The Ghostfaces (3 page)

chapter
two

H
al glanced quickly to starboard. The gray, rugged line of the Picta coast stretched across the horizon. He wouldn't clear it by the time the storm reached them, and then they'd find themselves on a lee shore, with the wild wind and sea driving them down onto the rocks of the coastline. He came to a rapid decision.

“Going about!” he yelled. When he was sure he had the crew's full attention, he signaled to port. “Go!”

He hauled on the tiller, and the
Heron
swung smoothly into the eye of the wind, then across it. Simultaneously, Stig and Stefan brought the starboard yardarm and sail down, then hoisted the port sail as the bow came round. Ingvar, Lydia and Jesper all manhandled the loose, flapping mass of the starboard sail, gathering it in and lashing it into a tight bundle. The wind filled the port sail
and the twins hauled in on the sheets, hardening it into a tight, smooth curve and driving the ship forward with renewed urgency. A wave smashed against the starboard bow, showering them all with spray. They ignored it, save for Kloof, who barked delightedly and snapped at the flying salt water.

Heron
was now racing at full speed toward the west. Hal glanced from the coastline to the approaching mass of the storm. They'd clear the coast of Picta with time to spare, but beyond that, farther to the south, lay Hibernia. He needed sea room. The moment the storm hit them, they'd begin to lose distance downwind and he wanted to be well clear of the Hibernian coast when that happened.

Thorn made his way aft and stood beside him, his eyes fixed on the storm front. More lightning flashed among the black clouds, and this time, Hal could hear the distant rumble of thunder.

“You'll need to get that yard down before the storm hits,” Thorn told him, and Hal nodded. The slender, curving yardarm and its big sail would never stand up to the force of that raging wind.

“For the moment, I need the speed it gives us,” he said. “We need to get clear of the Hibernian coast. The faster we go, the sooner that will be.”

Thorn chewed his lip. Hal was right, he thought. And he trusted the young man's judgment. Hal would pick the right time to lower the sail.

Hal gestured to Stig, who was watching them. The tall youth came aft to join them, walking easily along the plunging deck without need for handholds.

“Something in mind?” he asked.

“I'm going to wait till the last minute to drop the sail,” Hal told him. “Get the sea anchor ready and get the storm sail ready to hoist.”

The storm sail was a small triangular sail that was hoisted on the forestay of the stubby main mast. It would give them steerageway in the high winds, without overstressing the mast or rigging. Stig nodded and returned to the bow, where he called Stefan to help him rig the sea anchor. This was a long, conical-shaped canvas drogue, with its wide end held open by a circle of light, pliable cane. When heaved over the bow, it would hold the ship heading into the wind and slow their downwind drift until Hal could get her under way again with the storm sail.

Once it was ready, lying in the bow beside its coiled rope, Stig and Stefan began clipping the retaining rings of the storm sail onto the heavy forestay, then attached the halyard that was permanently rigged so they could haul it up. When all was ready, Stig rose, turned toward Hal and waved.

“Now we wait,” Hal said. He wondered whether he should try to edge the ship to the north to give himself a little extra sea room. Then he realized that this would slow his westerly movement. Better to use the speed he had to clear the Hibernian coast, he thought. Any northing he gained would be quickly negated by the storm. He glanced nervously at the coastline. They were crossing it quickly. Another fifteen minutes and they'd be clear. If the storm gave them fifteen minutes.

“Wind's veering,” Thorn told him. “It's shifted to the northeast.”

That was definitely good news. If the wind was coming from
the northeast, their downwind path would be southwest, which would take them away from Hibernia and into clear ocean.

And that might make all the difference, he thought.

Suddenly, the
Heron
was engulfed in a howling, battering, almost-living force as the wind slammed into the little ship, driving spray and solid water with it so that they were blinded by the sheer mass of it.

The storm had covered the remaining distance with incredible speed, hitting them with full force.

