The Ghostfaces

by John A. Flanagan

  “Maybe fifty meters farther upriver,” he said. “And another thirty inland. There’s a sand strip where the Ghostfaces will have beached their canoes,” he added.

  Thorn nodded and gestured upriver. “We’ll go along the bank until we’re level with the village,” he said. He gestured to Stig’s ax. “When we get there, I want you to put holes in their canoes. That should hold them up for a day or two while they repair them. I’m going to head for the village itself. I’d like to get a look at these bald-headed bogeymen. Hal, you stay and watch Stig’s back while he’s wrecking the canoes. Simsinnet, you come with me.”

  His three companions nodded and he gestured for the young Mawag to lead the way along the bank. They fell into single file behind him as they moved. With each few meters, the firelight grew more vivid and the sound of the celebrating Ghostfaces increased. After thirty meters, they could see the flames through the trees, leaping some twenty meters into the air.

  “That’s some bonfire,” Stig muttered.

  “Shut up,” Thorn ordered. There was no chance he could be heard in the village, of course, but the Ghosts might have set a guard over the canoes. Finally, they emerged from the trees into a cleared space on the riverbank. As Simsinnet had predicted, there was a narrow sandy beach where a row of canoes was drawn up out of the water.

  Hal counted them quickly. “Eighteen,” he said. He noted that the Ghostface canoes were bigger than the one they were traveling in. Each would hold five or six men and their baggage.

  Thorn nodded. He stepped closer to Stig so he could speak quietly, but still be heard above the pounding drums and the strident chanting voices from inland.

  “Put a decent hole in each,” he said, “below the waterline.”

  Stig nodded and Hal added to Thorn’s instructions. “Break the frames as well. That’ll take longer to repair than a simple patch over the hole.”

  Stig glanced at him, his eyes reflecting the leaping firelight from the village, and nodded his understanding once more.

  “Right. Get to it. I’m taking a look at the village. Come on, Simsinnet,” Thorn said, and he turned away, moving silently into the leaping shadows cast by the flames of the giant fire. Simsinnet followed behind him. As they disappeared into the shadows, Hal gestured to the far end of the line of drawn-up canoes.

  “Start up there and work back toward where we are,” he said. That would make their getaway, if they needed to make one in a hurry, quicker and easier. They began to move quickly along the line of canoes, half crouching, scanning the flickering shadows around them for some sign of a guard. It seemed unlikely to Hal that the Ghostfaces would leave their canoes untended. But then, he thought, maybe they felt they had nothing to fear. According to Mohegas, none of the local tribes had ever shown signs of resistance. And presumably, the Limigina had either been captured, killed or driven off. They would see no point in damaging their enemies’ canoes.

  They reached the end of the line and Stig went to work, bringing his ax down in a series of efficient, destructive strokes. The birch bark covering of the canoes provided negligible resistance to his razor-sharp ax head, the light framework only a little more.

  It took him only a few seconds to disable each canoe and he made his way along the line quickly, leaving a gaping hole in the bottom of each of the small craft.

  Hal faced inland, in the direction from which any danger was likely to come. He had slipped his shield over his left arm. His sword was drawn, the blade glittering red in the light of the massive fire.

  The attack, when it came, was from an unexpected direction. Four Ghost warriors burst out of the trees by the riverbank, from the same direction the small Skandian raiding party had come. One of them shouted a challenge, infuriated by the sight of strangers disabling their canoes.

  Had they been thinking clearly, one or more of them might have headed for the village to bring help. But the Ghostfaces were so accustomed to quick, easy victories that they misjudged their opposition. There were four of them and only two interlopers. Shouting their war cries, they charged.

  They were certainly a fearsome sight, Hal thought. Their shaved heads were completely covered in white paint, highlighted by black paint around their eyes and in the hollows of their cheeks. The overall effect was startlingly like a skull. In the uncertain light, Hal could see how an opponent might be unnerved by their terrifying appearance. All of them were naked to the waist, with deer-hide leggings and the soft shoes the Mawags called moccasins.

