The Outcasts (26 page)
Authors: John Flanagan
Tags: #Fantasy, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Action & Adventure, #General
Hal assumed an innocent, blank look. As a teenager, used to being questioned by adults, it was something he could do almost without conscious effort.
“You? No. He didn’t say anything about you.”
Thorn looked hard at him for a few more seconds. Hal maintained the look of blank innocence. Finally, the old sea wolf turned away, satisfied.
“Just as well,” he muttered.
chapter
twenty-two
twenty-two
T
he next day, they were given their first major assessment task.
he next day, they were given their first major assessment task.
They assembled after breakfast at the training ground, as they did every day. They went automatically to their separate areas, prepared for two hours of grueling physical training, followed by weapons drill. But today, the routine changed.
The three brotherband instructors, and the head instructor, Sigurd, strode out of the mess tent in a group and made their way to the center of the training ground. Twenty-eight pairs of eyes followed them curiously, wondering what was about to come. They didn’t have long to wait.
At a nod from Sigurd, Gort produced that much-hated whistle from his jerkin and blew a piercing blast on it. Not that there was any need to draw their attention. Everyone present was already watching.
“Right!” Sigurd yelled, in a wind-quelling bellow. “Assemble here, everyone! In your bands.”
As the boys started to straggle across the field from three different directions, he added, “AT THE DOUBLE!”
That got them moving. By now, they knew that the last person to arrive after that command was liable to incur a penalty for his team. That unfortunate person was one of Rollond’s group. He slipped on a patch of wet grass and fell, twisting his ankle. Hal saw him fall and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. Until that happened, Ingvar had been the prime candidate to be last.
Sigurd glared at the late-arriving Wolf as he limped in to join the group.
“Fifteen demerits,” he snapped. A few of the Wolves muttered in annoyance, glaring at their straggling teammate, although it certainly wasn’t the poor boy’s fault.
“Shut up!” Rollond barked, and earned an approving glance from Sigurd.
“Just as well you spoke up, skirl. I was about to. And that would have meant more demerits.”
The offending boys hung their heads, not wishing to meet Sigurd’s, or Rollond’s, eyes. Sigurd paused just long enough to make sure the message had registered with them, then went on briskly.
“Today’s your first assessment.”
There was a murmur of interest from the three bands, quickly silenced as he glanced up angrily at them.
“It’s the mountain run,” he said, and that caused another buzz of interest, equally quickly silenced by another glare from Sigurd.
He’s enjoying this, Hal thought. He loves getting us talking, then shutting us up.
Sigurd held out his hand and Viggo thrust a handful of parchment sheets into them. Sigurd held them up for the assembled boys to see.
“You’ll be racing on Boarshead Mountain. There are three routes up the mountain. At the end of each one is a tent. In the tents are three figures. A wolf, a shark and a …”—he hesitated, then his lip curled in disdain—“… a birdie.”
The Herons shifted uncomfortably. The other teams laughed quietly. This time, Sigurd made no effort to silence them.
“The contest is simple,” he continued as he handed the maps of each route to the three team skirls. “Each route is the same length and difficulty as the others. You run up and fetch the figure, then run back. We time you.” He indicated three water clocks on a table outside the mess tent. “Fastest time wins the points. One hundred of them. Second gets twenty. Last … gets nothing.” He paused, and looked directly at Hal and his group.
“Any questions? No? Then get back to your normal training areas, study the maps and think about who’s going to be doing the running. I’ll be round to ask you in a few minutes.”
Tursgud laughed. “No question. I’ll run for the Sharks.”
Sigurd regarded him keenly. “Is that so? Well, once you decide, there’s no changing. So be sure you choose correctly. Now get going!”
As they double-timed to their training area, Hal felt a flood of panic rising in his chest. He had no idea who would be the best choice to run for them. Ulf and Wulf were both fast. And Jesper had shown a good turn of pace in their daily sprint and long-distance training sessions. But speed wasn’t all this would take. Boarshead Mountain was steep and rough. Whoever ran it would need strength and endurance as well as speed. He realized that Stig had moved up to jog alongside him.
