Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

  That meant that when they tried to escape, they’d have to sail past the point where Nightwolf was moored.

  And that meant he could be ready and waiting for them.

  Ulf stood back and surveyed their handiwork with satisfaction. The ship was re-rigged with its two fore and aft yardarms and triangular sails. They had unfastened the forestay when they took down the temporary square-rigged yardarm, then reattached it in its original position once the twin yardarms were in place. He tested the tension on the thick rope. It felt bar-taut and he nodded to himself.

  Stefan beckoned to Wulf.

  ‘Give us a hand running the starboard sail up,’ he said. ‘I thought I felt that block catch a little before.’

  Stefan, Edvin and Wulf heaved on the halyard and the sail slid smoothly up the mast – until it reached a point halfway up. Then, as Stefan had predicted, the rope jammed in the block and the yardarm stopped moving up. Annoyed, they released the halyard and let the yardarm and sail slide down again. Stefan moved to smear grease into the block – a large wooden pulley that gave them extra purchase when they were hoisting the mast and sail – to make it run more smoothly. As he did so, Kloof, who was tethered to the mast, leaned forward eagerly, sniffing at the grease and getting in Stefan’s way. He took a half-hearted swipe at her with the brush he was using. She wagged her tail and tried to catch the brush in her teeth.

  ‘Move her away, will you?’ he appealed to Ulf. After all, Ulf had been doing nothing in the last few minutes but watching and Stefan thought it was time for him to lend a hand. Ulf obligingly stepped across the deck and unfastened the length of cord that held Kloof in place.

  With the instinctive cunning of all tethered dogs once they feel the tether loosened, Kloof jerked suddenly away, putting all her forty-five kilograms of weight behind a lunge for freedom. The thin cord slipped through Ulf’s hand and she was free. She darted aft, easily evading Edvin’s desperate clutching dive, and crouched, backside high, forefeet and nose low, waiting for Ulf to make a move to recapture her.

  ‘Bad dog!’ he said. ‘Come back here!’

  He crept carefully towards her. The loose end of the cord was barely two metres away, lying on the deck. At the last moment, he made a dive for it, as quickly as he could.

  But, fast as he was, Kloof was even faster. She hurled herself to one side and the cord whipped away from Ulf’s clutching fingers.

  ‘Stop cackling and give me a hand!’ Ulf snarled at the other three. The sight of Ulf blundering after the nimble-footed dog had set them laughing helplessly. Now they gathered themselves and moved to help him, planning to hem the dog in between them.

  But Kloof wasn’t in any mood to be hemmed. Assessing the relative sizes of Stefan and Wulf, she darted towards Stefan, pulling loose from his hands as they clutched briefly at the scruff of her neck, then cannoning into him and sending him crashing into Edvin so that they both went sprawling into the rowing well.

  The way to the wharf was now clear. In a series of great bounds, she crossed the deck, leapt to the top of the bulwark, then onto the timber planking of the wharf. Once there, she set off at high speed and disappeared into the maze of narrow alleys at the end of the wharf.

  ‘Kloof! Come back! Good dog! Here, Kloof!’ Wulf shouted desperately. Then, in despair, he added, ‘Oh, Gorlog take you! Bad dog!’

  Stefan put two fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. But there was no sign of the massive dog.

  Ulf rounded on his brother in a fury. ‘Why didn’t you catch her?’ he demanded. ‘She was right in front of you!’

  ‘Don’t blame me!’ Wulf retorted angrily. ‘You were the idiot who untied her from the mast!’

  ‘Because he told me to!’ Ulf shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Stefan.

  ‘I didn’t tell you to untie her and then let go of the rope!’ Stefan replied with considerable spirit. ‘That was your own bright idea. What did you think she was going to do?’

  They glared at each other. Then Ulf calmed down a little.

  ‘Do you think we should go after her?’ he asked. The others considered the idea, then both shook their heads.

  ‘We’d never catch up with her now. She’s gone looking for Hal,’ Edvin said.

  ‘Let’s hope she finds him.’ But Stefan’s tone of voice indicated that he didn’t hold out any great hope for such a thing. Ulf sighed, then tried to put a positive face on the event.

