02 The Invaders (9 page)

Hal smiled to himself and turned away, heading back to the warmth of his bed and leaving Ingvar to his private practice.

chapter
eight

T
he training continued each day and all the members of the crew improved their performance in the net, even Ingvar—although he was a long way behind the others. After several days, he could even move in the net with his eyes open.

And even though he couldn’t equal the others’ performance, he was moving far more surely than he had ever done in his life. He would never be called nimble, but his sense of balance and movement had improved remarkably.

Which would stand him in good stead when they went back to sea, Hal thought, and he had to move around the rolling, pitching deck of the
Heron
. He was going to need Ingvar for the idea he was working on, and he welcomed the improvement that Thorn’s training had brought about.

After working the boys in the net for a week, Thorn introduced a change to their training. He set them to practicing mock combat, with wooden weapons, one against the other. When he did so, he quickly noticed a fault in their technique.

“It’s not surprising,” he told Hal. The crew had spent the morning hard at work, and Hal and Thorn were sitting discussing their progress. “After all, their instructors in brotherband aren’t experts themselves. They’re all reasonably competent, but they’re just teaching the basics, not the finer points.”

Hal smiled at him. “I guess none of them were
Maktigs
,” he said.

Thorn nodded, shrugging. “I suppose not. But I find it frustrating when I see the boys practicing bad technique. That just tends to entrench bad habits, and they’re that much harder to break.”

“Then show them where they’re going wrong,” Hal told him.

Thorn pursed his lips. “Are you sure? You’re the skirl, not me. I don’t want to undermine your authority.”

Hal laughed. “I’m the skirl and when we’re at sea, they’ll obey me. I’ll see to that. But as skirl, I’ve appointed you as our battle trainer. You’re the most qualified for that job. I certainly can’t teach them. I’m learning myself.”

“I’m glad to hear you say it,” Thorn said. “I just needed to check it with you.”

“One thing,” Hal said, then hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Then he decided the best way was to simply go ahead with it. “Quite a few of them are wondering about you. That demonstration in the net caught them by surprise. They’re wondering where all that skill and knowledge came from.”

Thorn was shaking his head before he finished the sentence. “I don’t want people to know about—”

But Hal interrupted him. “These aren’t people. These are your crew. Thorn, I can understand that when you were in Hallasholm,
you didn’t want people looking and saying,
See how far Thorn has fallen? He used to be the Maktig
. But the boys won’t think that way. They look up to you already. They’re not comparing you with the way you once were. They see you as you are and they admire you.”

“They look up to me?” Thorn said, disbelief in his voice.

Hal nodded emphatically. “Of course they do. What’s more, I think it might do their confidence a lot of good if they knew they were being taught by a real expert. And confidence is going to be important if we have to fight the crew of the
Raven
.”

Thorn shrugged reluctantly. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Let me think about it.”

“I know I’m right,” Hal said. Then he smiled. “After all, I’m the skirl. Now, what have you got in mind to improve their technique?”

“I’ll show you this afternoon,” Thorn said.

After the lunch break, Thorn called the boys to order and told them to gather round him. He motioned for them to sit in a semicircle, and strode back and forth in front of them, slapping the hickory baton against his boot as he searched for the words he wanted to say.

Finally, he decided that a demonstration would be the best way to broach the subject. He harrumphed once or twice, trying to ignore the semicircle of curious faces, then pointed the baton at Stig.

“Stig, on your feet and fetch your practice weapon and shield. Bring me a shield too.”

Stig hesitated. “Just a shield? Don’t you want a practice ax?”

Thorn shook his head and swished the hickory baton through the air. “This’ll be enough. Hop to it now.”

As the tall boy ran to fetch two shields and a practice ax from the training area, Thorn turned back to the waiting boys.

“We’ve been working on agility and balance,” he began, “and you’ve all improved remarkably. Even Ingvar.” He smiled at the big boy. “Problem is, it all goes off to visit your grandma when you start weapon practice.”

He looked up as Stig returned with the practice equipment. He took the shield and slipped it over his right arm, then watched as Stig settled his own shield on his left, and hefted the wooden practice ax. Thorn retained the hickory baton in his left hand.

“All right, Stig,” he said. “Let’s see your style.”

They faced each other, and each of them dropped into a crouch. Stig’s eyes were slitted and he concentrated fiercely on the shabby figure in front of him. In spite of the matted beard and gray hair, and the tattered, patched clothes, Thorn with a weapon in his hand was a different matter altogether from Thorn, the disheveled old derelict. The years seemed to fall away and he moved lightly and confidently as they circled each other. The shield was up and ready while the hickory stick described a small circle in the air. Except for Hal, Stig was the only member of the crew who was aware of Thorn’s past. He knew he was facing an expert warrior and he was in no hurry to rush in. Thorn’s easy, confident manner made him even more reluctant to do so.

“Hyaaah!” Thorn shouted, leaping forward and raising the stick for an overhead blow. Stig leapt back with an involuntary shout of surprise. His foot caught on a tussock and he stumbled, barely managing to retain his feet.

A ripple of laughter ran round the watching boys and Stig flushed as he realized Thorn’s move had been a feint. The old sea wolf was grinning at him now, and rolling his eyes. Throwing caution to the winds, Stig attacked.

He hammered at Thorn’s shield with the wooden ax, raining blow after blow down on it, hitting with every ounce of his strength. The wooden practice weapon cracked against the shield, which always seemed to be in position just in time to prevent Stig’s weapon knocking Thorn’s head clean off his shoulders. The boys shouted encouragement as Thorn began to back away and Stig went after him, redoubling his efforts.