  Their leader was a few paces ahead of his companions. He was a huge warrior, and the whites of his eyes gleamed madly in the black paint surrounding them. He drew back a massive war club and swung it overhand at Hal.

  • • • • •

  The village was like a scene out of a nightmare. Lit by the leaping flames of the massive bonfire, augmented by several fires burning among the villagers’ huts, the Ghostface warriors formed a huge dancing circle, leaping and gyrating to the rhythm of the pounding drums. A large cauldron stood in the middle of their dancing circle, just clear of the fire. From time to time, a dancer would stagger to it, dip a drinking gourd into it, throw back his head and pour the contents down his throat.

  “They brew a strong drink from fermented corn,” Simsinnet whispered in Thorn’s ear. In truth, there was no need for whispering, as the drums and the chanting were near deafening.

  Thorn peered off to one side of the dancing circle. In the shadows, well out of the glare of the firelight, a dozen men knelt on the ground, heads bowed, eyes down. Their hands were tied behind their back and a rawhide thong was looped around each man’s throat. Several meters away, a larger group of women and children were restrained in the same way. A Ghost warrior strode among them, armed with a wooden club, a knife in his belt. From time to time, he would lean down, thrusting his grotesque features close to one of the men’s faces, and shout insults and abuse. His victims endured his taunts stoically.

  “What’s happening there?” Thorn asked, although he thought he knew.

  Simsinnet indicated the women and children. “They’ll be taken away as slaves.”

  “And the men?”

  “When the Ghosts have finished their dance, they’ll be executed,” Simsinnet told him, his mouth a grim line. Thorn said nothing for several seconds, but his expression grew harder.

  “Oh, will they indeed?” he said. “Keep an eye on those dancers for me.” And he glided away, moving silently through the group of captive men, staying in a half crouch as he approached the Ghostface sentry from behind.

  “Good evening,” he said as he reached the sentry, and stood upright.

  Thinking that one of the prisoners had loosened his bonds and moved behind him, the Ghostface swung round in a fury, drawing back his club to strike. Thorn took half a second to study the deathly white features and glittering eyes sunk in their black circles.

  “You are ugly, aren’t you?” he said conversationally.

  The sentry was momentarily nonplussed at the sight of a completely foreign figure. This was no member of the Limiginas, or of any other local tribe. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was gray and wild and untrimmed. He was bearded and his skin was white. The Ghostface turned his head toward the circle of dancers, twenty meters away, and drew breath for a warning shout.

  He never uttered it. Thorn’s club-hand, a heavy ball of hardwood, shot forward in a jab and smashed into his solar plexus. The breath was driven out of him in a massive, explosive whoof! and he doubled over, letting his war club fall from his hands. Thorn thrust his own war club out to the side and rapped it smartly against the sentry’s temple—not hard enough to break the bone and kill him, but enough to knock him unconscious. The man sagged at the knees and collapsed sideways onto the dirt.

  Quickly, Thorn dropped to a crouch beside the nearest prisoner and, drawing his saxe with his left hand, sliced through the rawhide thongs tha
t restrained him. The man said something to him but Thorn shook his head, not understanding. As he freed a second captive with two quick slashes of his saxe, he glanced around and jerked his head toward Simsinnet, summoning him closer. The young Mawag hurried to join him, and Thorn spoke quickly.

  “Tell them we’re setting them free,” he said, and Simsinnet hastily passed on the message in the local tongue. Thorn saw the captives’ eyes shine with new hope. Simsinnet went to work with his own knife, cutting the cords that held the prisoners captive.

  Thorn glanced at the fallen sentry and saw a knife in his belt. He reached down and ripped it free. The blade was flint, roughly shaped, but surprisingly keen. He handed it to the first prisoner freed and indicated for the man to cut more of his companions loose.

  “Tell them to cut the women and children free and be ready to move. When the Ghostfaces head for the river, they’re to run into the forest and escape. The Ghosts will follow us, so they’ll have a good head start.”

