by Walt Socha
“More smoke.”
Fergus turned to see another cloud of smoke rise from that same peak. Within a few breaths, a second joined it. In minutes, both disappeared.
He looked down at Brynjar. “Routine signals?”
“One, I’m here. Two, come here. Three, danger.” The steersman raised an eyebrow. “Your father?”
A grin broke Fergus’s face. “Or Matuso.” His friend could be insufferable sometimes, his father always. But any hope that either was alive was welcome.
“We have company,” said one of the crew in a tight voice.
Turning to face the shoreline, Fergus watched as a longboat leapt out of the channel from Ros’s harbor. About a dozen oars on each side powered the narrow war ship. The ship had the look of Torben’s handicraft and, given this timeframe and location, was most likely that of Northmen raiders. Or Vikings as the Far Ones knew them.
Fergus scanned his crew, finding Samatu at the bow, also gazing at the newcomer. The older man twitched and his hands clenched, validating Fergus’s fear. They didn’t have a real plan other than avoiding trouble and finding the abandoned shore party. Well, they found the trouble.
It wasn’t a cargo ship like Dreamcatcher. They couldn’t outrun it. And in a head to head fight, couldn’t defeat it. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his gut, Fergus looked at the expectant faces of his crew. Father had warned him of this, of the burden of responsibility. But he had never really understood. Until now. “Oars in position but out of the water. Bows and flintlocks ready.”
Samatu broke his gaze and looked over his shoulder. Fergus nodded. The older man, beaten by the Northmen only a few weeks earlier, turned and unknotted the heavy line attached to the ram. A section of a spare mast, maybe four strides long, pivoted from a hinged curved beam tied to the keel. An iron spike decorated the upper end. Two lines restricted any sideways movement of this makeshift arm. A third line, terminating at Samatu’s feet, kept the arm upright. Releasing it would allow the helmet size spike to swing downwards to just below the water line.
Fergus swallowed. The ram, never tested and attached at sea, could only be used once. A smaller fourth line held the spike to the mast section. If impaled in another ship, it could be cut loose, freeing the Dreamcatcher from its target. If it worked.
Fergus stepped down from the gunwale and moved to the steering oar. “Steering,” he said, nodding to Brynjar who shifted forward to an oar station.
“Another ship.” Samatu pointed from the bow. A second Northmen warship slipped out from the narrow channel.
Fergus fought his thoughts as he noted the warships’ speed, the wind direction, and Dreamcatcher’s bearing. He should have a second ram spike. Waverider should also have a ram. And more flintlocks and maybe even one of the cannons being tested back in Haven. But it would have taken at least a month to get either. He shook his head, breathing deep to clear his mind. What would his father say? Probably nothing. Just scream and attack. Not a great option.
“Waverider is running under sail and oars.” Brynjar stood, gazing sternwards.
Fergus’s hands sweated as he grasped the steering oar. Almost too heavy to carry on shore, the long oar-like rudder required enormous strength to move. “Brynjar, help me when I make the turn. It's got to be quick. Then back to your oar.”
“Sail down,” Fergus called. “Oars out.” Eight of the twelve oars thrust out and dipped, the men heaving and pushing from a standing position.
Three of the crew not working the oars lowered the yard, wrapping the sail around it and securing it to the gunwales, and returned to their positions. Usually disconnected from the mast and stored lengthwise, the sail now rested perpendicular to the keel, turning the Dreamcatcher into a cross.
With the sail stowed and with eleven oars in the water, the Dreamcatcher increased speed. Fergus stood, hands squeezing the steering oar, knuckles white. The first warship skimmed over the water, only a hundred strides to port, and would catch up in a few breaths.
“Now.” Fergus screamed and leaned back, he and Brynjar pulling with their entire weight. The bow turned, Dreamcatcher rolled several degrees and a couple of the starboard oars sprayed salt water, the tip of the dismounted mast adding to the shower. When the attackers were a few degrees to starboard and barely forty strides off, Fergus called, “Straighten out.”
