chapter thirty - four

As they reached the farthest extent of their run out to sea, Stig swung the Heron around to head back for a second attack on the eastern tower. Hal rose from his seat behind the Mangler and held up a hand.

“Heave to for a minute, Stig!” he called. Stig nodded, a slightly puzzled frown on his face, as he brought the ship’s head into the wind.

“Let go the sheets,” he told Ulf and Wulf. As they de-powered the sail, Heron slowed to a stop, rising and falling gently on the even swell. Hal gestured for Thorn to follow him and made his way aft. Lydia, not wanting to be left out, followed the two of them.

“I’ve had an idea,” he said as they reached the steering platform. Stig was gently working the tiller back and forth, keeping the ship’s head directly into the wind.

“How unusual,” Stig said, grinning. He’d guessed as much when Hal had signaled for him to heave to.

“You’re planning on using another fire bolt?” Thorn suggested.

Hal nodded. “Exactly. Once you get that pinewood burning, nothing will stop it.”

“Except this time, the garrison aren’t going to be kind enough to cover the platform with straw and dry cloth,” Thorn observed.

“True. But look at the support framework, just below the platform.” Hal pointed and they all peered at the distant structure. “There’s a point there where three beams intersect—one vertical, one horizontal and one diagonal. It’s the main support point for that side of the tower.”

Slowly, the others nodded as they saw what he was pointing to.

“That junction point is a pretty big target. And even if I don’t hit it exactly, there’s a good chance I’ll hit one of the three beams. If I can put a fire bolt in there, the wood will catch—maybe not as quickly as the watchtower with the mattresses all over it. But it’ll burn eventually. And once it does, the platform on top will come down. It’ll be much more effective than battering away with ordinary bolts.”

Stig and Thorn exchanged a glance.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” Stig said, and Thorn concurred.

“Certainly worth a try. Do you think you can hit it from a hundred meters? They’ll be ready for us this time and they’ll be shooting back. We’ve been lucky so far that nobody’s been hit.”

Thorn knew, although the others didn’t, that their luck was unlikely to hold. Luck was notoriously fickle in a battle. If they kept getting in to close range, they would take casualties.

“I think I can hit it from outside a hundred meters,” Hal said.

Stig pushed his bottom lip forward doubtfully.

“That target is barely bigger than the ones we practiced on in the bay,” he said. “You needed to get in to fifty meters to hit them with any consistency.”

“True. But we were moving then, and moving fast. I plan to stop about a hundred and twenty meters out so I’m shooting from a steady platform. That’ll make my job a lot easier.”

“It’ll make us easier to hit too,” Stig said.

Hal shrugged. “We’ll just have to keep our shields up and stay under cover as much as possible. Thorn, can you keep Ingvar covered? I plan to try two fire bolts, so he’ll need to reload.”

Thorn glanced at the distant tower, picturing in his mind’s eye the hail of arrows that would be launched at them.

“Do my best,” he said gruffly. “When we stop, that’ll throw some of them off at first. They’ll be allowing for a moving target. But then we’ll be a sitting duck.” He looked at Lydia. “Keep watch for that green-shirted archer. He’s their best shot.”

She nodded. “I’ll take care of him.” There was no trace of doubt in her voice and the old sea wolf grinned at her.

“You know, I do believe you will.” He looked up at Stig and Hal. “Told you this one was a keeper.”

Lydia flushed as the two boys smiled. “Shut up. You make sure you do your stuff with those two overgrown dinner bowls you call shields.”

Thorn inclined his head. “As you say, young lady. As you say.”

“If you two are quite finished,” Hal said, regaining their attention, “we’ll get under way again. Just give me a minute or two to brief the others.”

He started back toward the bow, stopping beside Ulf and Wulf.

“We’re going to stop . . . ,” he began, but they both nodded.

“We heard,” Ulf said. “We’ll be ready. Just give us the word.”

He looked at them for a second or two. They were keeping their promise, he thought. Once they were at sea, there was no sign of bickering between them. They worked together better and more instinctively than two other people might have. Possibly because of that strange mental bond many twins enjoyed.

He realized that he had been staring at them for several seconds and they were waiting expectantly, thinking he was going to say something more. He nodded curtly and turned away.

“Fine,” he said.

The twins exchanged slightly puzzled looks as he made his way back to the bow. Ingvar and Edvin were waiting, sensing that there was a change of plan.

He outlined his idea to them. They both nodded their understanding. Edvin picked up the now-empty bucket, trailed it over the side on a rope and filled it, tossing the seawater onto the front of the Mangler. Then he repeated the action twice more.

“Might as well be sure it’s thoroughly soaked,” he said.

Hal gestured to the tub where the five remaining fire bolts were stored.

“Get two ready and lit when the time comes,” he said. “Ingvar is going to have to reload fast. Once we’re stopped, we’ll swing up into the wind in a few minutes. When that happens, I won’t be able to train the Mangler round far enough.”

He paused, wondering if he’d left anything out. “Another thing, Edvin. You’ll have to look after it by yourself. Lydia is going to be busy picking off the people shooting at us.”

Edvin’s brows knitted as he thought over the actions he would have to take. “That won’t be a problem. I think I’d prefer it if she’s keeping their heads down.”

“All right. Places, everyone.” Hal turned to call back to Stig and the twins. “Let’s get moving!”

As the sail was hauled in, Stig let the Heron fall off from the wind. Within a few seconds, she was carving a smooth white wake through the sea again.

Barat stopped at the foot of the palisade. His breath was coming in ragged gasps, but that was the result of nervous tension, not exhaustion. Incredibly, he and his men had covered the forty meters of open space along the beach without any alarm being raised.

