02 The Invaders (46 page)

Now that the immediate threat was past, he stepped up onto the rail and turned to look after the rapidly disappearing form of the
Raven
.

Night was almost upon them and he only caught a brief glimpse of her sail in the distance before she faded into the gloom.

Svengal muttered a curse. “He’s slipped away again,” he said. “He has the luck of the devil, that one.”

Thorn had approached while they were watching the pirate sail away. He nodded agreement.

“That’s not surprising. I’ve heard the devil looks after his own,” he said.

Hal shook his head, the taste of failure bitter in his mouth. They had come so close, he thought. Somehow, he couldn’t think of a curse sufficiently vehement to match the moment. His shoulders sagged.

Thorn saw the movement and dropped his left hand onto his young friend’s shoulder.

“Bear up,” he said. “The day isn’t a total loss. You’ve attacked a town, driven out or captured over a hundred bloodthirsty pirates, and you’ve saved
Wolfwind
and Svengal in the bargain.”

“Erak might not care about me,” Svengal added, with a grin. “But he’ll be grateful that you saved
Wolfwind
.”

Hal let his gaze switch between the two of them. “It won’t make up for the Andomal, though, will it?”

The two old comrades exchanged a glance. Svengal shrugged. But Thorn answered.

“We’ll worry about the Andomal later,” he said. “For now, let’s get this ship to the beach.”

T
he light of a hundred torches flared and flickered around the square, shining on the faces of the townspeople celebrating their deliverance.

Whole sheep and pigs turned on spits in the center of the plaza, the fat dripping down from them and spluttering onto the red-hot beds of coals beneath them. The men turning the spits had their energy and enthusiasm maintained by tankards of ale from several casks that had been broached for the occasion. Off to the side, a stack of further casks waited to replace those being rapidly emptied.

It was a festive occasion and the crews of the
Heron
and
Wolfwind
were happy to join in. When the party died down, Hal planned to depart, sailing with the evening tide in pursuit of the
Raven
.

Although exactly where that pursuit would take him, he had no idea.

For the moment, however, they could enjoy the bustle and noise of the party, and the thanks of the townspeople who approached them.

Svengal grabbed a flagon of ale from a passing tray and clapped
Hal on the shoulder. “Wish we could come with you,” Svengal was saying, shouting to make his voice carry over the hubbub of laughter and singing that filled the square.

Hal shrugged. “You need to get
Wolfwind
seaworthy again,” he said. “That’ll keep you busy for at least a month.”

Once they’d beached the wolfship, Hal and Svengal had assessed the damage that
Raven
’s ram had done. Several frames were smashed and would need to be replaced, along with two of the main stringers that ran the length of the ship. Of course, there were shattered planks to be torn out and replaced as well. Hal’s experience in Anders’s shipyard told him that the ship needed major repairs. A quick patch-up job wouldn’t serve.

Svengal nodded morosely. “That’s true,” he said. “I need to get her in shape before I take her back to Erak.”

Hal grinned sympathetically. The Oberjarl’s fondness for his ship, and his protective instincts about her, were well-known in Hallasholm. They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching Stig’s slightly overwhelmed, but thoroughly delighted, reaction as a succession of attractive young girls from the town claimed him as a dance partner. Then a thought struck Svengal and he turned, looking round the packed square.

“Where’s Thorn?” he said. “Not like him to miss a party.”

Hal pursed his lips. It had occurred to him that Thorn might not care to be surrounded by the temptation of open ale barrels and flasks of brandy.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “He was here earlier, then he grabbed Stefan by the arm and spirited him away. I don’t know where they went.”

“Hmmm,” Svengal said thoughtfully. “I’ll warrant he’s up to something.”

The Limmat jail was a squat, solid building of brick and timber, built over a deep cellar, where the cells were concentrated. Like most jails, it was dimly lit, with only the central room that accommodated the warders having more than basic lighting.

A single torch was mounted on the wall above the massive metal-bound oak doorway. Its flame cast a flickering circle of yellow light on the cobbles beneath it. Two figures emerged from a side street and approached the door. The faint sounds of the party in the town square carried to them.

