Duel at Araluen Read online

  “She handles nicely,” he commented.

  Hal smiled at the compliment. “Thanks. We like her,” he said. He glanced up at the wind telltale on the mast. It streamed out to starboard. That meant that when they reached the mouth of the cove and turned north, the wind would be dead ahead.

  Jern noticed the look. In fact, he had just checked the telltale himself. It was an automatic reaction for any skirl. “Looks like we’ll be rowing,” he said.

  Hal had come to the same conclusion. Heron, with her fore and aft sail plan, could tack across a headwind like this, making ground in a series of diagonal runs. But that would mean a lot of sail handling, which would be difficult when the decks were crowded with the extra numbers.

  On the other hand, those extra numbers meant they had plenty of men ready to take a turn at the oars. On the whole, Hal decided, they’d make better time if they rowed north to the mouth of the Semath.

  “My boys will take a turn at the oars if you want,” Jern offered.

  Hal nodded his gratitude. “We’ll get her clear of the bay first.”

  He took her a kilometer off the coast, to give himself plenty of sea room. At the moment, the wind was from the north, but that could change without warning and they could find themselves on a lee shore—with the wind setting them back against the land. All skirls were wary of such a thing happening, and it was normal practice to keep the coastline in sight but leave plenty of maneuvering room in case of trouble.

  Hal nodded at Jern. Wolfbiter’s skirl took a few paces forward and raised his voice to call to his crew.

  “All right, boys, why don’t sixteen of you take over from the Herons and show them how real sailors row.”

  After several seconds of sorting out who would row, his men clambered down into the rowing well and replaced the Herons at the oars. With eight men a side, they had two men pulling each one. Jern’s first mate, Sten Engelson, took Stig’s place at the rearmost oar and called the stroke to get his men rowing in time. Under the increased thrust of the double-banked oars, Heron fairly shot ahead, cutting through the water so that a sizable bow wave sprang up and a white wake began to unfurl behind her.

  Jesper, who had been manning one of the for’ard oars, came aft and sprawled comfortably on the deck beside Hal’s position at the tiller.

  “This is the life,” he said. “Can we keep them?”

  One of the rowers overheard him and grinned up from his bench. “She’s a lightweight,” he said, heaving on his oar with no apparent effort. “We could keep this up all day.”

  “Is that so?” Sten called from his bench. “In that case, let’s up the pace a little: Pull! Pull! Pull!”

  As the rowers pulled faster in time to his increased rate, Heron gathered even more speed. There was a long, smooth swell coming from the north, driven before the wind. The ship swooped over the waves, her bow smashing through the tops, sending spray cascading back over the ship, and the men seated on her center decking. Nobody cared. They were sailors and they were used to being wet. The exhilarating speed of the ship’s passage more than made up for the minor discomfort of a little water landing on them.

  Stig came to join the two skirls at the steering platform.

  “I’m with Jesper,” he said. “Let’s take these people along on all our cruises. We’d never have to raise the sail.”

  “Your men can certainly handle the oars,” Hal said to Jern.

  The older skirl nodded. “They’re a good crew. But as Lars said, this ship is a real lightweight. They’re used to hauling Wolfbiter around, and she weighs three or four times as much as this little beauty.”

  “Well, my men certainly appreciate the rest,” Hal told him, nodding to where Ulf and Wulf, the identical twin sail trimmers, were calling good-natured jibes at the rowing crew. In fact, all of the Heron’s crew were enjoying the novelty of being rowed, rather than rowing themselves. And they enjoyed the exhilaration of feeling the ship moving so fast. She had never cut through the water like this under oars before.

  They powered on up the coast, which lay off their port side like a long, gray-green line. True to the oarsman’s word, the Wolfbiter crew maintained their cracking pace without any sign of flagging. Long before Hal had originally expected to see it, the mouth of the River Semath opened up on the coast to port. He heaved on the tiller and swung the ship’s head through ninety degrees, heading for the broad river.

