Brotherband 4: Slaves of Socorro by John Flanagan Page A

argumentative, liable to flare up in anger at the slightest reason – real or imagined. His own brotherband members had largely deserted him and he spent his time in the cheap taverns near the waterfront.
    His father, hoping to spark some sense of purpose in him, had bought him a ship. But Tursgud had crewed it with a bunch of thugs and petty criminals. The ship itself had been painted midnight blue and he had rechristened her Nightwolf.
    ‘She looks fast,’ Hal said. She had a long, slender hull and a fine entry. She was rigged in the traditional square sail pattern. ‘I’d say she’ll be very fast going downwind.’
    ‘Hmmm,’ said Erak thoughtfully. ‘Just wonder why he painted her that dark colour. Dark ships tend to be that way for a purpose – and it’s usually not a good one.’

T he main square in front of Hallasholm’s Great Hall was awash with light. Lanterns and torches hung from poles and stood in brackets in the walls of buildings and there were three large bonfires set around the edge of the square.
    There were also half a dozen fire pits, each one with a spit set over it, where carcasses of bullocks and sheep turned above the red-hot coals, spitting and sizzling as they gradually browned. Cooks moved in from time to time to slice cooked meat from the outer layers of the carcasses, exposing the meat underneath to the heat, so it could grill in its turn. Platters of smoking hot beef and mutton were set out for the revellers to help themselves. Half a dozen large salmon, smoked to a succulent finish in the town’s smokehouse, provided a delicious alternative for those who preferred it. In addition, there were bowls of fresh, crusty bread, potatoes baked black in their jackets in the coals, fresh greens and tart pickled cabbage.
    The people of Hallasholm were there in force: old, young and everywhere in between. This was, after all, the haymaking festival, the most important night in Hallasholm’s social calendar. In addition to just about every inhabitant of the capital, people had travelled from outlying farms and villages to join in the fun. The cleared space directly in front of the Great Hall was packed with couples dancing. A four-piece band consisting of a fiddler and two pipers, accompanied by a tonal drum, kept the music going – jaunty happy country airs for the most part. The musicians were sustained by a constant relay of foaming tankards of ale, deposited in front of them by the dancers. The band seemed to have mastered the art of drinking deep draughts of ale in sequence, so that the music continued, uninterrupted.
    Young children ran between the legs of the people thronging the square, shrieking with laughter and excitement at being up after their normal bedtime. From time to time, an exasperated parent would yell at his or her offspring to ‘Keep it down! Keep it down, for Thaki’s sake!’ The children would fall silent for two or three seconds, then the running and shrieking would start all over again.
    Erak’s great chair had been carried out and set at the top of the stairs in front of the Great Hall, overlooking the square. The Oberjarl sat there, beaming at his people, a tankard in one hand and his magnificent polished staff in the other. At intervals, he drank from the tankard and beat time to the music with his staff. Sometimes, he got the two actions mixed up, but nobody seemed to notice.
    Erak looked around the square and, seeing the people enjoying themselves, he felt content. Life in Skandia could be harsh, with its long winters and freezing temperatures. And the Skandians worked hard most of the year – at sea, fishing or trading, or on land, tending their sheep and cattle and crops. It was a hard life, with not a lot of time for relaxation. On a balmy summer night like this, it was good for his people to let their hair down and enjoy themselves. He smiled, pleased to see that the evening was going well. There had only been a few fights so far, and they had been