The Ghostfaces

by John A. Flanagan

  The Ghostface parried desperately as Stig rained blow after blow down on him. The ax was a glittering wheel of light, one stroke blending into another as the Skandian used all his strength and skill to overwhelm the Ghostface. The skull-faced warrior barely had time to strike back. The few blows he managed to land were treated with contempt, deflected by the big round shield on Stig’s left arm, or blocked by the heavy ax, which seemed to have a life of its own, moving at blinding speed.

  Tecumsa watched fearfully, one hand to the side of her head, trying to stem the flow of blood. Like all scalp wounds, it bled prodigiously. But she knew it wasn’t a major injury. One of the other women advanced and handed her a soft piece of cloth. She held it to her head, stopping the flow. Her vision was a little unfocused, but she knew that was merely a side effect of the head wound.

  The Ghostface was breathing heavily now, his breath coming in giant gasps that set his shoulders heaving and his chest rising and falling. But it was less the result of exertion and more of fear. He was facing an opponent more skilled than he, armed with superior weapons. There could only be one result to this fight.

  And it came as he swung a clumsy blow with his ax and missed completely, staggering and spinning halfway round with the momentum of the awkward stroke. His small shield had been smashed to tatters in the first moments of this engagement and he was unprotected.

  Although he was still young, Stig had fought many battles in his life. In the heat of a massed conflict, it would be a matter of striking out at those who faced him, beating down their defenses and dispatching them as quickly and as efficiently as possible.

  But in single combats, he had often chosen to spare an enemy when he found him open and at his mercy, using the flat of his ax head to stun his opponent. This time, with the memory of that savage blow aimed at Tecumsa fresh in his mind, he felt no such compunction.

  He swung the ax in a fierce, controlled strike that caught the Ghostface between his right shoulder and his neck, biting deep into his upper body. The stone ax fell from lifeless hands and the Ghostface, his eyes already glazing, toppled to one side like a rag doll.

  An involuntary sigh of “Aaaaaaah!” came from the assembled children and women who were watching. Tecumsa, still interposing her body between the huddled children and their would-be attacker, smiled at him and mouthed his name.

  He felt his heart swell with love for her, and relief that she was still standing. He dropped his weapons and moved to her, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her repeatedly. She sank into his embrace, and the children and the other women came to gather around the two of them, throwing their arms around them and speaking their names in joy and relief.

  Gently, Stig touched the side of Tecumsa’s head, where the shallow graze was still bleeding, although nowhere near as freely as it had initially.

  “I’m all right,” she assured him, smiling up into his eyes, seeing the concern and love there. “He only grazed me. I barely felt it.”

  “You’re sure?” he said, his voice catching in his throat. The thought of anything happening to her was unbearable. But she smiled again and nodded.

  “I’m sure.”

  With a sigh of relief, he released her and stepped back, gently disengaging several of the children who had their arms around his waist and were seeking his attention.

  “Did you see her, Stig?” one of the older boys asked excitedly. “She kept going forward and shouting at the Ghostface, just the way Lydia told her.”

  “Yes. I saw her.” He smiled.

  “She’s very brave. Are you proud of her?”

  “More proud than you could know,” he told the boy and he looked up, still smiling, to catch Tecumsa’s eye. The smile froze on his lips as he saw her shaking her head uncertainly, the back of her hand to her forehead. She took a step, staggered and looked at him.

  “Stig?” she said, her voice full of sudden fear, and he was instantly by her side, his arms around her to steady her. Gently, he laid her down on a pile of blankets and knelt by her side, holding her hand and stroking her beautiful face. She was very pale, he realized, and her eyes didn’t seem to be focusing properly.

  “Stig . . . ,” she repeated. “I love you, Stig.”

  “I love you too, Tecumsa,” he said, his voice breaking. He looked up to one of the older women. “Fetch someone!” he shouted. “She needs help.”