  The swell and wind had been in their teeth up till this point. Now they were coming from almost dead abeam, and the pitching, swooping motion of the ship changed. She began to roll heavily, sometimes dipping her lee-side gunwales underwater.

  Hal eyed the river ahead with narrowed eyes. He had originally set Heron’s course for the center of the river. But although she was still pointing in that direction, he could see her head was falling off downwind, her line of travel taking her toward the southern bank.

  Jern hesitated, not sure if he should call Hal’s attention to it. It would be the height of bad manners to advise another skirl without being asked. He relaxed when he saw Hal shove the tiller over, so that the bow angled toward the northern bank. Now the rudder and the oars were pushing her up to the north and the wind setting her down to the south. After a few minor adjustments to the tiller, the two forces balanced and she held a true course down the center of the river.

  Hal had seen Jern’s momentary indecision. He smiled at him now. “I had noticed,” he said.

  The rolling motion lessened as they ran in under the shelter of the headlands and the waves died down. There was still plenty of wind, however, and once they had traveled a few hundred meters inland Hal made a sign to Jern.

  “Oars up!” the older man ordered, and the eight oars rose, dripping from the water, held parallel to the surface.

  “Oars in.” They slid inboard with a rattle of wood on wood. The ship continued to move forward, the way gradually dying off her.

  “Sail handlers!” Hal called. “Take your stations.”

  Ulf and Wulf had been waiting for the order. They sprang to their feet and scuttled for’ard, avoiding the butts of the oars as they were hauled inboard.

  “Stow oars!” Jern ordered, and there was more clattering as the eight white-oak shafts were raised, then placed into the fork-shaped oar rests that held them running fore and aft down the center line of the ship. At the same time, Ingvar, Jesper and Stefan followed the twins for’ard and took up their position by the halyards on the starboard side.

  “Port sail up!” Hal ordered, and the three crewmen heaved on the halyard, sending the port-side yardarm and sail sliding up the stumpy mast until it clunked into position in the socket that held it in place. As the wind caught it, the sail bellied out for a second or two. Then Ulf and Wulf hauled on the sheets to bring the sail tight. It hardened into a smooth curve, trapping the brisk wind from the north. They heaved in harder and Heron accelerated forward. For a moment or two, her lee-side gunwale dipped close to the river surface. Then Ulf and Wulf eased the sheets slightly, just before Hal could call out the necessary order. The ship stood more upright and the water gurgled and chuckled along her side.

  Within a few minutes, the white wake was streaming out behind her in a straight line. She had settled on her course and was moving every bit as swiftly as she had under the thrust of the Wolfbiter crew’s brawny arms.

  Jern nodded in appreciation. “Like I said, she’s a sweet little craft.”

  Hal glanced at the banks slipping past them, estimating their speed. “At this rate, we’ll be at Castle Araluen in another three hours,” he said.

  4

  Maddie was dreaming.

  She dreamed she was in the marketplace in Castle Redmont’s courtyard. Canvas stalls had been set up, selling items of clothing, knives, axes, saddles and bridles, and bolts of freshly dyed cloth. But she was heading for her favorite place in the market—the row of stalls where fo
od was sold.

  And in particular, she was heading for the pie stall. She checked her pockets, making sure she had a couple of silver coins. She’d only need one for the savory pie she had in mind, and she’d insist on paying.

  All too often, stallkeepers would hand over her purchase and try to wave away her offered payment. “No charge for a Ranger,” they’d say, grinning.

  But Will had taught her to always pay her way. We don’t accept free food or goods. That way we don’t owe anyone anything.

  When she’d queried this, he’d continued. Imagine that one day you find one of these traders sneaking food or wine from the castle’s larder cellars. Or you find them smuggling goods upriver. So you arrest them, and they look at you and say: “But you always accepted the free pies I gave you.” You’ll be beholden to them. And that will make it harder to do the job you’re supposed to do.

