Free The Ghostfaces by John A. Flanagan Page A

through safely. But now we’re ready to take over. To take some of the load off you.” He studied the young man keenly, seeing the strain on Hal’s face and the utter weariness in his eyes. Thorn understood, more than any of the other Herons, how heavy a burden command could be. There was a physical side to it, of course. But more than that, there was a mental load that a skirl carried—the need to make life-or-death decisions for his crew, to be always ready to take control in times of danger. It could wear a person down, he knew. And he could see that Hal, after weeks of danger and uncertainty, was nearly at the end of his tether.
    Ingvar, who had been dispatched by Thorn to the ship, appeared at his side, carrying a roll of blankets.
    â€œHere’s Hal’s bedroll, Thorn,” he said quietly.
    Hal looked at the big lad, not comprehending. “My bedroll?”
    But Thorn forestalled him. “Thanks, Ingvar. Spread it out here.” And, as Ingvar complied, Thorn turned back to Hal. “Lie down and get some good, solid rest, Hal. I’ll wake you when we need you.”
    The bedroll, spartan as it might be, looked incredibly inviting. Hal crawled under the blankets and pulled them up to his chin.Ingvar knelt, felt under the blankets and found Hal’s feet, then removed his boots.
    â€œThat’s good,” Hal said dozily. “Maybe you’re right, Thorn. I’ll just have twenty minutes, then I’ll . . .”
    He didn’t finish. His eyes closed and he let out a little sigh of pleasure—a sigh that turned into a soft snore.
    â€œYeah. Twenty minutes,” Thorn said, smiling. Then he turned to Ingvar. “Let’s start building a camp.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Thorn marked out a semicircle in the sand with a pointed stick. The two ends of the line abutted the cliff face and the line itself enclosed a space ten meters by thirty.
    â€œI want a two-rail fence built on this line,” he said. “I want it a meter eighty high, with uprights every five meters. We’ll fill it in with brush and bracken to give us a reasonable barrier. If we can find some thornbush, that’d be ideal.” He looked critically around the bay, then at the ship, beached on the sand at the water’s edge. “I’m not happy with
Heron
being so exposed to view,” he said. “I think we might move her into that inlet.”
    He indicated a narrow inlet that was close to the southern end of the proposed fortification. It was barely ten meters wide and overhung by trees growing on either bank.
    He turned to the crew. “Stig, Stefan, Edvin. Come with me and we’ll get the ship refloated. Ingvar, start cutting logs for the fence. Lydia, you can go with Ingvar and keep watch. Someone might get curious if they hear trees being cut down.”
    They set to their various tasks with a will. Once the ship was refloated, Thorn took the hawser and waded waist deep into the water,holding the rope over his shoulder and hauling on it to drag the ship stern-first along the few meters of beach to the entrance to the inlet.
    â€œIf we have to leave in a hurry, we won’t want to waste time turning her around,” he explained.
    The
Heron
bobbed along obediently behind Thorn. Once she was afloat, there was very little weight for him to move, but Stig waded in to join him.
    The inlet was a narrow indentation in the beach, extending back barely fifteen meters. But that was ample space to conceal the
Heron
from unfriendly eyes. They took a mooring line to each bank and hauled her in under the trees. Once she was in place, her bow facing out to the large bay, they moored her securely to the two banks and left Edvin to conceal her with hacked-down branches.
    Then they returned to the campsite. Ingvar had cut the first half-dozen uprights for the fence. They carried these to the line Thorn had drawn and began digging deep,