foremost warriors until he was killed on the same raiding voyage during which Thorn had lost his hand. Orvik looked more closely at Hal. Mikkel had been a big man, whereas Hal was shorter and slimmer than the average Skandian. “He’s not too big, is he?”

  Hal shook his head. There was that renowned Skandian tact once more, he thought.

  Thorn squared his shoulders aggressively. “He’s just fine,” he stated. “He’s our skirl.” There was a warning note in his voice, but Orvik missed it.

  “He’s barely out of short pants,” Orvik said, frowning. Then he was somewhat startled as Stig pushed forward and faced him, standing just a little closer to him than politeness dictated. And while Orvik was tall, Stig was even taller and broader in the shoulder.

  “I’m out of short pants,” he said threateningly. “And I’m happy to obey Hal’s orders as skirl. He’s an expert navigator and helmsman. And a great ship designer. He built our ship, as a matter of fact.”

  Orvik realized belatedly that he might have overstepped the mark with his comments on Hal’s youth. The young warrior facing him seemed to be no older than Hal. But he was bigger and broader and had an easy athletic grace about him that told the old Skandian that he would be a fighter to be reckoned with.

  He also realized that the other members of the crew had stepped forward to join Stig, standing in a half circle just behind him. Their displeasure was all too evident.

  “Take it easy, boys,” Hal said quietly and the crew relaxed somewhat, all save Stig, who remained bristling and angry at the affront to his friend and skipper.

  Orvik held up an apologetic hand. “No offense meant,” he said. Then, seeking to change the subject, he added, “What happened to your ship?”

  He addressed the question to Thorn, but the one-armed sea wolf deferred to Hal.

  “Nothing happened to her,” Hal replied. “She’s hidden in an inlet at the southern end of the beach. We were caught in a huge storm as we were leaving Hibernia and driven thousands of kilometers to the west. We were almost out of water by the time we reached this shore. We landed in the bay back there”—he gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the bay—“and set up a camp. We hid the ship until we could make contact with the locals.”

  Orvik’s eyes burned with a sudden light of hope. “So your ship’s intact?” he asked. “You’ll be heading home one day then?”

  “One day. Yes,” Hal told him. “As soon as this nonstop wind out of the northeast changes direction. It’s dead foul for the course back to Skandia.”

  Orvik nodded several times. He was well aware of the prevailing wind, and his twelve years here had taught him about the weather conditions.

  “It’ll shift within the next five or six weeks,” he told them. “Always does at this time of year. Then it’ll be out of the southwest.”

  There was a murmur of interest from the assembled Herons.

  “That’ll be perfect for the trip home!” Stig said.

  Hal nodded thoughtfully. A southwest wind would be ideal. He felt a vast sense of relief. They would be going home after all, he thought.

  Thorn returned to Hal’s original question. “What happened to Wolf Foot and the rest of your crew?” he asked. Once more, a sad look overtook Orvik’s lined feature
s.

  “We’d been raiding on the west coast of Hibernia,” he said.

  Thorn nodded. Wolf Foot had been lost before Erak had banned the practice of raiding, and the west Hibernian coast had been a favorite hunting ground for wolfships—despite the fact that the weather could prove unpredictable there, as the Heron had found to her cost.

  “Problem was, we were doing too well. Plenty of booty and gold. The Hibernians didn’t expect a raid that late in the season. And we overstayed our welcome. By the time we headed for home, the weather had shifted and we were hit by the mother of all storms from the northeast.”

  The Herons exchanged a quick look. It sounded like the conditions they had struck just a few weeks before.

  “I’ve never seen such wind and waves,” Orvik said. “The sail blew out in the first few minutes and we were riding under a bare mast, and still being driven south and west.”

  Thorn interrupted sympathetically. “We know how that feels,” he said. “Sounds like the storm that hit us.”

