It was an old and familiar routine. They leapt high in the air, clapping their hands over their head as they did so. Thorn moved behind them, pacing down the line, the hickory baton swishing threateningly. The urge to look for him was irresistible.
‘Don’t turn around!’ he warned them. ‘Pretend I’m not here.’
Then, as they faced the front again, the hickory baton would crack against an offender’s backside, sending him leaping a little higher, usually with a shrill squeal of pain and anger.
‘Good jump, Jesper!’ Thorn said happily, as the baton encouraged Jesper to a leap that was much higher than normal. ‘Looks like your strength is just flooding back!’
He kept them at it for half an hour, varying the exercise between jumping and clapping, then running short wind sprints, then crouching on their haunches and walking like ducks. He even had them make quacking noises, which brought a cheerful smile to his face. He glanced up and saw Lydia watching them, also smiling at the incongruous sight of a line of boys waddling, backsides low to the ground and quacking like ducks. He gestured to her with the baton.
‘Care to join us, Duchess? Show these clumsy boys how it’s done?’ he invited.
But she shook her head. ‘I’m fine as I am, thanks.’
He grinned at her. He hadn’t expected her to fall for his challenge, but it was worth a try.
At the end of the half hour, he called a break, then sent Stefan and Edvin to the ship to bring the wooden practice weapons. He paired the boys off and set them to practice combats, one on one. Lydia watched with greater interest as he moved among them, adjusting a shield angle here, demonstrating a more efficient cut or stroke there.
‘Remember,’ he called. ‘Don’t overswing. Balance is important. Stay in balance or I’ll have you all up on the rolling poles again!’
Lydia was impressed by the way he could sense a fault in a boy’s action with sword or battleaxe, and correct it, demonstrating the correct technique, having the student repeat it over and over until he had perfected it. She could never pick the initial fault, but once the corrected method had been explained and demonstrated, she could see the improved smoothness, power and balance in each stroke.
She shook her head in admiration. Where did he learn all this stuff? she thought.
She repeated the question to Hal and Stig that evening, as they sat around the camp fire after dinner. Thorn had moved a little away from the main camp, as was his practice. The other boys were chatting or, in Edvin’s case, knitting. Stig looked to check that Thorn was out of earshot. He knew the old sea wolf didn’t like people talking about his past. But Lydia was part of the crew now, he thought.
‘In Skandia, we have an annual competition to determine who’s the Maktig for the year,’ he began.
Lydia frowned at the word. Usually, they spoke the common tongue, but Maktig was obviously a Skandian word.
‘Maktig?’ she repeated. ‘What’s that?’
‘It means the Mighty One,’ Hal put in. ‘The champion warrior of the entire country. Young men come to Hallasholm from all over for it. They have to compete in wrestling, running, survival contests and mock battles, where they have to show expertise with all weapons – spear, axe and sword. It’s a knockout competition.’
‘Sometimes literally,’ Stig said, grinning. Hal looked at him and nodded, grinning as well.
‘So I take it that Thorn won this . . . Maktig . . . contest when he was younger?’ she said.
‘It was before our time,’ Hal said. ‘He would have been in his twenties, I guess. He competed against both our fathers.’
‘And beat them both,’ Stig added. Lydia formed her lips into a small moue of appreciation.
‘Well, that’s pretty impressive,’ she said. ‘That explains a lot.’
‘It’s more than that,’ Stig told her. There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. He paused for dramatic effect, then went on, ‘He won it three years in a row.’
Lydia’s eyebrows went up at that. ‘I take it that was not exactly normal?’
‘Nobody else has ever won it more than once. Before or since,’ Hal said quietly. ‘If Thorn hadn’t lost that hand in an accident on board ship, he would have been the greatest warrior in the history of Skandia.’
Stig looked at him. ‘He is the greatest warrior in the history of Skandia,’ he said firmly. ‘Hand or no hand.’
