Free Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro by John Flanagan Page B

it solidly to mark each stride, twirling it in the air behind him, then clapping it down once more. It gave a pleasant rhythm to his walk. Now it was gone. They had searched the square thoroughly after the festival had ended, but had found no sign of it.
    ‘Don’t know what could have happened to it,’ he continued. ‘Maybe one of those rabble off Nightwolf took it.’
    Svengal shook his head. ‘Didn’t see any of them do it,’ he said. ‘They were all pretty intent on getting away from you as fast as possible.’ He glanced across the inner harbour and noticed that the dark blue ship was missing from its usual mooring. ‘Looks like they’ve gone,’ he said.
    Erak nodded. ‘Tark told me they slipped out of the harbour last night. Good riddance, too.’ Tark was the captain of the harbour guard.
    But Svengal wasn’t listening. His keen eyes had spotted something gleaming in the sand at the water’s edge. He jumped down onto the beach and walked towards it. His heart sank as he got closer and recognised the ruined, foreshortened walking staff – one end chewed to splinters and the other still surmounted by its silver knob.
    He retrieved it and noted the tooth marks up and down its length.
    ‘Orlog’s bad breath,’ he muttered. ‘This is going to be ugly.’
    For a moment, he considered dropping the ruined staff and kicking sand over it to hide it. But Erak had already seen him pick it up.
    ‘What’s that?’ Erak called.
    Svengal tried to hide the staff behind his back. ‘Nothing, chief. Just a piece of driftwood.’
    But Erak had seen the telltale glint of silver. He walked down the beach suspiciously. ‘Driftwood, my backside!’ he roared. ‘Bring it here! Let me see it!’
    Reluctantly, Svengal revealed the ruined walking staff. For a moment, Erak was speechless. Just for a moment. Then he let out an inchoate bellow of rage.
    ‘Chief, don’t go . . .’ Svengal began. But he was cut off by Erak, now in full voice.
    ‘That demon-blasted dog! I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .’ He glanced around and his eyes lit on a twelve-year-old boy who had been walking along the beach. The boy was staring at the red-faced, apoplectic Oberjarl, fascinated. Erak pointed at him.
    ‘You! Boy! What’s your name?’
    ‘Gundal Leifson, Oberjarl,’ the boy said nervously.
    Erak now swept his arm around to point in the direction of the Great Hall. ‘Run to the Great Hall, Gundal Leifson, and bring me my axe. It’s leaning against my big chair. Go!’
    ‘Yes, Oberjarl!’ The boy took off, running flat out towards the Hall.
    Erak stood, arms folded across his massive chest, breathing deeply, muttering dreadful curses.
    Svengal eyed him nervously. ‘Chief? What are you going to do?’
    ‘I’m going to separate him from his head,’ Erak replied calmly, his eyes fixed on the Heron . There was a frightening light in his eyes.
    Svengal glanced nervously towards the distant ship. ‘Hal?’ he asked.
    ‘No. The dog. But I’ll do for Hal too if he gets in the way,’ Erak said.
    ‘The dog’s a she, chief,’ Svengal told him.
    ‘He, she. Won’t matter too much once she doesn’t have a head,’ Erak said.

    On board Heron , they heard Erak’s wordless bellow. All eyes turned to look at the burly Oberjarl, standing on the beach several hundred metres away.
    ‘What’s up with Erak?’ Stefan asked.
    Stig shaded his eyes with his hands, peering at Erak and Svengal. He saw the Oberjarl was holding something and, as he watched, the sunlight flashed as it reflected from the object. He felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.
    ‘Oh no,’ he said. He turned to Hal. ‘I think he’s found his walking staff.’
    Hal turned and looked quickly forward, to where Kloof was curled up in the bow, snoozing. The dog had sneaked away from the house after he had gone to bed, returning just before dawn. Now he had a bad feeling that she had been up to no good. He looked back at Erak.
    ‘Why is he just standing