The Hunters

by John Flanagan

  His sergeant watched the Korpaljo’s thick-set figure as he stalked off down the wharf, walking with a sailor’s rolling gait. As ever, Hugo skipped awkwardly behind him, trying to keep up.

  ‘Whew!’ he breathed. ‘Always a pleasure seeing him, isn’t it?’

  The captain made a sharp cutting gesture with his right hand. ‘Shut up!’ he snapped. ‘He has ears like a hawk. Hears everything you say.’

  He didn’t know if a hawk had good ears or not. But at the moment, he couldn’t think of a better simile to use.

  ‘This is getting to be a habit,’ Stig said as he, Thorn and Hal strode down the pier, accompanied by a sergeant of the guard and two armed troops. Thorn turned to look quizzically at him.

  ‘What is?’ he asked, although he had a shrewd idea that he knew what Stig was talking about. The tall boy shook his head in annoyance.

  ‘It seems every harbour we put into, we’re frogmarched off to see some jumped-up local nonentity whose main interest lies in separating us from our money. It’s starting to get tedious.’

  ‘It’s the way of the world,’ Thorn told him. ‘On a river like this, everyone has their hand out. Besides, if a foreign ship moors in Hallasholm, they pay a harbour tax to Erak.’

  ‘And I’d go easy with the “jumped-up local nonentity” talk,’ Hal advised in a lowered tone. ‘From what I’ve heard, the Korpaljo can be very dangerous if you make him mad.’

  Stig sniffed disdainfully. But he resolved not to make any more disparaging comments about local authorities.

  The land around Raguza harbour rose in steep hills, with the gleaming white buildings of the town built in a series of rising terraces. They followed their escort up a narrow, winding street that ran up from the harbour. As they went higher, Hal took a moment to glance back. The harbour lay below them, the masts of the ships moored there looking like a leafless, branchless forest. In addition to the thirty or so pirate ships in harbour, there were scores of smaller craft – fishing boats, barges and longboats, similar to the pair that had escorted Heron into harbour. The buildings below his vantage point were predominantly white, with orange terracotta tiled roofs.

  The sergeant escorting them called impatiently and Hal turned and resumed toiling up the winding street.

  At the very top, they came to a large building that took up one side of a small plaza. The building was colonnaded along the front, providing a deep shade area. It was painted white, of course, and it rose for three floors above the square. Rows of arched windows ran along the upper floors. At the left-hand end was a massive round tower, which soared up to twice the height of the rest of the building. Their escort pointed to the tower, then led the way.

  ‘The Korpal,’ Hal muttered and the others looked at him curiously. ‘The ruling council here is called the Korpal,’ he explained. ‘It means “Circle”. They meet in a circular room and I’m guessing that’s where it’s situated.’

  The sergeant led them into the tower and up a staircase running round one of the walls, following the curve of the building. They went up two floors. On the first, the entire central floor consisted of a vast open space, with a circular table set in the middle and fifteen chairs placed around it. Hal guessed this was the meeting room for the Korpal, where official business was carried out. The next floor was divided into several spaces. A semi-circular anteroom took up half the floor space. It was sparsely furnished, with wooden chairs and benches, presumably for those who were waiting to be summoned through one of the several doors that led off it. The sergeant didn’t hesitate, but led them to a door set on the harbour side of the tower, knocked once and waited.

  There was a pause of a few seconds, then a harsh voice from within called for them to enter. The sergeant opened the door and ushered the three Skandians in ahead of him. He and his three men followed, ranging themselves along the wall.

  If the outer room was sparsely furnished, Mihaly’s office was a different matter altogether. His large desk dominated the room and he sat behind it on a high-backed chair, marked with intricate carvings. There were several other chairs, matching in design but not as large as the Korpaljo’s, ranged around the room, upholstered with thick, brightly coloured cushions. The wood was dark and lustrous and bore the mark of constant polishing. Several dark wooden chests were ranged along the walls. The curved outer wall of the tower was behind Mihaly’s desk. It was undecorated, but a large curved window looked down over the terracotta roofs of the houses and the sparkling blue of the harbour.

