Authors: John Flanagan
Tags: #Fantasy, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Action & Adventure, #General
The Outcasts (12 page)
“Right! That’s it, weasel!” he yelled. He grabbed Hal’s shirt front in his left hand and drew back his right, fist clenched.
And found he was unable to move it forward again.
He turned, startled, to see Thorn’s unshaven face a few inches from his. He hadn’t heard the old beggar approaching. He looked with surprise to where his right wrist was locked securely in Thorn’s left hand.
“Let go of me!” he shouted. He tried to wrench his arm free, but Thorn’s grip was like iron.
“Why don’t you shut up?” the shabby odd-job man suggested. He glanced at Lotte, who was watching in astonishment, her mouth sagging open. She’d never seen anyone confront Tursgud in this way. Even adults were often wary around him.
“Miss, it might be a good idea if you left,” Thorn said gently. “Things could get ugly here.”
Lotte glanced at Hal and he nodded. Without further word, she fled up the beach, looking back once when she reached the esplanade, then disappearing in the direction of her parents’ home. To tell the truth, she was frightened of Thorn. Most of her life, she had known him as a dirty, disheveled, bad-tempered drunk. When she was younger, she and the other children used to throw sticks at him and call him names, then flee in delighted terror when he roared and shambled after them, lurching drunkenly as they fled, light-footed as deer.
“You’d better let me go, you old wreck,” Tursgud said. His voice was strained as he fought not to show how painful Thorn’s grip was becoming. “My father is the Maktig!”
The Maktig was the Mighty One, the title Skandians bestowed each year on their champion of all warriors. Thorn smiled. His teeth were rimmed with green.
“Just as well I’m not squeezing
his
wrist, isn’t it?” he said, and as Tursgud released his grip on Hal’s shirt front and drew back his left fist, he continued, with a grim note in his voice, “Throw that punch, boy, and I’ll break your wrist.”
his
wrist, isn’t it?” he said, and as Tursgud released his grip on Hal’s shirt front and drew back his left fist, he continued, with a grim note in his voice, “Throw that punch, boy, and I’ll break your wrist.”
And, incredibly, he increased the pressure of that already devastating grip, squeezing and rolling his fingers so that the bones in Tursgud’s wrist were crushed painfully together. Tursgud caught his breath in a gasp of agony and felt his knees buckle slightly. His eyes were very close to Thorn’s and for a second he could see a light of suppressed violence there.
Then the light died and Thorn smiled at him, releasing his wrist and shoving him away so that he fell to his knees in the sand.
“Now get out of here,” Thorn said quietly.
Tursgud scrambled to his feet, nursing his bruised wrist. He half ran up the beach, followed by his surprised comrades. They had never seen him bested like this—and to have it done by a one-armed former drunk made it all the more disconcerting. When he was a safe distance away, Tursgud turned and spat his hatred back at Thorn.
“You dirty old cripple!” he screamed. “You’ll pay for this!”
Then he turned and ran, followed by his comrades.
“You’re going to have to watch out for that one,” Thorn said.
Hal shook his head wearily. “Why is he always so horrible? Why does he always want to pick a fight? I’ve never done anything to him! Why does he hate me?”
Thorn regarded him seriously for a few seconds.
“Because he fears you,” he replied.
chapter
ten
ten
H
al spent the night pondering Thorn’s words to him.
al spent the night pondering Thorn’s words to him.
Why would Tursgud be afraid of him? It didn’t make sense. Tursgud was much bigger and stronger than Hal, and much more popular. He had a wide circle of friends who sought his company eagerly. Hal, on the other hand, was something of an outcast among the other young people in Hallasholm. With the exception of Stig, of course.
So why should Tursgud fear him? Hal had tried to quiz Thorn about it as they walked back to the eating house for the evening meal service but the old sea wolf had brushed his questions aside.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said enigmatically.
Hal was still wondering about it the next morning as he weatherproofed
Heron
for the duration of his brotherband training. The other boys had joined him at first light to help bring the neat little ship back to the creek, mooring her securely to the jetty. Then Stig, the twins and Ingvar had made their farewells. They all had family commitments on this last day before their training was due to begin.
