The Ghostfaces (21 page)

THE GHOSTFACES

chapter
thirty-two

B
oth Hal and Stig reacted with surprise, the latter muttering a curse. Of course, thought Hal, his friend was committed to the Mawagansett people now and he felt the threat of the Ghost tribe's approach keenly.

Thorn remained unperturbed, as ever. He went straight to the practical question that the problem raised.

“What do you plan to do?” he asked.

While Mohegas shrugged, Stig answered impulsively.

“We'll fight!” he declared. His features were flushed with anger at the thought of these white-painted marauders threatening his adopted home.

Mohegas raised an eyebrow. “There are over a hundred of them,” he said. “All warriors. We can raise barely forty. And our young men are trained more for hunting and fishing than warfare.”

“You have fifty if you count us,” Stig replied. “And we are trained to fight. Plus we have better weapons than the Ghosts'. That'd go a long way toward balancing the numbers.”

The Mawagansett had spears and arrows and clubs. But they had no iron. Their spearheads and arrowheads were made from stone or flint. Their clubs were hardwood or stone. Presumably, the Ghosts' weapons were made from similar materials. The Herons' axes and swords would be far more effective in a fight. Plus, as Stig said, the crew were trained to fight, and to fight as a unit. That would do a lot to redress the inequality in numbers. The tribal elder looked inquiringly at Hal and Thorn, who remained expressionless. Stig was overlooking one vital fact, and, after a few seconds, Mohegas voiced it.

“The wind is from the south,” he said. “You can leave anytime. This is not your fight.”

Stig reacted angrily. “It's our fight all right! You've been kind to us. You've welcomed us into your country. We're not going to turn and run now that you're facing trouble!” He appealed to Hal. “We're not, are we? We're not going to desert these people. They're our friends!”

Hal shook his head. “No. We're not running. If the Mawags need help, we'll give it.”

Stig subsided, relieved. He had simply assumed that because he was willing to stay and fight, his shipmates would support him. Mohegas's statement had suddenly made him realize that he might well be on his own.

“Will you fight?” Thorn said, addressing the gray-haired Mawag.

Mohegas hesitated, looking away from them, glancing round the neat, warm little hut. This was his home. He was happy here and the thought of leaving it for the Ghostfaces to burn and pillage left a sour taste in his mouth.

“In the past,” he temporized, “we've always hidden in the forest when they came.”

“And watched them destroy your homes,” Thorn said evenly. “I can't believe you enjoy that.”

Mohegas's brows came together in a dark line. “I hate it,” he said. His voice was low, but the venom in it was all too obvious.

“Well, perhaps this might be the time to do something about it,” Thorn said. “I've trained my boys to fight and they're good at it. I'd say that ten of us are a match for any thirty white-faced, bare-bummed tribesmen. Presumably they don't know we're here, so we'd have the advantage of surprise. And if we give them a good bloody nose this time, they might think twice about raiding here again.”

Mohegas looked thoughtful. “Perhaps if we could borrow your special weapon,” he said thoughtfully. “The one you call the Maggler?”

“Mangler,” Hal corrected him. He considered the idea. “It would certainly give them a nasty shock. But whether it would be enough to turn the tide, I'm not sure. Maybe . . .” He hesitated. A thought was taking shape in his mind. It wasn't fully formed yet, just the beginning of an idea. Thorn and Stig both looked expectantly at him. They recognized the distracted, slightly distant expression on his face.

“What is it?” Thorn asked, but Hal waved the question aside.
He needed a few more moments to think. Thorn made a cautionary gesture to Mohegas, and the Mawag leader nodded. The three of them sat watching Hal for several minutes as he sat, head bowed, mind racing. Then he finally looked up. The question he asked took them all by surprise. As ever in such situations, his mind had raced off at a tangent.

“Your bows,” he asked Mohegas. “What wood do you use for them?”

The Mawag's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't been expecting that question. “It's from a local tree, but I'm not sure what you would call it. It's tough and springy and we use hide to reinforce it.”

Hal nodded thoughtfully. He'd seen the local bows. They were short and thick-limbed. The wood used was powerful and tough and the bows spat out arrows with surprising speed and power for their size.

