Brotherband: The Outcasts

BECAUSE THIS BOOK involves sailing ships, I thought it might be useful to explain a few of the nautical terms that are to be found in the story.

Be reassured that I haven’t gone overboard (to keep up the nautical allusion) with technical details in the book, and even if you’re not familiar with sailing, I’m sure you’ll understand what’s going on. But a certain amount of sailing terminology is necessary for the story to feel realistic.

Bow: The front of the ship, also called the prow.

Stern: The rear of the ship.

Port and starboard: The left and right sides of the ship, as you’re facing the bow. In fact, I’m probably incorrect in using the term ‘port’. The early term for port was ‘larboard’, but I thought we’d all get confused if I used that.

Starboard was a corruption of ‘steering board’ (or steering side). The steering oar was always placed on the right-hand side of the ship.

Consequently, when a ship came into port it would moor with the left side against the jetty, to avoid damage to the steering oar. One theory says the word derived from the ship’s being in port – left side to the jetty. I suspect, however, that it might have come from the fact that the entry port, by which crew and passengers boarded, was also always on the left side.

How do you remember which side is which? Easy. Port and left both have four letters.

Forward: Towards the bow.

Aft: Towards the stern.

Fore and aft rig: A sail plan where the sail is in line with the hull of the ship.

Hull: The body of the ship.

Keel: The spine of the ship.

Steering oar: The blade used to control the ship’s direction, mounted on the starboard side of the ship, at the stern.

Tiller: The handle for the steering oar.

Beam: The side of the ship. If the wind is abeam, it is coming from the side, at a right angle to the ship’s keel.

Yardarm or yard: A spar (wooden pole) that is hoisted up the mast, carrying the sail.

Masthead: The top of the mast.

Bulwark: The part of the ship’s side above the deck.

Gunwale: The upper part of the ship’s rail.

Belaying pins: Wooden pins used to fasten rope.

Oarlock or rowlock: The pegs that hold the oar in place.

Telltale: A pennant that indicates the wind’s direction.

Tacking: To tack is to change direction from one side to the other, passing through the eye of the wind.

If the wind is from the north and you want to sail north-east, you would perform one tack so that you were heading north-east, and you could continue to sail on that tack for as long as you needed to.

However, if the wind is from the north and you want to sail due north, you would have to do so in a series of short tacks, going back and forth on a zigzag course, crossing through the wind each time, and slowly making ground to the north. This is a process known as beating into the wind.

Wearing: When a ship tacks, it turns into the wind to change direction. When it wears, it turns away from the wind, travelling in a much larger arc, with the wind in the sail, driving the ship around throughout the manoeuvre. This was a safer way of changing direction for wolfships.

Reach or reaching: When the wind is from the side of the ship, the ship is sailing on a reach, or reaching.

Running: When the wind is from the stern, the ship is running. So would you if the wind was strong enough.

Reef: To gather in part of the sail and bundle it against the yardarm to reduce the sail area. This is done in high winds to protect the sail and mast.

Trim: To adjust the sail to the most efficient angle.

Halyard: A rope used to haul the yard up the mast (haul-yard, get it?).

Stay: A heavy rope that supports the mast. The backstay and forestay are heavy ropes running from the top of the mast to the stern and bow (it’s pretty obvious which is which).

Sheets and shrouds: A lot of people think these are sails, which is a logical assumption. But in fact, they’re ropes. Shrouds are thick ropes that run from the top of the mast to the side of the ship, supporting the mast. Sheets are the ropes used to control or trim the sail – to haul it in and out according to the wind strength and direction. In an emergency, the order might be given to ‘let fly the sheets!’. The sheets would be released, letting the sail loose and bringing the ship to a halt. (If you were to let fly the sheets, you’d probably fall out of bed.)

Way: The motion of the ship. If a ship is under way, it is moving. If it is making leeway, the wind is blowing it downwind so it loses ground.

Back water: To row a reverse stroke.

So, now you know all you need to know about sailing terms, welcome aboard the world of Brotherband!

WOLFWIND EMERGED FROM the pre-dawn sea mist like a wraith slowly taking physical form.

With her sail furled and the yardarm lowered to the deck, and propelled by only four of her oars, the wolfship glided slowly towards the beach. The four rowers wielded their oars carefully, raising them only a few centimetres from the water at the end of each stroke so that the noise of drops splashing back into the sea was kept to a minimum. They were Erak’s most experienced oarsmen and they were used to the task of approaching an enemy coast stealthily.

Such was their skill that the loudest sound was the lap-lap-lap of small ripples along the wooden hull. In the bow, Svengal and two other crew members crouched fully armed, peering ahead to catch sight of the dim line where the water met the beach.

