The Ghostfaces Page 8

  Slowly, Lydia drew back her arm, bringing the dart up to the horizontal, preparing to cast. At this range, she couldn’t possibly miss.

  She must have made some slight noise as she moved. Perhaps the leather of her sleeveless overjacket made an infinitesimal creak, or her sleeve brushed against a branch without her noticing.

  The young stag reacted instantly, springing back from the tree and pivoting to look in her direction, his muscles tensed and quivering, ready to flee.

  Lydia froze, the dart half drawn back, and for a few seconds she and the deer faced each other. She knew that the animal wasn’t sure of her presence. She was still in shadow and he was in the brighter sunlight that filled the clearing. The wind, what little there was, was blowing across the clearing, from left to right, so she knew he couldn’t make out any alien scent coming from her. As long as she didn’t move, she wouldn’t alarm him.

  It was a familiar situation for her. Just wait. Don’t move. Wait for the deer to relax and go back to concentrating on his tree enemy. Her right arm, half raised, was in a most uncomfortable position, neither relaxed nor fully extended. But she had spent years teaching herself to ignore discomfort when hunting. She smiled inwardly. People thought of hunting as a high-energy, high-action pastime. All too often, it was a stand-still-and-don’t-move-a-muscle pastime.

  The impasse continued. The deer’s large ears were cupped to pick up the slightest sound, and they twisted from side to side, seeking any possible threat. His legs and body were still tensed, the muscles twitching from time to time.

  Lydia remained as relaxed as she could, without moving any part of her body. She ignored the growing ache in her right arm and concentrated on breathing as quietly as possible. She wondered whether the deer, in its heightened state of awareness, could sense the beating of her heart. Her pulse seemed deafening in her own ears and surely, she thought, the animal must hear it.

  She dismissed the notion as fanciful. Her arm, extended halfway up and back, was beginning to really ache now. But she knew if she moved a muscle, the deer would be gone in a flash, before she could complete her swing and cast the dart.

  Come on, she willed it silently. Relax. Put your head down. Crop some of that delicious sweet grass at your feet. But the deer seemed to have an almost infinite capacity to remain alert. To make matters worse, its gaze was fixed on the spot where Lydia stood. Any movement at all would be instantly visible. Her only chance of remaining unseen was to be totally, absolutely stock-still.

  Then, gratefully, she became aware that the tension was ebbing from the deer. His ears relaxed initially, ceasing their constant twitching back and forth. Then the trembling in his muscles ceased.

  Any minute now, she thought, mentally rehearsing the movements of her cast. Her eyes focused on a spot just behind the animal’s left foreleg, where she knew the heart was situated. One quick cast and the deer would be instantly dead. She felt the usual twinge of regret at the thought of killing such a beautiful creature. She didn’t hunt for sport or for the thrill of it. She hunted for food, out of necessity. And she always had a moment of regret when she brought down a target.

  But that was fifty kilograms of meat standing opposite her—two or three days’ good eating for the crew. And she couldn’t pass that up out of any mistaken sense of regret.

  Come on, relax, she thought. And, as if in answer, the deer began to lower its head, a centimeter at a time. She felt a surge of triumph. Just one more minute, she told herself, and I’ll be able to—

  Oggle-oggle-oggle!

  The raucous cry rang across the clearing, and, in a movement faster than her eye could follow, the deer pirouetted and leapt away through the trees. She heard it crashing through the undergrowth as it made its escape, the sound gradually fading away.

  She released her pent-up breath in a sigh of frustration as a ridiculous-looking bird waddled into the clearing from the trees to the right.

  It had a large, heavy body and she guessed it would weigh somewhere around twelve kilograms. It was covered in black and white feathers, with a spectacular round, fan-shaped tail. The long neck was bare and serpentine and the head that surmounted it was remarkably ugly, with a red wattle hanging down over one side of its beak.

  Oggle-oggle-oggle! it warbled once more and stalked out into the center of the clearing, clearly full of its own importance. It stopped and turned to look at her. She hesitated for a second or two.

  There’s a lot of meat on you, she thought. So long as you’re not like Edvin’s bongo bird, we’ll get a couple of meals out of you.

  And with that thought, she finished her drawback and sent the dart flashing across the clearing. She didn’t have time to substitute it for one of her blunts and, in any event, this was a large creature. The dart transfixed the bird through the breast, and, with one last choked cry, it was hurled backward, collapsing on the leaf mold beneath its feet. It twitched its legs once or twice, then lay still.

  She knew that some of the meat surrounding the wound would be spoiled, but it was only a small amount compared with the total. She stepped across the clearing to claim her prize. The deer would have to wait till another day. But at least now she knew that there were deer in the forest.

  She withdrew the dart from the bird’s body. It had gone clean through, she saw. That meant spoiled meat at the entrance and exit wounds. She wiped the blood from the dart and replaced it in her quiver, then hoisted the big bird by the legs and turned for home.

  “Edvin can clean you,” she told it.

  The bird said nothing.