Heron
for the duration of his brotherband training. The other boys had joined him at first light to help bring the neat little ship back to the creek, mooring her securely to the jetty. Then Stig, the twins and Ingvar had made their farewells. They all had family commitments on this last day before their training was due to begin.
He carried the sails, yardarms and other loose fittings ashore, unshipping the steering oar and storing them out of the weather under the canvas shelter that they’d rigged when they were building the ship. Then he cut a long sapling, trimmed it of smaller branches and ran it lengthwise down the ship, supported on either end by two X-shaped frames. He secured another tarpaulin over the sapling, tying it down tightly every few meters of its length so that it formed a tent-shaped cover over the hull. That should keep the worst of the rain out of her, he thought.
“You’ll have to bail her out every so often,” said a voice behind him. He turned and saw Thorn watching him. He had no idea how long he had been there—probably long enough to avoid helping him carry the gear ashore, he thought. It continued to surprise him how Thorn could move so quietly when he chose. In times past, he had blundered and stumbled noisily about Hallasholm, careering into buildings and people, knocking things over.
Hal was tempted to ask him once more about what he had said the previous day. But he decided against it. If Thorn hadn’t wanted to expand on the statement then, there was little chance that he’d do so now. Instead, Hal pointed to the long bundle Thorn was carrying under his right arm. It looked like a seaman’s kitbag—a cylindrical canvas sack about a meter and a half long. It was obviously packed full of something.
“What have you got there?” he asked.
Thorn glanced down at it. “It’s for you.”
Then he set the bag down without further explanation. Hal found that vaguely annoying. “It’s for you” didn’t really answer his question. But he knew that Thorn wouldn’t be prompted to explain until he was good and ready.
“Are you just about finished there?” Thorn asked.
Hal studied him curiously. Thorn boasted about the fact that he bathed and shaved once a month. Even if I don’t need it, he’d say. Yet he always seemed to be in exactly the same grubby, unshaven condition from one day to the next. Surely, Hal thought, there must be some days when he looked clean and tidy and shaven?
“Stared at me long enough?” Thorn said brusquely. “Think you’ll know me next time you see me?”
“Oh, sorry! Yes,” Hal said. He shook his head to dismiss the thought.
“Good. Now if you’ve finished fiddling with your boat, come over here. I’ve got something I want to run through with you.”
Mystified, Hal followed him to a level patch of ground, clear of wood chips, timber offcuts and shavings. Thorn turned to face him, studying him for a few seconds, then nodded, seeming to be satisfied with what he saw.
“All right, shape up to me,” he commanded.
Hal frowned at him. “Shape up to you?”
Thorn nodded impatiently. “Yes! Shape up as if you’re going to hit me!”
“Why would I want to hit you?”
“Why would you want to hit me?” Thorn repeated quietly, shaking his head and looking to the sky as if seeking an answer there. “Let me put it this way,” he continued, bringing his gaze back to Hal. “Do you want to learn to fight or not?”
“Well, yes,” Hal said awkwardly. “But …”
He stopped, realizing that he didn’t want to voice the thought that had sprung to his mind. Thorn moved closer, his head tilted to one side, and fixed a fierce glare on the boy.
“But maybe you think a broken-down tramp like me can’t show you anything about fighting?” he asked, an ominous note in his voice.
Hal backed away a little, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture.
“No! No! Of course not!” he said. But the embarrassed tone was enough to tell Thorn that, yes, that was exactly what he had been thinking.
Hal wanted to learn how to fight. But he wasn’t sure that Thorn was the person he would pick to show him. For a start, Thorn only had one hand. And secondly, for years he’d been a figure of pity. Hal was fond of Thorn, certainly. But that was more because Thorn had been an enthusiastic supporter of Hal’s ideas in recent years, and always willing to help with his schemes. As a result, he saw Thorn more as a somewhat down-on-his-luck admirer than as any kind of mentor.
“Maybe you think that I was always a hopeless cripple? That I was always like this?” Thorn brandished the scarred stump of his right arm. Hal could see now that he had offended his friend and he felt genuinely sorry for it. But still …
“Of course not,” he began. Thorn didn’t let him continue.