Brynjar moved to his oar and, now with twelve oars, Dreamcatcher made a final leap forward. Sweating and straining, Fergus pushed and pulled at the steering oar, anticipating the movements of both ships in the light chop. In the bow, Samatu crouched behind the gunwales, freeing the ram arm release rope when they were twenty strides from the war ship. They could hear the insults and war cries from the warship.
As the warship passed in front of Dreamcatcher’s bow, the ram hit it midship a foot beneath the water line, the crack of wood drowning out the Northmen’s cries of anger and pain. Dreamcatcher lurched, knocking several men to the deck planking. Several of the men on the warship, poised to jump, fell into the water.
As the warship continued past them, the impaled ram pulled at Dreamcatcher’s bow, swinging her close to crush the warship’s stern port oars.
“Stern, reverse. Bow, weapons.” Samatu screamed from the bow as he axed the lines to the impaled ram. The rowers in front of the mast pulled in their oars, fumbled at weapons to meet those Northmen poised to jump.
Gunshots and arrows greeted the first leaping Northman as Dreamcatcher, ram now cut loose, began to back away. Angry faces in the warship’s stern threw grappling hooks, but Samatu danced among the bows and flintlocks, chopping any lines that grabbed at Dreamcatcher. Several axes flew. A man next to Samatu screamed and fell to the deck.
Waverider appeared, cutting across the Northmen’s bow and showering them with a flurry of arrows.
“All oars out. Reverse.” Fergus steadied the steering oar, willing the ship to retreat from the warships. He hazarded a glance at Waverider, now 50 strides away, allowing his hand to point east when their steersman risked a glance in their direction.
As they gained some distance, Fergus swung the stern to starboard, bringing the bow around to the east. “Forward.” They had to withdraw. They couldn’t face the experienced Northmen in a direct clash even if one of their ships was damaged.
As Dreamcatcher responded to the steering oar, Fergus looked over his shoulder. A hundred strides behind, the second warship had shipped oars and drifted closer to the first, now riding low in the water. It probably wouldn’t sink, but the ram had stopped them.
Samatu loaded one of the flintlocks taken from the fallen man and threaded his way among the rowers to Fergus’s side. “He’s dead,” Samatu said in a strained voice. “The keel is cracked and we’re taking water. The impact tangled the line to the ram and ripped off the support.” He sighted down the thick barrel of the flintlock and fired.
As Fergus looked back at the wallowing warships, one of the Northmen staggered and fell. Raised fists and weapons were Fergus’s last image of the attackers.
“Take two men and start bailing.” Tremors shook his body.
As Samatu made his way to the bow, Fergus leaned against the gunwale. “Shit, how did we survive that?”
* * *
Holding the broken shovel, Larry blew out a long breath. He really needed to get a forge together. But first he needed clay and charcoal. Or not. Stormchaser might be back soon. Then they could return to Iceland. He clenched his teeth, thinking of the refugees. The kids.
Voices rose from the growing collection of huts and shelters that made up Sanctuary. Insistent voices. Larry dropped the broken shovel and ran. As he entered the clearing at the center of their little settlement, he saw Garvan kneeling on the ground next to the cook fire. He was surrounded by several of the men, all talking and gesturing.
“What’s going on?” Larry broke through the bodies surrounding Garvan and knelt next to the boy.
“We saw two ships,” the boy said, eyes wide, breaths coming in pants. “Matuso
doesn’t think they are Northmen. We signaled. Then Northmen ships came out of Ros’s harbor. Looked like a fight. Matuso sent me to tell you. The first ships we saw escaped those from Ros’s and are heading east in the bay.”
Larry stared at the boy for a few breaths. Ships from Haven? A battle in the bay? They’d seen large warships in the bay the past several days. Warships that Haven’s waddling trading ships had no chance of defeating. “But they got away? How long ago?”
“Yes.” A wide grin stretched Garvan’s face. “As long as it takes for me to run here. Maybe two hands.” The grin faded as he looked northwest toward Sui Finn lookout. “Matuso stayed to keep signaling.”
Standing, Larry looked around, his mind racing. Faces returned his gaze. As if in slow motion, he turned and walked to his lean-to. He tossed supplies into his pack, strapped on his sword, and turned toward Seabird. He needed to get to the lower Caragh. He could only hope the two newcomers turned into it instead of moving up the estuary to the Laune.
