Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (19 page)

He noticed that Hal looked unconvinced and decided he had better return all the coins.

‘Honesty,’ he sighed to himself. ‘It’ll be the death of gambling.’

‘Can we continue now?’ Stig asked sarcastically. Hal gestured for them to go ahead. He guided the
Heron
on a course angling in towards the beach, where a target was set up. As they came within range, Stig began adjusting the Mangler’s elevation, and calling corrections to Ingvar, who was training the big crossbow.

‘Left . . . left a little . . . stop . . . right a little . . . stop . . .’

As he saw the target beginning to drift across the sights, he pulled smoothly on the trigger lanyard and the Mangler, after the usual slight pause, slammed back against its restraining straps as the bolt flew on its path.

The bolt missed the left-hand edge of the target by a whisker, then skipped across the beach, sending up successive fountains of sand as it did so. Hal noted the spot where it came to rest so they could retrieve it.

‘Miss!’ called Jesper, and checked his tally sheet. ‘That’s twenty-three hits to Lydia, twenty-two to Stig. Lydia wins. Collect your winnings if you bet on Lydia. Bad luck if you bet on Stig.’

‘Just a moment!’ Stig protested, going red in the face. ‘I want a rematch. That wasn’t fair!’

‘Looked fair to me,’ said Stefan. ‘Lydia shot. She hit. You shot. You missed. How could that be unfair?’

Stig looked around wildly, desperately searching for some reason for missing – other than his own lack of proficiency. His gaze landed on Ingvar and he pointed an accusing finger.

‘You did it!’ he shouted.

Ingvar regarded him with surprise. ‘Me? What did I do?’

‘You . . . twitched the training lever just as I shot!’

‘Why would I do that?’ Ingvar asked. He was insulted by the accusation, although he realised that Stig was angry and looking for any excuse for his miss. Still, that was no reason for him to impugn Ingvar’s honesty.

‘Everyone knows you’re sweet on Lydia,’ Stig blurted out. ‘Remember what you did to Tursgud when he insulted her?’

At their homecoming celebration months earlier, Tursgud had made a sneering remark about Lydia. Ingvar, who was known for his placid, easygoing nature, had punched him in the nose, sending him flying back and knocking several tables down. It had been a sobering demonstration of the big boy’s strength and power.

‘Maybe you should remember that,’ Ingvar said, as he took a pace towards Stig. Stig did remember it all of a sudden, in lurid detail, and he hastily stepped away to place the Mangler between them.

‘Well, maybe you didn’t do it on purpose,’ he said, hoping to placate the giant boy.

‘I didn’t do it at all,’ Ingvar told him.

Lydia stepped forward, hands on her hips as she confronted Stig.

‘What makes you think I need Ingvar’s help to beat you?’ she challenged. ‘You’re a bumblefooted, hamfisted oaf who couldn’t hit a barn door with a bucket of wheat.’

Another interesting barn metaphor, Hal thought. He thought it might be time to nip this disagreement in the bud. But Thorn stepped in.

‘That was a pretty comprehensive victory all right,’ he said, shaking his head in mock wonder. ‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such a dominant performance.’

Both Lydia and Stig looked at him suspiciously. They had grown to recognise sarcasm when they heard Thorn utter it.

‘What do you mean?’ Lydia asked.

Thorn tugged his beard, apparently deep in thought. ‘Well, after all, look at the score. You hit the target twenty-three times.
Twenty-three!
That’s remarkable. Twenty-three hits out of twenty-seven shots. Incredible! And how many times did Stig score? Fifteen? Sixteen, was it?’ He raised an eyebrow and turned his gaze solely on Lydia, who began to flush red in her turn.

She dropped her eyes, becoming intent on a blob of tar on the deck.

‘Twenty-two,’ she muttered.

Thorn let the message sink in for a few seconds. Then he continued.

‘So, after three days, and twenty-seven shots each, you beat him by the incredible margin of one? That is –’ he looked to the sky, apparently searching his memory for the right words ‘– you beat a bumblefooted, hamfisted oaf who couldn’t hit a barn door with a bucket of wheat . . . and you beat him by the magnificent, unprecedented margin of . . . how many was it? Oh yes, one. And you did it at the very last minute?’

