The Ghostfaces (16 page)

“Man Who Swims,” Thorn put in.

Orvik nodded. “Of course, Mohegas told you. That's how they found me, washed up on the beach like a piece of worthless flotsam.” He looked around the circle of brown-skinned faces. The
Mawagansett were patiently allowing the newcomers time to hear his story.

“They're good people,” he said. “Kind and generous. I've been with them now for twelve sun cycles, sorry, years,” he corrected himself and smiled. “And in all that time, there's been no prospect of my returning home. Not until now.”

chapter
twenty-five

A
t a signal from Mohegas, the group began to move toward the feast circle, set out around the fireplace in front of the village huts.

The children swarmed around the Herons, studying them with unabashed curiosity. Mohegas and several of the other adults admonished them, but not too severely. When this happened, the children would withdraw a few paces, but within a few seconds, they would gather around the strangers once more. Thorn's wooden hook aroused great interest. One of the more daring boys reached out to touch it and Thorn rounded on him with a ferocious expression, clacking the gripping hook open and shut like a deranged lobster. The boy recoiled, as did those around him. Then, when Thorn burst out laughing and held out the hook for further inspection, they warily crept back closer to him.

Ingvar was another subject of interest. Tall and massively built, he towered over the other members of the crew. Compared with the Mawagansett, who tended to be short and stocky, he appeared to be a giant. He was wearing his spectacles and the children found the black lenses fascinating. Even when he removed the spectacles, thinking the children might turn their attention from him, the sight of his piercing blue eyes roused further comment, as although most of the Skandians were blue-eyed, Ingvar's were a particularly brilliant color. But the children used their own language, not the common tongue, so Ingvar had no idea what they were chattering about.

Stefan, with his ability to mimic voices and other sounds, was an enormous favorite with them. At one stage, he stopped, threw his arms wide and intoned, in a perfect impression of Mohegas's serious tones:

“I am Mohegas, mighty king of the Mawagansett people!”

The group of children close to him took a step back, looking nervously to where Mohegas had turned at the sound of his own voice. When a wide smile cracked the elder's normally serious face, the children relaxed, taking it as permission to laugh themselves.

Before the laughter died down, Stefan followed up with a perfect imitation of the cry of the bird they now knew was called a tur-gay.

“
Oggle-oggle-oggle!
” he cried and the children laughed delightedly. It
did
sound exactly like the cry of the big bird, Hal thought.

Lydia seemed to agree. “Do that again and I'll put a dart through you,” she said dryly.

At that, Stefan decided to move on to another impression. This
time, he produced the shattering, snarling roar of an angry bear. With squeals of fright, the children scampered away from him, stopping some five meters away, studying him to make sure he hadn't suddenly turned into a bear. Then, as he grinned and made a whimpering, pleading sound, for all the world like a dog begging forgiveness, they began to giggle and gathered around him again, pleading for more impersonations.

But Stefan was a consummate showman and he knew the first rule of a successful entertainer is to leave the audience wanting more. Regretfully, he shook his head and patted his belly.

“I'm hungry,” he said. “No more voices until I've eaten.”

Now that Stefan had mentioned food, Hal realized how hungry he was, and how delicious the scents arising from the grilling food were. Mohegas and the other adults ushered their guests to their places round the feast fire, and Hal sat on a folded blanket to the right of Mohegas. Thorn was on the elder's other side, with Orvik sitting by him in case there was a need for translation—although so far this hadn't proved necessary. The other Herons sat on Hal's right, interspersed with members of the tribe. Presumably, judging by their age and the amount of gray in their hair, those closest were members of the elders' council, Hal thought.

As Ulf and Wulf took their seats, there was an expectant giggle from half a dozen children surrounding them.

Ulf cocked his head at the young ones. “What's so funny?” he asked.

“They've probably never seen twins before,” Wulf remarked.

His brother nodded. “Yes. That'd be it. They probably think we're gods or something,” he said loftily.

Wulf scowled. He wished he'd thought of claiming divine status. But he tried to resume the ascendancy by one of his unfounded statements of “fact.”

“I imagine so. It's a well-known fact that twins are totally unknown among foreign people,” he said, with that tone of certainty that only expert liars can produce.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and twisted round to see who was there. His jaw dropped as he beheld an incredibly pretty Mawagansett girl of around eighteen years, standing behind him, offering him a platter of assorted pieces of meat and roasted vegetables. Beside her, and offering another plate to Ulf, was an identical girl, with an identical platter.

“I am Millika,” said the first girl, smiling warmly. “I have been assigned to serve you at the feast.”

“And I am Pillika,” her twin said. “I have been asked to serve your brother.”

“How unusual,” Ulf said to his brother. “Millika and Pillika. Their names are almost identical. You don't see that every day.”

“What about Ulf and Wulf?” Lydia said, from her position three places away. The twins regarded her, frowning.

“What do you mean? Our names are totally different,” said Ulf.

“That's right,” Wulf joined in. “There's no
W
in his name.” He jerked a thumb at Ulf as he said the words.

Lydia shook her head wearily. “The phrase ‘dumb as a post' takes on a whole new meaning with you two around.”

Ulf and Wulf shrugged, then turned back to Millika and Pillika, reaching for the plates they were offering. It was perhaps
significant that they selected identical pieces of roast venison to begin their feast.

Each of the Herons was assigned a member of the tribe to serve them at the feast. In Ingvar's case, several of the older children squabbled to have the right. Mohegas finally intervened and assigned them to a rotating schedule.

