The Ghostfaces (15 page)

chapter
twenty-three

T
he forest was dim and cool at this time of day. The Herons followed in single file behind Mohegas and his two companions as they led the way along a narrow game trail among the trees, meandering from side to side to avoid the larger trunks. After half a kilometer, the trail opened out into a wider track, where they could walk two or three abreast. Unlike the animal track, it led in a more or less straight direction to the northwest, and was obviously used frequently by the Mawagansett people.

With the extra room provided, the crew bunched up, walking now in small groups, looking around them and taking in these novel surroundings. Aside from Thorn and Lydia, few of them had ventured far into the forest to date and they were fascinated to see new and somewhat exotic varieties of trees and bushes, along with
more familiar types, such as pine and spruce, that they would have found at home in Skandia.

There was little talking. An air of expectation hung over them, precluding any idle chatter. On one occasion, Lydia pointed to the left side of the track, where several deep grooves were evident in the bark of a tree.

“The bear,” she said quietly, and they all looked as they passed the spot, noting the depth of the grooves and the height from the ground. It had been a very large bear, they all recalled. Jesper shuddered, remembering how, in the heat of the fight, he had charged unthinkingly at the huge predator, teasing it and challenging it, then turning to lead it down the beach. In hindsight, he realized how much at risk he had been when the bear finally had him backed up against the hull of the
Heron
. He recalled the slamming sound of the Mangler releasing, and the heavy thud as the bolt struck home, staggering the bear backward.

Just as well Hal's a good shot, he thought, although in the moment, with the adrenaline flowing in his veins, he hadn't considered what might have happened if Hal had missed. Now, as he did, his blood chilled. He looked at his skirl, who was striding purposefully behind Mohegas, and muttered a small word of thanks.

“What was that?” Stefan asked. He was walking beside Jesper and thought his shipmate was addressing him. Jesper shook his head, dismissing the morbid thoughts that had been bothering him.

“Nothing,” he said. “I hope this feast is good.”

“If it's not, we can always eat Edvin's oggle bird,” Stefan said comfortably.

Near the head of the small procession, Lydia raised her nose and sniffed as a new and homey smell reached them through the forest.

“Wood smoke,” she said. Thorn and Stig sniffed as well. She was right. They could smell the smoke of the fires in the Mawagansett village.

“We must be getting close,” Stig said.

And then, rounding a sharp corner in the trail, they found themselves facing their hosts' settlement.

It was placed in a wide space of cleared land, fringed by the ever-present trees of the forest. There were fifteen to twenty sizeable huts, covered with animal hides or large sheets of bark. They were rectangular in layout, with pitched roofs thatched with pine branches and more hides. From the look of them, deer hide was the most common building material available to the locals.

Each hut was two meters high at the lower part of the pitched roof. The upper slides sloped up to a roofline that was three and a half meters from the ground, so there would be ample room for a tall man to stand erect inside them. They were obviously family dwellings, measuring eight meters long by five wide, and they seemed to be permanent structures. The Mawagansett were obviously not nomadic. Smoke rose from several of the huts, emerging from smoke holes at the rear, where the hide roof covering had been pulled aside to allow it to escape.

In front of the neat lines of huts was a cleared communal ground, the most prominent feature of which was a large circular fire pit, filled with smoking coals and meat roasting above the fire. Hal saw several haunches of venison, along with plump rabbits and ducks on spits. There were several large fish wrapped in damp bark
and leaves, set in the coals to steam, while smaller fish—river trout, he thought—were spitted on green sticks and suspended over the glowing coals. In addition, there were vegetables steaming in clay pots—squash, beans and corn.

Between the fire pit and the huts were the Mawagansett people themselves.

They stood silently, watching the newcomers as they emerged from the trees. Hal estimated there were between eighty and a hundred people assembled in several rows, with men and women equally represented, and perhaps thirty being children of varying ages.

All were dressed in similar fashion to Mohegas, Tamorat and Hokas. Fringed deer-hide overshirts and leggings for the men, with skirts replacing the leggings in the case of the women. In some cases, individuals wore cloaks fashioned from animal fur—wolf skins and the pelts of smaller animals that had been tanned and sewn together. The cloaks looked soft and comfortable, Hal thought.

