Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  ‘You’re going to take on eight guards with just four of you? Don’t you think you’ll be a little outnumbered?’ Ulf asked. And for once, his brother was in total agreement. He nodded emphatically.

  In truth, Hal was concerned about the imbalance of numbers. After Stig and Thorn, Ulf and Wulf were the two most capable warriors on board. But they were the sail handlers, and so were totally familiar with the rigging for the mast and sails. He was tempted to split the difference – leave one on board to help re-rig the ship and take the other along on the raid. He hesitated, and glanced at Thorn, who seemed to read what was in his mind.

  ‘Four of us will be more than enough,’ he said firmly. ‘Any more and we’ll be getting in our own way. And besides, if we hit them two hours after midnight, you can bet that at least half of them will be snoring in those bunks.’ He looked at Jesper. ‘I assume you can get that door open without making any noise?’

  Jesper nodded confidently. ‘The lock is easy,’ he said. ‘And you saw how well maintained it was. They’ll never know we’re there until we come bursting in.’

  Thorn ran his left hand idly over the smooth wood of the massive club-hand that was resting on the deck between his feet.

  ‘You just get the door open and Stig and I will do any bursting that’s necessary,’ he said. ‘We’ll clean them up in jig time.’

  Stig grinned in fierce agreement. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, Thorn.’

  The old warrior looked at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘I know,’ he said, and the others laughed as Stig flushed, realising he’d left himself wide open for that retort.

  But Wulf wasn’t prepared to give in so easily. He hated the thought of being left out of the coming fight.

  ‘Hal, we’ve got two days. Why can’t we re-rig the ship now – get it done before the raid? Then I could come with you.’

  Instantly, Ulf turned on him. ‘You could go with him?’ he said indignantly. ‘Why not me? What makes you special?’

  ‘It was my idea,’ Wulf told him.

  Ulf shook his head vehemently. ‘No! You just said it. I’d already thought it!’

  ‘Then you should have said it when you did,’ Wulf retorted.

  ‘I was going to. But you interrupted!’

  ‘How could I interrupt you when you weren’t saying anything?’ Wulf challenged.

  Hal looked round for Ingvar, remembered where he was and sighed.

  ‘Just shut up, the two of you, please,’ he said. He was tired and worried about Ingvar, and his mild tone came as a surprise to the twins. They promptly stopped their bickering, sensing his mood and the reason behind it.

  ‘Sorry, Hal,’ Wulf said.

  ‘Yes. Sorry,’ his brother echoed.

  The rest of the crew exchanged surprised looks. They had never heard either of the twins apologise for their behaviour in the past – unless they were being threatened with being tossed overboard by Ingvar.

  Truth be told, Ulf and Wulf missed their massive shipmate. They found a perverse enjoyment in the brinkmanship they practised with him – arguing and bickering up to the point where he threatened to heave them overboard, then quickly pulling back before he acted. So far, they had only misjudged once.

  ‘We can’t re-rig the ship any earlier,’ Hal told them now, in a patient tone. ‘If we’re seen setting up new masts and yards, it’ll cause comment – particularly with such a distinctive and different sail rig. People will start talking and there’s a chance that word might get to Tursgud.

  ‘We simply can’t risk that. If he hears about a foreign ship with a triangular sail, he’ll know it’s us. And from there, it won’t take him long to figure out why we’re here. He’ll warn Mahmel that we’re planning to rescue the Araluan slaves, and if that happens, our chances are zero. The guards will be on the alert and we won’t get within a hundred metres of the slave market without being spotted and stopped. Surprise is our best ally and we can’t take any chances that it might be compromised. We need to wait till the last minute to replace the yardarm and sail. And we need to do it in darkness.’

  He paused before adding his final argument. ‘And remember, if our plan to break into the market is ruined, we’ll be leaving Ingvar in there, as well as the twelve Araluans.’

  Ulf and Wulf looked at the deck as that final thought sank in.

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Ulf said.

  ‘We can’t leave Ingvar behind,’ Wulf said.

  Hal studied them both for a few seconds, then nodded his appreciation of their attitude.

