02 The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  “Any change?” Zavac asked, and his henchman shook his head.

  “Wind may have moderated a little,” he said.

  Zavac nodded thoughtfully. “That’ll suit us.”

  Andras, one hand on the tiller, pointed forward with his free hand.

  “Viper’s still on station,” he said. Zavac had seen the smaller ship when he first scanned the horizon. It had been the first thing he looked for, in fact. She was half a kilometer away, rising and falling on the waves that continued to sweep in toward them. Like Raven, she was under oars, with her sail lowered to the deck, so that she would be less visible to other ships.

  Originally named the Sea Lion, she had been one of the small Skandian trading fleet that he had captured some months previously. Zavac had ordered his men to burn her with the other trading ships. But a few minutes later, he had rescinded the order. The Sea Lion, or Viper, as he had renamed her, was a seaworthy ship, with plenty of cargo space for trade goods, and he thought he could put her to good use.

  Not that Zavac intended her to carry trade goods. But that cargo space could also be used to conceal fifteen to twenty men, and unlike the Raven, the Viper looked relatively harmless. Most trading skippers, if they were sensible, would turn and run at the sight of the long, low Raven. But the Viper was a different matter.

  If she appeared to be disabled or sinking, the chances were good that a ship would come to her aid. Once they were alongside, the concealed pirates would pour out of their hiding places and overwhelm their would-be rescuers. Traders carried relatively small crews, as Zavac knew only too well. And of course the Raven, hovering just over the horizon, could swoop in and finish the job.

  “No signal from her?” Zavac asked.

  Andras shook his head. “Nothing so far. But it’s early yet.”

  Zavac grunted. His first mate was right. They had been at sea for less than half a day. Still, he was impatient. They had spent weeks moored in a sheltered creek on the Stormwhite coast—a spot known only to himself and several other Magyaran pirate skippers—and he resented the unproductive time. His men were loyal to him—but only so long as he could provide them with gold and silver and other booty. He knew he had a reputation as a lucky skipper but that could change after a few weeks of cruising without finding any victims. Zavac was superstitious and he half believed that if they didn’t find a ship to prey on today, they would have lean pickings over the next few months.

  He glanced down the double line of rowers, watching them lean forward, brace their feet, then heave back. The oars rose and fell on either side of the ship like a bird’s wings, each one leaving a circle of white foam on the water as the ship swept past.

  “Do you want to take her?” Andras asked, indicating the tiller. But Zavac shook his head. Most skippers felt an affinity for their ships and enjoyed the sensation of command. But Zavac took no great pleasure in steering his ship. She was a means to an end, a way of getting from point A to point B, nothing more.

  Andras scowled. He’d been on the tiller for nearly six hours while Zavac had slept, and the strong current and steep waves of the cross-sea made it hard work to keep the ship on course. The rowing crew had changed ten minutes ago. They changed every two hours. But he’d had no respite. Andras resented Zavac and he was looking forward to the day when he’d saved enough of his plunder to buy his own ship.

  He also felt that Zavac’s disinterest in the Raven made him a less-than-expert ship handler. In Andras’s opinion, a captain had to be thoroughly attuned to his ship, to understand her nuances and idiosyncrasies. That way, he would be equipped to get the very best performance out of her. Zavac’s lack of instinctive feel for the ship might cost them dearly one day. So far, he’d been successful because she was very fast, even if she wasn’t handled as well as she might be. But she’d never really been challenged by a ship that might match her speed, Andras knew.

  “Viper’s signaling!”

  The lookout’s call snapped Andras’s mind back to the matter at hand. Both he and Zavac craned to see along the length of Raven’s hull. The view forward was relatively unrestricted with the sail stowed. They saw a flash of light from the stern of the Viper as one of the crew there used a mirror to flash the sun’s rays toward the Raven.

  “Answer them,” Zavac snapped.

