Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  ‘That’s logical,’ he said. ‘You can inspect our arrangements while we take him down to the holding pen.’

  He clicked his fingers at the guard commander, who stepped forward, his hand out to take the chain from Hal. Hal passed him the chain and the guard started towards a door at the rear of the room.

  Ingvar baulked. ‘I’ll see you in two days, Hal,’ he said in Skandian, making his voice sound like a submissive whimper.

  ‘Trust me, Ingvar. We won’t leave you here,’ Hal replied in the same language. Then, to Mahmel, he said: ‘Right. Let’s see how secure this prison is.’ Sensing that Mahmel was about to order his companions to stay behind, he pre-empted the man and pointed to Stig and Thorn.

  ‘You two stay here,’ he said brusquely. ‘Jesper, come with me.’

  Mahmel had, in fact, been on the point of restricting access to Hal alone. But he decided to let the matter ride. The assistant was nowhere near as large or as muscular as the other two and seemed harmless enough.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. Then he indicated for Hal and Jesper to follow the guards as they led Ingvar through to the slave pen.

  They descended a flight of eight stone steps, then the stairway turned ninety degrees to the left and a heavy iron gate barred further progress. The senior guard handed Ingvar’s chain to one of his followers and produced a large key ring from an inner pocket. There were only two keys on it and he used one of them to open the gate. Jesper watched, lynx-eyed. The key turned easily, evidence that the lock was in constant use. Jesper studied the pattern of the wards – the notches cut into the blade of the large key – as the guard withdrew it from the lock. It was a simple enough design and he suppressed a smile. A loop of rope over a post might take him longer to crack, if it was knotted tightly.

  They trooped down the stairs and took another right-angle turn to the left. A wooden door, set in an arched opening and reinforced with brass strips, faced them. The area was dimly lit by two lanterns high in the wall beside them. The guard now produced the second key, a smaller one this time. He pounded on the timber door twice in quick succession, then once more after a pause. Then he inserted the key and unlocked the door. Again, the lock turned smoothly and they heard a slight click as it opened.

  ‘Why knock if you have a key?’ Hal asked.

  Mahmel glanced round at him. ‘There are eight guards on the other side of that door. If they hear it opening without that knock, they’ll be ready to cut down anyone who enters.’

  Hal nodded. ‘Impressive. How often do you change the signal?’

  ‘Every week,’ Mahmel told him. ‘We have six patterns and we rotate them at random.’

  Hal pursed his lips thoughtfully. It was the second day of the week and they planned to let the slaves loose on the fifth day. He’d wager that the coded knock changed every week on the first day. That meant the knock they had just heard should still be valid when they broke in.

  The guardroom was a large square, with flagstone walls and floor. Rush matting was laid over the floor to provide a modicum of comfort. The room was furnished with a table and eight comfortable-looking wooden chairs – all with curved backs and arms. There was an iron stove in the centre of the room, with a pipe chimney that went out through the ceiling. The grate glowed red with flames now. Hal guessed that it was kept burning constantly. In spite of the outside heat, the air in the room was damp and chill. Four bunks were ranged along a second wall and each was occupied by a guard. The other guards were grouped around the table, playing dice. The dice players wore their armour and their weapons were stacked close to hand. The four in the bunks were in various stages of undress. Hal studied them keenly, although he appeared to be uninterested in them. None of them were young. Three were grey haired and all of them appeared to be either overweight or in poor condition. They were guards, used to dominating unarmed, submissive prisoners, not fighting men, he assessed. One of them yawned. There were several lanterns in the room, and light also came in through a high skylight.

  The men at the table looked up curiously as the group entered. Seeing Mahmel, one of them made to rise, calling the others to attention. But Mahmel waved them down again.

  ‘Relax,’ he told them. ‘We’re bringing in a new prisoner.’

  There was another heavy wooden door on the wall to the right of the point where they had entered. This one, Jesper noted, was locked with a simple draw bolt. The guard commander drew the bolt and they followed him through into a small antechamber, where once more, they encountered an iron grille gate. This led into a huge, low-ceilinged room. As they approached it, there was a murmur of voices and a rustle of movement from within. Hal could make out the pale shape of faces peering at them through the gloom. This was the slave pen, he realised.