An expectant silence fell over the clearing. Then Mohegas called out a one-word command and the assembled people began to sing.

They sang in their own language, not the common tongue, so the words were indecipherable to the Herons. But the melody was unmistakably warm and welcoming, and the singers fell into a natural three-part harmony. Lydia repressed a smile as she watched some of the boys in the front rank of villagers trying to emulate the deep baritone sounds of the older men, tucking their chins down onto their chests and frowning with the effort of forcing their piping young voices into a lower register.

Mohegas turned to face the Herons. They had spread out in a single line to face the villagers as they sang.

“This is a song of welcome to you,” he said. “It says, share our fire. Share our food. Share our love and thanks.”

“That's quite beautiful,” Thorn said softly.

Lydia turned to regard him with some curiosity. She didn't equate Thorn with the ability to appreciate poetry. Hal, on the other hand, knew that his old friend had a definite sentimental streak. He nodded agreement with Thorn's comment.

The song ended on a long drawn-out note that was beautiful to hear. The women, and some of the younger children, added a high fourth harmony to this note and the combined sound rang out around the clearing, infused with a natural vibrato and filling the evening air.

Finally, without anyone seeming to give a signal, it ceased, and the sound rang on in their memories. Spontaneously, the Herons broke into applause and Hal stepped toward them, his right hand raised in greeting.

“Thank you, Mawagansett people,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “Thank you for this beautiful welcome.”

Smiles broke out among the ranks of the assembled villagers, and then two children, a boy and a girl, were ushered forward by their parents. Each carried a small posy of yellow and blue flowers. Uncertainly, nervously, they advanced on the line of strangers, seeking out one in particular.

Jesper, expecting the tributes to be handed to Hal or Thorn, raised his eyebrows when the children bypassed those two and stopped in front of him, proffering the flowers.

“For me?” he said, the surprise all too evident on his face.

The children piped up in unison. “For the first one to fight the bear. You have our thanks. You own our lives. You will be known to us as Hawasansat, the first to fight the bear.”

Jesper realized that these must be the two children who had been cowering in the branches of the tree when he launched his attack on the bear. Truth be told, he didn't recognize them. Events the previous day had been a little hectic and he hadn't been taking too much notice of what the children looked like. Awkwardly, he accepted the two bunches of flowers.

“Well, thank you,” he said uncertainly. Nothing in his life so far had prepared him to be honored in such a way and he was totally ignorant of local customs or etiquette.

He held the flowers to his breast and decided that it might be appropriate to bow. He bent at the waist and bowed deeply. It seemed he had picked the right response as a concerted cry of approval came from the assembled tribespeople.

It was a signal for the Mawagansett to break ranks and swarm forward to surround the newcomers, slapping them on their backs, smiling and, in the case of the women, hugging them.

One rather attractive matron singled out Thorn, and embraced him warmly, seeming unwilling to release him. The old sea wolf was beginning to enjoy himself. A little too much, Hal thought, as he saw his friend return the embrace with interest. He coughed sharply and Thorn looked up.

“Remember my mam,” Hal said. Thorn looked sheepish, and disentangled himself from the woman's embrace.

“Ah . . . yes. Correct,” he said. He smiled at the woman and
patted her hand. “Very nice of you, my dear. Very nice. But I'm more or less spoken for, you know?”

Obviously, she didn't know. She reattached herself to him and he looked helplessly over her head at Hal, mouthing the words,
What do I do now?

“Don't enjoy it so much,” the skirl told him. Then he was almost swept off his feet as a tall and statuesque younger woman threw her arms around him, drawing him to her with a strength that forced most of the air from his lungs.

He tried to wriggle out of her embrace, but the more he squirmed, the tighter she held him, eventually stooping, as she was half a head taller than he, to plant a smacking kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly. The tight embrace was making it difficult to get a decent breath. Finally, Mohegas, failing to hide the smile on his lips, spoke gently to the woman and she released him suddenly, causing him to stagger back a few paces.

“This woman is the aunt of the children you saved,” he told Hal, and the young skirl nodded to the woman.

