Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  ‘Don’t know what could have happened to it,’ he continued. ‘Maybe one of those rabble off Nightwolf took it.’

  Svengal shook his head. ‘Didn’t see any of them do it,’ he said. ‘They were all pretty intent on getting away from you as fast as possible.’ He glanced across the inner harbour and noticed that the dark blue ship was missing from its usual mooring. ‘Looks like they’ve gone,’ he said.

  Erak nodded. ‘Tark told me they slipped out of the harbour last night. Good riddance, too.’ Tark was the captain of the harbour guard.

  But Svengal wasn’t listening. His keen eyes had spotted something gleaming in the sand at the water’s edge. He jumped down onto the beach and walked towards it. His heart sank as he got closer and recognised the ruined, foreshortened walking staff – one end chewed to splinters and the other still surmounted by its silver knob.

  He retrieved it and noted the tooth marks up and down its length.

  ‘Orlog’s bad breath,’ he muttered. ‘This is going to be ugly.’

  For a moment, he considered dropping the ruined staff and kicking sand over it to hide it. But Erak had already seen him pick it up.

  ‘What’s that?’ Erak called.

  Svengal tried to hide the staff behind his back. ‘Nothing, chief. Just a piece of driftwood.’

  But Erak had seen the telltale glint of silver. He walked down the beach suspiciously. ‘Driftwood, my backside!’ he roared. ‘Bring it here! Let me see it!’

  Reluctantly, Svengal revealed the ruined walking staff. For a moment, Erak was speechless. Just for a moment. Then he let out an inchoate bellow of rage.

  ‘Chief, don’t go . . .’ Svengal began. But he was cut off by Erak, now in full voice.

  ‘That demon-blasted dog! I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .’ He glanced around and his eyes lit on a twelve-year-old boy who had been walking along the beach. The boy was staring at the red-faced, apoplectic Oberjarl, fascinated. Erak pointed at him.

  ‘You! Boy! What’s your name?’

  ‘Gundal Leifson, Oberjarl,’ the boy said nervously.

  Erak now swept his arm around to point in the direction of the Great Hall. ‘Run to the Great Hall, Gundal Leifson, and bring me my axe. It’s leaning against my big chair. Go!’

  ‘Yes, Oberjarl!’ The boy took off, running flat out towards the Hall.

  Erak stood, arms folded across his massive chest, breathing deeply, muttering dreadful curses.

  Svengal eyed him nervously. ‘Chief? What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to separate him from his head,’ Erak replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the Heron. There was a frightening light in his eyes.

  Svengal glanced nervously towards the distant ship. ‘Hal?’ he asked.

  ‘No. The dog. But I’ll do for Hal too if he gets in the way,’ Erak said.

  ‘The dog’s a she, chief,’ Svengal told him.

  ‘He, she. Won’t matter too much once she doesn’t have a head,’ Erak said.

  On board Heron, they heard Erak’s wordless bellow. All eyes turned to look at the burly Oberjarl, standing on the beach several hundred metres away.

  ‘What’s up with Erak?’ Stefan asked.

  Stig shaded his eyes with his hands, peering at Erak and Svengal. He saw the Oberjarl was holding something and, as he watched, the sunlight flashed as it reflected from the object. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. He turned to Hal. ‘I think he’s found his walking staff.’

  Hal turned and looked quickly forward, to where Kloof was curled up in the bow, snoozing. The dog had sneaked away from the house after he had gone to bed, returning just before dawn. Now he had a bad feeling that she had been up to no good. He looked back at Erak.

  ‘Why is he just standing there?’ he asked. He noticed that the Herons had unconsciously drawn away, distancing themselves from him. Only Stig and Thorn remained close. As he watched, a young boy came running down the beach road, jumped down onto the beach and handed something to Erak. Sunlight flashed on metal again.

  ‘That looks uncomfortably like an axe,’ Stig said.

  ‘Is this the one, Oberjarl?’ asked Gundal Leifson. ‘It looks a bit . . . short.’

  It was Erak’s axe and it was short. Half its handle had been chewed away, leaving a ragged, splintered stump of ashwood. Again, Erak bellowed in rage.