“Could you make bigger ones?” he asked. “Perhaps ones that were this long?” He spread out his arms, indicating a length from fingertip to fingertip. “And a lot thicker? Maybe twice as thick as your normal bows?”

Mohegas considered. “I don't see why not,” he said. “We'd simply have to use thicker branches. But nobody could draw a bow that size. The wood would be too stiff,” he pointed out.

Hal waved the objection aside. “Never mind that,” he said. “I can sort out a way to draw them.” He turned to Thorn with a new question. “Thorn, is the village a reasonable defensive site?”

Thorn screwed up his lip thoughtfully. “Not as it is,” he said. “But if we built a palisade like the one at our camp, we could make it a tough nut to crack. We could anchor each end at the stream
that runs behind the village, and set stakes in the shallows to discourage attackers from going around the ends.”

“Very well, here's the idea. We build a palisade round the village.” Hal looked round and saw a large piece of bark in the pile of firewood and kindling. He took it and raked a piece of charcoal out of the edge of the fire, using it to sketch on the bark.

“We can use the materials from our camp to do it,” he said. “I don't want the Ghosts to know we've been here when they arrive.” He looked at Mohegas. “While that's happening, we get your men to make maybe ten big crossbows, like the Mangler. I'll give them a plan. They only need to be basic. We don't need the training and elevating gears and we can set them on simple wooden tripods. Can your men do that?”

He sketched a rough diagram of a simplified Mangler set on a wooden stand.

Mohegas studied it for a few seconds. “I don't see why not.”

Then Hal marked two lines on the bark, one to either side of the defensive half circle he had drawn, and facing in toward the palisade.

“We place them in the forest, out of sight, and off to either side, so they can provide a cross barrage on the Ghosts when they attack the palisade.”

Stig whistled in admiration. “That
would
give them a nasty surprise,” he said. “Ten big crossbows hitting them from either side, and from behind. We could cut them to pieces.”

“Shaping ten big bows in a few days might be difficult,” Mohegas warned. “The wood is tough to work and we have only flint knives.”

Again, Hal waved the objection aside. “I've got iron tools,” he said. “Adzes and drills and saws and planes and shaping knives. That'll speed things up.”

“You'll need to design a new trigger mechanism,” Thorn pointed out. “We don't have time to build one like you have on the Mangler.”

The Mangler's trigger was an arrangement of carefully shaped circular cogs made from thin wood and set in a hollowed-out part of the crossbow's body. It required a degree of fine detail work and adjustment that would be nigh impossible on ten bows in the time they had left.

Hal nodded. “I've got an idea there too,” he said. Already, his fertile mind could see a simplified trigger mechanism to hold the bowstring in place, then release it. “Once the first bow is completed, select ten or twelve shooters and have them practice with it.”

Mohegas nodded gravely. He eyed the young foreigner with new respect. He had been surprised that one so young could be in command of his crew, particularly the older, bearded man with one hand. Now that he saw how quickly Hal's mind worked, and how he could prioritize actions, he realized that he was a remarkable young man indeed.

“I'll have Ulf and Wulf help your men with the bow building,” Hal continued. “They're both handy with tools and they've each got a good natural eye for line and form.”

“Wouldn't it be better for you to help out?” Stig asked. “You're the best craftsman we have, after all.”

Hal nodded. “That's true. But I'm going to be otherwise engaged,” he said. Before Thorn could ask the obvious question that sprang to his mind, Hal turned back to Mohegas.

“Now, see if I've got this right. When these Ghosts have attacked in the past, they've come downriver in canoes?”

Mohegas nodded confirmation and Hal continued. “They come out into the bay and cross to land at the beach—pretty much where we have our camp—then strike inland?”

Again, Mohegas indicated that this was correct.

Hal tapped his front teeth with the piece of charcoal, thoughtlessly smearing his lips and teeth with black. Thorn smiled. Sooner or later, he'd notice, he thought, and then wonder how it had happened.

