Hero Born Page 11

  He nodded towards the rowers. ‘These are hard men living a hard life. Just do not mess with them. Keep in mind that accidents happen at sea, and that you do not want to be one of them.’

  He started off again and the seven, who had grown ever more nervous with each instruction or word of advice, followed him towards the front of the vessel. Brann watched the tall warrior, moving with a grace and assured balance that was unusual for a man of his size. It was strange: he did not like Galen – how could he? – but at least the man was fair to them and, whatever the reason for it, he seemed to care about their health and well-being. So did Cannick and the Captain; in fact, Boar, who most closely fitted any preconception that he might have had of slavers, seemed to be an exception on this ship. But what surprised him was that he did not hate them. They had murdered his family, destroyed his home, turned him into a galley slave and were intending to sell him in a slave market. On top of that, they were slavers: people who were abhorrent to normal folk. Yet, try as he might, he could not make himself hate them.

  Why? Maybe he had nothing left in his life, and he was clinging to any crumb of kindness that fell his way. Or maybe I’m going mad, he thought with a smile.

  Galen had noticed the smile. ‘I see you still have spirit, boy,’ he said. ‘Either that, or you are monumentally stupid. Either way, make the most of that smile. You are not likely to have the energy for another one for a while.’

  They had stopped at the front of the ship. A group of warriors was waiting there, and one of them had started unlocking rowers from their chains at the boys’ approach.

  The men and boys were quickly rearranged over the front benches on each side of the aisle according to Cannick’s instructions. Brann noticed that two of the benches looked new. It would have been there that the missile had struck, and he shuddered at the thought.

  As they were assigned their positions, Brann realised that, while the warriors around them appeared to be lounging casually, their hands never strayed from their weapons and their eyes were watchful. The crew and slaves may have an understanding, but these were men who took no chances. They appeared more like professional soldiers than the lowlife vermin that he would have expected slavers to be.

  Brann stayed close to Gerens, in the hope that he would be paired with the closest thing to a friend that he had at the moment. It worked. Galen pointed to the pair of them, ordering curtly, ‘First two, in here. New boys nearest the side, rower nearest the aisle. That way, the one at the end who effectively controls the oar will be the one who knows what he is doing. That does not mean you boys can catch an easy ride – those who do not share the burden will soon be reminded of the need to do so by those around them.’

  This was the third time that the boys had heard this last piece of advice, but Brann guessed that, on this occasion, it was being said for the rowers’ benefit. He felt glad that the grim men he was sitting among knew that the boys had been warned, so they would not feel the need to inform the newcomers of the fact in their own fashion.

  Brann and Gerens were placed with a lean, bald rower with staring eyes and swirling tattoos painting symbols and unfamiliar script across most of the exposed parts of his body, including his scalp. His smooth skin and lean build made it hard to determine his age, but Brann guessed he was at least old enough to be his father. Brann found himself wondering if he had pointed teeth and spoke in a hiss. He just seemed the sort.

  The tattooed man stared at the boys appraisingly – something that was becoming familiar, but no less uncomfortable. He grinned. ‘Grakk,’ he said. ‘And you are?’

  Brann was disappointed: both Grakk’s voice and teeth were perfectly normal, if respectively a little guttural and stained. And, despite the strong accent, his speech seemed, even in those few words, to be cultured and eloquent, entirely at odds with his appearance and proving the rashness of Brann’s initial assessment. On reflection, though, his reaction turned to relief – the unkempt hulk of a rower on the bench in front of them was berating the red-haired youth and his companion purely on the grounds that he had been landed with a couple of puny farm boys through no fault of his own. And his threats of what would ensue if they even thought about slacking were decidedly unpalatable, to say the least.

  Brann and Gerens introduced themselves and Grakk – in a formal gesture that was as incongruous in the setting of the rowing benches as it was from one who, despite his refined speech, did still resemble a nomadic savage – gripped their hands and nodded his acknowledgement of their meeting.