  The lookout at the bow took a polished piece of metal and, angling it to the sun, sent a series of random flashes back to the Viper. There was no need for a message at this stage. The simple act of flashing the light at the other ship would let the Viper’s skipper know they were watching, waiting for the other ship to communicate using the simple code Zavac had devised.

  There was a solitary flash from the other ship’s stern. Then a long pause, then another single flash.

  One. One ship. It could only be a ship. There was nothing else out here for the Viper to signal about.

  “Answer!” Zavac ordered again. The lookout sent another random series of flashes across the intervening ocean, telling the signaler that Raven had understood the message so far and he could now move onto the next part, which would be to indicate the course of their intended target.

  The light flickered rapidly from the other ship. Zavac and Andras both counted under their breaths.

  “Eight,” they said simultaneously as the light stopped flashing. There was a pause, then it started again. Again, they both counted eight flashes. Zavac glanced at his first mate for confirmation.

  “It’s heading northwest,” Andras confirmed.

  In their simple code, the major points of the compass were indicated by numbers, with one being north, two being northeast, three being east and so on. Eight flashes meant northwest. As they considered this, the light began its rapid flashing again. The sender would continue until they acknowledged that they had received his message.

  “Answer, blast you!” Zavac snapped irritably at the lookout. The sailor rolled his eyes. It wasn’t up to him to acknowledge any of Viper’s signals until he was told to do so. Zavac had no call to vent his anger at him. Now he angled his steel plate across the sun in a back-and-forth movement to send a return series of flashes.

  Zavac thought for a moment. The wind was out of the south, veering occasionally to the southwest. To be heading northwest, the unknown ship would be under sail, with the wind coming from her port beam.

  “Signal three,” he called to the lookout. The man nodded and began to send a slow-paced series of flashes, three at a time. He continued until the Viper replied with a rapid flashing signal indicating that they’d received the message.

  Zavac, his eyes fixed on the Viper, spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Andras. “Stop rowing.”

  As the first mate relayed the order, the men raised their oars parallel to the surface of the ocean and rested their elbows on them. Gradually, the way ran off the low black ship and she rocked and pitched on the waves.

  On board Viper, the crew were hurriedly shoving a tangled mass of sail, rope and a broken spar over the starboard side, so the hull listed heavily. Then, as one of the crew at the stern lit a small iron pot filled with oily rags, a column of dark smoke began to drift upward. Within a few minutes, the trim little ship had taken on the appearance of a cripple—and one in desperate straits.

  “Take her away to port,” Zavac said, and Andras ordered the crew to start rowing again, heaving on the tiller so that the Raven began a long turn back to the northeast. Gradually, the Viper dropped below the horizon, until all they could see of her was the column of smoke, drifting on the moderate breeze.

  “Hold her here,” Zavac said.

  Andras issued orders for the rowers to alternately row and back water so that the Raven held her position.

  “Raise the bow whip!” Zavac called, and several crewmen got busy, raising a slender mast and attaching it to the bow post. The lookout quickly climbed the narrow pole. It swayed beneath his weight but held firm. There was a crosspiece near the top and he settled onto it, wrapping arms and legs around the vertical
spar.

  “I’ve got Viper in sight,” he called.

  Zavac nodded, satisfied. The slim spar the lookout was resting on would be far less visible than the Raven’s thick mast and crossyard. Chances were their victim would never see the figure of the lookout, suspended just above the horizon.

  They waited. Minutes passed with no further report from the lookout. Finally, Zavac called out in exasperation.

  “Do you see anything?”

  “Just the Viper,” came the reply.

  Andras eyed his skipper with mild scorn. “He’d say if he had,” he muttered.

  Zavac swung on him. “Don’t tell me my job!” he snarled. “Just make sure you’re doing yours!”

  Yours and mine both, Andras thought. But he wisely said no more.