Heron
heeled wildly to port, her leeward gunwales driven momentarily under, shipping huge amounts of water. Hal opened his mouth to bellow orders, but the crew were way ahead of him. Ulf and Wulf released the halyards, spilling the air out of the sail and letting it flap wildly, cracking and smacking like a giant whip. At the same time, Stig heaved the sea anchor over the bow while Stefan and Ingvar lowered the port yardarm and gathered in the sail. Stefan suffered a vicious cut to his forehead from one of the wildly whipping ends of the sail, but in a few moments, they had it under control, with the other available crew members throwing their body weight on it to contain it.

Heron
jerked upright once the sail was released, rocking wildly and sending seawater sloshing from side to side in the rowing wells, but the central watertight section did its job and gave the ship a reserve of buoyancy. The sea anchor was taking effect too, hauling the ship's bow around to face the wind and sea.

Clearing the spray and salt water from his eyes, Hal could see Stig heaving the storm sail up into position. Then he felt the tiller come alive as the storm sail took effect and the
Heron
began to claw
her way diagonally across the storm. Hal knew that they'd still be losing distance downwind, but they were angling out to the west, and there was a good chance that they'd be clear of the Hibernian coast by the time they reached it.

He hoped.

He flinched as there was a massive flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a deafening detonation of thunder. Kloof, lashed to the mast, howled in fear.

Thorn leaned closer to Hal. “She didn't like that,” he shouted.

Hal grinned nervously in reply. “I wasn't too fond of it myself,” he said. He was glad Kloof's reaction had distracted the others. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he had actually jumped in fright at the sudden flash and boom.

He felt his skin tingling and the hair on the nape of his neck rising. Thorn obviously felt it too.

“Another one coming,” he warned. Almost instantly, there was a blinding flash and a deafening crack as a lightning bolt struck the sea close by. The water steamed briefly, but the vapor was snatched away by the roaring wind.

Again Kloof howled her displeasure. Hal shook his head and blinked. His retina was imprinted with the aftereffect of the flash, seeing a jagged purple shape for some seconds after the actual event. He was vaguely aware that lightning usually centered on the highest point available and wondered why it hadn't hit their mast. He leaned closer to Thorn and said as much, but the old sea wolf shook his head and pointed to the massive waves marching past them.

“Waves are higher than the mast is,” he said and Hal realized he was right.

They shot down the back of one of the waves, then climbed laboriously up the next face. As they smashed through the crest, they were suddenly exposed to the full force of the wind again.
Heron
was laid over on her beam ends once more, then she righted and slid down the back of the wave, moving into its wind shadow and slicing her bow into the water in the trough. Twin explosions of spray fanned out either side of the bow as she buried her nose into the sea, then slowly came up. Seawater surged along the deck and out through the scuppers as she began to climb the next wave.

It was a monster—one of those freak waves that rise up in a storm that are half again as big as their fellows. Hal realized that the wave was higher than the length of the ship and, as
Heron
climbed and her speed began to drop off, he had a heart-stopping moment when he thought she would lose forward momentum and slide backward into the trough. Then she surged through the face of the wave some three meters from the top, smashing the water aside, shaking herself like a soaking-wet dog and then plunging down the far side.

Again, the bow bit into the sea in the trough. Again, spray and solid water exploded out to either side. Stig, making his way aft, seized hold of the standing rigging, wrapping his arms and legs around it as water surged thigh deep down the length of the ship.

As the wave passed, he released his grip and staggered the last few meters to the steering platform.

“She's holding up well,” he said.

Hal had to admit he was right.
Heron
was riding the massive
waves and thundering wind like the seabird she was named for. But superstition warned him not to appear too positive. The gods of the sea had a way of punishing such hubris, he thought.

“So long as the storm sail holds and we don't spring a plank or two,” he said.

Stig dashed water out of his eyes and frowned at him. “You're a cheery soul,” he grumbled.

Hal shrugged. There was always the chance—with the violent impacts the ship was suffering as she smashed down into the troughs of the waves—a plank could be started and the ship could spring a leak. He didn't think it would. After all, he'd built the boat himself and knew every join and every rivet in the hull. But it
was
possible.

