Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Some of them were large and decorated with columns and statuary. They had obviously been substantial dwellings, belonging to rich traders or government officials.

  To the east, the ground was flatter, and more buildings were laid out in orderly rows. These were smaller, usually one story high. Houses, shops and manufactories, Hal guessed—the sort of mixture that would be found in any large town.

  Toward the outskirts, the buildings became smaller and less ornate. The orderly rows that marked the rest of the town were missing. The buildings seemed to have been laid out anyway that suited the occupants, with narrow alleyways winding between them. Obviously, this was the poorer part of town, where the laborers and common people had lived.

  Beyond the mean little buildings, and rising above them, a large walled structure could be seen. Hal viewed it curiously. It might have been a fort, but the walls rose steeply, with no openings until the top level, where large arched windows were in evidence. They seemed to be too big to form an effective fortification, he thought. Gilan saw the direction of his gaze.

  “It’s a hippodrome,” he said, and when Hal looked at him blankly, he explained, “A racetrack. Horse races. Chariot races. The Toscans loved them. They built a racecourse just about any place they built a substantial town in their empire. A racecourse and a theater for the aristocrats.”

  “A theater?” Hal was impressed. Here, in this desert town, hundreds of miles from their homeland, the Toscans had taken the trouble to build a center for culture and drama, as well as a racetrack for less edifying pastimes.

  “It’ll probably be in the rising ground,” Gilan said, gesturing to the western side of town, where there was a steep escarpment. “Their theaters were usually built into hillsides to give them the shape they needed for good acoustics.”

  Hal had never seen a theater, much less been in one. In Hallasholm the people were entertained from time to time by traveling mummers and jongleurs, but they usually performed in the Great Hall. A theater built specifically for such a purpose seemed somewhat exotic.

  “So what did they see in these theaters?” Thorn asked. The crew had gathered around Gilan, who seemed to know a lot about Toscan customs and what they might expect to find in this abandoned imperial outpost. The Ranger looked at him.

  “Plays, mostly,” he said. “Sometimes an oration by a poet or a singer.”

  “What’s a play?” Stefan asked. “Is that like a puppet show?” He’d seen a traveling troupe of puppeteers perform when he was a child.

  Gilan twisted his lips thoughtfully. “It’s a story written down and actors—players—take roles in it and act it out for the audience, bringing the story to life.”

  Stefan nodded. “So, it’s like a puppet show then,” he declared and Gilan, with a ghost of a smile, agreed.

  “Pretty much,” he said. Theatrical companies were not unknown in Araluen, and many of the performers showed the same sort of animation one might expect from a puppet—and, often, less intelligence.

  “Where’s the oasis?” Hal inquired. One of his constant concerns was topping up Heron’s supply of fresh drinking water. Gilan gestured to the southwest.

  “It’s outside the town limits,” he said. They all turned to look in the direction he indicated and they could make out a few waving green trees in the distance.

  “I would have thought they’d enclose it in the town walls,” Hal said thoughtfully. But Gilan shook his head. He’d had an extensive briefing from Selethen on the history and layout of Ephesa before they left Tabork.

  “It’s too big,” he said. “The fortifications here only enclosed the administrative buildings and the governor’s palace. Besides, the Toscans thought they might antagonize the locals if they were seen to be taking control of the only water source in the area. They dug wells and built underground pipelines into the city so they would always have a water source for the inhabitants. But they left the oasis open to all comers to try to create a sense of hospitality and openhandedness.”

  “Did it work?” Ingvar asked. He was peering at the neat rows of ruined buildings that surrounded them on all sides. He was used to houses and other structures built in pinewood. The ranks of gleaming white marble housefronts fascinated him. Then again, now that he could see more clearly, most things fascinated him.

  Gilan shook his head. “The locals—the Bedullin and the Tualaghi—never made the invaders feel welcome. They were constantly rebelling against them. They didn’t agree with the Toscans that they were now part of the great empire. It was always a difficult outpost to maintain. Eventually, about forty years ago, the Toscan emperor gave up, and they gradually abandoned it.”

  “Let’s take a look at this oasis,” Hal said, and led the way to the southwest.

  Somehow, he had pictured the oasis as a small grove of palms clustered around a single pool of dirty water in the dry desert ground. But as Gilan had said, this oasis was enormous. It was nearly as extensive as the town itself.

  There were palm trees there, of course. But also half a dozen other species of trees that he didn’t recognize. And there wasn’t one pool. There were nearly a dozen, of varying shapes and sizes. The largest was fifty meters by twenty. Smaller ones were scattered around and the water was clear and clean. He knelt by one of the larger ponds and scooped a handful of water up to taste it. It was cool and refreshing. He jerked his head toward the pool.

  “We’ll get the water casks filled tomorrow,” he told Stig, who nodded agreement.

  Trees grew profusely, shading the area around the pools. Well-shaded paths led from one pool to another, with clear spaces by the larger pools that were obviously used as camping grounds by travelers.

  By one pool, he noticed a thick grove of bamboos, the tallest of which were over ten meters in height, swaying gently in the ever-present wind.

  “Are they native to this area?” he asked.

