Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (51 page)

‘Now! Sheet home!’ he yelled and
Heron
surged forward as the sail came hard onto the wind. They all heard the rush of jagged boulders in the air as they passed over the ship to erupt in ragged explosions of white water once more. But the volley fell behind them, the aim thrown off by
Heron
’s sudden change of speed.

‘Nice move,’ Thorn said. ‘But it won’t work twice.’

‘It won’t have to,’ Hal replied. ‘They’ve got time for one more volley. Let’s make a hole we can slip through.’ He studied the massive weapons. Four of them were simple catapults, consisting of a long beam with a counterweight at one end and a bucket at the other to hold the projectile. The other was a trebuchet: a similar design, but with the addition of a rope sling at the end of the throwing arm that would whip over the top like a flail, adding impetus, power and range to the shot. Raising his voice, he called to Lydia and Gilan. ‘Concentrate your shots on the trebuchet in the centre of the line,’ he said. ‘Cut down her crew before they can reload.’

The two were standing amidships, on the port side, weapons ready. They both nodded in unison, then, with breathtaking speed, Gilan loosed five arrows at the trebuchet crew. Lydia wasn’t far behind him, with three darts hissing away from her atlatl.

Around the trebuchet, men began to fall. The hail of arrows and darts struck home, seemingly out of nowhere. Four men went down before anyone was aware of what was happening. The others turned and ran, crouching to hide from the deadly storm of missiles arcing down among them. The other machines were ready to shoot but the trebuchet remained uncocked, with its counterweight only halfway through its vertical rise.

‘Release!’ the commander shouted. But there was no one to trip the trigger lever on the machine in the centre of the line. And when other soldiers tried to get close, the hail of arrows and darts recommenced and drove them back.

The rolling crash rang out once more as the other four machines hurled their rocks high into the night sky. But Hal had steered
Heron
for the gap in the line of missiles – a twenty-metre gap now that the centre trebuchet hadn’t released.
Heron
slid smoothly through the disturbed water, although the inner catapult, throwing a lighter rock than before, came perilously close, hurling up a fountain of spray barely three metres from the ship.

He glanced at Thorn, his heart in his mouth at the near miss. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said.

At the half-cocked trebuchet, Mahmel was screaming insults and orders, driving men back to their posts, ordering them to recommence winding the massive windlass that would raise the counterweight.

On board
Heron
as she slipped past, Stig saw the green-turbaned figure, barely fifty metres away, and recognised him.

‘Ingvar! Load one of those scatter bolts!’ he called. The Mangler was already cocked and Ingvar dropped one of the pottery-headed bolts into the loading slot. Then as Stig began to walk the massive crossbow around so that it was trained out to port, Ingvar seized the training lever and helped him.

‘Left. Left. Left . . . steady there!’ Stig called. He was winding the elevation wheel as he spoke, centering the sights on the green-cloaked, green-turbaned figure of the slave master.

SLAM!

The Mangler bucked wildly against its leather restraints as he pulled the trigger lanyard, and the bolt swooped away towards the shore.

Stig’s aim was slightly off. The bolt hissed past Mahmel, staggering him as he felt the wind of its passage, and smashed against the wooden frame of the trebuchet. The pottery head shattered, releasing a storm of whirling shards that flew wildly among the crew.

One of them took a jagged, five-centimetre piece in the forehead. It tore a huge flap of skin from his head. Blood gushed out, blinding him, and he threw both hands to his face in pain. He staggered and reached out blindly for something to support him. His hand closed on the trigger lever and he released the half-cocked trebuchet.

But the massive weapon, with its counterweight only half raised, didn’t have the force to hurl the sling up and over. It was propelled upwards for a few metres, then, defeated by gravity, it dropped back. The jagged boulder that had been loaded into it lurched a few metres into the air, then fell free. It struck the frame of the trebuchet a glancing blow as it came down and was deflected to one side.

Mahmel never saw it coming. He was still hurling curses at the little ship as it slid past, barely fifty metres away, heading for the open sea, when the huge, crushing weight landed on him.

He screamed once, then he was silent.

One of the trebuchet crew, nursing an arrow wound in his left arm, curled his lip in disdain at the slave master. Mahmel was lying on his back, pinned beneath the heavy boulder. His eyes were wide open, but they saw nothing. An ominous dark stain was spreading across the flagstones beneath him.

‘Good riddance,’ the soldier said softly. Then he looked up at the slim little ship as she left the channel and slipped into the open sea. The first large roller slid under her keel. She rose to it gracefully, dipped her bow, then slid down the far side, gathering speed as she headed north.

Across the water, the Socorran heard the faint sound of cheering as she moved away.

I
t was late in the afternoon when
Heron
slipped quietly into the little bay by the village of Deaton’s Mill.

Hal had decided to bypass Cresthaven. The twelve rescued slaves were eager to get home and let their families know they were safe and he was happy to accommodate them. As he headed the ship towards the beach, he sniffed the air. The smell of burnt wood was still evident.

A few villagers were on the beach as
Heron
slid her sharp prow into the sand and rode up a few metres onto dry land. Stefan, as ever, was ready with the beach anchor. He dropped over the bulwark at the bow, ran inland and drove the blades of the anchor firmly into the sand.

