Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro (8 page)

‘There’s trouble about to happen,’ Erak said.

Svengal, who was sitting on a stool to one side of Erak’s chair, had followed the direction of his gaze. He curled his lip with distaste at the sight of Tursgud and his men.

‘Want me to get some of the crew?’ he asked.

Erak looked at him. ‘Do you seriously think we need help to handle that rabble?’ Then he changed the question. ‘Do you seriously think
I
need help to handle that rabble?’

Svengal grinned. ‘Not really. But I’ll tag along for the sheer fun of it, shall I?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Erak growled. He took up his staff and began to thread his way through the crowd, Svengal following close in his wake. There was no outward sign of Erak’s anger, other than the sharper-than-usual
clack! clack! clack!
of the metal-shod staff on the cobblestones.

Tursgud looked up as the Oberjarl approached. His eyes were bleary and he was very much the worse for drinking ale. It was not a law, but it was a generally upheld convention in Hallasholm that young men didn’t drink ale until they had turned twenty-one. They might occasionally have a tankard, and people would turn a blind eye. But Tursgud and his crew were all below that age and they had been drinking solidly for some time. Tursgud felt a quick thrill of nervousness as he focused on the Oberjarl’s face. Then bravado, courtesy of the ale, kicked in and his lip curled in a sneer.

‘I think you’ve had enough to drink,’ Erak said calmly.

Tursgud sniggered. Erak took a deep breath, restraining himself with some difficulty. Behind him, Svengal raised his eyes to heaven. He wondered whether Tursgud knew exactly how much danger he was in at that moment.

‘Silly old fool,’ said the youth sitting next to Tursgud. His name was Kjord. He was a swarthy-looking young man with long hair that hung in greasy plaits down the side of his head. He’d meant to make his comment in an undertone, but unfortunately it had been louder than he planned. Then he shrugged to himself. There was just the Oberjarl and his former first mate, standing a few paces away, and there were seven of the crew from
Nightwolf
at the table. What could Erak do, after all?

What Erak did was to look at the half-full ale cask on the table before Tursgud. It was about forty centimetres across and sixty centimetres high. The lid had been removed so Tursgud and his cronies could dip their tankards in to fill them. Erak set down his staff, leaning it against the wall behind him, then picked up the cask in both hands and raised it to his lips.

‘This your ale?’ he asked.

‘Well, we bought it,’ Kjord said. He maintained his defiant air, yet he felt a qualm of uneasiness. The cask was still quite heavy, yet Erak had raised it without the slightest effort. The Oberjarl tipped the cask and took a long mouthful.

Then, with an expression of disgust, he spat a stream of ale, sending it splattering onto the table in front of them.

‘You should get your money back,’ he said.

Only Svengal saw what was coming. But then, he’d known Erak for years. The others all had their attention on the foaming ale that was running across the table. As they watched it, Erak raised the cask high, then slammed it down on Kjord’s head.

The bottom of the cask gave way and showered the remaining ale down over Kjord’s body and shoulders. The outer section of the cask crammed down over his head, encasing it completely. Kjord’s startled cry was muffled by the cask and the flood of ale over his face.

He sat upright for a second or two. Then Erak grabbed his collar and jerked him up and back off the bench with one convulsive heave. Luckily for Kjord, the cask protected his head from direct contact with the cobbles as he crashed over. But the impact was too much for the cask and it disintegrated into its component pieces – a handful of staves and two steel hoops that slid down around Kjord’s neck.

Tursgud and the other Nightwolves stared at their shipmate in shock and fright. One of them went to rise from his seat but felt a powerful hand pushing him back down.

‘Don’t,’ Svengal told him softly, and he didn’t.

Erak leaned down, resting his fists on the table and putting his face close to Tursgud’s. ‘Now, pick that piece of garbage up.’ He jerked his head at Kjord, who was moaning softly. ‘And get out of my sight.’

Tursgud met his gaze and felt a blade of fear stab through him. Erak was, for the most part, a cheerful man. It was easy to forget that he’d fought in scores of battles and mortal combats and faced hundreds of enemies in his time. When the affable mask was stripped away, what was left was nothing short of terrifying.

‘Yes, Oberjarl,’ Tursgud said meekly. He gestured to his crewmen. ‘Give me a hand with Kjord.’

Erak turned to Svengal, a satisfied look on his face.

‘Well,’ said his former first mate, ‘it appears that you didn’t need me after all.’

‘Didn’t think I would,’ the Oberjarl told him. Then he looked around, missing something. ‘Where’s my staff? It was right here.’

Svengal shrugged, stooping to look under the table and benches. There was no sign of the staff.

‘Beats me,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’ll turn up. I’ll get some of the boys to look for it.’

Reluctantly, looking around him as he went, as if the staff might magically reappear, Erak allowed his friend to lead him back to his chair.

‘I just put it down for a minute,’ he said ruefully. ‘Where can it have gone?’

‘Never mind, chief,’ Svengal told him. ‘We’ll find it. And it’ll be in the last place we look,’ he said comfortingly.

Erak glared at him as if he were half-witted.

‘Well, of course it will. Why would we keep looking after we’ve found it?’

S
tig and Hal had watched the confrontation from across the square. In truth, Stig had been on the point of going over himself and telling Tursgud to clear off. He had to admit, however, that Erak had done so with greater aplomb and dispatch than he could have managed.

‘Well, that was exciting,’ said a familiar voice behind them.