  ‘How many have you got in here?’ he asked.

  ‘At the moment, seventy-three. Your man makes seventy-four. We can fit ninety at a pinch but we rarely get that many,’ he said.

  Hal looked doubtful. ‘Seventy prisoners and you’ve only got eight guards?’ he said. ‘That hardly seems adequate to me.’

  Mahmel smiled confidently. ‘It’s adequate. The prisoners are chained in strings of ten or twelve. They’re manacled to the main chain by the wrist, so they find it hard to move. And the guards are armed, of course. Besides, there are also the guards from the gatehouse.’ He indicated the man who was leading Ingvar. ‘There are twenty of them. And there’s a garrison building thirty metres from the main entrance, tasked with keeping order in the gold market. They’re dooryeh – fifty fully armed and trained fighting men – not your normal prison guard. They can be in here within minutes if there’s trouble.’

  Hal nodded, maintaining an absent, careless look on his face. But his brain was racing as he added the figures. Seventy-eight guards, he thought. That was going to take some handling.

  The guard commander turned to Hal now, fingering the padlock that fastened the heavy chain around Ingvar’s neck.

  ‘Got the key?’ he asked. ‘We won’t need this any longer. I’ll chain him with one of the strings inside.’

  Hal glanced at Jesper, who produced the key. The guard unlocked the chain from Ingvar’s neck and passed it to Jesper, then inserted his own key into the iron gate. It swung open easily, like the others, and he shoved Ingvar inside. Two of the other guards stood by him, swords drawn and ready for any trouble. But Ingvar submitted meekly. The commander led Ingvar to where a line of slaves were slouched on the damp flagstone floor of the slave pen. They were all manacled to a heavy chain that stretched between them. The commander found an unused manacle and snapped it onto Ingvar’s right wrist. Jesper frowned. In the dim light, he couldn’t make out the lock on the manacle. Then he shrugged. Most likely it would be as primitive as the other locks he had seen.

  ‘Seen enough?’ Mahmel asked.

  Jesper started guiltily. Then he realised the question had been addressed to Hal and he calmed down.

  Hal nodded. ‘Certainly looks secure.’

  Privately, he was thinking: Seventy or eighty guards only minutes away – we’re going to need Gilan’s diversion in the gold market.

  Ingvar stooped under the low ceiling as the guards led him into the dim recesses of the dungeon. He cast furtive glances to either side as he was led past the rows of slaves.

  Some of them looked up to study this new addition to their numbers. Others ignored his arrival. It seemed that their incarceration had dulled their interest in the goings on around them. A new slave had been added to their numbers. So what? His arrival wouldn’t change the routine of the prison. They wouldn’t receive any more or any less food. The term of their captivity wouldn’t be lengthened or shortened. Consequently, they paid him no mind, staring straight ahead.

  For his part, Ingvar’s heart was hammering inside his ribs. He had no real idea what he was getting himself into. He’d appeared calm enough when he suggested to Hal that he should remain behind in the prison, and pointed out that he would have the opportunity to make conta
ct with the Araluan slaves. But he had suggested it because he saw only one alternative. Had Hal and the others refused to leave him here, there would have been a fight. Mahmel struck him as a despot, who wouldn’t listen to reasoned arguments against what he wished to be done.

  And the Skandians were unarmed and outnumbered. There could have been only one outcome to such an uneven battle.

  Better, he thought, to forestall any resistance and trust his friends to secure his release at a later date. But now, he wasn’t sure that he’d acted wisely.

  They’d committed a serious error of judgement by bringing him in chains to the slave market. Had they checked, as Mahmel pointed out, they could have learned that slaves delivered to the market were immediately imprisoned to await the sale day. But they had acted precipitately – he as much as the others – by presenting him for sale. Now he was imprisoned, with secure gates, locks, chains and guards between him and freedom. And he wasn’t sure if the Herons would be able to set him free again. Much as he admired Hal’s ingenuity, he was all too aware that sometimes the young skirl overlooked important details in a situation. And this appeared to be one of those times.

