Brotherband 3: The Hunters

by John Flanagan

  Edvin finished cleaning the last of the blood from Hal’s face, soaked the cloth in water again and wadded it up, placing it in Hal’s left hand.

  ‘That’s about all I can do,’ he said. ‘Keep that cold water against your cheek. It’ll take the swelling down.’

  Gently, he guided Hal’s hand, placing the cold compress over the purple swelling on his cheekbone. That, and the cut on his eyebrow where the ring had hit him, were the worst of his injuries. The cut was already scabbing and there was no point in trying to work on it.

  ‘That’s better,’ Hal said. ‘One good thing about being in a dungeon – it keeps the water cold.’

  A ripple of laughter ran round the crew. It was a pretty feeble attempt at a joke, but the laughter was more from relief that their skirl was well enough to make even a feeble joke.

  ‘So why were you beaten?’ Thorn prompted, seeing that Hal was able to talk.

  Hal looked up at him. ‘He wanted to know the location of the Heron’s strongbox,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid he became a little testy when I wouldn’t tell him.’ He took the wet cloth away from his cheekbone for a few seconds, then replaced it when it had cooled. ‘Mind you, if I’d known it was going to hurt this much, I probably would have.’

  ‘That probably wouldn’t have stopped him,’ Pedr said from his position against the wall. They all turned to look at him and he explained. ‘Doutro likes to see people suffer.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Thorn said, his eyes narrowing dangerously. ‘I think before we leave Bayrath, we may have to change his attitude.’

  ‘Easy to say,’ Pedr replied, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘But so far I don’t see any sign that you’ll be leaving. Doutro will try you on first day next week, convict you on second day and string you all up on third day.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Stefan spoke.

  ‘You know, you’re sounding a little too pleased with that whole idea,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I like that.’

  Ulf nodded. ‘I agree. I rather think it might be a good idea to kick your backside around the cellar a few times.’

  Wulf nodded. ‘For once, I agree with my brother completely.’

  The two of them rose and moved towards Pedr, who tried to shrink away from them against the wall. Unfortunately, the wall didn’t provide a lot of shrinking room. Thorn considered telling them to stop, then shrugged. Pedr’s constant, sarcastic, know-it-all attitude was wearing thin, he decided.

  Ulf was leaning down over the unfortunate Pedr, reaching for his shirt collar to drag him away from the wall, when something hard bounced off his head, then rattled on the stones of the floor.

  ‘Ouch!’ he said, standing up and rubbing the sore spot, staring around the cellar. ‘What was that?’ He looked down and saw a large pebble on the floor of the cellar. It hadn’t been there a few seconds ago, he thought. Someone had thrown it at him.

  ‘Who did that?’ His voice grew louder as his anger built.

  ‘Wulf, is that you?’ It was Lydia’s voice, coming from the narrow window above him.

  ‘Lydia? Did you throw a rock at me? And anyway, I’m Ulf!’

  ‘For Gorlog’s sake, does it matter?’ Stig said angrily, moving quickly to a spot beneath the window. ‘Lydia, is that you?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry I hit you, Wulf, I was just trying to attract your attention. I wasn’t sure who was in there.’

  ‘It’s Ulf,’ Ulf repeated, annoyed. Stig muttered something inaudible and shoved him aside. He looked up. Lydia’s fingers were visible now between one of the narrow gaps in the bars above him. She fluttered them to draw his attention.

  ‘Is Hal there?’ she said.

  Stig glanced around to where Hal was still lying, supported on Thorn’s knees. Thorn shook his head.

  ‘He’s here. But he’s been hurt,’ Stig said. He heard the worried note in Lydia’s voice as she took in that information.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘No. He’s bruised and cut up, but he’ll be all right. How did you get away?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh . . . easy enough. I climbed out a window and jumped across an alley to the next roof. Made my way down from the roof and came back here to find you.’

  Stig raised his eyebrows. ‘Easy as that?’

  She ignored the sarcasm and continued. ‘Question is, how do I get you out? What’s your situation? I can’t see in. This window is too narrow and it’s right at ground level.’

