He could have turned towards Al Shabah while they were still further out to sea, avoiding the risk of being spotted from the coast. But that would have increased the risk of being seen from the town itself. Even by night, Wolfwind would have been a darker shadow on the steely grey surface of the sea. And the closer they drew to the town, the greater the risk of being discovered would have become.
No, it was safer this way. To lower the sail and creep along close inshore, concealed by the dark mass of the land behind them.
'He shook away the distracting thoughts. He was out of practice to be wool-gathering at a time like this.
'Ready to give way,' he whispered. The order was relayed along the rowing benches. The twin rows of oars-men had their eyes glued on him. He raised one hand then lowered it and the oars dipped into the water, to begin the task of dragging Wolfwind towards her destination.
Erak felt the tiller come to life under his hand as the trow-waisted hull began to slip through the sea.
Velets slapped and gurgled against her oaken sides and a gentle hiss rose from where her prow cut through the black water, raising a small curl of phosphorescent white.
It was good to be back raiding again, he thought contentedly.
Life as Oberjarl had its attractions, he had to admit.
It was pleasant to receive a twenty per cent share of all that the raiding fleet brought in to Hallasholm. But he had been born to be a sea raider, not a tax collector administrator. Several years of sitting around the Great Hall at Hallasholm, going over receipts and estimates with Borsa, his hilfmann, had left him bored and feeling the need for distraction. Whereas his predecessor, Ragnak, could look at tax levied on ships' captains and inland farmers with an undisguised acquisitive glee, Erak felt vaguely uncomfortable with the amounts that were piling up in his coffers. As a wolfship captain, his sympathies had always lain more with those who might seek to evade paying their full tax rather than the Oberjarl and the eagle-eyed hilfmann who levied it.
Eventually, he had dropped a massive pile of scrolls, estimates, returns, harvest figures and detailed inventories of goods and booty captured by his jarls into Borsa's lap and announced that he was going raiding again.
'Just one last raid,' he said to the indignant hilfmann. 'I'll go mad if I sit here behind this desk any longer. I need to be back at sea.'
Reluctantly, Borsa conceded the point. He had never been the warrior type himself. He was an administrator and he was very good at his job. He never understood why the big, ruffian-like sea captains who were invariably elected Oberjarl didn't share his passion for studying figures and detecting undeclared income. But he knew they didn't. Even Ragnak, in the early days of his rule, had continued to go on occasional raids. It was only later, when he became lazy and a little avaricious, that he found enjoyment in remaining at Hallasholm and counting his riches, over and over again.
Erak then sent for Svengal, his former second in command who had taken over the helm of Wolfwind, and informed him that he was assuming command again, for one more raid.
Some men might have been displeased by the prospect of being demoted to first mate. But Svengal was delighted to see Erak back in control. The two men were good friends and Svengal knew that Erak was by far the better navigator.
So here they were, off the Arrida coast, approaching the small trading town of Al Shabah.
Al Shabah was one of the towns that provided supplies, equipment, timber, cordage and rope to ships entering the Constant Sea. It was an unremarkable place, built on a promontory above a small beach, with a man-made harbour on the northern side, accessed by stairs. At this time of year, ships of the trading fleets had begun to make their way into the Constant Sea in increasing numbers, Stringing trade goods from the islands to the south-west in the Endless Ocean.
As they came, they stopped at Al Shabah, or one of its sister townships, to replenish water, food and firewood and to repair any damage caused by storms. When they sailed out of the harbour, they left behind a bewildering variety of gold coin and bullion they had used to pay their bills. Every so often, in response to a secret message from the town, an armed caravan from the inland mital of Mararoc would arrive and collect the treasure from the towns, taking it back to the Etntikirs vaults. The first caravan of the year was due in another two weeks, Erak knew. The schedule was a closely guarded secret, for obvious reasons. If potential attackers had known whether the treasure had been removed or not, it reduced the risk of attack. No right-minded pirate would risk his life in the hope that there might be treasure in the town's strongroom. Secrecy and uncertainty were Al Shabah's best defence – particularly when, the alternative would mean maintaining a large and expensive garrison for the entire year.
But secrets can be uncovered, and a week earlier, eighty kilometres down the coast, Erak had paid an informant forty reels of silver to gain a copy of the schedule. It told him that while other towns had already been emptied of their riches, Al Shabah's coffers were still temptingly full – and would remain so for some days to come.
There was a small standing garrison in the town – no more than forty men. Forty sleepy, overweight, comfortable Arridi townsmen, who hadn't fought a real engagement in twenty years or more, wouldn't provide much resistance to thirty yelling, fiendish, bloodthirsty, gold-crazed Skandians who would come screaming up from the beach like the hounds of hell.
Peering though the darkness ahead, Erak could see the lighter patch of land that marked a small sand beach at the foot of the promontory. High above, the white buildings of the town itself were also becoming distinguishable. There were no lights, he noticed. No beacons or even torches to illuminate the path of the sentries who must be patrolling. He shrugged. Not a bad idea, he thought. A burning torch might make a sentry feel safe and secure but it ruined his night vision and made it almost impossible to see anything beyond the few metres illuminated by the torch.
Once again he recognised the wisdom of his decision to approach from the inland side, with the sail lowered.
He could hear the gentle breaking of waves on the beach now. There was no surf to speak of, just small wavelets tumbling over themselves. Swinging the tiller smoothly, he set the ship on a forty-five-degree approach to the sand. He raised his free hand, palm up, in a prearranged signal and sixteen oars rose dripping out of the water. There was an occasional grunt of exertion as the rowers lifted their oars to the vertical and then carefully lowered them, to stow them alongside the rowing benches. One or two clattered noisily, the sound seeming to be magnified by the silence around them. Erak glared at the offending oarsmen. He'd speak to them later – when he could speak more forcefully than the present situation allowed.
There was a grating sound from for'ard and he felt a dragging vibration through the soles of his feet as the keel ran onto the sand. Four men were poised on the bow gunwales, about to leap into the shallow water and make the ship secure.
'Go easy, line handlers!' Sven al whispered hoarsely.
The men, who would normally have dropped noisily to the knee-deep water, remembered at the last moment and lowered themselves carefully. Taking two bow ropes with them, they ran up the beach, feet squeaking on the sand, and hauled the ship a little further up onto dry land.
They secured the bow ropes into the sand with hinge-laded sand grapnels, then faced inland, hands on their battleaxes, alert for any sign of attack.
Erak peered up at the town above them. Still there was no sound of any alarm, no sign of guards or patrols. The whitewashed buildings, looking almost ghostly in the pre-dawn light, loomed silently above the wolfship.