Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (10 page)

‘Chief, don’t go . . .’ Svengal began. But he was cut off by Erak, now in full voice.

‘That demon-blasted dog! I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .’ He glanced around and his eyes lit on a twelve-year-old boy who had been walking along the beach. The boy was staring at the red-faced, apoplectic Oberjarl, fascinated. Erak pointed at him.

‘You! Boy! What’s your name?’

‘Gundal Leifson, Oberjarl,’ the boy said nervously.

Erak now swept his arm around to point in the direction of the Great Hall. ‘Run to the Great Hall, Gundal Leifson, and bring me my axe. It’s leaning against my big chair. Go!’

‘Yes, Oberjarl!’ The boy took off, running flat out towards the Hall.

Erak stood, arms folded across his massive chest, breathing deeply, muttering dreadful curses.

Svengal eyed him nervously. ‘Chief? What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to separate him from his head,’ Erak replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the
Heron
. There was a frightening light in his eyes.

Svengal glanced nervously towards the distant ship. ‘Hal?’ he asked.

‘No. The dog. But I’ll do for Hal too if he gets in the way,’ Erak said.

‘The dog’s a she, chief,’ Svengal told him.

‘He, she. Won’t matter too much once she doesn’t have a head,’ Erak said.

On board
Heron
, they heard Erak’s wordless bellow. All eyes turned to look at the burly Oberjarl, standing on the beach several hundred metres away.

‘What’s up with Erak?’ Stefan asked.

Stig shaded his eyes with his hands, peering at Erak and Svengal. He saw the Oberjarl was holding something and, as he watched, the sunlight flashed as it reflected from the object. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.

‘Oh no,’ he said. He turned to Hal. ‘I think he’s found his walking staff.’

Hal turned and looked quickly forward, to where Kloof was curled up in the bow, snoozing. The dog had sneaked away from the house after he had gone to bed, returning just before dawn. Now he had a bad feeling that she had been up to no good. He looked back at Erak.

‘Why is he just standing there?’ he asked. He noticed that the Herons had unconsciously drawn away, distancing themselves from him. Only Stig and Thorn remained close. As he watched, a young boy came running down the beach road, jumped down onto the beach and handed something to Erak. Sunlight flashed on metal again.

‘That looks uncomfortably like an axe,’ Stig said.

‘Is this the one, Oberjarl?’ asked Gundal Leifson. ‘It looks a bit . . . short.’

It was Erak’s axe and it was short. Half its handle had been chewed away, leaving a ragged, splintered stump of ashwood. Again, Erak bellowed in rage.

‘My axe!’ he roared. ‘My beautiful axe! Look at what that cursed dog has done to it!’ He held it out for Svengal to see.

His first mate shrugged deprecatingly. ‘It’s not too bad, chief. You can always –’

‘This was my grandfather’s axe!’ Erak said, quivering with rage.

Svengal’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘I didn’t know that.’

Erak was nodding, as he glared at the ruined weapon.

‘My father replaced the handle and I replaced the head,’ he said. ‘But otherwise, it’s completely original.’

Then, with a roar, he took off down the beach towards the quay, brandishing the foreshortened axe in one hand and the equally foreshortened staff in the other.

On board
Heron
, they heard his bloodcurdling cry. Hal glanced nervously to the quay, where a small pile of crates and kegs were waiting to be loaded.

‘Get those stores on board and cast off!’ he yelled, his voice breaking slightly with nervous tension. The crew of the
Heron
took one look at the bellowing Oberjarl, thrashing his way through the sand towards them, and leapt to obey, pitching the casks and crates onto the deck willy-nilly, then leaping back aboard and running to cast off the mooring lines. Distancing themselves from Hal was all very well, but Erak in his current mood might not recognise such a fine distinction.

Erak had reached the cobblestoned quay as they let the last lines slip. Ingvar had an oar in his hands and was busy fending the ship away from the shore.

Thorn watched with mild interest. ‘Thought you were waiting for the tide?’ he observed.

Hal turned a fearful glance on him. ‘You can wait for the tide if you choose,’ he said, mentally urging Stefan and Jesper on to greater speed as they hauled up the starboard sail. The sail flapped, thrashed, then filled with a
whoomping
sound as the twins sheeted it home. He felt the tiller come alive in his hands and the ship curved smoothly out into the harbour.

Erak arrived too late, with Svengal close behind him, and Gundal Leifson following on their heels. The Oberjarl let go an inarticulate howl and literally danced in fury on the edge of the quay. To make matters worse, Kloof chose that moment to wake up and stretch. Then, seeing the Oberjarl, she wagged her massive tail and spoke.

Kloof!