  Ingvar felt suddenly alone and vulnerable. For the past two years, he had been an integral part of the close-knit community that was the Heron Brotherband. The brotherband members watched out for one another, and provided help, advice and support to their brothers whenever needed. He had grown to depend on that support, and it had been in stark contrast to his early years, when his poor eyesight had made him an outcast who was left to his own devices, to blunder through as best he could.

  Now, suddenly, he was on his own once more, and if the crew of the Heron couldn’t release him when the time came, he faced a lifetime of slavery – and a lifetime of being alone. For all his size and power, Ingvar was little more than a boy, and the very real prospect of a life where he never saw his friends or his home again made tears of doubt and fear prickle his eyes.

  Angrily, he shook his head to clear them.

  That’s all I need, he thought, to be seen crying for my mam.

  His sudden movement caused the guards to draw back from him. One of them half raised the heavy club he was carrying, thinking that the new slave was about to rebel.

  Ingvar brought his shackled hands up in front of him in a submissive gesture.

  ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I had something in my eye.’

  The guards relaxed. The one without the club jerked on the chain attached to his manacles, pulling his hands back below waist level once more.

  ‘Just watch yourself,’ he ordered gruffly. ‘No sudden movements or Tarik will bust your brains for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ingvar said meekly. His worried state of mind made it all the easier to act submissively. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The guard called Tarik spotted a small gap between two of the slaves. He gestured with the club.

  ‘You two. Make some room,’ he ordered, and they began to shuffle apart. But a voice from further down the line of chained prisoners interrupted them.

  ‘Tarik! Bring him here. I’ve got loads of room by me!’

  The guard looked towards the voice. Almost as an afterthought, he made a gesture for the slaves to stop making room for Ingvar.

  ‘That’s you, is it, Bernardo?’ he called. There was a note of distaste in his voice that Ingvar didn’t like.

  The voice out of the shadows replied. ‘Yes. It’s me. You know I like to make all the new arrivals welcome. Bring him here.’

  The guards exchanged a glance and shrugged. They really didn’t care one way or the other where Ingvar ended up and past experience told them that the prisoner called Bernardo could make trouble if he didn’t get what he wanted.

  ‘Come on, you,’ said the guard holding Ingvar’s chain. He tugged on it and dragged the big Skandian further into the dungeon, leading him towards a spot on the opposite wall.

  Ingvar peered shortsightedly at his new companion. Bernardo was swarthy, with a mass of black hair and a bushy black beard. He was around thirty years of age, heavily built and well muscled. Ingvar estimated that they were about the same height and with the same breadth of shoulder. But where Ingvar had the classic Skandinavian physique – broad and burly – Bernardo had a more athletic appearance, like a boxer or a wrestler.

  From his accent, appearance and name, Ingvar took him to be Iberian. The guards shoved Ingvar down onto the damp stone floor beside him. As the prisoner had claimed, there was plenty of space there, although Ingvar noticed that the neighbouring slaves were crammed closely together. It was apparent that Bernardo had forced them to make room.

  The Iberian smiled widely as Ingvar settled awkwardly on the cold stone floor beside him, but the smile never reached his eyes. They were black and cruel as a hawk’s.

  ‘There, my friend. Make yourself comfortable. Bernardo is here to look after you.’

  The guard who had been leading Ingvar now produced a metre-long piece of chain with a manacle at each end. One of these he quickly secured around Ingvar’s left wrist. The other he attached to a longer, heavier chain stapled to the wall. Ingvar noted that there were up to a dozen other slaves attached to this main chain – including, of course, Bernardo. Once he was secured, the guard undid the manacles that he had been wearing up till now.

  Ingvar wriggled his buttocks on the rough stone, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. He felt a quick stab of fear as the Iberian continued to stare at him, still smiling. He dropped his gaze. He had no wish for any confrontation.