The half dozen villagers reacted with alarm at the sight of the ship. She was smaller than a wolfship, but she was built on similar lines. And when Stefan slipped ashore, his clothing marked him as a Skandian.

And Deaton’s Mill had all too recently had trouble with Skandians and wolfships.

The bystanders began to run up the beach towards the village. Gilan moved quickly to the bow and leapt up onto the bulwark, his green and grey mottled cloak identifying him as a Ranger.

‘King’s Ranger!’ he shouted. ‘You’re safe! No need for alarm!’

Two of the villagers kept running, shouting to warn the rest of the village. But the others stopped where they were, looking curiously at the sight of the Ranger perched on the bow of this strange ship.

Then Walton moved into the bow and joined Gilan, although he was nowhere near as sure of his footing as the Ranger. He recognised one of the men on the beach, who was hesitating, still poised to run if necessary.

‘Ben Tonkin!’ Walton shouted. ‘What’s up with you? Can’t you see we’re back?’

The man hesitated, then raised his hands to shade his eyes as he peered at the figure in the bow of the beached ship.

‘Walton?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Is that you, boy?’

‘Aye, it’s me all right,’ Walton shouted. ‘And the others who were taken. We’re back safe and sound!’

Several of the other former slaves had joined Walton in the bow, waving and shouting to those further up the beach. Tonkin took a few paces closer to the ship, then, ascertaining that it was, in fact, Walton, and that the others around him were all from the village as well, he turned and shouted the good news back to the village.

A small trickle of villagers, warned by the initial cries of those who had fled at the sight of
Heron
, were making their way out of the village and towards the beach, armed with makeshift weapons – axes, hoes and even the occasional spear. They may not have fought before, but they’d spent three weeks repairing the damage Tursgud’s men had done, rebuilding the burnt barns, re-thatching the houses where the roofs had been set alight by the raiders. They weren’t about to see their hard work go up in smoke once more.

But now as the word spread that the prisoners had returned, they threw the weapons aside and ran to the beach. The trickle became a flood until virtually the entire village were gathered on the beach, laughing and cheering as their twelve friends came ashore, mobbing round them, congratulating them. More than one mother wept openly at the sight of her son or daughter returned to her.

Ophelia was the last to leave the ship. On the voyage home, Edvin had tended to her night and day, using salves and poultices and herbal remedies that he had learned about from the healers in Skandia. The results were remarkable. The girl was able to walk unaided now, and although she winced from time to time if she moved incautiously, she was a far cry from the injured, hesitant girl who had come aboard in Socorro.

‘You did a great job,’ Hal told Edvin quietly as they watched willing hands lift the girl gently down to the beach. Edvin shrugged diffidently. Then a smile broke out on his face. He knew he wasn’t the best warrior on board the ship. But he had taken on the role of healer with determination and enthusiasm. He studied the old scrolls on healing and he assisted the apothecaries and surgeons in Hallasholm whenever he had the time. The reward came when he saw a result like this.

‘Yes,’ he agreed cheerfully. ‘I didn’t do too badly at all, did I?’

Of course, there was a celebration feast that night to mark the homecoming of the lost twelve, as they were called. And of course, the crew of the
Heron
were guests of honour.

Several lambs were grilled over a fire pit, and a massive goose was roasted. In addition, there were green vegetables, floury soft potatoes cooked in the coals of the fire pit and fresh fruit from the village’s orchards to finish. The Herons were offered all the ale they could drink, but Hal refused politely on their behalf, opting for coffee instead.

During the meal, which was held in the open in the village square, the Herons were treated to a steady procession of mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, sweethearts, sisters and brothers belonging to the slaves they had rescued, all taking their hands, thanking them and hugging them warmly.

At one stage, a pretty young girl nervously approached the table of honour where the crew were seated, and sought out Hal.

She was wearing a soft woollen dress of pale blue and her dark, shining hair was plaited and coiled on top of her head. With a slight sense of shock, he realised it was Ophelia. Now that she wasn’t dressed in filthy rags, and with the drawn lines of pain and fear gone from her face, she was barely recognisable as the miserable creature they had carried out of the slave market and through the back alleys of Socorro.

Hal smiled warmly at her as she stood beside his chair.

‘Why, Ophelia,’ he said, ‘you look beautiful.’

Lydia, a few seats away, curled her lip scornfully.

‘Hal, I want to thank you for saving us. For bringing us home. Thank you so much.’

Hal made a self-deprecating gesture, indicating the other members of his crew. ‘It wasn’t just me. The whole crew helped.’

‘Maybe so. But I think you’re wonderful,’ she said. And leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek. Then, embarrassed at her forwardness, she turned and ran. The crew all cheered and laughed as Hal flushed with embarrassment.

‘I think you’re wonderful too, Hal!’ Stefan said, in a workmanlike approximation of Ophelia’s breathless, admiring tones. The crew laughed even harder.

Lydia snorted through her nose.

Thorn turned to study her scowling features.

‘What’s got your undies in a twist, princess?’ he asked, grinning.

She glared at him. ‘One day, old man, you’ll say one word too many.’