Ingvar, of course, slammed his heavy club into the target pole over and over, without any visible effort, although his fellow students learned not to walk too close to him when he was doing it. His peripheral vision was as bad as his normal vision.
They would break for twenty minutes for lunch, slumping gratefully on the benches with their bowls of rich stew and thick bread. The food was good and nourishing and there was plenty of it. Their instructors knew the importance of keeping the boys’ energy levels up. But the brief lunch break was just enough for their hardworking muscles to cool and stiffen, so that they would ache dully for the rest of the day and into the night.
In the afternoons, they would study the theory of seamanship, ship handling and navigation. These were the sessions Hal enjoyed most, particularly the navigation.
He looked forward to the third week, when they would switch from theory to practical work, on board ship. He had already spoken to Sigurd about using the
Heron
in their exercise. The instructor had relayed the request to Erak, who had agreed—albeit reluctantly. He still had misgivings about the little ship’s revolutionary new sail plan, but he accepted that with fewer rowers, the Herons would be disadvantaged in a larger ship.
Sigurd was also interested to see Hal’s growing confidence as the leader of his brotherband—and the growing respect that his teammates showed him. Very little went unnoticed by the chief instructor and he sensed that, after the incident with the rusty ax, Hal had drawn a line in the sand with his companions.
The day’s instruction ended in the late afternoon, at which point the boys were free to return to their quarters and rest, go over notes they had taken during the various classes or practice techniques they had been shown that day. Hal, even though he was exhausted and his arms ached, made a point of returning to the shelter where the
Heron
was moored and working on the punching bag Thorn had given him. The others, particularly Stig, wondered what he was up to. But they were too tired to try to find out.
After half an hour’s hard work, Hal would return to the campsite in time to clean up for the evening meal. Then the three groups would return to their respective quarters to wait for the lights-out signal. Most of them never heard it. They were usually fast asleep long before the horn sounded its mournful note through the forest.
chapter
ninteen
T
horn sat with his back against a tree, watching the brotherbands at weapons drill.
To be accurate, he wasn’t watching all of them. His attention was focused on Hal as he swung the heavy sword at the practice post. His movements were tired and clumsy, Thorn thought, and he frowned. Hal wasn’t built heavily, like Stig or Tursgud. But he was well-balanced and athletic and he normally had excellent hand-eye coordination. He should be performing better.
Thorn grunted in displeasure as he watched the sword rebound awkwardly from a strike against the post, nearly falling from Hal’s grip. Then the shield came up in defense.
“Too slow. Too slow,” Thorn muttered to himself.
He looked around for the instructor, Gort. The man seemed unaware of Hal’s problems. He was pacing down the line of boys standing at their practice poles, blowing time with that annoying whistle of his. As long as they moved in time, he seemed content.
Thorn realized that it was early days yet. It was only the third day of full training, after all, and part of the reason for the drills was to develop and harden the boys’ muscles. But still …
“If he learns bad technique to begin with, he’ll never get over it.”
He looked back to the boy again, noting his flat-footed stance and the clumsy stroking method.
He’s teaching him to use it like an ax, Thorn thought. Then he shrugged. Most of the Skandians were axmen. Gort, with his build, would almost certainly be one. He had obviously never learned any of the subtler techniques that could be employed with a sword. His method was to simply batter, batter, batter at an enemy’s defense until it collapsed under his assault. These drills would increase strength, and as far as Gort was concerned, sheer strength was the key to victory.
“You wouldn’t last five minutes on a real battlefield,” Thorn said in Hal’s direction. Hal was the sort of opponent other warriors sought out. He looked ill at ease and ill prepared. He’d be an easy victim for an experienced fighter. It was that thought that decided Thorn. He heaved himself to his feet and started across the field to where the boys were training.
He knew better than to approach Hal directly. Gort was in charge of the Heron brotherband and he wouldn’t appreciate Thorn interrupting without so much as a by-your-leave. So the old seafarer stopped about twenty meters short of the group of boys, staying behind them, out of their line of vision, and waited to catch Gort’s eye.
But his presence didn’t go unnoticed by other eyes. Across the field, training with the Sharks, Tursgud saw him. His pride still rankled when he thought of how Thorn had gripped his wrist that day by the harbor and forced him to back down.
“What’s the dirty old drunk doing here?” he said.
One of his companions glanced around. “Maybe he’s looking for a job as a target,” he sneered.
Tursgud swung his ax viciously at the pole, aiming for a spot where the rope had frayed away. The blade sank into the exposed wood with a vicious
thunk!
and he had to wrench it free.
“Send him over here,” he said. “I’ll get rid of his other hand for him!”
The Sharks around him laughed unpleasantly. Jarst, their instructor, was at the far end of the line, correcting a boy’s technique. He glanced up angrily, frowned as he saw Thorn across the field, then snapped at the sniggering boys.
“Shut up and get back to work!”
Tursgud looked around at his cronies, miming fear. They stifled their laughter and went back to their drill.
Thorn had been standing for some minutes when Gort finally decided to take notice of him. He had seen the bearded, unkempt figure almost as soon as he arrived. But he had ignored him, hoping he would become bored and go away. Friends and relatives were discouraged from watching brotherband training sessions. And they were certainly not welcome to interrupt. Finally, however, Gort decided that it was pointless and rather stupid to pretend he hadn’t seen Thorn. If the other man had waved, or called out or whistled, he would have felt justified in telling him to leave. But Thorn merely stood, patiently and quietly. Gort walked over to him.
“What do you want?” he asked unpleasantly.
Thorn gestured with his thumb to a spot some meters away.
“Can we move over there?” he asked. “I don’t want to disturb your class.”
