“Thorn! Take the training lever!”
The old sea wolf nodded and leapt down from his position in the bow, moving quickly to take control of the training lever. Again the image of Ingvar’s writhing body came to Hal’s mind and again he pushed it away. He could hear Stefan speaking to him, and he reasoned that Ingvar must still be conscious. And that meant he was still alive—for the moment.
Thorn seemed to sense the torment in Hal’s mind.
“Stefan’s got him. Get on with your own job,” he said harshly.
Hal nodded, realizing that his old friend was right. He bent over the sights again.
“Right… right… a little more… steady.”
The Mangler was back on line. He watched the sights fall below the target, felt the gentle thump through the hull as the ship reached the trough between the waves.
Take your time, he thought. Don’t rush. Make it count. Get it right for Ingvar’s sake.
Then the bow was rising, and the sight was coming up to the target. He wound the elevator wheel down until the bead sight was a fraction below the junction of beams, then pulled the lanyard.
A brief pause, then… SLAM!
As the huge crossbow released and the fire bolt leapt away, he saw that the sight was dead on target.
He watched the thin trail of gray smoke curving across the intervening space, saw the bolt strike home into the diagonal beam, a little to the right of the junction point, and lodge there. A second later, he saw a bright flare of flame.
“Sheet home!” he yelled. “Get us out of here!”
Ulf and Wulf hauled the sail in again and the wind began to power the ship once more. Stig heaved on the tiller and the bow swung away from the tower, across the harbor mouth, and finally headed back out to sea.
A final volley of three arrows rattled off the shields along the bulwark. Then they were out of range.
On the tower platform, the commander watched the last two projectiles fly low. For a moment, he thought they’d both missed, then he felt the thud of the second striking home somewhere down on the framework.
Still, it couldn’t hurt them down there, he thought. The three rapid shots that preceded them had been a different matter altogether. They’d wreaked havoc on the platform, smashing and splintering the railing and cutting down five of his men.
“Save your arrows,” he called. The neat little ship had filled her sail once more, turned on her heel and headed back out to sea.
He studied the balustrade, taking in the jagged holes and long rents that had been torn in the soft wood. It had never been built to take such a pounding. When the ship turned back again, as he knew it would, he’d move his men inside the guardroom, and have most of them lie down. He’d leave a few bowmen out on the…
He stopped, sniffing the air. He could smell wood smoke.
With a feeling of growing concern, he leaned over the shattered balustrade, peering down at the supporting framework of timber. Ten meters below the platform, flames were beginning to lick at the timber. As the heat caused the resin to ooze out of the grain, it flared and fed the flames, so that they burned more fiercely.
He’d seen the fate of the other watchtower. They all had. The dry pine burned fiercely and they had no way to extinguish it. Now the supporting timbers below him were on fire and he knew it was only a matter of time before the guardhouse and platform would go crashing to the ground below. He turned to his men and shouted a warning.
“The tower’s on fire!”
He looked around desperately, and saw movement on the opposite harbor mole. There was a large party of Skandians massing there, at the far end of the boom. As he watched, one of them lowered himself down onto the massive log and began to edge his way across, moving faster as he gained confidence.
Another followed him. Then another.
“Get out of here!” the commander yelled. “Get down before the whole thing collapses.”
And, having sounded the alarm, he led the rush to the ladder.
chapter thirty - six
As soon as they were out of range, Hal gave the order to heave to. Ulf and Wulf let the sheets fly while Stig brought the ship up into the wind.
Hal leapt from the Mangler’s seat. A concerned group was clustered round the prone figure of Ingvar.
“Edvin!” Hal shouted. “Get the healer’s kit.”
“Already here,” Edvin’s quiet voice replied, right behind him. During brotherband training, one member from each team had been nominated to train as an emergency healer, learning about the various herbs and potions that eased pain, fought infection and facilitated healing. Edvin had been the Herons’ nominee for this task.