“Well . . . thank you. It was a pleasure to help them. They seem like nice children,” he mumbled. He watched her warily, as she seemed ready to renew her hugging and kissing onslaught at any moment. She beamed at him, then, realizing his comparative youth and understanding his embarrassment, she backed away, still grinning. She said something in her own tongue to a woman nearby and the two of them laughed heartily.

“What did she say?” Hal asked Mohegas. He could feel his cheeks aflame with embarrassment.

The Mawagansett elder shook his head, smiling. “Best if I don't
tell you, I think,” he said, and Hal had to be content to leave it at that.

All around him, the crew were being greeted and welcomed by other members of the tribe. The largest group was around Jesper, with everyone wanting to take his hand, pat his shoulder or slap him on the back. He was undoubtedly the hero of the hour. And Hal, thinking of how he had stood up to the bear, decided that Jesper deserved all the praise and adulation he was getting.

Then a loud voice cut through the hubbub that surrounded them. But the speaker didn't use the common tongue. He spoke in Skandian, with an accent that told them this was his first language.

“Thorn! One-handed Thorn! By the great Warbling Walrus of Skod! Is that really you?”

chapter
twenty-four

T
he ranks of the Mawagansett parted to allow a figure to pass through them, his right hand held out in greeting.

With the exception of the young woman who had so enthusiastically welcomed Hal, the tribespeople tended to be short and stocky in build. This newcomer was at least a head taller than the majority of them. He was dressed in the hide overshirt and leggings that the men wore, and his hair was parted in the middle, to hang in two long braids on either side.

But, where the Mawagansetts' hair was black, his was gray-blond, and his face, while tanned and weathered by years of sun and wind, wasn't as dark as theirs.

His eyes were a startling blue and his mouth was curled in a smile of welcome and surprise as he reached Thorn. He went to grasp his right hand, realized there was only a wooden hook there
and clumsily switched to his left hand, seizing Thorn's arm halfway up the forearm and pumping it exuberantly.

“Thorn One-Hand!” he repeated. “I never thought I'd see you here.” He paused and considered, then added, “In fact, I never thought you'd still be alive! Last time I saw you, you seemed determined to drink yourself to death.”

“Well, as you can see, I stopped,” Thorn said, taking no offense. At one stage in his life, that had been his intention. He peered closely at the lined face in front of him, but try as he might, he couldn't place the owner. “You must be Orvik?” he said, remembering that Mohegas had told them the name of the Skandian who had come out of the sea some twelve years prior.

Orvik beamed. “Haven't been called that in too many years,” he said. “But how did you get here? Did you sail from Skandia to find me? And who are all these boys?” he added, looking curiously at the youthful faces that surrounded them. The Herons had crowded around to see this mysterious Skandian.

Thorn held up his left hand to stem the tirade of questions.

“Just a moment!” he said. “You have the advantage of me. You seem to know me. But I can't recall you—although your face is a little familiar.” He frowned, trying to imagine the face some twelve years younger, with fewer lines and a shock of blond hair instead of the dirty gray color that it was now.

“I was called Eelcatcher back then,” the gray-haired man told him. “Orvik Eel—”

But Thorn, with a rush of memory, interrupted him and finished the statement. “—catcher! Orvik Eelcatcher!” he said, and the man's face broke into a beaming smile.

“That's right!” he said, delighted to be recognized—or at least, remembered.

“You were in Arnulf Sharkfighter's crew,” Thorn said slowly, as more details emerged from his foggy memory.

Orvik nodded enthusiastically. “That's right. Third oar on the old
Wolf Foot
.”

“
Wolf Foot
,” Thorn said slowly, his brow furrowed as he recalled more facts from the past. “She went raiding one summer and never returned. Everyone assumed she'd been lost at sea.” He looked around the faces that surrounded them, searching for more familiar features. “Did any of the others survive? Are they here?”

The beaming smile faded from Orvik's face and he shook his head sadly. “I'm the only one,” he told them and Thorn regretted his impulsive question. Of course, Mohegas had made no reference to other Skandians living with the tribe.

“What happened?” Hal asked, seeing Thorn's momentary embarrassment.

Orvik looked at him curiously, noticing the young face and the clear, intelligent eyes. He glanced back to Thorn. “Who's this?” he asked.