  The walls themselves were hung with rich tapestries, and a painting of a two-masted ship was in a prominent position. Hal eyed it with professional interest but he decided that it had been painted by an artist with no concept of good ship design. The masts were badly spaced, so that the rear sail would mask the breeze reaching the forward one.

  Above the Korpaljo’s desk, a large embroidered rectangle of tasselled fabric hung from a narrow, polished wooden beam. As they watched, it swayed slowly back and forth, providing a pleasant breeze through the room. Stig wondered what kept it moving. Then he noticed a thin draw cord leading away from it and through a small hole in the upper part of the wall. Presumably, somewhere outside the room, a servant sat, pulling the cord then releasing it, so the square of heavy fabric maintained its steady back and forth motion.

  It was the room of a rich and powerful man. By comparison, Doutro’s office in Bayrath had been small, shabby and unimpressive.

  ‘Sit down,’ Mihaly said. He waved a hand at three chairs that had been placed in front of his desk. It was not an invitation, Hal thought. It was an order. He guessed that most of the Korpaljo’s conversation would be phrased the same way. The three Herons took their seats, Thorn in the middle, Hal on his right and Stig on his left. It had been agreed that, as before, Thorn would act as the ship’s captain.

  ‘So, who are you? Where are you from? What do you want?’ Mihaly shot the questions out in rapid succession. Thorn replied calmly.

  ‘We’re Skandians. We’re from Hallasholm on the Stormwhite originally, but we’ve been raiding down the east and south coasts, then down the Dan. We’re looking for refuge here in Raguza. We’ve been told it’s friendly to raiders.’

  ‘Pirates, you mean?’ Mihaly might prefer to apply the term ‘corsair’ to himself. But these newcomers hadn’t earned the distinction.

  Thorn shrugged. ‘If you prefer.’

  Mihaly’s eyes bored into his for a few seconds, then switched to the two young men beside him. He noted that all three of the Skandians wore identical woollen watch caps.

  ‘Who are these two?’ he snapped.

  ‘My helmsman and my bosun,’ Thorn said, indicating Hal and Stig in turn. Mihaly’s eyes flicked back to the shabby old sea wolf.

  ‘Bit on the young side, aren’t they?’ he sneered.

  Thorn took no offence. He replied evenly.

  ‘They’re the best I could do. Not many experienced sailors want to serve with a one-armed man.’ He held up the carved hook on his right arm. ‘But these lads have done well by me. I’ve trained them and they know how to fight.’

  ‘So you say,’ Mihaly said, a sneer in his voice.

  ‘So I say,’ Thorn replied, still keeping his voice even. But his eyes met the Korpaljo’s in an unwavering stare. Eventually, Mihaly nodded and glanced away. This wasn’t a man he could browbeat or intimidate too easily, he thought. He felt a small flicker of respect for the one-armed man opposite him. Mihaly preferred to deal with men who were straightforward and plain speaking – unlike Zavac, he thought sourly.

  He gathered his thoughts, glancing down at some papers on his desk, then looked up again after a few seconds.

  ‘So, you want the protection of the Korpal,’ he said.

  Thorn frowned slightly, as if not understanding. ‘The Korpal?’

  Mihaly gestured impatiently. ‘The Circle Council. The ruling body here in Raguza. Perhaps you should have found out a few basic things about us before you blundered in here.’

&
nbsp; ‘We were in a bit of a rush when we arrived,’ Thorn said and Mihaly smiled scornfully.

  ‘I saw,’ he said.

  Thorn shook his head angrily. ‘We’d taken a trader about ten kilometres upriver. We were transferring her cargo to our ship when that blasted Droghan cruiser came round a bend and nearly caught us.’

  ‘The Seahawk,’ Mihaly commented.

  Thorn shrugged, anger still evident on his face. ‘Is that what she’s called? I don’t know. We were outnumbered, so we took as much as we could from the trader and ran for it. I’d heard talk about this place so that’s why we came here.’

  Mihaly sat back in the tall chair, thinking over Thorn’s words. ‘You know the rules here?’ he asked finally.

  Thorn nodded. ‘We pay a levy of ten per cent of our plunder and that buys us protection.’

  ‘That’s right. For a month,’ Mihaly said.

