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He patched a few leaks in the roof and several of the larger gaps in the walls. But the lean-to remained a dark and forbidding cavern, strewn with his clothes and belongings. And while his personal hygiene had improved somewhat, it still left a good deal to be desired.
    “I’m twelve times cleaner than I used to be,” he announced proudly.
    When Karina pointed out that this meant his bathing schedule had gone from once a year to once a month, which was nothing to really boast about, he muttered darkly, “I don’t get all that dirty. Baths are for them as is dirty.”
    From time to time, he felt the lure of the brandy keg, particularly on those nights when the pain throbbed in his missing hand. But he fought it and overcame it. He knew that Karina had given him a second chance and he knew that would be a one-time thing only. And as he fell into the routine of working round the inn, he realized that he could not afford to risk going back to his old ways.
    The work itself was satisfying—particularly to someone who had come to believe that his days of being useful were over. He cut wood for the fire, wielding the heavy ax with his left hand as if it were no more than a small hatchet. He looked after the ongoing maintenance jobs around the inn and, at the end of each day, he felt the satisfaction of having done a worthwhile job. Of being of value to someone.
    Perhaps this kind of menial work wasn’t as fulfilling as being a warrior. But it was a long way better than being a drunken, morose wreck.
    Best of all, he became part of Hal’s life as the boy grew older. He delighted in Hal’s enthusiasm and energy. And in his imagination and inventiveness. The boy had an affinity for tools, and a natural ability to work with wood. Thorn had been a capable carpenter himself at one stage. Of course, with a missing hand he was no longer able to carry out the fine detailed work he used to do. But he found that Erak had saved his old kit of tools and he presented them to the boy, then patiently taught him how to use each one—adze, chisels, knives, spoon-drills, planes and small shaping axes. With good tools of his own, and under Thorn’s tutelage, Hal’s natural ability grew into real skill.
    As a result, the old sea wolf became a willing accomplice in Hal’s constructions. The boy had become more than a skilled craftsman—he had an inventive streak that, to Thorn, bordered on genius.
    “He sees something in his mind, a new way to do something,” Thorn had said on more than one occasion. “Then he just makes it!”

chapter three

    “ P ass me another bucket, Thorn.”
    Hal was perched on a ladder in his mother’s kitchen, twisting sideways so that he could tip buckets of water into a large cask. He grunted as he took another full pail from the shabby old former sea wolf and lifted it above his shoulder height. As he did so, he noted with one corner of his mind that Thorn was hoisting the buckets up to him without any sign of effort, even though he had only one hand to work with.
    As the water splashed into the half-filled cask, there was an ominous groaning sound.
    Thorn frowned. “What was that?” he said suspiciously.
    Hal handed him down the empty bucket and made a dismissive gesture.
    “Nothing. Just the cask staves settling into place under the weight.”
    “I know how they feel,” said Stig, entering the kitchen with two more buckets that he had filled from the well in the yard outside the kitchen. “How many more of these will you need?”
    Stig was Hal’s best friend. As a matter of fact, aside from Thorn, he was Hal’s only real friend. The other Skandian boys tended to ostracize Hal, taunting him because of his mixed parentage, and because his mother was a former slave. But they never did so in Stig’s hearing. Stig was big and well muscled and was known to have an unpredictable temper. As a result, the others trod warily around him.
    There was another ominous creaking sound from the cask.
    “You’re