  ‘She’ll find her way back,’ he said. ‘She’s a smart dog.’

  Stefan looked at him morosely. ‘What is there about that dog that makes you think she is in any way smart?’

  Ulf considered the question for a few seconds. Then his shoulders slumped. ‘You’re right. She’s an idiot. Maybe we’re well rid of her.’

  ‘Tell that to Hal,’ Wulf said heavily and the three of them exchanged worried glances. They looked up hopefully as they heard footsteps approaching on the wharf – for a moment harbouring the ridiculous hope that someone had caught the dog and was bringing her back. But it was only Gilan and Lydia. The two dropped lightly down onto the deck and surveyed their disconsolate shipmates.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Gilan asked.

  Edvin pointed down the wharf in the direction in which Kloof had escaped.

  ‘Kloof got away,’ he said. ‘Ulf untied him.’

  ‘Because Stefan told me to!’ Ulf protested violently.

  ‘All right, all right!’ said Stefan, holding up his hands to calm down the angry outbursts that were threatening from all sides. ‘It was an accident. Nobody did it on purpose. The fact is, she’s gone. How did it go at the gold market?’

  Gilan shrugged. ‘We got the fire started, and nearly got caught by the dooryeh. Then Lydia broke us out through the roof and we got away.’

  Lydia glanced at him. He made it all sound so simple and uneventful, she thought, remembering the rising sense of panic she had felt as she tried to break an exit through the roof tiles while Gilan had held the dooryeh at bay below her.

  ‘Did you see if Hal and the others got the prisoners out?’ Ulf asked but the Ranger shook his head.

  ‘We didn’t stay around to watch. There were guards all over the place, so we headed back here to the ship. I’m sure they’ll be here before long.’

  Lydia looked along the wharf to where a dark alley led off into the town. ‘Hal’s not going to be too happy when he finds his dog is missing,’ she said.

  ‘You can go and look for her if you like,’ Stefan told her. ‘But I suspect Hal is going to be in a hurry to get out of here when he gets back – dog or no dog.’

  Mahmel led a group of twelve dooryeh at a steady run down the main thoroughfare to the harbour. The thud of feet on the cobbles mixed with the jingle of chain mail and the slap of sword scabbards as they ran.

  He knew for certain now who had instigated the escape. One of the guards on duty had been present when Hal and the others had delivered Ingvar to the market two days ago. He recognised the Hellenese men – as he thought they were – as the group who had charged into the guardroom, clubs and axes swinging.

  ‘They came by ship,’ Mahmel muttered to himself. ‘They’ll be heading back to it.’

  ‘They took the twelve Araluans with them, lord,’ the guard told him. ‘They won’t be able to move quickly. Three of them were badly wounded.’

  Mahmel thought quickly. Chances were, the escapees would avoid the main streets, reasoning that they would be patrolled. If they took to the back alleys, they would have to wind their way back to the harbour. And if they were further delayed by the wounded Araluans, there was a good chance he could get in front of them and block their path.

  The majority of the escaped slaves had been rounded up, or in some cases killed. Only the Araluans and a group of Zambazi warriors from the southern jungles were still on the loose. He decided he’d take care of the Zambazi another day. For now, he wanted to apprehend those Araluans and their cursed Hellenese rescuers.

 
Quickly, he ordered a lieutenant and a half platoon to follow him and set out on the direct main route to the harbour.

  ‘We’re going to have to stop again,’ the spokesman for the Araluans told Hal.

  Hal cursed quietly. They were making terribly slow progress, hampered by the wounded Araluans, and the girl Ophelia in particular. She slumped against the rough stone wall of a house now, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. None of the other Araluans were in sufficiently good shape to carry her. He considered having Thorn or Stig take on the job. But he needed both of them unhampered and ready to fight if they were ambushed. And he was realistic enough to know that if he tried to carry the woman, he’d be exhausted before they went a hundred metres.

  He knelt beside Ophelia. She looked up and recognised him. The fear she was feeling was all too evident in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t leave me behind,’ she pleaded.

  He smiled at her and shook his head. Truth be told, he had considered the idea. But almost immediately, he had rejected it.