“Give me some room,” Edvin ordered, pushing through to kneel beside Ingvar. The group surrounding them shuffled back a few paces.
The arrow had hit Ingvar in the fleshy part of his body above his right hip and had passed through so that the barbed end protruded at the back. The exit wound was bleeding heavily and the deck was stained with Ingvar’s blood. Stefan hadn’t been sure what to do. He had eased Ingvar over onto his left side, where he lay, eyes tight closed, trying not to groan with the pain.
Edvin appraised the situation.
“Can’t pull it out,” he said. “I’ll have to break it off and push it through.”
Hal nodded. If Edvin tried to withdraw the arrow, the barbed head would catch and tear Ingvar terribly. Better to have him suffer one brief moment of pain and get it out.
“Do it,” he said.
Edvin gripped the arrow shaft below the feathered end, a few inches from Ingvar’s body. He took it in his right hand to prevent as much movement as possible, then quickly snapped it off with his left. He held the arrow as firmly as he could, but some movement was inevitable and Ingvar cried out with the pain, trying to sit up.
“Hold him down,” Edvin said to Wulf. But Wulf grabbed Edvin’s shoulder.
“You’re hurting him! Stop it! You’re supposed to help him!” he shouted.
Edvin looked at him, then up at Hal. Hal could see the beginnings of panic in his eyes. It was all very well to practice on mock wounds, but to work on a shipmate who was writhing in pain was a different matter altogether. And it certainly didn’t help his concentration to have Wulf shouting objections to the way he was treating Ingvar.
“Shut up, Wulf,” Thorn snapped, from behind Hal. “Edvin’s doing what he has to. And he’s doing a good job. While you’re screeching and yelling, you’re stopping him from helping Ingvar. Now hold Ingvar still.”
The words seemed to reassure Edvin, and Hal saw the small light of panic in his eyes subside. He nodded encouragement to the healer.
Wulf dropped his eyes. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Go ahead.” He leaned over and put his hands on Ingvar’s shoulders to keep him still.
Edvin bent close to Ingvar. “This is going to hurt,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Ingvar nodded, his teeth gritted and his eyes closed.
“Just do it,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Edvin took a deep breath, seized hold of the bloodied shaft below the head of the arrow and pulled, in one long, firm movement. He was surprised at the amount of resistance he had to overcome but the arrow shaft slid through the wound and out the other side. Ingvar let out a long, shuddering cry of pain. Then, as the arrow came free, he fell silent.
“Thanks,” he said in a small voice, after a few seconds. Blood welled even more profusely out of the entry and exit holes. It was bright red, not dark in color, and Edvin hoped that signified that the arrow hadn’t ripped through any of the internal organs, but now that the arrow wasn’t impeding its flow, there was an awful lot of it. Edvin took a linen bandage and pressed it against the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. The bandage quickly turned red. Wulf, pale faced, released his grip on Ingvar and moved away.
Edvin bent down to speak to Ingvar again. “I’ve got to clean the wound out as much as I can, to stop infection setting i
n. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to hurt you again.”
Beads of sweat stood out on Ingvar’s face. “Don’t talk about it,” he said. “Do it as quickly as you can.”
Edvin took a thin metal probe from the healer’s kit and wrapped a clean linen cloth around it. Then he doused the cloth liberally with a salve from one of the jars in the kit.
“This will clean out the wound,” he said. “But I’ve got to work it inside the wound itself. It’s no good just cleaning it at either end.” He smeared more paste from another jar onto the cloth at the tip of the probe. “It’s a painkiller. It’ll numb the wound while I clean it out.” He glanced apologetically at Ingvar. “Although not completely, I’m afraid. It’s still going to hurt.”
“Just get on with it!” Ingvar told him, with a flash of anger.
Hal knelt beside Ingvar and gripped his hand. “Steady, Ingvar. Edvin’s doing all he can.”
Ingvar looked up at him, and Hal, seeing the concern in his eyes, realized that the ordeal of waiting for the pain was probably worse than the pain itself.