  ‘My axe!’ he roared. ‘My beautiful axe! Look at what that cursed dog has done to it!’ He held it out for Svengal to see.

  His first mate shrugged deprecatingly. ‘It’s not too bad, chief. You can always –’

  ‘This was my grandfather’s axe!’ Erak said, quivering with rage.

  Svengal’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Erak was nodding, as he glared at the ruined weapon.

  ‘My father replaced the handle and I replaced the head,’ he said. ‘But otherwise, it’s completely original.’

  Then, with a roar, he took off down the beach towards the quay, brandishing the foreshortened axe in one hand and the equally foreshortened staff in the other.

  On board Heron, they heard his bloodcurdling cry. Hal glanced nervously to the quay, where a small pile of crates and kegs were waiting to be loaded.

  ‘Get those stores on board and cast off!’ he yelled, his voice breaking slightly with nervous tension. The crew of the Heron took one look at the bellowing Oberjarl, thrashing his way through the sand towards them, and leapt to obey, pitching the casks and crates onto the deck willy-nilly, then leaping back aboard and running to cast off the mooring lines. Distancing themselves from Hal was all very well, but Erak in his current mood might not recognise such a fine distinction.

  Erak had reached the cobblestoned quay as they let the last lines slip. Ingvar had an oar in his hands and was busy fending the ship away from the shore.

  Thorn watched with mild interest. ‘Thought you were waiting for the tide?’ he observed.

  Hal turned a fearful glance on him. ‘You can wait for the tide if you choose,’ he said, mentally urging Stefan and Jesper on to greater speed as they hauled up the starboard sail. The sail flapped, thrashed, then filled with a whoomping sound as the twins sheeted it home. He felt the tiller come alive in his hands and the ship curved smoothly out into the harbour.

  Erak arrived too late, with Svengal close behind him, and Gundal Leifson following on their heels. The Oberjarl let go an inarticulate howl and literally danced in fury on the edge of the quay. To make matters worse, Kloof chose that moment to wake up and stretch. Then, seeing the Oberjarl, she wagged her massive tail and spoke.

  Kloof!

  Almost blind with anger, Erak drew back the mangled axe, to throw it at the dog. Svengal caught his arm.

  ‘Chief! It’s your grandfather’s axe, remember?’

  Erak glared at him. ‘Don’t be an idiot!’ he snarled and sent the deformed axe sailing end over end across the water. It fell short, splashing into the harbour in the wake of the departing Heron.

  ‘You’ll have to come back some time!’ he roared. The crew on board affected not to have heard him. ‘And I’ll be waiting when you do!’

  On board the ship, Hal said reassuringly to Stig, ‘He’ll get over it.’

  Stig nodded, then said, ‘You think so?’

  Hal’s reply was forestalled by a piercing whistle from the far side of the harbour. A slim figure was standing on the mole, her seabag, weapons and equipment stacked by her feet. On her way to join the ship, she had seen what was happening and run down the opposite sea wall.

  ‘It’s Lydia,’ Stig said, but Hal was already steering to go alongside the mole.

  ‘Let go the sheets,’ he called to the twins, judging the moment precisely. As they did, he turned the ship neatly so that it lost way and slid alongside the wall. Thorn and Ingvar fended off with a pair of oars, while Stig went forward to catch Lydia’s seabag and weapons as she tossed them down. Then she leapt across the narrow gap herself, landing l
ight as a cat and dropping into a crouch to absorb the impact. Ingvar offered a hand to help her up.

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. She glanced around at the nervous, relieved faces of the crew, took in the jumble of last-minute stores they had thrown aboard, then looked across the harbour to where Erak was still prancing with rage.

  ‘Do you always leave port this way?’ she asked.

  Ingvar considered the question for a second or two.

  ‘Pretty much,’ he said.

  The rain came slanting in from the west, great sheets of it, driven by the wind, striking the oily sea like so many pebbles scattered by a giant hand. Heron, with the wind on her starboard beam, was making good time, slicing through the even swell, sending plumes of white spray skyward as she came down into the troughs, then rising like a gull to the next crest. It was a smooth, regular motion, without surprises or sudden, unexpected lurches. Hal stood at the helm, feet braced apart for balance, making continual minute corrections as the constantly varying forces of wind and sea tried to nudge the ship’s head away from her course.

