“We’re here, and Iqbal is here, with”—he paused and looked up at Selethen—“how many men?”
“Perhaps two hundred,” the Wakir said. Hal made a note.
“Very well. You have one hundred and fifty cavalrymen, but no siege equipment.” He glanced round the other Herons, who hadn’t been present at the earlier meeting. Then he unrolled the second chart, which was a more detailed map of Tabork itself. “The town is fortified, with a high wall around it. The main gate is on the landward side.”
“What about the harbor?” Edvin asked. “How strongly is that defended?” Being a sailor, he thought in terms of attacking from the sea, and the harbor was a potential weak point.
“There’s a boom—a heavy chain that can shut off the entrance. And the two moles are manned with troops. The entrance is narrow and any ship passing through is within bow and javelin range of the moles.” The chart Selethen had provided had been accompanied by detailed notes on the town and its defenses.
“So we can’t get in that way,” Stefan said. Hal looked up at him.
“We can’t force our way in,” He said. “But there might be another way.”
He felt a stirring of interest in his crew. Selethen remained impassive. Unlike the Herons, he hadn’t been privy to Hal’s previous successful plans and stratagems. But he saw the reaction in the others, particularly Thorn, who nodded expectantly, waiting for Hal to reveal his idea. This is a young man worth watching, Selethen thought.
“Iqbal is in league with a Hellenese corsair called Philip Bloodyhand,” Hal continued.
Jesper gave a scornful snort. “Bit overdramatic, isn’t it?”
“Hellenes are like that,” Lydia replied. “Besides, you’d hardly expect a corsair to call himself Philip Pussyfoot, would you?”
Jesper grinned at her. She had said the words with a perfectly deadpan expression.
“I suppose not. I would guess a corsair would want a more warlike . . .” Jesper became conscious that Hal was regarding him with his head slightly to one side, waiting for him to be quiet. “Sorry, Hal,” he said. “Please continue.”
“Thank you,” Hal said, with just a hint of irony. “Philip has a war galley, the Ishtfana,” he said. “When trading ships pass by Tabork, he’s ideally positioned to dash out and capture them. That’s the main reason he and Iqbal have occupied the town.”
He placed one foot on the low table and rested his elbow on his knee, leaning forward to address them all.
“Now, my idea is this. We’ll rig Heron to look like a trader. We still have the square sail we used in Socorro. We’ll sail along the coast and lure the galley out. Then we retreat to the northwest, with old Philip Pussyfoot following us.” He drew his saxe and lightly traced a path on the map, tapping a spot some ten kilometers out to sea. “Once we’re out of sight of the town, we’ll lose the square sail and re-rig with our own sail. Then we’ll turn on the Ishtfana.”
Thorn pursed his lips, staring at the chart as if he could actually see the two ships there, twisting and turning about each other. “She carries twenty men, right?”
“She has a fighting crew of twenty,” Hal replied. “And forty slaves on the oars.”
“Hmmm. Twenty fighting men. Twice our numbers. We’ll need to whittle them down.”
Selethen glanced quickly around the line of Skandian faces, all intent on the chart and their leaders. None of them, he noticed, seemed daunted by the prospect of taking on a larger ship with twice as many crew members as their own. Then he remembered, Skandians were born fighters.
Hal was nodding agreement. “That’ll be up to Stig and Ingvar on the Mangler,” he said. “And Lydia and Gilan. We’ll have surprise on our side. And these corsairs rarely find themselves facing a real fighting crew.”
Selethen nodded quietly at that point. But all the same, he had raised a hand and was frowning curiously. Hal looked at him.
“Yes, Wakir?”
“What is this . . . Mangle . . . you mentioned?”
He saw the smiles lighting up the faces of the young crew.
“The Mangler,” Hal corrected him. “It’s our equalizer. It’s a giant crossbow we’ve mounted in the bow of our ship. It shoots a heavy bolt about this big.” He held his hands about a meter apart. “It’ll smash through the bulwarks of the galley—and its men.” He glanced at Stig. “I want you, Stig, to concentrate your shots on the helmsman and the tiller. Try to smash and disable it. Then we can slip behind her and board her over the stern.”