Then, in the blink of an eye, it was over.

Stig launched one last, massive blow at Thorn. This time, instead of blocking the attack, Thorn caught it on the slanting face of his shield and deflected it. Meeting no real resistance to his attack, Stig lurched forward, off balance, exposing his right side as he followed through.

And as he did so, Thorn jabbed the baton painfully into his ribs, like a snake striking.

“Owww!” Stig yelped, recoiling from the bruising impact.

Instantly, Thorn leapt back a pace. “That’s it. It’s over!”

As Stig, now thoroughly angry, gathered himself to launch another attack, Thorn brought the stick up to face level and pointed it warningly at him.

“That’s it, Stig!” he said crisply. “Finished!” He kept his eyes fixed on Stig’s. Gradually, he saw the anger fading away and the boy let his shield and ax drop to the ground. There was a time when Stig’s temper would have flared beyond control, but brotherband training had helped him to manage it. He rubbed his ribs gingerly.

“That hurt, Thorn,” he complained. Thorn nodded, loosening his clamped hook from the shield’s handle and letting it slip off his arm.

“It would have hurt a lot more if this had been a sword,” he
said, brandishing the hickory baton. He saw realization dawning in Stig’s eyes then and the boy managed an abashed grin.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said.

“Think of it now,” Thorn told him. Then he turned to include the other members of the brotherband, who were watching in silence. Thorn’s speed of hand, and the ease with which he had met and countered Stig’s attack, had overawed them.

“All of you think about it,” he repeated, letting his gaze travel over the suddenly very serious faces before him. “Imagine that had been a sword driving into Stig’s ribs. We’d be busy telling tales of what a good fellow he’d been during his short and colorful life, and how much we all miss him.” He paused. “Or maybe not.”

That drew a small ripple of amusement from them and he continued.

“Stig is probably the best of all of you with an ax,” he said. He looked for any sign of disagreement, but all he saw were slight nods, confirming his statement. “But his training has been sadly lacking.”

“His brotherband training, you mean?” Edvin asked.

Thorn nodded. “Your instructors taught you the very basic strokes. And they encouraged you to whack and bash at the practice pads, and at each other, as hard as you could go. Am I right?”

Again he paused and again he was greeted by nods.

“The point is, most Skandian warriors are capable axmen. Competent, let’s say. But only a few are better than that. And only a very small number are experts. Your instructors were all pretty average warriors.”

He paused, seeing a few frowns. “I’m not saying that with any disrespect. It’s a fact. They’re only supposed to teach you the basics.
And they only have a few months to work with you, in which time they have to teach you a whole lot of other basic skills. Brotherband training is just the beginning. It doesn’t teach you everything. It can’t. The instructors simply have no time for showing you the finer points. When you were practicing weapon skills, the command I heard most often was,
Hit harder! Give it all you’ve got! Call that hitting?
That sort of thing. Am I right?”

A few murmured yeses answered him.

“Now that’s fine if you’re looking to build up muscles and tire yourself out so you sleep nights. But it’s not good enough in a fight.

“Think of it this way. You’re in a battle. You swing your ax at someone as hard as you can. If you hit him, you split him open maybe down to here.” He indicated a point in the middle of his chest. “Now, if you don’t hit him quite so hard, you might only go this far.”

He pointed to a spot between his eyebrows. Again, nods greeted the demonstration. Slightly puzzled nods, but nods nonetheless.

“Is he any less dead?” he asked them, and saw a few faces showing understanding. “You’ve got to learn to control your power,” he continued. “Keep in balance when you strike. Don’t overswing. You just saw how easy it was for me to deflect Stig’s stroke and send him off balance. And that opened him up to a counterstroke.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to start a new exercise that’ll help you learn to hit so you stay in balance.”

The boys exchanged glances and he could see he’d caught their imagination. They were wondering what this new form of training was going to be.

Good, he thought. If they’re wondering, that means they’re interested.

“That’s it for today. You can head back to your tent and take it easy. Tomorrow is going to be a tough day.”

It was Jesper who asked the question. Hal could have guessed it would be him.

The boys were relaxing on their bedrolls, mending clothes or equipment, sharpening weapons or talking quietly among themselves, when the former thief voiced the thought that had been in many of their minds.

“How come Thorn knows so much about fighting?” he said. “After all, for as long as I can remember, he was the town drunk.” A few of the others nodded and he continued, his gaze seeking out Hal.

“I mean, we all saw him today, when he took on Stig. He made it look so easy.” Stig glanced up quickly at that, and Jesper hastily made an apologetic gesture. “No offense, Stig. We know you’re not an easy opponent to beat. So how did Thorn manage it? And you’ve got to admit, he did make it
look
easy, even if it wasn’t.”

Hal and Stig exchanged a meaningful look, with Stig asking an unspoken question. Hal finally nodded.

“It’s time they were told,” he said. “Go and ask Thorn to come in here, will you?”

Stig nodded and rose to his feet. As he left the tent, he heard a storm of questions break out from his shipmates. He smiled to himself. They were in for a surprise.

Thorn pulled back the canvas flap that covered the tent doorway and stepped inside into the light. As he did so, the babble of voices that had been coming from the tent cut off abruptly, and every eye
turned on him. Stig slipped through the opening behind him and took his place on his own bedroll, grinning expectantly.

Thorn scanned the ring of incredulous faces and settled on Hal.

“I take it you told them?”

Hal nodded. “It’s time they knew,” he replied.

Thorn chewed the ends of his mustache for several seconds, not sure what to say next. Finally, he began to turn away toward the door.

“All right,” he said. “So now you know.”

There was a storm of protest as the boys realized he was about to leave.