Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  “There’s a ship, Sergeant Major, approaching the beach. Looks like the corsairs’ galley.”

  “Well, I know that,” the sergeant major replied. “I told you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major,” the hapless sentry replied. There was no other possible answer.

  The sergeant major nodded several times. “But were you planning on reporting the other ship as well?”

  And, a moment before he said it, Butrus was aware of a smaller ship emerging from the darkness, thirty or so meters astern of the galley.

  “There are two ships, Sergeant Major,” he said miserably.

  The grizzled veteran stared hard at him, shaking his head scornfully. What was the army coming to, he wondered.

  “Idiot,” he said. “Go and wake the captain. Tell him there are two ships here. I assume it is only two ships?” he added sarcastically.

  Butrus actually leaned forward to peer into the darkness again. “Yes, sir. Two ships. Just two.”

  The sergeant snorted derisively and started to head down the beach toward the spot where the ships would run ashore. Butrus hesitated a moment, then set off at a run toward the captain’s small tent, his equipment and mail armor jingling in time with his hurried footsteps.

  • • • • •

  “Stop rowing. In oars,” Hal called down the companionway. On the deck below him, he heard Thorn repeat the order and the long ash-wood oars rose up from the water to lie parallel to the surface for a count of three. Then, with a slithering clatter of wood on wood, they slid inboard to be stowed.

  Ishtfana, with way still upon her, glided the last twenty meters in to the beach, her bow nudging into the coarse sand. Hal glanced over his shoulder and saw Heron slipping alongside, to ground her own bow five meters away.

  He tied off the spare oar they had rigged as a makeshift tiller and nodded to Selethen. “Let’s get your men on board.”

  The tall Wakir was already striding forward to where the bow of the ship rested on dry land. Hal followed him, seeing a small group of men standing on the beach ready to greet their leader. Farther up the beach, he could see dark shapes stirring as the junior officers woke their squads preparatory to boarding the ship.

  Hal slipped down the aft companionway and looked along the twin line of rowers. Small lanterns at bow and stern cast an uncertain light over them but he could see more than half of the men were clean and clad in fresh clothes. On the trip to pick up Selethen’s men, he had allowed groups of five to clean themselves and take new clothes from the corsairs’ quarters in the bow. He had also allowed them to eat—food from the corsairs’ supplies, not the vile muck that had been kept for them as slaves. Edvin, who had finished patching up the rest of the injured men, had supervised them, making sure they didn’t eat too much, too fast. A sudden excess of rich food after months of near starvation could make them violently ill.

  “Thank you,” Hal called along the lines of rowers. “Just a few more hours and you never need to touch an oar again.”

  Hal couldn’t resist a smile as he looked at the men on the rowing benches. For months they had spent their time clad only in filthy loincloths. Occasionally, the crew would “bathe” them by hurling buckets of water over them as they sat chained to their oars. Now those who had already cleaned themselves up, washing in buckets of seawater on the main deck, were dressed in the corsairs’ finest clothes, and as has been noted, the Hellenese pirates tended toward the flamboyant when it came to fashion. The rowing benches now were a mass of scarlet, yellow and bright blue silks and satins. Shirts with ridiculously wide sleeves gathered at the wrist were very much the order of the day. Hal doubted if anyone had ever seen such an exotic group of rowers. He shook his head and made his way back to the main deck.

  Already, the first of Selethen’s twenty-five soldiers were clambering over the bow, carrying their weapons and equipment. They stared about them curiously as they came. Many of them were desert cavalrymen, and the odds were, none had ever seen a ship close up, let alone been on one, before. They were shepherded aft by the twins. That was another point of fascination for the Arridans. Several of them gawked openly at the two identical sailors who were urging them to keep moving.

  Finally, Wulf reacted to the constant staring and head-shaking.

  “What are you looking at?” he demanded of one young soldier—a youth barely out of his teens. The cavalry trooper pointed to Ulf, who was a few meters away.

  “That man,” the trooper said. “You look just like him.”

