The Ghostfaces

  “Why do you want to set him free anyway?” Stig asked.

  Thorn gestured toward the line of wrecked canoes. “I want them to know that this wasn’t done by any of the Limiginas who got away when they first arrived. If they think it was done by mysterious strangers—”

  “Semi-demi-demons?” Stig put in.

  Thorn paused before replying, giving the young man a withering look. “If you must. If they think that, they won’t take reprisals against any Limigina they recapture.”

  Stig thought about that and nodded thoughtfully. “That’s quite a good idea,” he said. “But won’t it warn them that we’re working with the Mawags?”

  Thorn shrugged. “I don’t see why it should. The Mawagansett village is thirty kilometers away from here. Why should they connect us with them?”

  “I suppose not. Maybe you could have Simsinnet tell this rooster”—Stig gestured to the quaking Ghostface, who was watching them nervously, totally unaware of what they were saying—“that we came down from the sky to eat their hearts.”

  “Not a bad idea.” Thorn glanced at Simsinnet. “Tell him something along those lines, Simsinnet. It might convince them to get out of here as soon as they can.”

  The Mawagansett warrior nodded. He addressed a few words to the Ghostface, who cringed a little away from Stig and Thorn. Stig bared his teeth at the man and he cringed further.

  “Now tell him that we’re going to burn their canoes, and if they don’t put the fire out, they’ll be trapped here where we can get them,” Thorn added. Simsinnet translated and the Ghostface nodded his understanding. Thorn stood and dragged the white-faced raider upright by the arm. He waved to Hal to set the fire and saw a flash of flint on steel from down the beach. Then, a few seconds later, a tongue of flame leapt up from the first of the canoes. Thorn waited till the fire took hold, then shoved the Ghostface in the direction of the village.

  “Run!” he shouted. The man hesitated, and Thorn made a threatening gesture with his club. That did the trick. The Ghostface turned away and made off at a shambling run toward the village.

  Thorn looked up and saw Hal pounding back along the line of canoes to join them. He gestured to the trail that led along the bank to their own canoe.

  “Right. Let’s get going!” he said.

  They slipped into the shadows between the trees, running back to where they had left their canoe. If they got away before the Ghostfaces saw them, Hal thought, the enemy would have no idea where they had gone.

  As they reached the moored canoe, the drums and chanting stopped, dying away quickly. They could hear one voice shouting hysterically—probably the man Thorn had let escape. Then a roar of outrage sounded and they could hear the sound of many bodies shoving and crashing through the undergrowth to the beach.

  The four of them slipped into the water again. Simsinnet held the canoe level while his companions climbed aboard, then leapt lightly into his seat and released the rope that held them to the willow branch.

  They shot out onto the river, and an angry shout behind them told them they had been seen.

  “Dig those paddles in!” Thorn ordered, hurriedly replacing his club-hand with his wooden gripping hook. Hal glanced over his shoulder. On the strip of beach farther up the river, he could see three or four of the canoes being launched into the shallows. Their crews scrambled aboard as soon as they were afloat, then cries of surprise and rage carried to them as their weight caused the canoes to sink into the river, water pouring through the holes Stig had cut in them.

  “That should hold them up for a day or two,” Hal said.

  “Save your breath for paddling,” Thorn told him.

  They dug their paddles deep into the water and the canoe sped downriver, its speed boosted by the current. They rounded a bend and soon they could only see the glow of the Ghostfaces’ fire against the sky.

  “They seem to have stopped singing,” Stig remarked.

  chapter thirty-six

  This time, the current was with them and they sent the canoe flying downriver, the banks flashing past them with amazing speed as the light strengthened and a new day dawned.

  Around mid-morning, Thorn came to a decision. “Simsinnet and Hal, you two rest for a while. Stig and I will keep paddling. Then you can relieve us.”

