02 The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Thorn rapped the baton on his leg. Maybe there was something he could do about that, he thought.

  Then, absentmindedly, he rapped a little harder than he’d intended.

  “Ow!” he muttered, making a mental note not to do that again. He glanced up and saw that several of the Herons, now tucking into hot bread and bacon, were grinning at him. He scowled and the grins disappeared.

  But he knew those grins were still there, below the surface, and he was glad of the fact. He didn’t want them cowed and resentful. He needed to build their spirits and help them regain the esprit de corps they had lost during the long, boring days in camp.

  He beckoned Edvin over. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked.

  Edvin shook his head. “I’ve been busy serving the food out. I was just about to.”

  “Then put it to one side to stay warm. It’s your turn for a run now.”

  Edvin looked stricken. “But I’m the cook!” he protested.

  “Yes, you are. And if you find yourself facing some bloodthirsty pirate intent on separating you from your head, I’m sure you can tell him that.”

  He paused while Edvin assessed that and slowly nodded grudging agreement.

  “I see your point,” he said.

  Thorn patted him on the shoulder. “Besides, this way you can see that I am really as mean as I make out,” he said. Then he ruined the effect of that statement by pointing to a small grove of trees halfway down the beach.

  “No need to run the whole way. Just to those trees and back. Then you can have your breakfast.”

  Edvin turned away, then turned back again.

  “Thorn,” he said, “don’t worry. I won’t be telling anyone that you’re not mean.”

  “Does my heart good to hear it,” Thorn told him. Then he made that same shooing motion and Edvin set off down the beach, watched curiously by the other boys. They had finished eating and were leaning back, relaxing, as they drained the last of their hot tea. The relaxation didn’t last long as Thorn chivvied them to their feet.

  “All right! More work to do! Wash and clean up the camp. Someone take care of Edvin’s gear, then be back here in fifteen minutes! Bring your saxe knives.”

  The boys quickly went to work, washing in the chilly waters of a stream that ran out of the woods and down to the bay, then setting the campsite to rights. By the time Edvin had returned and eaten his delayed breakfast, they were grouped around Thorn. He looked thoughtfully at Hal.

  “This contraption you’re working on,” he said, nodding toward Hal’s workshop tent. Hal nodded. “Is it important, or is it just some highfalutin idea—like that running water system you built in your mam’s kitchen?”

  Hal sighed. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

  Thorn pushed out his bottom lip thoughtfully, then looked at Stig. “What do you think, Stig?”

  The tall boy shook his head. “I shouldn’t think so,” he replied.

  “Me either,” Thorn said. He turned back to Hal. “Well, what do you say?”

  Hal gave both his friends a resigned look before he answered. “This one is worthwhile,” he said. “It could give us an edge over Zavac and his men when we catch up with them.”

  Thorn nodded, satisfied. “In that case, get on with it. I suppose you need Ingvar?”

  “Yes. He’s been helping me with it.”

  Thorn looked at Ingvar and gestured with his thumb. “All right, Ingvar, you stay and help Hal. The rest of you come with me.”

  “What are we doing?” Ulf asked.

  “We’re gathering vines and young beech saplings to make rope. Lots of rope.”

  “Why do we want lots of rope?” Wulf asked, and his brother scowled at him. He had been going to ask that question.

  “Because when you make a net, you need lots of rope,” Thorn replied. Then, seeing several mouths open, he forestalled the next question. “And don’t anyone ask why we need a net.”

  chapter five

  Erak and Svengal watched the waves surging through Hallasholm’s narrow harbor mouth. Where they smashed against the protective rock walls on either side, white spray exploded high in the air. The two sea wolves heard the deep boom of the waves as they broke, and felt the impact as a dull vibration underfoot. The unbroken section of each wave that passed through the entrance swept across the harbor until it hit the solid quay. For a second, that wave would seem to gather itself, then it would heave up and green water would surge over the quay, up to a meter deep, only smashing itself into spray when it hit the inland retaining wall.