Hal smiled to himself. Skandians weren't renowned for polite conversation. They tended to come straight to the point. Evidently, Orvik hadn't lost that tendency in his years with the Mawagansett.

Thorn, who had been asked this question many times before, placed a hand on Hal's shoulder in a sign of affection and respect.

“This is Hal Mikkelson,” he said. “You remember Mikkel, don't you?”

“Indeed I do!” Orvik replied instantly. Mikkel had been one of
Skandia's foremost warriors until he was killed on the same raiding voyage during which Thorn had lost his hand. Orvik looked more closely at Hal. Mikkel had been a big man, whereas Hal was shorter and slimmer than the average Skandian. “He's not too big, is he?”

Hal shook his head. There was that renowned Skandian tact once more, he thought.

Thorn squared his shoulders aggressively. “He's just fine,” he stated. “He's our skirl.” There was a warning note in his voice, but Orvik missed it.

“He's barely out of short pants,” Orvik said, frowning. Then he was somewhat startled as Stig pushed forward and faced him, standing just a little closer to him than politeness dictated. And while Orvik was tall, Stig was even taller and broader in the shoulder.

“I'm out of short pants,” he said threateningly. “And I'm happy to obey Hal's orders as skirl. He's an expert navigator and helmsman. And a great ship designer. He built our ship, as a matter of fact.”

Orvik realized belatedly that he might have overstepped the mark with his comments on Hal's youth. The young warrior facing him seemed to be no older than Hal. But he was bigger and broader and had an easy athletic grace about him that told the old Skandian that he would be a fighter to be reckoned with.

He also realized that the other members of the crew had stepped forward to join Stig, standing in a half circle just behind him. Their displeasure was all too evident.

“Take it easy, boys,” Hal said quietly and the crew relaxed somewhat, all save Stig, who remained bristling and angry at the affront to his friend and skipper.

Orvik held up an apologetic hand. “No offense meant,” he said. Then, seeking to change the subject, he added, “What happened to your ship?”

He addressed the question to Thorn, but the one-armed sea wolf deferred to Hal.

“Nothing happened to her,” Hal replied. “She's hidden in an inlet at the southern end of the beach. We were caught in a huge storm as we were leaving Hibernia and driven thousands of kilometers to the west. We were almost out of water by the time we reached this shore. We landed in the bay back there”—he gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the bay—“and set up a camp. We hid the ship until we could make contact with the locals.”

Orvik's eyes burned with a sudden light of hope. “So your ship's intact?” he asked. “You'll be heading home one day then?”

“One day. Yes,” Hal told him. “As soon as this nonstop wind out of the northeast changes direction. It's dead foul for the course back to Skandia.”

Orvik nodded several times. He was well aware of the prevailing wind, and his twelve years here had taught him about the weather conditions.

“It'll shift within the next five or six weeks,” he told them. “Always does at this time of year. Then it'll be out of the southwest.”

There was a murmur of interest from the assembled Herons.

“That'll be perfect for the trip home!” Stig said.

Hal nodded thoughtfully. A southwest wind would be ideal. He felt a vast sense of relief. They would be going home after all, he thought.

Thorn returned to Hal's original question. “What happened
to
Wolf Foot
and the rest of your crew?” he asked. Once more, a sad look overtook Orvik's lined features.

“We'd been raiding on the west coast of Hibernia,” he said.

Thorn nodded.
Wolf Foot
had been lost before Erak had banned the practice of raiding, and the west Hibernian coast had been a favorite hunting ground for wolfships—despite the fact that the weather could prove unpredictable there, as the
Heron
had found to her cost.

“Problem was, we were doing too well. Plenty of booty and gold. The Hibernians didn't expect a raid that late in the season. And we overstayed our welcome. By the time we headed for home, the weather had shifted and we were hit by the mother of all storms from the northeast.”

The Herons exchanged a quick look. It sounded like the conditions they had struck just a few weeks before.

“I've never seen such wind and waves,” Orvik said. “The sail blew out in the first few minutes and we were riding under a bare mast, and still being driven south and west.”

Thorn interrupted sympathetically. “We know how that feels,” he said. “Sounds like the storm that hit us.”