  Stig glanced around. It was a reflex action. By now, he was totally familiar with the large room.

  ‘We’re in a big cellar,’ he said. ‘Stone walls and floor and just this window and a barred gate. It’s locked, of course,’ he told her. There was a pause while she considered this.

  ‘Where’s the key?’ she said. ‘Could I get to it?’

  He shook his head, instantly aware that the movement was a useless one as she couldn’t see him.

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. The turnkey keeps it on his belt and he’s always got three or four guards with him.’

  There was a long pause while she considered this information. When she spoke again, he could sense her growing frustration. After all she’d gone through, and the risks she had taken, it was beginning to seem that there was no way she could help them.

  ‘Maybe I could say I was a friend or something, and see if they’d let me in to visit you?’ she suggested. But before she even finished the idea, it was plain that she considered that any such plan was unworkable.

  ‘And then you could overpower all five of them and let us out?’ Stig said.

  She retorted angrily. ‘All right! I’m just putting ideas out here! Do you have any that are worthwhile?’

  Stig had to admit that he didn’t. But he didn’t feel it was necessary to say it to her. Jesper had risen and he made his way across the cellar to stand beside Stig.

  ‘Lydia, it’s Jesper. Do you think you could find your way back to the ship?’

  ‘Of course I can!’ she said. She was obviously still angry and thought the question was a waste of time. ‘It’s only a few blocks back to the harbour. But I can’t sail it on my own, can I?’

  ‘No. You can’t,’ Jesper replied patiently. ‘But if you could get on board without being seen, you could fetch me something that might solve the problem.’

  Instantly, Lydia’s anger dissipated. She replied now with new interest.

  ‘What is it, Jesper? Where will I find it?’

  ‘It’s a small canvas wallet – a tool kit actually – and it’s in my pigeonhole, beside my rowing bench. Port side, second from the bow.’

  Each crewmember had a pigeonhole, or small locker, beside his crew station. They kept personal items there. Valuables, of course, were kept in the strongbox.

  ‘Okay. Port benches, second from the front,’ Lydia repeated.

  ‘The bow,’ Stig corrected her automatically.

  ‘Does it matter?’ came the waspish reply. ‘What’s in it, Jesper?’

  Now Jesper hesitated. ‘It’s my lock-picking kit,’ he said, with some embarrassment.

  Stig looked at him, his eyebrows arching. ‘Your lock-picking kit? I thought you’d given all that sort of thing away?’

  Jesper shrugged. ‘It’s a souvenir,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Lydia said from above them. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay put.’

  They heard the soft scuff of her feet on the cobbles as she left. Stig and Jesper exchanged a look.

  ‘What else does she expect us to do?’ Jesper asked.

  Lydia ghosted through the streets leading back to the river. She stayed in the shadows by the buildings, slipping from one to another, her deer-hide boots noiseless on the cobbles. As she moved away from the official buildings and back towards the working area of the docks, the streets became narrower and darker. Houses and offices gave way to warehouses and small manufactories. Often an entire block would be illuminated by one la
ntern, set in a glass box at the end of the street. It was a mean, dangerous-looking part of the town. Occasionally, she saw other dark figures, slipping in and out of the side alleys.

  Once, she came face to face with a heavy-set man, wearing a hooded short cloak. They came level with each other under one of the infrequent lanterns and she could make out only the lower half of his face. The upper half was shaded by the hood. She had an impression of a dark, full beard. In the shadow of his hood, his eyes were unblinking, staring at her.

  He paused, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to move towards her. She slipped the small knife out of her pocket and held it, blade angled up in the classic knife fighter’s position. The blade was short but it caught the light of the lantern, sending a reflection of light rippling across the far wall. The position of the knife, and the unconcerned, confident expression on her face, seemed to decide him. He grunted and hurried away, pulling the hood closer over his face.

  She turned and watched him go. Like hers, his shoes made virtually no sound on the street and she wanted to be sure that he had gone and wasn’t doubling back behind her, to take her by surprise. But he hurried on his way without looking back, eventually swallowed by the dark shadows.

