Hal paused for a second, but then his resolve hardened. Perhaps it was time they did carry through on the threat, he thought. The twins had obviously become a little complacent. It was as well that Hal had ordered all the crew to learn how to swim. It was ridiculous, he thought, to be on board ship and not to have that basic skill. He gestured over the side.
‘Throw him,’ he said.
Ingvar hoisted the twin – it happened to be Ulf – onto the rail. Instantly, Wulf was on his feet to protect his sibling. Typical, thought Hal. They would fight like cat and dog right up until the point when someone else threatened one of them. Then they would unite against the common foe.
‘You leave my brother alone!’ Wulf demanded, his fists bunched.
Ingvar regarded him placidly for a second or two.
‘All right,’ he said. He released his hold on Ulf and the boy tumbled back on board the ship. Wulf grinned triumphantly, then neighed in terror as Ingvar grabbed him instead.
‘Hal said he didn’t care which one of you went,’ Ingvar said, and hurled Wulf into the sea. Kloof barked excitedly and Stig hurried to grab her collar before she could go after Wulf and fetch him.
Wulf surfaced, spluttering and spitting sea water, in the wake astern of Heron.
‘Jesper, Stefan,’ called Hal, ‘let the sheets fly.’
As they did and the sail lost power, he swung the tiller to bring Heron round one hundred and eighty degrees.
Stig, grinning widely, took the boat hook from its rack against the mast.
‘Now I suppose we’d better haul him back aboard,’ he said.
Two days after they had rounded Cape Shelter, they saw the dim grey line of the Araluen coast off their starboard bow. Gradually, the country began to take on greater definition as they came closer.
‘It’s very green,’ Stig said, as they began to make out forests and cultivated fields. There was a gentle look to the land – unlike their homeland, with its rocky cliffs, steep, snow-capped mountains and dull green pine forests interspersed with low-lying buildings constructed from massive, rough-hewn logs.
Occasionally, they sighted a village close to the coast and Hal took the ship in for a closer look. The houses were generally wattle and daub – the walls made from thin willow strands woven together over a light timber frame and sealed with liberal applications of mud. The whole structure, once the mud daub dried and hardened, was then sealed with whitewash. The roofs were thatched, with eaves overhanging to below a man’s height. Cows and sheep grazed in the lush green fields that lined the coast. None of them took any notice of the small ship speeding past.
They sighted no large ships moored in the many bays they passed. But there was a large number of fishing craft in evidence, usually clustered together in groups of four or five, tied up alongside jetties that snaked their way out into the bays.
The fields were laid out with geometric precision and separated from one another by low stone walls. The countryside of Skandia, by contrast, was far more haphazard in its layout. Skandians did farm and tend flocks, but they weren’t as fanatical about it as the Araluans appeared to be.
‘What are the people like, Thorn?’ Stefan asked. They all knew that Thorn had been on several voyages to Araluen in his time as a sea wolf.
He paused as he thought about it, while they gathered around him, sitting on the deck and waiting for his answer.
‘On the whole, they’re peaceful enough – and friendly enough. But if you get them riled, they can be very dangerous.’
‘They’re good fighters?’ Stig asked.
Thorn nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes, they’re good fighters. Each fief maintains a force of mounted knights – they’re on permanent duty and they train constantly. Then there’s a militia of men at arms – part-time infantry who are farmers and craftsmen most of the time, but are liable to be called up in time of battle.’
‘Amateurs then?’ Stig asked, in a slightly derogatory tone.
But Thorn shook his head. ‘Don’t sell them short. They’re well trained in all the basics of warfare, and they’re well equipped. They may not be full-time soldiers, but they certainly know how to handle themselves on a battlefield. And they’re led by professionals. That makes a difference. And then, of course, there are the Rangers.’
‘Who are they?’ Lydia asked. When Thorn wasn’t busy teasing her, she thought, he was a remarkably knowledgeable person – particularly when it came to fighting, and fighting men. He paused for a second or two before he answered her, and Jesper took advantage of the silence to interrupt.
‘Didn’t two of them come to Skandia a few years back? When the horsemen from the east tried to attack us?’