  Reluctantly, she’d agreed he was right. It was better for a Ranger to be unencumbered by any sort of debt or obligation. It was why they lived apart from the castle, in their cozy little cabin among the trees. Rangers had to be seen to be impartial, to be influenced by nobody, from the Baron himself to the lowliest pie vendor.

  The savory aroma of the pies was stronger in her nostrils now, and her stomach rumbled with anticipation. She took one of the coins out of her jerkin pocket and increased her pace.

  A heavyset man heading in the opposite direction barged into her, jolting her shoulder. Not expecting the contact, she dropped the coin. As she stooped to retrieve it, the man buffeted her shoulder again, staggering her. Then he did it again.

  “Cut it out!” she said angrily. But he continued to buffet her, shoving her on the shoulder with increasing force.

  Then, amazingly, he leaned closer to her and blew his warm breath in her face. She recoiled. His breath wasn’t exactly scented like roses. In fact, it smelled strangely of grass and oats.

  She opened her eyes and found herself staring into Bumper’s long face, a few inches from her own.

  “Gedoutof it! Waddaya doing?” she slurred at him, only half awake. Dimly, she realized that, true to his name, her horse had been shoving her shoulder with his head. There was no heavy-set man. Even worse, there was no pie stall. Just her horse and the thick grass where she had been dozing.

  By Blarney’s perpetual beard, when you sleep, you really sleep, don’t you? I’ve been trying to wake you for ten minutes. I thought you were dead for a moment.

  Like all Ranger horses, Bumper was prone to hyperbole. The bumping and breathing couldn’t have been going on for more than thirty seconds. Maddie sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  “What do you know about Blarney—or his beard?” she said irritably. Blarney was a minor Hibernian deity Halt had told her about. His beard grew constantly down to his feet, no matter how often he cut it or shaved it. Each night, it would regenerate at full length. As a result, he was constantly tripping over it.

  It made him a very bad-tempered minor deity.

  Bumper leaned back away from her and tilted his head knowingly. I hear things. I know things. But for the moment, I thought you’d like to know that there’s a ship heading this way.

  Instantly, she came fully awake.

  “What? Why didn’t you say so?” She tried to scramble to her feet, but caught her left boot in the hem of her cloak, tripped and sprawled on the grass.

  Bumper sniggered. You and Blarney are quite a match, aren’t you? So agile. So sure-footed.

  “So shut up,” she told him, getting to her feet more carefully and retrieving her bow and quiver from where they had been lying beside her.

  Bumper’s shoulders shook as he continued to snigger, but silently now.

  She shielded her eyes with one hand and peered downstream. Sure enough, there was the pale triangle of Heron’s sail, several hundred meters away. The little ship was cutting through the water at a fast pace, driven by the brisk wind on her right-hand side. She frowned. Right side wasn’t how sailors described it. They had a technical term for it.

  “Stuffboard,” she said to herself, pulling up her cowl.

  Bumper sniggered again, audibly this time. Stuffboard?

  “Stuffboard. That’s what sailors call the right-hand side of their ship,” she told him, a superior tone in her voice.

  He shook his ears at her. I think the term you are looking for is starboard.

  She gave in, realizing she could never top him in this sort of discussion. Instead, she began to walk down to the river’s edge. He ambled cheerfully behind her.

  “Who made you such an expert?” she muttered. But of course, he heard her.

  As I said, I hear things. I know things.

  “You’re a know-all. A know-all and a blowhard,” she told him.

  He looked mildly pained. A blowhard?

  She nodded, turning to face him. “A blowhard. And believe me, I know. I just had your oaty, grassy breath in my face and it wasn’t any fun.”

  For once, it seemed, he had no reply. He leaned his head back and stared indignantly down his long nose at her. Then he shook his ears and mane again.

  Pleased with her little victory, Maddie hurried down to the river’s edge. The ship was only a hundred meters away now. Hoping they had a sharp-eyed lookout on duty, she took a white scarf from inside her jerkin, held it above her head and waved it back and forth.