Selethen raised an eyebrow. It was a day of surprises and revelations, he thought.
“Forty oars,” Thorn said. “She’ll be fast.”
Hal nodded agreement. “Initially, yes. But we’ll be heading upwind once we change sails and the rowers can’t keep up full speed for too long. And we should be able to out-turn her.”
Thorn looked doubtful. “A galley can turn in its own length.”
Hal was speaking again almost before he had the words out. For once, this was a detail that he had taken into account, he thought, smiling grimly.
“It can. They back one set of oars and go forward on the other so the ship pivots on the spot. But to do it, they have to come to a virtual standstill, then accelerate again. We can turn without losing speed. I’m confident we’ll run rings around her.”
“And if you can’t?” Selethen said.
Hal grinned at him. “I’m confident he’ll sink us.”
“So, let’s assume we shoot her crew full of holes, board her and take her,” Thorn said. “Then what?”
Hal used the point of his saxe to tap a spot on the coast between Al Shabah and Tabork.
“Selethen will be waiting at this bay with twenty-five of his men. We’ll bring the Ishtfana inshore, load his men aboard her—there’ll be plenty of room for them—and head back to Tabork, with Heron in tow behind her. The defenders will assume she’s captured us, rather than the other way round. They open the boom, we sail in to the wharf and storm ashore.”
Edvin raised a hand. Edvin was a thinker, Hal knew.
“What if they have some password or signal for them to open the boom?” he asked.
“That would be a problem,” Hal admitted. “But why should they? They know the Ishtfana, they’re used to her coming and going. Why bother with a secret signal?”
Edvin thought about the answer and nodded. “Fair enough.”
Hal continued, addressing Selethen directly. “With thirty-five of us, and the element of surprise, we should be able to fight our way through to the main gate.” Again, he tapped the map with the point of his saxe to indicate the spot. “And open it for the rest of your men.” He looked at the Arridan nobleman. “I assume you’re confident that you can handle Iqbal and his troops once you get inside the walls?”
Selethen smiled grimly. “Just get us inside,” he said. “We’ll do the rest.”
chapter nineteen
Heron was wallowing along the coast of Arrida under the makeshift square-sail rig Hal had designed as a disguise when they had sailed into Socorro weeks previously.
This time, however, the square sail and yardarm were attached so they could be quickly discarded and her usual triangular sail raised in its place.
As before, Hal grimaced continually as the inefficient square sail alternately filled and half emptied, causing the ship to move with an awkward surging motion as the wind spilled out of the bellying sail. The motion was so different from Heron’s normal smooth and powerful action that it grated on him.
Lydia, who was standing by the steering platform, asked a question that had been bothering her for some hours.
“Why are we bothering with the square sail?” she said. “After all, nobody here has seen the Heron before. It’s not as if we need to disguise her.”
Hal winced as the ship plunged into a shallow trough between waves and tried to head st
ubbornly downwind. He dragged her back on course with a savage heave on the tiller.
“That’s true,” he replied. “But I want us to look like easy prey, and this sail rig definitely achieves that. Fore-and-aft-rigged sails aren’t unknown in the Constant Sea, and I’d rather Philip Tinkytoes didn’t get any idea of our true performance.”
Selethen had decided to accompany the Herons on this mission—partly because he wanted the chance to settle with Philip and partly because he wanted to see the young warriors in action. Now he smiled quietly at Hal’s comment. Philip Bloodyhand was a name feared along this stretch of the Constant Sea, yet it held no fears for this cheerful crew of young Skandians. So far, he had been dubbed Philip Pussyfoot and Philip Daintyfinger. Now Hal had added another sobriquet to the growing list. Selethen had no doubt the bearded, and purportedly foul-tempered, Hellenese corsair would be furious to hear himself described in such dismissive tones.
They were running over a shallow sand bottom and the water around them was a brilliant green. Farther out to sea, the color darkened into deep blue as the bottom shelved away temporarily. Once it reached the area known as the Lion’s Teeth, however, the Wakir realized it would lighten to this beautiful green once more. Beautiful, he thought, but potentially treacherous.