They turned to see Lydia. They had noticed her earlier in the evening, always with Rollond at her side. She looked beautiful, Hal thought, wearing a slender green woollen dress that showed off her slim figure to best advantage, and with flowers twined into her hair. He’d given her an obsidian bracelet on her previous birthday and was pleased to see she was wearing it. She was wearing green open-toed sandals that had semi-precious stones sewn to them. They glittered in the wavering fire and lamplight. He looked at her admiringly. He was more accustomed to seeing Lydia in her leather overjacket, woollen tights and boots, and with her hair pulled back and held by a leather band. He sensed that Stig was gazing at her admiringly as well.

‘You look wonderful,’ he told her and she reddened slightly, then smiled.

‘Thanks. You’ve brushed up pretty well yourself.’

Hal was wearing a white linen shirt, black trousers and knee-high soft leather boots. Like her outfit, it was a change from his normal rough and ready seagoing clothes.

Lydia glanced at Stig and included him in the smile. ‘And how about you? I never knew you were such a dandy.’

Stig was dressed in similar style to Hal. But his linen shirt was embroidered with intricate patterns and he had a silver bracelet on his right wrist.

‘Where have you been all evening?’ he asked, although he had a pretty good idea what the answer would be.

‘Oh, I was dancing with Rollond. Then I had some supper – with Rollond. Then I danced with Rollond some more. And then, for a change, I danced with Rollond. Why didn’t either of you ask me to dance?’

Hal frowned. There was an air of resignation in her voice. ‘I thought you two were . . . you know . . .’ he said uncertainly and was surprised to see the momentary flash of anger in her eyes.

‘No, I don’t. And no, we’re not.’

‘Really?’ There was a note of keen interest in Stig’s voice. Lydia didn’t seem to notice it.

‘I saw you two carving a swathe through all the pretty girls here,’ she said.

Hal shrugged. It was true. Since their triumphant return from Raguza, all of the Herons had become celebrities in Hallasholm – he and Stig most of all. It irked him slightly that pretty girls, whom he would once have longed to impress, now tended to seek him out, giggling and twittering if he smiled at them or gave them the time of day. I’m still the same person I always was, he thought. Before he could voice the thought, Lydia changed tack.

‘I was talking to Jesper earlier. He said something about a mission – a trip to Araluen?’ she said. ‘Were you going to mention it to me?’

Hal was a little surprised. ‘Are you interested in coming along?’ he said. ‘Of course you’d be welcome,’ he added quickly, noticing her eyes narrow.

‘I’m still a Heron, aren’t I?’ she replied. ‘At least, I’ve got the hat to prove it.’

‘We sort of thought you’d prefer to stay here with Rollond,’ Stig said. He’d obviously missed the undertones in her previous statements.

‘Oh please,’ she said wearily.

‘We’d love to have you with us. You’re one of us, after all. It wouldn’t be the same without you,’ Hal said. Stig nodded enthusiastic agreement.

Lydia heaved a sigh of relief. The mission to Araluen was the answer to her problem with Rollond. And on top of that, she’d enjoy being back in company with the other Herons.

‘We’re leaving tomorrow, on the afternoon tide,’ Hal told her. ‘We’re taking on last-minute supplies in the morning.’

It was normal practice to load perishables such as fresh milk, fruit, bread and meat as late as possible. Lydia grinned at the two of them.

‘I’ll see you midmorning then,’ she began. Then, as something behind them caught her eye, her jaw dropped in astonishment.

‘Will you look at that?’ she said.

The boys turned, noticing a stirring in the crowd, and a babble of surprised exclamations from the people around them.

Karina and Thorn were walking across the square, arm in arm, and heading for the dance floor. Karina looked simply beautiful in a blue dress that showed off her perfect figure to full advantage. Her hair was coiled on top of her head and threaded with wildflowers. The style accentuated her graceful, slender neck.

But, stunning as she was, it was Thorn who attracted the most attention.

‘He’s clean,’ Stig whispered in amazement. Thorn was wearing a green jerkin of thin glove-quality leather over a white shirt. His green woollen trousers were carefully pressed and tucked into gleaming, high leather boots. His hair and beard had been trimmed and was brushed till it shone.

As the crowd watched in silence, the pair took up their positions and began to dance. They moved in absolute unison, stepping out the measure of the dance perfectly. A low hum of appreciation rose from the crowd.

‘Thorn can dance!’ Hal said in surprise. ‘Who would have thought it?’

But Stig, even though he watched the pair with some wonder and admiration, shook his head slowly. ‘We should have known. Remember how he demonstrated his fighting moves in the net when we were training? Of course he can dance!’

When Thorn had taken over training the Heron Brotherband, he had devised a system to improve their agility and timing, making them perform intricate manoeuvres while stepping inside a large rope mesh net stretched horizontal to the ground. He had shown them what he wanted them to do, stepping forward, backward, sideways at high speed, sometimes with his eyes shut, and never entangling himself.

Hal nodded. If Thorn was light-footed on the battlefield, it followed that he’d be equally so on the dance floor. It had just never occurred to Hal that his friend would dance.

At least when he’s dancing, Hal thought, he doesn’t have to wave an axe around.

Later that night, Stig and Hal walked home in companionable silence. After some minutes, Stig glanced curiously at his friend, who seemed lost in thought.

‘How did it feel, seeing Thorn and your mam dancing?’ he asked.

Hal shrugged, then realised he was glad to talk about it.

‘I have to admit, I was a little thrown by the whole thing at first,’ he said. ‘Then I thought, why not? They both deserve a chance to be happy together, if that’s what they want. I can think of . . .’