  Hastily, Simsinnet relayed his instructions. A torrent of questions escaped the prisoners, but he waved them down. Gradually, the captives fell silent and sat still, aside from one, who crept among the women and children, cutting them free and cautioning them not to make noise.

  One of the Limiginas asked a question and Simsinnet relayed it to Thorn, jerking his thumb at the fallen sentry. “What do we do with this one?” he asked.

  Thorn reached down and rolled back the man’s eyelid with his thumb. He was out cold. “I’d rather he remained alive, so he knows it wasn’t these people who set him free,” he said. “It’ll do them good to wonder who the long-haired, white-skinned strangers are. But if he makes a move or tries to raise the alarm, tell them to kill him.”

  Simsinnet repeated the instructions. The former captive looked at his erstwhile guard and touched the point of the flint knife to his thumb. Obviously, he was hoping the man would regain consciousness.

  “Tie him up,” Thorn ordered and Simsinnet repeated the instruction. Reluctantly, the Limigina took one of the discarded lengths of rawhide and lashed the man’s hands and feet tightly together.

  Thorn took one last look around. Already, most of the men and half the women and children had been freed.

  “Tell them to wait for the signal, then run like blazes and scatter into the forest,” he said.

  Simsinnet frowned. “How will they know the signal?”

  Thorn grinned at him. “Oh, they’ll know it. Now let’s get back to the riverbank.”

  chapter thirty-five

  The huge warrior brought his war club arcing down, and Hal raised his shield to deflect it. There was a ringing shriek as the club slid across the steel face of the shield, and the Ghostface, his features contorted in a snarl, stumbled, off balance, as his wild swing met with no real resistance.

  As he did, Hal lunged quickly with his sword, the blade darting out like a striking snake and taking the man in his midsection. The sword went home, and Hal saw the contorted face suddenly relax into a surprised look. He withdrew the sword and the warrior fell to his knees, hands clutching his abdomen.

  The second Ghostface was already on him, swinging a stone-headed ax through a horizontal arc. This time Hal reversed his movements, using his sword to flick the ax high over his head, then bringing his shield up horizontally and driving it forward, so the steel and timber edge slammed into the Ghost’s jaw. The man stumbled. His eyes rolled up in his head and he crashed over, falling across the body of his companion.

  Hal sensed that Stig had moved up from the line of canoes to stand beside him. The third Ghostface lunged forward with a long lance. Stig caught it neatly in the gap between the ax head and its shaft and twisted violently, tearing the weapon from his attacker’s grasp. The Ghostface reached for the knife in his belt and stepped toward Stig. As he did, Hal pivoted beside him and hit him above the ear with the hilt of his sword. A third body was added to the growing pile before them.

  The fourth Ghostface hesitated, his eyes and mouth wide-open in sudden fear as he realized he was seriously outmatched. Three of his companions had been dispatched in as many seconds by this strange pair of warriors, and now he was facing odds of two to one. He turned to run and found his way blocked by another white-skinned stranger. Before he could react, the newcomer slammed forward with a wooden club, hitting him full in the face and hurling him backward to join his companions.

  Simsinnet stood, eyes wide with shock at the speed and power the three Skandians had just demonstrated. Four of the Ghostfaces lay sprawled in a heap on the sand—one dead and the others incapacitated. And it had all happened so quickly that Simsinnet had barely had time to half draw his knife from its sheath. Sheepishly, he pushed it back home now, shaking his head. The Skandians seemed to have taken the whole matter in their stride, he thought, and he began to realize that, with ten such warriors helping them, the Mawagansett might have a good chance of handing the hated Ghostfaces a serious defeat.

  Thorn interrupted his thoughts, jerking a thumb at the canoes. “Finished?” he asked Stig.

  The tall young man shook his head. “Five to go. We were a little . . . distracted,” he said, grinning.

  Thorn made an impatient gesture. “Well, there’s nothing to distract you now. Get on with it.”