Hal glanced at the coastline slowly passing by them. He was looking for a landmark he’d noted down earlier, after studying his charts. Now he saw it—a headland that was split in the middle by a landslide many years ago. The two halves of the headland reared up like the arms of a giant V. He gestured to Lydia.
“We’re getting close. Slip up to the masthead lookout.”
She nodded and went forward, climbing easily onto the bulwark and from there into the standing rigging, where she climbed nimbly upward until she reached the crosstree a meter above the top of the sail. She sat easily upon it, shading her eyes as she stared at the coast.
“Let me know the minute you see a ship leaving the harbor,” Hal called. She waved a hand in acknowledgment. Normally, Stefan was the chosen lookout for the ship but Lydia’s eyes were even keener than his, and on this occasion there was no need for his greater seagoing experience. There was only one thing to look for—the galley emerging from the harbor mouth—and Lydia could manage that easily.
“What happens when we sight Ishtfana?” Selethen asked. He knew the general idea that Hal had described but he wanted to see how it played out in practice. Hal pointed to the north.
“The wind’s on our port side,” he said. “So we’re making reasonable speed—well, as reasonable as this sail will allow. Once we sight Ishtfana we’ll have only one choice. We’ll go about and head back toward the northwest, pretty much the reverse of the course we’re on now.”
“We can’t just run north?” Selethen asked.
Hal shook his head. “We can’t point up into the wind. We could do it under oars, but Ishtfana has four or five times as many as we have and they’d soon run us down. West of northwest will be the best heading we can make.”
Thorn, who was nearby, added, “Until we raise our normal sail. Then we’ll be able to show Philip Fancyfingers a thing or two about sailing.”
Again, Selethen suppressed a smile. Another title to add to the list.
“So,” said Hal, “we’ll trail our cloak past Tabork and see if Philip bites.” He frowned at the words. He seemed to have mixed his metaphors there, he thought.
Edvin seemed to agree. “Who’d bite a cloak?” he asked, grinning.
“Kloof would,” Ingvar said heavily. He was stitching a rent in his sea cloak that Kloof had made only the day before. The huge dog looked up as she heard her name.
Kloof! she said. Ingvar curled his lip at her.
“Oh, shut up, you idiot dog.”
But, in the contrary way of dogs when they’re being roused on, Kloof thumped her tail on the deck at him and inched forward on her belly so that her massive chin rested on his thigh. Then she turned adoring eyes up at him.
“Fleabag,” he said. But he was smiling when he said it.
“I can see the town!” Lydia called from the crosstree. All eyes went up to her. She was clinging to the mast with her left arm wrapped around it, shading her eyes with her right hand. As they looked, she pointed her right arm toward the shore. From deck level, the town was still out of sight.
“Any sign of Ishtfana?” Hal asked, although he knew that lookouts in the town would only just have caught sight of the Heron.
Lydia leaned forward slightly. “There’s a red flag going up on the harbor mole!” she said. “And there’s a group of men doing something at the end of the mole.”
“The red flag will be the signal that we’ve been spotted,” Selethen told Hal. “And I’ll wager those men are opening the boom.”
Hal glanced around the little ship. The crew were already in position and now they tensed, like racing dogs waiting for the start. They all had specific tasks in the coming minutes and it was vital that they carried them out smoothly to achieve the transition from their clumsy square rig to the graceful, speedy Heron rig in as short a time as possible. Several minutes passed, in expectant silence, then—
“She’s coming!” Lydia shouted, her voice cracking with excitement. She scrambled higher, to stand on the crosstree, giving her a better sight of the harbor mouth.
Sure enough, a long, narrow hull was emerging from between the gray stone moles at either side of the entrance. As she emerged, Lydia could make out the twin banks of oars, rising and falling in unison, looking almost like a bird’s wings beating, the blades catching the sun as they turned flat when they emerged from the water, then turned ninety degrees to the vertical again before they plunged back in.
