Scorpion Mountain (28 page)

chapter
forty-five

W
orking quickly, and with one eye on the oasis, the crew cleared the campsite of their personal possessions and loaded them back aboard the
Heron.
The ship was moored with her prow dug into the sand of the beach. A long stern line connected her to an anchor set in the bay offshore.

When the campsite was cleared of bedrolls, spare weapons and foodstuffs, Thorn gave the order for Jesper to untie the beach mooring line while Ingvar and Wulf hauled in on the stern hawser, dragging the little ship back into deeper water. When he was satisfied that there was sufficient distance between the ship and the beach, Thorn gestured for Ingvar and Wulf to tie off the line. The onshore wind held the ship in position, so that her bow remained facing the shore. Thorn checked her position and grunted with satisfaction.

“We'll have to reattach the line to the bow when the wind veers at sunset,” he said. “I want to keep the bow facing the beach.”

“Why?” Jesper asked. “We're safe enough here, no matter which way we're facing.”

Thorn regarded him patiently. “If the bow is pointing at the beach, so is the Mangler,” he said, and understanding dawned in Jesper's eyes.

“Oh. Of course,” he said. “I should have realized that.”

“Perhaps if you ever actually
thought
for a second or two before you spoke, you might occasionally realize the obvious,” Thorn said.

Lydia had remained for'ard, her eyes sweeping the oasis for any sign of their former attackers. But the
Ishti
were staying well under cover. They had seen the effect of her atlatl darts and, having no idea as to the actual range of the weapon, deemed it prudent not to expose themselves to further attacks. From time to time, she glimpsed a brief sign of movement within the trees. She had no doubt that the enemy was watching them, waiting for a chance to make another move.

She'd been surveying the trees for over an hour, slumped comfortably in a patch of shade against the mast. Her constant focus was eventually rewarded.

She heard a faint thud of hoofbeats on the sand—a large number of hoofbeats. And, rising above the trees of the oasis, she saw a drifting cloud of dust. Putting the two facts together, she called to Thorn.

“Reinforcements! There are more horsemen in the oasis now.”

The shabby old warrior had been napping in the rowing well, out of the sun. He wished Hal hadn't needed the canvas awning they used as a sun shelter on board the ship while she was at anchor, but it was the only material Hal could use as a sail for the land sailer. He rose now, buckling his belt and moving forward.

Not for the first time, Lydia wondered how such a bulky man could move so quietly when he chose to. He dropped to one knee beside her and she pointed at the oasis. The cloud of dust was dissipating now but it was still evident.

“They just rode in,” she explained. “You can see the dust cloud they raised and I could hear their hoofbeats.”

“Hmmm,” said Thorn thoughtfully, tugging at the shaggy edge of his beard. “Any idea how many?”

She hesitated. “Quite a few,” she said eventually. “More than a dozen, less than a hundred. But I'm only guessing there,” she added.

Thorn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He had great respect for her tracking and observation skills. “Your guesses are usually pretty good,” he said idly and, once again, she looked at him in some surprise. It always took her unawares when Thorn praised her. “Wonder what they're up to?” he asked.

The question was a rhetorical one, but Lydia answered nonetheless. “Want me to go take a look?” she asked. She pointed to a spit of rocks that jutted out from the beach about fifty meters to the south of the abandoned campsite. “I could swim to those rocks, then use them as cover to get to the oasis. Once I'm inside the tree line, there's plenty of cover I could use.”

Thorn hesitated. All his instincts said it was a good idea. A commander needed all the information he could get in a situation like this—particularly when his forces were outnumbered. On the other hand, he'd be sending Lydia into considerable danger if he agreed to her suggestion, and he was loath to do that. He was genuinely fond of the girl.

Lydia, of course, misinterpreted the reason for his hesitation.

“I can do it, you know!” she said with some heat. “Even if I am just a girl.”

Absently, he patted her wrist with his left hand as he strained his eyes toward the oasis, trying to pierce the dense screen of trees that hid the enemy from sight.

“I know you can. And better than anyone else, with the possible exception of Jesper.” Jesper, of course, was a former thief and was highly skilled in the art of moving without being seen. At one stage, Thorn had heard someone say Jesper could slip between two raindrops and use them as cover.

“Well then?” Lydia said, a little mollified by his admission—although she didn't believe Jesper could do the job any better than she.

“It's . . . dangerous,” Thorn said eventually. “We don't know where they are. We don't know how many of them there are. And we don't know what they're up to.”

Lydia rolled her eyes at him when he said the word
dangerous.

“All good reasons why I should go and take a look,” she said. “As for dangerous, would that affect your thinking if Jesper volunteered to take a look?”

“Jesper hasn't volunteered,” Thorn pointed out.

She sniffed disdainfully. “And you could grow old and gray waiting for him to do so.”

