Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Hal’s mind was racing, vague possibilities forming in his brain. He felt the old familiar rush of excitement as an idea hovered, not fully formed yet just out of reach.

  “I suppose not,” Hal said distractedly. He thought for several seconds, then spoke again. “Ingvar, give me a day or two before you decide, all right?”

  “I’ve already decided, Hal. But I’ll give you a day or two before I tell the others.”

  Hal patted the boy’s massive hand. “That’s fine,” he said. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Are you hoping to change my mind? It won’t happen.”

  “We’ll see,” Hal said.

  Ingvar snorted softly. “I doubt it,” he said. “That’s the problem, after all.”

  chapter eight

  The following day, Hal remained in his room, speaking to nobody, having his meals brought to him. The crew wondered what he was up to and several asked Stig, assuming that he’d know.

  The young warrior simply shrugged. “I have no idea what he’s doing,” he told them. “He gets like this when he’s planning something.”

  There was one exception to this isolation. Stig, Thorn and Hal had a further meeting with the King and the two Rangers. As Crowley and Gilan had predicted, Duncan reluctantly agreed to Gilan’s plan of action.

  “I suppose you know best how to handle a situation like this,” he told the tall young Ranger. “But if you need any extra force, ask Selethen to provide it.”

  “I will, my lord,” Gilan replied, smiling. “But I’m sure that between us, the Heron’s crew and I can handle things. We did pretty well in Socorro, after all. Isn’t that right, Hal?” He smiled at the young skirl sitting beside him.

  Hal seemed to start awake. His mind was miles away. “Eh? Yes. Fine, I’m sure.”

  Thorn frowned, wondering what was distracting his friend.

  “So, when do you plan to get under way?” Duncan addressed the question to Hal. Once again, the skirl needed a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “What? Oh, sorry. I’ve got something on my mind. Let’s see, we’ll need to provision the ship. It’s a long voyage, after all. That’ll take a day or so.”

  They had restocked the ship in Cresthaven, but it was always wise to top up their store of perishables like fresh vegetables, bread and water at every opportunity. He continued, his mind now on the question of getting Heron back to sea. The river that ran past Castle Araluen was tidal and that would influence his decision. He didn’t want to have the crew rowing against the tide. Or to leave in the dark.

  “I’d like to go out in daylight, and with the ebbing tide. That means . . .” He thought about it. A good skirl was always aware of tide timetables. You never knew when you might want to leave in a hurry, after all. “The day after tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Stig smiled. “That’s ideal.”

  Thorn turned an inquisitive eye on him. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Princess Cassandra has invited us on a hunt tomorrow,” Stig said. “I think she wants to see Lydia in action with the atlatl.”

  Duncan inclined his head thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t mind seeing that myself,” he said. “I might join you.”

  “What do you say, Hal?” Stig urged his friend. “Would you like to get a little hunting in?”

  But again Hal’s mind was miles away. Stig prompted him sharply. “Hal? What do you say?”

  Hal looked at his first mate, frowning. “About what?” he asked and Stig explained, speaking slowly and carefully, making sure he had Hal’s attention.

  “A hunt. We’re . . . going . . . on . . . a . . . hunt . . . tomorrow. You could use your crossbow.”

  “Oh. No. Not me. I’ve got something I have to work on,” Hal replied.

  Stig spread his hands in a helpless gesture and smiled at the King. “He’s not always as vague as this. Sometimes, you’d swear he was almost intelligent.”

  Duncan nodded knowingly. “I suppose a skipper has a lot on his mind before a long voyage.”

  Stig nodded, unconvinced. “Yes. I suppose that’s it.”

  • • • • •

  So, while the others prepared for the hunt, Hal remained in his room. Stig made one further attempt to persuade him to join them. He knocked on the door to Hal’s room, heard no reply and went in anyway.

  Hal was standing by the window, holding a sheet of parchment close to his face. There was a long, narrow slit in the parchment. He was totally unaware that Stig had entered. For a few seconds, he peered at the slit parchment, then threw it down in disgust.

  “No. That won’t do. Too floppy.”

  “Too floppy for what?” Stig asked cheerfully.

  Hal looked round, startled to see him. “Oh . . . just something I’m working on. But it’s got to be more rigid.”

  “I’m sure it has,” Stig agreed. “Rigid is always better.”

  Hal didn’t seem to notice the irony in his friend’s tone. “Yes. I need something else. Something thin like parchment but not as floppy.”

  “Floppy is definitely not what you want,” Stig agreed. But again, Hal appeared to take no notice. Finally, his patience exhausted, Stig said forcefully, “Hal! Snap out of it!”

  “Eh? What’s wrong, Stig? What do you want?” Hal was obviously irritable—irritable and distracted. Stig had seen it before.

  “Are you coming on Princess Cassandra’s hunt? We’re leaving in an hour.”

  Hal shook his head. “No. I’m busy. But you go, by all means.”

  “I planned to,” Stig said, rolling his eyes. And Hal nodded several times, reaching down to finger the slit sheet of parchment, holding it up, then putting it down again.

  “Yes. Fine. Have fun. Catch a fish for me.”