Lydia was delighted to be attended by a strapping young man. Hal felt a strange twinge of jealousy as she greeted the young man with a dazzling smile. Then he shook himself mentally. Why am I jealous about Lydia? he asked himself. We're shipmates, friends, fellow warriors. Nothing more. Yet he couldn't shake off that feeling of irritation as he watched the unquestionably good-looking Mawagansett attending to her.

A platter of snacks was suddenly thrust in front of Hal and he turned, a little startled, to see the smiling face of the young woman who had greeted him so enthusiastically when they arrived. Instinctively, he edged a little away from her, fearing she might try to continue the rib-cracking hug she had subjected him to. He gingerly took a piece of roast bird from the platter.

“Um, thank you,” he muttered.

She beamed. “I am Sagana,” she said. “We thought you were Ghostfaces when we first saw you. I'm glad that you're not.” She smiled at him and slipped away.

Hal frowned. This was the third or fourth time that someone had mentioned the mysterious Ghostfaces. He turned to Mohegas.

“The Ghostfaces. These are the people who killed Orvik's shipmates?” he said.

Mohegas hesitated, then deferred to Orvik with an inviting hand gesture. It was a complex matter and he feared his grasp of
the common tongue might not be up to the explanation. Orvik considered his answer for a few seconds, then began. The Herons all leaned in to hear him. Some of the Mawagansett, Hal noted, looked away, casting nervous glances over their shoulders in case the Ghostfaces might suddenly materialize out of thin air. It was a touchy subject, he realized.

“As I told you, they live to the north of here,” Orvik said slowly. “About ten days' travel by canoe. There are a lot more of them than the Mawagansett. They'd outnumber these people by at least three to one. A raiding party, or war party, is usually made up of more than a hundred warriors. They travel down the main river, which lies east of here, in fleets of canoes, raiding and killing as they go. There are four or five other tribes settled along the river north of here and they all suffer the same fate.”

“Why not band together to fight them?” Thorn asked.

Orvik shook his head. “There's never time to organize it. They move quickly and silently and they travel by night. They've usually raided and burned two or three of the other villages before we even know they're here. Then it's our turn.”

“What do you do?” Hal asked.

Orvik shrugged. “There's not much we can do. We can usually muster only twenty or so warriors with any skill in weapons. And we're facing four times that number. Best we can do is hide in the forest until they're done. If they catch us, they kill the men and take the women and children prisoner, to use them as slaves. If they can't find us, they strip the village of any food and vegetables. They destroy our crops and burn down the houses. Eventually, they get tired of the game and head back north.”

“And then what?” Edvin asked.

“I've only seen one Ghostface raid,” Orvik said. “That was . . .” He paused, thinking, then continued. “Eight years ago. Is that right?” he said in an aside to Mohegas, who nodded gravely. “Yes. Eight years. But I'm told it's always the same. After they've gone, the Mawagansett pick up the pieces, rebuild their homes and start over again. Usually it means a pretty hungry winter, as the food stocks have all been stolen.”

Thorn shook his head angrily. As a former raider himself, back in the old days when wolfships marauded through the known world, he knew that a lack of resistance like this would only encourage the Ghostfaces to repeat the action anytime it suited them. But he said nothing.

It was Stefan who raised the question that they had all wondered about. “Why are they called Ghostfaces?” he asked, and there was a murmur of agreement from the other Herons.

This time, Mohegas supplied the answer. “They paint themselves to look like ghosts,” he said. “They shave their heads completely, then paint their faces with white clay, putting black circles around their eyes so they resemble skulls.” He gestured toward Ingvar's spectacles. “When we first saw the big one, the black circles he wears over his eyes made him look like a Ghostface—that and his pale skin. Then, as we watched Wooden Hand”—he gestured toward Thorn—“and She Who Throws a Spear”—this time the gesture was toward Lydia, who smiled at the description of herself—“we realized that you were not Ghostfaces, but more like Polennis here.”

“Why didn't you make yourself known then?” asked Lydia.

Mohegas shrugged. “We still weren't sure. We didn't know
where you had come from. At that point, we had seen no sign of your ship, so we assumed that you had traveled overland from the south. You seemed to be well armed and well organized and we thought you might be the advance party for another raid. You all had the look of warriors about you—even you.”

Lydia inclined her head, taking the comment as a compliment.

“So we decided it was best to stay out of sight and observe you—to see what your intentions might be. Then, of course, two naughty children brought things to a head, and we realized that you would be good people to have as friends.” He paused and gestured around the feast circle. “And here we are,” he concluded. “But enough talk of enemies and Ghostfaces. It has been eight years since we have seen them. By now, they have probably forgotten all about us.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Thorn looked down, shaking his head. “Or they may be thinking it's time for another visit,” he said. But he kept his voice low so that nobody would hear him.

“So let's eat in good fellowship!” Mohegas said. Several of the older women moved to the cook fire and began carving more slices of delicious, juicy-looking venison from the spitted deer haunches.

Stig, whose stomach was rumbling at the sight and smell of the food, felt a light hand on his shoulder. He looked around into the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen.

Her dark eyes were set in an oval face. Her skin was light brown and unblemished, and her nose was straight with the mouth full lipped and perfectly formed. The beautiful face was framed by long, glossy black hair, parted in the middle and worn in braids.
The girl, who appeared to be in her late teens, was slim and long-legged and she moved with a supple, catlike grace as she lowered herself to kneel behind him.

“I am Tecumsa, your server,” she said. “Can I fetch you some deer meat?”

Her voice was soft and warm, in keeping with the perfection of her face and figure.

“I am . . . Stig,” Stig croaked, his voice catching in his throat.

She smiled at him. “Welcome, Stig.”

And in that moment, for the first time in his life, Stig fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love.