The lack of surf might make their approach easier but a little extra noise would have been welcome, Svengal thought. Plus white water would have made the line of the beach easier to spot in the dimness. Then he saw the beach and held up his hand, fist clenched.

Far astern, at the steering oar, Erak watched his second in command as he revealed five fingers, then four, then three as he measured off the distance to the sand.

Erak spoke the words in a conversational tone, unlike the bellow he usually employed to pass orders. In the centre section of the wolfship, his bosun, Mikkel, relayed the orders. The four oars lifted out of the water as one, rising quickly to the vertical so that any excess water would fall into the ship and not into the sea, where it would make more noise. A few seconds later, the prow of the ship grated softly against the sand. Erak felt the vibrations of the gentle contact with the shore through the deck beneath his feet.

Svengal and his two companions vaulted over the bow, landing cat-like on the wet sand. Two of them moved up the beach, fanning out to scan the country on either side, ready to give warning of any possible ambush. Svengal took the small beach anchor that another sailor lowered to him. He stepped twenty paces up the beach, strained against the anchor rope to bring it tight and drove the shovel-shaped fluke into the firm sand.

Wolfwind, secured by the bow, slewed a little to one side under the pressure of the gentle breeze.

The two men who had gone onshore called their reports now. There was no need for further stealth. Svengal checked his own area of responsibility, then added his report to theirs.

On board, Erak nodded with satisfaction. He hadn’t expected any sort of armed reception on the beach but it always paid to make sure. That was why he had been such a successful raider over the years – and why he had lost so few of his crewmen.

‘All right,’ he said, lifting his shield from the bulwark and hefting it onto his left arm. ‘Let’s go.’

He quickly strode the length of the wolfship to the bow, where a boarding ladder had been placed over the side. Shoving his heavy battleaxe through the leather sling on his belt, he climbed easily over the bulwark and down to the beach. His crewmen followed, forming up behind him. There was no need for orders. They had all done this before, many times.

Erak grunted. ‘Neither should there be. They should all be busy at Alty Bosky.’

He pronounced the name in his usual way – careless of the finer points of Iberian pronunciation. The town in question was actually Alto Bosque, a relatively unimportant market town some ten kilometres to the south, built on the high, wooded hill from which it derived its name.

The previous day, seven of his crew had taken the skiff and landed there, carrying out a lightning raid on the market before they retreated to the coast. Alto Bosque had no garrison and a rider from the town had been sent to Santa Sebilla, where a small force of militia was maintained. Erak’s plan was to draw the garrison away to Alto Bosque while he and his men plundered Santa Sebilla unhindered.

Santa Sebilla was a small town, too. Probably smaller than Alto Bosque. But, over the years, it had gained an enviable reputation for the quality of the jewellery that was designed and crafted here. As time went on, more and more artisans and designers were drawn to Santa Sebilla and it became a centre for fine design and craftsmanship in gold and precious stones.

Erak, like most Skandians, cared little for fine design and craftsmanship. But he cared a lot about gold and he knew there was a disproportionate amount of it in Santa Sebilla – far more than would normally be found in a small town such as this. The community of artists and designers needed generous supplies of the raw materials in which they worked – gold and silver and gemstones. Erak was a fervent believer in the principle of redistribution of wealth, as long as a great amount of it was redistributed in his direction, so he had planned this raid in detail for some weeks.

He checked behind him. The anchor watch of four men were standing by the bow of Wolfwind, guarding it while the main party went inland. He nodded, satisfied that everything was ready.

‘Send your scouts ahead,’ he told Svengal. The second in command gestured to the two men to go ahead of the main raiding party.

The beach rose gradually to a low line of scrubby bushes and trees. The scouts ran to this line, surveyed the country beyond, then beckoned the main party forward. The ground was flat here but, some kilometres inland, a range of low hills rose from the plain. The first rose-coloured rays of the sun were beginning to show about the peaks. They were behind schedule, Erak thought. He had wanted to reach the town before sun-up, while people were still drowsy and longing for their beds, as yet reluctant to accept the challenges of a new day.

‘Let’s pace it up,’ he said tersely and the group settled into a steady jog behind him, moving in two columns. The scouts continued to range some fifty metres in advance of the raiding party. Erak could already see that there was nowhere a substantial party of armed men could remain hidden. Still, it did no harm to be sure.

Waved forward by the scouts, they crested a low rise and there, before them, stood Santa Sebilla.

The buildings were made of clay bricks, finished in whitewash. Later in the day, under the hot Iberian sun, they would glisten and gleam an almost blinding white. In the pre-dawn light they looked dull and grey and mundane. The town had been built with no particular plan in mind, instead growing over the years so that houses and warehouses were placed wherever their owners chose to build them. The result was a chaotic mass of winding alleys, outlying buildings and twisting, formless streets. But Erak ignored the jumble of houses and shops. He was looking for the repository – a large building set to one side of the town, where the gold and jewels were stored.