  ‘We came here to take twelve of you home,’ he told her. ‘That’s still my plan.’

  Behind them, the city was ominously silent now. Previously, they had heard distant shouting and occasional cries of pain and alarm, presumably as the patrols gathered in groups of escaping slaves. Now there was no noise at all, only the normal night sounds. That indicated that the other escapees had been re-taken or killed. And that meant the patrols would be able to concentrate on their little group.

  He wondered briefly how Jimpani and his party had fared. He had a feeling that they would have got away successfully. The dark-skinned warrior had struck him as a capable sort of leader.

  He looked around. The slaves were slumped against the white plastered walls of the houses that lined the alley. Ingvar stood with the wounded man still firmly in place on his back. He’d decided it was easier to continue to carry him while they stopped, rather than set him down and then have to lift him into place once more.

  ‘How are you managing, Ingvar?’ he asked.

  Ingvar nodded, unsmiling. ‘I’m fine, Hal. Give the word and I’m ready to go again.’ It wasn’t a boast. It was a simple statement of fact. Ingvar had been starved and probably ill treated for two days in the slave cell. But his strength was undiminished.

  He’s indefatigable, Hal thought. Then he gestured to the two Araluans who were helping Ophelia.

  ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Get her on her feet.’

  She groaned as they raised her, putting her arms around their shoulders and standing either side of her. The two escapees helping the man with the badly damaged ankle looked rebellious for a moment. Hal met their gaze and let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. No words were needed. The two men stooped and hauled their compatriot to his feet.

  ‘Lead on, Thorn,’ Hal called. He sensed that they must be close to the broad, straight main thoroughfare that led to the harbour. They’d been twisting and winding through the back alleys and narrow side streets for some time now.

  ‘Not long to go now,’ he called encouragingly to the Araluans.

  Heads down, exhausted, they shambled behind Thorn and Stig as the two Skandians led them out of the back alley and onto the broad main road.

  And stopped.

  Hal emerged at the rear of the column, wondering what was holding them up. Then he saw.

  A dozen armed guards, under the command of the green-turbaned Mahmel, were forming a line, swords drawn, and blocking the way to the harbour.

  ‘Oh dear, oh deary me!’ Thorn said in a ridiculous falsetto voice. ‘What are we going to do? It’s twelve big hairy guardsmen and Mahmel in a natty green hat.’

  It was all very well to joke about it, Hal thought, but the situation was serious. They were well and truly outnumbered and the dooryeh were professional soldiers and trained fighters. Stig and Thorn were good, he knew. But against these odds, they’d have to be better than good.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked quietly, in Skandian. ‘It’s twelve to four – thirteen to four if you count Mahmel.’

  ‘Oh, I never count Mahmel,’ Thorn said breezily.

  Ingvar spoke up, a little annoyed. ‘Twelve against five,’ he corrected. ‘Don’t forget I’m here, Hal.’

  ‘You stay back, Ingvar, unless we really need you,’ Hal told him briskly. Ingvar, with his huge size and massive muscles, could be devastating in attack. But his poor eyesight made him vulnerable to any counterattack an enemy might launch. Usually, in battle, Lydia stood back a little, armed with her darts and ready to drop anyone who tried to take him by surprise. But Lydia wasn’t here, and against these odds, Ingvar’s companions would be too occupied to keep an eye out for him.

  Ingvar said nothing, but gave an ill-tempered grunt. He hated being a passenger in a fight, even though he knew Hal was right.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,’ Thorn said, also speaking in Skandian. ‘On my command, we’re going to charge these jumped-up prison guards.’

  ‘You have noticed that they outnumber us three to one,’ Jesper pointed out.

  Thorn nodded. ‘I have. That’s why they won’t be expecting us to charge them.’

  ‘I certainly wasn’t until you mentioned it,’ Jesper said.

  Thorn spared him a quick, fierce grin. ‘Always do the unexpected, Jesper,’ he said. ‘Particularly if you’re in a tight spot.’

  ‘Are we in a tight spot?’ Jesper wanted to know.