He froze in indecision. The ship would cut off five miles. He could almost run that distance faster. But he’d still need to go down the Caragh. On foot. And it would be dark soon. He turned to the watching men. “Two to Sui Finn. Four to row. We’ll take Seabird across the lake. Then hike down the Caragh in the morning. Bring your bedrolls and weapons. Let’s go.”
* * *
The men had dragged Hafgufa onto the beach by the time Ragnar arrived. He took in the gaping hole midway along the port side, maybe a forearm in width. Three strakes destroyed. He forced his jaws to unclench. It could be repaired, but this was the third ship he'd lost. Who or what sarding devils were responsible?
“Shipmaster.” Hafgufa’s captain appeared in front of Ragnar.
“Explain.” He listened as Snorri described his interception of the two knarrs, how one of them had rammed Hafgufa with some device and that the two knarrs had escaped to the east.
“Why didn’t the Lyngbakr pursue?”
“They assisted us. We could have sunk.” Snorri’s eyes peered in the direction of the Lyngbakr, now rowing toward the harbor entrance. “Their captain wanted to inspect our damage first.”
“I will consider his actions later,” Ragnar said. “What caused the damage?”
The trembling man pointed to two large sections of wood lying next the damaged longship. One was the diameter of a mast but only four strides in length, the other a curved piece half as long and trailing ropes from several drilled holes. “We hooked these and towed them here. I believe they held the iron ram. The ram that holed Hafgufa.”
Ragnar gazed at the debris. “Where’s this ram?”
“It is still within the ship.”
Ragnar strode to Hafgufa and hoisted himself aboard. In the dark shadow from the setting sun, a helmet-sized mass of iron lay in the puddled seawater that filled the bottom of the beached ship. Ropes trailed from the open end of the ram and exited through the smashed strakes.
Ragnar squinted. The ram looked like a cooking pot with an axe head forged to its bottom. And with scrap sword blades forged to its sides to tie it to the shaft. He forced his jaw to unclench. Not only did the strangers damage his ship, they also insulted his honor with a weapon made from a kitchen tool.
The damage could be fixed in a few days, given suitable planks. But those would take longer to prepare. Weeks perhaps. He took in a long breath. Plan and adapt.
He continued to stare at the damage as Snorri clambered aboard and stood next him. “Any injuries?” Ragnar said without turning.
“Three men lost and four injured.”
He forced his breath even. These men left their homes and families to follow him. “How?”
“Two men fell overboard when the strangers rammed Hafgufa.” Snorri said. “They wore plate. One died of a strange wound, similar to that of two of the injured men. Arrows injured the other two. I understand Lyngbakr’s men suffered from both types.”
“The strange wound, was there metal?”
“A small iron ball. Soft iron. But the arrow tips are made of a very hard iron.”
Ragnar tightened his fists until his knuckles shone white.
Chapter 19
August 1
The Seabird was just another shadow when Larry opened his eyes. A few birds called out, but whether in alarm or just for the joy of it, he didn’t know. Maybe Teltina would.
He smiled into the dark. Why think of her? He shook her image from his head. There were ships in the bay. Maybe Stormchaser? Light flickered and Larry turned over. A small flame revealed a dark shape. The shadow of a hand moved in front of the dancing yellow tongue. Someone was starting a cook fire. Larry sat up and twisted his torso against the tight aches. A snort escaped as the decades old memories of mattresses and electric lights surfaced. He looked east. A faint glow in the eastern sky hinted at sunrise. He flipped aside his sleeping skin and laced on the boots.
“Should have hot water in a few minutes,” Gatanu said.
Larry stood. The growing eastern glow defined the trees surrounding their camp at the lake’s outlet into the lower Caragh. “I’m heading downriver.”
“You’ll go faster with your belly full and with enough light not to walk into a tree.” Gatanu stood a few strides away and stretched.
“I liked you better when you were young and didn’t talk back.” Larry shook his head in the dim light, remembering the man as a kid. The man who, almost twenty years later, had left his family to follow Larry across the ocean.
