02 The Invaders (11 page)

“If the weather would ease, we could take the ship to sea,” he said to himself. “A spell of rowing and sail handling would do wonders for them.”

But even though there had been a few calm breaks in the past
few days, none of them lasted for long and there was always the risk of being caught on the open sea when the storms resumed. They could always practice rowing in the calmer waters of Shelter Bay. But such an exercise would be rather pointless. They had been around boats and ships all their lives and their rowing technique was sound. To simply row up and down the bay would not hold their attention for very long.

While he was musing about this, he became conscious of a very faint sound. A voice? No, two voices.

He stood up and gazed down the beach. Sure enough, the distant figures of Hal and Ingvar were looking back toward the camp. He could see the pale ovals of their faces. Then they raised their hands to cup them around their mouths, and a few seconds later, he heard the faint sound again, carried on the wind.

“Tho-o-orn!”

“About time too,” he muttered. He waved to them, letting them know he had heard them, then tossed the dregs of his coffee into the fire. He was setting the mug down when a thought occurred to him. Edvin might spot the remnants of his coffee in the pot. He tipped water from the pail of fresh water standing by the fireplace, swirled it around until there was no trace or smell of coffee left, and threw it out.

Then he walked briskly to the tent where the boys were relaxing—some talking quietly, several snoozing and others working on repairing torn or damaged clothing and equipment. Those who were awake looked up as he approached. He jerked a thumb toward the beach.

“If any of you are interested,” he said, “the great inventor is ready to show us his latest work.”

That definitely got their interest. Since they had seen the success of Hal’s revolutionary sail design, the Herons tended to treat Hal’s inventive skills with great respect. Thorn and Stig, who had seen one or two of his brainstorms go disastrously wrong over the years, were a little more cynical.

But now, as the boys tumbled eagerly out of the tent, heading for the beach in a ragged group, Thorn felt a small tingle of anticipation. Most of the time, Hal’s ideas worked, and worked well. Without realizing it, he found himself quickening his pace to catch up with the boys.

Whatever Hal had to show them, he didn’t want to be the last to see it.

chapter
ten

I
t’s a crossbow,” said Stig, shaking his head in wonder as he stared at the device.

“Biggest crossbow I’ve ever seen,” Edvin commented.

The massive crossbow crouched on a wooden carriage before them. It was a meter and a half in length and the limbs of the bow were almost a meter from tip to tip. They were made from several layers of wood, laminated together, glued and bound with deer sinew. Thorn nodded thoughtfully as he noted them. In the past week, Hal had been successful in shooting several deer for food. Obviously, he’d wasted nothing from the carcasses. He must have boiled the hooves down to make glue—Thorn recalled a dreadful smell emanating from the workshop a few days ago.

Hal indicated the limbs of the bow. “I’ve used different types of wood for these,” he said. “Sapwood on the outer side of the curve for flexibility and heartwood on the inside for strength and rigidity.”

“How will you shoot it?” Ulf asked. “You could never lift it.”

“I’ll shoot it from the carriage,” Hal said. He indicated a
wooden ratchet gear on one side. “I can elevate it with this.” As he spoke, he turned the ratchet and the crossbow angled up on its carriage.

“Ingenious,” Stig said, and he grinned at his friend in admiration. “You’ve tested it? It does actually shoot?”

Hal regarded his friend with an icy smile. He’d been waiting for the inevitable question about small details and suspected this might be a prelude to it.

“It shoots all right,” he said. “We’ve been testing it this morning. It’ll throw one of these for almost four hundred meters.”

He held up a heavy hardwood projectile, half a meter in length. The point had been sharpened and hardened in a fire, and it was reinforced with four iron strips, fastened around its edges and tapering to a point. At the far end, three thin wooden vanes, triangular in shape, were set around the shaft like the fletching on an arrow.

“Although for practical purposes, we’re saying the range is three hundred meters. We’ve been graduating the sights while you lot have been snoozing,” he added.

Stefan stepped forward to study the huge weapon more closely. “It’s magnificent,” he said. He seized hold of the heavy cord that stretched between the two bow limbs. It was made from plaited birch creepers. He tried in vain to haul it back. He could manage to move it no more than a few centimeters.

“The question is, how do you load it?” he said, frustrated.

“I don’t,” Hal said. “And I doubt any of you could. But Ingvar can.”

He gestured for Ingvar to demonstrate. The big boy stepped
forward, smiling, and a little pleased to be the center of attention. There were two levers, one set on either side, angled forward and coming up just below the string. They were joined by a rod running through the carriage, under the body of the bow.

He pulled the levers up and back, and as they swiveled, the levers caught the bowstring and began to draw it back.

“Hold it a moment, Ingvar,” Hal ordered, and the young giant let the levers back down to their original position. Hal glanced at Stig.

“Why don’t you try it?” he suggested.

Stig shrugged and stepped forward.

“If you say so,” he said, smiling. Ingvar moved to one side to give him access to the bow and he took hold of the levers and heaved on them.

And stopped.

The smile faded from his face as he realized he had moved the string only halfway back before he could move it no farther. He strained mightily and the string moved another centimeter. Then, shaking his head, he let the levers back down again and gestured to Ingvar.

“Show us how it’s done,” he said. He suspected that Hal had arranged the demonstration not to make fun of him, but to indicate Ingvar’s unique ability to his shipmates. Ingvar stepped in again, seized the levers and hauled them all the way back in one smooth movement, until the string engaged a latch set in the body of the bow and was held tight, fully cocked. He replaced the levers in their original position, below the main body of the bow.

There was a mutter of appreciation from the assembled Herons.
Stig was stronger than any of them—aside from Ingvar. If he couldn’t manage to cock the huge crossbow, they knew that none of them would be capable of doing so. Hal caught Stig’s eye and nodded at him, confirming Stig’s earlier suspicion.