  ‘Do not expect frivolous conversation,’ he informed them. ‘Observe diligently to learn, and work to your utmost to make use of what you learn. Here, as in life, learning is everything. In that fashion, we will all prosper. In the meantime, appreciate what is in front of you.’ He stared intently at Brann. ‘It is indeed a glorious day. Now, however, I will sleep.’

  With that, he curled up on the floor in front of the bench, closed his eyes and, in moments, appeared to be sound asleep.

  They looked at each other. ‘I believe we may be lucky in our companion,’ Gerens said solemnly.

  Before Brann could reply, the shaggy-headed rower in front of them turned round. ‘Yes and no, boy,’ he growled in clipped accent. ‘Yes: you did not get me, and I am not as well-spoken in my instructions as he just was. No: the last man on these benches who crossed him had his throat slit from ear to ear by the morning. Left a terrible mess, it did. Of course, nobody knew who did it. It couldn’t have been any of us rowers, could it? We have no means of doing something like that.’ He grinned malevolently with around half the teeth that his mouth should have contained. ‘Do we? Sleep well tonight.’

  The pair stared at each other again. They looked down at the gently snoring Grakk, and back at one another. ‘Well, chief,’ said Gerens with a shrug. ‘It’s something to bear in mind.’

  Brann stifled a giggle, the tension that had knotted his insides all of his time on the ship exaggerating his reaction. He was sure that Gerens had meant it without any humour, given that the boy’s dark delivery had not wavered in the way he had said everything since their meeting. It mattered not. He was unable to totally prevent the giggling, and he bit on his sleeve in an attempt not to draw unwelcome attention to himself. Despite himself, he found that he was starting to like Gerens. His dark, practical approach to life was consistent, and consequently dependable. Brann tended to think things through, to be sure he was making the right decision; sometimes, however, it was necessary to cut to the simple truth of a situation, and Gerens was certainly the master of that approach, which Brann found, under the current circumstances, comforting. As was the boy’s unfathomable decision from the moment they met to make it his mission to take Brann under his protection. Unfathomable, but, under the current circumstances, there was no earthly need to attempt to fathom it and all that was left was to accept that it was extremely handy. Handy, and comforting.

  The laughter subsided, and he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. The boys sat quietly for a while, mindful not to disturb any of the rowers around them – especially the large one in front of them – who had followed Grakk into slumber. Their tattooed companion looked as if a raging thunderstorm would not waken him, but they felt it wiser not to risk it.

  The thin boy turned around, taking care not to wake the rower on one side of him or the sallow boy on the other. ‘Since we’re all in the same boat…’ Brann manfully resisted the urge not to giggle again. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled weakly. ‘Since we’re all in the same situation, I think it would be better if we all get on. Whatever went on between you and the old woman is not my concern. And your friend was right: I am glad it is not my concern. Any attitudes from down below could maybe be left in the hold, yes?’

  Gerens shrugged and nodded. Brann, as the main target for the comments in the hold, felt awkward in his company and was more reticent about accepting it so easily. But he saw no advantage in showing open hostility; better to accept him on the surface, and be wary und
erneath. The smoother things ran among them, the easier it would be to cope with their ordeal. At the very least, it was one less thing to worry about.

  He nodded as well. The youth introduced himself as Pedr, a metal-worker’s son from a small coastal village. He was taller than Gerens, but gangly and skinny in the way of boys who had grown rapidly in height; he had not yet filled out to match it, if ever he would. He was talkative, and strong of opinion and, although that could prove irritating at times, his chatter – kept low to avoid disturbing the frightening rowers on each of their benches – at least passed the time.

  After what seemed like hours but could only have been, according to the sun’s progress, little more than half-an-hour, the large drum at the stern let out three thunderous bangs. With a start, Brann realised that Grakk was sitting beside them – he had gone from sound sleep to ready alertness so quickly that the boy had not seen him move from the deck.

  Every one of the rowers was in position – obviously the drumbeat had been a signal to action. Flexing his arms, Grakk confirmed it. ‘Make yourselves ready. We will be commencing rowing,’ he said simply.

