The other boys stood on the beach, watching the unfolding events like seagulls waiting for scraps of meat. Lorcan trailed after Gunnar, gaze downcast. He didn’t dare look at Valdemar as they passed each other; the disappointment on the man’s face would be too much to bear. As they walked, the blonde boy nudged him — the jostle was subtle enough to go unnoticed by onlookers, but it made Lorcan stumble over his feet in the sand. He righted himself, face flaming. Surely they would be given a chance to explain themselves? Lorcan hadn’t been doing anything wrong by fiddling with the boat latch installation. In fact, he had been trying to protect the boats rather than destroy them.
Gunnar led them into a wooden shed hidden behind a line of trees. The wood was rotting in the salty sea spray, nails peeling away from the support beams. It smelled strongly of fish.
Gunnar pointed at two makeshift chairs. “You two. Sit. Now.”
“Sir,” Lorcan tried again.
Gunnar silenced him with a stern finger. “I know that strategists don’t receive the same level of discipline training as soldiers,” he said. “But that is no excuse to act out.”
Irritation rose in Lorcan’s gut. If Gunnar simply shut up for half a minute and let them speak — but no, they were being made a spectacle of before the other boys. They were being turned into an example. ‘Don’t be like Lorcan,’ the tales would say in a few weeks’ time. ‘He ignored direct orders and was thrown to the wolves as punishment.’ Lorcan doubted they would actually send him into a wolf’s cave, although they would likely be forced to do another menial task, like clean and wash all the snapper racks. Melbourne boats each had snapper racks so they could double as fishing boats. All of them. It would take weeks to clean them all. Although, he supposed, at least he would build some muscle while doing so.
He crossed his arms and slouched back in the seat. If they wanted to brand him a villain, perhaps he would become one.