Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (20 page)

For his part, the Ranger continued to observe the young Skandian wolfship skirl – although he looked like no Skandian Gilan had seen before. Whereas his crew were generally tall and heavily built, Hal was relatively slim – although Gilan could see there was plenty of hard muscle on him.

In addition, the skirl was remarkably young. Yet he had a definite air of authority about him. Gilan, who was a keen observer, like all Rangers, had noticed how Hal’s crew deferred to him and moved promptly to carry out his orders as they folded and stowed sails and stored loose gear away for the night.

The more he looked, the more he realised how young all the crew members were. None of them would have been older than eighteen, he thought, if that. Then he corrected himself. The bearded, one-handed one called Thorn was a good deal older and had the look of an experienced warrior about him. He’d be a good man in a fight, Gilan thought, one-handed or not. He noticed the older man’s dexterity with the polished wood hook he wore on the end of his right arm. And he noticed how he too deferred to Hal.

For some moments, he had a sense of misgiving about the youth of the captain and crew. Then he shrugged them away. He was not yet thirty himself and people had often thought he was too young for the important duties he carried out. And his friends, Will and Horace, were even younger, yet they had proved that youth didn’t imply any lack of ability. Their skill and courage and capability were widely known and admired throughout Araluen.

He sat on a low bollard, waiting for the crew to finish their work on board. He’d noted with surprise earlier that there was a girl member of the crew. Now, as she climbed up onto the rail, prior to stepping across to the jetty, he instinctively rose and offered a hand to help her.

She met his gaze, unsmiling, and ignored his hand, stepping lightly ashore.

He nodded to her. ‘My name’s Gilan.’

She regarded him for a moment, then replied, still with a lack of expression, ‘Lydia.’ She had a back quiver that was crammed with curious metre-long darts. A strangely shaped wooden handle hung from her belt and he recognised it as an atlatl, or throwing device. He realised she was staring pointedly at his longbow, which was slung over one shoulder. She nodded towards it.

‘You any good with that?’ she asked.

He paused thoughtfully before replying. ‘I get by,’ he said. ‘I’d be interested to see you using that atlatl,’ he added.

She glanced down at the handle hanging from her belt. A look of cautious respect came over her face. Lydia, who had grown up as a loner, was uncomfortable around new acquaintances and could be a little prickly with them. But very few people had ever recognised her weapon for what it was, and she felt an instinctive kinship for another weapons expert.

‘We should have a contest one day,’ she said. ‘My atlatl against your bow.’

The tall Ranger smiled at her. ‘Good idea. Although I’m sure you’ll win.’

I doubt it, Lydia thought. There was an air of confidence about the Ranger that belied his self-deprecating manner. In her experience, people who decried their own ability usually turned out to be very good indeed. And Thorn had told them that Rangers were all expert archers.

A huge boy was preparing to come ashore behind her. Gilan studied his massive shoulders and chest, and the heavily muscled legs. He was a giant, and he appeared to have a giant’s strength. But he hesitated as he went to step across to the jetty and Lydia hurried to put out a hand to him.

‘Here, Ingvar,’ she said, catching hold of his sleeve and steadying him as he gained the firm ground of the jetty. He smiled his thanks.

‘This is Ingvar,’ Lydia told Gilan. He noticed how her tone had softened. ‘Ingvar, meet Gilan.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m kind of short-sighted,’ the giant boy said, obviously to explain why he was leaning forward and peering closely at the Ranger. ‘You’re a little hard to see.’

‘It’s the cloak,’ Gilan explained. ‘It’s designed to do that.’

‘Well, it’s working so far as I’m concerned.’ Ingvar smiled. Gilan decided that he liked the huge boy. They shook hands and the Ranger paled at the crushing grip.

‘Oh . . . sorry,’ said Ingvar, releasing his hand. ‘Sometimes I forget myself.’

The rest of the crew came ashore in ones and twos and introduced themselves to Gilan. He mentally filed their names away, matching each to its owner’s face. It was a useful skill he had taught himself. If any of them presented himself to Gilan in the next few minutes, he would be able to call him by name.

The crew began to troop up the path to the two huts. Hal fell into step beside Gilan.

‘We’ll clean up, then go up to the village for dinner,’ he said.

‘I could use a bit of freshening up myself,’ Gilan replied. ‘I’ve been riding all day.’

‘A foolish way to get about.’ Hal smiled. ‘If the gods had meant us to ride horses, they never would have given us ships.’

The dinner was more of a feast, with the central dish being a roast suckling pig, turned on a spit over a bed of glowing coals and basted with oil and juices until the skin was stretched tight and was shining brown.

The meat underneath was little short of heavenly and it was accompanied by potatoes roasted in covered iron pots hung over the glowing coals of the cook fire until their skins were golden and crisp and the interiors were soft and cooked through, soaking up the butter that was melted onto them in large amounts. There were other vegetables, smoked trout from the river, and ducks that were spit roasted after the pig was done and removed from the spit for carving.

William and his two councillors were present, along with their wives and half a dozen other villagers who had been wanting to meet the Skandian crew. It was a pleasant, friendly night, with none of the roisterous, bellowing noise of the farewell for
Wolfspear
and her crew. The Herons politely refused William’s offer of ale or wine, but enthusiastically accepted Gilan’s offer of coffee. Like all Rangers, he always travelled with a good supply of beans.