He glanced astern and felt his heart rise into his throat. The coastline was much closer now, closer than he would have thought possible. Even as
Heron
continued to claw her way up and through the waves, the storm was driving her backward toward the lee shore.

There was nothing he could do about it. He was holding her on the best possible course, covering as much distance to the west as they could. His arms ached with the effort of holding the tiller but he wasn't prepared to turn it over to one of the others. It was his ship, after all, and his responsibility. And when he discounted any false modesty, he knew he was the best man for the task at hand. He was a more skillful helmsman than any of his friends.

Thorn's left hand gripped his shoulder and he nodded his head astern. Hal swung to look again in the direction indicated. He felt a jolt of fear as he saw a line of black rocks jutting like fangs from the sea, at one moment hidden from sight by the spray bursting
around them, the next rearing their razor-sharp heads above the surface, as if searching for the ship bearing down on them.

The three friends were silent. Hal measured the bearing to the rocks by closing one eye and keeping the sternpost aligned with them. After a minute, he realized the angle was changing, slowly, but sufficiently to let them slide past.

“We're going to miss them,” he said.

Thorn and Stig looked doubtful as
Heron
reared up another wave face and smashed through and down. For a few moments, the snarling, threatening rocks were hidden from sight. Then, as they soared up the next wave, they could see that the reef was now to starboard. They would slide by safely. Not by much, but by enough.

Hal flinched as one of the rocks emerged from the seething ocean only a few meters from their stern, then seemed to race away down the starboard side of the ship. It had been a close thing, he realized.

There was another vivid flash of lightning and a crashing roll of thunder a few seconds later. But this one was farther away than the previous lightning strike and he considered it dispassionately. Stig gained his attention and pointed to the Hibernian coastline, now well to the east.

“We're past it,” Stig said.

Hal nodded emphatically. He heaved on the tiller and swung the ship's head to the west, the wind filling the storm sail and heeling
Heron
over under the pressure.

“Let's get some sea room,” he said, and headed his ship out into the unknown wastes of the Endless Ocean.

chapter
three

D
ays passed and the storm continued unabated.

“How long can a storm like this last?” Stefan asked Thorn. The crew were huddled together in the meager shelter of the port rowing well, draped in tarpaulins, in a vain attempt to keep dry. Hal and Stig were by the steering platform, Hal's hands still clenched around the tiller, Stig with his feet braced wide for balance and his arm around his friend to keep him steady on his feet. It had been days since Hal had managed any meaningful rest. He had snatched the odd catnap from time to time when Stig or Thorn could persuade him to relinquish the tiller. But the slightest change in the ship's motion, the occasional jolt from a wave slightly out of the normal rhythm, would have him back on his feet in an instant, seizing the tiller and taking control once more.

Thorn looked up at the gray sky, full of scudding clouds, and immediately wished he hadn't as cold water trickled down his neck through a gap his movement had opened.

“Days,” he said.

“It's been days already,” Jesper pointed out. Thorn looked at him, this time moving carefully to avoid another shot of water down his neck.

“Weeks then,” he said. “Knew a storm like this once that lasted more than two weeks.”

“As bad as this?” Stefan asked.

Thorn considered his answer, then shook his head. And cursed as the unthinking movement released more water inside his clothes.

“No. This is the worst I can remember.”

“That's comforting,” Lydia mumbled, sitting with her head lowered and a tarpaulin cloak pulled up tight around her face and neck.

Interesting, Thorn thought. She had less sailing experience than any of the others. They had all been raised on boats and on the sea. Yet she seemed to have a stolid confidence that they would make it through the storm. A lot of girls in her position would have been reduced to gibbering terror, he knew, then realized a lot of men would be the same.

“You're not worried?” he asked her.

She raised her eyes to meet his. “Yes. But there's precious little I can do about it, so there's no point letting it get on top of me,” she said. “Besides, you're all constantly telling me that Hal is the best helmsman you've ever seen. I'm sure he'll bring us through it.”