There was something implacably ominous about that measured, synchronized movement, something that seemed to belie any human involvement, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as the ship moved out into the open sea.
“Time to turn?” Stig asked. His hands were clenching and unclenching on the battleax shoved through the ring on his belt.
Hal shook his head. “We’ll give them a minute or so,” he said. Again, he glanced around the ship at his crew. Only Thorn was relaxed, leaning one elbow on the windward bulwark. As Hal’s gaze fell on him, he smiled encouragingly at his skirl. Hal felt the tension drain out of him. Thorn had the ability to do that in times of stress, he thought.
“Stand by to go about!” he called and felt a tremor of movement from the crew as they moved closer to their action stations.
“Wear ship!” he shouted, and put the helm over so that the ship began to turn to starboard, with the wind continuing to drive the sail through the turn.
Stefan, Jesper and Edvin heaved on the braces to bring the yardarm around. Ulf and Wulf released the sheets momentarily, then hauled in again as the ship came onto its new course, paralleling their previous direction, with the yard and sail now on the port side of the ship.
A stray wave hit her starboard bow as she came round onto the new course, sending a brilliant shower of spray over the decks. Selethen raised an arm to cover his face. The Herons ignored the sudden shower of water. Even with the clumsy square sail, she came round well enough and settled on her new course.
Lydia, who had used both hands to cling to the mast as the yardarm rotated a meter or so beneath her position, now took a more relaxed stance and resumed her scrutiny of the Ishtfana.
The twin banks of oars were continuing their remorseless rhythm. It all looked so smooth and mechanical, she thought, although she knew that, hidden from sight, the sweat-streaked oarsmen would be straining muscles and gritting teeth against pain and weariness to maintain that nonstop momentum. As she watched, the rowing rate increased, and the oars moved up and down, up and down, more quickly.
“They’re rowing faster!” she called down to the deck. She glanced down and saw the crew’s faces upturned to her.<
br />
“Are they gaining on us?” Hal called.
She looked again at the galley, shading her eyes once more to focus her vision. She could see the ship in greater detail now. There was a short, stumpy mast on the fore part, but no sail was rigged. She was traveling under oar power alone. She could make out the black dots of men’s heads along the bulwarks, and a small group of figures in the stern, gathered around the helmsman.
“Yes,” she said, and sensed a stir of movement and nervousness among her shipmates.
“Let me know when you can’t see the town anymore,” Hal called back. When he switched sails, he didn’t want anyone onshore seeing the changeover. On deck, he couldn’t see the town, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be able to see the mast and sail higher up.
“There she is!” Stig shouted, pointing over the stern. All eyes swiveled to follow the direction he was indicating as the galley slowly appeared over the horizon.
“Get ready!” Hal called. The sail handlers were all briefed and everyone knew what his role was in the coming maneuver. “We need to move fast, but don’t overdo it. No mistakes in the changeover, all right?”
There was a low growl of agreement from the crew assembled in the waist. Stefan, Jesper and Edvin glanced aloft at the square sail, billowing and relaxing as the wind alternately filled it, then spilled from the sides. Stig and Ingvar stood ready to haul the port fore-and-aft sail up in its place, as soon as it reached the deck. Ulf and Wulf stood by the trimming sheets, ready to switch from one set to another.
Selethen, an interested bystander, moved a pace closer to Gilan and nodded his head toward the young skirl, who was half turned to watch the approaching galley.
“He’s a cool one,” he murmured and the Ranger glanced round at him, nodding.
“I doubt you’ll find cooler,” he said. “And he knows what he’s doing.”
“I gathered that, from the way the crew look up to him,” Selethen replied.
A third voice interrupted their conversation.
“He’s the finest natural helmsman I’ve ever seen,” Thorn said quietly. He’d moved a little closer to them. He had no specific role in the upcoming maneuver. His brief was to watch, ready to lend a hand anywhere he was needed. “He feels the ship. He knows what it’s going to do, how it’s going to react. You can’t be taught that. You’re either born with it or you never have it. Wait till you see how he throws the Heron around once we have our normal sail hoisted.”
Scorpion Mountain Page 13