Thorn smiled to himself, deciding not to point out that he was already old and gray. “True. But in Jesper's case, the fact that it's dangerous might influence me to send him.”

She smiled in return, then the smile faded and she held up a hand for silence. From the oasis, they could hear a sudden noise—like metal striking wood.

“Are they hammering something?” Thorn asked.

Lydia didn't answer for a second or two. Then she pointed to where one of the tall bamboo trees was visible above the other trees. As they watched, it slid sideways and fell from their sight.

“They're chopping,” she said. “They're chopping down trees.”

Thorn nodded slowly. She was right. That was what they were doing. The next question was, why were they doing it?

“All right,” he said. “Go take a look. But for pity's sake, be careful. I don't want to have to tell Hal that I've let you get yourself taken prisoner.”

She laughed derisively. “You won't be letting me be taken,” she said. “And I certainly have no plans to do it myself.”

She unbuckled her belt and shrugged off her heavy, waist-length jerkin. Then she kicked her sealskin boots off as well, leaving herself barefoot and wearing only her light linen shirt and trousers.

“Go in over the stern,” Thorn told her, “on the side away from the beach. Then swim underwater as far as you can. That way, if they're watching the ship, they may not see you go.” She nodded, unclipping her atlatl from the belt, then re-donning it, so that her long, razor-sharp dirk hung by her side.

The other crew members became aware of her preparations. Ingvar approached her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and she smiled at him.

“I'm going to see what the enemy are up to.”

Ingvar began to shed his own outer jacket. “I'll come with you,” he said immediately.

Lydia laughed out loud, laying a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Ingvar, I love you dearly,” she said. “But you're simply not built for sneaking around and staying unnoticed. You're a very noticeable person.”

He stopped, his face a mask of concern. “But if anything happens to you. If they catch you—”

She cut him off. “I don't plan on letting anyone catch me,” she said. “But if anyone does, I'll feel a lot better knowing you're here to come and fetch me.”

He paused, and looked steadily at her. “Count on it,” he said.

She patted his arm again, then turned toward the stern bulwark.

“Now give me a hand over the side,” she said.

• • • • •

Ranulf bin Shellah, the leader of the squad of fifty, crouched inside the tree line of the oasis and studied the enemy ship, sitting serenely on its own inverted reflection, fifty meters offshore. It might as well be fifty leagues, he thought bitterly.

He had sent fifteen men ahead to observe and make sure the foreigners didn't escape. Now the leader of those fifteen was gone—dragged by his horse out into the desert and probably dead—two other men were dead and three were badly wounded.

He was told of their failed attack on the campsite, and the unexpected barrier of thorns that prevented their breaking through the defenses. Now the ship floated defiantly, just out of his reach. Occasionally, he could see men moving on the deck, but for the most part there was no sign of life aboard her. He cursed the impulsive leader of his advance party, who had given away the advantage of surprise and made the enemy aware of their presence. At least, he thought, they would have no idea that the advance party had been reinforced. That could work to his advantage.

If only he could think of a way to reach that insolent vessel floating offshore.

He rolled onto his back, looking up into the trees, seeking inspiration. Then it came to him and he crawled back away from the edge of the tree line, into the main section of the oasis itself. He beckoned to his second in command and, when the man came to him, he pointed to the bamboo grove.

“Cut down trees,” he said. “A lot of trees.”

His subordinate touched his mouth, forehead and mouth in the strangely graceful gesture of greeting or acquiescence.

“Yes, Captain,” he said. “And what shall we do with these trees?”

“We're going to use them to attack the foreign ship,” Ranulf told him.

chapter
forty-six

S
lowly, keeping his bow half drawn and aimed at the group of red-clad men, Gilan began to move sideways toward the exit.

“Weapons ready, lads,” he said in a quiet voice, and Hal and Stig moved in concert with him, ax and sword raised and leveled at the men watching them. Hal stumbled on something and, glancing down, saw that it was the Shurmel's staff. On an impulse, he stooped and picked it up, holding it behind him and masking it with his body to keep the action as unobtrusive as he could. All eyes in the room were on Gilan, and there was no sign that anyone had noticed what he had done.

The assassins moved a pace forward as the three interlopers reached the entrance. Gilan drew the arrow back a few centimeters and sought the eye of the man he had picked as the heir apparent to the Shurmel. He raised an eyebrow in warning.

“If they move,” he said calmly, “you'll be the first one to die.”

Taluf made a negative sideways gesture in the air and turned to his companions.

“Let them go,” he ordered. “We have no further business with them.”

Gilan breathed a silent prayer of thanks for overweening ambition. Still facing the fifty-odd men, he slipped backward out of the room into the rock-walled corridor. Stig and Hal followed him and they made their way back toward the ramp that led to the lower levels. Instinctively, they began to move faster and faster, until they were almost running. But Gilan held up a hand to slow them down. He was walking half-backward, watching the entrance to the gallery where he had confronted the Shurmel. So far, there was no sign of anyone trying to follow them, although he could hear the muted sound of Taluf's voice as he addressed his peers.