And there it was. Larger than the other buildings, with a substantial brass-bound wooden door. Normally, Erak knew, there would be a guard in place. But it seemed his diversion had achieved the result he wanted and the local militia were absent. The only possible resistance could come from a small castle set on a cliff a kilometre away from the town itself. There would possibly be armed men there. But the castle was the home of a minor Iberian nobleman and its location here was a mere coincidence. Knowing the snobbish and superior nature of the Iberian nobility, Erak guessed that the castle lord and his people had as little to do with the common tradesmen of Santa Sebilla as possible. They might buy from them, but they wouldn’t mix with them or be eager to protect them in an emergency.

They headed for the repository. As they passed a side street, a sleepy townsman emerged, leading a donkey loaded with what seemed to be an impossibly heavy stack of firewood. For a few seconds, head down and still half asleep, the man failed to notice the force of grim-faced, armed sea wolves. Then his eyes snapped open, his jaw followed suit and he froze in place, staring at them. From the corner of his eye, Erak saw two of his men start to detach from the main body. But the firewood seller could do them little harm.

Galvanised by the sound of Erak’s voice, the man dropped the donkey’s halter and took off back into the narrow alleyway from which he had emerged. They heard the soft sound of his bare feet flapping on the hard earth as he put as much distance between himself and the raiders as he could.

Mikkel and Thorn stepped forward. Mikkel, whose preferred weapon was a sword, borrowed an axe from one of the other sea wolves and together, he and Thorn attacked the heavy door. They were Erak’s two most reliable warriors, and he nodded appreciatively at the economy of effort with which they reduced the door to matchwood, placing alternate axe strokes precisely where they would do the most good, each building on the damage the other had caused.

The two men were best friends. They always fought together in the shield wall, each trusting the other to protect his back and sides. Yet they were a contrast in body shapes. Mikkel was taller and leaner than the average Skandian. But he was powerful and hard muscled. And he had the reflexes of a cat.

Thorn was slightly shorter than his friend, but much wider in the shoulders and chest. He was one of the most skilled and dangerous warriors Erak had ever seen. Erak often thought that he would hate to come up against Thorn in battle. He’d never seen an opponent who had survived such an encounter. Belying his heavy build, Thorn could also move with blinding speed when he chose.

It took them half an hour to load the gold and silver into sacks. They took only as much as they could carry and they left easily the same amount behind.

Maybe another time, Erak thought, although he knew no subsequent raid would be as easy or as bloodless as this one. In retrospect, he wished he’d caught hold of the firewood seller’s donkey. The little animal could have carried more of the gold back to the ship for them.

The town was awake now and nervous faces peered at them from behind windows and around street corners. But these were not warriors and none were willing to face the fierce-looking men from the north. Erak nodded, satisfied, as the last of his men, each laden with two small but heavy sacks, emerged from the repository. He breathed a small sigh of satisfaction. It had been easy, he thought. Easier than he had expected.

Laden as they were, they couldn’t maintain their previous jog as they followed the path through the scrubby undergrowth back to the beach. At least a dozen of the townspeople followed them, as if unwilling to let their gold and jewels simply disappear from sight. But they kept their distance, watching in impotent fury as the sea wolves carried away their booty.

‘Thorn, Mikkel, bring up the rear. Let me know if there’s any change,’ Erak said. It would be all too easy to become complacent about the men shadowing their footsteps, and so miss any new threat that might arise.

The two men nodded and handed their sacks of loot to other crewmembers, then faded to the back of the column.

They marched some twenty metres behind the main party, turning continually to keep the following townspeople in sight. Once, Thorn faked a charge at a couple who he felt had come too close, and they scampered hurriedly back to a safe distance.

Thorn grinned and was about to reply when he caught sight of movement behind the straggle of townspeople. His grin faded.

‘Looks like we’ve got some rabbits on horseback,’ he said. The two raiders stopped to face the rear.

Trotting towards them, following the rough track through the undergrowth, were five horsemen. The newly risen sun gleamed off their armour and the points of the spears they all carried. They were still some distance behind the raiders but they were coming up fast. The two companions could hear the faint jingle of their horses’ harness and their equipment.

Thorn glanced back to the main party of raiders. They were about to enter a narrow defile that led down to the last stretch of open ground to the beach. He let out a piercing whistle and saw Erak stop and look back. The rest of the party continued to move as quickly as they could.

Thorn pointed to the riders. Uncertain whether Erak could see the new enemy, he held up his right hand, with five fingers extended, then brought it down in a clenched fist close by his shoulder – the signal for ‘enemy’. He pointed again to the riders.

He saw Erak wave acknowledgement, then point at the entrance to the defile, where the last of his men were just passing through. Thorn and Mikkel both grunted in understanding.