“Here's what I'm thinking,” Hal said. “We'll moor the
Heron
out of sight just inside the northern headland. When the Ghosts' canoes are out on the bay, I'll take Ulf, Wulf and Edvin with me and create a little havoc among them. The ones that escape will land and head for the village, where you, Thorn, and you, Stig, will be waiting for them with the rest of our lads. And Lydia, of course.”

“You're not taking Ingvar? How will you load the Mangler?” Thorn asked.

Hal shrugged. “I won't need it. I'll ram the canoes and run them down, so long as I have a little wind to play with.”

“You'll be in trouble if any of the Ghosts get aboard while you're doing this,” Stig pointed out.

Hal smiled. “That's why I'm also taking Kloof,” he said. That seemed to answer Stig's query.

“Coming back to my previous point,” Thorn said, “why won't you be able to help the Mawags build the extra crossbows?”

“I thought the three of us—Stig, you and I—might take a canoe upriver to get a look at these Ghostfaces,” Hal said. “And maybe slow them down a little.”

A wolfish smile came over Thorn's face at the thought of taking the fight to the enemy. He always preferred to do that, instead of fighting a purely defensive battle. He idly stroked the wooden hook on his right arm, imagining the extra weight of the huge club that he wore there when he attacked an enemy force.

“That sounds just perfect,” he said.

chapter
thirty-three

S
imsinnet came with them as a guide. They took one of the canoes from the row drawn up on the sand behind the village and paddled down the stream to the bay. The canoe was light and responsive and, with four of them paddling, it fairly flew across the bay to the mouth of the river that led north, into the interior.

Hal had left the twins with a quickly drawn plan for the proposed crossbows and told them to use any of his tools they needed. He knew they would take care of them. Work on the bows was well under way when the four departed. The designs were simple and the bows would be finished quickly. Only the trigger mechanisms required anything resembling fine work. He indicated that the body of each bow should have two holes drilled through it, at the point where the bowstring would be held. A block of hardwood,
with two wooden pins protruding from it, would fit against the underside of the bow, with the pins projecting up through the two holes. These pins would restrain the bowstring once it was drawn.

The block would be held in place by a piece of pliable hide, and a flattened piece of wood would be inserted between it and the bow to act as a lever. This was placed over a wooden piece that would form a fulcrum. When the longer end of the lever was depressed, the shorter end would pull the block down, so that the pins released the bowstring on the top of the bow. The pliable leather strap would then retract, pulling the block and the two pins back up to the loading position again. It was a simple but efficient design, and once more, Mohegas regarded the young Skandian with admiration.

Thorn had seen the look and grinned at the older Mawag. “It's what he does,” he said.

Mohegas shook his head. “Remarkable.”

Hal had picked the time when the tide began to flood to make their departure. The river was tidal for the first five kilometers, with the incoming tide creating a bore, or small wave, which ran upriver, riding over the top of the prevailing downstream current. They rode the flooding tide, flying past the land on either side, until the bore died away. Then they bent their backs to the paddles and drove the canoe deeper inland, against the natural flow.

The messenger who had brought word of the Ghostfaces' approach had said they were five days away. But in the intervening time, they had probably moved closer.

“How many villages are there between the Ghostfaces and the bay?” Thorn asked Simsinnet.

“They were a day away from the Pallikan village when the messenger left. After that, there is only the village of the Limigina people. That's another day or so closer to us.”

Thorn chewed reflectively on his mustache as he wielded his paddle. Simsinnet admired the man's dexterity, holding one end of the paddle in his wooden hook and driving the blade through the water with his uninjured left hand and arm.

“Mind you,” the young Mawag added, “we're probably traveling a lot faster than they are.”

That made sense. Their canoe was lightly laden, with all four of them paddling. The Ghostfaces would have heavier-laden canoes, filled with supplies and weapons and booty. And it would take longer to muster a group of over a hundred men each day and get them moving downriver. There'd be delays—whether it was equipment lost or left behind, or the inevitable sluggards among the group who were never ready on time. Moving a large body of men was a ponderous business.

Another thought struck Simsinnet. “On top of that, they often stay in a village for several days to feast and celebrate their victory.”