Long before midnight, they walked back to their quarters. The half moon was sinking over the hills behind the village, casting a few last moments of silver sheen over the waters of the bay. Within minutes, they were all rolled in their blankets and quiet settled over the two huts, broken only by the soft booming sound of Thorn’s snoring. Gilan lay awake for some time, marvelling at the way it carried on the still night air. After all, Thorn was in the next cabin. Obviously, he thought, the Skandians were used to it by now and could sleep through it.

Finally, he dropped off.

Then, just before dawn, when the first birds were beginning to stir in the trees above the bay, there was a thunderous knocking at the door of the larger hut, and a voice shouting for them to rouse themselves.

S
tartled out of a deep sleep, Hal made his way to the door and drew the bolt, just as another bout of hammering began. He had his saxe in his right hand and he used his left to throw the door wide open, quickly stepping back out of reach of a possible blow from outside. Behind him, he heard the others stirring from their beds.

There was a lantern burning above the door, and by its dim light he could make out the tall shape of William. The headman was still dressed in his nightshirt, with a heavy cloak pulled over it. There was another man beside him. His face was unfamiliar and he was dressed in farm clothes – a linen smock belted over woollen breeches and heavy work boots.

‘What’s going on?’ Hal demanded.

William, his fist poised to deliver another barrage of knocking at the door, lowered his hand.

‘Apologies, Captain Hal. There’s an emergency.’ William’s voice was rushed. He was breathing heavily. Obviously, he and the other man had run down the steep track from the village. Hal sensed someone behind him and glanced quickly over his shoulder. Stig and Thorn were there, half dressed and both with weapons at the ready. Stig had his axe and Thorn, like Hal, was armed with a saxe knife. Hal gestured for them to lower their weapons and stepped aside, ushering William and the stranger into the cabin.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Stig, organise some light, will you?’

The larger of the two buildings contained the main living quarters, with a kitchen and common room. There was a hallway to one side, with four bedrooms opening from it. Hal, Stig, Thorn and Lydia had taken the bedrooms – a matter of seniority for the first three and privacy for Lydia. The other cabin, set some five metres away, was arranged as a large open-plan dormitory, with a fireplace at one end and bunks lining the walls down either side. The rest of the crew were quartered there, along with the Ranger, Gilan. Hal could see lights moving in the windows there. Obviously, William’s thunderous knocking had roused the others as well.

As Stig went to work with his flint and steel and lit several lanterns, Hal gestured for the others to sit at the long dining table.

‘What’s going on?’ Lydia emerged from the hallway. She had taken time to dress, although her feet were bare. Like the others, she came armed, with her long dirk in her hand and the belt and scabbard for the weapon looped over her shoulder. Hal motioned for her to join them at the table.

‘We’re about to find out,’ he told her. Then he turned to William, a questioning look on his face.

William gestured to the second man. ‘Gough here is from Deaton’s Mill,’ he said. ‘That’s a village north of here. They’ve been raided.’

‘Raided? Who raided you?’ Hal addressed his question to the man named Gough.

‘Slavers,’ the man said bitterly. ‘They landed in the next cove up from the village and came over the headland before we knew they were there. Hit us after dark and caught us totally by surprise. Killed three and took twelve prisoners. The rest of us ran.’

‘How many of them were there?’ Thorn asked.

Gough tried to gather his thoughts, but answered uncertainly. It had all happened very quickly and his recall of events was confused.

‘A lot. Maybe twenty of them. Maybe more. They came at us from three sides and suddenly it seemed they were everywhere, killing and burning and capturing. Most of the villagers ran for their lives.’

His eyes dropped and Hal guessed that he had been one of those who had run.

William noticed the guilty movement as well and said in an explanatory tone, ‘People there are millers and farmers. They’re not warriors.’

The door opened abruptly and Gilan entered the cabin. ‘What’s all the noise about?’

Thorn glanced at him. ‘Slavers,’ he replied succinctly. ‘Hit a village called . . .’ He glanced at Gough for the name.

‘Deaton’s Mill,’ the man mumbled.

‘Deaton’s Mill,’ Thorn repeated. ‘Three killed. Twelve taken prisoner. The rest of them were run off.’

Gilan uttered a soft curse. He hated slavers and since the Socorran slave market had opened several years previously, they had been preying on small isolated villages along Araluen’s east coast.

Hal moved to the wall, where a large chart of the Araluan coastline and the Narrow Sea was displayed. He searched the map for Deaton’s Mill, found it and measured the distance with his eye.

‘How long ago?’ he asked.

This time, Gough answered without hesitation. ‘After dark, as I said. But then they didn’t leave right away. Drove us off and sat around drinking and feasting on our food and ale – and burning down houses and barns. I managed to sneak back and get a horse. Then I rode here as fast as I could. Took me maybe three hours.’

‘But they were still there when you left?’ Hal said keenly.

‘Aye. Don’t know how much longer they stayed, but when I rode south, I saw their ship still at anchor in the cove.’

‘What sort of ship was it?’ Thorn asked.

Gough screwed up his face in thought. He wasn’t terribly familiar with ships but he was pretty sure he knew what this one was – and he wasn’t sure how his news would be received by the Skandian crew.

‘She was one of yours,’ he said. ‘A big one, with a wolfshead on the bow.’

Hal felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he was sure he knew what ship it was. ‘Could you see what colour she was?’ he asked.

Gough pursed his lips uncertainly. ‘It were night,’ he said. ‘Moon wasn’t up so it were hard to tell. But she was dark painted. Maybe black. I’m not sure.’