Slaves of Socorro

by John Flanagan

While all four of the Herons were untouched.

  The surviving Socorrans looked around in horror. Their three to one advantage had evaporated to little more than parity. They looked for Mahmel, their leader, and saw the green-turbaned figure sprawled across the body of a guardsman, both men covered in blood.

  Thorn smiled at them. Somehow, the smile was more reminiscent of a shark baring its teeth than an expression of good humour.

  ‘Shall we continue?’ he asked, and they began to back away – first one, then others following his example.

  Then, to clinch matters, Kloof returned from her pursuit. She charged back into the main street, barking and snarling. There were ominous red stains about her muzzle.

  That tipped the balance. The surviving dooryeh scattered and ran, leaving their dead and wounded behind them. Kloof set off after them, but they had run in several different directions and she couldn’t quite decide who to follow.

  ‘Kloof! Here, girl! Good girl! Here!’ Hal called and her hackles went down and she trotted obediently to him, her tail sweeping heavily, grumbling and growling deep in her chest still. She flumped down and sat beside him, looking up at him. Carefully, he wiped the blood from her muzzle with a piece of cloak he had taken from one of the fallen guardsmen. Then he wiped his sword and re-sheathed it.

  ‘By Ergon’s tears,’ Walton said, invoking an obscure Araluan god in an almost reverent tone. ‘I’m glad you’re on our side.’

  They surveyed the crumpled bodies lying on the cobbles. Several of the wounded were still trying to drag themselves away. Jesper pointed to them.

  ‘What do we do about them?’ he asked.

  Hal shook his head wearily. ‘Leave them be,’ he said. ‘We don’t want them.’

  Stig was standing over the bloodstained figure of Mahmel, his axe dangling loosely from his hand.

  ‘Don’t remember seeing him in the fight,’ he said curiously. ‘Who settled his hash for him?’

  The others exchanged glances and shrugged. Nobody could remember striking down the slave market manager.

  ‘Not sure,’ Jesper said. ‘It all got a little confused there for a few minutes.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Stig said. ‘Orlog’s breath, have you ever seen anything like Kloof here when she charged into them?’ He moved over and fondled the big dog’s ears. She grinned at him. ‘Good dog, Kloofy. Good, good dog!’

  Kloof lolled her tongue at him. There was no sign now of the terrifying, snapping, snarling monster that she had become when she charged into the Socorrans. Hal looked around at the huddled group of Araluan slaves.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve had a chance to rest up for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get back to the ship.’

  As the sound of their footsteps died away, there was a rustle of movement among the dead and wounded guardsmen and Mahmel slowly raised his head. Satisfied that the Herons had gone, he lurched to his knees, then to his feet. His tunic and cloak were drenched with blood, but none of it was his.

  In fact, Mahmel had taken no part in the brief and bloody fight. Seeing how it was shaping, he had dropped his scimitar and thrown himself across one of the fallen guardsmen, smearing himself with the man’s blood and lying still until the enemy had left.

  He looked around the bloodstained cobblestones for his scimitar, retrieved it and slid it back into its scabbard. There was no need to clean the blade. It hadn’t drawn blood at all. In fact, it hadn’t been used at all.

  The foreigners were heading north-east. He turned now and began running to the west. His guess had been right. Hal’s final words had confirmed that they had a ship somewhere in the harbour, and they were heading for it now. They had taken the road leading to the north-eastern reach, so they still had some distance to go. The harbour fort, with its battery of catapults, was much closer.

  That’s where Mahmel was heading. To get out of Socorro, they’d have to run the gauntlet of those fearsome machines. He couldn’t wait to see the jagged rocks raining down on their helpless ship as they tried to make their way out through the narrow channel.

  The sail rigging crew, and Gilan and Lydia, looked up in relief as their five comrades, accompanied by a dozen Araluans, emerged from the alleys onto the broad surface of the wharf. Kloof gambolled cheerfully along ahead of them, occasionally barking as if to say, ‘Follow me! I know the way!’

  ‘Lend a hand here! We’ve got wounded!’ Hal called.