  “We’re hunting. Not fishing,” Stig said.

  “Oh, well, good. Then best if you don’t catch a fish,” Hal said.

  Stig raised his eyes to heaven. “Maybe we’ll catch a dragon in a tadpole net.”

  “If you say so,” Hal replied.

  Stig sighed heavily, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Have a good time,” Hal said. Then he looked up and realized Stig had gone. “Oh . . . where did you go? Well, never mind.”

  He tapped the sheet of parchment once more, then angrily shoved it aside. It fluttered off the table, caught the breeze from the window and settled gently to the floor, sideslipping back and forth as it descended.

  He propped his feet up on the table and sat for several minutes, his fingers steepled under his chin, lost in his thoughts. Then a tap at the door distracted him. He looked at the door irritably.

  “What is it?” he called. Then he added, “Come in.”

  The door opened to admit one of the serving girls, bearing a tray with a pot of coffee and a cup on it. There were also several of the sweet cakes he had grown to enjoy. She stood just inside the door, hesitating at his tone. Hal realized it wasn’t fair snapping at a servant.

  “Come in,” he said in a more friendly voice. “That looks terrific. Set it over here on the table.”

  The girl moved quickly across the room, glancing at him surreptitiously. She’d always heard that Skandians were big and loud and hairy—and a little frightening. But this young man was slim and well built. Generally, he spoke quietly . . . and he was very handsome, she thought.

  She set the tray down and indicated the coffeepot.

  “Shall I pour you a cup?” she asked. He smiled at her. Very handsome indeed, she thought. And he was a ship’s captain, and so young.

  “You’d better watch the cup,” he said, smiling.

  She realized she’d been about to pour the coffee on the table, as she was looking at him. She flushed and lowered her eyes to the task in hand. He took his feet off the table to give her room, then frowned as he noticed the
amulet she was wearing. He waited till she set the pot down, then pointed to it.

  “What’s that?”

  She was puzzled for a moment. She donned the amulet every morning as a matter of habit. As a result, she was unaware that she was wearing it now and it took a few seconds for her to realize what he was talking about. She looked down, then held it out so he could inspect it more closely.

  “It’s just an amulet,” she said. “It’s not very costly but my dad gave it to me and he’s dead now, so it’s precious to me.”

  “May I see it?” Hal asked. He held out his hand.

  She hesitated, reluctant to give him the piece of jewelry. He might be young and handsome, but he was a Skandian, after all. And Skandians had a reputation for liberating jewelry. She’d heard the other servants talking about another one of the Heron crew, who delighted in removing their bangles, necklaces and even earrings without their noticing. Then, he would return the purloined article with a beaming smile. But this young man had an honest face, she thought. So she shrugged the suspicion aside and handed it to him, passing the leather thong over her neck.

  Hal frowned as he studied the pendant itself. It was a thin, light material. Some kind of shell. It was exactly what he was looking for.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s just tortoiseshell. It’s not worth much. It’s not precious or anything.”

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “Where would I get something like this?”

  She shrugged. “There’s a jeweler in the village across the river. He’d have supplies of it. He makes a lot of cheap jewelry for the villagers.”

  Hal handed her back the amulet and a smile lit up his face. Her heart missed a beat or two and she curtsied, feeling the warmth rise up in her cheeks.

  “How do I find him?” he asked and she made a deprecating gesture.

  “He’s right on the main street. His name is Geoffrey. Geoffrey the goldsmith.”

  “I suppose that sounds better than Geoffrey the tortoiseshell smith,” Hal said and she smiled and giggled. She was glad she had been assigned to look after the ship’s captain.

  Hal rose from his chair. It was apparent that he was planning to go out and she gestured to the coffee tray.

  “Did you want more coffee?” she said, although in truth he hadn’t drunk any. He’d become engrossed with her amulet before he could do so. He looked at the tray in surprise, as if seeing it for the first time.

  “Eh? Oh, no thanks. Sorry you bothered with it. You may as well take it away.” He paused, then held up a hand to stop her and scooped three of the cakes off the plate. “I’ll take these, however. Geoffrey, you said his name was?”

  “That’s right, sir. Although I’m not sure he’ll want any cakes.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll be getting any,” Hal told her, and crammed one of them into his mouth, smiling blissfully at the sweet honey taste as it spread across his taste buds. “Thank you . . .” He hesitated, realizing he didn’t know her name.

  She supplied it, and curtsied quickly again. “Milly, sir.”

  “Well, thank you, Milly. And never mind the ‘sir.’ My name is Hal.”

  She smiled at him. She was pretty, he realized, and the smile really lit up her features.

  “I’ll remember that, sir. I mean . . . Hal,” she said. Then, blushing again, she preceded him to the door, balancing the tray with the ease of long practice.

  chapter nine

  Hal was whistling cheerfully as he strode through the landscaped parkland in front of the castle, heading for the river and the village. He thought he could see a way to solve Ingvar’s problem, or at least alleviate it. The stumbling block had been finding the right material for what he had in mind, and Milly’s necklace had provided the answer to that.

  Preoccupied with his thoughts, he didn’t notice the sentries at the outer end of the drawbridge as they came to attention when he passed. One of them, an older man, shook his head and spoke lugubriously to his companion.