  Gilan shrugged. “Maybe. But Selethen says the Toscans would have cultivated them here. They used big canvas sun awnings to shelter the audience in the hippodrome and they needed the bamboo to support the canvas.”

  Hal frowned. Something about the mention of bamboo and canvas stirred that errant thought that had been troubling his mind over the past few days.

  “I can see why, in this heat,” he said.

  They retraced their steps to the town itself, returning for one last look at the hippodrome. It was a long, flattened oval in shape, with rows of stone seats overlooking the racetrack, which ran round the outer perimeter. The track itself was sand. Hal scuffed it with his boot. He stood in the center of the track, turning to look around him. He closed his eyes and imagined he could hear the thunder of the horses’ hooves, the yelling of the crowd, the rattle and clatter of harnesses and chariots as they skidded through the turns at high speed.

  “Hal!”

  Stig’s shout roused him from the daydream. He opened his eyes and found himself back in the deserted, half-ruined old racetrack. The rows of empty seats stared down at him. A few tattered remnants of the canvas awnings fluttered in the wind. It was desolate and deserted and silent. It was sad somehow, he thought. At one time, this must have been such a vibrant, exciting place, filled with yelling, enthusiastic humanity. And now it was left here to fall apart in the desert.

  “Hal! Come here!” Stig called again.

  The others were clustered around a large doorway leading under the empty grandstand. Hal walked across to join them, his boots squeaking in the fine dry sand. As he reached them, Stig gestured eagerly for him to go through the doorway.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  His friend caught hold of his arm and pulled him forward excitedly. “Look what we’ve found!”

  As Hal’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he found himself in a large, open room under the grandstand, measuring some twenty meters by ten. The rest of the crew followed him inside. There were three
objects against the far wall and he walked forward, peering through the dimness to see what they were.

  “Chariots?” he said. Then he repeated the word, answering his own involuntary question. “Chariots.”

  They were beautifully built vehicles. As a craftsman himself, he admired the fine carpentry that had gone into their creation. The rider’s platform was enclosed by a curved railing on three sides—high at the front and sweeping down at the sides. The space between the railing and the chariot floor was plaited cane, presumably to save weight. In a racing vehicle, that would be all-important. The floor of the chariot was light pine planking—presumably for the same reason. He tested it with his finger. He wouldn’t trust that dried-out old wood to support anyone’s weight these days, he thought.

  The yoke pole jutted out in front, a solid ebony pole with a T-shaped crosspiece at the end, fitted with harness points for two horses. The leather of the harnesses, and any other leatherwork on the chariot, had long since dried out and was brittle to the touch. It would crumble away if you tried to use it now, he realized.

  But it was the wheels that drew his attention. They were solid wood—ebony again, he saw. They were designed with four thick spokes, beautifully fitted and with intricate carving on them. The rims were thick and heavy. Here, the need for strength took precedence over the need to save weight. He knelt down and inspected the points where the spokes fitted into the wooden rim. The workmanship was superb. He could barely see the join, even after years of neglect. He tapped the wood with his knuckles. It was sound.

  “The dry air has preserved the wood,” he said quietly. He ran his hand up one of the spokes to the thick wooden rim. Both spoke and rim were in excellent condition and he noticed with surprise that the iron tire binding the outside of the wheel rim was also preserved by the dry climate and the fact that the chariot had been under shelter all these years. The salt air from the sea hadn’t been able to get at it. There was a little surface rust, but he drew his saxe and scraped some away. Underneath, the iron rim was sound.

  He rose and moved to the other side of the chariot and checked the second wheel. He found it was in the same well-preserved condition. And he found his heart was beating a little faster as the idea that had been chipping away at the edges of his consciousness for the past three days began to take form. It was still dim and hazy. But it was coming closer to the surface. Long experience told him that in a few hours, it would appear to him in its entirety. He just needed to be patient. All the elements that had been drifting through his brain would soon come together. He rose and brushed rust from his hands, nodding his head several times as he looked down at the old racing vehicle.

  “Pity we can’t find some horses and harness them up,” Stig said. “We could use these to get to the mountains.”

  But Hal shook his head. “The fittings and harnesses are dried out and rotten,” he pointed out. “And you’d need to replace those floors as well.”

  “Besides,” Gilan pointed out, “you can’t just harness a horse into a chariot and drive off. It takes months to train a team. They race in pairs and they have to learn to work together. Like a brotherband,” he added with a smile.

  “Oh,” Stig said, looking downcast. It had seemed such a good idea at first.

  “Let’s get back to the ship,” Hal said. He never liked leaving the Heron for too long in a potentially hostile location, and night was drawing on. He didn’t want to spend the night moored alongside the old pier, where an enemy force could approach unseen through the ruined buildings. He planned to anchor offshore for the night, where they would be safe from attack. Tomorrow, they could build a fortified camp on the beach.

  They straggled back through the ruined buildings and the failing light. The columns and half-collapsed walls cast weird shadows across their path, strengthening his resolve to get back out to sea. He noticed that, as the sun went down, the wind from the south gradually died away. In several minutes, the evening sea breeze would begin to blow.