  As she retraced her steps, she was delighted to see a large rabbit in one of the snares she had set earlier. It jerked and twisted as she approached, and she seized it and quickly broke its neck with a sharp blow from the heel of her hand. She untangled it from the snare, reset the thin rope loop and scattered a few more peas around. The other snare was untouched so she left it as it was.

  Straightening, she noticed a mark on one of the trees that she had missed earlier. It had been on the reverse side of the tree as she moved through the forest, but now it was facing her and she made her way closer to study it.

  It was actually a series of marks—four parallel gouges in the bark. She had seen this sort of mark before, but usually it was on both sides of a tree trunk. It was above her head, over two meters from the ground.

  She reached out a finger to touch it. The sap was dry. It was an old mark, possibly made several days prior. It was made by a bear dragging his claws through the bark, either to sharpen the claws or to mark his territory. A big bear, she thought, seeing the height of the scars from the ground. He’d be nearly three meters tall, she thought in awe. She had never seen a bear as large as that in Skandia, although the old sailors talked of great white bears that lived in the permanent snow and ice to the north that were as big as this.

  Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She had the distinct impression that she was being watched. She reached for a dart and drew it from the quiver. She had felt this instinct before and had learned not to discount it. It wasn’t always accurate, but it had been correct enough times in the past.

  Slowly she turned, half expecting to see a massive bear a few meters away. But there was nothing.

  Still, she could sense eyes upon her. Something, or someone, was watching her. Keeping her head still, she scanned the surrounding trees with her eyes, searching for a sight of the hidden observer—human or otherwise.

  Nothing.

  Realizing she was making the common mistake of searching at her own eye level, she raised her angle of sight and swung her vision from side to side once more. Again, nothing. But still she felt the presence.

  Then she dropped her gaze to ground level and scanned. And saw something. In a damp patch of earth that was clear of the ubiquitous leaf mold, there was a long indentation in the ground beside a tree. She moved closer and went down on o
ne knee to study it more closely. It was about twenty-five centimeters long by ten wide. Rounded at both ends and flat along its lengths.

  It was the imprint left by a human foot in a soft, heelless shoe.

  chapter twelve

  Lydia emerged from the tree line and stopped to observe the progress that had been made on the construction of the palisade. More than two-thirds of its length was now filled in by a thick tangle of brushwood and small branches. The crew were working diligently to complete the rest of the barrier. Ingvar and Stig were hacking down bushes and small saplings, Stefan and Jesper were dragging them to the unfinished end of the fence and Hal, Thorn and the twins were threading them through the two horizontal rails, intertwining them to form an almost solid obstacle.

  Edvin was the only crew member not engaged in fence building. He was crouched among his cook pots by the fire. A small iron cauldron hung over the glowing pile of coals, suspended from his iron tripod. Steam escaped from a gap he had left between the pot and the lid.

  Lydia stooped under an unfinished section of the fence and approached him, tossing the heavy carcass of the bird toward him.

  He raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s a respectable-size bird,” he said.

  She nodded. “I just hope it’s edible. I had to use a warhead dart on it, I’m afraid. Some of the meat will be spoiled.”

  Edvin was examining the bird, running his hands over it and feeling it. He discounted her apology. “No harm done. There’s plenty of meat there.”

  “Just so long as it’s not tough as goats’ knees,” she said. He felt the flesh of the bird again and pursed his lips.

  “It feels pretty fat and meaty,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s good eating. I take it this is the now-famous oggle-oggle-oggle bird?” he added, with a smile.

  “That’s it,” she replied. Then, remembering, she took the rabbit that she’d tied to her belt and tossed that by the fire as well. “There seem to be rabbits in the area too.”

  “Excellent.” Edvin looked pleased. He could picture himself preparing a few varied and interesting meals for the brotherband. “I’ll slip away this afternoon and see what I can find in the way of wild greens,” he said.

  She held up a cautioning hand. “Don’t go too far. And don’t go alone. I saw the tracks of a bear out there—a very big one.”

  Edvin raised his eyebrows. “I suppose it couldn’t all be good news. If we have rabbits and oggle birds, I guess we have to have bears as well.”

  “I’ll warn the others,” she said. She nodded farewell to Edvin, who was already beginning to pluck the feathers from the large bird, preparatory to gutting and cleaning it, and walked back to where the crew were building the barricade. Thorn and Hal were nearest her, bending and twisting lengths of sapling between the two rails. The old sea wolf was remarkably dexterous with his hook, she noted. He looked up as she approached.

  “Any luck?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Remains to be seen. I got one of those big birds and snared a rabbit. Plus I just missed a deer. So there appears to be plenty of game around. Unfortunately, not all of it is friendly.”

  Hal, who had been bending a sapling length behind the top rail of the fence, stopped and looked at her as he heard those words.

  She continued. “There’s a bear somewhere around—a big one. Bigger than any I’ve seen. I’d say he’d be three meters tall, or maybe more.”

  Thorn whistled softly. “That is big. Did you catch sight of him?”

  She shook her head. “No. I saw his marks on a tree, where he’d been clawing the bark. Thing is, he’d only been doing it with his right paw, which indicates that his left paw is wounded or crippled.”

  “Which would make him even more dangerous,” Hal said as she paused to let that information sink in.