  Orvik met his eyes and nodded. “Put out a sea anchor to try to slow down our drift, but the hawser snapped after an hour or two and we just kept sliding farther and farther out into the Endless Ocean. Some of the lads began to fear we’d be driven right off the edge of the world, onto the giant turtle’s back. And that’d be the end of us.”

  He paused reflectively. His eyes had a faraway look as he remembered that terrible storm so many years before.

  “Then we sighted the coast, a few kilometers north of here. At first, we thought we were safe, but then we realized there was nothing but rocks and shoals there and we were being blown down onto them. We tried to row, but the wind and waves and tide had us and we couldn’t make any headway. We just swept down on that coast—and the rocks that were waiting for us there. Then we struck.

  “Half the crew were lost in that first impact with the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The undertow was terrible and they were sucked back into the ocean. The rest of us scrambled ashore somehow as the ship broke up.

  “Sharkfighter led us along the base of the cliffs, just above the water’s edge, until we found a narrow path leading to the top.”

  “That was lucky,” Hal put in, and Orvik turned those blue eyes on him for several moments before he responded.

  “You would think so. We certainly did. But when we scrambled up the path to the top, they were waiting for us.” His voice was grim as he recalled the event.

  Thorn asked the obvious question. “They? Who were ‘they’?”

  “The Imsinnis skassak,” he replied. “That’s what they call themselves. It means ‘Ghost Face.’”

  The Herons exchanged a look. This was the second time they’d heard the name.

  Orvik continued. “They’re a tribe from north of here. Savage, warlike and ruthless. Anyone who’s not one of them is an enemy and that’s how they treated us. They kill without mercy. They were fully armed, with clubs and lances and bows. We had our saxes and nothing else. And they outnumbered us two to one.

  “As Sharkfighter led the way onto the top of the cliffs, they charged out of the trees and started stabbing and hacking at the crew. We were all exhausted, of course, and could hardly put up a fight. I saw my shipmates going down before the attack and I turned and ran.”

  He stopped, lowering his eyes as he remembered the shame of the moment. “I left my shipmates to die,” he said, his voice almost inaudible.

  It was Stig who dropped a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “No sense in sacrificing yourself,” he said.

  Orvik raised his gaze, seeing only compassion in the younger man’s eyes. “That’s what I’ve tried to tell myself ever since. Anyway, I ran, and one of them saw me. They came after me like the hounds of hell, yelling and screaming for blood. I went inland, running downhill as fast as I could go.” He allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “I was always a fast runner,” he added.

  “So you managed to outrun them?” Hal asked, but Orvik shook his head.

  “They would have caught me. They were gaining on me when I reached a high bluff. There was a long drop before me, with a river at the bottom. And behind me were the Ghostfaces. I hesitated for a second or two, then I decided. I jumped off the bluff, hoping I’d get out far enough to reach the river below.”

  Again he paused, then continued. “Have you ever jumped into water from a great height?” he asked and the surrounding audience shook their heads. He nodded. “I thought I’d hit the water and it would break my fall. Instead, it nearly broke my legs. It was like jumping onto hard ground. I went way under, with the breath knocked out of me. It seemed to take forever to make it to the surface again and all the while, I was gulping and swallowing water. I came up, spluttering and gasping. The current had carried me ten meters farther downstream from where I’d hit the surface. I floundered there like an exhausted fish, flailing at the water. Above me, I could hear the Ghostfaces shouting and cursing after me. None of them were willing to risk that jump. Not that it mattered, of course. I could only swim a few strokes and I knew I’d drown. Then my hand touched something. It was a log, being carried by the current. I hauled myself onto it and collapsed. Some of the branches snagged in my jerkin and held me in place. Apparently, I drifted for several days, half unconscious, half drowned.

  “When I came to, I had drifted downriver into the bay yonder.” He indicated the direction of the large bay Heron had sailed into.