  Bernardo was one of those domineering types who could often be found in a prison. Bigger and stronger than the others, they would prey on their fellow captives, exploiting their weaknesses and asserting their own authority over those around them. While Ingvar wasn’t aware that Bernardo conformed to this type, he sensed the malice in the man. Once the guards left, there would be trouble – but it would be slow building. Bernardo wouldn’t come straight out and attack him. He would prod and goad him until they reached a flash point.

  Ingvar sighed to himself. He didn’t want trouble. He was big and strong, but he wasn’t an aggressive type, choosing to react physically only when there was no other choice. Bernardo, he concluded, was exactly the opposite.

  In fact, Ingvar appeared to the Iberian to be the perfect choice for a demonstration of his dominance. He was big, so the other slaves would recognise the object lesson when Bernardo gave him a beating and reduced him to a cringing wreck, pleading for mercy.

  In this, Bernardo made one important mistake. As has been noted, Ingvar was built in the classic Skandian mould. He was wide and bulky. Bernardo mistook the bulk for fat. He assumed Ingvar would be an easy target. In his experience, big, fat boys were easily cowed into submission, and Bernardo enjoyed easy targets.

  He looked sidelong at Ingvar, who sat with his head bowed and his eyes down, not making eye contact. Bernardo nudged him with an elbow.

  ‘You’re taking up too much room,’ he declared.

  Ingvar shuffled a little to his right. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

  The elbow nudged him again, harder this time, jarring into his ribs.

  ‘Come on, fat boy. You can’t take up more than your share of room.’

  Ingvar moved again. The prisoner on his right, emboldened by his submission to Bernardo, snarled a curse at him and shoved him back. This resulted in another elbow jab from Bernardo. Ingvar shuffled himself again and tried to find a compromise position. This was going to become unpleasant before too long, he thought.

  This time, Bernardo seemed content to leave him be. But he continued to stare fixedly at Ingvar. This wasn’t over. In fact, it was only just beginning.

  ‘We’re going to have to make sure the garrison and the gatehouse guards are fully occupied,’ Hal said. ‘There’s nearly eighty men in those two groups and we can’t fight that many.’

  He was sitting on the edge of the steering platform at the stern of the ship. The crew were gathered round him in
a half circle, seated on the deck, as he explained his plans. He looked now at Gilan.

  ‘That means you’ll have to get that fire started before we break in.’

  The Ranger thought for a few seconds. ‘We’ll start the ball rolling about half an hour before you want to make your move,’ he said. He glanced quickly at Lydia for concurrence and she nodded. ‘That’ll give us time for the fire to take hold and the alarm to be raised. And that’ll bring the dooryeh running.’

  ‘We could add to the confusion,’ Jesper suggested. ‘If we started yelling the alarm that the gold market was on fire and being attacked, we could stir things up a little faster.’

  Hal considered it but ended up shaking his head. ‘It’s a good idea,’ he admitted. ‘But I’d rather we kept out of sight at that point. If we start yelling the alarm, there’s a chance someone might wonder who we are and what we’re up to. We can’t risk that.’

  ‘What time are you thinking of breaking in?’ Thorn asked.

  ‘Two hours after midnight,’ Hal replied promptly. ‘That way, the prison guards will have relaxed. And the streets will be clearer. We don’t want to find ourselves fighting through crowds as we’re making our escape.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Stig said. ‘And who do you want in the raiding party?’

  ‘You and Thorn. Jesper, of course. And me.’ He paused, waiting for the protests from those he had left out. He didn’t have long to wait.

  ‘What about me?’ Ulf and Wulf spoke at exactly the same time and in exactly the same tone of wounded indignation.

  Stefan added his objection a second or so later. ‘You’re leaving me out? What for?’

  Only Edvin accepted the statement without protest. He’d been half expecting it. He was the smallest member of the crew, and the least effective in a fight.

  ‘I need you on board,’ Hal told them. ‘While we’re getting the prisoners out, I want you to re-rig Heron with her normal mast and sails. You’re the sail handlers and trimmers, so you can do it faster and better than anyone else.’