The Outcasts (46 page)

Read The Outcasts Online

Authors: John Flanagan

Tags: #Fantasy, #Juvenile Fiction, #Fantasy & Magic, #Action & Adventure, #General

Erak regarded him suspiciously. “How do you figure that, Thorn?”
Thorn shrugged. “If their sentry had been awake, Zavac and his men would have cut his throat as well. So at least we have that to be thankful for.”
Borsa was frowning. “I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t kill them as they slept anyway,” he said.
Thorn looked at him. The hilfmann had never seen action of any kind. He was an accounts keeper.
“It wouldn’t be easy to kill eight people, sleeping or not, without making some noise and raising the alarm. There’d always be the chance that one or two would get away in all the confusion. Safer to let them sleep while the thieves got into the tabernacle and stole the Andomal. The wind would have covered any noise they might have made.”
Erak regarded his old crew member thoughtfully. “You may be right, Thorn. And it’s a good thing that we don’t have more deaths on our hands. But even so, this doesn’t excuse the Heron brotherband for what was the worst possible negligence. The fact remains, the Andomal was stolen on their watch and they have to bear the responsibility for it.”
Thorn sighed deeply and his head dropped. “I suppose so,” he conceded sadly.
Erak looked at him for some time, then nodded, seeing that Thorn was not going to try to sway his opinion in the Herons’ favor. He turned to Svengal.
“Get the crew of
Wolfwind
together. We’ll leave at first light and go after Zavac.”
But Svengal was already shaking his head. “We’ll never make it out of the harbor mouth, chief,” he said. “The wind will be dead against us and there are two-meter waves coming through the entrance. I’ve already had to shift
Wolfwind
’s moorings to get her out of the way.”
Erak smacked his fist into his palm in anger. “All right,” he said. “But get the crew aboard anyway. If the weather eases, we’re going out at once.”
“I’ll do it,” Svengal said. “But don’t hold your breath waiting for this storm to ease. It’s going to be with us for at least two days.”
“Just do it,” Erak said, and his second in command turned and left the Great Hall. Erak watched him go, then turned back to the line of boys standing before him.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s see what else we know. Do you have any idea what time Zavac and his men stole the Andomal?”
The question was addressed to Hal. He considered for a few seconds, then replied.
“Let’s see … Stefan was on watch when I left. I came back before the storm blew up and—”
“Just a minute!” Erak stopped him, his eyes narrowing. “You came back? You came back from where?”
Hal swallowed nervously. He had known this information was bound to come out sooner or later. There was no point in trying to avoid it. His eyes dropped and he said, in a low voice, “I went down to the creek to double
Heron
’s moorings.”
“You
what
?” Erak demanded, his voice rising in pitch. Sigurd and Gort stared in disbelief at Hal. He heard Thorn utter a groan of despair.
“I swear I was only gone for ten minutes,” he said. “Twenty minutes at the outside. I was back …”
“You left your post?” Sigurd said incredulously.
Hal made an apologetic gesture with his hands. “Just for a few minutes. Stefan was on watch. There was no need for me to be there.”
Gort looked at him coldly. Earlier, there might have been a trace of compassion or understanding from their instructor. Now there was nothing but condemnation.
“There was
every
need for you to be there,” he said.
Hal looked around for some sign of understanding. The faces of Borsa and the other jarls were stiff and unyielding. Erak’s jaw was set in a grim line. Thorn wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Hal sighed. His world was crumbling around him. He had enjoyed such high hopes the previous night, finally accepted as an equal by the Skandians. Now, he was a pariah—even more than before.
“You’re all to blame for this,” Erak said. His voice was cold, his expression bleak. “You, more than any of the others, Hal, because you left your post. And because you were the responsible one.”
“Yes, Oberjarl,” Hal said miserably. He wondered what their punishment was to be. He didn’t have long to find out.
“Hand back those armbands,” Erak ordered. “Do it now!”
The final three words snapped like a whip. Hal flinched, then looked down at the copper armband around his wrist—symbol of their victory, the symbol that marked them as the champion brotherband. Slowly, he worked his off his arm and stepped forward. Erak pointed to a table beside the dais where he stood. Hal dropped the armband onto it with a dull clang. The other seven followed suit.
“From now on,” Erak said, “there is no Heron brotherband. Sigurd and Gort, remove all references to them from your records. The winning team will be declared to be the Sharks.”
“But … ,” Hal began. Then he stopped. It was right, he thought. It was just. And it was fair. Erak glared at him, waiting to see if he had more to say.
“Yes?” he prompted.
Hal dropped his head again and muttered, “Nothing, Oberjarl.”
“Nothing indeed. Where are the weapons you were presented with? And the helmets?”
“They’re at the shrine, Oberjarl,” Hal told him. Once they had realized the Andomal was gone, they had run immediately to the Great Hall. None of them had thought to pick up their weapons.
“Have them here by ten o’clock,” Erak said. “Hand them in. They’re the weapons of honorable Skandians and you have no right to them. Your helmets too.”
Several of the boys groaned aloud. The helmets were the sign that they had passed brotherband training. Now they were to return them.
“Everything,” Erak said coldly. “They’re all forfeit. All your property is forfeit.” He paused, then added meaningfully, “Including your ship.”
“My ship?” Hal’s head jerked up. “The
Heron
?”
“Do you have another one?” Erak asked sarcastically. “Yes, the
Heron
. I’m taking it.”
Hal’s voice choked in his throat. Not his ship! Not the beautiful, graceful
Heron
? Erak couldn’t do that! He heard a low groan from the side and turned toward it. Thorn was slowly shaking his head, his eyes fixed on his young friend. Then, as Hal watched, he turned away and walked out of the Great Hall, his boots ringing in the silence.