  “I washed up on the beach where the Mawagansett found me, more dead than alive, and with my lungs and stomach full of seawater. They brought me back here, pumped me out and wrapped me in blankets and furs to get my blood flowing again. I was unconscious for three days. I’d come half awake every so often and they’d spoon-feed me with hot broth. And their healer would recite spells over me and burn eagle feathers and strange spices in the hut where they had me. Don’t know how much good they did, but I eventually woke and began to regain my strength. They called me Polennis—it means—”

  “Man Who Swims,” Thorn put in.

  Orvik nodded. “Of course, Mohegas told you. That’s how they found me, washed up on the beach like a piece of worthless flotsam.” He looked around the circle of brown-skinned faces. The Mawagansett were patiently allowing the newcomers time to hear his story.

  “They’re good people,” he said. “Kind and generous. I’ve been with them now for twelve sun cycles, sorry, years,” he corrected himself and smiled. “And in all that time, there’s been no prospect of my returning home. Not until now.”

  chapter twenty-five

  At a signal from Mohegas, the group began to move toward the feast circle, set out around the fireplace in front of the village huts.

  The children swarmed around the Herons, studying them with unabashed curiosity. Mohegas and several of the other adults admonished them, but not too severely. When this happened, the children would withdraw a few paces, but within a few seconds, they would gather around the strangers once more. Thorn’s wooden hook aroused great interest. One of the more daring boys reached out to touch it and Thorn rounded on him with a ferocious expression, clacking the gripping hook open and shut like a deranged lobster. The boy recoiled, as did those around him. Then, when Thorn burst out laughing and held out the hook for further inspection, they warily crept back closer to him.

  Ingvar was another subject of interest. Tall and massively built, he towered over the other members of the crew. Compared with the Mawagansett, who tended to be short and stocky, he appeared to be a giant. He was wearing his spectacles and the children found the black lenses fascinating. Even when he removed the spectacles, thinking the children might turn their attention from him, the sight of his piercing blue eyes roused further comment, as although most of the Skandians were blue-eyed, Ingvar’s were a particularly brilliant color. But the children used their own language, not the common tongue, so Ingvar had no idea what they were chattering about.


  Stefan, with his ability to mimic voices and other sounds, was an enormous favorite with them. At one stage, he stopped, threw his arms wide and intoned, in a perfect impression of Mohegas’s serious tones:

  “I am Mohegas, mighty king of the Mawagansett people!”

  The group of children close to him took a step back, looking nervously to where Mohegas had turned at the sound of his own voice. When a wide smile cracked the elder’s normally serious face, the children relaxed, taking it as permission to laugh themselves.

  Before the laughter died down, Stefan followed up with a perfect imitation of the cry of the bird they now knew was called a tur-gay.

  “Oggle-oggle-oggle!” he cried and the children laughed delightedly. It did sound exactly like the cry of the big bird, Hal thought.

  Lydia seemed to agree. “Do that again and I’ll put a dart through you,” she said dryly.

  At that, Stefan decided to move on to another impression. This time, he produced the shattering, snarling roar of an angry bear. With squeals of fright, the children scampered away from him, stopping some five meters away, studying him to make sure he hadn’t suddenly turned into a bear. Then, as he grinned and made a whimpering, pleading sound, for all the world like a dog begging forgiveness, they began to giggle and gathered around him again, pleading for more impersonations.

  But Stefan was a consummate showman and he knew the first rule of a successful entertainer is to leave the audience wanting more. Regretfully, he shook his head and patted his belly.

  “I’m hungry,” he said. “No more voices until I’ve eaten.”

  Now that Stefan had mentioned food, Hal realized how hungry he was, and how delicious the scents arising from the grilling food were. Mohegas and the other adults ushered their guests to their places round the feast fire, and Hal sat on a folded blanket to the right of Mohegas. Thorn was on the elder’s other side, with Orvik sitting by him in case there was a need for translation—although so far this hadn’t proved necessary. The other Herons sat on Hal’s right, interspersed with members of the tribe. Presumably, judging by their age and the amount of gray in their hair, those closest were members of the elders’ council, Hal thought.