“Some victory,” Stig grunted. “A hundred men against twenty or so.” The other villages on the river were smaller than the Mawag encampment, mustering only fifty or so inhabitants at the most.

Thorn nodded. “We'll need to move faster than them when we start back downstream,” he said.

Hal turned to look at his friend. Thorn was in the rearmost seat of the canoe.

“What do you have in mind when we do see them?” he asked.

The old sea wolf shrugged. “Dunno yet. I'll wait to see the situation. But we need to find a way to slow them down. That'll give the Mawags a chance to get the new bows made, and the palisade in place.”

They paddled until long after dark, then pulled quietly into the bank to camp for the night.

“Maybe we should keep moving?” Stig said. “I can keep paddling for hours yet.” But Thorn quashed the idea.

“We don't know what we're getting into,” he said. “We could find ourselves in a fight when we run into the Ghosts and we don't want to be exhausted from paddling if we do. Besides, if we rest for a few hours, we'll move all the faster tomorrow.”

They had a quick meal of smoked venison and cold river water, then rolled into their blankets. Thorn set a watch. It would be foolish not to with an enemy somewhere nearby.

“Since you're still fresh as a daisy,” he told Stig, “you can keep the first watch. Give me a shake when the moon is overhead.”

The moon was a quarter way through its traverse across the heavens, sending a pale, cold light down onto the surface of the river. Stig glanced up to the overhead point Thorn had indicated and nodded. That would give the one-armed warrior three hours' sleep. He wrapped his blanket round his shoulders. It was chilly without the exertion of paddling to keep the blood flowing. He found a convenient flat rock to sit on, resisting the urge to lean his back against one of the many fallen trees that lined the riverbank. If he got too comfortable, he might well fall asleep—in spite of his assertion that he could keep paddling through the night. As his companions' breathing became deep and regular, he marveled at
Thorn's instinctive ability to match his breathing to the existing conditions. In their campsite, or on board ship, when there was no risk of impending danger, Thorn would snore like a bull walrus with a broken nose. But here, with the possibility that enemies might be nearby, he regulated his breathing to an almost-inaudible sigh.

Gradually, the natural noises of the forest, which had stilled when the four men had pulled the canoe ashore, began to reassert themselves. He heard small animals rustling the branches and leaves of the undergrowth and once, he heard a sudden commotion at the base of a tree five meters away. His hair stood on end and his hand tightened around the haft of the ax cradled across his knees. Then he heard the self-satisfied murmur of a hunting owl and, a few minutes later, its triumphant hoot.

There'd been no sound of its swift passage through the air as it swooped on its prey. The owl's wing feathers were soft and pliable and created almost no noise in passing. The only sound had been the rustling in the undergrowth as its powerful talons had settled on the mouse, or vole or squirrel, that was now being borne away to feed the raptor's young. Stig smiled. He liked owls. They were efficient hunters and killers.

I'll wager Lydia admires them, he thought to himself, and smiled once more at the comparison between the girl hunter and an owl.

He glanced up and saw, to his surprise, that the moon had almost reached the position Thorn had indicated. The light was overhead now, and unimpeded by the trees. It flooded the river and the cleared space on the riverbank with silver luminescence. The
shadows under the trees seemed all the more impenetrable as a result.

He took one last look around to make sure it was all clear. He had been scanning the surrounding terrain constantly, without even thinking about it, throughout the passing hours. He rose to his feet, pulling the blanket tighter around himself, and walked softly to where Thorn lay, kneeling beside him to wake him.

“Stig?” the sea wolf said, and Stig shook his head in admiration. Thorn had a sixth sense, even when he was sleeping, that told him when someone approached.

“Your watch,” Stig told him and the shaggy-haired warrior tossed his blanket aside, instantly awake and ready.

“Get some sleep, Stig,” he said, and rose to his feet.

As Stig rolled into his blanket and lay down, he was aware of Thorn moving silently around the clearing where they were camped, checking the perimeter for any sign of danger. How does he move so silently? Stig thought. Thorn was big and bulky and well muscled. Yet he moved as light-footed as a haymaking festival dancer. He was still wondering about it when he fell asleep.