  ‘I think it’s about as tight as I’d like it to be, so let’s loosen it a little,’ Thorn said. ‘Are we all ready to surprise our friend in the green hat?’

  The others chorused their assent. Thorn drew in a breath to call the charge when suddenly, a snarling, snapping, tan and black hurricane erupted out of an alleyway beside the line of dooryeh facing them.

  Kloof hit the left end of the line like a battering ram, knocking two of the guardsmen over. They, in turn, crashed into a third. The third man staggered, and turned to face the horrifying sight of forty-five kilograms of enraged dog. All he could see were red eyes and huge, snapping teeth. He yelped in fear as Kloof’s jaws clamped shut on his sword arm with all the force of a bear trap. The sword fell from his fingers and he dropped to his knees. Instantly, Kloof released him and leapt at the next man in line, who shouted in terror and fled, with Kloof hot on his heels, barking nonstop.

  Seeing the enemy so disorganised and in utter confusion, Thorn yelled the time-honoured Skandian battle command.

  ‘Let’s get ’em, boys!’

  The four Herons charged forward in a tight group, axe, swords and the mighty war club on Thorn’s right arm ready to wreak havoc.

  Thorn was the first to make contact. His club smashed down on the dooryeh commander’s scimitar, smashing it out of the soldier’s hand. Before the man had time to react, Thorn’s small shield slammed full into his face, breaking his nose and cheekbone. The sergeant stumbled backwards, blinded by blood and tears, his hands to his face, sinking to the cobblestones, huddled over in agony.

  Seeing he was well and truly out of the fight, Thorn wasted no further time on him. He swept the club backhanded in a sideways rising arc at the next man in line. It was an unexpected attack. The soldier was expecting an overhand strike – most people did when they faced a club. The club smashed into his hip and there was an ugly crunching sound as bones gave way. Like his commander, the soldier fell to the ground, desperately trying to drag himself away from further harm, whimpering in agony.

  Now Stig was in the fight, his mighty axe stroke thundering down onto a dooryeh’s raised shield. The metal-reinforced wood might have stood up to a sword, but Stig’s axe, with all of Stig’s strength behind it, was no mere sword. The shield split in half and the horrified soldier watched as the gleaming axehead continued its downward arc with barely a pause. It was the last thing the unfortunate guardsman saw.

  Almost instantaneously, and with the reflexes of a cat, Stig deflected a scimitar thrust from his left with his s
hield, then stepped left and slammed the metal boss of the shield into his attacker’s body.

  There was a whoof of exhaled breath mixed with a grunt of pain from several cracked ribs. The soldier went down – luckily for him as it turned out, as Stig’s horizontal axe stroke came whistling just centimetres above his head.

  Hal crossed swords with another guardsman. They struck and parried at each other. Then he became aware of a second man coming at him from his left. He stopped the scimitar blade with the saxe in his left hand. Then parried a cut from the first man with his sword. Almost immediately, he had to leap to his right as the man on the left disentangled his scimitar and lunged at him. Hal felt the thick taste of fear in his mouth as he realised he couldn’t continue fighting the two of them for much longer. Sooner or later, one of them would penetrate his guard while he was occupied with the other. He swept his saxe sideways, deflecting another scimitar thrust. Then he sensed movement on his left, coming from behind him, and Jesper’s sword flashed past him, taking the left-hand attacker in the centre of his body, flicking in and out like a striking snake. The guardsman fell sideways, staring in horrified disbelief at the blood welling from the wound. His chain mail and sword clattered as he crashed onto the cobbles.

  ‘Thanks, Jes,’ Hal called. Now that he was able to concentrate on his original opponent, he drove the man back with a series of blindingly fast slashes, forehand and backhand, battering at the man’s guard until, as it faltered, he saw his opportunity and lunged the point of his sword through an opening. He hit the man in the thigh and the soldier staggered, then fell, dropping his scimitar to clench his hands around the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

  As Thorn had told them repeatedly, You don’t have to kill a man to put him out of the fight.

  And in the space of a few violent, fast-moving seconds, the entire tenor of the encounter had changed. Seven of the dooryeh were dead or wounded, and two more were only just staggering to their feet after Kloof’s enraged charge out of the alley.