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ he said. ‘I know you’d love to come along on the raid, but you’ll be doing something just as important back here. If we don’t get our normal sail and mast replaced, we’ll never make it out of the harbour.’

  He glanced around the rest of the crew and took in the serious expressions on their faces. Up until now, none of them had thought about the consequence of failure – the fact that they would be leaving Ingvar to be sold as a slave. In the time they had known Hal and sailed with him, they had never seen one of his battle plans go wrong. Now, when they saw the obvious tension in their skirl and the strain on his face, they realised how finely balanced their chances were.

  ‘Anyone got any other questions?’ he asked and there was a general chorus in the negative. The group began to break up, with Stig and Thorn moving to check and sharpen their weapons, while the twins and Stefan made sure they had all the halyards, shackles, stays and spars they would need when the time came to replace the sails. At least, they thought, they could get some of the preparatory work done in advance. Edvin lit his fire and began preparing lunch. Jesper checked through the items in his lock-picking kit, selecting the picks he would need, having checked out the keys and locks in use at the slave market.

  As this more or less normal shipboard routine began, Lydia made eye contact with Hal and, with a jerk of her head, beckoned him towards the stern, where they could speak privately.

  He followed her slim, erect figure. He could see that she was angry. It was obvious in every line of her body. And it was obvious whom she was angry at, he thought wearily. He really wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation with Lydia. He was tense and nervous about the coming attack on the slave market. There were so many things that could go wrong, so many indefinables and unforeseeables. Consequently, when Lydia launched her verbal attack on him, he was more than ready to reply.

  ‘I don’t know how you could do that,’ she said bitterly.

  He knew what she was talking about, but asked, nevertheless, ‘Do what?’

  ‘How you could leave Ingvar – desert him in that slave pen while the rest of you all came back safe and sound.’

  ‘We didn’t have a lot of choice,’ he pointed out. He resented having to explain his actions to her. But he knew that she and Ingvar had a special relationship and he thought he owed her that much. ‘We were outnumbered and unarmed. And it wasn’t as if Mahmel suggested we leave him there. He told us flat out. Those are the rules here.’

  She shook her head angrily. ‘Then you should have known that and not taken him there in the first place. Trust Thorn to come up with such a ridiculous plan!’

  ‘It wasn’t a ridiculous plan,’ Hal said evenly. ‘And if you recall, Ingvar was all in favour of it when it was suggested.’ She opened her mouth to reply but he continued, raising his voice and overriding her.

  ‘And, if you’d listened to what I said earlier, you’d remember that Ingvar himself said that it was a good idea for him to remain in the slave pen. He said he’d have a chance to get the Araluans ready for an escape.’

  ‘Well, of course he’d say that! He idolises you. He’d do anything to win your respect and admiration! You’d better make sure you get him out of there in one piece!’

  Hal’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think you’re selling Ingvar short,’ he said. ‘He didn’t choose to do it so I’d admire him. He chose to do it because he could see immediately that it was a good idea. Ingvar is much smarter than
most people give him credit for.’

  Lydia flushed. She’d made the statement out of spite, in an attempt to make Hal feel guilty, to feel that it was somehow his fault. She certainly hadn’t meant to denigrate Ingvar’s intelligence or ability to think independently.

  ‘Well, maybe not . . .’ she faltered.

  Hal seized the initiative. He took a half pace closer to her, keeping his voice lowered. But it was still full of intensity.

  ‘Remember one thing, Lydia. Ingvar has been my friend, my good friend, for years. Far longer than the short time you’ve known him. We share a special bond as members of the Heron Brotherband that perhaps you don’t quite appreciate. I like him. I admire him. He’s brave. He’s honest. He’s loyal. And he’s smart enough to see an opportunity like this and take advantage of it. He doesn’t do things to win my favour or approval. He does them because they’re the right thing to do. I’m surprised I have to tell you that, of all people.’

  She dropped her eyes, realising that what he said was true. But Hal had more to say. He was angry now and he wanted to vent that anger a little.

