The Outcasts by John Flanagan Page A

under his right arm. It looked like a seaman’s kitbag—a cylindrical canvas sack about a meter and a half long. It was obviously packed full of something.
    “What have you got there?” he asked.
    Thorn glanced down at it. “It’s for you.”
    Then he set the bag down without further explanation. Hal found that vaguely annoying. “It’s for you” didn’t really answer his question. But he knew that Thorn wouldn’t be prompted to explain until he was good and ready.
    “Are you just about finished there?” Thorn asked.
    Hal studied him curiously. Thorn boasted about the fact that he bathed and shaved once a month. Even if I don’t need it, he’d say. Yet he always seemed to be in exactly the same grubby, unshaven condition from one day to the next. Surely, Hal thought, there must be some days when he looked clean and tidy and shaven?
    “Stared at me long enough?” Thorn said brusquely. “Think you’ll know me next time you see me?”
    “Oh, sorry! Yes,” Hal said. He shook his head to dismiss the thought.
    “Good. Now if you’ve finished fiddling with your boat, come over here. I’ve got something I want to run through with you.”
    Mystified, Hal followed him to a level patch of ground, clear of wood chips, timber offcuts and shavings. Thorn turned to face him, studying him for a few seconds, then nodded, seeming to be satisfied with what he saw.
    “All right, shape up to me,” he commanded.
    Hal frowned at him. “Shape up to you?”
    Thorn nodded impatiently. “Yes! Shape up as if you’re going to hit me!”
    “Why would I want to hit you?”
    “Why would you want to hit me?” Thorn repeated quietly, shaking his head and looking to the sky as if seeking an answer there. “Let me put it this way,” he continued, bringing his gaze back to Hal. “Do you want to learn to fight or not?”
    “Well, yes,” Hal said awkwardly. “But …”
    He stopped, realizing that he didn’t want to voice the thought that had sprung to his mind. Thorn moved closer, his head tilted to one side, and fixed a fierce glare on the boy.
    “But maybe you think a broken-down tramp like me can’t show you anything about fighting?” he asked, an ominous note in his voice.
    Hal backed away a little, spreading his hands in a placatory gesture.
    “No! No! Of course not!” he said. But the embarrassed tone was enough to tell Thorn that, yes, that was exactly what he had been thinking.
    Hal wanted to learn how to fight. But he wasn’t sure that Thorn was the person he would pick to show him. For a start, Thorn only had one hand. And secondly, for years he’d been a figure of pity. Hal was fond of Thorn, certainly. But that was more because Thorn had been an enthusiastic supporter of Hal’s ideas in recent years, and always willing to help with his schemes. As a result, he saw Thorn more as a somewhat down-on-his-luck admirer than as any kind of mentor.
    “Maybe you think that I was always a hopeless cripple? That I was always like this?” Thorn brandished the scarred stump of his right arm. Hal could see now that he had offended his friend and he felt genuinely sorry for it. But still …
    “Of course not,” he began. Thorn didn’t let him continue.
    “You do know that I served in Erak’s crew before this happened!” He held up the truncated right arm again, shaking it in front of Hal’s startled face. “You do know that, don’t you?”
    “Of course I do,” Hal protested. He couldn’t prevent the unworthy thought but that was a long time ago sliding into his mind. Thorn seemed to read the thought and his eyes narrowed.
    “All right. I can see I’ll have to show you.” He stepped back to give Hal room and raised his left fist and the foreshortened stump of his right arm in a defensive posture. “Take a swing at me.”
    “Thorn, I don’t want to hit you,” Hal said awkwardly.
    Thorn gave a short bark of laughter. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to!”
    “Look, can’t we just forget this?”