‘The Temujai?’ Lydia asked. ‘What happened?’
Jesper looked smug. ‘Oh, we gave them a good seeing to,’ he said, sounding as if he had not only been there, but had been instrumental in their defeat. ‘Sent ’em packing with their horses’ tails between their legs.’
‘It wasn’t quite that simple,’ Thorn said, with a slight edge in his voice. ‘In fact, it was touch and go. If it hadn’t been for those two Rangers, we may well have lost that fight.’
Jesper looked suitably chastened.
Lydia moved closer and settled herself more comfortably on the deck. ‘So what did they do exactly?’
‘Well, Rangers are very skilled tacticians. One of them, the older one, organised our defences. He had us withdraw to a point where the horsemen’s numbers weren’t an advantage – a narrow plain by the ocean. And he convinced us to fight from behind cover, where the horses weren’t anywhere near as effective. The other one was his apprentice. He organised a group of Araluan slaves into an archery unit – took on the horsemen with their own weapon, the bow. And he cut them down in large numbers. Actually turned the battle in our favour.
‘All in all,’ he continued, ‘Rangers are a remarkable group. There are fifty of them and they’re all expert archers. Can shoot the eye out of a blowfly at a hundred paces, they say. And they can move without being seen. Some people think they have magical powers.’
‘Lots of people can move without my seeing them,’ Ingvar put in and the crew chuckled. Then he added, ‘But, seriously, how do they do it?’
Thorn shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. If I knew, I’d move so you couldn’t see me. But they’re an incredibly skilled group – and very, very deadly to their enemies.’
‘Just as well we’re allies these days then,’ Hal said. He consulted his chart and sailing notes and pointed to the shoreline. ‘I think we’re getting close to Cresthaven. That ruined tower on the headland is just a few hundred metres from the bay.’
There was a stirring among the group. Several of them stood to look at the ruined tower, now almost abeam of the ship. Ulf and Wulf began checking their ropes, knowing that Hal might be issuing sail orders soon. Simultaneously, Stefan and Jesper moved to the halyards, in case the ship was going to tack.
They passed the next headland, and Cresthaven Bay opened up before them. It was a relatively narrow bay, with a yellow sand beach and a long, spindly jetty jutting out on the northern shore. Hal assessed it keenly. The bay would be a snug base for them, without concerns about dragging anchors or broken moorings, since the high headland to the north would break the force of any storm. A wolfship was moored alongside the jetty and several figures could be seen moving on the jetty and on board the ship.
‘That’ll be Wolfspear, the current duty ship,’ Hal said, and Thorn nodded.
Beyond the jetty, and inland from the beach, there were several long huts, built from logs. The gaps between had been sealed with mud and clay and they were roofed with thick thatching. The logs were weathered and grey but the huts looked solidly built and comfortable.
‘Our new home,’ Stig murmured. ‘All it needs is a lick of paint and it’ll be perfect.’
‘And a woman’s touch,’ Thorn said, grinning at Lydia. ‘I imagine you’ll be putting up lacy curtains before too long, princess.’
&nbs
p; ‘Shut up, old man,’ Lydia said. It tended to be her standard reply to Thorn.
To the north of the jetty, the ground rose steeply and was thickly timbered. They could see the beginnings of a track leading into the trees. Beyond, and higher up, they caught glimpses of whitewashed buildings and more thatched roofs. Woodsmoke curled up from several chimneys.
‘That’ll be Cresthaven village,’ Hal said, pointing with his free hand. He checked the wind telltale and the angle to the beach. The port sail was raised, with the wind coming over their starboard quarter.
‘We’ll take her in on this tack,’ he said. ‘Be ready to sheet home as we come round to starboard, boys,’ he called to Ulf and Wulf. One of them signalled that they had heard him and were ready.
He heaved on the tiller and Heron’s bow began to swing to starboard. As it did, Ulf and Wulf hauled in on the sheets to flatten the sail and present it more fully to the wind.
‘Wind’s going to be blocked once we come inside that northern headland,’ Thorn remarked.