He turned back now and called quietly, “Grapnels! Climbers! Go!”

Four grapnels soared up over the palisade, each one trailing a snakelike length of rope behind it. He heard the four thuds as they hit in rapid succession. Then the throwers hauled back on the ropes, dragging the three-pronged hooks back across the walkway until they bit and held fast against the vertical logs that formed the three-meter-high palisade wall. One broke loose and came tumbling back down. As the handler cursed quietly and gathered it in for another throw, Barat gestured to the other three.

“Climbers! On your way! Don’t wait for that one!”

The men who had thrown the grapnels now leaned their weight back against the ropes to hold them taut. Two more men moved to stand under each rope, holding a thick spear handle between them. As the first climber began to swarm up the rope, he put his foot on the spear handle and the two men heaved him upward, boosting him up so that his hands closed over the top of the palisade. Taking care not to snag himself on the sharpened ends of the upright logs, he vaulted lightly over onto the catwalk beyond. Two more climbers joined him almost immediately. They drew their swords, swung their shields around from their backs, and moved down the catwalk to form a defensive line, while their comrades swarmed up over the palisade.

Barat came up with the second wave. He glanced quickly around. The catwalk was empty on either side. There was no sign of any defenders.

We’ve taken them completely by surprise, he thought. Then he leapt back in alarm as the fourth grapnel soared over the palisade and clattered on the planks of the catwalk, missing him by centimeters. He kicked the grapnel over the inner edge of the catwalk so that the prongs caught on the timbers there. The rope drew tight as the unseen attacker below heaved back to set it. Then it began to vibrate as a climber mounted it.

“Alarm! Alarm! The enemy’s on the wall!”

The shouting voice reached him from the town below. He looked down into one of the narrow, winding streets that ran away from the palisade toward the open plaza in the town center. Three Magyarans had just rounded a corner and seen the Limmatans gathering on the walkway above them.

The pirates started toward the palisade, then hesitated as they saw the numbers of men already on the catwalk. Realizing they were seriously outnumbered, they turned to run, shouting the alarm as they went.

“Stop them!” Barat shouted. One of his men stepped forward and hurled a spear. It took the nearest Magyaran in the upper leg and he twisted and fell to the ground, calling out for his comrades to help him. They took one more look at the crowd of armed men on the catwalk, turned and disappeared round a corner in the street, yelling the alarm as they went.

Barat hesitated a second. The palisade was undefended on this side. Hal had been right, he thought. The bulk of the Magyarans would be in the watchtowers, or in the town center itself. He gestured toward the steps with his sword.

“Down to ground level!” he yelled. “Head for the town square.”

The planks of the catwalk vibrated under his feet as he led the thirty-eight men running toward the stairs.

Near the western watchtower, the Skandians had formed into a wedge shape, with Svengal at its head. They smashed into the disorganized Magyarans, axes rising and falling in a deadly rhythm. The pirates, stunned and demoralized by the sudden onset of the watchtower fire, eyes streaming from the smoke, had no chance against the charging Skandians.

The lucky ones among the enemy were those who were simply buffeted aside by the heavy wooden shields.

Some, blood streaming from their wounds, tried to crawl away from the fight, crying piteously. Others lay where they fell, ominously still. Svengal found himself facing one of the few Magyarans who seemed capable of putting up a fight. They circled each other warily. The Magyaran was armed with a heavy spear, which he held underarm, balanced at its midpoint, and a round metal and wood shield.

He jabbed the spear toward the massive Skandian. But Svengal was watching his eyes and something there told him the move was a feint. He held his ground and smiled at his enemy.

“Have to do better than that,” he said. Then, seeing Wolfwind’s bosun, Hendrik, looming up behind his adversary with an ax, he snapped, “Leave him be!” Hendrik reluctantly moved away, seeking another foe.

In an all-out melee, it was every man for himself, and Svengal and his men would strike out at any target that presented itself. But the Magyarans were broken and defeated and this was single combat. The man was a brave and capable warrior and Svengal had no wish to see him cut down from behind.

Skandians lived for fighting—although it must be said that some of them died for it as well—and single combat, man-to-man, was the ultimate form.

The spear shot forward again. This time it was a genuine thrust and Svengal flicked it aside with the head of his ax. He saw a shadow of fear in the other man’s eyes then, as his opponent saw the casual ease with which Svengal handled the heavy weapon. Most warriors wouldn’t be able to match the speed and precision of Svengal’s move.

The Magyaran, suddenly wary, retreated a pace. Svengal advanced, his eyes still intent on the other man’s. He saw the warning of another thrust there, a fraction of a second before it began, and launched his own attack instead, forestalling the other man’s lunge with a mighty overhead cut from the long-handled ax.

The Magyaran got his shield up in the nick of time and the blow slammed against the metal, cracking the wood beneath it and beating the pirate to his knees. But he sprang to his feet almost instantly and lunged again, with the strength of desperation. Svengal decided it was time to forget finesse. He caught the spear square on his massive shield, absorbing the force behind it with flexed knees, feeling the head bite deep into the wood—and jam there.

The Magyaran panicked as he tried in vain to withdraw his trapped spear. As a result, he never saw the roundhouse stroke from the massive ax that ended the fight for good.

Svengal stepped back. He looked around. Some of the Magyarans had escaped, heading back around the harbor to the town. Most of them were lying, still and silent, under the burning tower. Ash and glowing cinders drifted down on them like hot rain. Hendrik caught Svengal’s eye.

“We’d better get out from under here. That whole thing could come down at any time.”

Svengal stooped and tugged a cloak free from one of the bodies, wiping the blade of his ax with it, then tossing it to one side.

“Time to get across to the other tower,” he said.