‘I suppose so,’ Lydia said, still not facing him.

Thorn turned to Stig. ‘And you, Stig, having lost by such an enormous score, promptly tried to blame your friend Ingvar?’

Stig hung his head as well. ‘You’re right, Thorn. Sorry, Ingvar,’ he said, looking up at the bigger boy.

Ingvar hesitated before he replied. He wasn’t angry so much at being accused of throwing Stig’s shot off. But the first mate’s remark that he was ‘sweet on Lydia’ had rankled. Mainly because it was true.

Thorn raised his shaggy eyebrows at Ingvar’s hesitation. ‘Ingvar,’ he said softly, ‘you’re very big and I have only one hand. But don’t think I couldn’t throw you overboard if I wanted to. Do you believe that?’

‘Yes, Thorn,’ Ingvar said meekly. Then he stepped towards Stig and held out his hand. ‘Sorry, Stig.’

The two shook hands. Then Stig held out his hand to Lydia.

‘Lydia?’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

The slim girl hesitated. She was a member of the Herons. But sometimes she felt that she was still an outsider.

‘And I could certainly throw
you
overboard, Lydia,’ Thorn told her.

She smiled in spite of herself and shook Stig’s hand. ‘Yeah. I take back the hamfisted remark, Stig.’

He grinned at her, relieved the bad feeling had been dispelled. ‘What about bumblefooted?’

She pretended to consider. ‘No. I think that one stays.’

‘The thing is,’ Thorn said, and they all turned to look at him once more, ‘I’m delighted that we now have two crew members who are experts with the Mangler. That makes me feel a lot safer. We’re a long way from home, we’re all alone and we have to rely on one another. We’re not children any more –’

‘Well, you’re certainly not,’ said Jesper, and for once his interruption was well timed. The crew all laughed and Thorn nodded acknowledgement.

‘Sad, but true,’ he said. ‘Just remember, we could be in a fight for our lives any minute. We want the best people available to shoot that monster of a crossbow. And we want to rely on one another and trust one another. If we go into a fight, we’ll probably be outnumbered.’

‘That’s nothing new,’ Edvin pointed out, and again Thorn acknowledged the comment.

‘Exactly. And we’ve won in the past because we stuck together and worked together and, most important of all, fought together. So we need to be on top of our game and not squabbling amongst one another like little children at barnskole. We need to work as a team – and a good team doesn’t fight among themselves.’

He looked around the assembled faces and was greeted with nods of agreement on all sides.

‘So in that case, because the shooting practice was far more than a contest, it was a skill session that all our lives could depend on, and since it could have gone either way, I declare that all bets are off.’

There was a moment of silence then, once more, heads began to nod. That may have been influenced by the fact that more people had bet on Stig than on Lydia. But eventually there was universal agreement.

Almost.

Jesper cast a stricken look at his shipmates. With Stig the loser, he stood to pocket a lot of cash.

‘But that’s not . . .’

The word ‘fair’ never made it past his lips. He looked at Thorn, then at Ingvar, then at the cold water surging past the rail of the ship. Then, reluctantly, he began to hand back the money.

As they set course for Cresthaven, Thorn joined Hal at the tiller.

‘Hope I didn’t step on your toes,’ he said quietly.

Hal smiled and shook his head. ‘A good skirl knows when to delegate,’ he said. ‘You did a good job.’

The sun was almost down by the time they arrived back at the jetty in Cresthaven Bay. As Hal brought the ship alongside, and Stefan and Jesper hurried to jump ashore with the mooring lines, a figure stepped from the shadows of the small hut built at the seaward end of the jetty. He was tall and slim and wore a strange cloak, patterned in mottled grey and green. A massive longbow was slung over his shoulder. He waited while Hal and Thorn stepped ashore, leaving Stig to supervise the stowing of sails and lines and other gear. Unlike the majority of strangers who greeted them, he addressed Hal first.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘My name is Gilan. The King wants to see you.’

‘T
he King?’ Hal repeated, after introductions had been made. His interest was piqued. ‘Does this mean there’s a mission for us?’