“Don't run,” he cautioned them. “If they think we're running, they may come after us.”

“So far, it's been easy,” Stig said cheerfully, and Gilan turned a baleful eye on him.

“We're not out of here yet,” he said. But as they reached the downward ramp and began to make their way down to ground level, there was still no sign or sound of any pursuit.

“I think we may have pulled it off,” Hal said.

Gilan turned a mirthless grin on him. “What do you mean, ‘we'?”

Hal nodded in acquiescence. “I stand corrected.”

For the first time, Gilan noticed that Hal was carrying the Shurmel's scorpion staff. “What are you doing with that?” he asked.

Hal shrugged. “Thought it'd make a good souvenir.”

Gilan shook his head. “It's the ugliest souvenir I've ever seen,” he declared, and Hal smiled tolerantly.

“You've never seen our Oberjarl's stash of goodies,” he said. “Some of the stuff he considers fine art would make a connoisseur throw up.”

They reached the ground level and still there was no sign of any pursuit. Gilan guessed that the scar-faced man was too busy affirming his position of authority over the others to bother with such a thing. The three foreigners had been the concern of the Shurmel. Now there was a new man in charge and he was happy to divest himself of all his predecessor's problems.

There were several members of the
Ishti
idling around in the open space outside the cavern entrance. They glanced curiously at the three foreigners, but there was no sign of any antagonism.

“I think we can put our weapons away now,” Gilan said, and the others complied. “Just keep that scorpion on a stick out of sight, will you? They might not take kindly to our walking off with it.”

Hal grinned. He took off his
kheffiyeh
and wrapped the carved scorpion in it, concealing the staff's identity. Glancing round the open space, he saw the land sailer off to one side, its sail lowered and furled loosely along the boom. He started toward it but Gilan clicked his fingers, gesturing for him to stop. The Ranger then pointed a finger at one of the watching
Ishti.

“You,” he said. “Fetch our vehicle. The Shurmel has ordered it.”

The soldier looked at him curiously for several seconds. He knew the three strangers had been in conference with the Shurmel and the members of the cult. Now they had obviously been released. It wasn't for him to question the Shurmel's orders. Beckoning to two of the other
Ishti,
he made his way across the parade ground to where the land sailer was standing. Carefully, taking pains not to damage the spindly vehicle, they began to push it to where the three waited. The loosely furled sail jerked back and forth as the wind caught it. Hal noted the movement with approval.

“Still a good breeze blowing,” he said. “That should help us on our way.”

Stig was looking curiously at the Ranger. “What was the point of that?” he asked, then elaborated, “Of making them fetch the land sailer for us.”

A slight grin touched Gilan's features. “Always assume authority,” he said. “It makes it easier for people like this to obey you. If we'd gone across and started raising the sail, they might have felt it necessary to ask what we were doing. Then they might have sent someone to check that we were allowed to leave. This way, they assume we have permission.”

Stig nodded thoughtfully. “You're a cunning fellow at heart, aren't you?”

Gilan thought about the question for a second or two, then nodded. “I try to be,” he said.

The nomads pushed the land sailer into position beside them. Hal checked the fittings and rigging briefly, making sure nobody had tampered with them while they had been kept waiting. Everything seemed fine so he seized the halyard and began to raise the sail. Stig lent a hand and the big triangle of canvas went up the mast in a series of swoops. As it was unfurled, it swung into the wind, setting the rigging creaking and the canvas flapping. Hal judged that it was sitting at a good angle to the wind and he wouldn't need the others to shove off. He stashed the concealed scorpion staff along the central spar of the sailer, then gestured for the others to board.

“Hold on,” he said, then hauled in on the mainsheet, tightening the sail so that it bellied out with the familiar
whoomph!
of trapped wind. The wheels began to turn slowly, the axles creaking a protest.

There was the usual vibration of the wheels passing over the uneven ground, then the speed began to build up and the movement became smoother. Hal hauled on the tiller ropes and swung the land sailer toward the open desert. He glanced over his shoulder.

There was no sign of any of the red-robed Scorpions. But the
Ishti
who were assembled on the parade ground watched the sailer's progress with interest. It was a novel sight, a spidery, wheeled machine slipping across the desert with no apparent means of propulsion.

The speed built up until they were moving as fast as a horse could canter. The rumbling and rattling of the wheels on the ground settled into a constant low-pitched roar, and the familiar rooster tail of dust rose into the air behind them.