Simsinnet had the last watch and he woke them at first light. They had a quick breakfast—smoked meat and cold water once more.

“Coffee would be nice,” Stig said.

“No fire,” Thorn said.

Stig gave him a wan smile. “No coffee either,” he said, then added, “That'll be one thing I'll miss.”

“And not my smiling face in the morning?” Thorn inquired.

Stig allowed his smile to widen. “Definitely not that.”

They were soon back on the river, paddling smoothly northward. They moved a little more slowly on the second day, without the impetus of the tidal bore behind them. But the banks still glided past them with impressive speed.

Simsinnet kept them close to the eastern bank now. There was a twofold reason for this. Close to the bank, they were out of the main river current that would slow their upriver progress. And if danger suddenly threatened, they could slip quickly into the concealment of the reeds that lined the riverbank, or the overhanging trees.

But once again they saw nothing of the raiding Ghostface tribe. The forest on either side of the river was still and peaceful, the silence broken only by the call of birds or the occasional splash of a leaping fish. The river gurgled against the thin bark sides of their canoe, and they could well have been the only people alive on the earth.

The sun slowly rose and dispelled the chill of the night from their hands and shoulders. The constant thrust of their paddles through the water set the blood flowing as well, and before they had been on the river for an hour, they were all thoroughly warmed up.

When the sun was high overhead, Simsinnet guided the canoe under the overhanging branches of a willow and held it in place against the current.

“Eat now,” he said, and they opened their supplies of dried meat.

“I could get used to this,” Hal said, struggling to bite off a piece of the tough meat. He noticed that Simsinnet held the meat in his
teeth and cut it off close to his mouth with his flint dagger. Must try that next time, he thought.

Stig looked at him, considering his statement. He found the dried meat quite unpalatable, although he knew it was nourishing. “Really?” he asked.

Hal smiled. “Yeah. In about twenty years or so.”

They both laughed and Thorn frowned at them.

“Keep your voices down,” he ordered and they both nodded sheepishly. They were, after all, in enemy territory.

“Sorry, Thorn,” Hal whispered.

Thorn grunted. Jokes and banter were all very well for morale, he thought. But they did tend to distract one from the situation at hand. And this was a situation where he definitely did not want distraction.

Simsinnet gave a signal. Hal swallowed the last tough chunk of dried meat, took a final swig from his water skin and stowed it away. Simsinnet heaved on the branch he was holding, sending the canoe sliding out onto the river again. Before it lost momentum, they all dug their paddles into the surface of the water. The slender craft gathered speed, the gentle
bok-bok-bok
of ripples against its bark skin beginning once more.

It was late afternoon when Hal uttered a low warning and stopped paddling. The others all looked at him and allowed the canoe to drift off its headway. It gently began to turn broadside on to the current as the skirl sat on his thwart, his head tilted back and nose raised, sniffing the air.

“Smoke,” he said and they all sniffed in turn. Thorn was the next to sense it.

“You're right,” he said. “Wood smoke.”

Then Simsinnet and Stig could smell it as well. The canoe, without any motive power, had drifted out toward the center of the river. A quick gesture from Simsinnet had them paddling once more, until they were back in the shelter of a grove of willows.

“How far to the Limigina village?” Stig asked Simsinnet.

The Mawag youth hesitated, studying the land around them, looking up to the sky, then frowning. “Not far,” he said eventually. “Maybe two hours' paddling. Maybe less.”

“Well, it looks like the Ghostfaces are there before us,” Thorn said. “Let's keep the chatter down from now on.”

Which was a little unfair. His companions, since his warning earlier in the day, had been silent, with only an occasional soft grunt of exertion.

Thorn dipped his paddle into the water and the others followed suit. Once more, the canoe curved out from its place of concealment and continued upriver, hugging the eastern bank. The smell of smoke became stronger. Then, as the sun fell, they became aware of a glow in the sky ahead of them, reflecting off the base of several low-lying clouds.

“Eyes peeled, everyone,” Thorn whispered. “Looks like we're nearly there.”