  ‘Straight away?’ Brann asked, alarmed. Now that the moment had arrived, he suddenly felt the weight of how little he knew about the activity that would be his life for the gods only knew how long.

  Grakk looked at him for a moment. ‘If it were “straight away”, you would be rowing already.’ Brann blushed. It was indisputable logic, and obvious. Grakk grinned. ‘When the drum bangs three times, as it just did, you will prepare yourself. When the drum bangs twice more, you will extract the oars. Understand?’

  Brann nodded, taking in the simple explanation with wide-eyed attention as if he were listening to the most complex of instructions. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he stammered.

  Galen strode down the aisle. ‘We row in fifteen minutes,’ he shouted. ‘First of all, the first two benches nearest the bow on each side will practise getting their oars in and out, for the sake of the new lads. The oars are the big wooden things by your side, by the way, just in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  Brann realised with yet more embarrassment that he had been overwhelmed by so many other things that he had not even noticed the single most important object in his new life. As the smallest on his bench, with the shortest reach, he had been placed closest to the side, where the swing of the oar would travel less. He looked to his right, and saw the oar lying flush with the side of the boat, at a slight angle. Its lower half extended out through the side of the boat via a hole that was currently sealed with a waxed wooden plug cut to fit precisely around the stowed oar to prevent sea water from splashing in around their feet or, in the case of Grakk and several others that Brann had seen, around their bodies when sleeping. The length of shaft inside the ship lay on top of the oar from the bench in front of him, and was strapped securely in place. The shaft itself was not straight, as he had expected, but had been crafted with a shallow double-curve around halfway along it to allow it to lie snugly against the boat both inside and out.

  Gerens saw him looking at the oars. ‘On some ships, chief, they pull them completely on board, but there is not enough room on this one for that. My father used to make me wooden models of all sorts of ships when I was little. I never suspected I would find myself sitting on the real thing.’

  Galen returned from the other end of the ship, where he had been explaining to the rowers what was going to happen. He spoke again to the boys. ‘Now you have had a chance to look around, listen to me. There are two things to notice: one, a plug with a handle and, two, a strap beside you holding in place the oar for the bench in front of you. You can see that the same strap extends over your own oar as an extra safeguard.’

  Both Brann and Gerens looked closely at the oars. These details had not, of course, been possible on childhood models and, from this stage onwards, Gerens was as much a novice as Brann. Where the strap held the oar in place, a wide, wooden ridge protruded around the oar by the width of a man’s hand; it stopped the oar slipping through the strap and, when the oar was in a rowing position, it would prevent the shaft from sliding out into the water. Looking closer at the ridge, Brann could see that a curved slot had been carved out of it to allow the oar lying on top of it to nestle against it securely. Brann determined to take care to ensure that the oar was the right way up whenever they were stowing it – as the one closest to it, he assumed that he would be held responsible if anything went wrong at that point, and he was determined not to draw attention to himself for any reason, let alone for causing problems.

  ‘Two more things,’ Galen continued. ‘Those nearest the side will be responsible for undoing the strap on the oar for the bench in front of them. And, if you look at the oars again, those astute minds of yours will have noticed that the oars sit on top of one another in a way that means that they must be lifted out in a particular sequence. Now, where do you think that sequence starts?’ He looked around the nervous faces. ‘Yes, you guessed it: it all depends on you. The other oars cannot be positioned for rowing until you lads take yours out. Not that I want to put you under any pressure, newcomers, but you will not be popular if you fail to get it right.’

  He clapped his hands. ‘So you had better switch on now, because you have ten minutes to perfect it. When you hear the double drumbeat and the order “Oars!” you act. Immediately. The one in the middle of the bench pulls the plug and the one nearest the side releases the strap for the bench in front. The exception is the bench nearest the bow on each side – you have no one behind you to free your oar. So, in your case, the one nearest the side will jump back over the bench – don’t worry, your chains will stretch – and free the oar for your bench. The middle rower will, meanwhile, be freeing the oar for the bench in front, and the rower nearest the aisle will, you will find, have already pulled the plug, so to speak.

