Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (21 page)

‘Could it have been dark blue?’ Lydia asked and Hal realised they were all thinking the same thing.

‘Could have been. Wouldn’t swear to it, mind. But it could have been blue, right enough. Or black, like I said,’ he added.

Hal stood, went to the door and stepped outside, looking up into the treetops to gauge the wind direction. Then he returned to the table.

‘Stig, rouse the crew – whoever isn’t awake yet – and get them on board. We’re going after her.’

Stig hurried to his room to collect the rest of his clothes and his weapons.

Thorn regarded Hal doubtfully. ‘You think we can catch her?’ he asked. ‘They’ve probably got a couple of hours’ head start.’

‘Wind is from the west-north-west,’ Hal told him. ‘If they’re going south, they’ll be making a lot of leeway.’

‘What does that mean?’ the Ranger asked.

Hal turned to him. ‘They’re sailing south but the wind is blowing them to the east for every kilometre they travel. That’s called leeway. We don’t get blown so far off course, so we can head in a more direct line. That means we’re travelling a shorter route, which might just bring us up with her in a few hours.’

Gilan nodded his understanding. It seemed that this young man knew what he was talking about.

‘Sorry about the King,’ Hal said. ‘He’ll have to wait.’

‘This is more important,’ Gilan told him. He decided that it might be worthwhile seeing this young crew in action. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d like to tag along if you can fit me in.’

Thorn clapped him on the shoulder, remembering just in time to do it with his left hand, and not the wooden hook he had been strapping on as they spoke. Gilan lurched forward under the impact.

‘Always happy to fit in a man with one of those nasty big longbows,’ the ragged old warrior said.

Gilan glanced to Hal for confirmation and received a nod. He turned to Cresthaven’s headman. ‘William, get a messenger off to the King, would you? Let him know we’ve been delayed by some slavers and we plan to teach them some manners.’

William nodded. ‘I’ll send a message pigeon at first light,’ he said. As the base for the duty ship, Cresthaven kept a flock of pigeons trained to fly home to Castle Araluen.

‘Best fetch that bow and your fancy coloured cloak, Ranger,’ Thorn told him. ‘It’s time we were shoving off.’

D
awn found them three kilometres off the coast, alternately swooping over successive waves, then sliding down into the troughs behind them. Gilan, at Hal’s invitation, stood by the steering platform, enjoying the light feeling under his feet as the ship swooped over a crest, then the smooth, gradual deceleration as the prow and keel bit into the resistance of the water in the troughs. He kept his knees flexed to absorb the gradually increasing pressure. He’d been on ships before and he was impressed by the quiet efficiency of the crew as they drove their craft onwards.

The little ship herself was a revelation. She was light as a gull and, as the daylight gradually grew stronger, the sight of the white-flecked water racing past the bulwarks showed how quickly she was moving. The twins were bent to their task in the ship’s waist, constantly looking up to check the set of the sail, and making small adjustments to wring the last metre of speed out of the ship. From time to time, Gilan would glance astern at the white line of disturbed water they were leaving in their wake. It was straight as a sword blade and he nodded silently in appreciation. He knew that an undeviating wake was the sign of a skilful helmsman, and Hal was maintaining the line with minimal effort.

When the sun was a handspan above the eastern horizon, Hal called Stefan and pointed to the lookout position on the bowpost. Stefan swarmed up the foot pegs set either side of the bowpost until he was balanced at the top, his waist level with the heron’s head that surmounted the bowpost. He scanned the entire horizon first of all. That was standard procedure. Even though they were looking for
Nightwolf
, it would be foolish to ignore the possibility that another ship – possibly an unfriendly one – might be somewhere in sight.

Satisfied that the rest of the horizon was clear, Stefan made a quick negative signal to Hal, then focused his attention on a thirty-degree quadrant off the port bow. That was where they expected to see Tursgud’s ship, if they had made up the lead she had over them.

Stefan shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun as he swept his gaze back and forth across that segment of the horizon. Every eye on the ship was upon him, waiting expectantly for his report. Suddenly, he stiffened, standing a little more upright, his gaze focused on one particular point, although Gilan noted that it was astern of the section of horizon where they were expecting to see the slaver.

‘Sail!’ he called.

A ripple of excitement ran through the crew. Lydia moved to the port side, took hold of a mast stay, and hauled herself up to stand on the rail. She balanced there easily against the ship’s motion, shading her eyes with one hand and maintaining a loose grip on the stay with the other.

‘It’s not her!’ she said after a short pause. ‘The hull is yellow.’ A few seconds later, Stefan confirmed her judgement.

‘Lydia’s right. She’s not
Nightwolf.
Looks like a trader,’ he said. ‘She’s definitely not a wolfship.’

Obviously, Gilan thought, Lydia’s eyesight was keener than Stefan’s. He regarded her with some curiosity. He still wasn’t sure where she fitted into the crew. She wasn’t Skandian, that was clear. She had dark hair and olive skin, whereas the majority of Skandians were blond and blue-eyed. And her slim build indicated that she was from somewhere else.

The rest of the crew relaxed and Lydia stepped down from the rail. Gilan glanced at Hal to see how he was taking the news. The young skirl caught his eye and shrugged fatalistically.

‘Didn’t really think we’d have caught her this quickly,’ he said. Then he grinned and added, ‘But you can always hope.’

‘I take it you know who this slaver is?’ Gilan said.

A frown shadowed Hal’s face. ‘We’re pretty sure it’s a renegade named Tursgud,’ Hal told him. ‘We’ve had dealings with him before.’ There was a grim tone in his voice that told Gilan the previous dealings had been anything but pleasant.