  Wulf scowled at his brother, then at the young Arridan. “No I don’t,” he retorted crisply. “He looks like me.” Then he added darkly, if not logically, “And he’d better stop doing it if he knows what’s good for him!”

  Thoroughly confused, the trooper continued aft, stumbling over a coil of rope as he turned to look back at the two identical figures.

  Hal waited until a dozen of the Arridans were gathered in the stern of the ship, then addressed them. “You can stay on this deck while we’re heading up the coast. Once we get closer to Tabork, you’ll have to go below and stay out of sight. But for the moment, enjoy the fresh air.”

  He had visions of the troopers, unaccustomed to the sea and to the overpowering atmosphere of the rowing deck, being violently sick all the way to Tabork. Better to let them stay on the upper deck for as long as possible, he thought. Once they went below, they would crouch on the catwalk, between the rowers. But that would only be for a relatively short time and he hoped the confined space, the rank air and the evil smell from the bilges wouldn’t have too debilitating an effect on them.

  Leaving the first group to pass on the word to their comrades, he strode forward and climbed down onto the beach, where Selethen and Gilan were talking. From the deck of the Heron, Stig had seen him going ashore and hurried now to join them.

  “Ready to go aboard, Wakir?” Hal asked. But Selethen surprised him by shaking his head.

  “I won’t be traveling with you to Tabork,” he said. He turned to a small group of officers waiting nearby and beckoned one of them over. “Captain Rahim! Would you join us, please?”

  A stockily built man in his early thirties came toward them. He had obviously spent his life as a cavalryman, Hal thought with a smile. His legs were slightly bowed from years in the saddle, and as a consequence, he rocked slightly from side to side as he came. He stopped and performed the traditional Arridan salute to his Wakir, touching his fingers to lips, brow and lips, and bowing slightly.

  “Wakir?” he said, waiting for orders. Selethen turned to Gilan and Hal, introducing them to the captain, who bowed to them in turn. Rahim’s keen eyes assessed the two foreigners and Hal could almost hear his thoughts: This one is young. I hope he knows what he’s doing.

  “Captain Rahim will command the landing party,” Selethen continued. “I’ll travel overland to Tabork and resume command of the main attack.” He took two long bundles from another of his subordinates and handed them to Gilan.

  “These are signal arrows,” he said. “The heads contain a substance that is highly flammable and that, when confined, explodes in a large puff of white smoke. When you’re in position, light the fuse on one and shoot it vertically into the air. As soon as I see the signal, I’ll launch the attack on the main gate. Then, if you hit Iqbal and his men from behind, you should be able to drive through them and open the gates for us.”

  “So long as everything goes according to plan,” Hal put in.

  Gilan smiled grimly. “Which it rarely does.”

  Selethen raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the fact that the best-laid plans usually fell in a heap once the actual fighting started.

  “Well,” he said, “if you have any trouble, just let friend Ingvar loose on the Tualaghi with his ax on a stick. I’m sure he’d frighten the hardiest desert bandit.”

  “I’m sure he would,” Stig said. “He frighten
s me plenty.”

  chapter twenty-five

  Philip the Bloodyhand came awake to a discreet knocking on the door of his room. At least, the knocking started discreetly. When the initial attempts failed to rouse the corsair captain, the servant at the door progressively increased the volume until the sound pierced the wine-sodden consciousness of the gross man inside.

  Philip was sprawled on his stomach on the bed. He went to rise, putting his hand down to push up from the soft mattress. But he was lying crosswise, where he had collapsed the night before. His hand missed the bed, he lost his balance and rolled off onto the floor. Fortunately, the bed was a simple pile of thick cushions laid on the tiled floor, so he didn’t have far to fall. But his temper flared as he rolled onto the tiles, then struggled to a sitting position.

  “What is it?” he shouted angrily, and instantly wished he hadn’t. His hand flew to his pulsing forehead in a vain attempt to stem the sudden pain there. His tongue was thick and his mouth was dry. And there was that sullen pulse of pain behind his eyes. Several empty wine flasks and jars scattered around the room bore mute testimony to the source of his discomfort.