Hal paused, looking off to the dark figure some ten metres away, looking out at the river and the stars.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you may just be right.’
The weather changed during the night.
The wind veered from the north into the east, bringing with it low-lying clouds and a persistent rain, which it drove before it until it was almost horizontal. The surface of the river, so blue and placid the day before, was now sullen and grey, with uncomfortable-looking choppy waves whipped up by the wind.
The crew stood in the shelter of the sleeping tent as they ate their breakfast. Accustomed to sudden weather changes, Edvin had kept a supply of firewood dry. He and Stig had used the small tent to shelter the cook fire and he had managed to put together a hot meal for them – bacon and toasted flat bread. There had been some boiled potatoes left over from the previous evening and he had fried these. Ingvar wolfed down his helping, then went back for more.
Lydia smiled at him. ‘I’d say you’ve recovered. Your appetite certainly has.’
He peered at her, smiling diffidently. ‘I’ve got a lot of missed meals to make up.’
It was amazing what a couple of days of rest and good food had done for him, Lydia thought. His face had lost the gaunt, sunken look that had marked it and the dark shadows under his eyes were gone. He had more energy as well, moving a lot more confidently than he had previously. The only thing holding him back was the wound in his side. It was still tender and he was careful to avoid putting any undue strain on it.
Hal, Thorn and Stig stood a little away from the others, sheltering under a tree.
‘Going to be a cold, wet day,’ Thorn said.
Hal smiled. ‘Just like home.’ He crammed the last of his bread and bacon into his mouth, washed it down with a gulp of the mint tea Edvin had brewed and pulled a face. It was hot and warming, but he didn’t like the taste.
Stig noticed the expression. ‘We need to get some more coffee,’ he said. They had exhausted their small supply some days previously.
‘Might be lucky to find it in these parts. It’s not a popular drink here. Still, we’re lucky to have a hot drink at all,’ Thorn told him. He glanced around, tossing the dregs of his tea onto the ground.
Hal took the hint. ‘Time to get going,’ he said. He called to the crew to break camp and load the ship.
Heron lurched and bumped uncomfortably in the short, steep waves whipped up by the wind. The crew huddled miserably against the thin, driving rain. The Heron’s decks were open, without any shelter from the weather. They had donned sheepskins and leather jackets, but none of them had adequate headgear and the rain had their hair hanging in wet strings down their faces. They were cold and miserable as a result. But, being boys, they hadn’t bothered to provide themselves with any form of headwear. Of course, while they had nothing to do, they could drape pieces of towelling or canvas over their heads. But when they were raising the sails or trimming them, or attending to other tasks about the ship, the canvas and towels would tend to slip off or blow free and their head and hair would be saturated.
All except Edvin, who sat smiling quietly, with his splendid new watch cap firmly in place on his head. Normally, he wore it rolled up, so that it came down only as far as his eyebrows and the tops of his ears. But now he rolled the sides and back down so that his ears and neck were sheltered. The wool still retained its natural greasiness, so that the thin rain beaded on it, then rolled off without soaking in. He tucked a towel around his neck to stop the water running down inside his collar and sat contentedly beside Ingvar. The big boy was covered by a length of tarpauli
n, with two sticks arranged to hold it free of his face.
Jesper eyed the healer enviously, his eyes fixed on the thick woollen cap.
‘That looks really warm,’ Jesper said to Edvin, moving to sit beside him. Edvin looked up at his crewmate and smiled.
‘It is,’ he said. There was perhaps a hint of smugness in his voice. He had taken a lot of teasing and implied insults over the fact that he knew how to knit. The phrase it’s kind of a girly thing rang in his memory.
Jesper put out a tentative hand. ‘I wonder . . . could I try it?’ he asked.
Edvin considered the request, then shook his head. ‘Your hair’s soaking. You’d get it all wet. And it’s lovely and warm as it is.’
Jesper nodded. He was conscious of the fact that the others in the crew were watching, and listening to the conversation.