  Gratefully, Hal brought his paddle inboard and stowed it. His shoulders and upper arms were burning with the effort of driving the canoe through the swift-running water. He was fit and young, but the action of paddling was an unfamiliar one, calling for a different set of muscles from rowing—which he was more accustomed to. There was no room to stretch out in the little craft, but he slumped forward on his seat, letting his head and arms hang loose and his body relax. Simsinnet, he noticed, was doing the same thing.

  “Let me know when you want us to take over again,” he said.

  Thorn gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

  Their speed was reduced with only two of them paddling, but they still managed to move downriver at a respectable rate. They continued in that fashion for the next six hours, with two resting and two paddling. As dusk closed in on them, Thorn ordered a halt while they ate a quick meal of dried meat, washed down with cold river water from their canteens. But even then, they didn’t pull in to the bank, letting the swift river current sweep them farther along toward the ocean. Simsinnet kept his paddle across his knees as he ate and drank, occasionally using it to keep the canoe heading straight downriver and out in the middle of the current.

  “Right, let’s get paddling again,” Thorn ordered as they finished their hasty meal. “We’ll give it another three hours, then we’ll stop for a few hours’ proper rest.”

  “You think we’re far enough ahead of them?” Stig asked.

  Thorn inadvertently glanced back over his shoulder at the dark, smooth water behind them. “I think they’re probably still back on the beach,” he said. “It’ll take hours for them to repair their canoes. They’ll have to repair the frames you smashed, then cut patches of new bark to cover the holes and stitch them in place. Then they’ll have to seal the stitches somehow. What’ll they use for that, Simsinnet?” Had they been in Skandia, they would have used molten pitch for the task. Here, he wasn’t so sure.

  “Wax,” Simsinnet replied. “They’ll melt wax and smear it over the join to make it completely waterproof.”

  Thorn grunted. “And then they’ll have to wait for that to harden,” he said. “It’ll all take time. But in the meantime, let’s put a few more leagues between us and them.”

  He paused, paddle raised, and waited for Simsinnet to call the stroke. The four paddle blades dipped into the water. The canoe seemed to hesitate for a second as its prow turned back on course, then it shot away at speed, the ripples beating a rapid tattoo on the hull.

  They continued that way as the sun set and darkness settled over the river. The tree-lined banks were dark and featureless. Only the smooth, black water stretching out in front of them was discernible in the dim light of the stars. But the river was free of snags and shallows—at least any section shallow enough to impede the canoe, with its minimal draught. Simsinnet kept them out in the center, where the current was strongest and visibility was clearest, and they kept paddling, the silence broken only by the light splash of their paddles, the burble of water along their hull and the rhythmic grunting of the four paddlers as they set their blades into the water in an unvarying pattern.

  When the three-quarter moon rose over the tall trees flanking the river, it came as something of a shock, with the abrupt flood of light striking them with an almost physical impact. Suddenly the river was bathed in its cold, pale light and the water changed from black to silver. Close to the horizon as it was, the moon appeared to be huge. Hal gave an involuntary grunt of surprise at the sight of a massive, white orb hanging just over the treetops. Simsinnet turned from his position in the
bow as he heard the skirl’s exclamation.

  “The moon is a goddess to us,” he said quietly.

  Hal nodded in appreciation. “I can see why. It’s beautiful. It seems to be alive.”

  “Save the poetry for later,” Thorn called crisply. “We’ll keep paddling until the goddess has gone past her zenith.”

  The bright light of the moon threw the shaded banks into a starkly contrasting darkness. It was almost impossible to make out any features. The moon soared high above them, gradually diminishing in size as it moved farther and farther away from the horizon. Eventually, Thorn called a halt.

  “Take us into the shore, Simsinnet,” he ordered, and the Mawag warrior swung the canoe toward the bank, where he could just make out the white line of a small sandy beach. The prow grated ashore and they stepped out into the shallow water.

  “Get some rest,” Thorn ordered gruffly. “I’ll take the first watch.”

  But Hal demurred. “I’ll do it. You need sleep as much as any of us.”

