02 The Invaders

by John Flanagan

  Finally, he turned toward Ingvar and nodded.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s have you.”

  There was a murmur of expectation from the rest of the group. So far, Ingvar hadn’t attempted the net. Nobody had expected Thorn to order him to.

  Ingvar rose, peered in Thorn’s direction and hesitated.

  “Are you sure, Thorn?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Thorn said testily. “I don’t say things unless I’m sure. Step forward into the net.”

  Ingvar moved awkwardly forward to the edge of the net. As he went to step into it, his left toe caught on one of the strands and he lurched uncertainly, waving his arms for balance and dropping his massive club in the process.

  Someone sniggered. Thorn turned quickly and caught sight of Stefan hiding a smile behind his hand. Thorn’s eyes narrowed.

  “Laughing at a shipmate, Stefan?” he said, his tone deceptively mild. Stefan hurriedly assumed a more serious expression.

  “It’s all right, Thorn,” Ingvar said. “I’m sort of used to it.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Thorn addressed his words to the watching group. “In my book, we never laugh or make fun of a shipmate who’s trying his best.”

  “Yeah. Don’t be an ass, Stefan,” Ulf said, and to everyone’s surprise, Wulf reiterated his brother’s thought.

  “That’s right. Shut up.”

  Thorn’s eyebrows went up in surprise. May the Great Blue Whale fly up to the sun, he thought.

  “Sorry,” said Stefan. It wasn’t so much the warning note in Thorn’s voice that did it. It was the fact that Ulf and Wulf, for the first time in living memory, agreed on something. And that something was the fact that he, Stefan, was an ass. It was a sobering thought.

  “Thanks, fellows,” Ingvar said.

  “Think nothing of it,” Wulf said.

  And Ulf chorused, “Nothing at all.”

  Then Wulf turned to Thorn. “Carry on, Thorn,” he said magnanimously, gesturing with his right hand.

  Thorn shook his head. “Oh, thank you very much,” he said, and the other boys all smothered their laughter while Wulf grinned at them.

  “That was well said,” Ulf leaned over and told him.

  Wulf nodded smugly. “I know.”

  “In fact, it was so well said, I’m surprised I didn’t say it,” Ulf continued.

  Wulf, who had been leaning back on one elbow on the grass, now straightened abruptly and glared at his brother.

  “Are you now?” he said. “Well, I’d—”

  “Drop it!” Hal’s voice cut like a whip and Wulf turned toward him.

  “Drop what?” he asked.

  Hal shook his head in annoyance. “Whatever you planned to say. Just drop it. You’ve got a laugh out of everyone, so quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Quit while you’re behind, more like,” Ulf sniggered, and Hal turned his glare on him.

  “You drop it too,” he snapped and was surprised when Ulf looked considerably chastened.

  “Yes, Hal,” he said meekly.

  Hal turned back to Thorn and repeated Wulf’s earlier gesture. “Carry on, Thorn.”

  “You’re sure?” Thorn replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Nobody else has anything to say? You’re all happy for me to carry on, are you?” He let his gaze travel around them. Nobody spoke. “Well, in that case, I think I will. Ingvar, are you ready?”

  “I’m not sure, Thorn,” Ingvar said truthfully. He certainly didn’t feel too ready.

  “All right then. Now, you saw what Edvin was doing, correct?”

  “Ummm… not too clearly. There was a bit of jumping and arm waving going on, is that right?”

  Thorn suppressed a smile. “Yes, jumping and arm waving is a pretty good description of what everyone’s been doing,” he said. Edvin looked suitably insulted by the description, but he said nothing. He suspected that it was a fairly accurate description of what he’d been doing.

  “Very well, let’s try it slowly, Ingvar. Ready?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’d like you to know so,” Thorn told him.

  The big boy nodded several times, licking his lips nervously. “All right. I know so.” But he didn’t sound convinced.

  “Then here we go. One forward… two to the right… careful!”

  This last comment came as Ingvar caught his left toe in the net and swayed precariously. With a great deal of difficulty, he recovered his balance and turned, peering in Thorn’s direction. Thorn waited until he was standing evenly again and continued.