  The door opened a crack and one of his servants leaned a cautious head around it. Philip had been known to hurl objects—often pointed ones—at people who woke him.

  “Captain, the ship is back. With a prize,” the servant said nervously. At least the second part of the statement should allay any serious display of bad temper, he thought.

  Philip grunted and rubbed his eyes. He swallowed several times and scowled at the man at the door.

  “Get me wine,” he said, then thought better of the idea. “No. Wait. Get me water—cold water. And squeeze some lemon juice into it.”

  “Yes, captain,” said the servant, taking the order as permission to leave. He scurried away while Philip looked blearily around for his clothes. It took a few seconds for him to realize that he was still wearing them. They were the usual gaudy mixture that Hellenese corsairs were so fond of. His trousers were wide bottomed and bright blue, held in place by a scarlet sash. His shirt was buttercup-yellow satin, stretched across his large belly, and his calf-high boots were soft red Socorran leather.

  The visual effect of the bright colors was somewhat spoiled by the food and wine stains that were all too apparent on them, but such matters were below Philip’s notice. He looked around for his red bandanna, cursing as he failed to see it. Someone had once told him that wearing a red bandanna was the sign of a feeble mind but Philip was inordinately fond of his, perhaps proving the point. After scowling around the room, he realized that it was on his head, cocked to one side. He straightened it and heaved himself off the floor, moving to the open archway that led onto his second-floor terrace, overlooking the harbor.

  He winced at the sun reflecting brilliantly off the white buildings and sparkling waters of the harbor, narrowing his eyes to see against the glare.

  Yes, there was the Ishtfana, rowing steadily toward the harbor entrance, with a smaller ship in tow behind her—the prize his servant had mentioned. Shading his eyes, he peered at the twin moles and saw the boom crew were busy releasing the massive chain that barred entrance to the harbor, allowing it to sink below the surface so that Ishtfana could enter unhindered.

  He heard the door of the room open and his servant was back, bearing a tray that held a jug of water, a mug and several lemons, cut in half. He seized the jug and drank greedily from it. The sharp taste of the lemon juice already lacing the water cut through the thickness that clogged his mouth. He upended the jug, water spilling round the sides of it and soaking his shirt front. Then he lowered it, took a deep breath, belched and dropped it onto the bed cushions. The servant hurried to retrieve it.

  “Tell Lord Iqbal the Ishtfana is back,” he said curtly, and strode toward the door. His curved sword hung from a peg by the door. He took it down, shoved the scabbard through the yellow sash round his waist and went out, tugging on the single red gauntlet that he wore on his right hand as a reminder of his nickname—Bloodyhand.

  “He’s already been informed,” his servant replied. But Philip was gone.

  He lumbered down the stairs and out into the hot sun. He was a tall and grotesquely overweight man, given to the pleasures of the flesh. He had barely gone twenty paces before his face was running with perspiration.

  He grunted with the effort of walking in the heat, and with the dull pain that still thumped behind his eyes, as he made his way onto the wharf. He could see Iqbal already there, waiting by the water’s edge, watching the galley make its way through the harbor entrance. In contrast to the corsair, the Tualaghi chief was a tall, ascetic person, his dark blue robes seemingly in defiance of the heat of the sun. The lower half of his face was covered with the traditional blue veil of the Tualaghi. Philip had only ever seen his face uncovered in private. He knew that beneath the headdress and veil, Iqbal was bald—his head carefully shaven daily. His nose was a hooked shape, reminiscent of a bird of prey’s beak, and his eyes were dark and penetrating—again like those of a hawk or an eagle.

  Those dark eyes turned now onto the stained and lumbering figure of the pirate captain, viewing him with obvious distaste. Philip was sure that beneath the veil, Iqbal’s thin-lipped mouth would be curled in a sneer. Philip couldn’t care less. Iqbal’s opinion on Philip’s personal habits meant nothing to him. They were allies, bound together by convenience, not friendship or mutual admiration. For his part, Philip considered Iqbal to be a cold-blooded, joyless desert lizard.