“You already have,” Gort told him but Thorn shook his head.
“No. I haven’t,” he said in a mild tone. “I’ve stood here quietly and not many have noticed me. But if you don’t lower your voice, they all will.”
Gort was irritated to realize that Thorn was right. He impatiently led the way to a spot a little away from the practicing boys.
“Come on then,” he said. And turning around, he was surprised to find that Thorn was right behind him. He hadn’t heard the other man moving.
Thorn smiled apologetically at him. No sense in antagonizing the man, he thought.
“So what do you want?” Gort repeated.
Thorn intentionally kept his tone neutral and nonconfronta-tional, although Gort’s ill-tempered attitude was beginning to annoy him.
“The boy Hal,” he said. “That sword is too heavy for him. And the shield is way too big.”
Gort shrugged. “He gets what he’s issued,” he said shortly. “We don’t have a big selection of swords for him to choose from.”
“Some of the other boys have good weapons,” Thorn pointed out.
“Some of the other boys have parents who can afford to buy them decent equipment,” Gort replied.
He looked the shabbily dressed, unshaven man up and down. “If you want to, you can buy him a decent sword,” he said sarcastically.
“I don’t know about buying one. But I can certainly get one for him,” Thorn said. If he’d noted the sarcasm in Gort’s last remark, he didn’t show it.
“Oh really, and where would you find a sword?” Gort moved closer, thumbs thrust into his belt. He expected Thorn to step back and was surprised when he didn’t.
“Erak’s storeroom,” Thorn said. And Gort’s eyes opened a little wider.
“The Oberjarl’s storeroom?” he asked incredulously.
Thorn nodded. “There’s only one Erak I know and I believe he is the Oberjarl.”
Gort was confused. He found it hard to believe that this ragged, rather dirty beggar would have access to Erak’s storeroom. But the man had spoken confidently enough. It might be wise to find out more about him before he refused outright.
While he was thinking, Thorn continued. “Another thing. Why have you got him training with a sword?”
“Obviously, because he’s not big enough to swing an ax properly.”
Thorn nodded as if that was the answer he expected. “Then where’s the sense in giving him a shield that’s the size of a cartwheel?”
Gort opened his mouth to reply, but realized that the man had a valid point. He hesitated. To be honest, he hadn’t given the matter of a shield any thought. Finally, feeling he was being put on the defensive and not enjoying it, he challenged Thorn.
“I suppose you can get him a better one of those as well? From Erak’s storeroom?” But if he expected to win the point or for Thorn to back down, he was disappointed.
“I think I could lay my hands on a better shield too,” Thorn said.
Which put Gort in a quandary. If a friend or family member could provide equipment for one of the trainees, he had no right to refuse them. But still, he didn’t like to appear to back down in front of this strangely disquieting one-armed man. He temporized.
“I’ll have to clear it with Sigurd,” he said. “Come and see us at the end of the lunch break and I’ll tell you then.”
“That’s fair enough,” Thorn said. “I’ll see you then.”
And he turned and walked away, leaving the burly instructor staring after him, shaking his head uncertainly.
Gort mentioned Thorn’s suggestion to the chief instructor while the boys were rushing through their lunch. He scoffed at the fact that Thorn claimed to have access to the Oberjarl’s storeroom and was surprised at Sigurd’s reaction.
“Do you know who he is?” Sigurd asked.
Gort shrugged. “He’s just an old drunk, isn’t he?”
Sigurd nodded several times. “That’s what I thought until a few days ago,” he said. “I was talking to the Oberjarl about him. He’s got quite a story.”
Gort was intrigued. Like most Skandians, he loved a saga. He made a gesture for Sigurd to keep talking.
“So tell me,” he said. But Sigurd was already rising from his bench, seeing the first of the students getting ready to leave the meal tent.
“No time now,” he said. “I’ve got a navigation class. Ask me another time. It’s an amazing tale.”
Gort, his curiosity frustrated, knew there was no point in pressing Sigurd further at this point. Instead, he called out after his rapidly retreating back, “So what about this sword and shield? What do I tell him?”
Sigurd glanced back at him as he left the tent. “Tell him to go ahead.”
And Gort was left to wonder about the mystery behind the strange, one-armed old sea wolf.
chapter
twenty
L
essons were finished for the day and Hal, as was his habit, made his way to the inlet where the
Heron
was moored. He was surprised to find Thorn waiting there for him.
The older man had brought a small loaf of fresh bread and some sliced cold beef from Karina’s kitchen. He handed it to the boy and watched with a smile as he wolfed it down. There was a flask of cold buttermilk as well and Hal drained half of it then sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.
“Hungry then?” Thorn asked him, still smiling. Hal nodded emphatically. He’d gulped the food so quickly that for a moment he couldn’t speak. Thorn continued. “Don’t they feed you up there?”
“Yes. The food isn’t bad at all,” Hal said, finally finding his voice. “But they work us hard too. And they don’t have fresh bread like my mam bakes.”
“Actually, I made that loaf,” Thorn told him, with a certain amount of pride in his voice. “Although I’m surprised you could taste it, it went down so fast.”
“You made it?” Hal said, surprised.
“I have hidden depths. Been working on the punch bag?” He nodded toward the shelter, where Hal had hung the sack filled with wool and canvas scraps.
“Every day,” Hal told him. He held up his hands and Thorn could see how the knuckles were reddened and chafed from his repeated onslaughts on the bag.
“Good. Let’s see how you’re doing.” Thorn led the way to the shelter and watched as Hal took a stance in front of the bag. He pursed his lips with satisfaction as he saw how the boy stayed on his toes, moving lightly, keeping his balance. Then Hal’s fists shot out in a rapid salvo of blows.