  The wind was remorseless, blowing in from the southwest and keening through the masts and rigging of the ships hauled up to safety on the beach, well above the high watermark. There was a constant rattle of loose halyards as they snapped back and forth against the masts.

  Wolfwind, Erak’s wolfship, was on the beach. Sensing that the weather was going to deteriorate further, Svengal had moved her from her customary position against the quay, opposite the harbor entrance. The surging waves there now made it too dangerous for the ship. No matter how many wicker fenders they might put along her sides to protect her from the quay wall, in this sort of weather, they’d soon be mashed and splintered, and then the hull itself would begin to take the damage.

  In the event of a freak wave, there was even the chance that she might be swept bodily onto the quay.

  Like the other ships on the beach, she had a long tarpaulin tented over the open hull to keep out the worst of the wind and spray. Erak inspected her thoughtfully.

  “She’s fitted out and provisioned?” he asked.

  Svengal nodded patiently. It was only the tenth time Erak had asked him this question in the past week.

  “As far as she can be. There are some perishables we’ll take on board at the last minute: bread, meat and fresh water. And there’s other equipment that I don’t want soaked by the rain and spray. But once this storm dies down, we’ll be ready to go in an hour.”

  Erak grunted moodily, looking at the sea once more and sniffing the air.

  “Once this storm dies down,” he repeated. “Whenever that might be.”

  “It can’t last much longer,” Svengal said optimistically. “It’s been blowing now for ten days straight.”

  “Knew a storm when I was a boy that blew nonstop for over a month,” Erak replied.

  Svengal raised an eyebrow. “So you keep telling me, chief. But think about it. Storms like that don’t happen very often. You were a boy, and that’s a long time ago.”

  Erak glanced sidelong at his former first mate, bridling at what he saw was an implied insult.

  “It’s not that long,” he said stiffly. “I’m not exactly on my last legs yet, you know.”

  Svengal rolled his eyes to the heavens. “You’re not exactly in the first bloom of youth, either.”

  Erak squared his shoulders and turned to face Svengal directly.

  “First bloom of youth?” he repeated incredulously. “First bloom of youth? That’s a bit fancy, isn’t it? When did you become a bard?”

  “All right,” Svengal replied. In fact, he’d heard the phrase in a love poem read to him by a strikingly attractive young lady a few nights ago and he’d been rather taken by it. Of course, it seemed more appropriate in her company than in Erak’s. “If you prefer plain talk, let me put it this way. You’re no spring chicken.”

  “Is that right?” Erak took a half pace closer to Svengal, his chest thrust out aggressively. Erak’s chest was quite a substantial matter and there were men who might have quailed before such an obvious challenge. Svengal, however, wasn’t one of them. He was every bit as bulky as Erak and he’d known the Oberjarl for many years. They’d sailed together, raided together, celebrated together and mourned lost shipmates together. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by him now because he had a fancy title. He stood his ground and replied calmly.

  “Chief, I’m not concerned with your advancing years,” he said, and saw Erak’s eyes narrow. “The point I’m m
aking is that you were a boy when that storm lasted for a month. And that was many, many years ago. So it’s not the sort of thing that happens frequently, is it?”

  Erak’s features softened a little. The glare died away from his eyes as he thought over Svengal’s words. “I suppose not,” he said reluctantly.

  “So the odds are good that this storm won’t last as long, aren’t they?” Svengal persisted.

  The Oberjarl nodded. “No. I suppose you’re right.”

  “And in any event, whether it does or not, there’s nothing you nor I nor my dear old aunt Bessie can do about it, is there?”

  “I thought your dear old aunt was named Winfredia?” Erak challenged.

  Svengal shrugged. “Aunt Bessie was her younger sister. A lovely woman, she was.”

  The Oberjarl shook his head. Svengal was fond of invoking his dear old aunts to make a point but their names seemed to change regularly. At last count, Erak could recall at least nine.

  “In any event, what does she have to do with things?” he asked.