One of the men was a Skandian. His massive frame and horned helmet were unmistakable. The other was smaller and slighter in build, and wrapped in a heavy cloak.

“Ready, Stefan?” Thorn asked. His companion held up a hand.

“Just a minute,” he said. Then, he gathered his thoughts and squared his shoulders, letting the hood of his cloak fall forward to further shade his features.

“All right, I think I’m ready now,” he said. But the voice was no longer Stefan’s. It was a perfect rendition of Barat’s voice.

Thorn shook his head admiringly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Then, as Stefan nodded, Thorn rapped on the door with his wooden hook. There was a long pause, then they heard slow footsteps dragging toward the door from the inside. There was a rattle of a key in the lock, and the door was dragged half open, its bottom edge scraping on the flagstone floor.

“Yes?” The jailer was the night guard. He peered around the half-open door at them, his body blocking the way in. He was overweight and had a heavy limp, which accounted for the slow footsteps. He was also in a less-than-amiable mood, having been roused from his post-dinner nap by the peremptory hammering on the door. People didn’t come to the jail often. And they rarely came at night.

“I’m Barat Tumansky,” Stefan snapped. “I need to question the prisoner Rikard. It’s urgent.”

The jailer remained blocking the doorway. He glanced back over his shoulder into the dark corridors behind him.

“It’s late,” he said grumpily. Thorn opened his mouth to speak, but Stefan beat him to it, drawing himself up and replying angrily.

“I know it’s late!” he snapped. “I said this is urgent! I need to question him now. Hurry, you idiot! I’m late for the festivities as it is!”

He jerked a thumb in the general direction of the sounds of revelry coming from the square. The jailer wavered, but remained standing fast. Stefan’s voice cracked out in an unmistakable tone of command.

“Let me pass! Do you know who I am?”

The jailer, cowed, moved to one side, bowing his head slightly. He dragged the door open and admitted the two men. Stefan snapped his fingers impatiently.

“Right! Where is he? Get moving, you fool! I don’t have all night!”

Slowly, the jailer led the way to a stone staircase leading down to the cells below ground level. He wheezed his way down, Stefan
close behind him and Thorn following. They emerged at the bottom of the stairs into a long, low corridor, lit at irregular intervals by torches. There was more shadow than light down here, Stefan thought.

The jailer indicated one of the cell doors, halfway along the corridor.

“He’s in there,” he said. Stefan’s barely controlled anger exploded.

“D’you expect me to whisper to him through the keyhole? Open it, you blockhead!”

Mumbling to himself, the jailer dragged his way to the door, fumbled with a ring of keys on his belt, then opened the door. The hinges squealed as he did so.

“I’ll have to stay while you talk to him,” he said. His tone said that he wasn’t sure Stefan would agree to that. And he was right.

“The blazes you will! Get back upstairs at once. I’m not having you spying on what I’m doing and saying! Get out of here!”

“But… the prisoner—” the jailer began uncertainly.

Stefan cut him off briskly. “My man here will make sure he doesn’t get away.” He indicated the massive form of Thorn, looming in the dim light beside him. “Now, get back to your post!”

Grumbling to himself, the night guard shambled away, mounting the stairs with several backward glances. Thorn was fascinated to see how the assumption of authority could cow such a subservient figure so quickly. Pretend you have the authority, he thought, and most people will give it to you.

As the jailer reached the top step, Thorn gestured to the open door.

“Come on,” he said, pausing to add, “Great work, by the way.”

Rikard looked up incuriously as the two figures entered his cell. He was one of the few surviving pirates to have been captured. Many had fled into the surrounding countryside. More than half had been killed in the battle, and the others had escaped on the
Raven
.

Rikard had been involved in a brief fight with Svengal and his men on the quayside. He had unwisely singled out Svengal as his opponent and had suffered a blow from the Skandian’s ax as a result.

But for once, Svengal had been slightly off target and the blow had glanced off the pirate’s helmet. It had been enough, however, to leave him lying stunned, as if dead, by the quayside. Hours after the battle was over, he had regained consciousness, and was quickly taken prisoner as he staggered, dazed and giddy, through the streets.