  Thorn looked at him for a moment without speaking, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I do and I will.” He spotted a fallen log at the edge of the tree line and stretched himself out beside it, using it as a pillow. He pulled his shabby old sheepskin vest a little tighter around himself and sighed contentedly as his eyes closed.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” he warned Hal, and promptly did so himself.

  • • • • •

  Simsinnet had taken the final watch and he roused them. Stig stretched his stiff muscles as he rose, raking his fingers through his unruly hair and swigging from his canteen. He eyed the water skin distastefully.

  “What I could really use,” he said, “is a strong mug of coffee.”

  “We’ve been out of coffee for weeks,” Hal pointed out.

  His friend scowled at him. “Well then, even a mug of that wishy-washy tea the Mawags make,” he said.

  Simsinnet grinned at the remark. “Better not let Tecumsa hear you say that,” he said. “She prides herself on her tea making.”

  Stig grunted. “I’m going to have to find something we can roast to make a drink that’s vaguely like coffee,” he said. “Maybe I can use corn kernels.”

  “Good luck with that,” Thorn told him, and jerked a thumb at the canoe. “Let’s get back on the river.”

  They quickly repacked their bedrolls, stowing them in the canoe. The night had been cold and Hal found himself wishing he had carried an extra blanket. He was stiff and chilled, and his arm and shoulder muscles ached. But he shrugged the discomfort aside.

  “I’ve been through worse,” he muttered, remembering the terrifying days and nights when the Heron had been smashed and battered and driven by the massive storm. It had seemed then that he would never be warm and dry again. With an occasional groan from the two younger Skandians, the four of them resumed their places in the canoe and shoved off. They continued downriver in the cold of predawn.

  “Now my feet are wet,” Stig grumbled.

  Thorn made a sympathetic clucking sound with his tongue. “Poor baby,” he said. “When we get home, Uncle Thorn will tuck you up with a hot rock in your blankets.”

  In spite of himself, Stig found himself grinning at the shaggy old warrior’s cooing tones. “Would you really do that, Thorn?”

  Thorn eyed him with a fierce smile. “Right after I bash you over the head with it,” he said.

  They fell into the rhythm of paddling once more, and soon their muscles loosened and their bodies warmed with the constant exercise. The sky in the east began to lighten and pale ribbons of pink light stretched across it. Then the sun rose. Like the moon the night before, it soared into sight above the tall treetops lining the eastern bank and its instant warmth penetrated their bones.

  “Not far to go now,” Simsinnet said, surprising them. Hal had assumed they would have hours more paddling to do, but he’d neglected to take account of the following current that was aiding their passage.

  As if triggered by the Mawag’s words, the river began to widen, and as they rounded one last bend, they could see the broad waters of the bay ahead of them. Involuntarily, they stopped paddling and sat back on the narrow wooden seats of the canoe.

  It’s good to be home, Hal thought. Then he smiled wryly at the idea that he could have come to think of this bay, so far from Skandia, as home. A voice hailed them from the riverbank and interrupted his musing. A canoe, a little smaller than their own and manned by three paddlers, was shooting out from the bank toward them. Without thinking, he dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, where it rested against his seat—it was too long to wear in the close confines of the canoe.

  “They’re friends,” Simsinnet said quickly, sensing his movement.

  As the canoe drew closer, Hal could make out the now-familiar garments of the Mawagansett tribe. The three occupants were all armed, each one carrying one of the short bows over one shoulder, and a quiver of flint-headed arrows over the other.

  Quickly, they drew alongside and smiled their greetings.

  “Welcome back, Simsinnet,” the warrior seated in the stern called out as the two craft drew together. “Did you find the Ghostfaces?”

  “Found them. Fought them. Our friends here”—he indicated the three Skandians—“wrecked their canoes and disabled half a dozen of the Ghostfaces.”

  The paddlers looked at Stig, Thorn and Hal with new respect.