  “Good. Now, two forward… one left… three right… one… help him up, will you, Stig?”

  Ingvar had snagged his foot again and fell awkwardly. At Thorn’s order, Stig leapt to his feet and heaved Ingvar upright.

  “Thanks, Stig,” Ingvar said. Then he turned to Thorn. “I think we’re wasting time here, Thorn. I’m just no good at this.”

  Thorn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He’d noticed that as Ingvar moved, he was peering down at the net and at his feet. It was a natural reaction. In fact, he’d had to tell a couple of the boys not to do it, but instead to keep their eyes up and sense where their feet were going. He strode toward Ingvar now.

  “Ingvar, can you see the net?” he asked.

  Ingvar shrugged unhappily. “It’s pretty blurry.”

  “I think that might be the problem. You can see it. But you don’t see it well enough, and that’s causing your loss of balance. You’re tensing up because you’re uncertain. Let’s try something. Close your eyes for me.”

  Ingvar complied.

  “Now breathe very steadily,” Thorn said. “In and out. In and out.” He watched the boy’s shoulders rising and falling. “Now relax… Now imagine you can see the net. See it in your mind’s eye.”

  “His mind’s eye?” Jesper commented quietly to the others. “What’s that?”

  “In your case,” Hal replied dryly, “it’s a very small eye.”

  Jesper went to reply, realized he had nothing to top that comment and shut his mouth.

  “Can you see the net now, Ingvar?” Thorn asked.

  Ingvar, eyes shut tight, nodded.

  “All right. Then, with your eyes shut and seeing the net in your mind, let’s begin again. One back… two left… three forward… two right…”

  The other boys watched in amazement as Ingvar began to follow Thorn’s directions confidently and carefully. The pace was slow, of course. But he was stepping cleanly and the tendency to wave his arms wildly and teeter off balance was almost gone. Once, his right foot caught on a strand of the net and Thorn, watching like a hawk, immediately called on him to stop.

  “Stand up straight!” he ordered. Ingvar did so and breathed deeply as he recovered his balance. Then Thorn began again and Ingvar continued his slow, careful movements.

  Careful, Hal noticed, but no longer cautious and lacking in confidence. He shook his head and murmured quietly to Stig. “He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

  Stig grinned. “Who would have thought Ingvar could do that—even as slowly as he’s moving?”

  Finally, Thorn called for Ingvar to stop and open his eyes. The big boy stood in the middle of the net, face flushed with pleasure.

  “Well done, Ingvar. We’ll have you running through that net before you know it.”

  Ingvar shook his head, but his wide grin showed how pleased he was with his progress.

  “Maybe not in no time, Thorn. But give me four or five years and I could work up to walking pace.”

  The assembled group laughed. But this time they were laughing with their crewmate, and not at him.

  “Good lad,” Thorn told him. “Now step out of the net. No!” he cried quickly as Ingvar looked cautiously down to see where to place his feet. “Keep your eyes up! See the net in your mind.”

  And to the amazement of those watching, Ingvar, head up and eyes straight ahead, walked clear of the net, stepping high and cleanly, without so much as a stumble.

  Then, unfo
rtunately, as he stepped onto the clear ground, he caught his toe against a grass tussock and fell flat on his face. This time, he laughed with the others as he clambered to his feet. But nothing could detract from his feeling of accomplishment.

  “I guess I didn’t see that in my mind,” he said, and they all laughed again. Thorn nodded, smiling at the boy.

  “Just keep practicing,” he said. “Practice and practice and practice. The more you practice, the better you’ll get.”

  Late that night, long after the camp had gone to sleep, Hal woke, as a strange sound impinged on his subconscious. He lay frowning for a few minutes. It was a rhythmic trudging sound and he strove unsuccessfully to identify it. By now, he was accustomed to the usual night sounds of the sea and the wind and the rain around the campsite in Shelter Bay. But this was something new.

