The Outcasts by John Flanagan

on their champion of all warriors. Thorn smiled. His teeth were rimmed with green.
    “Just as well I’m not squeezing his wrist, isn’t it?” he said, and as Tursgud released his grip on Hal’s shirt front and drew back his left fist, he continued, with a grim note in his voice, “Throw that punch, boy, and I’ll break your wrist.”
    And, incredibly, he increased the pressure of that already devastating grip, squeezing and rolling his fingers so that the bones in Tursgud’s wrist were crushed painfully together. Tursgud caught his breath in a gasp of agony and felt his knees buckle slightly. His eyes were very close to Thorn’s and for a second he could see a light of suppressed violence there.
    Then the light died and Thorn smiled at him, releasing his wrist and shoving him away so that he fell to his knees in the sand.
    “Now get out of here,” Thorn said quietly.
    Tursgud scrambled to his feet, nursing his bruised wrist. He half ran up the beach, followed by his surprised comrades. They had never seen him bested like this—and to have it done by a one-armed former drunk made it all the more disconcerting. When he was a safe distance away, Tursgud turned and spat his hatred back at Thorn.
    “You dirty old cripple!” he screamed. “You’ll pay for this!”
    Then he turned and ran, followed by his comrades.
    “You’re going to have to watch out for that one,” Thorn said.
    Hal shook his head wearily. “Why is he always so horrible? Why does he always want to pick a fight? I’ve never done anything to him! Why does he hate me?”
    Thorn regarded him seriously for a few seconds.
    “Because he fears you,” he replied.

chapter ten

    H al spent the night pondering Thorn’s words to him.
    Why would Tursgud be afraid of him? It didn’t make sense. Tursgud was much bigger and stronger than Hal, and much more popular. He had a wide circle of friends who sought his company eagerly. Hal, on the other hand, was something of an outcast among the other young people in Hallasholm. With the exception of Stig, of course.
    So why should Tursgud fear him? Hal had tried to quiz Thorn about it as they walked back to the eating house for the evening meal service but the old sea wolf had brushed his questions aside.
    “You’ll figure it out,” he said enigmatically.
    Hal was still wondering about it the next morning as he weatherproofed Heron for the duration of his brotherband training. The other boys had joined him at first light to help bring the neat little ship back to the creek, mooring her securely to the jetty. Then Stig, the twins and Ingvar had made their farewells. They all had family commitments on this last day before their training was due to begin.
    He carried the sails, yardarms and other loose fittings ashore, unshipping the steering oar and storing them out of the weather under the canvas shelter that they’d rigged when they were building the ship. Then he cut a long sapling, trimmed it of smaller branches and ran it lengthwise down the ship, supported on either end by two X-shaped frames. He secured another tarpaulin over the sapling, tying it down tightly every few meters of its length so that it formed a tent-shaped cover over the hull. That should keep the worst of the rain out of her, he thought.
    “You’ll have to bail her out every so often,” said a voice behind him. He turned and saw Thorn watching him. He had no idea how long he had been there—probably long enough to avoid helping him carry the gear ashore, he thought. It continued to surprise him how Thorn could move so quietly when he chose. In times past, he had blundered and stumbled noisily about Hallasholm, careering into buildings and people, knocking things over.
    Hal was tempted to ask him once more about what he had said the previous day. But he decided against it. If Thorn hadn’t wanted to expand on the statement then, there was little chance that he’d do so now. Instead, Hal pointed to the long bundle Thorn was carrying