‘I guess so.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’d knit one for me?’
Edvin cocked his head to one side, considering. ‘You don’t think that might be a bit . . . girly?’
Jesper hurriedly shook his head. ‘Girly? What’s girly about knitting?’ Then, sensing a hostile glance from Lydia, he hurriedly amended that statement. ‘And what’s wrong with being girly in any case? I’ll pay for the wool,’ he offered.
Edvin smiled at him, a calculating smile. ‘You’ll pay for more than the wool,’ he said. ‘You’ll pay for my time.’
‘Well, of course I will,’ Jesper said, although he was less than delighted with the idea. He had assumed that Edvin would be only too pleased to show the true value of his skill. However, the sight of that warm, thick cap was irresistible.
‘Would you knit me one too?’ Wulf called out, a fraction of a second before Ulf said:
‘I want one too.’
They glared at each other.
‘I’ll pay you,’ Wulf said quickly.
Ulf glared at his brother. ‘I’ll pay you more.’
And now Stefan realised he was being left out of this cap-buying frenzy. ‘I want one too,’ he said.
Edvin was thoroughly enjoying himself now. He smiled at his shipmates as they began to bid noisily for his services, each one offering more than the other. Not that their offers meant a great deal, he realised, since none of them had any money in the first place.
‘So how will we decide who gets the first one?’ he asked.
Stig’s voice cut across the squabbling boys, silencing them.
‘We’ll do it by rank,’ he said. ‘I’m first mate, so I’ll get it.’
The others fell silent. They looked decidedly unhappy about that. But as well as outranking them all, Stig was bigger and stronger than any of them. Once the question of rank came up, however, Edvin looked to Hal, who outranked all of them.
‘What about you, Hal? Do you want one?’
Hal, alone among the boys, had a hat – a battered old shapeless felt hat with a narrow brim. Thorn, of course, knew the value of warm headgear and had a raggedy old fur cap. And Lydia, being a girl and far more sensible than the boys, had a leather hood that she had donned and tied under her chin. But the idea of having a uniform style of headwear for the crew appealed to Hal. The watch caps would, in some small way, compensate for the fact that they had lost the horned helmets that had been presented to them when they won the brotherband competition. The caps would help give them a sense of belonging, and bind them together a little more.
‘I think we all should have one – including Lydia,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you out of the ship’s funds.’
There was a chorus of agreement from the crew. Hal could tell that they liked the idea of having these smart watch caps. Edvin was taken aback for a few seconds. Then a slow smile spread across his features. In a matter of a few minutes, his knitting had gone from being a strange aberration, worthy of faint ridicule, to an essential skill that would serve the crew of the Heron. In addition, he would make some considerable money out of the venture. Whereas the other boys were talking pie in the sky when they offered to pay him, Hal had at his disposal a considerable amount of money, provided originally by Thorn, to buy items for the ship.
‘I’ll need more wool,’ he said.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Hal replied. ‘We should reach a river port soon. You can buy it there while we ask about the Raven.’
‘Who gets the first cap?’ Jesper asked. ‘After all, it was my idea.’
Hal considered the statement. ‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘But I’m the skirl, so the first one goes to me. Next to Stig. After that, we’ll draw lots to decide.’
He smiled at the crestfallen look on Jesper’s face. Democratic procedures were all very well, he thought. But sometimes, rank should have its privileges.
Late that afternoon, Heron slipped quietly into the river port of Krall, on the western bank of the river.
Krall was a small town. Its residents earned their living from the traffic that plied its way up and down the river. There were stalls selling ship’s stores – canvas, timber, iron work for deck fittings and so forth. On the outskirts of the town was a rope manufactory, where ropes of all sizes were braided, from thin painters to tie a skiff to a wharf to heavy, tarred ropes that would serve as the standing rigging on a ship.