Now that the jailer was gone, it was Thorn who took over the role of leader. He sat opposite Rikard, who was seated on a bench at a plain wooden table.

“I want information,” he said, getting straight to the point.

Rikard sneered at him. “Why should I give it to you?”

“Because I can get you out of here,” Thorn said. He noticed a quickening of interest in the other man’s eyes and continued. “You know what’ll happen to you if I don’t?”

“They plan to hang me,” Rikard said. His voice caught on the word
hang
.

Thorn nodded. “That’s right. That’s what happens to pirates. People hang them. Not a nice way to go, either.”

“Did you come here to torment me?” Rikard demanded, but Thorn shook his head.

“Not at all. I came to give you a chance to get away. Just as long as you tell me what I want to know.”

But Rikard was watching him suspiciously. “Why would you want to help me?”

“I don’t,” Thorn replied. “As far as I’m concerned, they can hang you as high as last week’s washing. Or not. I don’t care either way. What I do care about is where Zavac is headed. And I think you can tell me.”

He was watching the man’s eyes closely and even in the dim light of the candle he saw a spark there. Rikard knew where Zavac was heading. Thorn was sure of it.

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll get you out of here,” he said.

Rikard lowered his head, peering warily up at Thorn from under his eyebrows. “How can I trust you? If I tell you, you could just as easily leave me here.”

The massive Skandian shrugged his shoulders. “That’s true. But I wasn’t planning on turning you loose once you told me. You could be lying to me. I plan to take you along with us until we know you’re telling the truth. Then I’ll set you free.”

He waited while Rikard digested that information, then added in a softer voice, “Or, if I decide you’ve been lying to me, I will simply drop you overboard.”

There was a long pause. Then Thorn spoke again. “Your choice. But we’re running out of time.”

Rikard glanced at the open door. “What about the guard?”

Thorn let out a short bark of laughter. “Do you think that sack of lard could stop me?”

Rikard shook his head slowly, considering.

“All right,” he said finally. “But I’m not telling you until we’re at sea.”

Barat moved to a podium set to one side of the square, in front of the counting house. He held up his hands for silence and gradually the hubbub of noise and chatter died away. A few people called out his name, and added exclamations of praise. He smiled graciously in their direction, nodding to each one.

“Thank you, friends,” he said, when the voices finally died away and there was an expectant hush. He smiled then, looking around the sea of faces before him.

“My friends, it’s been a terrible time we’ve been through. We’ve all lost friends and relatives, and we’ll mourn for them in days to come.”

There was a mumble of agreement from the crowd. Then Barat raised his voice in a positive note.

“But tonight, let’s celebrate! Let’s celebrate that we’ve thrown off the yoke the invaders tried to put on us. We’ve faced them and fought them and defeated them!”

A spontaneous cheer rang around the square. Or was it spontaneous, Hal thought. He could see several of Barat’s troops leading the cheering nearby.

“I want to say how proud I am of my men. My fellow Limmatans who stormed the wall with me and drove the invaders out!”

Again, cheering interrupted him. He held up his hands for
silence. “And in particular, I want to give praise to a young lady who fought as bravely as any man in the battle.” He looked around the square. “Lydia? Where are you? Join me here.”

He knew she was standing a few meters from the podium, where she had been talking to several old friends and neighbors. He pointed at her now and gestured for her to join him. Annoyed, she shook her head. But the crowd began to chant her name.

“Lydia! Lydia! Lydia!”

Realizing there was no way out of it, she pushed her way through and stepped up onto the podium, ignoring Barat’s outstretched hand. Her face was flushed red. He quickly drew her to him, one arm around her.

Reluctantly, she resisted the temptation to pull away.

“Here she is, my friends. No braver girl ever graced this town, and I’m proud to tell you, she’s going to be my wife!”

“What?” Stig said aloud. Then he saw Lydia’s reaction, saw her head shaking as she spoke angrily to Barat. But the crowd had gone wild with the idea, and Barat merely smiled at her as they cheered. Crowds love a good romance, after all, and Barat was aware of the fact.