“Please, Oberjarl … ,” Hal began in a small voice.
But Erak ignored him. He turned to Sigurd and Gort. “Adjust your records. The winning team was the Sharks. The Herons don’t exist. As far as I’m concerned, they never did.”
The two instructors nodded grimly. Hal, looking around for some sign of hope, saw agreement written on the faces of all the jarls present.
“Now get out of here,” Erak said, his voice full of scorn. “I don’t want to look at you for a second longer. Not any of you. Go!”
Silently, the dejected Herons filed out of the Great Hall. Not a word was spoken as they followed Hal and Stig out of the town to the path leading up to the shrine. Hal was grateful that the early hour—it was just after dawn—and the wild weather had combined to keep the residents of Hallasholm indoors. He couldn’t have faced the accusing looks of the townspeople as the news of their criminal negligence ran round the town.
Then he had a terrible moment of foresight as he realized that he would be facing those accusing looks for the rest of his life. He would be known forever as the person who abandoned his post and lost the Andomal. If he had been an outcast before this, things would be ten times worse in the future.
The taste of abject despair was bitter in his mouth as he led the silent procession up the steps to the shrine, to reclaim their weapons.
chapter
forty-three
T
horn walked blindly away from the Great Hall, oblivious to the massive wind that buffeted him and pierced through his threadbare coat, chilling him to the bone.
His heart was a lump of lead in his chest. Like Hal, he could foresee the future that lay before the members of the now-defunct Herons. They would be shunned, hated, reviled—Hal more than any of the others, because he was their leader, and an outsider.
Thorn loved the boy. Loved his enthusiasm and ingenuity and energy. And he could see how those qualities would be crushed out of him by an unending atmosphere of hatred and bitterness. The wind and rain whipped at his face and there were tears mixed in with the rain running down his cheeks. He couldn’t bear to see that happen to the boy. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stand idly by, unable to help, while he watched that vibrant young person ground into the dirt and destroyed.
For the first time in many years, Thorn wanted a drink. Not just a drink. A succession of drinks. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion so that he didn’t have to think anymore about the boy he loved and the fate that was in store for him.
Without consciously planning to, he had stumbled along the path to Karina’s eating house, bent double at times by the wind. His dark little lean-to shuddered in the gusts, the heavy leather curtain that served as a door billowing inward. He lurched inside and reached under his cot for a haversack.
Inside the canvas sack was a bottle of strong brandy. He had kept it here for years, ever since he had stopped drinking. At first, he hadn’t been completely sure that he could stop, and so he had kept it because the thought of not having a drink readily available was terrifying for him. Then he had almost forgotten it was there. But this morning, he remembered. He took the dark bottle from the sack and unstoppered it. His senses reeled with the pungent smell of the alcohol and he raised it to his lips.
And stopped.
When Karina heard the news, she would come looking for him. He couldn’t bear the thought that she would see him drunk once again. She would have enough sadness in her life when she heard what had happened to Hal. Carefully, he recorked the bottle, placed it in his haversack again and plunged out into the wind and rain. He’d go to a quiet spot, free of prying eyes. He knew just the place. There would be nobody there today. He clambered up a steep path through the trees, then down the other side until he eventually found a secluded place, sheltered by a stand of pines.
He settled down on the ground and pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders. The wind moaned through the pine branches above him, sounding a counterpoint to his misery. Once again, he
took the cork from the bottle and raised it. He hesitated, the powerful smell of it filling his nostrils.
Then, before he could change his mind, he hurled it away from him, through the trees. He heard it thump on the soft ground, then shatter as it struck against a rock. Brandy wasn’t the answer, he realized. If he drank himself insensible, he would eventually wake up. And the situation would not have changed. There was only one solution he could see. He would leave Hallasholm. He could strike out over the mountains and find one of the passes through to Gallica or Teutlandt. Chances were good he’d die in the snow on the mountains, but he didn’t really care too much. If he managed to make it, he’d make a living somehow. He had money—a lot of it. It was stored in his chest in Erak’s treasure room. There was enough there to buy a small farm in Gallica. Or a fishing boat, perhaps. With the new hand Hal had made for him, he’d be able to handle a tiller.
Hal. The name struck a sword into his heart.
“A fine job I did keeping an eye on him,” he said. He looked up. Through the gaps in the pines, he could see the wind-driven clouds, racing across the sky, gray and melancholy.
“I’m sorry, Mikkel,” he said softly. “I did my best. But I guess it wasn’t good enough.”
As if in answer, he heard voices. Young voices. He frowned. They were coming from behind him, at the top of the hill he had just climbed. But they were too far away for him to make out the words. Staying low to remain concealed, he crept up the slope to get closer.
It was a sad and silent group that began collecting the weapons where they had left them by their sleeping places. Out of habit, the Herons rolled their blankets and stacked them neatly. Hal glanced up at the shrine. The door was still open and he walked up the steps and closed it. The tabernacle door was broken and there was nothing he could do about that. But the open swinging door of the shrine, banging in the wind, was a constant accusation to him.

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