  Under his orders, the crew had rigged a canvas tarpaulin over a spar placed to run along the centre of the deck from behind the mast. The result was a tent-like shelter. Normally, they only used this as sleeping quarters when they anchored for the night, but Hal had decided that there was no sense in everyone becoming damp and miserable while they were under way. Ulf and Wulf remained in the open, ready to tend the sheets if Hal changed course or the wind shifted. They were huddled in the waist of the ship, wrapped in tarred canvas cloaks that kept most of the rain off. Hal made a mental note to relieve them in another hour, replacing them with Stefan and Jesper. Thorn, who eschewed the comfort of the tent, stating that a real sailor wasn’t afraid of a little rain, was stretched out in the rowing well just for’ard of the steering position, wrapped in a rather moth-eaten bearskin and snoring happily.

  Hal was wearing sealskin boots and trousers, and a waist-length sheepskin vest with the collar turned up. Naturally, he was wearing the thick woollen watch cap that Edvin had knitted for him when they were pursuing the pirate Zavac. Occasionally, a trickle of cold rain would work its way past the tightly fastened collar and run down the back of his neck. But the discomfort was minor and he enjoyed the cold, fresh air, redolent with the scent of salt water and rain.

  Stig emerged from the canvas shelter and made his way aft to join him, balancing easily against the roll of the ship.

  ‘Comfortable?’ He grinned, noting the runnels of rain and spray trickling down Hal’s face. Drops of water, prevented from soaking in by the natural grease in the wool, clung to his cap like tiny diamonds.

  Hal returned the smile. He was at his most content when he was at Heron’s tiller, feeling the constant, tiny movements of the ship against his hand, and the pressure as she rose and fell beneath the soles of his feet. At moments like this, Hal felt totally at one with the ship he had created, exulting in her speed and power and purpose as she surged through the swell.

  ‘Perfectly,’ he said. He glanced down at the smooth oak of the tiller, polished by constant contact with his hands. ‘I never get tired of this.’

  ‘It must be wonderful to feel something that you’ve designed and created reacting to your slightest touch,’ Stig said. There was a wistful note in his voice. He knew he would never share that feeling with his friend. He was a good helmsman, but Hal was an artist. His judgement of speed, momentum and angles was instinctive. He could sense the interaction between wind and waves and current and simply know where to place Heron to best advantage. It was a skill that you had to be born with, Stig realised.

  He leaned on the railing, peering down at the grey water rushing past.

  ‘I’m happy to relieve you if you want a spell,’ he said, but Hal shook his head.

  ‘No need for that. I’m actually enjoying myself.’

  A splash of spray came overside as Heron sliced into a slightly larger than normal wave. Stig wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, licking his lips and tasting the salt.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

  Hal smiled. An opening like that was too good to miss. Stig would probably be disappointed if he didn’t take advantage of it.

  ‘Wonders may never cease,’ he said.

  His friend gave him a tolerant smile, and made a circular motion with his hand, as if conducting the expected jibe.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Get it all out. But seriously . . .’ He paused and Hal gestured for him to go ahead. Now that the moment was here, Stig wasn’t sure how to proceed. If Hal took what he was about to say in the wrong spirit, he might be insulted. Then he shrugged. Hal was too intelligent for that. At least, he hoped he was.

  ‘You’re a much better helmsman than me,’ he began. Always start with a positive, he thought.

  ‘So far, I can’t argue with your idea,’ Hal said lightly.

  ‘We all know it. I mean, I’m good on the tiller . . .’ Stig paused and Hal, knowing he was leading up to something, stopped his teasing.

  ‘You’re better than good,’ Hal said quietly.

  Stig nodded his appreciation of the compliment. ‘But you’re a complete natural,’ he continued. ‘You seem to know how the ship will react, what she’s going to do. You know how to place her exactly where you want her. It’s as if you see her in position before you put her there. It’s almost as if she’s an extension of yourself.’