  She glanced at him and nodded. “Yes. A wounded bear is not something to trifle with,” she said.

  Thorn sensed she had more to add. “Is that the extent of the bad news?” he prompted.

  She shook her head. She stepped a little closer to the two of them and lowered her voice so that Ulf and Wulf, working several meters away and bickering good-naturedly, couldn’t hear her.

  “I saw human tracks as well,” she said.

  Thorn stood upright and leaned against the fence. He frowned thoughtfully. “How many?”

  She shrugged. “I only saw one footprint. But it was definitely human. Whoever it was, he was wearing a soft shoe, without a heel—some kind of animal-hide slipper, I’d say.”

  Hal and Thorn exchanged a quick glance. It had been too good to be true, Hal thought. A place like this, with freshwater, plenty of game and firewood, would almost certainly be inhabited.

  “I also had the sense that someone was watching me,” Lydia added. Both her companions took the comment seriously. Lydia wasn’t the type to let her imagination, or her nerves, get the better of her. They trusted her instincts.

  “You didn’t actually see anyone?” Hal asked.

  “No. But I could feel eyes on me. You know how you can, sometimes?” She looked earnestly at Thorn. “I wasn’t imagining things,” she said a little defensively, and he shook his head, dismissing the idea.

  “I didn’t think you were,” he said. “You’ve been a hunter long enough to develop that sixth sense that tells you when you’re not alone. Besides, there was the footprint.”

  There was a silence among them as they considered the import of what she had told them. Thorn abruptly broke it, coming to a decision and straightening up from where he leaned against the fence.

  “All right,” he said briskly, “we’d better let the others know. From now on, nobody goes into the forest alone.” He saw Lydia start to raise her hand in protest and altered the command. “Aside from you, Lydia. You know how to stay concealed, and you’re smart enough to avoid that bear if he shows up. In the meanwhile, we’d better fashion a few bear spears.”

  “We’ve got half a dozen spears in the ship,” Hal pointed out, but Thorn shook his head.

  “They’re fine for fighting against men. And we may as well have them handy in the camp,” he added as an afterthought. “But a bear as big as Lydia said this one is will need something longer and stronger. We can make them from saplings, sharpen the points and harden them in a fire, then hammer crosspieces through them behind the points.”

  Lydia was nodding agreement but Hal had a question. “Crosspieces?” he asked. “What sort of crosspieces?”

  “Iron spikes driven through the spear,” Thorn told him. “If the bear charges and you can catch him on the point, the crosspiece will stop him sliding down the shaft and getting you.”

  “Will a bear do that?” Hal asked and both his friends nodded.

  “Oh yes,” Thorn told him. “I saw it happen once on a hunting trip in the mountains behind Hallasholm. The bear was so intent on getting to the man who had put the spear into it that it just kept going forward. The spear went right through and out the other side.”

  “Which must have killed it,” Hal protested.

  Thorn nodded. “It did. But not before the bear had taken the hunter’s head off with one swipe of its paw. That bear seemed to die with a smile on its face.”

  Hal frowned, picturing the scene as Thorn had described it. He knew the old sea wolf was prone to exaggeration when it came to tales about hunting and fighting. But he sensed that this time he was serious.

  “I’ll dig out some spikes from the ship’s supplies,” he said. He kept a supply of nails, rivets, iron ingots and other odds and ends on board the ship.

  “In the meanwhile, we’d better let the others know what’s going on,” Thorn said. He put his fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. Along the beach, the Herons all stopped what they were doing and turned to face him. He beckoned them in with his good arm, and as they straggled toward him, he called
to Edvin.

  “Edvin! How’s lunch coming?”

  The cook looked up at him and cupped his hands around his mouth to reply. He didn’t have Thorn’s wind- and wave-quelling bellow.

  “Ready when you are, Thorn.”

  “Ten minutes,” Thorn replied, then, as the crew assembled, he waved them closer. There was a water skin hanging on the fence and several of them helped themselves to it. The freedom to drink as long and as often as they wanted to was a pleasant novelty after their weeks of reduced water rations. Once they’d drunk, they dropped to the sand, sitting cross-legged in a half circle around Thorn, Hal and Lydia, waiting to hear what their battle leader had to tell them. When he had their attention, Thorn began.

  “First of all,” he said, “we’re not alone here. Lydia saw human footprints in the forest.”

  “One footprint,” Lydia corrected him, but he waved the comment aside.

  “I think we can assume that we’re not dealing with a one-legged hermit,” he said. “If there was one footprint, we’ll take it that there’ll be others. And we can also assume that whoever left it was trying to conceal his presence—otherwise you would have seen more.”

  Lydia cocked her head thoughtfully. “I suppose that could be so,” she admitted.

  Thorn pressed on. “Let’s take it that it is. As you know, it’s always better—”

  “To assume the worst,” chorused Ulf, Wulf, Jesper and Stefan. It was one of Thorn’s favorite mantras.

  He allowed himself a small grin. “I’m glad that’s sunk in. You people may finally be learning something. Now another thing, there’s a bear wandering around in the woods as well.”