“I just wanted you all to see that,” Hal said. “Without Ingvar, this bow would be useless. He’ll load the bow for me when I’m shooting.”

Thorn moved closer, studying the massive weapon. There was a definite air of menace about it, he thought. The effort required to cock it indicated that it would fire its projectiles with enormous power and speed. But he wasn’t sure how Hal intended to deploy such a heavy piece of equipment in a battle.

“Just how do you plan to use it?” he asked. Hal’s proud smile widened.

“I’m going to mount it in the bow of the
Heron
,” he said, “on a swiveling platform. Then, when we catch up with the
Raven
, we can stand off a hundred meters or so and knock great big holes in her. I doubt that they’ll enjoy being peppered with these beauties.” He held up one of the heavy projectiles and they all looked at it, imagining it slamming into the relatively light timbers of a ship’s hull.

There was a general chorus of approval and enthusiasm from his crew. It was a truly radical idea—but they had come to expect radical ideas from their skirl. Even Thorn looked impressed.

“You plan to arm the ship,” he said. It was something that Skandians had never done. They used their ships as a way to reach a battle, not a way to fight it.

“That’s right. The ship becomes our weapon. If we get too close to the
Raven
, she’ll ram us. This way, we can keep our distance
and pound her.” He looked at Stig. “You’ll have to take the helm when we’re fighting her,” he added.

Stig grinned and nodded. “My pleasure.”

Hal looked at the others. “Stefan, Jesper, you’ll take charge of raising and lowering sails. Ingvar can help you if necessary. We won’t be shooting if we’re tacking or wearing the ship. Ulf and Wulf, you’ll be on sail trimming and sheet handling. Edvin, you’ll stand ready to assist Stig, and to pass on my signals. Once we can put to sea again, we’re going to have to drill constantly to coordinate all our actions—steering, sail handling and shooting—if this is going to work.”

He turned his gaze on Ulf and Wulf. “And that means you two are going to have to work together without your usual bickering,” he said firmly. “Our lives are going to depend on cooperation. If you two can’t get on, I’ll have Ingvar throw you overboard.”

“And I’ll do it too,” Ingvar said very seriously. The crew sensed that Ingvar would do anything that Hal asked of him. And, having seen the recent display of his amazing strength, nobody doubted his ability to carry out such an order.

Ulf and Wulf exchanged a look and came to an understanding.

“We won’t let you down, Hal. You have my word on it,” Ulf said.

“The same goes for me,” Wulf added. “And it’s not just because of Ingvar’s threat—although we know he
could
do it.”

“And we know he
would
do it,” Ulf agreed. “But we also know you’re right. All of our lives will depend on quick sail handling and teamwork.”

Hal looked from one to the other, looking deep into their eyes.
He could see that his message had gotten through. There was a new look of determination about the twins.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad to hear it.” Then, as Ulf raised a tentative hand, he went on, “Yes, Ulf, what is it?”

“I’m Wulf,” the twin said, frowning.

Hal made a how-am-I-to-know gesture. “If you say so. What is it?”

“Do we have to stop bickering when we’re not fighting the
Raven
? I mean, at normal times like this? Do we have to stop bickering now?”

“We’re not bickering now,” his brother pointed out.

“I know that! But we could be, any minute now!” Wulf replied.

“Maybe, but—” Ulf began, but Hal cut him off.

“It would be nice if you didn’t bicker,” he said. “But I suspect that might be a bit too much to ask.”

“I think so,” said Ulf, who Hal had formerly assumed to be Wulf. “We’re kind of… used to it, I suppose.”

“Just wouldn’t seem the same without it,” Wulf agreed.

Hal sighed deeply. “Then you’re exonerated from your promise during normal times. Sorry about that,” he added, casting an apologetic glance in the direction of the other crew members.

“I must say, I’m relieved,” Stig said. “It wouldn’t be the same if they weren’t constantly sniping at each other.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t be the same,” Edvin agreed, “but it would make a pleasant change.” He said it in a mock-weary tone, but there was an underlying sense of good humor and the others chuckled quietly at his words.

Hal looked keenly around the ring of young faces. The expressions
were serious as they all realized that they would eventually be facing a very dangerous enemy and fighting for their lives. But there was no fear there. There was a sense of confidence, and a growing sense of trust in their shipmates.

Thorn coughed expectantly and they looked at him.

“Which is all very well and good,” he said. “But none of it will matter if this monstrous mangler of a machine doesn’t work.” He jerked a thumb at the huge crossbow, crouched on its carriage like a bird of prey with its wings spread. “Do you think you might be able to show us what it can do?”

Hal nodded and moved to stand behind the huge weapon. He crouched and sighted quickly down its length, then glanced up at Ingvar.

“It moved offline after the last shot,” he said. “Get the lever, would you?”

There was a long trimmed branch lying a few meters away. Ingvar moved round the crossbow to fetch it. It was about three centimeters across and two meters long, but he hefted it as easily as if it had been a broomstick. He stepped back to stand beside the crossbow while Hal peered down the length of it.

“Move it a little left,” Hal said.

Ingvar dug the end of the wooden pole into the sand beside the right-hand side of the crossbow’s carriage. Then he heaved slowly against it to swing the weapon to the left.

“A little more,” Hal said, still intent on the line of sight.

Ingvar began to tap the end of the lever with the heel of his right hand—short, sharp blows that moved the crossbow a few centimeters at a time. Finally, Hal raised his arm and Ingvar stopped.

“That’s it,” Hal said. He stood back and turned to the others. “When I have it on a swiveling mount, it’ll be a lot easier to move it from side to side,” he told them. “For the moment, we’re making do with Ingvar’s muscle power.” He smiled at the big boy, who grinned back.