  Stefan, Edvin and Gilan all leapt up onto the wharf and ran to help. Ulf and Wulf, knowing they would soon be departing, busied themselves making sure their newly rigged sheets were clear of any obstruction. The wind was out of the north-west, blowing steadily as the desert cooled. They knew they’d be using the port side sail, so they prepared it for hoisting.

  ‘Who’s injured?’ Edvin asked urgently. He was the trained healer in the crew.

  Hal calmed his worst fears. ‘None of us. Some of the Araluans need help – particularly one of the women.’ He indicated Ophelia with a jerk of his head and Edvin moved to her, gesturing for her companions to set her down. He examined her quickly, feeling her side, probing gently to see if any of her ribs were fractured. She smiled weakly at him as he patted her hand.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, then looked up to her companions. ‘Get her aboard.’

  He moved to the other injured ex-slaves, nodding his head as he saw the tight bandage wound neatly round one man’s thigh.

  ‘Who did this?’ he asked. He noticed that Ingvar’s shirt was missing a sleeve. The huge youth pointed a thumb at his own chest.

  ‘I did,’ he said.

  Edvin nodded approvingly. ‘Nice job. But we’d better loosen it for a few minutes to let the blood flow back into the limb. Otherwise, he could lose it.’

  He saw that the third injury was a man with a severe ankle sprain – perhaps even a break. But there was no immediate danger and he could wait till last. His two companions, who were supporting him, looked at Edvin with sour faces as he straightened after examining the man’s ankle.

  ‘Carry him aboard,’ he said.

  ‘Can someone else do it?’ one of them complained. ‘We’ve been carrying him for hours!’

  Hal’s hand on his shoulder jerked him round so that he found himself facing the skirl’s angry glare. The Araluan shrank back a pace or two. Hal was young – he wasn’t yet twenty. But there was something in his eyes that demanded instant obedience.

  ‘Yes. Someone else can do it!’ Hal snapped. ‘But if they do, you’re not setting foot on my ship. In fact, I’ll tie you both up and leave you here for the dooryeh to find. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you. Are we clear on that?’

  The Araluan’s eyes slid off to one side, unwilling to meet Hal’s furious gaze. He nodded and mumbled something incoherent.

  ‘I said, are we clear?’ Hal shouted at him.

  He shuffled his feet. ‘Yes, yes, whatever you say,’ he mumbled.

  Then he and his friend lifted their countryman and moved to the edge of the wharf, where Ulf and Wulf, finished checking their equipment, were waiting to lift him down into the ship. Hal met Thorn’s gaze and shook his head.

  ‘Honestly!’ he said. ‘Some people think only about themselves! Those two have been nothing but trouble. We should have left them behind.’

  ‘I see you found Kloof,’ Wulf said cheerfully, as the dog bounded down onto the deck.

  ‘Yes. We did,’ Hal said, a note of suspicion in his voice. ‘I was wondering how she got loose.’

  ‘I sent her to find you,’ Wulf said easily. ‘Thought you might need guiding back to the ship.’

  Hal noticed that neither Edvin nor Stefan would meet his gaze as Wulf made that statement. Ulf looked away as well, as if something across the harbour had suddenly claimed his attention. There was more to this than Wulf was saying, Hal realised. But his thoughts were interrupted by Stig’s cheerful rejoinder.

  ‘Just as well you did! She really saved our bacon. Went charging into a platoon of dooryeh, scatteri
ng them like ninepins! They didn’t know what hit them.’

  ‘Yeah. I thought she might come in handy,’ Wulf said airily.

  Again, the others seemed unwilling to meet Hal’s gaze and now he was sure there was more to this than he was being told. Still, he had more pressing matters to attend to right now. He resolved to quiz Edvin and Stefan later. Ulf, he knew, would lie for the sheer sake of it. Worse, he might tell the truth so that Hal would assume he was lying. That had happened before.

  Hal walked quickly aft, unlashing the fastening on the tiller, which kept it from banging back and forth with the movement of the water while they were moored.

  Stig had marshalled the twelve Araluans into the centre of the ship where they were out of the way. He looked curiously at Hal.

  ‘Oars?’

  Hal shook his head, after checking the sternpost wind telltale. For the first leg of their course, the wind would be from astern.