  Hal shrugged. He knew, without any false vanity, that he was a better helmsman than anyone on board. Better than just about anyone in Hallasholm, in fact. There was an old fisherman who might have a better touch on the tiller than he did. And three or four wolfship captains who were probably as good as he was. He also knew that it was a gift he had been born with – an innate ability to gauge speed, angles, drift and the relative position of other ships. As such, it was nothing for him to feel particularly boastful about. He had this skill through no fault or virtue of his own – although, admittedly, he had practised to develop it to a fine art.

  ‘It probably helps that I designed and built the ship,’ he said mildly.

  But Stig shook his head. ‘You’re the same on any ship,’ he said. There was a pause as he wondered how to continue.

  Hal looked at him shrewdly. ‘I take it you didn’t come up here simply to praise my unerring skill as a helmsman,’ he said. ‘I imagine the word but is about to make an appearance.’

  Stig couldn’t help a slight grin forming. ‘Ah, you’ve seen through my skilful verbal gymnastics.’

  ‘Be hard not to. You don’t usually shower me with praise and lavish compliments. So let’s hear the but.’

  Stig took a deep breath. ‘But,’ he said deliberately, drawing the word out, ‘when we go into battle, you’re not at the helm. You’re up there –’ he gestured towards the bow with his thumb ‘– shooting the Mangler.’

  Hal nodded thoughtfully. Stig had a point, he realised.

  ‘That’s because nobody else can shoot it,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Only because nobody else has ever tried. You designed it. You built it. So it was only natural that you would be the one who would operate it. The problem is, when we go into battle, that leaves the ship in the hands of someone who is nowhere near as skilled as you.’

  Hal said nothing. A slight frown creased his forehead. His first inclination was to disagree. But he realised his friend was right.

  Stig noticed his hesitation and continued. ‘The thing is, I’m nowhere near as good a helmsman as you are. But I’m just as good a shot. Maybe even better. I could learn to use the Mangler.’

  That was true. Stig had borrowed Hal’s crossbow on occasions and had proven to be every bit as good a shot as his skirl. And he was much more accurate throwing a spear or a javelin. He had a natural athlete’s ability to judge a moving target’s speed and direction, and aim his shot so that the projectile arrived in the same spot, and at the same time, as the targ
et.

  ‘This way,’ Stig continued, ‘we’d be using people where they’re best suited. As it stands, you’re at the Mangler, yelling instructions to whoever’s on the tiller to get us in position, and telling Ingvar where you want him to point the weapon. If you were back here, it would be simpler. You know where we need to place the ship to use the Mangler to best advantage.’

  Hal nodded. Positioning the ship to give the Mangler the best possible firing angle could be vital in a fight. Then Stig added the clincher.

  ‘Besides, if things go wrong, I’d much rather have you back here in charge of the ship than stuck up in the bows.’

  And that was the real point, Hal thought. He had always been torn when he relinquished control of the ship to take over the giant crossbow. He hated leaving the Heron in someone else’s hands when they were going into danger. In his heart, he knew that this was where he belonged – at the tiller, in control of the ship. This was where he was most comfortable. And this was where he could contribute most to the Heron’s success.

  ‘You’re making sense,’ he told Stig, and he saw his friend’s shoulders relax. He realised that Stig had been worried that he might insult Hal with his suggestion and he smiled now to show that this wasn’t the case.

  ‘One small problem,’ said a deep voice from the rowing well in front of them.

  ‘I thought you were asleep,’ Hal said, and grinned at Stig.

  ‘And I thought a smelly old bear had died on the rowing benches,’ Stig added.

  Thorn grunted as he sat up, throwing back the bearskin. Droplets of water flew in all directions. He turned a disparaging eye on Stig, who shrugged his shoulders unapologetically, then addressed Hal.

  ‘Stig and I are the main fighting party,’ Thorn began. ‘We’re the ones who are first to board if we fight another ship. Can’t do that if he’s stuck behind the Mangler.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Hal admitted. ‘But he can always join you as we get closer. It’ll only take a few seconds.’