  Stig grinned. If he was waiting for any words of praise from Thorn, he was waiting in vain. As far as the old sea wolf was concerned, Hal and Stig had done no more than he expected of them. Thorn had been taking on odds of two to one all his fighting life.

  Stig stepped back to the nearest undamaged canoe and brought his ax down in a crunching blow, smashing a frame and punching a large slit in the bark. He struck twice more, enlarging the slit into a large triangular hole. Then he moved on to the fourth-last canoe in line to repeat the process. Thorn pointed to the far end of the line, where they had begun their destruction.

  “Pile some brushwood up there so you can light a fire,” he said to Hal. Obediently, the skirl jogged back along the line of damaged canoes and began to gather dry brushwood, piling it up between the first and second canoe in line. Thorn watched for a few seconds, then dropped to one knee beside the inert forms piled on top of one another.

  The first Ghostface, who had been the leader of the attack, was already dead. Hal’s sword stroke had been fatal. The second was mumbling incoherently, his eyes unfocused. The third, whom Hal had knocked unconscious with his sword hilt, showed signs of recovery. Thorn pulled him upright, shoving one of his companions clear of the man’s body, and slapped him lightly on the cheeks.

  “You! Wake up! Come on! Get over it. You’re all right,” he said.

  The man groaned and his eyes flickered open, startlingly white against the black paint surrounding them. He saw the bearded, grizzled face of a devil only a few centimeters from his own and uttered a shrill cry of fear.

  “Tell him to shut up,” Thorn snarled to Simsinnet, and the Mawag repeated the instruction. The Ghostface’s eyes flickered toward him and the moment of panic subsided. At least this was a living human being, he thought. He nodded rapidly and the cries of fear died away to a mere whimper.

  “Tell him I’m going to let him go,” Thorn said, and as Simsinnet repeated the message, a ray of hope dawned in the stricken warrior’s eyes. Thorn snorted in contempt.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “Here he is, all painted up like a scary skull head yet he’s frightened out of his wits by me.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Simsinnet muttered.

  Thorn grinned at him. “Oh, I’m not that bad when you get to know me.” He raised himself and looked down the line of canoes to where Hal was piling brushwood for a fire.

  Stig finished work on the last of the canoes, leaving a thirty-centimeter-square hole in the bark bottom of the little craft. He replaced his ax in its belt loop and walked up the beach to join Thorn and Simsinnet. The Ghostface, seeing another white-skinned
demon figure approaching, cowered back.

  Stig contrived to look insulted. “What’s his problem?” he asked Thorn.

  “Obviously, he thinks you don’t need a bald head and white paint to look scary,” Thorn told him.

  The Ghostface stammered a question and Thorn looked at Simsinnet. “What did he say?” he asked.

  The Mawag replied with a grin. He was enjoying seeing the raider getting some of his own medicine. “He asked if you’re going to eat his heart,” he said.

  Thorn appeared to consider the idea, but then shook his head.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “After all, I said I was going to set him free.”

  “He thinks you’re tricking him. That when he tries to leave, you’ll kill him and eat his heart.”

  Thorn scratched his head. “Why is he so obsessed with having someone eat his heart?”

  Simsinnet shrugged. “That’s what demons do,” he replied.

  Thorn shook his head angrily. It did nothing to allay the Ghostface’s fear. “I’m not a demon. I’m just me.”

  “You’re a big old pussycat,” Stig put in, grinning.

  Thorn turned a baleful eye on him. “Just be very careful, my friend,” he said warningly.

  Stig’s grin widened.

  Thorn turned back to Simsinnet and said very carefully, “Tell him I’m not going to eat his heart.”

  Simsinnet hesitated. “Should I say you’re not a demon?”

  Thorn considered the question for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No. It might be good to keep him thinking that. But tell him I’m not a full demon.”

  “Tell him Thorn’s a semi-demi-demon,” Stig said cheerfully.

  Thorn ignored him. “Tell him I won’t eat his heart. But I might nibble on his fingers and toes if he doesn’t get moving when I tell him.”