  ‘What’s more, I don’t need you telling me that I’d better get him out of there in one piece. I plan to do just that – or die trying. So do Thorn, and Stig and Jesper and every last one of us. Ingvar’s a Heron, and we don’t leave our brothers behind.’

  Lydia looked away across the harbour, unwilling to meet his gaze. She knew he was right. She knew she was out of line. But, proud and independent as she was, she couldn’t quite bring herself to admit it.

  ‘Well . . . all right then,’ she said, grudgingly. ‘But let me tell you this: if anything happens to Ingvar, I will never forgive you.’

  Hal held her gaze for several moments in silence.

  ‘Let me tell you,’ he said finally. ‘If anything happens to Ingvar, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  As the day went on, Bernardo continued to goad and torment Ingvar – both physically and verbally.

  ‘Come on, fat boy,’ he would sneer. ‘Make a little room for those of us around you.’ This accusation, and variations on it, would be accompanied by painful jabs with his elbow or fist, usually aimed into Ingvar’s ribs.

  He would vary this theme from time to time, querying why Ingvar continued to accept such treatment.

  ‘Are you a coward?’ he would ask. ‘A big fat coward? Yes. I think you are. Otherwise you wouldn’t let me do this. Or this!’

  The last few words were accompanied by a punch or an elbow. Sometimes, he would punch Ingvar on the point of his shoulder. He invariably did this without warning, catching Ingvar by surprise and making him grunt with pain. When he heard this involuntary reaction, Bernardo would sneer and repeat the punishment.

  But still Ingvar refused to react or retaliate. He knew that any such action would lead to an all-in brawl with the Iberian, and he had no wish for that.

  After several hours, Ingvar found himself struggling with another problem. He had blithely told Hal that if he was in the prison, he would be able to contact the Araluan captives and prepare them for the rescue attempt. Now that he was here, he could see no way he could accomplish this. There seemed to be no way he could speak privately with the Araluan captives, assuming he could determine who they were. And he could hardly announce the rescue mission to the prison at large. He had no idea how many informants might be among the other potential slaves, ready to betray his secret for better treatment from the guards.

  But he was sure there would be several such people. Bernardo himself was a prime candidate. His heart sank as he realised he had placed himself in this hazardous position for no good purpose.

  Finally, after Bernardo had ignored him for half an hour, he decided he would have to make some sort of attempt to make contact with the Araluans. Once he had done so, he could try to figure out how to alert them without warning the rest of the prisoners of the upcoming rescue attempt.

  He raised his head and called out in the common tongue. ‘Are there any Araluans here?’

  A voice responded promptly from the other side of the dungeon, five metres further along. ‘Yes! There are twelve of us here. Who’s that?’

  Before he could respond, however, Bernardo, roused from his malevolent silence, rounded upon him.

  ‘What do you care? Who are you to start shouting questions in my prison? Who asked you to raise your voice?’

  Each of these questions was accompanied by a vicious elbow jab into his ribs. As he winced from the blows, Ingvar began to experience a slow-burning anger. It built within him, yet still he contrived to keep the peace.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I have a friend who’s an Araluan.’

  ‘Who is that? Are you Araluan too?’ the voice from across the passageway called. But now Bernardo rounded upon the unseen speaker.

  ‘You shut up!’ he shouted. ‘It’s no concern of yours who he is.’ He turned back to Ingvar, his eyes glittering with anger. ‘Where are you from? You don’t look Araluan. What’s your name?’

  ‘I’m Hellenese,’ Ingvar replied. Then, reasoning that Ingvar didn’t sound very Hellenese, he adjusted his name to suit his professed nationality. ‘My name is Ingvos.’

  ‘Hellenese?’ sneered Bernardo. ‘That’s a barbarous country full of ignorant swineherds. Say something in your barbarous language if you’re Hellenese.’

  In point of fact, Bernardo didn’t want to hear Ingvar speak Hellenese. He was simply looking for a way to belittle and browbeat the young man and this was as good as any. But, unwittingly, he had presented Ingvar with the solution to his problem. The Hellenic Islands were a remote archipelago at the eastern end of the Constant Sea. The odds were that an Iberian like Bernardo would have no knowledge of their language. It had no commonality with the Iberian tongue. He decided to adopt the ruse he had used earlier with Mahmel, and spoke in Skandian – an equally remote language. But his growing anger led him to pepper his words liberally with insults.