“Just tell him to stop talking about it,” Ingvar said.
Hal looked up at Edvin. “You might as well go ahead.”
Edvin nodded. He paused, took several deep breaths, then put the fingers of his left hand on the entry wound, parting the edges while he slid the probe into the opening.
Hal felt his stomach heave and looked away hurriedly. His gaze traveled around the circle of pale, concerned faces.
“Get back to your stations! Standing around rubbernecking isn’t helping,” he ordered. The spectators, a trifle shamefaced, shuffled away. Hal met Ingvar’s eyes once more, seeing the pain reflected in them. Ingvar’s lips moved. The young skirl bent down to hear what he was trying to say.
“Sorry, Hal,” Ingvar whispered, fighting back the pain that was flaring through his body. Hal’s eyes misted as he took his friend’s hand.
“I’m the one who should apologize,” he said. “I waited too long to shoot.”
Ingvar shook his head, and even that small movement caused his brow to furrow with pain.
“You had to make sure,” he said. Then his eyes closed, as if the effort of speaking had been too much for him, and he slipped away—either unconscious or asleep. His breathing was short and fitful and he tossed his head from side to side, muttering incoherently. Hal gently released his hand and looked up at Edvin.
“Will he be all right?” he asked.
Edvin hesitated, looking quickly to see if Ingvar was conscious again. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes. While Hal and Ingvar had been speaking, he had packed the entry and exit wounds with clean linen and was winding a bandage around Ingvar’s body to hold the pads in place. When he finished, he rose and drew Hal to one side, where Ingvar wouldn’t hear him.
“I just don’t know, Hal. I’ve cleaned the wound as well as I can and I’ve bandaged him. That’s stopped the blood flow pretty well. But he’s lost an awful lot of blood and that’s got to have weakened him.”
“Is there anything more we can do for him?”
Edvin responded with an uncertain gesture. “I’m doing all I can. But I don’t know if it’s enough. I only had a few weeks’ training, you know.”
The last few words were added almost defensively. Hal reached out and touched the other boy’s arm. He realized the weight of responsibility that Edvin must be feeling.
“I know,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
He wished his voice could have carried more conviction. He became aware of another figure beside them. With the ship no longer in motion, Stig had lashed the tiller and come forward to join them. He looked down at Ingvar’s prone figure, taking in the unnaturally pale face.
“Is he going to be all right?”
Hal shook his head uncertainly. “He’s sleeping. The arrow went through and Edvin’s got it out. He’s cleaned and bandaged the wound. All we can do now is let Ingvar rest.” He shrugged. “Ask us again in twelve hours.”
Stig nodded. “In twelve hours, none of us might be around.”
“That’s true.”
“So, what do we do now?” Stig asked.
Hal looked away. Truth be told, he had no idea. They still had to attack the beach gate and set the oil bladder on fire. But with Ingvar out of action, he had no idea how to go about it. None of the other crew members had the strength to load the giant crossbow. Thorn might have managed it, but it was a two-handed task and the artificial hand was a weak point. The retaining straps on his wooden hook wouldn’t take the strain of heaving back on the cocking handle.
“Hal?” Stig said.
Hal rounded on him angrily. “I don’t know!” he said. “Let me think for a minute!”
He moved away to the railing. Stig went to move after him, then thought better of it. Hal gripped the railing, his hands clenching and unclenching. He stared blindly out at the water around them, but he saw only Ingvar’s unconscious form, lying on the deck.
He became conscious that someone had moved to stand beside him.
“Your crew are waiting for orders,” Thorn said quietly. Hal continued to look out at the sea.
“My orders?” he said bitterly. “My orders may well have killed Ingvar.”
“Nevertheless, standing here feeling sorry for yourself won’t help him.” Thorn’s voice was quiet and unemotional. Hal turned to face him.
“How can you be so cold about it?” he asked. “It’s Ingvar we’re talking about—big, faithful Ingvar, who would do anything I asked him.”
