‘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.’
‘Then why continue?’
Hal’s eyes flashed in anger now. ‘Because I’m not ready to give up just yet,’ he snapped.
Gilan made a placating gesture with both hands. That was the problem sailors faced, he thought. If you were a sailor, you grew to depend on the wind, and just when you needed it most, it could desert you.
‘I’ll take an oar when anyone needs a spell,’ he said.
Hal looked at him, sensing the peace offer behind the words.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘They can carry on for a while yet.’ Edvin could steer if necessary, he thought. Gilan could take over his oar and Hal himself could relieve Jesper. That way, every so often, he could rest two rowers and put in two replacements. Two
fresh rowers from time to time could make a difference.
But not enough.
They dragged the Heron due south for the next hour, heaving on the oars in a constant rhythm, their minds numbed by the repetitive, mesmeric action of rowing. They were all fit and their muscles were hardened and they kept Heron moving through the water at a brisk speed. Even so, Hal knew that Nightwolf, with her superior number of oarsmen, would be moving faster than they could hope to.
After another hour, he and Gilan took their places at the oars and Edvin and Jesper rested. It wasn’t until they stopped rowing that the two crew members realised how exhausted they were, and how much their muscles were aching. A third hour passed and Edvin and Jesper replaced the twins, with Ulf tending to the tiller. For once, his brother had no derogatory comment to make. All of them were intent on one purpose – to catch the renegade wolfship and recapture the villagers who had been taken prisoner.
And to teach Tursgud a lesson, once and for all.
None of them voiced the thought that their task was a futile one and that, no matter how hard they heaved on their oars, somewhere over the horizon, Nightwolf would be moving farther and farther away.
A fourth hour passed. Stefan and Stig were replaced by the twins, with Stig moving to the tiller. Ingvar was offered a rest but doggedly refused, heaving with all his massive strength on his oar.
‘Don’t break it, Ingvar,’ Hal cautioned, grinning in spite of the situation. Ingvar didn’t reply, continuing to row.
It was Kloof who sensed the change coming. She had been lying asleep in the bow when, suddenly, she sat up and let out a short, sharp bark, raising her muzzle to sniff the air.
Thorn turned on his rowing bench to look at her, then his eyes flew to the secondary telltale, fastened to the ship’s sternpost. The long ribbon fluttered, faltered, then streamed out astern.
‘The wind!’ he shouted. ‘It’s veered!’
Even as he said the words, he maintained the steady rhythm of rowing. Hal looked up in his turn and saw the telltale standing parallel to the water’s surface.
‘It hasn’t just veered, it’s backed!’ Hal shouted exultantly. ‘It’s gone round almost one hundred and eighty degrees!’
The others all saw that he was right. The rapidly strengthening wind, which had earlier been blowing from north of north-west, was now coming from the south. A ragged cheer went up.
‘In oars!’ Hal called crisply, and the long-shafted oars rattled inboard and were hastily stowed. ‘Make sail!’ He glanced quickly at their heading, came to a decision. ‘Up starboard sail!’
The ship was suddenly like a disturbed ants’ nest as the crew rushed to their positions for making sail. Stefan and Jesper cast off the bindings on the starboard sail and began to haul on the halyard, sending the yard and sail soaring up the mast in a series of rapid jerks. Edvin and Ingvar joined them, and with the addition of Ingvar’s massive strength, the sail positively flew up the mast. Ulf and Wulf were ready as the wind filled it, hauling in on the sheets so that the bow swung to starboard as the sail filled and hardened.
Hal had dashed to the tiller, stumbling in his haste and leaving Stig to stow the oar he had been pulling. Heron swung across the eye of the wind, faltered for a second, then surged forward on the port tack.
Gilan could see the exultation on the faces of the Herons. Somehow, this shift of wind had them all excited. The despair of the last four hours was dispelled like morning mist in a rising sun. He made an interrogative gesture to Thorn. The old sea wolf grinned fiercely at him.
‘Nightwolf can’t sail into the wind the way we can,’ Thorn explained. ‘They’ll have to keep rowing, while we can sail. We’ll go in a series of zigzags but we’ll be moving much faster than they can manage. And we can sustain our speed. Whereas the longer they row, the more exhausted they’ll become and the more their speed will drop.’
Gilan felt the blustering south wind on his face, flattening his clothes against his body. The crew’s previously forlorn hope was replaced by a firm certainty. The advantage had swung back in their favour – even stronger than it had been before.
They were hot on Nightwolf’s trail once more.
‘There she is!’
It was Stefan who called, perched on the lookout post in the bows. Lydia, who was standing close by, leapt nimbly onto the starboard bulwark, steadying herself with one hand on a forestay, and shading her eyes with the other as she peered south.
‘It’s Nightwolf all right!’ The excitement was obvious in her voice. ‘I can see the blue hull and she’s rowing for all she’s worth.’
‘What’s their course and position?’ Hal shouted. He felt a solid thrill of satisfaction. After all the setbacks of the day, they had finally caught up with their quarry.