  * * *

  • • •

  Perched on the bowpost lookout, Jesper saw the sudden movement on the bank of the river. He was a little disconcerted that he hadn’t noticed the person standing there until the white cloth began waving. Whoever it was, they were clad in a green-and-brown-mottled cloak that made them blend into the woodland background. Belatedly, he called a warning to Hal.

  “Someone’s waving at us! On that grassy bank ahead!”

  At the steering platform, Hal, Jern and Thorn had been discussing plans for the repair work on Wolfbiter. At Jesper’s hail, they swung their attention to the bank.

  “What’s that he’s wearing?” Jern asked.

  Hal narrowed his eyes. Like Jesper, he found the figure quite difficult to make out. But he’d seen cloaks like that before. “That’s a Ranger,” he said.

  Jern frowned. “Makes him hard to see,” he commented.

  Hal glanced at him. “That’s the general idea.”

  Heron was heading straight toward the bank, so there was no need to turn her. Hal called to Ulf and Wulf. “Ease the sail a little.” The speed dropped away as they complied.

  “He’s not very big, is he?” Jern said. Now they were closer, he could see the figure more clearly.

  “A lot of them aren’t,” Hal said. “But don’t make him angry. Rangers are incredible warriors.”

  Thorn had been silent while he scrutinized the slight figure on the bank. Now he spoke thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think that’s a man at all. It’s a girl.”

  “In a Ranger cloak?” Hal said, surprised. He’d never heard of such a thing. He looked more carefully. “You could be right.” Then the Ranger pushed back the cowl of the cloak and he saw her face more clearly.

  “It’s Cassandra’s daughter!” he said. “Maddie. What’s she doing with a Ranger cloak?”

  Thorn smiled to himself. “I knew there was something unusual about her.”

  Even as he had been studying the figure on the bank, Hal had unconsciously been measuring angles, distance and speed. He called to the twins now. “Down sail!” And the sail slid easily down the mast, where the sail handlers gathered it in and roughly folded it. Heron skimmed on over the rapidly shallowing water, and he swung the prow slightly so she would run onto the sand at an angle.

  “You’re going to stop?” Jern asked. “For a slip of a girl?”

  Hal glanced at him for a second, then went back to judging Heron’s approach to the bank. “That ‘slip of a girl,’ as yo
u call her, is a Ranger,” he said. “And she’s the daughter of the Princess Regent. I think it might be wise to see what’s on her mind.”

  The bow grated onto the sand, sliding up a few meters. Then, as the way dropped off her, the hull swung parallel to the bank. Instantly, Jesper was over the bow, running a few meters to set the bow anchor firmly into the sand. Maddie nodded to him as he passed her, then walked toward the grounded bow of the little wolfship. The two crews crowded the sides, watching her curiously.

  Stig went forward and leaned over the gunwale, offering her a hand. She gripped his wrist and he heaved her effortlessly up and inboard, setting her on the deck beside him.

  “Welcome aboard,” he said, grinning.

  She smiled in return. “I’m glad to see you. I was afraid I might have missed you.” She glanced around the ring of curious, bearded faces and frowned. “There weren’t this many of you before, were there?”

  “We picked up some of Wolfbiter’s crew,” Stig told her.

  The little ship’s deck was crowded. Maddie estimated that there must be nearly thirty men on board. She smiled inwardly. Thirty Skandians would make a powerful attack force, she thought, if her mother’s estimate of their fighting ability was accurate.

  She looked around. The press of bearded, muscular sailors obscured her view. She barely came up to shoulder height on most of them. “Where’s Hal—your skirl?” she asked, remembering the Skandian term for a ship’s captain.

  Stig gestured toward the stern. “He’s back this way.” He waved an arm at the crowding seamen gathered around this strange apparition. Some of them had encountered Rangers before, but none had seen a female Ranger. “Make way, you lot! We’re coming through.”

  The grinning sea wolves parted to let her and Stig through and she followed the tall first mate back to the stern, where Hal and Thorn were waiting, along with a third man she didn’t recognize—another of Wolfbiter’s crew, she surmised. Hal stepped forward as they approached.