The high rock walls and narrow space would encumber the horsemen. It would also prevent them flanking and encircling the two sea wolves. They’d be forced into a frontal attack. Normally, that might be a daunting prospect, but these were two experienced and deadly fighters, each secure in his own skills and those of his companion.

They both knew that Erak would not abandon them to this new danger. Once the gold was safely at the ship, he’d send men back to help them. Their job was only to buy time, not to sacrifice themselves so the others could escape. And both men felt confident that they could hold off a few country bumpkin horsemen.

They doubled their pace, covering the ground to the defile. Behind them, they heard a ragged cheer from the townspeople as they saw the raiders seemingly running for their lives ahead of the avenging horsemen, who urged their horses to a gallop, determined to catch these interlopers before they could escape into the narrow gully.

The two warriors had no intention of escaping. Rather, as they reached the defile, Mikkel and Thorn turned and drew their weapons, swinging them experimentally as they faced the approaching riders.

Like most Skandians, Thorn favoured a heavy, single-bladed battleaxe as his principal weapon. Mikkel was armed with a long sword. Both of them wore horned helmets and carried large wooden shields, borne on the left arm, with a heavy centre boss of metal and reinforcing metal strips around the edges. They presented these to the oncoming riders, so that only their heads and legs were visible – as well as the gleaming sword and axe, still moving in small preliminary arcs, catching and reflecting the sunlight as the two warriors stretched their muscles.

It seemed to the horsemen that the shields and swords blocked the defile entrance completely. Expecting the Skandians to run in panic, they were somewhat taken aback now at this show of defiance – and at the confident manner of the two men facing them. They drew rein about thirty metres short of the two men and looked at each other uncertainly, each waiting for one of the others to take the lead.

The two Skandians sensed their uncertainty, and noted the clumsy way they handled their spears and small round shields. There was none of the easy familiarity that could be seen in an experienced fighter.

‘I think these boys are still wet behind the ears,’ Mikkel said, smiling grimly.

They were right. The horsemen, who had come from the castle in response to a messenger who had run all the way from Santa Sebilla, were young and only half trained. They were all from well-to-do families. Their indolent parents had always supplied their every whim: new chain mail, a sword with a gold-chased hilt, a new battlehorse. They viewed their training in the knightly arts as more of a social activity than a serious one. They had never before faced armed and determined warriors like these two and it suddenly occurred to them that what had begun as a lighthearted expedition to send a few ill-bred raiders running in panic had quickly turned into a dangerous confrontation. Someone could die here today. So they hesitated, uncertain what they should do next.

Then one, either braver or more foolhardy than his fellows, shouted a challenge and spurred his horse forward, awkwardly trying to level his spear at the two Skandians.

‘Mine, I think,’ said Thorn, stepping forward a few paces to accept the charge. Mikkel was content to let him do so. Thorn’s long-handled axe was the more effective weapon against a horseman.

Thorn summed up his opponent through slitted eyes. The youth was bouncing around in his saddle like a sack of potatoes, trying to steady his spear under his right arm and keep it pointed at his enemy. It would be ridiculously easy to kill him, Thorn thought. But that might simply rouse the anger of his companions. Better to humiliate him.

Bracing himself, he caught the spearhead on his shield and flicked it easily to one side. Then he slammed the flat of his axe into the shoulder of the charging horse, throwing it off balance. As it stumbled, he drove forward with his shield, hitting the animal again and sending it reeling to one side. The horse struck the rough rock wall beside the defile and lost its footing, crashing onto its side with a terrified neighing. The rider barely had time to clear his feet from the stirrups and avoid being pinned under the fallen horse. He fell awkwardly to one side, his small shield underneath him. He scrabbled desperately at the hilt of his sword, trying to clear the long blade from its scabbard. When it was half drawn, Thorn kicked his arm and hand, finishing the action and sending the bared sword spinning away out of his grasp.

The young rider looked up at Thorn with horrified eyes. He flinched uncontrollably as he saw the terrible war axe arcing up and over. Then it slammed into the hard ground, a few centimetres from his face. The Skandian’s eyes, cold and merciless, held his. Then Thorn said one word.

The young Iberian scrambled clumsily to his feet and turned to escape. As he did, he felt a violent impact in his behind as Thorn helped him on his way with his boot. Stumbling and crying in panic, the boy blundered back to where his companions were waiting, their horses moving uneasily from one foot to the other, the riders’ fear communicating itself to the animals.

Thorn’s instincts had been correct. The apparent ease with which he had dealt with the rider was far more disconcerting than if he had simply killed him. By letting him live, he had shown the utter contempt with which he and his companion regarded these neophyte warriors. Such disregard made the Iberians even more uncertain.

Thorn shrugged. ‘So they should be. They shouldn’t be allowed out with pointy sticks like that. They’re more danger to themselves than anyone else.’