  ‘The one who is behind the bench will now be jumping back into his place, sliding the oar forward and swinging it over his two companions as he does so. The other two will tend to help him to swing it round into position, because you will find that you very rarely trust someone to avoid the back of your head when you have a chance to get your hands on the oar yourself and help it over.

  ‘As soon as your oar has cleared out of the way, the next will be swung out, and so on. So you must get it right, and you must be quick, because you will be holding up the whole boat otherwise. It is not hard, but until you have done it a few times, it will seem daunting. So, now we are going to do it a few times.’

  Intent on avoiding being branded inept, Brann listened with wide-eyed attention, straining to take in every word. But as soon as the large warrior had finished speaking, he realised that he could remember not a single word.

  However, with Galen talking them through the process, and with the experienced rowers helping to guide them, the boys managed the procedure without over-much clumsiness, starting slowly and building up more speed by their fourth and fifth attempts. Brann was surprised by the oar – despite the fact that its size and its need for strength lent it weight, it was so well balanced that it was easily manoeuvred, even by a boy as slight as he. After falling ignominiously when he tripped over the bench in the haste of his first attempt to get to the strap behind him – causing much merriment among the watching rowers – he began to manage the sequence of taking out and stowing the oars, and even started to enjoy himself. Especially since, when he had fallen, he had taken the opportunity to slip the damn knife from his waistband and ram it point-first into the underside of his bench. There would still be danger if it were discovered, but at least it was not directly attributable to him any more. The sense of relief lifted his spirits and he attacked his work with increased vigour.

  He was also surprised at the shallow angle needed for the oar to dip its blade into the water, until he realised how low they were sitting in the vessel. The area below decks was under both the Captain’s cabin and the part immediately forward of that, where the deck was stepped higher, whi
le the rowers were sitting relatively close to the waterline – hence the need for the plugs in the holes when they were not rowing. When the oars were being used, Brann assumed, they would just have to endure the discomfort of any water that made its way in around their feet.

  ‘Right, that will have to do,’ Galen called. ‘Catch your breath before we try rowing. Make the most of the rest – believe me, you’ll need it.’

  Gerens wiped the stinging sweat away from his eyes and squinted at Brann. ‘Well, at least you gave them a bit of entertainment.’

  Brann grimaced, rubbing his shin ruefully. ‘True,’ he agreed between heavy breaths. ‘But I’d rather do it a little less painfully.’

  Brann turned to Grakk. ‘How did you think we did?’

  Grakk recognised the eager sincerity in the words, but did not allow it to soften his assessment. ‘You are still too slow,’ he said evenly.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Bann said, crestfallen. ‘Have you any advice for us?’

  Grakk’s gaze never flickered, nor did his neutral tone. ‘Try not to fall over.’ A glimmer of a smile did play around the corners of his mouth, however.

  ‘Thank you,’ Brann said. ‘But I think I managed to work that one out for myself.’

  The tattooed rower ignored the comment. ‘Listen to me, and listen carefully. You are trying too hard. Admirable in its intent, but not helpful in its execution. As in life, technique is all; without it, power is nothing. When we row, I will control the movement of the oar. You will follow that movement and add to it what effort you can. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you understand?’ They nodded. He pointed to the bench in front. The boys saw that it was solid at the back from the seat to the floor. ‘You will observe that the benches are open at the front for storage and, indeed, for those rowers who can fit there when the weather deteriorates sufficiently to warrant it. However, more pertinent to us just now is that they are closed at the back to allow you to brace your feet when you are rowing.’ Oblivious to, or perhaps ignoring, the boys’ open bewilderment as they still struggled to equate his barbaric appearance with his cultured speech, he placed his feet against the back of the next bench and mimed pulling an oar. ‘You will push with your feet and pull with your arms. Understand?’ They nodded again. Grakk looked doubtfully at the length of Brann’s legs. ‘You will perhaps require to devise an alternative method.’