“You do know that I served in Erak’s crew before this happened!” He held up the truncated right arm again, shaking it in front of Hal’s startled face. “You
do
know that, don’t you?”
do
know that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” Hal protested. He couldn’t prevent the unworthy thought
but that was a long time ago
sliding into his mind. Thorn seemed to read the thought and his eyes narrowed.
but that was a long time ago
sliding into his mind. Thorn seemed to read the thought and his eyes narrowed.
“All right. I can see I’ll have to show you.” He stepped back to give Hal room and raised his left fist and the foreshortened stump of his right arm in a defensive posture. “Take a swing at me.”
“Thorn, I don’t want to hit you,” Hal said awkwardly.
Thorn gave a short bark of laughter. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to!”
“Look, can’t we just forget this?” Hal pleaded.
“No, we can’t. Now take a swing.”
“You’re not going to be happy until I do, are you?” Hal said and Thorn nodded, saying nothing. “All right then …”
Hal took a halfhearted swing at the shabby figure before him. Surprisingly, his fist whistled through empty air. He hadn’t really seen Thorn move. Perhaps he had swayed slightly to one side, but Hal couldn’t be sure.
“Gorlog’s nostrils!” Thorn said, his voice full of scorn. “If that’s the best you can do it’s as well I stopped Tursgud killing you yesterday.”
Hal felt the blood rising to his face. He didn’t want to hit the disabled old man. But the taunt about Tursgud aroused his anger.
“Would you feel more at home if you tried to slap me?” Thorn sneered, and Hal’s anger burst free, like water cascading through a breach in a dam. He took a wild roundhouse swing at Thorn.
And missed. Again, Thorn’s jaw simply didn’t seem to be in the same space as Hal’s fist. Yet again, he’d seen no violent movement. Maybe Thorn had leaned back slightly. Just inches, no more.
He frowned and stared at his opponent.
Thorn sneered at him. “You just don’t get any better, do you?”
Hal’s last vestige of self-control snapped and he leapt at him, swinging with his left hand this time. That should catch him by surprise, he thought.
His fist hit a brick wall, stopping dead in the air. He had a moment to realize that Thorn had caught it in his own left hand. In the same moment, there was a blur of movement in front of his face and he found himself looking at the scarred stump of Thorn’s right arm. It had seemed to come out of nowhere and stopped a few millimeters short of his face.
Thorn released his hand and stepped back. The anger and sarcasm seemed to have gone now.
“All right, let’s talk about this for a few minutes,” he said.
Hal shook his head, mystified. This wasn’t the Thorn he had come to know. This Thorn was confident and capable, not the shabby odd-job man Hal was accustomed to.
“The majority of people, when they want to hit you, will do as you just did: swing a big roundhouse punch,” Thorn said. “Punches like that have a lot of power behind them. But the problem is, they’re easy to see coming. So they’re easy to block and dodge. Even you could probably do it.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” Hal said.
Thorn raised his eyebrows. “No need to get snippy, boy. Not after the display you just put on. The point I’m trying to make is that a straight punch, like the one I just threw at you”—he indicated his right arm—“is a lot harder to dodge. It’s harder to see it coming and it gets to the target faster because it travels a shorter distance.”
Hal frowned thoughtfully. Thorn was explaining this in a way he understood—appealing to his analytical nature.
“I see,” he said slowly.
Thorn glanced keenly at him and gave a satisfied nod.
“On top of that, a straight punch can carry a lot of force behind it, as long as you put your shoulder and weight into it. Step into it as you punch. Try it. Hit my hand.”
He held up his left hand, palm out, to Hal. The boy drew back his right fist and Thorn stopped him.
“Use your left,” he said.
Hal looked at him, puzzled. “But I’m right-handed,” he explained.
“Most people are. So Tursgud will expect you to favor your right. Use your left and you’ll catch him by surprise—the way you just tried to do with me. Your instincts were good, but the execution was pretty dreadful. Don’t take a big swing, just jab him first with your left—a straight punch. Then use a hooking right hand. Now try it.”
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