  Svengal grinned at him. “She was fond of saying, We can change our breeches. We can change our minds. But we can’t change the weather.”

  “You just made that up,” Erak said.

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Or less wise. The fact remains, when the storm blows itself out, we’ll be ready to go in an hour.”

  Erak harrumphed. The delay was chafing at him. He couldn’t maintain Svengal’s philosophical attitude to it. He wanted Wolfwind away and searching for the members of the Heron brotherband—and the pirate ship that had gotten away with the Andomal, the great treasure of the Skandian nation.

  He glanced up at the wind-driven clouds racing across the sky. There was no sign of any abatement.

  “It’ll be just my luck if this is the first one since I was a boy that does last a month,” he muttered.

  Svengal considered the thought. “I suppose when you think about it, the fact that it hasn’t happened in such a long time might make it more likely that it’ll happen again now.”

  Erak frowned at him. “You’re a great comfort,” he said. Then he turned away toward the path leading back to the Great Hall. “No sense standing out here in the rain. Let’s take a look at the charts and see if we can figure where they might have gotten to.”

  Svengal fell into step beside him. “Let’s see if we can guess, you mean.”

  Erak grunted. “That too.”

  They strode into the Great Hall. The bad weather meant there were more men gathered there than usual, drinking and telling tall stories to pass the time. They glanced incuriously at Erak and his first mate and a few called greetings. Most of them could guess where the two men had been.

  There was no standing to attention or any other signs of deference as Erak entered. Even though he was the Oberjarl, the supreme leader of all Skandia, Skandians didn’t believe in bowing and scraping. They were a democratic lot and they liked to express their independence by a general show of indifference to their ruler—unless he was angry. Then they made sure they paid attention. Erak took no offense. He had behaved the same way to the previous Oberjarl.

  Gort was one of a group of men sitting at a table to one side. Erak caught his eye and beckoned to him. Gort had been the instructor responsible for training the Heron brotherband. He probably knew more about their ship and its capabilities than anyone in Hallasholm. Gort rose, carrying his ale cup, and crossed the Hall to join them.

  “Need to pick your brain,” Erak said, and led the way to his private rooms.

  They seated themselves at a large wooden table. Most Skandian furniture was large, in keeping with the size of its owners. Erak spread a chart of the Stormwhite out before them and pondered it.

  “We’re trying to figure out how far Hal and his crew might have gone before they had to put in to shore,” he explained.

  Gort leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the chart. Truth be told, dead reckoning navigation wasn’t one of his strong points. He’d instructed the boys in seamanship and weapon craft. But this was a relatively simple matter.

  “One thing, chief,” Svengal asked. “Why am I looking for the boys? Why not that thieving snake Zavac?”

  Erak glanced up at him. “Obviously, if you can get a lead on Zavac, go after him. But there’s a good chance the boys might have some idea where he’s gone. They went after him almost immediately and the trail was still warm.”

  “So if I find them… ?” Svengal asked hesitantly. “Do you want me to bring them back?” He thought he knew what was in the Oberjarl’s mind but he wanted it in black-and-white.

  Erak shook his head. “Help them,” he said. “There’s only nine of them against Zavac’s crew. They’ll need you.”

  “They’ve got Thorn, of course,” Svengal said.

  Gort looked at him. “What is it about Thorn?” he asked. “He’s just a broken-down old drunk, isn’t he?” He recalled that Sigurd, the senior brotherband instructor, had once implied that there was more to Thorn than met the eye. But the conversation had been cut short.

  Erak and Svengal exchanged a glance and Erak motioned for Svengal to explain.

  “He used to sail with us,” Svengal told the instructor. “And he was the best fighting man in our crew. Better than me. Better than Erak.” He glanced at the Oberjarl for confirmation and Erak nodded briefly. “The only one who came close to him was his best friend, Mikkel—Hal’s father.”

  Gort pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Still, what difference could one warrior make? Particularly a one-armed man?”