“I’ll run it,” his friend said as if he was reading Hal’s thoughts. Hal glanced at him. Stig could well be the best choice for this. He was certainly the closest they had to Tursgud and Rollond.
They reached their training area and the boys gathered in a loose half circle around him. He felt their eyes on him, waiting for him to make his decision. He cursed himself. This was his crew, his team. He should have taken the trouble to learn their abilities better. Stig was probably the best choice, he thought. But he wasn’t sure. Then he shook his head. You’re the leader. Make a decision and stick to it, he told himself.
“Stig,” he began, “I think maybe you—”
But he got no further. Edvin interrupted him.
“Hal, we all have to run. This is a team event,” he said. All eyes turned to him and he continued. “Remember when we went through the assessments, we noticed that the individual tests were listed that way: ‘Wrestling, individual. Footrace, individual. Navigation, individual.’ But for the mountain race, it just said, ‘Mountain race.’ That means it’s a team event.”
Hal frowned as he tried to recall the list. “I think you’re right,” he said slowly. “And if you are, that’s why they’ve put this one first. If we’d already done a few others, we’d be more familiar with the wording. We’d be more likely to realize that it’s not just a test of speed and endurance …”
“It’s a test of our intelligence—our ability to read and interpret instructions,” Edvin said. He and Hal looked at each other and nodded agreement. “Remember what he said to Tursgud just now?” Edvin continued. “
Be sure you choose correctly
. Not
be sure you choose the best person
.”
Be sure you choose correctly
. Not
be sure you choose the best person
.”
Hal chewed his lip thoughtfully. He was convinced that Edvin was right. But what if he was mistaken? They would come last in the assessment—and they’d make a laughingstock of themselves.
The other boys had looked on in silence as Hal and Edvin discussed the wording of the assessment. Now Ulf chimed in.
“Better hurry up and decide. Here comes Sigurd,” he said.
They all turned and saw the burly figure of the instructor striding toward them, flanked by his three assistants. Hal came to a decision.
“We’ll all run,” he said. He saw the doubtful looks on most of the faces around him. Only Edvin and Stig seemed to believe he had made the right choice. Ingvar seemed oblivious to the whole thing. But then, he usually did. Ingvar seemed to live in his own private world—possibly a result of his extremely poor sight.
There was no time for further discussion. Sigurd was upon them now, and the other three instructors were close behind him.
“Form up,” Hal ordered and the boys quickly moved into a ragged line, facing Sigurd. For a second, Hal considered ordering them to straighten the line, then discarded the notion. Skandians weren’t big on close-order drill, he thought.
Hal stepped to the front of the line, positioning himself in the middle as Sigurd stopped before them.
“Very well, skirl,” Sigurd said. “Who’s running for your team—for the birdies?”
Hal set his mouth in a straight line, refusing to show any reaction to the jibe. He took a deep breath, then committed himself—and his team.
“We’re all running, sir. We’ll do it as a team.”
Sigurd’s gaze snapped up, surprised. He said nothing for a few moments, then he asked carefully, “Are you sure? I’ll give you a chance to reconsider.”
That tipped the scales for Hal. Sigurd was not the type to give him a chance to reconsider. It simply wasn’t consistent that he should suddenly give them a second chance at anything. He’s trying to trick me, Hal thought.
“No, sir. Put us all down as the runners.”
Sigurd shook his head as he made a notation on the sheet he was carrying.
“Your funeral,” he muttered. “Right, get yourselves over to the starting point.”
Hal formed the Herons into two files and they double-timed across to the starting point by the mess tent. The other bands were already assembled there. Rollond and Tursgud stood a little apart from their crews, stretching in preparation for the run.
“Very well,” Sigurd told them. “Here are the runners. For the Wolves, Rollond. For the Sharks, Tursgud.” He paused and all eyes turned on the remaining group, which was what he had intended. “And the Herons tell me they all intend to run the course.”