In the centre of the town was a food market that operated every second day. Along the riverfront was the usual selection of eating houses and taverns to cater for the various appetites of the crews who stayed overnight. Some were large, well lit and cheerful. Others were smaller, dingy and less reputable. Usually these were in alleys set back from the broad avenue that ran along the riverfront.
All in all, it was the standard mix of businesses that would be found in most ports, anywhere in the world.
The port itself was formed by a deep, U-shaped bite taken out of the river bank, which formed a natural shelter. The water was deep right to the edge of the land and several large ships were moored alongside the bank, which had been reinforced with stonework. Other vessels, usually smaller and in varying states of disrepair, were moored to long, rickety timber jetties that ran out like fingers into the river.
As ever, Hal had lowered their distinctive yardarm and sail and brought the Heron into the port under oars. The Mangler was covered by a heavy tarpaulin. Thorn stood beside him as they made their way towards the shore. The sea wolf was casting his gaze around the harbour. After a minute or two, he saw what he was looking for and pointed.
‘Over there.’
He was pointing to a short jetty jutting out into the river, surmounted by a small, flat-roofed timber building on its very end. A gold circle with two diagonal black lines through it was painted on a board above the building’s doorway – the universal sign for money.
‘That’s the toll wharf,’ Thorn said. ‘Take us alongside.’
Hal slid the little ship alongside the wharf. The river was at half tide and the timber surface was a metre above their deck. Stig balanced on the gunwale, then jumped nimbly up onto the jetty, taking the mooring lines that Stefan and Jesper tossed up to him and making them fast around the timber bollards. Ulf and Wulf tossed wickerwork fenders on short lengths of rope over the side, then the others hauled the ship in close, the fenders squeaking under the pressure.
Thorn checked that he had his purse attached to his belt, and that there was a sufficient weight of coins inside it. Then he nodded to Hal.
‘Come on.’
They stepped up from the railing onto the wharf and made their way to the toll office.
In addition to the money spent by passing ships in the taverns, eating houses and chandleries, riverside ports like Krall derived a considerable income from tolls – charges levied on the ships that moored here for a day or two, in search of relaxation and diversion. The money went to the town council and was used, in theory, to maintain the port facilities. In practice, most of it found its way into the purses of the councilmen themselves.
Hefty taxes were also levied on those businesses that had their premises on the prime real estate of the w
aterfront avenue.
Thorn paused to look and see if there was a table of rates posted. Sometimes, they were assessed according to the ship’s length. Here there was nothing. He grunted and turned to Hal.
‘That means they’ll charge us whatever they think we can afford,’ he said. ‘And then a bit more. And you thought Zavac was a pirate.’
He pushed open the door and they entered. Inside, there was one large room with windows overlooking the river. A wooden counter ran across the middle, separating new arrivals from the officials seated at desks on the other side. There were currently three of these in place, with another two desks unoccupied. One of the toll collectors glanced up, then rose to walk forward to the counter. The others paid them no attention at all.
The official was a solidly built man, a little under average height and with an obvious liking for the pleasures of the table. His waist was circled by a heavy leather belt with a set of keys dangling from it. The dull scarlet jerkin he wore bulged out over the belt, all but concealing it at the front. He was clean shaven but his jowls were heavy and he had a double chin. He was sweating lightly. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Thorn reflected that the question was an unnecessary one. There was only one reason why two strangers would enter the toll office. But he answered politely enough.
‘Looking for a mooring overnight,’ he said. They had long ago agreed that, when in port, Thorn would act as the ship’s captain. A skipper as fresh faced and young as Hal could only excite interest, and they didn’t wish to draw undue attention to themselves.
The toll collector heaved a sigh, as if they were interrupting his day for no good reason.
‘All right, let’s take a look,’ he said, and led the way out onto the dock. The crew glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the planks as he paced the length of the ship, hands on his hips. His lips moved silently, no doubt making mental calculations.
Brotherband 3: The Hunters Page 7