  He rolled out of his blankets and, seizing his belt with the saxe knife in its scabbard, he stood and stepped quietly out of the tent.

  He followed the sound to the area where they trained each day. Trudge… slide… slide… trudge… scrape. He became aware that he could hear a voice, pitched low and muttering. The words were indistinct. Then he relaxed, slinging the belt and scabbard over his shoulder as he realized there was no danger.

  Ingvar was in the center of the net. He was facing Hal, and in the moonlight, the skirl could see that Ingvar’s eyes were shut as he moved deliberately in a complex pattern of steps. Right, forward, left, back, left, right, his feet slid and trudged on the dew-damp grass. His lips moved as he called the steps to himself in an undertone.

  “Right two… back three… left one… forward two…”

  Hal smiled to himself and turned away, heading back to the warmth of his bed and leaving Ingvar to his private practice.

  chapter eight

  The training continued each day and all the members of the crew improved their performance in the net, even Ingvar—although he was a long way behind the others. After several days, he could even move in the net with his eyes open.

  And even though he couldn’t equal the others’ performance, he was moving far more surely than he had ever done in his life. He would never be called nimble, but his sense of balance and movement had improved remarkably.

  Which would stand him in good stead when they went back to sea, Hal thought, and he had to move around the rolling, pitching deck of the Heron. He was going to need Ingvar for the idea he was working on, and he welcomed the improvement that Thorn’s training had brought about.

  After working the boys in the net for a week, Thorn introduced a change to their training. He set them to practicing mock combat, with wooden weapons, one against the other. When he did so, he quickly noticed a fault in their technique.

  “It’s not surprising,” he told Hal. The crew had spent the morning hard at work, and Hal and Thorn were sitting discussing their progress. “After all, their instructors in brotherband aren’t experts themselves. They’re all reasonably competent, but they’re just teaching the basics, not the finer points.”

  Hal smiled at him. “I guess none of them were Maktigs,” he said.

  Thorn nodded, shrugging. “I suppose not. But I find it frustrating when I see the boys practicing bad technique. That just tends to entrench bad habits, and they’re that much harder to break.”

  “Then show them where they’re going wrong,” Hal told him.

  Thorn pursed his lips. “Are you sure? You’re the skirl, not me. I don’t want to undermine your authority.”

  Hal laughed. “I’m the skirl and when we’re at sea, they’ll obey me. I’ll see to that. But as skirl, I’ve appointed you as our battle trainer. You’re the most qualified for that job. I certainly can’t teach them. I’m learning myself.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it,” Thorn said. “I just needed to check it with you.”

  “One thing,” Hal said, then hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject. Then he decided the best way was to simply go ahead with it. “Quite a few of them are wondering about you. That demonstration in the net caught them by surprise. They’re wondering where all that skill and knowledge came from.”

  Thorn was shaking his head before he finished the sentence. “I don’t want people to know about—”

  But Hal interrupted him. “These aren’t people. These are your crew. Thorn, I can understand that when you were in Hallasholm, you didn’t want people looking and saying, See how far Thorn has fallen? He used to be the Maktig. But the boys won’t think that way. They look up to you already. They’re not comparing you with the way you once were. They see you as you are and they admire you.”

  “They look up to me?” Thorn said, disbelief in his voice.

  Hal nodded emphatically. “Of course they do. What’s more, I think it might do their confidence a lot of good if they knew they were being taught by a real expert. And confidence is going to be important if we have to fight the crew of the Raven.”

  Thorn shrugged reluctantly. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Let me think about it.”

  “I know I’m right,” Hal said. Then he smiled. “After all, I’m the skirl. Now, what have you got in mind to improve their technique?”

  “I’ll show you this afternoon,” Thorn said.

  After the lunch break, Thorn called the boys to order and told them to gather round him. He motioned for them to sit in a semicircle, and strode back and forth in front of them, slapping the hickory baton against his boot as he searched for the words he wanted to say.

  Finally, he decided that a demonstration would be the best way to broach the subject. He harrumphed once or twice, trying to ignore the semicircle of curious faces, then pointed the baton at Stig.