  The woman nodded and darted out of the hut, followed by several of the children. He could hear her yelling for help as she ran up the laneway between the huts to the palisade. The village healers were there, he knew, ready to tend to any of the warriors who might be wounded in the battle.

  He squeezed Tecumsa’s hand reassuringly. “Help is coming,” he said.

  She smiled vaguely. “That’s nice,” she said.

  Then her eyes slowly closed and she simply stopped breathing.

  chapter forty-three

  Alerted by the children, Hal found his friend some minutes later.

  Stig was cradling Tecumsa’s lifeless body in his arms. He sat on the floor of the hut, bending over her, tears running in torrents down his face. Hal, glancing through the door and taking in the tragic scene, motioned for the others to remain outside while he entered.

  He went down on his knees beside his weeping friend. His heart was torn in two for Stig. He knew how much his first mate had loved the beautiful Mawagansett maid, knew how he saw her as the beginning of a new chapter in his life, free of the shame that he perceived followed him in Hallasholm because of the treachery of his father. Here, in the foreign western land, he was well regarded and loved without any taint of family history to affect him.

  “Stig,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  But Stig didn’t seem to hear him. He continued to rock slowly back and forth above Tecumsa’s still body, little whimpers of grief escaping him. Hal touched him gently on the shoulder.

  “Stig,” he said, and finally his friend looked up at him, a depth of sorrow in his eyes such as Hal had never seen.

  “I loved her, Hal,” he said, the words seeming to be wrenched from him. “I loved her so much and I couldn’t save her.”

  In the back of Stig’s mind was the hideous thought that he might have actually been responsible for her death. He had shouted at the Ghostface to distract him but had succeeded only in diverting Tecumsa’s attention from her desperate attack on the invader. If he hadn’t called out, an insidious worm of guilt whispered, she would still be alive. But that thought was so dreadful, he couldn’t begin to admit to it, couldn’t voice it to his friend.

  Hal, wisely, said nothing. There were no words for a moment like this. All he could offer was his friendship, his support and, most of all, his presence beside his oldest and best friend.

  They sat thus for some minutes, then a shadow blocked the sunlight coming through the doorway and Thorn entered, his movements surprisingly quiet for someone so bulky. He knelt on the other side of the stricken first mate and put his left arm around the young man’s shoulders. Finally, he spoke, his usually rough and raucous voice surprisingly gentle.

  “Come on, lad, it’s time to take her to her family.”

  Stig looked up at him and, like Hal, Thorn was stricken by the devastating sadness in those eyes.

  “He barely touched her, Thorn. He just grazed her, that’s all. He nearly missed completely.” He looked down at the pale face of the young woman. “But she’s dead.”

  Thorn gripped Stig’s shoulder with his left hand. “Sometimes that’s the way of it, lad. I’ve seen men suffer shocking wounds and survive with no ill effects. With others, a mere scratch can kill them. There’s no understanding it. Don’t try.”

  “He barely touched her,” Stig repeated.

  Thorn reached down and gently disentangled Stig’s hands from Tecumsa’s still form. “Aye. It’s a terrible thing. But it’s time to let her g
o. Her family needs her now.”

  Reluctantly, Stig allowed Thorn to release Tecumsa from his embrace. Then the bulky old sea wolf came to his knees, slipped his arms around Tecumsa and rose to his feet, cradling her to him. Slowly, Stig rose, his eyes riveted on the beautiful face. Hal stood as well. There was a huge lump in his throat, and he felt tears stinging the backs of his eyelids. He blinked them away, then stopped. Let them fall, he thought. Tecumsa deserved them. Stig deserved them.

  Slowly, the three friends made their way out into the uncaring, bright sunshine. Stig blinked and looked around himself. How could the sun shine so brightly, so cheerfully, on such a dreadful day?

  “Come on, Stig,” Thorn said. “Let’s take her to her mother.”

  Walking three abreast, with Thorn in the middle carrying Tecumsa, they made their way down the lane between the huts, heading for the hut where Tecumsa’s parents, shattered by the news of their daughter’s death, waited for them.

