As for Slagor's men, it was Erak's firm opinion that they were a collective waste of Skorghijl's fresh air.
The situation exploded one night during the evening meal. Will was placing platters and several carving knives on one table. Evanlyn was ladling soup from a large pot at the other, where Erak and Slagor sat with their senior crewmen. As she leaned between Slagor and his first mate, the skirl suddenly lurched back in his chair, throwing his arms wide as he laughed at a comment from one of his men. His hand jolted against the full ladle, spilling hot soup onto his bare forearm.
Slagor bellowed in pain and grabbed Evanlyn by the wrist, dragging her forward, twisting her arm cruelly so that she was bent awkwardly over the table. The soup pot and ladle clattered to the floor.
"Damn you, girl! You've scalded me! Look at this, you lazy Araluen swine!" He shook his dripping arm close to her face, holding her with his other hand. Evanlyn could hear his breath rasping in his nostrils and she was uncomfortably aware of the unwashed smell of him.
"I'm sorry," she said hurriedly, wincing against the pain as he twisted her arm farther. "But you knocked against the ladle."
"My fault, was it? I'll teach you to speak back to a skirl!"
His face was dark with rage as he reached for the short three-thonged whip that he carried at his belt. He called it his Encourager and claimed that he used it on lazy rowers-a claim disbelieved by those who knew him. It was common knowledge that he wouldn't have the nerve to strike a burly oarsman. A young girl, however, was a different matter. Especially now that he was drunk and angry.
The room went silent. Outside, the ever-present wind moaned against the timbers of the hut. Inside, the scene seemed to be frozen for a moment, in the smoky, uncertain light of the fire and the oil lamps around the room.
Erak, sitting opposite Slagor, cursed to himself. On the far side of the room, Will quietly set down the pile of platters. His gaze, like everyone else's, was riveted on Slagor, on the unhealthy flush of alcohol on his face and in his eyes, and the way his tongue kept darting out between his crooked, stained teeth to moisten his thick lips. Unnoticed, the apprentice Ranger retained one of the knives-a heavy, double-edged knife that was used to carve portions of salt pork for the table. Around twenty centimeters in length, it was not unlike a small saxe knife, a knife he was more than familiar with, after his hours of training with Halt.
Now, finally, Erak spoke. His voice was pitched low and his tone was reasonable. That alone made his own crew sit up and take notice.
When Erak blustered and yelled, he was usually joking. When he was quiet and intense, they knew, he was at his most dangerous.
"Let her go, Slagor," he said.
Slagor scowled at him, furious at his order, and the confident tone of command behind it.
"She scalded me!" he shouted. "She did it on purpose and she's going to be punished!"
Erak reached for his drinking cup and took a deep draft of ale.
When he spoke again, he affected a sense of weariness and boredom with the skirl.
"I'll tell you once more. Let her go. She's my slave."
"Slaves need discipline," said Slagor, darting a quick glance around the room. "We've all seen that you're not willing to do it, so it's time someone did it for you!"
Sensing his distraction, Evanlyn tried to twist out of his grip.
But he felt her move and held her easily. Several of Wolf Fang 's crew, those who were most drunk, chorused agreement with his words.
Erak hesitated. He could simply lean over and knock Slagor senseless. He could do it without even leaving his seat. But that wouldn't be enough. Everyone in the room knew he could best Slagor in a fight and doing so would prove nothing. He was sick and tired of the man and he wanted him humiliated and shamed. Slagor deserved no less and Erak knew how to accomplish it.
He sighed now, as if tired of the whole business, and leaned forward across the table, speaking slowly, as he might to a less-than-intelligent being. Which, he reflected, was a pretty good summation of Slagor's mental capacities.
"Slagor, I've had a hard campaign and these two are my only profit. I won't have you responsible for the death of one of them."
Slagor smiled cruelly. "You've gone soft on these two, Erak. I'm doing you a favor. And besides, a good whipping won't kill her. It'll just make her more obedient in the future."
"I wasn't talking about the girl," Erak said evenly. "I meant the boy there." He nodded across the room to where Will stood in the flickering shadows. Slagor followed his gaze, as did the others.
"The boy?" He frowned, uncomprehending. "I have no intention of harming him."
Erak nodded several times. "I know that," he replied. "But if you touch the girl with that whip of yours, odds are he'll kill you. And then I'm going to have to kill him to punish him. And I'm afraid I'm not prepared to lose so much profit. So let her go."
Some of the other Skandians were already laughing at Erak's speech, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone. Even Slagor's men joined in.
Slagor's brows darkened and drew together with rage. He hated being the butt of Erak's jokes and he, and most of the others, thought Erak was merely belittling him by pretending that the undersized Araluen boy could possibly best him in a fight.
"You've lost your wits, Erak." He sneered now. "The boy is about as dangerous as a field mouse. I could break him in half with one hand."
He gestured with his free hand, the one that wasn't locked around Evanlyn's upper arm. Erak smiled at him. There was no trace of humor in the smile.
"He could kill you before you took a pace toward him," he said.
There was a calm certainty to his voice that said he wasn't joking. The room sensed it and went very quiet. Slagor sensed it too.
He frowned, trying to work his way through this. The alcohol had confused his thinking. There was an element here he was missing. He started to speak, but Erak held up a hand to stop him.
"I suppose we can't actually have him kill you to prove it," he said, sounding reluctant about the fact. He glanced around the room and his eyes lit on a small brandy cask, half-empty, at the far end of the table. He gestured toward it.
"Shove that cask over here, Svengal," he asked. His second in command put one hand against the small cask and sent it sliding along the rough table to his captain. Erak examined it critically.
"That's about the size of your thick head, Slagor," he said, with a thin smile. Then he picked up his own belt knife from the table and quickly gouged two white patches out of the dark wood of the keg.
"And let's say they're your eyes."
He pushed the keg across the table, setting it beside Slagor, almost touching his elbow. A murmur of anticipation went through the men in the room as they watched, wondering where this was leading.
Only Svengal and Horak, who had served with Erak at the bridge, had some slight inkling of what their jarl was on about. They knew the boy was an apprentice Ranger. They had seen, at first hand, that he was an adversary to be respected. But he had no bow here and they hadn't seen what Erak had: the knife that Will was holding concealed against his right arm.
"So, boy," Erak continued, "those eyes are a little close together, but then so are Slagor's." There was a ripple of amusement from the Skandians and Erak now addressed them directly. "Let's all watch them carefully and see if anything appears between them, shall we?"