  ‘All right, you overgrown oaf. Hear this: you have an unpleasant nature and you smell like a swamp.’

  There was a brief cry of laughter from one of the Araluans and Ingvar swung quickly towards the sound, even though he could not see the man who had laughed.

  ‘Do you speak Skandian?’ he asked.

  A different voice replied, in broken Skandian. ‘I speak. I worked with Skandian duty ship at Cresthaven. Sold them fish.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Bernardo shouted, his gaze switching from Ingvar to the Araluans and then back again. ‘Shut up! I run this prison and I decide who speaks!’

  ‘Really?’ said Ingvar, reverting to the common tongue. His growing anger had wiped out the doubts he had felt earlier. At least now he could see a course of action presenting itself. ‘I rather thought the guards did that.’

  Several of the other prisoners around them snickered briefly. Bernardo glared round at them, silencing them, then grabbed the front of Ingvar’s tunic and pulled him close, so that their faces were only centimetres apart. Flecks of spittle landed on Ingvar as the Iberian raged at him.

  ‘You don’t make jokes! Understand? You do as I tell you!’

  And finally, Ingvar decided enough was enough. The anger, up until now a glowing ember, roared into full flame. He was a Skandian warrior, he thought. He was a member of the Heron Brotherband, after all. And the Herons had triumphed over Tursgud in their brotherband contest, then recaptured the stolen Andomal, sinking Zavac’s pirate ship and killing Zavac himself into the bargain. Ingvar’s pride surged. A Heron could do anything he set his mind to, and it was time this pathetic, posturing Iberian bully was made aware of the fact.

  Turning towards Bernardo, he hit the Iberian full in the face with three rapid-fire left jabs. The punches travelled less than twenty centimetres, but they had all the strength of Ingvar’s powerful arm and shoulder behind them.

  Bernardo’s head jerked back with the first punch, then came forward in time to meet the second and third. Ingvar heard the sound of bones cracking as the man’
s nose broke. Bernardo uttered a choked cry, dazed from the rapid sequence of devastating punches. Then Ingvar whipped the metre-long chain that attached him to the wall into a loop around the Iberian’s neck and pulled it tight.

  Bernardo tried to fight against the constricting chain cutting off his breath. But to no avail. Ingvar had him securely and he leaned back to tighten the loop. Bernardo scrabbled at the Skandian’s arms and hands with his nails, kicked his feet ineffectually against the stone floor, then, after a short struggle, he slumped unconscious.

  Only then did Ingvar release the pressure on the chain. Bernardo took one enormous, shuddering breath and fell to one side.

  ‘Nice work,’ said the slave to Ingvar’s left – the one who had previously cursed him for crowding against him. Now, seeing how easily Ingvar had dispatched the prison bully, he thought it might be a good idea to show there were no hard feelings. Ingvar looked at him, his eyes hard.

  ‘He had it coming,’ he said.

  The other prisoner nodded enthusiastically. ‘He did indeed!’

  And suddenly, Ingvar felt a whole lot better. The black mood of doubt and despair lifted from him and a sense of triumphant pride flooded through him. Bernardo had just learned the hard way that it didn’t pay to treat a Heron with contempt. Furthermore, as a member of the Heron Brotherband, Ingvar had the support and backing of invincible warriors like Thorn and Stig.

  Most of all, he realised that he could count on the ingenuity of his skirl. And in that second, he knew he would escape from this situation. Hal and his shipmates would never let him down. No matter what difficulties or dangers presented themselves, Hal would find a way to overcome them.

  He shoved the unconscious figure of Bernardo contemptuously, then spoke in Skandian again.

  ‘You Araluans take heart! My shipmates are coming to rescue you and take you back to Araluen. But keep it quiet, understand?’

  There was a pause while the Skandian-speaking Araluan translated to his comrades. Then he called out again. ‘When? When are they coming?’