Without any warning, the two Skandians brandished their weapons and charged at the small group of horsemen, screaming battle cries as they went.

The shock of it all was too much for the demoralised group of riders. They saw the terrifying warriors charging across open ground at them and each one was convinced that he was the target they were aiming for. One of them wheeled his horse and clapped spurs to its flanks, dropping his spear as his horse lurched suddenly beneath him. His action was infectious. Within seconds, all four horsemen were streaming across the plain in a ragged line, the riderless horse with them, and their dismounted companion stumbling awkwardly behind them, encumbered by his thigh-high riding boots, spurs and flapping, empty scabbard.

Mikkel and Thorn stopped and rested on their weapons, roaring with laughter at the sight.

‘I do hope they get home all right,’ Mikkel said and Thorn laughed all the louder.

‘Are you ladies ready to join us?’ It was Svengal, sent back with five men to reinforce the rearguard. ‘It seems you don’t need any help.’

Still laughing, Thorn and Mikkel sheathed their weapons and walked back to join Svengal and the others at the mouth of the defile.

‘You should have seen it, Svengal,’ Mikkel began. ‘Thorn here simply frightened them away. The sight of his ugly face was too much for them. It even made a horse fall over.’

Svengal let go a short bark of laughter. Hurrying up the defile at the head of the reinforcements, he had seen how Thorn dealt with the charging rider. He was impressed. He knew he could never have pulled that move off. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone other than Thorn who might have managed it.

‘Well, you played your part too,’ Thorn was saying in reply. ‘Although I must admit I was magnificent.’

‘I’m not sure that’s the word I’d –’ Mikkel raised his arm to clap his friend on the shoulder when the spear hit him.

It came out of nowhere. Later, thinking over the event, Thorn realised it must have been the spear dropped by the first of the fleeing horsemen. He surmised that one of the following townspeople, overcome with rage and frustration, had retrieved it and hurled it blindly at the Skandians, then run for his life into the scrub and rocks before he could see the result.

The result could not have been worse. The heavy iron head penetrated underneath Mikkel’s raised arm, burying itself deep in his upper body. He let go a small cry and fell to his knees, then crumpled sideways. Horrified, Thorn dropped to the ground beside his friend, seeing the pallor of Mikkel’s face as the life drained from his body.

‘Sword …’ Mikkel gasped. If a sea wolf died in battle without a weapon in his hand, his soul would wander in the netherworld for eternity. Svengal had already drawn his own sword and thrust it into Mikkel’s groping fingers. The stricken man looked up in thanks, then turned his gaze to his best friend.

Thorn bent his head close to Mikkel’s. ‘Hold on, Mikkel. We’ll get you to the ship.’

Somehow, the ship meant safety and salvation, as if the simple act of being on board could negate the effects of the terrible, life-sapping wound in Mikkel’s side. But Mikkel knew better. He shook his head.

Thorn’s vision blurred with tears as he gripped his friend’s hand, making sure that Mikkel’s grip on the sword hilt didn’t weaken.

The pain and the shock were too much. He couldn’t finish the sentence. But there was still a last remnant of light in his eyes. Thorn gripped his hand tighter, willing him to finish. He needed to know his friend’s last wish, needed to know what he wanted done.

Mikkel’s lips moved wordlessly. He took in a great, shuddering breath that racked his body. With a final effort, he spoke one word.

KARINA MIKKELSWIFE FOUND Thorn one winter morning. He was huddled in rags and a moth-eaten old fur, lying semi-comatose in the lee of her eating house. The light snow overnight had powdered his hair and the ratty fur, turning them white. But his face and hands were blue with the piercing cold and his nose ran incessantly.

Thorn had become so drunk the previous night that he had lost his way while heading back to the boatshed where he lived. He had crawled into the shelter of the wall, out of the wind, and lay down, vaguely hoping to die.

She tried to rouse him, calling his name and shaking him by the shoulder. But he slapped her hand away and mumbled incoherently, turning away from her, his eyes still closed, his mind far away.

She shook him again, harder this time, and he cursed her, knocking her hand aside angrily. A steely light gleamed in her eyes.

‘Hal!’ she called to her ten-year-old son, who was working in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes from the previous night’s dinner.

He arrived a few minutes later, holding the bucket out from his body with an extended arm so that the freezing contents wouldn’t spill on him. He gaped as he made out the figure slumped against the wall.

‘It’s crazy old Thorn,’ he said as he set the bucket down. ‘What’s he doing here?’

Karina’s eyes narrowed again as she heard the phrase. Obviously, this was how the local boys referred to the decrepit former sea wolf. It’s a crying shame, she thought, remembering what an amazing man Thorn had been before he had lost his hand.