‘She’s off our port bow . . .’ Stefan called. Then he hesitated, as if he was confused.
‘What’s her course?’ Hal asked again. He assumed she’d be heading due south. Any other course would allow Heron to catch her all the sooner.
‘She’s . . . she’s going . . . west?’ Stefan replied. The uncertainty was obvious in his voice. It made no sense for the wolfship to be heading west. That way lay the coast of Araluen. Socorro and the open sea lay to the south.
‘West?’ Hal muttered. He gestured to Edvin to take the tiller, then climbed onto the starboard rail. Leaning out to peer ahead and past the swelling sail, he could make out the dark shape in the distance, rapidly growing in size as they ran down on her. ‘What is he doing, going west?’ A thought struck him and he called to Stefan. ‘Maybe they haven’t seen us?’
Stefan turned back to face him, shaking his head to dispel that theory. ‘They’ve seen us. You can see the spray they’re kicking up with their oars. They’re rowing as hard as they can!’
‘He’s right!’ Lydia called. ‘They’re really churning up the water.’
Hal could see the other ship, and he could see the rhythmic movement of the oars. But he couldn’t make out the spray they were throwing up as they beat at the water. It was too far for him to make out that kind of detail, but he had no doubt that Stefan and Lydia were right. The two of them had eyes like hawks.
Nightwolf, which had initially been off their port bow, was moving slowly across them, crossing their path so that now she was on their starboard bow, moving further and further to their right. Hal had an unobscured view of her now, without the need to crane and peer around the sail. He glanced to the west, where the dark bulk of the Araluan coastline reared up out of the sea.
He stepped down from the rail and took the tiller from Edvin, frowning as he considered the situation. There was nothing for Tursgud to gain by going west as he was. If he had continued to head south, he would have prolonged the chase, and maybe managed to escape them when night fell.
At that thought, Hal glanced quickly to the west again, where the sun was a giant ball of orange, balanced above the rim of the world. They had perhaps an hour of daylight left. He checked the angle between the two ships, measuring with an expert eye. They were currently on the starboard tack. He would hold this direction for another ten minutes, swooping out to the left of their quarry. Then he’d be placed to go about onto the port tack and speed down to intercept her.
Thorn joined him at the steering platform, Gilan a few paces behind him. Even a landsman like Gilan could see the flaw in Tursgud’s tactics.
‘Maybe he’s planning to beach her and escape over land?’ Thorn said.
Hal pursed his lips and considered that alternative. Then he shook his head.
‘He won’t make it. We’re overhauling him too fast. He’ll be nowhere near the beach when we come up to him.’
‘Tursgud was never a good judge of speed and distance,’ Thorn said disparagingly.
Still Hal demurred. ‘He isn’t that bad,’ he said. He called in a louder voice. ‘We’ll go about in ten minutes.’
Gilan coughed politely. He knew that the crew, and Hal in particular, were busy concentrating on keepi
ng the ship in the best possible position to intercept the slaver. But there was a question he had to ask.
‘Have you considered what we should do when we catch up with her?’ he asked quietly. ‘After all, they outnumber us by about three to one.’
Thorn snorted explosively. ‘Numbers aren’t everything,’ he said. He had strapped on his club-hand and he swished it experimentally in the air. Gilan just managed not to rear back as the massive, metal-studded club whizzed by, only centimetres from his face. ‘We’ll soon bring them down to an even fight.’
But Hal realised Gilan was right. It was time to prepare their most important weapon.
‘Stig! Ingvar!’ he called. They were well forward and they turned to look back at him. He gestured to the Mangler, shrouded in its canvas cover. ‘Get the Mangler ready!’
They began unlacing the covers, folding the canvas and laying it aside to reveal the massive crossbow crouched menacingly on its carriage in the bows.
Gilan let out a low whistle of surprise. ‘What is that thing?’
Hal grinned at him. ‘It’s just our little way of equalising the odds.’
Ingvar had opened the locker where the bolts were stowed and he selected one of the massive, metre-long shafts now, laying it ready in the slot along the top of the crossbow. He hadn’t cocked the mighty weapon yet. There would be time enough to do that later, and the longer the crossbow was under the enormous tension of the cocked arms, the more chance there was that something might give way. Gilan took in the size of the bolt, and the iron strips that reinforced its point.
‘Remind me never to go up against you people in a fight,’ he said.
Thorn nodded towards the longbow slung over the Ranger’s shoulder.
‘Maybe you should string up that peashooter of yours,’ he said. ‘We might leave something for you to shoot at.’
‘Five minutes, Hal,’ Edvin said quietly. When Hal had announced his intention to tack, Edvin had turned one of the sandglasses by the steering platform. Now he crouched beside it, peering intently at it and estimating the amount of sand that had trickled through from top to bottom. It was part of his job on board to keep Hal informed of such matters. Hal nodded his thanks, then cupped his hands and called forward, to where Lydia was still perched on the port bulwark.
Slaves of Socorro Page 15