  “He was more than just one warrior,” Erak told him. “Thorn was the Maktig.”

  “Three years running,” Svengal added, and that set Gort back in his seat.

  “The Maktig?” he said. “Thorn?” The Maktig was the warrior acclaimed as the mightiest in all Skandia. Somehow, Gort couldn’t equate that with the shabby, shambling figure that he knew. Then Svengal’s words struck him and he stared in disbelief. “Did you say three years running?” he asked. He was twenty-nine years old, younger than Erak and Svengal, and he had no memory of the days before Thorn had lost his right hand. The other two nodded somberly.

  “Nobody else has ever done that,” Erak said. “So even with one hand gone, he’s still a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Particularly since Hal made that false arm for him,” Svengal said. “Did you see it? A big, studded club on the end of a false arm.” He shook his head. “He’s quite a boy, that one.”

  Erak nodded slowly. “That’s why I want you to find them and help them.”

  “But you punished them,” Gort said, frowning. “You disbanded them and told us to expunge all records of the Heron brotherband. And you told them to hand over that ship of Hal’s.”

  “I know,” Erak said. “I had to be seen to do that. They committed a terrible mistake letting the Andomal be stolen, so I had to punish them. But I also had to give them a chance to redeem themselves. Their only hope for any sort of future was if they could retrieve what they had lost.”

  “You knew they’d take off after Zavac?” Svengal asked. Erak had never admitted this to him before.

  “I hoped they would. We can’t afford to lose people like that. They have too much potential value. Hal is pretty much a genius when it comes to ship design, even if the Heron’s spars are a little on the light side. And he’s already an expert helmsman and navigator.”

  “He did lose a spar in that final race,” Svengal protested.

  Gort shook his head. “And he recovered from it. He handled the problem brilliantly by improvising. Anyone can make a mistake, Svengal. It’s how they learn from it and recover from it that shows their true worth.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Svengal said. He leaned over the chart again. “Well, let’s see where they might have gone, and where they could have taken shelter.”

  He made a circling gesture over a section of the coastline with his forefinger.

  The othe
rs leaned closer. Svengal was pointing to the eastern coast of the Stormwhite, a politically unstable area where a number of small independent states, each more quarrelsome and vexatious than the other, had for years competed with one another to secure a section of coast for themselves. Some were barely larger than the cities or large towns that were their nominal capitals. Others might stretch for ten kilometers or more along the coast and into the hinterland behind—until a jealous neighbor annexed territory from them.

  There were at least a dozen of these troublesome city-states and the situation between them was one of constant flux. The mapmakers of the time had long ago given up trying to keep track of them, and had arbitrarily marked the territory as belonging to Teutlandt. The rulers of Teutlandt blandly accepted this. But since their country was itself constantly racked with internal disputes and power struggles, they had no opportunity to actually claim the land granted them by mapmakers.

  But then, Erak thought, mapmakers were notoriously lazy and they rarely traveled to this section of the world.

  “They’d been gone about ten days before that storm really turned nasty,” Svengal said. “I figure they would have gotten about this far.”

  But Gort was shaking his head once more. “In a normal wolfship, maybe. But the Heron is fast. She’s a real flyer. And with the wind on her beam like that, she would have been pretty much on her fastest point of sailing—even with the sail reefed.”

  He paused, screwing his lips up in concentration as he moved his finger farther down the coast from the point Svengal had indicated.

  “They could well have gotten this far,” he said, and all three men leaned closer, studying the chart.

  “Hal had a copy of this chart, of course?” Erak asked.

  “It was issued to all the brotherbands in their navigation classes. Knowing Hal, he will have kept it.”

  “There,” said Svengal suddenly. He was pointing to a small inlet, almost unnoticeable, on the coast. The entrance faced north and the bay inside was shielded by hills on the southwestern side. “That looks like the best shelter for kilometers along the coast. It faces away from the wind and it’s shielded by this high headland. If you think they could have gone that far, I’ll wager that’s where I’ll find them.”