Hal nodded. ‘There’s still enough to bring us into the beach. You can see the catspaws on the water closer in. And we’ve got plenty of way on.’
Thorn grunted, satisfied that Hal had the situation well in hand. He didn’t want Heron to suddenly lose the wind halfway into the beach and wallow there while they ran the oars out. Not with another wolfship crew watching them, just as he knew they would be.
But if Hal felt there was enough wind to sail her all the way in, that was good enough for him. In matters of seamanship, he always deferred to the young man.
And, as ever, it turned out he was right to do so.
There was no room to moor at the jetty. The wolfship was taking up all the available space there, so Hal brought the Heron curving in to the beach, dropping the sail in the last forty metres and letting the prow grate gently into the sand. As the deck slowly canted to one side, Stefan clambered over the bows and took a sand anchor up the beach, driving it into the ground well above the high water mark.
Now that they were ashore, they became aware of the birds singing in the trees and the distant sound of cattle lowing somewhere on the headland. Strange, thought Hal, how those land-bound noises were masked by the sound of the ship’s passage through the water, along with the creaking of the masts and yards, and the constant movement of the sail.
After those first moments of comparative silence, the inlet echoed to the clatter and bustle of sails, oars and spars being stowed. Then the crew had time to look around and take stock of their home for the next eight months.
‘I guess those huts are our accommodation,’ Edvin said. ‘They look comfortable enough.’
He was right. The huts were built to accommodate a normal wolfship crew of twenty to thirty men. The nine Herons, and Lydia, would have plenty of room to spread out. The huts looked to be solidly built and, in spite of Stig’s earlier comment, freshly painted. Hal walked slowly forward to the bow as several of the people from the huts approached along the beach. He swung a leg over the rail and dropped lightly onto the firm, wet sand. The rest of the crew, having waited for him to be first ashore, now followed in quick succession. They stood in a semi-circle, a few paces behind him, as the Skandians from the huts came closer. There were three of them in all. The leader, a short, stockily built man with a flaming red beard and hair, stopped before Hal and smiled a welcome.
‘Welcome to Cresthaven,’ he said, holding out a hand. Hal grasped it and they shook. ‘I’m Jurgen Half-Foot, skirl of the Wolfspear.’ He jerked a thumb towards the graceful, lean-waisted wolfship moored alongside the jetty. Even at rest, wolfships had an air of menace about them.
‘Hal Mikkelson,’ Hal replied. ‘And this is the Heron. We’re here to relieve you as duty ship.’
Jurgen’s smile grew even broader. ‘And we’re glad to see you,’ he said heartily.
Stig frowned. ‘Had a rough year?’
Jurgen hastened to shake his head in the negative. ‘Not at all! But it’ll be good to be heading home again. Three of my men have babies they’ve never seen – all born since we were stationed here. But it’s a pleasant enough duty. The locals are friendly and they look after us well. You won’t want for anything while you’re here. The food is good. The ale is wonderful . . .’ He paused, noticing the youth of the crewmen standing behind Hal. ‘Although that probably won’t be important to you,’ he added, a little uncertainly.
‘It’ll be important to me,’ Thorn growled.
Jurgen studied him, frowning for a moment. Then, as he noticed the missing right hand, recognition dawned.
‘Thorn? Is that you?’
‘Well, it’s not anybody else, Jurgen,’ Thorn said pleasantly.
‘Hardly recognised you,’ Jurgen told him. ‘You look kind of . . . tidier than I’m used to seeing you.’
That raised a few eyebrows among the crew of the Heron. ‘Tidy’ was not a word that sprang easily to mind when they thought of Thorn. Hal smiled to himself, wondering how Jurgen would have reacted to the sight of Thorn at the haymaking festival.
‘Yes. I’m a regular dandy these days,’ Thorn said sarcastically.
Jurgen switched his attention to the Heron. He tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘So this is the Heron we’ve heard so much about,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit small, isn’t she?’
Of course, the Heron and her revolutionary sail plan had gained attention in Skandia before Hal and the crew sailed south in pursuit of the Andomal. Her speed, agility and ability to point upwind had all played a role in helping the Herons win the annual brotherband contest.