‘And he’s not your favourite person?’ he asked.

Hal paused before he answered. ‘Tursgud is a bully, a liar and a cheat. During our brotherband competition, another ship was sinking, and he left its crew to drown so that he could win a race. Then, a while back, he insulted Lydia and Ingvar broke his nose for him.’

Gilan glanced down the length of the ship to where Ingvar was sharing a joke with Edvin and Stefan. ‘Ingvar, the boy mountain?’ he asked.

Hal grinned at the description. ‘Exactly.’

‘I imagine that was quite . . . painful for Tursgud?’

‘Extremely, I’m pleased to say. We’ve always disliked each other but now he’s turned renegade. On our passage across the Stormwhite we came across a Gallican ship he’d attacked and left to sink. I don’t like him, and I don’t like the way he’s smearing the reputation of all Skandian sailors. And now, to cap it off, he’s taking captives and selling them as slaves. I hate slavers.’

Gilan studied the skirl. Hal’s hard expression was at odds with his normal cheerful disposition. ‘I’m not fond of them myself,’ he replied. Then, studying the empty sea stretching ahead of them, he asked, ‘D’you think we’ve a chance of catching them?’

‘Depends on how long they stayed after Gough got away. I’m assuming it was an hour, maybe two. If that’s right, it should take us six hours to run them down – give or take half an hour. We might see them late in the afternoon.’

‘And if they didn’t wait around that long?’

Hal raised his eyebrows. So much of his plan depended on guesswork.

‘Then we won’t see them before nightfall. And that means we’ve lost them.’

The day wore on and the
Heron
continued to run south, with the wind over her starboard quarter. The waves rolled through in an endless pattern, rearing up ahead of the little ship, then sliding beneath her as she swooped up the face and slid into each successive trough.

Around midday, Thorn left the spot where he had been snoozing by the base of the mast and joined Hal at the steering platform. Hal had just taken over from Stig, who had been on the tiller for the past three hours.

Gilan, with no duties to attend to, watched the three senior crew members carefully. Now he discerned a change in Thorn’s attitude. The older warrior seemed preoccupied, as if something was worrying him. The Ranger sensed that he was expecting something to happen – and his body language indicated that it wasn’t going to be something good.

The one-armed warrior was pacing the deck – back and forth, a few metres at a time. His eyes went constantly to the large, curving sail, and the wind telltale – a long ribbon that streamed from the very tip of the yardarm, indicating the wind direction and strength.

Gilan was about to say something when Hal also noticed Thorn’s obvious preoccupation.

‘Something on your mind?’ he asked, a trace of anxiety in his voice. Thorn had spent the greater part of his life at sea. Those years of experience meant that if he sensed trouble, he was probably right.

The bearded sea wolf shook his head doubtfully, as if worried that voicing his concern might make it become fact.

‘Don’t like the way the wind feels,’ he said finally. He looked up at the yardarm again and, as if on cue, the telltale faltered, a ripple running along its length.

At the same time, the sail flapped, slackening momentarily, then filling again with a loud clap of sound. Ulf and Wulf, caught by surprise after hours of unvarying pressure on the sail, reacted quickly, checking the sheets, hauling in a fraction.

Then the canvas bellied and shook again, with the same thump of noise. This time, everyone on board was craning their heads upwards.

The tension on the sheets eased and the tight, hard curve of the sail slackened again. The canvas shuddered in loose ripples.

‘Hal!’ one of the twins called in alarm.

Hal nodded grimly. ‘I see it. Haul in!’

The twins hauled in on the sheets, hardening the sail as much as possible to the decreasing force of the wind. Hal heaved on the tiller, presenting a broader section of the sail to the breeze. But everyone on board could feel the speed of the ship dropping. The sail flapped again, in spite of the twins’ best efforts at trimming.

‘Orlog curse it,’ Thorn muttered. ‘We’re losing the wind.’

The telltale began to droop now, as the wind decreased to a point where it wouldn’t support the long streamer. The sail flapped and shuddered, and
Heron
’s swooping, soaring progress dropped away. Finally, she lost all way and lay dead in the water, wallowing awkwardly as the waves swept by her, a graceless thing robbed of energy and speed.

Hal cursed quietly. But he was determined to play this game out to the end.

‘Down sail,’ he ordered. ‘Out oars.’

Stefan and Edvin brought the starboard sail down. Ulf and Wulf helped them bundle up the sail and stow it and the yardarm along the length of the deck.

Stig dropped down to his position on the first of the rowing benches. He unstowed the long white oak oar and raised it to the vertical. The other crew members quickly followed suit. Normally,
Heron
used only six oars, but today Edvin and Thorn, in spite of his one hand, were prepared to row.

‘Down oars,’ Stig ordered and the other seven rowers lowered their oar blades, setting them in the oarlocks until they were resting just above the water.

‘Ready!’ Stig ordered and they all pushed forward against their oars, cocking the blades.

‘Give way! Stroke!’ Stig called and the eight blades dipped as one, then heaved backwards against the water.
Heron
surged forward, water chuckling under her bow, and the tiller came alive in Hal’s hands once more. Gilan and Lydia moved to stand near him. He looked at them, the bitterness of defeat in his eyes.

‘Can we catch them like this?’ Gilan asked.

Hal shook his head. ‘Assuming they’ve lost the wind as well, they’ll be pulling twenty oars to our eight,’ he said. ‘There’s no way we can match their speed. If they haven’t lost the wind, they’ll be even faster.’