Gilan looked around. There was nobody in sight but the crew of the
Heron
, stowing gear on board the ship. As he hesitated, Hal took the opportunity to study him more closely. This was one of the fabled Rangers Thorn had told them about. He definitely had an aura about him. He was quietly spoken but there was an air of confidence and capability that was unmistakable. He was a man you wouldn’t trifle with. Hal couldn’t have defined any single attribute that gave him this sense. It was an overall impression gained from Gilan’s total demeanour.

After a short pause, the Ranger answered Hal’s question. ‘Best if we don’t discuss details until we’re on the way to Araluen.’

Stig, who had stepped ashore to join the small group, frowned. ‘I thought we were in Araluen?’

Gilan smiled. ‘You are. But Araluen is our principal fief, as well as the name of the country as a whole. Castle Araluen is the royal capital.’

‘Any particular reason why we shouldn’t talk about the mission here?’ Hal was curious to know if Gilan suspected any of the Cresthaven villagers of possible treachery. But the tall Ranger merely shrugged.

‘Secrets have a way of getting out when there are people around to hear them,’ he said. ‘People can be careless. They’ll often let slip information, without realising it. A careless word to a wagoner or a fisherman, or even one of the smugglers who frequent this area, could put all our lives at risk.’

‘Our lives?’ Hal said. ‘You’re coming too?’

‘It’s my mission,’ Gilan said. ‘All you have to do is get me to . . . wherever I’m going . . . as quickly as possible.’

‘Sounds fair,’ said Hal. He was burning with curiosity but he realised that the Ranger was right. Once a secret got out, there was no recalling it – and no telling who might end up hearing it. The safest solution was to keep it buttoned tight as long as possible, and reveal it to as few people as possible.

‘How do we get to this Araluen Fief?’ Thorn asked, frowning suspiciously. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me we’re riding?’

Gilan grinned again. He had an easygoing manner and he seemed to be readily amused. He didn’t fit the dark, secretive picture that Thorn had painted of Rangers.

‘I know how much you Skandians like to ride,’ he said.

Thorn snorted. Hal felt a need to defend his adopted country. ‘We can ride,’ he said.

Thorn shot him a look with daggers in it. ‘No we can’t,’ he snapped. He had no intention of wearing out his backside sitting astride a fractious, wilful animal that took no notice of his orders and ignored his tugging on the rudder lines – as he called the reins.

‘But there’ll be no need for that,’ Gilan continued. ‘There’s a river runs from the coast up to Castle Araluen. It’s easily navigable and you can sail there, or row if the wind isn’t in the right quarter.’

Hal was recalling the tide tables he’d prepared earlier that day. The tide would be running in at ten the following morning.

‘Best if we get going in the morning then,’ Hal said. ‘I’ve got no wish to navigate a strange river at night. If we reach the river mouth about the tenth hour, we’ll have the tide to help us in. That’ll make the rowing easier.’

‘As I recall, it’s about two hours by ship to the river mouth,’ Gilan said. ‘So we should get moving around the eighth hour.’ He glanced critically at the ship. It was smaller than the wolfships he was used to. ‘In the past, we’ve taken our horses on board. The crews built pens for them in the middle of the ship,’ he said, a questioning note in his voice.

Hal shook his head. ‘We don’t have the room,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to either ride back or leave your horse here.’

‘I’ll ride back,’ Gilan decided. ‘I’ll get going early in the morning. Can you put me up overnight or should I look for somewhere in the village?’

‘You’ll be fine with us,’ Stig told him. ‘We’ve got room for thirty people in the huts and there’s just ten of us.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Gilan said. ‘Oh, by the way, William invited us all to dinner in the village.’ He lowered his voice. ‘That’s another reason I don’t want to discuss what we’re up to. Too many people around to hear us up there. And if we don’t know the details, we can’t discuss them.’

Hal nodded. In the past, he had harboured some reservations about Araluen and its people – principally because none of the people from his mother’s village had raised a hand to help her when she was captured on a slaving raid. But he was warming to the Ranger – just as he’d warmed to the villagers of Cresthaven. He wondered whether he had rushed to judgement. That had been known to happen before – on more than one occasion, he admitted ruefully.