* * *
“We’ll climb the mountain.” Fergus looked south at the peak. The double puffs of smoke, occasionally triple, had continued until dusk last evening. But no signals this morning. “I’m still hoping my father or one of his crew made those signals.” The sky was clear, and the rising sun had burned away the morning mist. To the west, some clouds dotted the blue.
“Will those warships pursue?” Brynjar added a handful of twigs to the smoldering cook fire.
Fergus looked at his crew standing around Brynjar. They all had awoken early and already had their bedrolls stored. One man was missing. His body lay in Dreamcatcher. Fergus rubbed his face, fingernails scratching his skin through his thin wispy beard. “Samatu, take charge here.” Fergus turned to the two ships, one moored in the shallow water of the river and the other partially hauled up onto the bank. “I’ll take Brynjar and look for any signs of my father and his crew. And check on our Northman friends.”
At the sound of a snapping branch, they all turned to see Ligasu emerge into the clearing. “Someone’s coming,” he said.
Fergus held up both arms and flashed open his hands, fingers pointing in all directions. The crews melted into the surrounding brush and trees leaving Fergus standing above Brynjar who, after unsheathing his sword and laying it next to the ring of rocks containing the flames, added another handful of twigs to the cook fire. After several more minutes of feeding the flames, Brynjar set up an iron tripod and hung a copper pot filled with water over the flames.
The crash of breaking branches and thudding footfalls turned their heads. Fergus concentrated on his breath, his right hand sliding his sword in and out of its scabbard. A figure broke into the clearing. A large dark man, flush faced and sweat stained, stopped and leaned on his knees, gasping for breath.
“By the Sky Goddess’ teats, I thought it was going to be one of those mythical elephants you used to tell me about when I was a child.” Fergus gave his head one slow shake and then jogged to meet his father. As he stood before Larry, relief gave way to anger. His father was alive and uninjured. And Fergus had lost a man getting here.
“We lost three men.” Larry met Fergus’s gaze with bloodshot eyes.
His father’s words cut through Fergus’s thoughts like a knife. Shit. He helped his father straighten up and clasped his arms around him. “I am so relieved to see you.” And was surprised to realize that he meant it.
Around them, familiar faces entered the clearing.
* * *
&nbs
p; “I’m thinking it was just bad luck.” Larry spoke in English, his eyes scanning the men sitting around the cook fire. Only one wounded but a wrapped body lay in Dreamcatcher. “We arrived at Ros’s farmstead just after it had been taken over by the Ur Neill and their Northmen buddies—Northmen being what the Eirefolk call the Vikings in these days. Anyway, a lookout musta seen us.”
“Well, they’re still there,” Fergus said.
“This whole thing is outta control.” Larry poked at the fire with a broken branch. “Best thing to do is get our asses back to Iceland.”
“What of the prophecies?” Jessie asked. “We need access to Europe to stop disease from crossing to Haven and the rest of our continent.”
Larry looked up at Kristi’s son. His father had been from one of the interior tribes, probably the Monongahela, and that had hardened Kristi’s mix of Spanish and Algerian features. But his personality was all Kristi.
“Being dead ain’t gonna help prevent the prophecies.” Larry poked the fire again, sending a few sparks flying over the iron kettle of stew. “But let’s put off worrying about tomorrow. We need a plan for today.”
“Dreamcatcher is too damaged to sail,” Fergus said. “By the time we entered the river, we had as many men bailing as rowing. The bow section of the keel needs to be replaced. Possibly even the entire keel.” He shook his head. “That's a big job and I don’t see much in the way of oaks large enough to supply the wood.”
“Bigger ones in the valley. But the first thing is to hide these ships.” Larry looked over his shoulder at the two knarrs moored in the Caragh. “Or maybe make those raiders think this river is not navigable?”
“Snags?” Jessie stood and walked a few paces toward the river. “A few downed trees in the river just up from the estuary? Make it look blocked. The trick will be to tie them in place without any ropes showing.”
Larry looked around at the two crews, eyes meeting each man’s for a breath before moving on. His stomach roiled at the increased responsibility. He had lost count of how many were stuck in this land of violence. He stood. “Let’s do it. We’ll come back to eat when it’s done. Then we'll decide whether to hide these ships or move ’em to Sanctuary.”