That was certainly true. But Thorn wondered how long Hal
could continue like this. He'd been at the helm virtually since the storm had hit them. His eyes were red-rimmed from salt water and fatigue, and he was hunched over the tiller like an old man. Sooner or later, one of them would have to relieve him. Hal needed sleep—hours of it—whether he liked it or not.

Thorn glanced sideways at the young skirl. As he did, he saw Hal lurch and stumble with an unexpected movement of the ship. Stig moved quickly to steady him and Hal muttered a silent “thanks” to his friend. He shook himself and stood erect, blinking those sore, red-rimmed eyes and stamping his feet to stimulate the blood flow in them. His legs and feet must be aching, Thorn thought. Within a few seconds, Hal's upright stance sagged once more with weariness and he was again left supported by Stig's muscular arm.

“That's it,” Thorn said to himself. He cast aside the tarpaulin cloak and clambered onto the deck of the ship, lurching toward the two figures at the steering platform as the ship jerked and jolted under him.

Stig looked at him, a question in his eyes. Hal remained staring doggedly forward, his hands locked on the tiller.

“He's out on his feet,” Thorn said.

Stig nodded agreement. “I know. But he won't rest. I've already offered to spell him but he just shakes his head and says he's fine.”

“Which he is obviously not,” Thorn replied. He took hold of Hal's right hand and tried to lever it from the tiller. The young skirl's grip tightened, locking his hand on to the smooth wood. Thorn released his own grip and leaned closer to his young friend.

“You've got to take a break,” he said.

Hal's lips moved soundlessly.

Thorn gestured at the waves surging past, lifting and lowering the ship in a regular rhythm.
Heron
was riding the storm comfortably. They had taken in the sea anchor some hours ago, letting the storm sail propel her. If they lost ground downwind now, it didn't really matter. There was no dangerous shore to leeward—nothing but the endless sea itself. She was still heaving herself up each wave, then sliding down the far side, showering the decks with spray as she cut through the crest and then plunged deep into the trough. But the motion, violent as it was, was regular and predictable.

“She's under control now,” Thorn continued, his lips close to Hal's ear. “Stig can take her. You should rest in case the weather gets worse.”

The red-rimmed eyes looked at him. The boy was exhausted, Thorn thought. In fact, he was way past exhausted. Again, Thorn tried to pry one of Hal's hands free from the tiller, and, this time, Hal reluctantly let him do so. Thorn's words must have penetrated to his brain and he had realized the sense behind them. Thorn began to work on the other hand and glanced at Stig.

“Take the helm,” he said and the first mate took over the tiller as Thorn pried Hal's other hand free. With his arm around Hal, Thorn gently led him away from the steering platform and down to the leeward rowing benches.

The others reached up to help him into the meager shelter.

“Get a dry blanket,” Thorn told Edvin.

The medic opened a hatch in the watertight center section of the ship and produced a more or less dry blanket. Then, he and Thorn stripped off Hal's sheepskin vest and woolen shirt and began
to rub him hard with the blanket, working away until his skin glowed red from the friction and the blood began to return to his flesh. His lips had been tinged with blue, but now the violent rubbing with the blanket had got his circulation going once more and the skin returned to its normal color. Wulf had delved into another locker to produce a dry shirt.

When Hal was dressed again, Thorn draped the blanket around him and pulled him in close, wrapping his arms around the skirl. Edvin draped Thorn's tarpaulin cloak over both of them. Hal shivered violently and then collapsed against Thorn's comforting bulk.

“Get some sleep,” the one-armed sea wolf told his young friend. His voice was surprisingly gentle and comforting, and Edvin glanced at him curiously. He was used to Thorn being noisy or sardonic. This was a caring side of him that he rarely let show. Thorn glanced up, realized Edvin was watching him, and guessed what the boy was thinking.