‘She doesn’t need to be any bigger,’ Hal said. He was used to the comment. ‘We don’t need as many oars because she sails upwind better than a square-rigger.’
A square-rigged ship like Wolfspear had to resort to oars whenever they wanted to travel upwind. That meant they needed a lot of oars, and that meant the ship needed to be big enough to accommodate the oarsmen.
Jurgen considered the answer. ‘I suppose that’s true,’ he said. He was silent for a few seconds, then continued. ‘Well, if Erak thinks you’re up to the job, who am I to disagree?’
‘Exactly,’ Thorn said in a tone that indicated no further discussion of the matter would be entertained. It was obvious to the Herons that, in addition to the size of their ship, Jurgen was all too well aware of the youth of their crew – aside from Thorn, that is. As the shaggy-haired warrior had been known to say, he raised the average age of the crew by ten or twelve years, singlehandedly – ‘Which is how I do most things these days,’ he would add.
There was an awkward pause. Nobody seemed to know where to go next in this conversation. Jesper solved the problem as he often did – by displaying a total lack of tact.
‘Jurgen Half-Foot is an odd sort of name, isn’t it?’ he proclaimed. ‘How did you come to be called that?’
Thorn turned away to hide a grin. Even he could remember how Jurgen had been given the name – although there were many things from that time that he couldn’t recall with great clarity. Jurgen went red in the face and regarded Jesper, trying to discern whether or not the boy was making sport of him. But Jesper’s wide-eyed innocent look convinced him otherwise – although it has to be said that Jesper was a thief and a liar par excellence. The wide-eyed innocent look was a specialty of his.
‘Lost three of my toes to an axe,’ he said gruffly.
Jesper looked impressed. ‘Oh wow! In a battle, was it?’
Jurgen hesitated, then nodded curtly. ‘Yes. In a battle.’
All of which was true. But Jurgen, when he told the story, liked to leave the impression that he had been hit in the foot by another warrior. And since Jurgen was still among the living after receiving such a major wound, the assumption was that he had gone on to kill the man who had relieved him of his toes.
The fact was, Jurgen was in a battle at the time of the injury. But the axe that caused the wound belonged to him. He was brandishing it – waving it above his head and spinnin
g it in intricate patterns in the air to put the fear of death into the enemy – when his grip slipped and the axe fell from his hand, landing on his foot and neatly removing the toes in question. Jurgen, looking down in horror at the dreadful wound and his ruined foot, promptly keeled over in a faint. Three stretcher bearers had to take him to the rear of the battle, where a surgeon patched him up and bandaged him. From then on, he was known as Jurgen Half-foot. Although his previous nom de guerre gave some hint as to how it had all happened. Up until that time, he had been known as Jurgen Drops-a-lot.
For obvious reasons, he preferred his new title. But he disliked having to explain how it came about.
Hal had heard the story some years back. He took pity on his fellow skirl and changed the subject.
‘Accommodation,’ he said. ‘I assume we sleep in the huts?’
Jurgen nodded, glad the subject had moved away from his toes – or lack thereof.
‘We’ve been expecting you, so we made room for you in the smaller hut,’ he said. ‘But there’s only –’ he took a quick head count of the young crew ‘– ten of you, so you’ll have plenty of room. Of course, once we’re gone you can spread out as much as you like. It’ll be sheer luxury.’
Hal grinned, looking at the wattle and daub huts. They were sturdily built and maintained, and they looked as if they would be weatherproof. But luxury was stretching it.
‘We can use a little luxury,’ he said. ‘How long before you head off?’
Jurgen didn’t have to think about it. Obviously, he’d been planning Wolfspear’s departure for some time.
‘Soon as possible,’ he said promptly. ‘If you’re ready now, I can introduce you to the local bigwigs while your crew get set up in the small hut. Then I’ll show you round the area and tell you what we’ve been up to. That way, I can shove off for Hallasholm early tomorrow.’
‘No hurry at all then.’ Hal smiled. ‘Just don’t let the door hit you in the backside on the way out.’
Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro Page 11