  ‘Well, we’re carrying leather goods, some high-quality olive oil and a dozen bales of fine silk we took out of the trader. I’ll happily hand over ten per cent of that.’

  He waited while Mihaly made notes on a sheet of paper in front of him, using a long, ornate peacock feather quill pen to do so. Then Thorn leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ he said. ‘I heard a rumour that a captain called Zavac might be heading this way. I’d like to talk to him if he’s here.’

  Now Mihaly’s interest was piqued. ‘Zavac?’ he said casually. ‘He might be here. What did you want to talk to him about?’

  He sensed there was no love lost between these tough Skandians and the oily, smooth-talking Zavac. He was interested by a possible conflict between the two. There might be a way to turn it to his advantage. He could usually find one in such cases.

  Thorn looked him steadily in the eye as he answered.

  ‘I’d like to talk to him about how I plan to kill him,’ he said.

  Mihaly made an imperious gesture in the air between them.

  ‘Fighting between crews is banned in Raguza,’ he said automatically. ‘Otherwise the system would fall into anarchy within a few weeks. If you have a grudge, you settle it somewhere else.’

  Thorn nodded. ‘That’s fair.’

  But Mihaly wanted to know more. ‘Why are you intent on killing him?’ he asked.

  Thorn sat back, feigned a scowl, then answered.

  ‘He betrayed us. He recruited us to help him attack a town called Limmat. You know it?’

  Mihaly shrugged. ‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said, and Thorn continued, the anger apparent in his words.

  ‘We sailed in company with Zavac and another ship, the Stingray.’ As he said the name, Mihaly’s interest was all too obvious.

  ‘Nagy’s ship?’ he said. ‘We were wondering what had become of her.’

  ‘Well, she’s gone. Turns out Limmat was a tougher nut to crack than Zavac told us. And the townspeople were reinforced by a Skandian wolfship that had come after us. We probably could have won. We were getting the upper hand, then Zavac decided to cut and run. Just up and deserted us.

  ‘That’s when we lost Stingray, and most of her crew. Her first mate, Rikard, was the only survivor. We took him on board.’

  Mihaly frowned. ‘He’s with you now?’ he said quickly. ‘He can vouch for your story?’

  Thorn shook his head sadly. ‘He could have. But he was murdered up north, in a town called Krall. Went into a tavern one night and never made it back to the ship.’

  Thorn and Hal had worked on this story over the past day. They decided that mixing elements of true events into it would make it more convincing – particularly if rumours of events in Krall had happened to reach Raguza. And even if Mihaly hadn’t heard of Rikard’s violent end, the odds were good that he would know the man’s name, and that would add credibility to the story.

  Watching now, Hal decided that it was time for them to play their winning card.

  ‘Mind you,’ he put in, ‘there is something that can definitely vouch for it.’

  The Korpaljo looked quickly at him. ‘And what might that be?’ he asked slowly.

  In answer, Thorn reached into his jerkin and produced a small sack of untanned leather, placing it on the desk and opening it. Mihaly leaned forward, his eyes glittering, as the eight perfect emeralds rolled out onto the polished wooden surface.

  ‘I told you about our cargo,’ Thorn continued. ‘But this is our share of the plunder from Limmat. You’re entitled to your ten per cent, of course.’

  Mihaly reached across the table and picked up one of the emeralds, holding it to the light from the window to appraise it.

  ‘This is beautiful. Very distinctive colour,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve never seen one quite like it before.’

  Hal and Thorn exchanged a quick glance. Then Thorn said, with a note of surprise in his voice, ‘But you must have.’ And when Mihaly looked at him, frowning, he explained, ‘Didn’t Zavac pay you ten per cent of his share? He’s got four times as many as these.’

  Mihaly set the emerald down on the polished surface of the table with a soft click. Now it all fell into place. He’d had a suspicion that Zavac had been holding out on him, trying to cheat him. Now these northmen had confirmed it.

  ‘No,’ he said softly. ‘He never mentioned anything like this.’ He looked up at the sergeant, standing to attention against the wall. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘go and fetch your captain for me, would you? I think I’d like to have words with our friend Zavac.’

  Zavac was relaxing on the stern deck of the Raven, sitting in a canvas and wood chair and enjoying the mild sunshine.