The raid when Karina’s husband, Mikkel, had lost his life had turned into a succession of disasters. On the return trip, Wolfwind had been dismasted in a storm. In the struggle to clear the wreckage and save the ship from sinking, Thorn’s right arm had become hopelessly trapped in a tangle of ropes and broken timber and he lost his hand.

Thorn had been devastated by the loss. With only his left hand, he could no longer wield a sword or axe, nor pull an oar. He had no skill as a navigator and, although he’d been a competent helmsman in his time, a steering oar often required two hands in rough weather. Consequently, there was no useful place he could fill on a wolfship and he had found himself on the beach, with no way of continuing the life he loved. In addition, he had lost his best friend.

He had sunk into a deep depression, looking for comfort in an ale or brandy tankard. There was little comfort in either, but there was oblivion, and strong drink helped him forget his loss, albeit temporarily.

It also soothed the pain that would hit him without warning, searing through the stump of his right arm and seeming to come from the missing hand itself. Thankfully, that was an infrequent occurrence and as time passed it became even more so. But it gave him a further excuse to continue drinking.

His hair and beard grew long and matted and unkempt, and he seemed to go grey long before he should have. He washed infrequently and took no interest or care in his appearance. He degenerated into a staggering wreck of a man, mourning the loss of his right hand – which seemed to have taken his self-respect with it. None of his friends or former shipmates could rouse him from this downward spiral of self-destruction. Even Erak, who had been his skirl, or ship’s captain, before becoming Oberjarl of Skandia, couldn’t reach or reason with him.

Hal raised his eyebrows, peering more closely at the unconscious Thorn. ‘Really? He looks about a hundred.’

‘Is that so?’ she said. To a boy, she knew, anyone over twenty-five appeared positively ancient. She cocked her head to one side, giving in to curiosity – knowing she shouldn’t, but doing so anyway.

‘Oh, you’re nowhere near that old, Mam,’ he said reassuringly. ‘You wouldn’t be more than sixty-something.’

Karina was, in fact, thirty-eight. She was slight compared to the more full-figured Skandian women, but she had strikingly beautiful looks. More than that, she had a calmness and a confidence about her, even when she had first arrived in Hallasholm as a slave, captured on a raid in Araluen. And that’s when she had taken the eye of Mikkel Fastblade, one of Skandia’s foremost warriors. Mikkel had bought her from the man who had captured her and immediately set her free. Seeing the determination in Mikkel’s eyes when he made an offer, Karina’s captor promptly added another thirty per cent to the price. Mikkel had paid it without hesitation. Even now, over ten years later, Karina was still considered a beauty in Hallasholm and in the past year alone had refused four would-be suitors.

She regarded her son coldly and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. Something he’d said had offended her, he thought. But he couldn’t figure out what it might have been.

Perhaps it was Hal’s total lack of tact that sealed Thorn’s fate, dispelling any sense of compassion that Karina might have felt for him. She jerked her thumb at the full bucket.

Karina put her hands on her hips. Sixty-something indeed, she thought. ‘The water. Let him have it … in the face.’ She leaned down and pulled the collar of Thorn’s ragged fur away from his face. As before, he tried to bat her hand away.

‘Mam …’ Hal said, uncertainly. Thorn might be old and dirty and ragged and dishevelled. He might be a wreck who could be seen staggering around the village and his right arm might be missing below the elbow. But for all that, he was a big man, known to have a very bad temper. And perhaps it might not be wise for a small woman in her sixties and her ten-year-old son to throw water on such a person – at least not without an escape route planned.

Karina’s foot began to tap rapidly on the snow-covered ground. This was never a good sign, Hal knew. She gestured to the bucket again.

Thorn came awake with a roar as the first of the water hit him. He sounded rather like an angry bull walrus that Hal had heard the previous summer – although the walrus couldn’t match Thorn for volume. Thorn tried to sit up, flailing his arms to gain balance.

‘And the rest,’ she ordered. Obediently, Hal threw the remaining water at the roaring, flailing figure. When a person roars like a wounded bull walrus, of course, it follows that the person’s mouth is wide open. Thorn’s certainly was as he received the remaining four litres of water.

The roar changed to a gasping, choking splutter as the water went down his throat. He coughed and retched and lurched to one side, as if fearing a further soaking. But the bucket was empty now and after a few seconds he realised there was no more to come. His eyes opened, bleary and bloodshot. He squinted in the bright morning light that reflected off the snow around them, and made out the two small figures standing over him.

Hal was still holding the empty bucket, although as Thorn’s bloodshot gaze fell upon him, he tried to hide it behind his body.

‘Because I told him to,’ Karina said. There was a tone in her voice that didn’t encourage further argument. Instead, Thorn opted for misery, in a pathetic whine intended to melt a hardened heart.