“He'd keep going till he dropped if we let him,” he said, nodding his head toward the now-resting Hal.

“We'd better keep an eye on Stig as well,” Edvin told him.

Thorn nodded. “That's true. He's been up there in the wind and cold almost as long as Hal has been.” He swiveled on the bench to check Stig. The big youth seemed all right, he thought. Stig caught him looking and grinned reassuringly, then ducked his head as another cascade of spray broke over the bow and drenched him.

Thorn let Stig stay on the tiller for another hour, then moved to spell him, carefully handing off the sleeping Hal to Ingvar. “Should be plenty of body heat there to keep him warm,” he said.

Ingvar, big and amiable, smiled agreement.

The storm continued to howl around them, setting the standing rigging humming with the force of the wind. They continued their endless sequence of climbing a wave face, then plunging down its back, only to begin another staggering climb, until the repetitive motion seemed to encompass their entire world. Their minds were numbed by it, as their bodies and hands were numbed by the bitter cold.

Thorn stayed on the tiller for two hours, as the already-dim daylight faded into darkness. Occasionally, lightning would still crack through the black clouds, lighting up the lines of the ship for a brief second. Then the boom of thunder would deafen them, and Kloof would bark angrily in reply. But the lightning flashes were becoming less and less frequent.

Thorn handed over the tiller to Stig again once night had fallen. They looked at Hal's sleeping form.

“We'll let him sleep as long as he can,” Thorn said. “He needs the rest.”

It was during Stig's watch that they noticed the flickering blue light that shimmered at the top of the stumpy mast and spread along the rigging. The first mate called out a warning as he saw it, thinking that the mast had somehow caught fire in the storm. Thorn stood, swaying with the motion of the ship, and studied it. The rest of the crew muttered in alarm at the sight.

“It's Loki's Fire,” Thorn called. “Liar's Fire, they sometimes call it.”

Loki was the god of lies, and well-known as a trickster. The blue flames were not fire at all, but merely a phenomenon that
sometimes occurred in a thunderstorm at sea. Thorn had seen it several times before on voyages and he knew the blue, flickering flamelike light was harmless.

Stefan eyed it uncertainly. “Looks like real fire to me.”

Several others in the crew agreed, their voices nervous.

Thorn smiled at them. “If it were fire, the mast would have been burnt up by now,” he pointed out.

The crew subsided, their fears calmed but not entirely dismissed. The blue light had been flickering on the mast and tarred ropes for several minutes now, with no sign of any deterioration in the material.

“I've seen that in the forest a few times,” Lydia said, “although I never knew what it was called. Thorn's right. It can't hurt us.”

That seemed to settle the rest of the crew. If Lydia wasn't worried by the strange light, they weren't going to let it rattle them. But, mollified as they were, they still continued to cast doubtful looks at the strange light until it abruptly disappeared, as quickly as it had come.

“I kind of miss it now,” Jesper said after the deep blackness of night settled around them again. “It was pretty.”

Then a rogue wave, sliding unseen at an angle to the normal swell, smashed into their starboard bow, laying
Heron
over and dumping spray and solid water on her decks. The ship shuddered, then righted herself. Hal was instantly awake, alerted by the changed motion of the ship. He cast aside the tarpaulin cloak that covered him and looked round in the darkness.

Stig had the ship back on course, and she was climbing yet another mountain of water as it bore down on them. But there were
tons of water in the rowing wells now, more than the scuppers could cope with. The ship felt sluggish and heavy as she labored up the wave. Hal sprang lightly up onto the deck and moved to take the tiller from Stig. The first mate gratefully relinquished it to him. He had taken the full force of the wave. It had winded him and drenched him at the same time.

“Didn't see that coming,” he complained.

“Get yourself dried off,” Hal told him. “I'll take her for a while.”

He was obviously reinvigorated after his long rest. Stig headed for the rowing wells, in search of a dry blanket.

Thorn sighed and gestured to the rest of the crew.

“Grab a bucket each,” he said. “We're going to have to bail her out.”