  By comparison, the riverfront, when she reached it, seemed to blaze with light. There were taverns and eating houses spread along the bank, each one with its illuminated sign and lighted windows. Sounds of laughter and occasional angry shouts came to her, accompanied at times by the sound of breaking glass and furniture. From time to time, laughing or shouting figures emerged onto the street, some staggering, and made their way towards the docks. The side of the street that fronted the river was bare of buildings. Ships and smaller vessels were moored directly alongside and, at intervals, jetties ran out at right angles into the semi-circular basin that served as a harbour. More craft were moored alongside these finger wharves.

  She moved to the river side of the street, not wanting to be continually accosted by patrons leaving the taverns. There was less need for secrecy here, as the riverfront street was a busy thoroughfare.

  The ships and smaller craft all carried lights, set high on their masts. She paused for a moment to get her bearings, then headed towards the toll office, where Heron had been detained. She remembered a few landmarks from the previous day, when they had been marched along the riverfront to Doutro’s office, and she strode out more confidently.

  Looking through the forest of masts and halyards, she could see the money sign that stood above the toll office, illuminated by flaring torches set on either side. She increased her pace, then stopped, aghast.

  Heron was no longer moored alongside the jetty where the toll office stood. She looked around frantically, in case there were two offices and she had come to the wrong one. She quickly realised that this was where they had been detained.

  But the ship was gone.

  She stopped, leaning against a waist-high pole that had several heavy ropes looped over it. A large fishing smack bobbed gently on the river beside her as she racked her brain, trying to figure out why the ship had gone. And where.

  Then it came to her. The jetty that served the toll office provided short-term mooring only. Ships would moor there for five or ten minutes while their skippers paid the toll, then move on, leaving room for the next ship to pay. Doutro would hardly want the jetty space taken up by a ship that was going nowhere and paying no toll. He would have had it moved.

  But where?

  She cast around the bobbing masts and figureheads. The basin was crowded with ships and they merged together into one amorphous mass under her gaze. She knew a trained sailor, like Hal or Stig, would be able to differentiate quickly between them. But she wasn’t a seafarer and ships all tended to look the same to her.

  ‘Think,’ she told herself. ‘Think. Then look.’

  Logic told her that the Heron wouldn’t have gone far. Doutro struck her as a person who would make a habit of detaining ships to squeeze extra payment out of them. Therefore, he would have a holding area somewhere close by.

  She walked along the quay more slowly now, scanning the jetties that ran out into the river as she drew closer to the toll office. Tall masts, surmounted by lanterns, bobbed gently on the wavelets that slapped quietly against the bank. She blinked her eyes to clear them. The masts were beginning to blend together again. She studied them individually but could see no sign of Hal’s little ship.

  Then a thought struck her. She was looking for a tall mast among other tall masts. But the Heron’s mast, without its long curved yardarm, would be much shorter than the ones she was looking at. She needed to cast her gaze lower, searching for a heavy, short mast – and the sharp-beaked Heron figurehead that adorned the bowpost.

  She moved faster now, coming level with the jetty where the toll office stood. So far, no sign of what she was looking for. She went on, past the toll office.

  And, on the very next jetty, across a short stretch of dark water that rippled with reflected lantern light, there it was.

  There was another ship moored beyond Heron, tied up bow to stern. Unlike most of the others in the basin, these two showed no masthead lights. They were unoccupied, she realised.

  She hesitated. The jetty was still forty metres away and she thought it would be better to study it here, rather than get closer, where she might be noticed. She knew it would be a mistake to be observed paying too much attention to the impounded ship. There was sure to be a guard somewhere and too much interest on her part might make him suspicious.

  She walked a few paces closer. Where was the guard? There had to be one. Then she saw him. He had walked out to the far end of the jetty. Now he was strolling back, looking around in a disinterested way. He stopped by the ship moored behind Heron and, stepping to the edge of the jetty, peered down into her. Perhaps he had heard a noise, she thought. Then, seemingly satisfied, he moved on, passing the Heron without a second glance and pacing to the landward end of the jetty.