Orvik met his eyes and nodded. “Put out a sea anchor to try to slow down our drift, but the hawser snapped after an hour or two and we just kept sliding farther and farther out into the Endless Ocean. Some of the lads began to fear we'd be driven right off the edge of the world, onto the giant turtle's back. And that'd be the end of us.”

He paused reflectively. His eyes had a faraway look as he remembered that terrible storm so many years before.

“Then we sighted the coast, a few kilometers north of here. At
first, we thought we were safe, but then we realized there was nothing but rocks and shoals there and we were being blown down onto them. We tried to row, but the wind and waves and tide had us and we couldn't make any headway. We just swept down on that coast—and the rocks that were waiting for us there. Then we struck.

“Half the crew were lost in that first impact with the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. The undertow was terrible and they were sucked back into the ocean. The rest of us scrambled ashore somehow as the ship broke up.

“Sharkfighter led us along the base of the cliffs, just above the water's edge, until we found a narrow path leading to the top.”

“That was lucky,” Hal put in, and Orvik turned those blue eyes on him for several moments before he responded.

“You would think so. We certainly did. But when we scrambled up the path to the top, they were waiting for us.” His voice was grim as he recalled the event.

Thorn asked the obvious question. “They? Who were ‘they'?”

“The
Imsinnis skassak
,” he replied. “That's what they call themselves. It means ‘Ghost Face.'”

The Herons exchanged a look. This was the second time they'd heard the name.

Orvik continued. “They're a tribe from north of here. Savage, warlike and ruthless. Anyone who's not one of them is an enemy and that's how they treated us. They kill without mercy. They were fully armed, with clubs and lances and bows. We had our saxes and nothing else. And they outnumbered us two to one.

“As Sharkfighter led the way onto the top of the cliffs, they
charged out of the trees and started stabbing and hacking at the crew. We were all exhausted, of course, and could hardly put up a fight. I saw my shipmates going down before the attack and I turned and ran.”

He stopped, lowering his eyes as he remembered the shame of the moment. “I left my shipmates to die,” he said, his voice almost inaudible.

It was Stig who dropped a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “No sense in sacrificing yourself,” he said.

Orvik raised his gaze, seeing only compassion in the younger man's eyes. “That's what I've tried to tell myself ever since. Anyway, I ran, and one of them saw me. They came after me like the hounds of hell, yelling and screaming for blood. I went inland, running downhill as fast as I could go.” He allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. “I was always a fast runner,” he added.

“So you managed to outrun them?” Hal asked, but Orvik shook his head.

“They would have caught me. They were gaining on me when I reached a high bluff. There was a long drop before me, with a river at the bottom. And behind me were the Ghostfaces. I hesitated for a second or two, then I decided. I jumped off the bluff, hoping I'd get out far enough to reach the river below.”

Again he paused, then continued. “Have you ever jumped into water from a great height?” he asked and the surrounding audience shook their heads. He nodded. “I thought I'd hit the water and it would break my fall. Instead, it nearly broke my legs. It was like jumping onto hard ground. I went way under, with the breath knocked out of me. It seemed to take forever to make it to the
surface again and all the while, I was gulping and swallowing water. I came up, spluttering and gasping. The current had carried me ten meters farther downstream from where I'd hit the surface. I floundered there like an exhausted fish, flailing at the water. Above me, I could hear the Ghostfaces shouting and cursing after me. None of them were willing to risk that jump. Not that it mattered, of course. I could only swim a few strokes and I knew I'd drown. Then my hand touched something. It was a log, being carried by the current. I hauled myself onto it and collapsed. Some of the branches snagged in my jerkin and held me in place. Apparently, I drifted for several days, half unconscious, half drowned.

“When I came to, I had drifted downriver into the bay yonder.” He indicated the direction of the large bay
Heron
had sailed into.

“I washed up on the beach where the Mawagansett found me, more dead than alive, and with my lungs and stomach full of seawater. They brought me back here, pumped me out and wrapped me in blankets and furs to get my blood flowing again. I was unconscious for three days. I'd come half awake every so often and they'd spoon-feed me with hot broth. And their healer would recite spells over me and burn eagle feathers and strange spices in the hut where they had me. Don't know how much good they did, but I eventually woke and began to regain my strength. They called me Polennis—it means—”