  More waiting. Zavac’s hand clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his sword, its scabbard thrust through the heavy belt at his waist. He cursed under his breath, wondering what was happening beyond the immediate horizon. The unknown ship may have smelled a rat and turned away. His hastily devised signal code wasn’t sufficiently sophisticated for the Viper to send him a minute-by-minute account of proceedings. She could tell him how many ships there were and which way they were heading, little more.

  “Lookout!” he snapped. “Do you see anything?”

  There was a pause while the lookout considered shouting back If I did, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I? But he discarded the notion. Zavac had an uncertain temper and the lookout had seen men killed for insubordination far milder than that. Instead, he replied as before.

  “Just the Viper.”

  There was another pause, while Zavac stalked the deck, back and forth, scowling in fury. Andras was tempted to point out that, if their quarry had sailed away, Viper would not be keeping up the appearance of a ship in distress. The fact that the smoke still drifted above the horizon indicated that she was doing so.

  “Captain!” yelled the lookout.

  Zavac’s head snapped up.

  “There’s another ship in sight! A nice, fat trader by the look of her. And she’s heading for the Viper!”

  chapter fourteen

  Ready oars!” Zavac shouted, not bothering to relay the order through Andras. The rowers settled themselves more firmly on the benches, rolling their shoulders and stretching their muscles prior to beginning to row again.

  The rest of the crew were busy arming themselves, and making jokes about the fate of their intended victim.

  “Lookout!” snarled Zavac.

  “She’s coming alongside Viper . . . almost there. Now she’s alongside… Hah! There go Viper’s boarders!”

  The last report was delivered with a triumphant shout. The lookout craned round on his perch to see what Zavac’s reaction would be. He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Oars!” Zavac shouted.

  The oars dipped into the water, paused, then sent the pirate ship surging forward with a sudden burst of energy. The lead rower, seated halfway along the port side where he could be heard by all his companions, called the stroke for a few beats, then they settled into their rhythm and he needed all his breath for rowing.

  Gradually, the other two ships climbed over the horizon as Raven swept toward the battle. In a few minutes, Zavac could make out details—his own men swarming over the bulwarks onto the trading ship, hemming her crew into the bow as they forced them backward along the deck. The dark figures of the pirates seemed to cover the deck of the other ship. Zavac could make out no more than eight in the trader’s crew. Possibly less.

  He turned to Andras.

  “Bring us along her port side,” he ordered. The Viper was already grappled to the trader’s starboard side, clinging like a leech.

  Andras nodded and leaned into the tiller. The Raven swung until she was on course, then steadied.

  “Faster!” Zavac shouted, and the lead rower called a new cadence, increasing the pace of the oars. The Raven seemed to leap forward.

  They were close enough now to hear the cries of wounded men and the clash of sword against sword, punctuated by the dull, heavy thuds of axes striking wooden shields. Occasionally, as a blow went home, they could hear splintering sounds.

  They were almost up to the two ships now and Zavac called a warning.

  “In oars!”

  The port-side rowers instantly hefted their oars up out of harm’s way, holding them vertically as the ship slid alongside the trader, then grated against her with a drawn-out, shuddering crash.

  Other crew members were standing by with grapnels and they hurled them now and hauled in tight on the ropes, locking Raven to the trader. As the two bulwarks ground together, Zavac drew his sword and led the way onto the other ship.

  “Come on!” he shouted, and a score of battle-ready pirates followed him.

  There were only four of the trader’s crew left alive by now. At the sight of the overwhelming numbers facing them, they let out cries of despair and then, in response to one who was obviously their captain, they let their weapons fall to the deck with a clatter.

  The gesture of surrender was too late for one of them, as a pirate’s spear was already thrusting forward. It took him in the middle of the body and drove him back. He screamed and fell to the deck, the spear still transfixing him as the pirate struggled to free it.

  “Enough!” roared Zavac. “Lower your weapons!”

  A few of the men from the Viper seemed reluctant to obey. Their fighting blood was up and they had no wish to stop. Zavac had expected as much and he’d prepared three of his own boarding party, all big men armed with clubs, to take charge. He gestured them forward now.