  ‘We’ll run down harbour on port tack, then turn starboard so we’re on a reach for the first leg of the channel,’ he said. ‘Unless the wind shifts, we can make it out of here on one tack.’

  Stig nodded. ‘Makes sense to me.’

  ‘And besides. I don’t want people tied up rowing. I want you and Ingvar on the Mangler when we’re running past those catapults at the fort,’ Hal said. Then added, ‘Gilan and Lydia too.’

  They looked up as they heard their names mentioned and he beckoned them closer.

  ‘When we’re in that narrow channel, opposite the fort, we’ll be sitting ducks for those catapults. I want you two to keep up a constant barrage on them. Pick off the crews. Make them nervous. Nervous men don’t take time to aim,’ he said.

  They both nodded. In a reflex action, Gilan’s hand went up to touch the feathered ends of the arrows in his quiver, now back in their normal place over his right shoulder.

  Hal looked at the Araluans and made a downward gesture with the flat of his hand.

  ‘Lie down,’ he said to them. ‘You’ll be out of the way and you may be a little safer.’

  The Araluans began to comply, but before they did, Walton, their spokesman, stepped closer to the steering platform.

  ‘We haven’t thanked you yet,’ he said. ‘Everything’s been in a rush, but we haven’t thanked you properly. We owe you our lives and our freedom – even George and Abel.’

  From the direction of his quick glance, Hal realised that George and Abel were the reluctant pair who had carried the wounded man back to the ship. They looked suitably ashamed of themselves and reddened, while the other Araluans chorused their enthusiastic agreement to Walton’s words. Hal waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘Time enough to thank us later,’ he said. ‘We’re not out of here yet.’ He looked around his expectant crew, standing ready to get under way.

  ‘Stig, get the bow and stern lines. Ingvar, shove us off. Stefan and Edvin, as soon as we’re clear of the wharf, get the port sail up.’

  Lydia watched the usual scene of organised and efficient chaos as the crew members went through their drill for leaving port. Stig ran along the wharf, casting off the bow line, then the stern line as the bow started to swing away from the wharf’s side. He dropped lightly back onto the deck as Ingvar set an oar against one of the wharf’s pilings and set the Heron moving out into the fairway with a powerful shove. The halyards ran squealing through the blocks as the port yardarm and sail rose quickly up the mast. Then there was the now familiar whoomph of captured air as Ulf and Wulf sheeted home and set the sail.

  Heron accelerated away from the wharf, the port side sail almost at right angles to catch the steady breeze that was blowing over their stern quarter. The water hissed under her forefoot and chuckled down her sides as she gathered way. Hal felt an enormous sense of relief. He was back in control of things here at the tiller. They might have to face Tursgud yet, and they would certainly have to run the gauntlet of those catapults. But his ship was fast and manoeuvrable and he was confident he could cope with anything the Socorrans threw at him. He smiled grimly as he realised how appropriate that expression was in this circumstance. That was exactly what they would be doing.

  The bow wave peeled away from the ship in a giant V on the placid harbour waters. As it reached the shore, it set moored ships bobbing and rocking.

  Ahead of them, the narrow north-eastern arm opened into the wider expanse of the harbour proper.

  That was where Tursgud would be, if he was going to be anywhere.

  ‘Jesper,’ he ordered quietly, ‘get onto the bow lookout. Keep an eye out for Tursgud and Nightwolf.’

  Jesper looked surprised. ‘Do you think he’ll try to stop us?’

  Hal met his gaze steadily. ‘If he sees us, he’ll try to sink us,’ he said. He glanced at Lydia and Gilan. ‘Get ready. We may need you any minute.’

  Stig caught his eye and gestured to the Mangler in the bow, shrouded in its canvas covers. ‘What about Ingvar and me?’ he asked.

  Hal nodded. ‘Get her ready to shoot. But I don’t think we’ll need you against Nightwolf. We’ll save our ammunition for the catapults at the fort.’

  Stig grunted agreement and, calling to Ingvar to accompany him, went forward and began removing the covers from the Mangler. A few of the Araluans uttered expressions of surprise at the sight of the massive crossbow.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ one of them said.