  The rest of the Heron brotherband followed them in a silent, somber procession, heads bowed in sorrow for their shipmate.

  • • • • •

  Four days later, Tecumsa’s body, wrapped in clean scented robes, was laid to rest in accordance with the Mawagansetts’ customs.

  Inside her parents’ hut, the tribe’s senior holy man prayed over her, wafting the smoke from a burning eagle’s feather and a smoldering pot of herbs over the funeral bier. The immediate family, accompanied by Stig, stood and witnessed the brief ceremony. Then, at a signal from the priest, four of the tribe’s young men, led by a weeping Simsinnet, entered the hut and raised the bier on which she lay to shoulder height and carried her out of the hut, where the tribe, and the Herons, were standing in several lines, forming a guard of honor.

  They processed past the other Mawagansett, and the Skandians, who bowed their heads in respect as the bier passed. Tecumsa’s people, Hal noticed, held their heads erect, watching the young woman as she began her final journey.

  When everyone had witnessed her passing, the burial party, consisting of the priest and his assistants, the four bearers, Tecumsa’s family and Stig, set out for a secluded grove in the forest where the tribe had their cemetery. Normally, an outsider and a nonbeliever such as Stig would not have accompanied them. But Tecumsa had loved Stig, and so did her family, so he was included.

  In a quiet grove in the forest, a small hut had been constructed from a timber frame covered with bark. It was just big enough to accommodate the bier on which Tecumsa lay and it stood among a score of similar structures, in varying stages of repair. Half a dozen were obviously brand-new, and they held the remains of the warriors who had been killed in the Ghostfaces’ attack. Some were crumbling and on the verge of collapse. They had clearly been there for years.

  The priest explained the tradition to Stig as he saw him looking at the derelict huts. “Soon we will collect the bones from those huts and they will be buried in the communal resting place with those of the rest of the tribe. Eventually, the same will be done for Bird of the Forest.”

  This was now the name by which Tecumsa was known. The Mawagansett believed that if a deceased person’s name was spoken, the spirit might be called back, to wander, lost and alone, between this world and the next.

  Stig nodded, looking round the peaceful grove. In the surrounding trees, birds flitted and sang. It was a beautiful spot, he thought. She would have loved it. He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and looked down into Simsinnet’s compassionate eyes.

  “I loved her too, brother Stig,” said the Mawagansett. “Thank you for trying to save her.”

  Stig nodded, a huge lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. His heart was leaden. He bowed his head before the hut where Tecumsa’s body had been laid to rest and said his own private farewell. He had loved her so much, he thought. He wondered whether he would ever love anyone again.

  Then, as the priest and the family began to intone their final salute and farewell to Bird of the Forest, he turned on his heel and strode back through the trees toward the village. Suddenly, all he wanted was to be with his own people.

  • • • • •

  Mohegas and Hal stood together on the beach as Edvin supervised the final stages of Heron’s provisioning, which had been interrupted by the arrival of the Ghostfaces. A dozen Ghostface prisoners formed a line, supervised by the Herons, carrying the final fresh food and water supplies on board. They were the few who had surrendered on the beach, accompanied by survivors from the canoes who had been picked up from various spots around the bay.

  Hal nodded in their direction. “What do you plan to do with them?” he asked. If the tables had been turned, he knew, the Ghostfaces would have killed their captives. But Mohegas had other ideas.

  “We’ll keep them as prisoners and take them upriver to rebuild the villages they destroyed,” he said.

  “That’s a wise decision,” Hal told him.

  Mohegas nodded gravely. After a few seconds, he said, “You’re leaving today?”

  “I think Stig would prefer that,” Hal replied. “The tide’s due to turn soon. We’ll go out with it.”

  “And will you ever return?” Mohegas asked.

  Hal smiled at him. “Would we be welcome?”

  The Mawag elder hesitated, not wanting to cause offense. He chose his words carefully. “You, yes. But others might follow you who would be less so. After all, your people are warriors and your steel weapons are far more effective than our stone ones. I’m not sure we would welcome such visitors.”