  “Stig, on your feet and fetch your practice weapon and shield. Bring me a shield too.”

  Stig hesitated. “Just a shield? Don’t you want a practice ax?”

  Thorn shook his head and swished the hickory baton through the air. “This’ll be enough. Hop to it now.”

  As the tall boy ran to fetch two shields and a practice ax from the training area, Thorn turned back to the waiting boys.

  “We’ve been working on agility and balance,” he began, “and you’ve all improved remarkably. Even Ingvar.” He smiled at the big boy. “Problem is, it all goes off to visit your grandma when you start weapon practice.”

  He looked up as Stig returned with the practice equipment. He took the shield and slipped it over his right arm, then watched as Stig settled his own shield on his left, and hefted the wooden practice ax. Thorn retained the hickory baton in his left hand.

  “All right, Stig,” he said. “Let’s see your style.”

  They faced each other, and each of them dropped into a crouch. Stig’s eyes were slitted and he concentrated fiercely on the shabby figure in front of him. In spite of the matted beard and gray hair, and the tattered, patched clothes, Thorn with a weapon in his hand was a different matter altogether from Thorn, the disheveled old derelict. The years seemed to fall away and he moved lightly and confidently as they circled each other. The shield was up and ready while the hickory stick described a small circle in the air. Except for Hal, Stig was the only member of the crew who was aware of Thorn’s past. He knew he was facing an expert warrior and he was in no hurry to rush in. Thorn’s easy, confident manner made him even more reluctant to do so.

  “Hyaaah!” Thorn shouted, leaping forward and raising the stick for an overhead blow. Stig leapt back with an involuntary shout of surprise. His foot caught on a tussock and he stumbled, barely managing to retain his feet.

  A ripple of laughter ran round the watching boys and Stig flushed as he realized Thorn’s move had been a feint. The old sea wolf was grinning at him now, and rolling his eyes. Throwing caution to the winds, Stig attacked.

  He hammered at Thorn’s shield with the wooden ax, raining blow after blow down on it, hitting with every ounce of his strength. The wooden practice weapon cracked against the shield, which always seemed to be in position just
in time to prevent Stig’s weapon knocking Thorn’s head clean off his shoulders. The boys shouted encouragement as Thorn began to back away and Stig went after him, redoubling his efforts.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, it was over.

  Stig launched one last, massive blow at Thorn. This time, instead of blocking the attack, Thorn caught it on the slanting face of his shield and deflected it. Meeting no real resistance to his attack, Stig lurched forward, off balance, exposing his right side as he followed through.

  And as he did so, Thorn jabbed the baton painfully into his ribs, like a snake striking.

  “Owww!” Stig yelped, recoiling from the bruising impact.

  Instantly, Thorn leapt back a pace. “That’s it. It’s over!”

  As Stig, now thoroughly angry, gathered himself to launch another attack, Thorn brought the stick up to face level and pointed it warningly at him.

  “That’s it, Stig!” he said crisply. “Finished!” He kept his eyes fixed on Stig’s. Gradually, he saw the anger fading away and the boy let his shield and ax drop to the ground. There was a time when Stig’s temper would have flared beyond control, but brotherband training had helped him to manage it. He rubbed his ribs gingerly.

  “That hurt, Thorn,” he complained. Thorn nodded, loosening his clamped hook from the shield’s handle and letting it slip off his arm.

  “It would have hurt a lot more if this had been a sword,” he said, brandishing the hickory baton. He saw realization dawning in Stig’s eyes then and the boy managed an abashed grin.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he said.

  “Think of it now,” Thorn told him. Then he turned to include the other members of the brotherband, who were watching in silence. Thorn’s speed of hand, and the ease with which he had met and countered Stig’s attack, had overawed them.

  “All of you think about it,” he repeated, letting his gaze travel over the suddenly very serious faces before him. “Imagine that had been a sword driving into Stig’s ribs. We’d be busy telling tales of what a good fellow he’d been during his short and colorful life, and how much we all miss him.” He paused. “Or maybe not.”