  Accommodation was expensive in Raguza and the local property owners were all too ready to gouge the purses of captains and crews who stopped there. As a result, most crews chose to stay aboard their ships. Zavac’s men had rigged a tent-shaped awning that ran two-thirds of the length of the Raven, providing shelter from the weather. Most ships in the harbour were rigged in a similar fashion. The crew spread their bedding on the sheltered deck space inside the tent. Zavac, of course, had his small enclosed personal space below the central decking in the ship’s stern.

  He heard the sound of running footsteps and looked up with mild interest.

  Vargas was running along the jetty, his face red from the effort. Sweat stained his shirt. Obviously, he had been running for some distance. But then, Zavac thought sourly, Goathead Bay was some distance from just about everywhere in the harbour.

  Vargas clambered down onto Raven’s deck and hurried aft to where Zavac sat. The Magyaran skipper leaned forward in his chair, interested to hear what had Vargas so hot under the collar – literally.

  ‘They’re here!’ Vargas said, wasting no time in getting to the point. Zavac nodded with exaggerated interest.

  ‘They are?’ he said sarcastically. ‘How amazing.’

  Vargas glared at him. Your tune will change in the next few seconds, he thought. He was angry with himself for blurting out the statement, angrier at Zavac for his sneering rejoinder.

  ‘The Skandians,’ he said. ‘They’re here in Raguza.’

  The superior look was wiped from Zavac’s face in the space of a heartbeat. His brows contracted and his face darkened with anger.

  ‘Here? Where? What are they doing?’ he demanded.

  Vargas shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea what they’re doing,’ he said. ‘But I saw their ship moored alongside the quay in the main harbour.’

  ‘You mean they’re prisoners? Their ship was captured?’ Zavac said, clinging to hope while he could. But Vargas was shaking his head.

  ‘Didn’t look like it to me. They were moored alongside as I said, near Winder Street. I didn’t see anyone standing guard. Their crew was going about their business normally enough.’

  Zavac slumped back in his chair, his hand to his chin, thinking furiously. How could they have got here? How could they have gained entry to the harbour? How had they broken free from Bayrath? He cursed silently. He had paid the Gatmeister a lot of money to thro
w that crew in prison and hang them. Now here they were. He took a vow that he would kill Doutro for this betrayal. They could only have made it past Bayrath if he’d let them through the boom.

  His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the regular tramp of multiple heavy-shod feet approaching. He looked up and saw a captain of the Korpal guard, with a squad of half a dozen armed men, marching at double time down the wooden jetty.

  It wasn’t hard to tell where they were heading. The captain’s eyes were fixed on the Raven. Slowly, Zavac rose from his seat. This didn’t bode well, he thought. As they came level with the Raven, the squad ranged themselves along the jetty, facing the ship. The captain climbed down the access ladder fixed to the jetty and stepped aboard. This was a distinct breach of etiquette. Normally, any visitor would ask permission before coming aboard a ship – unless they had unpleasant official business to transact. The captain glanced around, saw Zavac and Vargas in the stern and walked towards them. Zavac rose from his chair and stepped forward to meet the soldier, forcing a smile on his lips.

  ‘Good morning, Captain,’ he said smoothly. ‘Can I help you in some way?’

  The captain ignored the smile. He answered brusquely with his own question. ‘Are you Zavac?’

  Zavac nodded, still smiling, although it was the last thing he felt like doing. The captain’s manner was unnerving.

  ‘I’m Zavac,’ he said, ‘captain of this ship.’ He added this last pointedly. A ship’s captain was entitled to a certain amount of deference, after all. But the soldier was unimpressed. He jerked a thumb towards the jetty behind him.

  ‘You’re to come with me,’ he said. ‘The Korpaljo wants to talk to you.’

  Zavac raised his eyebrows. ‘He does? What does he want to talk about?’

  ‘No idea. Let’s get going. Now.’ He half turned, jerking his thumb towards the ladder once more. Obviously, the Korpaljo’s summons wasn’t for a friendly chat, Zavac thought. The captain mightn’t know what Mihaly wanted to talk about, but he knew it wasn’t anything favourable to Zavac. Zavac shrugged, showing what a good-natured person he really was. He turned to Vargas.