Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (9 page)

His voice trailed off as he peered into the darkness, towards a thick clump of bushes.

‘What’s that?’ he asked. He could hear a strange growling sound, accompanied by crunching and cracking noises. The growl sounded familiar. He walked a few paces towards the bushes, looked over them and froze in horror.

‘Oh no. You idiot of a dog! Erak will kill you.’

In a small clear space behind the bushes, growling and grumbling happily to herself, Kloof was busy chewing on Erak’s missing walking staff. She had already reduced it to half its original length and was enthusiastically working on the remaining stump.

Hal swooped and grabbed the free end of the staff, trying to drag it free. Kloof, always looking for a chance to play, clamped her jaws on the other end, setting her rear quarters high in the air and heaving back away from Hal’s frantic grasp. She growled playfully and shook her head from side to side as she tried to break his grasp on the staff.

‘Drop it, you great hairy fool!’ Hal shouted at her. But she only growled and shook the staff harder, her tail lashing from side to side with the fun of it all.

‘Let
go
!’ Hal commanded. ‘If Erak sees you, you’re a dead dog! Stig, give me a hand, for pity’s sake!’

Stig finally managed to stop laughing long enough to grab Hal by the back of his belt and haul back, adding his strength to the struggle. Even so, Kloof continued to gain on them, dragging them after her as she growled and snarled and rumbled deep in her massive chest.

Finally, unexpectedly, she released her hold on the staff and they tumbled back over each other, rolling on the wet grass. She barked enthusiastically as they disentangled themselves and stood up.

Hal looked at the truncated staff, his face a mask of horror. Half of it was gone – chewed away, leaving only a splintered, raw end. The remaining piece, surmounted by the silver bulb, was dented and scarred in a score of places by Kloof’s massive teeth.

‘What will we do?’ he asked, a note of panic in his voice.

Stig bridled a little. ‘What do you mean, “we”?’ he asked. ‘She’s your dog.’

‘We . . . I mean, I . . . can’t let Erak see it like this. He’ll go berserker.’

‘Get rid of it,’ Stig said succinctly. ‘Chuck it in the harbour.’

The harbour was close by and it seemed like an ideal solution. They ran to the quay and Hal drew his arm back, with the staff ready to throw. Then he realised that Kloof was trembling with anticipation, bouncing up and down on her forepaws and rumbling happily.

‘Oh no. She’s planning to fetch it!’ he said. ‘Grab her collar, turn her away so she can’t see.’

Stig obliged, even though Kloof struggled desperately with him. When he was sure she couldn’t see what he was doing, Hal drew back his arm and hurled the ruined staff, spinning end over end, into the sea. The tide was running out and he watched as the staff, floating upright as the weight of the silver knob on one end kept it vertical, slowly drifted out with it, passing through the harbour mouth. Kloof, released by Stig, sniffed busily around them, trying to find some trace of her wonderful toy.

‘Thank Orlog for that!’ Hal said in a heartfelt tone. Then he and Stig turned to continue their way home, Kloof patrolling happily in front of them, still searching for some trace of the staff and wondering how it had disappeared.

It must be said that it was a mark of Hal’s level of panic that he had forgotten, or at least overlooked, one vital fact.

He was a skilled and experienced navigator, and an expert sailor, well versed in the lore of the sea. But in the heat of the moment, and the relief at having got rid of the evidence of Kloof’s crime, one vital fact had eluded him.

Tides may go out. But, inevitably, they come back in again.

T
he following morning, the crew of the
Heron
were loading last-minute stores, checking equipment and spares, and stowing their own gear in the spaces beside their rowing benches. They would be a long time gone, and Hal wanted to make sure that they had everything they might need for the coming mission.

Stig watched as Hal and Ingvar stowed a full supply of bolts for the Mangler in the locker behind the massive crossbow. He frowned curiously as his friend placed a large canvas roll in the locker. The roll rattled slightly as Hal placed it down.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Hal turned to look at him, not understanding the question at first. Then he noticed the direction of Stig’s gaze and lifted the roll out again. He unwrapped it and revealed some twenty bolts, lashed together in two bundles. But these were not like the normal bolts the Mangler fired. Instead of the steel-shod sharp point, these were surmounted by a slightly bulbous cylinder.

‘It’s an idea I thought we might try out,’ Hal explained. ‘When we were attacking the watch towers at Limmat, I noticed that splinters flying from the balustrade caused a lot of damage.’

Stig nodded. ‘I remember. The railings were soft pine and when the bolts hit them they shattered, so that pieces went everywhere.’

‘Exactly. So I thought we might try these.’ Hal tapped the bulbous end of one of the bolts. Looking more closely, Stig could see that it was made of hardened, baked clay.

‘I got Farndl to make them up for me,’ he added. Farndl operated the Hallasholm pottery works. ‘They’re filled with small rocks and shards of broken pottery. I thought if one of these hit a hard surface, the head would break up and throw splinters and rocks in all directions. That way, one bolt might knock over three or four enemy troops.’

Stig was impressed. But then, he thought, ever since he had known Hal, his friend had been coming up with new and ingenious ideas – most of which worked.

They were interrupted by a voice behind them.

‘Morning, everyone.’ It was Thorn, carrying his kitbag and weapons, stepping lightly down from the quay onto the deck. The crew chorused greetings to him. He looked slightly ill at ease as he met Hal’s eye, dumped his gear on the deck and nodded his head towards the steering platform at the stern.

‘Can we have a word?’ he asked.

Hal nodded and followed the old warrior down the deck, to a spot at the stern where they were a little removed from the crew. He waited expectantly, then realised that Thorn was embarrassed, and not sure how to begin. That was a first, he thought. He sensed he knew what was on Thorn’s mind.