There was a shout of laughter from the other boys.
“Good idea,” Tursgud called out, grinning broadly. “That way at least one of them might finish.” There was more laughter, which Sigurd allowed to run its course before speaking again.
“That won’t happen. Everyone who starts must finish.” He looked at Rollond. “You’re first to start, get to the start line.”
Rollond took one more look at the map, then crammed it into his jacket. He nodded to Sigurd to show he was ready. Sigurd, in turn, nodded to Gort.
The whistle shrilled and Rollond took off, running like a stag, light-footed and long striding, for the trees at the bottom of the mountain. His teammates cheered him on until he disappeared into the trees fringing the field. At the mess tent, Jarst removed the pin from the first of the water clocks. Water began dripping slowly down into the bottom receptacle.
The scene was repeated for Tursgud. He jogged lightly from one foot to the other as he waited for the start signal, exuding confidence. Then he was away, with the Sharks’ cheers to urge him on.
Then, finally, it was the Herons’ turn.
“Very well, birdies. One last chance to reconsider?” Sigurd looked at Hal. But Hal set his jaw and shook his head. “No? Very well. No flying, birdies, that would be cheating and you know …”
He must have signaled to Gort with his hand behind his back, because he was still in mid-sentence when the start whistle sounded. Caught off guard, Hal hesitated for a second. Then, cursing, he took off at a run.
“Come on!” he shouted to the others and they streamed after him, the laughter of the other bands loud in their ears.
The climb was brutal. The path they were set on was narrow and steep and winding. In places, it disappeared completely, leaving them to negotiate shale-laden collapses and steep rock walls. When the trail resumed, the trees and undergrowth had grown in to crowd it, so that whoever was leading had to force a way through. Hal organized a roster in which he, Stig, Jesper and Stefan alternated as the leader—who had the hardest job. Poor Ingvar fell several times in the first fifty meters of the climb. Eventually, Hal assigned the twins to him to keep him on his feet. They each took him by a hand and dragged him up the steep path.
Even so, he fell repeatedly, often bringing the twins down with him. After a while, Hal and Edvin replaced them.
Eventually, Hal noticed that the trees were thinning. He could see more and more of the sky around them and feel the wind more keenly. At ground level, it had been a gentle breeze. Here, it cut through their sweat-dampened clothing like a chill knife.
“We made it!”
It was Stig, whose turn it was to take the lead. The others straggled up beside him, Hal and Edvin arriving last of all, leading the lumbering Ingvar. A small two-man tent was pitched in the lee of some rocks. Stig indicated it to Hal.
Hal realized, with a mild sense of surprise, that they had all waited for him to look inside the tent. He gestured to Stefan.
“Get the bird,” he said, his breath coming raggedly. He simply didn’t have the energy to stoop and crawl into the tent. He thought that if he did, he might well just lie down inside and not come out.
Stefan went down on hands and knees and crawled into the tent. A few seconds later, his grinning face emerged, and he held up a carved bird figure for them to see.
“Got it!” he said, scrambling to his feet. He held it out to Hal, who took it and examined it. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It was a rough carving of a seabird.
He looked around, took a deep breath and shoved the figurine inside his jacket.
“All right,” he said wearily. “Let’s go back down. Ulf, Wulf, you take Ingvar for a while.”
He had thought the downward route might be easier. But he was sadly mistaken. They plunged down, trying to keep their balance in the steeper parts, falling and sliding on the frequent patches of shale and loose scree. Going downhill worked a completely different set of muscles, and before long, their calves and ankles ached unbearably and they were cut and scratched in a dozen places where they had fallen. After several hundred meters, Hal learned it was best if Ingvar went first, with his two acolytes. That way, when the huge boy fell, he didn’t bring down those of his teammates who were ahead of him. And in any event, they had to keep to Ingvar’s speed, as they all had to arrive back together.
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