Almost blind with anger, Erak drew back the mangled axe, to throw it at the dog. Svengal caught his arm.

‘Chief! It’s your grandfather’s axe, remember?’

Erak glared at him. ‘Don’t be an idiot!’ he snarled and sent the deformed axe sailing end over end across the water. It fell short, splashing into the harbour in the wake of the departing
Heron.

‘You’ll have to come back some time!’ he roared. The crew on board affected not to have heard him. ‘And I’ll be waiting when you do!’

On board the ship, Hal said reassuringly to Stig, ‘He’ll get over it.’

Stig nodded, then said, ‘You think so?’

Hal’s reply was forestalled by a piercing whistle from the far side of the harbour. A slim figure was standing on the mole, her seabag, weapons and equipment stacked by her feet. On her way to join the ship, she had seen what was happening and run down the opposite sea wall.

‘It’s Lydia,’ Stig said, but Hal was already steering to go alongside the mole.

‘Let go the sheets,’ he called to the twins, judging the moment precisely. As they did, he turned the ship neatly so that it lost way and slid alongside the wall. Thorn and Ingvar fended off with a pair of oars, while Stig went forward to catch Lydia’s seabag and weapons as she tossed them down. Then she leapt across the narrow gap herself, landing light as a cat and dropping into a crouch to absorb the impact. Ingvar offered a hand to help her up.

‘Welcome aboard,’ he said. She glanced around at the nervous, relieved faces of the crew, took in the jumble of last-minute stores they had thrown aboard, then looked across the harbour to where Erak was still prancing with rage.

‘Do you always leave port this way?’ she asked.

Ingvar considered the question for a second or two.

‘Pretty much,’ he said.

T
he rain came slanting in from the west, great sheets of it, driven by the wind, striking the oily sea like so many pebbles scattered by a giant hand.
Heron
, with the wind on her starboard beam, was making good time, slicing through the even swell, sending plumes of white spray skyward as she came down into the troughs, then rising like a gull to the next crest. It was a smooth, regular motion, without surprises or sudden, unexpected lurches. Hal stood at the helm, feet braced apart for balance, making continual minute corrections as the constantly varying forces of wind and sea tried to nudge the ship’s head away from her course.

Under his orders, the crew had rigged a canvas tarpaulin over a spar placed to run along the centre of the deck from behind the mast. The result was a tent-like shelter. Normally, they only used this as sleeping quarters when they anchored for the night, but Hal had decided that there was no sense in everyone becoming damp and miserable while they were under way. Ulf and Wulf remained in the open, ready to tend the sheets if Hal changed course or the wind shifted. They were huddled in the waist of the ship, wrapped in tarred canvas cloaks that kept most of the rain off. Hal made a mental note to relieve them in another hour, replacing them with Stefan and Jesper. Thorn, who eschewed the comfort of the tent, stating that a real sailor wasn’t afraid of a little rain, was stretched out in the rowing well just for’ard of the steering position, wrapped in a rather moth-eaten bearskin and snoring happily.

Hal was wearing sealskin boots and trousers, and a waist-length sheepskin vest with the collar turned up. Naturally, he was wearing the thick woollen watch cap that Edvin had knitted for him when they were pursuing the pirate Zavac. Occasionally, a trickle of cold rain would work its way past the tightly fastened collar and run down the back of his neck. But the discomfort was minor and he enjoyed the cold, fresh air, redolent with the scent of salt water and rain.

Stig emerged from the canvas shelter and made his way aft to join him, balancing easily against the roll of the ship.

‘Comfortable?’ He grinned, noting the runnels of rain and spray trickling down Hal’s face. Drops of water, prevented from soaking in by the natural grease in the wool, clung to his cap like tiny diamonds.

Hal returned the smile. He was at his most content when he was at
Heron
’s tiller, feeling the constant, tiny movements of the ship against his hand, and the pressure as she rose and fell beneath the soles of his feet. At moments like this, Hal felt totally at one with the ship he had created, exulting in her speed and power and purpose as she surged through the swell.

‘Perfectly,’ he said. He glanced down at the smooth oak of the tiller, polished by constant contact with his hands. ‘I never get tired of this.’

‘It must be wonderful to feel something that you’ve designed and created reacting to your slightest touch,’ Stig said. There was a wistful note in his voice. He knew he would never share that feeling with his friend. He was a good helmsman, but Hal was an artist. His judgement of speed, momentum and angles was instinctive. He could sense the interaction between wind and waves and current and simply know where to place
Heron
to best advantage. It was a skill that you had to be born with, Stig realised.

He leaned on the railing, peering down at the grey water rushing past.

‘I’m happy to relieve you if you want a spell,’ he said, but Hal shook his head.