‘Is this about last night?’ he asked.

Thorn reddened, nodding several times. ‘Ah . . . yes. Ah . . . ah-ahm. Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat nervously.

Hal said nothing, so Thorn continued.

‘Just wanted you to know, there’s been no . . . funny business between me and your mam. No . . . hanky-panky, if you know what I mean?’

For a second, Hal was tempted to pretend ignorance of what Thorn meant, and tease him for a minute or two, making him explain further. Then he realised how mean-spirited that would be. After all, Thorn was simply trying to explain how things were between him and Karina. Hal put his hand on the well-muscled shoulder in a friendly gesture.

‘There’s no problem so far as I’m concerned, Thorn,’ he said sincerely. ‘If you and Mam are –’ he hesitated, not sure of a delicate way to phrase the next thought, then settled on an old-fashioned term that Skandians used to describe courtship ‘– walking out together, I couldn’t be happier.’

To his amazement, Thorn blushed a deep red. ‘Well . . . not sure that it’s come to that. We’re friends, is all. Good friends, though,’ he added.

Hal nodded reassuringly. ‘I’m sure you are. And if you become more than that, then you have my blessing.’ He frowned at the words. It seemed odd to be offering Thorn – rambunctious, roistering, unkempt, fearless Thorn – his blessing. But the grey-haired warrior nodded his gratitude.

‘Yes. Well, that’s a weight off my mind. Of course, Karina may not feel the same way. We haven’t really talked about it.’

‘Maybe you could talk about it now,’ Hal said, looking over Thorn’s shoulder to where his mother’s diminutive form was striding along the quay. Come to say goodbye to me, Hal thought, and stepped up onto the shore to greet her. Thorn grunted in surprise, then stepped up behind him, staying back a few paces.

Hal moved forward as his mother approached, prepared for the usual lengthy exhortations to do nothing silly, to take no unnecessary risks, to come back safely, to eat regularly and to keep his socks dry whenever possible. He smiled. It was nice to be fussed over, he thought.

The smile faded as Karina swept past him, barely registering his presence, threw her arms around Thorn’s neck and kissed him soundly on the mouth. For a moment, Thorn was caught by surprise. Then he responded eagerly. A muted cry of ‘Whoooooo!’ came from the crew, who were interested spectators. Finally, Karina broke off the kiss and stepped back, looking up into Thorn’s eyes.

‘Don’t do anything silly. Don’t take any unnecessary risks,’ she said. ‘Eat regularly. And come back safely to me.’

Thorn, still taken aback by the whole thing, nodded sombrely. ‘I will,’ he said.

‘And try to keep your socks dry,’ Karina added. Then she turned away from him, seemed to notice Hal for the first time, and patted him absently on the cheek.

‘Look after yourself,’ she said. Then, chin up and back straight, she swept off down the quay, back the way she had come.

Erak and Svengal were out on their morning walk around Hallasholm. Erak said that a daily walk helped him keep in touch with his subjects, and see what was going on in the town. Svengal knew there was an ulterior motive. Erak walked each morning to keep his waistline down. Life as the Oberjarl was essentially a sedentary one and Erak didn’t get the sort of exercise he used to enjoy as a raiding sea wolf. Svengal was content to keep his old friend company. Today, he noticed, Erak was distracted and a little grumpy.

‘Beautiful day, chief,’ he observed. And it was. There were a few light clouds in the sky, chasing each other from one horizon to the next. Other than that, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. The sun was warm even though the air itself was always somewhat cool, even in Skandia’s summer.

‘Hmmmph,’ Erak grunted.

‘Something wrong?’ Svengal asked. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

‘I miss my staff,’ Erak grumbled. ‘I’ve got used to it.’

And in fact, he had. He had enjoyed striding along, swinging the long staff out in front of him and planting it solidly to mark each stride, twirling it in the air behind him, then clapping it down once more. It gave a pleasant rhythm to his walk. Now it was gone. They had searched the square thoroughly after the festival had ended, but had found no sign of it.

‘Don’t know what could have happened to it,’ he continued. ‘Maybe one of those rabble off
Nightwolf
took it.’

Svengal shook his head. ‘Didn’t see any of them do it,’ he said. ‘They were all pretty intent on getting away from you as fast as possible.’ He glanced across the inner harbour and noticed that the dark blue ship was missing from its usual mooring. ‘Looks like they’ve gone,’ he said.

Erak nodded. ‘Tark told me they slipped out of the harbour last night. Good riddance, too.’ Tark was the captain of the harbour guard.

But Svengal wasn’t listening. His keen eyes had spotted something gleaming in the sand at the water’s edge. He jumped down onto the beach and walked towards it. His heart sank as he got closer and recognised the ruined, foreshortened walking staff – one end chewed to splinters and the other still surmounted by its silver knob.

He retrieved it and noted the tooth marks up and down its length.

‘Orlog’s bad breath,’ he muttered. ‘This is going to be ugly.’

For a moment, he considered dropping the ruined staff and kicking sand over it to hide it. But Erak had already seen him pick it up.

‘What’s that?’ Erak called.

Svengal tried to hide the staff behind his back. ‘Nothing, chief. Just a piece of driftwood.’

But Erak had seen the telltale glint of silver. He walked down the beach suspiciously. ‘Driftwood, my backside!’ he roared. ‘Bring it here! Let me see it!’

Reluctantly, Svengal revealed the ruined walking staff. For a moment, Erak was speechless. Just for a moment. Then he let out an inchoate bellow of rage.