‘I could have drowned! I’m soaked to the skin. I’ll probably catch my death of cold. How could you be so … cruel?’ he protested.

But Karina’s heart was beyond melting. She was angry – angry beyond belief at the way Thorn had let himself go, had let himself be reduced to this shadow of his former self.

‘Throw water on a poor sick freezing man,’ he muttered. ‘What sort of woman would do that? How could anyone be so heartless? I’m sick. I can’t help myself. Now I’ll die of the galloping pleurisy, soaked to the skin out here in the snow. Will anyone care? No. Certainly not the witch who threw water all over me and drowned me …’

‘You’re making a lot of noise for a drowning man,’ Karina said. Then she gestured to her son. ‘Get him on his feet, Hal.’

Hal stepped forward carefully. He still wasn’t sure that Thorn was safe to be near. But he got hold of the man’s left arm and dragged it across his own shoulders, bending his knees to get power into his attempt to heave the stricken derelict to his feet. As he came close to Thorn and raised his arm, he caught a solid whiff of the man’s considerable body odour and turned his face away, trying not to breathe through his nose.

‘Whoah!’ he exclaimed, fighting the instinct to gag. ‘He really reeks, Mam!’

Thorn lurched to his feet, crouched over, swaying uncertainly, holding onto the boy to prevent himself falling again. This had the effect of dragging Hal deeper into the gagging fog that had built up over seven unwashed months. The boy tried to lurch away. Thorn clung to him desperately and the two of them swayed uncertainly back and forth, feet slipping in the snow.

‘Oh by Gorlog’s claws and nostrils, Mam! He stinks! He really stinks! He’s worse than Skarlson’s old goat!’ Hal complained.

In spite of her anger, Karina couldn’t totally suppress a smile. As smells went, Skarlson’s old goat was as bad as they came. She went to step forward to help steady the two of them, then thought better of it and kept her distance.

‘Don’t curse,’ she said absently. Gorlog was one of the second rank of Skandian gods, like Ullr the hunter or Loki the liar, although unlike them, Gorlog had no specialised skills. She wasn’t sure that invoking his claws and nostrils ranked as a curse but it wasn’t suitable language for a ten-year-old.

Hal led the bulky, one-armed man on a zigzag path to the back door of the eating house. Together, they staggered up the three steps to the door and went inside. Thorn raised his head gratefully as the warmth of the room wrapped around him. There was a fire blazing in the hearth and Hal led him to it, depositing him clumsily in a large, curved-back wooden chair, then backing away hastily.

The warmth of the kitchen might be welcome to Thorn, wet and freezing as he was. But it also had the effect of accentuating the thick miasma that hovered around him.

Karina, entering behind them, blanched and turned her face away for a moment. Then, gathering her resolve, she moved towards the pathetic figure, huddled in her favourite chair.

‘You can go, Hal,’ she said and the boy scuttled gratefully away into their living quarters behind the dining room. She heard water splashing into a basin and guessed that he was trying to wash the stink away. She stepped closer to Thorn, standing over him, forcing herself to endure the renewed olfactory assault.

‘Thorn, you disgust me,’ she said. Her voice was low, but it cut like a whip and the old sea wolf actually flinched. For perhaps a second, a brief glimmer of anger showed in his eyes. But almost immediately, it died away as he pulled his protective coat of self-pity back around himself.

‘I don’t care about everyone. I care about me. There was a time when people looked up to you. Now they laugh at you. Even the boys call you crazy old Thorn. It’s an affront to see what you’re doing to your life.’

Now anger did flare in Thorn. ‘What I’m doing? What I’m doing?’ He held up the scarred stump of his right arm, pulling the ragged sleeve back from it to bare it. ‘Do you think I did this to myself? Do you think I chose to be a cripple?’

‘I think you’re choosing to destroy your mind and your body and your self-respect, along with your arm,’ she told him. ‘You’re using your arm as an excuse to destroy the rest of you. To destroy your own life!’

‘It’s my life. I’ll destroy it if I want to,’ he retorted. ‘What right do you have to criticise me?’

‘I have the right because you promised Mikkel that you’d stand by me and Hal. You swore you’d see that we were all right. You let us down. And you continue to let us down with every day that you try to destroy yourself!’

‘You’re doing all right,’ he muttered. But she laughed harshly at his words.

‘No thanks to you. And no thanks to the promise you made. A promise you broke, and continue to break every day!’

‘Not my fault,’ he said, in a voice so low she could barely hear it. ‘Leave me alone, woman. There’s nothing I can do for you.’

He reared his shaggy head up at her, goaded now to full anger. ‘I promised when I still had my hand! It wasn’t my fault that I lost it!’

‘Maybe not. But it was your fault when you let everything else go with it! You’re killing yourself, Thorn! You’re destroying a good man, a worthwhile man. And to me, that’s a crime! I won’t stand by any longer and watch while you do it.’