  And in that moment, he realized how they were going to get to Scorpion Mountain.

  chapter thirty-four

  They spent the night moored offshore, safe from any surprise attack. The sea was calm and Edvin was able to build a small cook fire on board, supported over a metal tray full of sand that caught any stray embers. He set charcoal smoldering, then glowing red hot, and grilled succulent lamb cutlets over the coals, serving them with the last of the tabouleh salad.

  The night was clear, so there was no need to rig the tent-shaped canvas shelter they carried with them. After they had eaten, and swigged down mugs of coffee, the crew rolled into their blankets and settled for the night. With a clear sky like this, the desert heat would soon radiate away and the night would be cold. Hal organized a guard roster, leaving one person to watch the shoreline and the sea around them, and within a few minutes the huddled forms were sleeping almost silently. Almost, because the silence of the night was broken by the muted snoring from one of the group.

  “Keep the snoring down, Lydia,” Thorn called.

  “Shut up, old man,” Lydia replied tartly. Then, to her mortification, as she settled down again and was on the brink of deep sleep, she realized that it was indeed she who was snoring. Hastily, she turned onto her side, hoping to stop the rumbling noise. A few meters away, Thorn giggled softly.

  “I rest my case,” he said, to nobody in particular.

  He always gets the last word, Lydia reflected. She racked her brain for ways to get the better of him in their ongoing verbal joust. Their clash two days ago didn’t count, as they had quickly orchestrated it. In the middle of planning ways to leave him crushed and wordless she fell asleep.

  In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Hal directed them to row to the western end of the narrow indent in the coastline off the town. There, a jumble of rocks would protect their back as they set up their camp, and fortified it.

  “Why not camp in the oasis?” Jesper asked. “It’d save lugging water out here.”

  But Hal shook his head. “Too much cover for anyone looking to attack us. This way, we’ve got open ground all round us. If anyone is planning any mischief, we’ll see them in plenty of time. Right, Thorn?”

  The old sea wolf nodded agreement. “We can cut some of that thornbush and build a protective barricade around the camp with the sea at our back,” he said. “Then, if we anchor the ship twenty meters offshore, the Mangler can cover the beach.”

  Hal studied the surrounding beach. It was flat and featureless. If anyone launched an attack, they’d be visible for several hundred meters. And they’d be forced to attack across the thick, heavy sand, which would slow them down. Thorn’s idea for the barricade was sound. There was plenty of thornbush plant growing close by. On the down side, it was thornbush, which meant its thick creepers were covered in long, sharp spines. It was a painful and difficult material to work with.

  “Can I leave you to set up the camp?” Hal said quietly to Thorn. “I’ve got something I have to take care of.”

  “Of course,” Thorn replied. He was already mentally setting people to different tasks. Anyone who had annoyed him recently would be detailed to cut and drag in the spiky rolls of thornbush.

  “I’ll need Edvin to help me,” Hal said, then, raising his voice, he called to him. “Edvin! You’re coming with me.”

  “Right, Hal,” Edvin replied briskly. He was pleased to be relieved from the heavy labor of building the camp.

  Ingvar looked up at Hal, a little disappointed. Usually, he was the one the skirl chose to accompany him.

  Hal saw the look and explained. “No heavy lifting today, Ingvar. But I need someone who’s a good hand with needle and thread.”

  The disappointed look faded from Ingvar’s face as he realized that Hal hadn’t meant any slight by omitting him. He raised one finger to his forehead in an informal salute.

  “That’s definitely no
t me, Hal,” he said

  “We’ll be in the hippodrome stables,” Hal told Thorn. Then, collecting his tool bag, an ax and the roll of canvas they used as a shelter, he trudged off through the sand toward the hippodrome, accompanied by Edvin.

  “What’s he up to?” Stig asked Thorn. Hal had seemed preoccupied the previous night and both of them knew what that could mean.

  “I’d say he’s hatching one of his ideas,” Thorn said, smiling. “Those chariots seemed to have him very interested.”

  Stig watched as his friend disappeared into the jumble of buildings, Edvin at his side. “What do you think he’s got planned?”

  But Thorn shook his head. “You know Hal. He’ll never say. We’ll see it when he’s good and ready to show us.”

  Stig sighed. “I suppose so,” he said. That was the way Hal always did things.

  • • • • •

  They worked solidly all morning, digging a curving trench to enclose their camp, then filling it with thornbush tangles. They piled more thornbush on the inner side of the ditch, and reinforced it with sharpened stakes driven into the ground and facing outward.

  At one stage, Thorn consulted Lydia. “I thought we’d build an elevated mound for you in the center,” he said. “We’ll put it a few meters back from the front line. That way, you’ll be able to see over the barricade and shoot into the enemy as they attack.”

  She studied the layout of the land and nodded. When it came to discussing matters of fighting, defense or deployment, she and Thorn rarely argued. That was left for less important matters.

  “Good idea,” she said eventually. “You might also give me a little protective cover—some boards or shields to crouch behind. Otherwise, I’ll be exposed if they have archers.”

  “Hadn’t thought of that,” Thorn said. “I’ll get it done. If we come under attack, you’ll be our key weapon, along with the Mangler.”