  “I thought not,” Hal said. “That’s why I will keep no records for this voyage. Nobody will know how we came here, or how we returned.”

  Mohegas nodded approval. “I think that would be best.”

  chapter forty-four

  Hal realized that Ulf, Wulf and Stefan had approached and were standing, seeking to catch his attention. He glanced from them to the two canoes drawn up on the beach behind them and raised his eyebrows in a question.

  “Everything’s ready, Hal,” Stefan said.

  Hal nodded to Mohegas and moved to join his shipmates.

  In one of the canoes, Orvik’s body was laid out, his arms crossed over his chest and his old, worn saxe clasped in his right fist, its bare blade still stained with the dried blood of the Ghostface Orvik had killed. He was wearing a fine shirt of deer hide, leggings of the same material and knee-high moccasins. The small boat was piled high with firewood, soaked in oil. Several jars of oil were placed at key points along the hull. Thorn stood by the canoe, making a few final adjustments to the combustibles in it. Hal and his companions joined him and together they began to shove the laden canoe down to the water. Thorn and Hal stepped aboard as the canoe floated free. They took up their paddles while Ulf, Wulf and Stefan boarded the second canoe to accompany them. They paddled swiftly across the bay, toward the open sea.

  They stopped just before the mouth of the bay and pulled the two canoes alongside each other. Thorn and Hal stepped across into the second canoe while Ulf held the funeral craft alongside. They bobbed up and down on the small waves for a few moments, then Hal took his flint and steel and struck sparks into a handful of tinder that Thorn held. The old sea wolf blew on it until it flared into flame, then leaned over the gunwale and tossed the burning mass into the bottom of Orvik’s canoe. For a second, nothing happened. Then flames shot up and began licking at the oil-soaked wood. At a nod from Hal, Ulf shoved the funeral craft clear and they watched as the ebbing tide began to draw it out to sea. Wulf and Stefan kept their canoe steady with their paddles.

  The flames licked higher and a banner of black smoke rose above the canoe. Then Hal made a signal and they all took up their paddles and headed back to the beach.

  Mohegas was waiting for them, his face impassive. He stared across the bay to where the black pall marked the path of Orvik’s last voyage.

  “This was
a good farewell,” he said.

  Hal nodded agreement. “It’s our way.”

  Thorn shaded his eyes with his hand and peered across the bay. The canoe was still afloat, but before long it would burn to the waterline and disappear.

  “You know,” he said, “I don’t think Orvik would have been happy back in Hallasholm. Too many things have changed, and most of the people he knew are gone now.”

  “He was happy here,” Hal said, and smiled at Mohegas. “He told me so,” he added.

  Mohegas didn’t reply directly, but gestured back toward the trees.

  “Here is another who would have been happy here,” he said. “It’s sad that fate chose otherwise.”

  Stig was striding down the beach toward them, his face set in a grim expression. His shield was slung over his back, and a satchel containing his personal effects was over one shoulder. His bedroll had already been taken aboard by the others.

  He stopped as he reached them and bowed slightly to the Mawag elder.

  “Mohegas,” he said, “thank you for your friendship.”

  Mohegas returned the salute. “Thank you for helping us defeat the enemy,” he said, gesturing toward the downcast Ghostface prisoners. The face paint had been roughly wiped clear by their captors and they made a sorry-looking bunch, with streaks of black and white smearing their faces.

  Stig turned to Hal. “When can we leave?”

  Hal glanced across the bay, studying the pattern of wind ruffling the surface. “Tide’s just turned,” he observed. “We can get going right away. Get on board.”

  Word had spread that the foreigners were leaving, and the Mawagansett began to gather on the beach. Millika and Pillika, faces wreathed in smiles, embraced Ulf and Wulf with considerable warmth. The four had spent a lot of time together over the past weeks. Ulf felt he had to own up to the subterfuge he and his brother had carried out.