  “So they’re not coming?” the youngest of the three asked. “They’ve turned back?”

  But Thorn quickly stifled his hopeful suggestion. “Oh, they’re still coming,” he said. “They’ll be along in a few days. What are you three doing here?” he continued, although he thought he knew the answer.

  “Mohegas posted us here to watch for your return. Or the Ghostfaces,” the first speaker said, adding the second comment after a short pause.

  “Just in case we didn’t make it?” Thorn asked.

  The warrior grinned a little sheepishly. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Well, keep an eye out for them,” Thorn replied.

  They watched as the sentries turned back toward their concealed observation post on the bank. Then they took up their paddles once more and sent the canoe surging out onto the broad waters of the bay.

  Hal felt his heart surge as he saw the neat little ship moored on the opposite shore.

  That’s home, he thought, no matter where in the world I find myself.

  chapter thirty-seven

  Now that they had reached their destination, they eased the pace and sent the canoe gliding across the bay toward the Heron. They beached the little craft close to the ship and hauled it up onto the sand. Hal glanced around.

  “The lads have been busy,” he said. The palisade was gone, and the sleeping hut, as well as Lydia’s separate accommodation, had been dismantled and removed. Walking up the beach, the only sign he could see that the area had been occupied was the blackened rocks where Edvin had sited his cook fire. Even they had been scattered, so that there would be no clue to warn the Ghostfaces that people had been camping here.

  Thorn glanced around the empty former camp and nodded approvingly. “They’ve done well,” he said. “I assume the palisade has been moved to the village and reassembled there.” He indicated the narrow opening in the trees that marked the path leading to the Mawag settlement. “Let’s go see.”

  They had been rowing for hours, day and night, and they made their way wearily through the shadows under the trees. They reached the Mawag village to find a scene of bustling activity.

  Jesper, Stefan and Ingvar were working with a group of Mawag young men, putting the finishing touches to the palisade, which stretched in a wide semicircle to enclose the village. One of the new crossbows was assembled on the meeting ground in front of the village, and Lydia was instructing another group in the art of aiming and shooting—
and the equally critical art of reloading. Like the Mangler, Hal had designed the new bows with extended cocking levers to give the loader as much mechanical advantage as possible in drawing the thick bowstring back to settle it over the trigger mechanism. One of the Mawags was bent over the bow, with Lydia beside him, coaching him as he lined it up on its target—a tightly bound bundle of branches standing fifty meters away. As they watched, they heard the wooden slam of the trigger releasing and the bow’s arms springing forward. A bolt flashed away from the bow, streaking across the intervening space to smash into the bundle of branches, hurling it backward for several meters. Lydia slapped the shooter on the back in congratulation. The young Mawag grinned and stepped reluctantly away from the bow.

  “Next shooter,” Lydia said crisply, and another warrior stepped up eagerly, reaching for the cocking handles. “Help him,” Lydia ordered and a third Mawag took one of the levers.

  The two tribesmen heaved on the levers and drew the cord back, the arms of the bow and the cord itself creaking under the strain. Then they settled it snugly over the retaining pegs protruding above the body of the bow.

  “Bolt,” Lydia ordered, and the second man reached down to a small pile of heavy hardwood projectiles, placing one in the shallow trough cut along the top of the bow, and engaging the notch at the back with the cord. Hal stepped forward curiously. There was something unusual about the bolt. It had no fletching, he saw.

  Lydia glanced up and saw him approaching. Her face lit up in a smile—welcome tinged with relief. “You’re back,” she said.

  Hal grinned, looking down at himself, as if to make sure he was really there. “Apparently, we are,” he said. He indicated the bolt loaded into the crossbow. “No fletching?”

  Lydia shook her head. “I decided to speed things up,” she said, unclipping the bolt from the crossbow’s cord and handing it to Hal for him to study. Instead of the three vanes that he placed on the back end of his bolts, there was a large feather attached by a short piece of cord. Lydia took it and held it out behind the bolt.