the need arises, I’ll let you know.’
He was fixed with a curious stare, the head tilted to the side. ‘I would make the most of being able to pass time, chief. At the moment, it is the only one of the two for which you control the opportunity to do it.’
His childish pomposity was brutally exposed for what it was by simple logic. ‘I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. It was kind of you to explain it all.’
‘Kind?’ It was only one word, but his tone was such that a speech could not have better conveyed the boy’s confusion. ‘You asked questions, I answered.’
Brann felt his mouth turn into a half-smile, as if it were an awkward movement. ‘One last answer, then: your name.’
‘One last answer for now. I feel you will have more questions over time. My father named me Gerens.’
‘And mine, Brann.’
‘Right you are, chief.’ The boy clasped his hand in a formality that was as comforting as it was incongruous in their situation. ‘I feel it is good to meet you.’
A voice boomed above them, making them both jump. The fat warrior, Boar, stood over them.
‘Up, maggots,’ he roared, rattling the chain so violently that several of them flinched – a reaction that seemed to please the oaf. ‘Those who can walk, get to the stern. That’s the bit at the back. Your food is there. Those who can’t walk will be dragged by those who can.’ He sniggered at what obviously passed for humour in his warped mind and thumped back up the aisle, leaving them to follow in whatever manner they could manage.
The sorry little group began to rise, some slower than others as cramped legs objected to movement. As they did so, the boat lurched, causing them to fall against each other. Brann was knocked from his feet and fell painfully against the end of a bench. He banged solidly against a sleeping rower, a burly bald man with an incongruously bushy black beard, but the man’s slumber was so deep – or he cared so little about a slip of a boy falling against him – that he merely wriggled into a different position without waking.
As he did so, a hard object poked into Brann. Instinctively, the boy’s hand slid forward and found the handle of a knife, tucked discreetly into the waistband of the man’s breeches. Before he could think, he had grasped the bone handle, pulling it smoothly with him as he rose, and secreting it within his sleeve while he pretended to hold his stomach in pain. By the time he did think about what he had done, and about the unbelievable folly of doing so, it was too late to undo it.
Two of the boys were helping up the one they had earlier comforted while he had been retching, and the rest of the group had managed to stand and were waiting until all were ready to move off. Brann mingled with them as they shuffled forwards, using their tangle of chained limbs to conceal his movements as he slipped the blade into his own belt under his tunic, not so much out of a desire to keep the knife but more for reasons of keeping it better hidden until he could secretly dispose of it. His heart pounded as he came dangerously close to panic. He cursed his idiocy and tugged his tunic down, even though it was already more than adequately covering the incriminating object. With each pace, he could feel the metal digging into him and, with each dig, his stomach lurched and churned with tense fear.
He cursed himself. Why had he done something so stupid? Why? He had taken the knife automatically, his hand moving before his mind considered the idea. If it were found on him, the best he could hope for would be that his death would be quick. The rower he had taken it from had been courting that risk also but, whatever his reason for doing so, it was immaterial now – the risk had passed to Brann. Yet he could not get rid of it at the moment without being caught. He would just have to remain alert for an opportunity… and he prayed that moment would come soon.
They reached the rear of the ship. A steep stairway led up in front of them to the raised area and two closed doors faced the group, one set either side of the steps. Before them a small table bore bread, cheese and water. The boys hurriedly grabbed some of each, and forced it down. With the exception of Gerens, who wolfed it down with all of the relish but none of the manners normally reserved for a finely prepared banquet, not one of them had much of an appetite, but they had no idea when they would next eat. So they ate.
Boar clambered clumsily down from the area above. ‘Through the door,’ his voice boomed. The boy at the front of the group reached for the nearest latch.
It was hard to believe Boar could shout any louder – but he did. ‘The other door, fool! If you step into the Captain’s cabin, you’ll spend the last two seconds of your life thinking about your mistake. Now move before you die of stupidity.’
The sorry group passed through the other door, discovering another steep set of stairs – almost a ladder – leading down below deck level. They found that the chain linking them was just long enough, if they were careful, to allow them all to climb down one by one.
‘Keep moving, maggots,’ Boar said, his voice relatively quieter but no less bullying.
The boys shuffled along a short corridor dimly lit by a single lamp, passing doorless portals that let them glimpse the rooms inside and, Brann realised, would allow any occupants to exit rapidly if necessary. No light burned in the first room they passed, but Brann was just able to make out the figures of those warriors not on deck who were grabbing, like the slaves above, the chance to sleep. The next room seemed to be used as both a kitchen and storeroom and, like the first, was in darkness. Dim light did come, however, from the room that lay straight ahead, which seemed to be their destination.
Boar confirmed it. ‘Straight ahead, maggots. Keep going. Welcome to your new home.’
They stumbled towards the room, steadying themselves against the walls that were conveniently close on either side. As they neared the doorway, Brann could see two rows of faces, all belonging to boys of around his age, lined along the walls to each side of a long narrow area, staring at the newcomers. Boar shoved them roughly towards the room.
‘In you go, maggots,’ he growled gleefully. ‘We’ll get you chained up with your new friends. You couldn’t ask for better quarters – it’s clean, dry and there’s even a latrine.’ He indicated a bucket beside the door. ‘If you’re good, we might even empty it now and again.’ He sniggered, once again finding himself highly amusing, although Brann suspected that this was not the first time he had produced this particular witticism. The whole procedure bore the hallmarks of a routine that the fat oaf thoroughly enjoyed.
As the boys started to file into the room, an eldritch screech burst from a room to their right. They stopped in terror. Like the others, Brann’s attention had been drawn by disconsolate curiosity to the room that was to be their temporary home to such an extent that he had not noticed this other room, let alone its occupant.
The scream started again but, this time, words could be made out. ‘Bring him to me! Bring him now!’
The man with the L-shaped scar stepped from the room. ‘Hold them there, Boar,’ he said. His order was unnecessary: the captives were rooted in terror, each hoping desperately he was not the subject of the ear-splitting demand.
The voice started again. ‘The little one. The little one at the back.’
Brann’s breathing froze and his chest constricted in fear. The tall man nodded to Boar. ‘You heard Our Lady,’ he said simply.
‘Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,’ Boar said, the whine of his deferential tone a stark contrast to his previous bullying bluster. He knelt and hurriedly released Brann’s manacle.
The Captain waved Brann forward. ‘Come,’ he said, leading the way into the room as Boar resumed ushering the remainder of the group to their original destination. Gerens cast a look in Brann’s direction, his eyebrows raised. Brann knew that the boy was as mystified as he, and shrugged in reply. His initial fear had subsided greatly, mainly due to his emotionally dulled state of mind and the belief that his situation could not, conceivably, deteriorate to any great extent. Maybe he was taking Gerens’s implacable logic to heart.
The