Thorn met his eyes with an unwavering gaze. “This is war, Hal. Did you seriously think you could go through a battle without somebody being hurt—or even killed?”
Hal went to speak, looked away, then said in a low voice, “I didn’t think about it.”
“This is not brotherband training, where you might get a few bruises or scrapes. This is the real thing. People get hurt. They die. And if you’re their leader, sometimes it happens because they do what you tell them to do. You have to face that.”
Hal shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want to face it.”
“You have to.” Thorn’s voice was low, but insistent. “If you simply give up now, Ingvar will have been hurt, maybe killed, for no good reason.” He paused for a few seconds to let that thought sink in. Then he continued.
“You’re a thinker, Hal. A planner. And sometimes in battle, a plan can go wrong. So you have to rethink and replan. We have to attack that gate and you have to rethink your plan for doing it. Now get on with it.”
Hal turned then to look at him again. He saw determination in Thorn’s face. And encouragement. He saw no trace of condemnation. He took a deep breath.
“All right. Give me a minute or two.”
Thorn nodded, satisfied. Hal gripped the railing again, thinking through the resources he had at his disposal. No one person could load the Mangler with Ingvar injured. Stig and Thorn were the next two strongest members of the crew, but he needed Stig on the tiller and Thorn’s false arm was suspect.
Ulf and Wulf, he decided and, as he had the thought, he felt a sense of renewed purpose. He turned from the railing and realized that every member of the crew was watching him, waiting for his orders.
“Gather round,” he said, beckoning them into a half circle. “Change of plans. Ulf and Wulf, you’re going to have to cock the Mangler, all right?”
The twins nodded and he gestured at the massive weapon.
“Let’s see you do it,” he said. They all moved forward and the twins took position on either side of the crossbow. He had half expected them to argue over who took which side. To his surprise, they didn’t. Each of them seized a cocking handle in a two-handed grip. They looked at each other and, with an unspoken communication, both heaved back on the levers together, grunting with the strain. The bowstring clacked into place over its retaining latch.
Ulf looked at his brother, then at Ingvar’s still form. “How did he manage that by himself?”
he asked.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Wulf said, shrugging.
“Good work,” Hal said. “I want you to sling your shields over your shoulders when you’re doing it. That’ll give you some protection from any archers onshore. Thorn, you’ll have to take over the training lever.”
Thorn nodded and Hal went on quickly.
“Jesper. You stay with raising and lowering the sails. Get one of the Limmatans to help you.”
“Yes, skirl,” Jesper replied.
One of the four Limmatans stepped forward and raised a hand. He was a well-built, muscular man.
“I can do that, captain,” he said.
Hal nodded briefly at him, then shifted his gaze to Stefan. “Stefan, can you trim the sails?”
Stefan replied without any hesitation, “Yes, Hal.”
“Get one of the Limmatans to help you as well,” Hal continued. “Stig, you’re on the tiller, of course.”
“Right,” said Stig.
“Edvin, get Ingvar as comfortable as possible. Then you’ll take charge of loading the fire bolts.”
“I’ll pack some bedrolls and shields around Ingvar to protect him,” Edvin said, and Hal nodded gratefully.
“Good idea.” He hesitated, wondering if he’d forgotten anything, then found himself facing Lydia. “Lydia, with Thorn training the Mangler for me, it’ll be up to you to keep any archers busy.”
“That won’t be a problem,” she said.
Thorn let out a bark of laughter. “Shouldn’t think so!” he said. “She’s a regular terror with those overgrown darts of hers.”
Lydia looked at him coldly. “You do your job, old man,” she said. “I’ll take care of my end of things.”
Thorn snickered again, and she shook her head, looking away to check the remaining darts in her quiver.
Hal looked around the ship. He couldn’t think of anything further to say. He glanced once more at Ingvar, hoping to see the big boy’s eyes open. But he was still unconscious, breathing fitfully, shuddering from time to time as pain broke through the barrier of painkillers he’d been given.