‘Haven’t you noticed?’ he said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. ‘I’m not a man any more. I’m a cripple. A useless cripple who’s no good for anything, no good to anyone!’

‘I don’t recall it saying anywhere that a man is measured by how many hands and legs he has. A man is measured by the worth of his spirit, and the strength of his will. Most of all, he’s measured by his ability to overcome tragedy in his life.’

‘What would you know about tragedy?’ he shot back at her. She held his gaze until, once more, his eyes dropped from hers.

‘You only lost a hand,’ she said finally. ‘I lost an entire man. A wonderful man.’

He kept his eyes down, nodding his head in apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If I could bring him back, I would.’

Thorn laughed bitterly, shaking his head at the idea. ‘Me? What can I do for anyone?’

And in that second, Karina had a flash of insight. She knew what Thorn needed to hear.

He looked her directly in the eyes then, searching for any sign of dishonesty or falsehood.

‘Hal needs you,’ she continued. ‘He needs a man’s influence and guidance. There are things you can tell him that I can’t – about being a warrior and about the bond that forms among shipmates.’ She paused to let that thought sink in, and saw that it had reached him. ‘He’s growing up fast and it’s not easy for him. He’s different from the other boys. He’s half Araluan and half Skandian. And life is hard on people who are different. He needs someone to show him how to stand up for himself. I can’t do that.’ She paused. ‘You could.’

‘Maybe …’ Thorn began. She could see he was thinking about it, starting to accept the idea that he might have something useful to do with his life, instead of drinking it away.

‘Or you could just continue to feel sorry for yourself and waste your life,’ she said.

He didn’t respond to that immediately. But after several seconds, he asked, ‘How did you know about the promise?’

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I can’t remember which one. There were so many, Thorn.’

Karina could see he was wavering. ‘Look, I need help around the place here. The eating house is a good business and it’s growing. It’s getting to be more than I can handle on my own. I could use help with things like firewood and the heavy work around the place – cleaning and repairs and painting. They’re all things you can do with one hand. And you can keep an eye on Hal. Teach him the skills he’s going to need as he grows older. You can move in with us. You’d have a warm place to sleep.’

Thorn was shaking his head. ‘No. I couldn’t live in the house with you. That wouldn’t be proper. People would talk. It’d be bad for your reputation.’

She smiled. ‘I think I could bear it,’ she said. ‘But if it bothers you, you could fix up the lean-to at the back of the house. That’d stop people gossiping.’

‘I’ll pay you, of course,’ Karina added. Once again his gaze shot up to meet hers. She could see a sense of pride in his eyes – something that had been missing for years now.

She laughed at him. ‘And you won’t get it! I’ll make sure you earn every kroner I pay you.’

‘Well then … maybe this would work out.’ Thorn pursed his lips. The idea of working for Karina was an attractive one. And the notion that he might be able to help the boy and guide his steps through early manhood was one that fascinated him. It was not the path he might have chosen for himself, but definitely something that could be worth doing. If he couldn’t use the skills he’d learned any more, at least he could teach them to someone else, he thought. That would be a useful thing to do. And above all, Thorn wanted to be useful. He’d spent long enough feeling useless.

There was no compromise in her voice. Thorn hesitated. ‘Sometimes my arm hurts,’ he said.

But Karina was firm. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m sure there were times when you felt lots of pain before you lost the arm. And you dealt with it.’

‘Then you’ll just have to deal with the pain when it happens – without trying to drink it away.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I think I can handle that,’ he said, committing himself.

‘So I might get busy looking at that lean-to today. Might as well get it shipshape and then move in. Then you can give me a list of things you need me to do.’

‘There is one thing that’s top priority,’ Karina said, and when he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she continued, in a voice that brooked no argument.

That had been six years ago – it was now twelve years since the raid that had cost Hal’s father his life, and Hal was almost sixteen. In that time, Thorn had become a familiar sight around Karina’s inn. He had moved into the lean-to at the back of the main building, although his idea of ‘making it shipshape’ left a lot to be desired, in Karina’s eyes. He patched a few leaks in the roof and several of the larger gaps in the walls. But the lean-to remained a dark and forbidding cavern, strewn with his clothes and belongings. And while his personal hygiene had improved somewhat, it still left a good deal to be desired.

When Karina pointed out that this meant his bathing schedule had gone from once a year to once a month, which was nothing to really boast about, he muttered darkly, ‘I don’t get all that dirty. Baths are for them as is dirty.’

From time to time, he felt the lure of the brandy keg, particularly on those nights when the pain throbbed in his missing hand. But he fought it and overcame it. He knew that Karina had given him a second chance and he knew that would be a one-time thing only. And as he fell into the routine of working round the inn, he realised that he could not afford to risk going back to his old ways.