  “Still seems odd to salute Skandians. I recall when we used to salute them with a shower of rocks and a cauldron of hot oil. Somehow, that seemed more fitting.”

  His companion was a younger man who hadn’t known the old days, when Skandian raiders were regarded with fear and suspicion the length and breadth of Araluen.

  “Still, it was a Skandian who helped save the life of Princess Cassandra on her wedding day, wasn’t it?” the younger sentry said.

  The older man snorted. “That may be. But saving one princess hardly makes up for centuries of raiding and looting, does it?”

  “I bet it does if you’re the princess.” The younger man smiled, but his senior refused to concede the point.

  “Well, I’m not, am I?” he said truculently.

  “No, you’re not. You don’t have the legs for it.” The older guard’s legs were noticeably bowed. “Long and shapely, hers are.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful!” snapped the older man.

  The young sentry shrugged. “No disrespect to the princess in admiring her looks.”

  “I don’t mean her. I mean me!”

  They continued their idle bickering as Hal strode across the neatly mown grass of the castle park. It was soft and springy underfoot. The mowers had been out that morning with their scythes, and the smell of newly cut grass was strong in his nostrils. He enjoyed the sensation. It was such a . . . land-bound smell, he thought. He was more used to the fresh salt air of the sea, but this made a pleasant change.

  A fifteen-minute walk took him to the bridge that spanned the river. The last fifty meters were through the dim, cool shade of the forest. Then he was on the bridge itself, pausing to look at the Heron, moored alongside the landing stage. Edvin was on board, supervising a group of locals who were carrying small casks and nets of fruit and vegetables onto the ship. Edvin looked up, saw his skirl watching and waved a hand. Hal returned the greeting before continuing on his way. He could never resist an opportunity to stop and admire his ship when he came upon her like this. He felt a deep surge of pride when he studied her clean lines. She was his, totally, and he felt a pride not just of ownership but of creation. He had helped build her in the first place, when she was intended as a pleasure craft for a retired sea wolf. Then Hal supervised the re-rigging after her owner died unexpectedly and the opportunity arose to buy the hull cheaply from Anders, the senior shipbuilder in Hallasholm.

  As he crossed the bridge, he noticed that its center section was removable. If the village came under attack, the inhabitants could retreat to the safety of the castle, removing the middle section of the bridge to slow down their attackers. He sighed softly to himself. The castle, and its parks and gardens and woodlands, were all beautiful and peaceful. But that could change in a moment, he knew. They were living in potentially dangerous times, and it was wise to take precautions in case that potential became a reality.

  A hundred meters from the bridge, the path he was following widened and formed into the main street of the village. Shops, craftsmen’s workshops and private homes lined either side. They were a mixture of building styles. Some were the wattle-and-daub construction he’d seen in Cresthaven village. Others were more substantial buildings, constructed of logs, reminding him of the houses in Hallasholm. And finally, there were others made from sawn timber. They all shared the same form of roof—a sweeping pitched roof made from thatch, with the straw bundled tightly to repel rain. The eaves swept down low, so that they ended below head height. A visitor had to stoop to enter one of the doors.

  It was a neat village, well planned and well maintained, without the accumulation of rubbish that so often spoilt the appearance of places like this. There was a fresh smell of wood smoke, and as he proceeded down the main street, another smell became apparent.

  It was the mouthwatering smell of roasting meat—meat that had obviously been spiced and seasoned before i
t was placed over the glowing coals of a fire. He looked to one side and saw a building, larger than its neighbors, with a covered verandah facing onto the street, furnished with half a dozen tables and chairs. A dark-haired woman was sitting at one of them. Judging by her apron and the flour on her hands and arms, she was the cook. She became aware of his scrutiny and smiled a greeting.

  He nodded in return and continued moving, studying the buildings either side for sign of the jeweler’s workshop.

  He spotted it without any trouble. The house had a solid timber door, reinforced with iron bands. And a sign hung over it, depicting a yellow vertical half circle—the common symbol for gold. He walked to the door, raised the heavy knocker and brought it down onto the iron striker plate several times.

  There were no windows either side of the door. He assumed this was for security purposes. The occupant would almost certainly have stocks of gold, silver and precious stones on the premises and it would be foolish to make entry to the house too easy.

  He reached for the knocker again, but stopped as he made out the sound of shuffling footsteps inside the house.

  There was the rattle of a bolt on the other side of the door but, instead of the door opening, a carefully fitted panel swung open in the door at eye height. Framed inside it, he could see a portion of a face, and two rheumy blue eyes staring out at him.

  “What do you want?”

  The voice was old, but firm. And it was decidedly unwelcoming. Hal assumed that a jeweler would be suspicious of any stranger—and particularly if that stranger happened to be dressed as a Skandian. He smiled at the thought. A mistake, he realized.

  “What are you smirking at? Who are you and what d’you want?”

  The tone was quite peremptory now. Hal hurriedly rearranged his features and did his best to look ingenuous—although exactly how that might be accomplished, he wasn’t quite sure.

  “I’m Hal Mikkelson,” he began. “I wanted—”