Free Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro by John Flanagan

though Kloof struggled desperately with him. When he was sure she couldn’t see what he was doing, Hal drew back his arm and hurled the ruined staff, spinning end over end, into the sea. The tide was running out and he watched as the staff, floating upright as the weight of the silver knob on one end kept it vertical, slowly drifted out with it, passing through the harbour mouth. Kloof, released by Stig, sniffed busily around them, trying to find some trace of her wonderful toy.
    ‘Thank Orlog for that!’ Hal said in a heartfelt tone. Then he and Stig turned to continue their way home, Kloof patrolling happily in front of them, still searching for some trace of the staff and wondering how it had disappeared.
    It must be said that it was a mark of Hal’s level of panic that he had forgotten, or at least overlooked, one vital fact.
    He was a skilled and experienced navigator, and an expert sailor, well versed in the lore of the sea. But in the heat of the moment, and the relief at having got rid of the evidence of Kloof’s crime, one vital fact had eluded him.
    Tides may go out. But, inevitably, they come back in again.

T he following morning, the crew of the Heron were loading last-minute stores, checking equipment and spares, and stowing their own gear in the spaces beside their rowing benches. They would be a long time gone, and Hal wanted to make sure that they had everything they might need for the coming mission.
    Stig watched as Hal and Ingvar stowed a full supply of bolts for the Mangler in the locker behind the massive crossbow. He frowned curiously as his friend placed a large canvas roll in the locker. The roll rattled slightly as Hal placed it down.
    ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
    Hal turned to look at him, not understanding the question at first. Then he noticed the direction of Stig’s gaze and lifted the roll out again. He unwrapped it and revealed some twenty bolts, lashed together in two bundles. But these were not like the normal bolts the Mangler fired. Instead of the steel-shod sharp point, these were surmounted by a slightly bulbous cylinder.
    ‘It’s an idea I thought we might try out,’ Hal explained. ‘When we were attacking the watch towers at Limmat, I noticed that splinters flying from the balustrade caused a lot of damage.’
    Stig nodded. ‘I remember. The railings were soft pine and when the bolts hit them they shattered, so that pieces went everywhere.’
    ‘Exactly. So I thought we might try these.’ Hal tapped the bulbous end of one of the bolts. Looking more closely, Stig could see that it was made of hardened, baked clay.
    ‘I got Farndl to make them up for me,’ he added. Farndl operated the Hallasholm pottery works. ‘They’re filled with small rocks and shards of broken pottery. I thought if one of these hit a hard surface, the head would break up and throw splinters and rocks in all directions. That way, one bolt might knock over three or four enemy troops.’
    Stig was impressed. But then, he thought, ever since he had known Hal, his friend had been coming up with new and ingenious ideas – most of which worked.
    They were interrupted by a voice behind them.
    ‘Morning, everyone.’ It was Thorn, carrying his kitbag and weapons, stepping lightly down from the quay onto the deck. The crew chorused greetings to him. He looked slightly ill at ease as he met Hal’s eye, dumped his gear on the deck and nodded his head towards the steering platform at the stern.
    ‘Can we have a word?’ he asked.
    Hal nodded and followed the old warrior down the deck, to a spot at the stern where they were a little removed from the crew. He waited expectantly, then realised that Thorn was embarrassed, and not sure how to begin. That was a first, he thought. He sensed he knew what was on Thorn’s mind.
    ‘Is this about last night?’ he asked.
    Thorn reddened, nodding several times. ‘Ah . . . yes. Ah . . . ah-ahm. Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat nervously.
    Hal said nothing,