  “I see she took the trader,” Philip said, gesturing toward the smaller ship bobbing obediently in Ishtfana’s wake.

  The Tualaghi leader raised an eyebrow. “It took her long enough,” he said. “It would seem your second in command isn’t very good at his job.”

  Philip shrugged. The small trader had appeared to be a slow sailer when she was sighted the day before. He wondered why Kyrios took so long to secure her and bring her back. Iqbal was right. His first mate wasn’t the most reliable or the most intelligent of men. As a corsair captain, Philip had always made sure that the men beneath him were capable, but not outstanding, in their jobs. That way, there was a smaller chance that one of them might try to usurp him. Knowing Kyrios as he did, he assumed that the first mate had kept the rowers at maximum speed for too long, exhausting them far too early in the chase so that their quarry had gained ground on them.

  But he wasn’t about to let this camel-riding oaf denigrate his ship or his crew.

  “Easy to criticize when you know nothing of the problems facing a sailor,” he said truculently.

  “She’s here now. That’s all that matters to me,” Iqbal said dismissively. He turned on his heel and strode away from the edge of the wharf. There was nothing to be gained from standing watching the ships come alongside. He would be informed of the trader’s cargo in due time, and he knew Philip wouldn’t dare to cheat him or short change him. Iqbal’s own men would keep a strict eye on the unloading of the cargo.

  As he crossed the wharf, heading for his own accommodation, he caught sight of Dhakwan and three of his men striding onto the wharf. Dhakwan’s Khumsan, or squad of fifty, had entered Tabork the previous night under cover of darkness. They were quartered close to the harbor, in a disused warehouse. It occurred to Iqbal that Dhakwan’s men would be a suitable group to oversee the unloading of the captured ship. He beckoned to the leader, who approached him, performing a perfunctory version of the traditional salute.

  “My lord?”

  Iqbal jerked a thumb at the two ships moving across the harbor. “Ishtfana’s taken a prize. Rouse your men out and take charge of the unloading. Make sure that fat, greasy Hellene doesn’t try to spirit any of the cargo away.”

  “As you command,” Dhakwan said. He turned to one of his companions and issued orders for the Khumsan to be roused and paraded on the wharf.

  “Armed, sir?” his lieutenant
asked.

  Dhakwan eyed him steadily. “Of course I want them armed,” he said. “I’m not taking them on a picnic. Now move!”

  His assistant accepted the rebuke philosophically. Dhakwan was a sarcastic commander. He’d known that when he elected to join his band years ago, working his way up through the ranks to become one of his trusted deputies. A little sarcasm never really hurt, once you learned to ignore it, and Dhakwan had been a successful leader, helping his men win large amounts of gold and silver and jewelry over the years. He hurried back through a narrow alley, leading to the large building one street back from the wharf where the Khumsan was billeted. As he came within hearing, he began shouting for the men to assemble.

  On the wharf, Philip was peering blearily at the rapidly approaching ship. Something wasn’t quite right, he thought. He scanned the small group standing around the steering platform. None of them looked familiar. In particular, he searched for Kyrios’s distinctive and colorful figure—but without success. He frowned. The foredeck was empty. Normally, the fighting crew would be gathered there, drinking and celebrating a successful pursuit. But there was nobody.

  And the group in the stern bothered him. None of them were dressed in the bright colors that he expected to see. They were in drab browns and grays. One of them was wrapped in a gray-and-green cloak. And he appeared to be armed with a longbow.

  And surely that slim figure to one side was a girl!

  Suddenly, Philip realized that they had been tricked. This was not his crew bringing the Ishtfana alongside. He had no idea who they might be, but they weren’t his men. He turned desperately. There was a harbor guard standing nearby, armed with a heavy horn bow. Philip ran to him, snatched the weapon, then dragged several arrows out of the man’s back quiver, nocking one to the string and turning back to face the ships.