“I think we're in the clear,” Hal said. He was craning round to look astern and he could see no sign of an alarm being raised. The
Ishti
troops had gone back to whatever they had been doing before the three foreigners had appeared. He glanced quickly at the sun for direction and brought the land sailer round on a course for the coast. The wheels roared and the frame of the vehicle flexed over the rough ground. Hal let his body move to the rhythm of the land sailer. From time to time, he would call a warning for the others to hold tight, and alter course to avoid the larger outcrops of rocks that dotted the terrain, or to steer round a gully or depression that seemed too large for the vehicle to negotiate.

They were running with the wind on their beam and he changed tack regularly, maintaining a base course back to the oasis and the ship. He felt a growing anxiety for the
Heron
's safety now that they were clear of the Scorpions' lair. Fifty men, the Shurmel had said. Fifty men sent to destroy or sink the ship. And they'd be faced by a mere half dozen defenders. He glanced up at the sail, tightened the sheet a little and felt the upwind wheel begin to lift from the ground.

“Stig!” he called and his friend edged out along the outrigger, moving his weight outboard so that the errant wheel came down again, skimming the rough ground beneath it.

“Thorn won't let the
Heron
come to any harm,” the muscular first mate called to him, sensing the reason for Hal's increasing the speed. Hal nodded, his expression masked by the
kheffiyeh.
After a couple of kilometers, he had brought the sailer to a halt and recovered his headdress, wrapping it firmly around his nose and mouth to protect his face from the flying dust and grit thrown up by the wheels of the land sailer. Reason told him that the
Heron
was in safe hands, with Thorn in charge. The old sea wolf wouldn't let himself be surprised by a band of desert nomads. He was too wily a campaigner for that.

But reason was one thing. Emotion was another, and Hal knew this gut-churning anxiety would be with him until he was striding the
Heron
's decks once more, back in command.

They ran on throughout the afternoon. Every hour, Hal would bring the sailer to a halt and they would get off to stretch cramped muscles and limbs. The constant need to hold on and balance the vehicle's movements left them tired and aching. After the second of these stops, Hal had a small inspiration and suggested that the two outriders should change sides each time they stopped. That brought fresh muscles into play in the effort to balance the little vehicle. Gilan and Stig reacted gratefully. For Hal, of course, there was no respite from the constant strain.

The grinding rumble of the wheels and axles, the creaking of the rigging and the groans from the frame as it flexed over the rough ground began to encapsulate their existence. The kilometers rolled under the wheels as the sun began to sink lower to the horizon in the west.

The shadows lengthened and it became increasingly difficult to make out the features of the land around them. Rocks and dry runnels in the desert became more difficult to make out with the low angle light, and on several occasions Hal had to shout a warning as he hauled the steering lines over at the last minute to avoid an obstacle. He became obsessed with the idea that he might shatter one of the wheels against a rock or in a gully. If that were to happen, they would be stranded. As the thought came to him, he berated himself for not loading a spare wheel onto the sailer. There had been several available when he'd stripped the old chariots.

“Look out! Go starboard!” Stig's shout dragged him out of his daydreaming. He heaved on the tiller, loosening the sheet, and the land sailer swung violently to port, barely missing the edge of a dried wadi that had loomed out of the late afternoon shadows into their path.

His heart pounding with panic, Hal let the sheet fly and allowed the way to run off the land sailer. Slowly, it lost speed, the roar of its wheels changing back to a series of dull bumps and thuds. Finally, it came to a stop facing the wind, with the sail and the boom slapping back and forth to either side.

“That was close,” Gilan said. There was no sign of rebuke in his voice. He realized what a difficult task it must be to continue steering and controlling the sailer over this rough terrain in the failing light. All in all, he thought, Hal was doing a superb job.

The skirl slumped now in his seat, the sheet and tiller ropes lying loose in his lap. He pulled the
kheffiyeh
aside and pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.

“Sorry,” he said. “I just didn't see it. Good work, Stig.”

Stig shook his head. “You're the one doing all the work. And it's getting tougher and tougher to see where we're going in this light. You must be exhausted.”

Hal managed a tired grin. “I must admit, getting a faceful of dust and pebbles is a little different from the occasional bucketful of spray coming over the bows. Not half as invigorating.” For the first time, he realized how tired he was. He glanced up at his first mate. “Do you want to take over for a while?” he said, but Stig shook his head immediately.

“Not me!” he said vigorously. “You've got the knack with this mad creation of yours. I wouldn't have the same feel for it.”

Hal nodded. He realized that Stig was right. Perhaps he should have allowed the bigger youth to spell him earlier and get the feeling for the land sailer. But then, he realized, they'd been in a hurry both coming and going. There hadn't been time for Stig to acclimatize himself to the controls.

“We'll push on slowly for a few more kilometers,” he said. Then we're going to have to camp for the night. I can't risk traveling once the light's gone. It'd be too easy to wreck the sailer.” He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain there. The land sailer was facing dead into the wind and they'd need to push her round. He gestured in the direction he wanted her turned.

“Push her round to port and we'll get going,” he said.