  “Stop them,” he said.

  It wasn’t done out of any sense of mercy. He’d noted the captain, who had given the order to surrender, was one of the survivors. Zavac wanted time to question him. Sometimes, trading captains could provide very valuable information.

  The three big men barged through the Viper’s crew, shoving them out of the way. They reached the spearman just as he freed his weapon from the sailor’s body. His eyes were still wild and he was looking for another victim. One of the big men stunned him with a blow to the head. It was so offhand, so casually brutal, almost an afterthought. The spearman crumpled and fell to the deck.

  Zavac then shoved forward through the group who surrounded the remaining three sailors. He grabbed the captain’s collar in his left hand. His right held his long, curving sword.

  “You!” he shouted. “You captain, yes?”

  The man looked at him, contempt in his eyes. Then he spat on the deck.

  “Oui,” he replied. “Je suis le capitaine.”

  “Gallican?” Zavac demanded, and the man nodded. Zavac glanced quickly at the other survivors. They were both common sailors. Their plain, rough clothes, weathered faces and hands and tarred pigtails made that obvious. They’d have little useful information. Zavac gestured at them with his sword.

  “Kill those two.”

  As the captain, realizing what was about to happen, tried to shout a protest, two of the Raven crew stepped forward and cut the sailors down. One died in silence. The other gave a brief cry of pain and despair, then fell to the bloodstained deck.

  “Search the ship,” Zavac ordered. He re-sheathed his sword, then jerked a thumb at the Gallican captain. “Bring him aft,” he ordered.

  Two of the big men who had followed him aboard grabbed the captain by an arm on either side and marched him to the stern of the ship. At Zavac’s signal, they threw the captain onto the deck. Zavac leaned against the bulwark close to the tiller, looking down curiously at the captain.

  “Now, let’s see what your ship is carrying,” he said mildly.

  It turned out that the trader was lightly laden, which indicated that she’d already sold most of her cargo farther to the south.

  “You were quick off the mark,” Zavac said cheerfully as he inspected the small pile of remaining trade goods dragged up from the cargo space. There were a few barrels of wine and ale, som
e clay jars of oil and several bales of wool.

  Andras inspected the latter. “Pretty poor quality,” he called.

  Zavac nodded. They must have been unable to find a buyer for the wool, he thought.

  “So, you’ve traded all your goods,” he said to the captain. The man glared at him, seeming to not understand, until Zavac’s thin veneer of good humor was cast aside.

  “Don’t playact with me!” Zavac shouted, drawing a long dagger from a sheath on his belt. “You speak the common tongue! You’re a trader!”

  Quick as a striking snake, he slashed the thin blade of the dagger across the Gallican’s face, laying open a long cut. The man’s hands flew to his face, then he stared, uncomprehending, at the blood staining them. Zavac’s attack had been so fast, and his blade was so sharp, that the captain had barely felt the cut. Now the pain registered with him, a burning sensation across his face, accompanied by the rush of blood dripping down onto his clothes.

  He huddled away from the Magyaran, hunching his shoulder in a futile attempt to avoid further punishment.

  “Speak to me,” Zavac demanded, his voice quiet once more.

  The captain, one hand still pressed to the cut on his face, answered slowly. “What should I tell you?”

  Zavac smiled, and pointed the tip of the dagger at the man’s face, holding it loosely on the palm of his hand and letting the blade bounce up and down on his fingers.

  “You’ve sold your cargo. That means your cash chest will be full of gold. Where is it?”

  A lifetime of preying on other ships told him that somewhere there would be a concealed strongbox, where the gold they had earned would be kept. Of course, his men could find it eventually, if they tore the ship apart. But gold was relatively easy to conceal and it was generally simpler to have his victims tell him where the strongbox was.

  The Gallican, however, shook his head. “There’s no gold,” he said. “Trading has been bad. The ship was damaged in the storms and I had to pay for repairs. There’s nothing left, I swear.”