  Thorn favoured him with a wolfish grin. ‘That’s a little surprise for anyone who tries to stop us,’ he said.

  ‘They’re coming, skirl!’

  Tursgud had posted a lookout on the higher ground of the wharf alongside them. Now, as he followed the direction that the man was pointing, his lips curled in a satisfied sneer.

  The familiar, and hated, triangular sail was visible as the Heron slipped out of the narrow north-eastern reach into the more open waters of the main harbour. He beckoned the lookout back on board, and checked to see that his crew were ready.

  Two men stood by the bow and stern lines – he’d replaced the normal heavy hawsers with light ropes. When the time came, they would hack through them, untethering the ship from the shore.

  Six others were crouched, ready to haul the big square sail aloft. The wind was on their beam and that was their best and fastest point of sailing. Tursgud crouched by the tiller – as if his crouching would somehow delay the Heron’s spotting them. He planned to let the smaller ship sail down the middle of the fairway. Then, at the right moment, he’d cut the bow and stern lines and hoist the sail. Nightwolf would go from dead stop to full speed in the space of about thirty metres. The wind was strong enough to let them power out across the harbour and intercept the Heron. When they did, the cruel, iron-tipped ram set under Nightwolf’s bow would smash into the other ship’s frail sides, rending and tearing the planks, shattering the ribs and letting the cold harbour water surge in.

  The tide was running out. That meant that any survivors from the sinking ship would have little chance of reaching shore. They’d be swept out to sea, moving ever faster as the outgoing tide was constricted by the narrow exit channel and accelerated as a result. And good riddance to them, Tursgud thought savagely.

  It had been a long time since Hal and his crew of misfits had heaped scorn and shame on Tursgud’s head.

  But today, he would finally have his revenge.

  ‘Any sign of Nightwolf?’ Hal called to Jesper.

  ‘Not so far,’ came the reply. It wasn’t surprising. Even though they knew Tursgud’s ship was moored on the western side of the harbour, the chance of picking one ship out among the forest of masts would be slim. But Hal knew they were close to where the dark blue ship was moored.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ he called, and regretted it immediately. There was no point in telling Jesper to keep a good lookout. He’d do that without being told. Gilan and Lydia had moved to the waist of the ship, clear of the port sail, their weapons ready.

  All eyes were fastened on the harbour shore sliding past them on their
left.

  Tursgud watched the graceful little ship cruising smoothly down the outbound channel in the middle of the harbour. His eyes narrowed as he judged distances and speed. He would let Heron come almost level with him, then he’d bring Nightwolf surging out from the wharf. He gauged the distance to Heron. She was about a hundred metres from the western shore, where Nightwolf lurked, ready. He smiled. That would give him plenty of time to reach maximum speed before he smashed into that hated little ship.

  He remembered how she had bested him in the final race in the brotherband contest two years ago. Just when he thought he had beaten her, she had spun on her heel and accelerated into Hallasholm harbour to deny him his victory.

  Today would be a different story.

  ‘Raise the sail and sheet home!’ he ordered.

  His first mate stared at him in surprise. ‘But we’re still tied up –’

  Tursgud rounded on him in a fury. ‘Get that sail up!’ he snarled.

  Hastily, the first mate gave the order to the waiting sail crew. The huge square sail went up the mast, swelling out in the wind, then hardening into a perfect curve as the sail handlers sheeted home. Nightwolf began to surge forward under the massive thrust, then was brought up short as the hawsers tautened.

  For a few seconds, there was an ominous creaking from the rigging and the mast as the wind tried to tear her loose from the shore and the hawsers held her tight.

  ‘Axes!’ yelled Tursgud, leaving it until the last possible minute before something broke loose. The two thuds came close together, almost merging into one, and the bow and stern lines were severed, the ends springing high into the air as the strain was suddenly released.

  Nightwolf shot forward, like an arrow leaving a bow.

  On board Heron, Jesper saw something unusual. He was looking for a ship moving out into the harbour – presumably under oars, as that was the way most ships departed. In his peripheral vision, he saw a movement on the western shore of the harbour. Something rose up, then suddenly blossomed into a long, dark rectangular shape.