  He was armed, she could see. A short sword hung at his side and he was carrying a spear. He wore a mail shirt but no helmet. He paused under a lantern set on a pole at the entry to the jetty and peered up and down the quay. Lydia resisted the temptation to shrink down behind the low stone wall beside her. Movement would attract his attention, she knew. She was in an area of shadow between two lamps, and he had the full light of the lantern in his eyes. If he really wanted to study the waterfront, he would have been better to do it away from the light. He was simply going through the motions.

  He yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned and began to pace slowly along the jetty again. She could hear his hard-shod boots on the jetty planks. His back was to her, so she moved quickly, getting closer to the entrance to the jetty. There was no gate, she saw, grateful for the fact. The jetty itself was littered with gear from ships – coiled ropes, rolled sails, oars, straw fenders and half a dozen fish traps in an untidy pile.

  ‘Must have been taken from an impounded fishing boat,’ she said to herself. It made sense that when Doutro detained a ship, he would strip her of her gear and put it up for sale. The value of the parts would be greater than the whole.

  Moving carefully, her eyes fixed on the sentry as he paced away from her, she slipped onto the jetty itself. Crouched double, she moved away from the side where the lanterns were set, staying in the relative dimness. She was a trained hunter and it was second nature to her to move quickly but with no noise in a forest. On a bare jetty, with no deadfalls or twigs underfoot, it was child’s play. She reached the pile of fish traps and slipped behind them, staying on the outer side.

  The sentry had reached the end of the jetty now. He turned and began to pace back. This time, he didn’t bother to look at either of the ships moored alongside. That was a good sign, she thought. He was getting bored. He’d probably been on duty for hours. He paced down to the riverfront road again. This time, he didn’t pause, but turned around and began to retrace his steps. Lydia crouche
d, absolutely motionless, behind the wicker fish traps.

  The sentry went past, barely two metres away from her. As he passed, she could see his eyes were down, staring at the planks of the jetty. Definitely bored, she thought. Once he was a few metres past her hiding place, she slipped out and began to shadow him, making sure she matched her footsteps to his, to avoid any giveaway noise.

  He passed the Heron. She let him go a few more metres, then moved quickly to the jetty’s edge and lowered herself to the deck of the little ship. The ropes groaned slightly and the wicker fenders creaked as her weight made the ship move. She dropped into the space that held the rowing benches, below the centre deck level, and crouched there. But the small riverside noises didn’t attract the guard’s attention. He continued to plod stolidly down the jetty. Staying low, she slipped over the centre decking and dropped into the well where the port side rowing benches were. Still in a crouch, she moved forward to Jesper’s bench and bent to peer into the recessed pigeonhole under the central decking.

  There was nothing there. She put her hand in and felt around, but there was no sign of the canvas wallet he had described. She checked to make sure that she was at the right bench. Then she became aware of something under her feet. She bent and peered at the deck beside the footrests for the rowers. There was a clutter of small items there. A half-carved model of a ship, a fur-lined leather vest and a walrus tusk on a leather thong.

  Then she realised. The ship had been searched. That was logical. And the searchers had cast aside anything that wasn’t of value – which meant virtually everything that wasn’t in the hidden strongbox. She looked now to the spot where she knew the deck planking concealed it. It was undisturbed, so the searchers obviously hadn’t found it. She breathed a sigh of relief. If they’d found the parcel she had entrusted to Hal when they left Limmat, they would have been highly excited.

  She hoped a canvas tool roll wouldn’t count as an item of value. She looked over the rowing bench into the next space and saw it, where it had been tossed aside contemptuously by whoever had searched the ship. The roll was half undone and she checked inside. The strangely shaped, unidentifiable tools were held firmly in sewn pockets. There were no empty ones, so she assumed everything was in place. She tucked the wallet inside her jacket, then scrambled towards the foot of the mast, where she had been standing when Doutro’s soldiers had arrested Hal and the crew.