Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  He realised that Anthony was hesitating, waiting for Hal to nominate who should accompany him to meet the King. ‘Stig, Thorn, you come with me,’ he said.

  Anthony nodded briskly, proving that Hal’s supposition was correct, and ushered the rest of the crew, and the attendant servants, towards a curving staircase on the eastern side of the room.

  Hal turned to Gilan and Crowley, and jerked a thumb in the direction of his disappearing crew. ‘I assume we’ll see them again?’

  Crowley nodded easily. ‘Anthony hasn’t lost a guest in nearly a week now,’ he said, his eyes alive with a sense of mischief. He made a bowing motion and gestured towards a matching staircase on the western side. ‘Shall we go?’

  The five of them strode across the tiled floor of the hall. The Skandians’ sealskin boots made virtually no noise on the hard surface and Hal noticed that the Rangers also wore soft-soled shoes. There was the barest whisper of footsteps to mark their passage. The stairs were stone, and the risers were well worn, with a slight dip in the centre of each where most of the traffic passed.

  ‘The King’s apartments and offices are on the third floor,’ Crowley told them as they strode up the curving flight of stairs to a landing. ‘Your quarters are on the fifth floor.’

  ‘Sounds cosy,’ Thorn said, although Crowley’s statement hadn’t called for any comment.

  They crossed the landing and took another flight of stairs to the next floor. This flight wasn’t as ornate as the first. The stairs were narrower as well. Hal noted that the stairs ascended spiralling to the right, as was the custom. A defender on the stairs would only have to expose his right arm and shoulder to someone coming from below. Whereas an attacker would need to expose his entire body to bring his right hand, or his weapon hand, into play.

  The idea, of course, Hal mused, would be to have an army of left-handed swordsmen. As far as he knew, nobody had ever tried to assemble such a group.

  They went up another flight and found themselves on a floor where corridors stretched away to the left and right, with a third corridor behind where they stood. The wall facing the stairs was blank stone, but Hal was willing to bet there was a concealed passage behind it, and observation points where a watcher could see who came up the stairs.

  Crowley gestured to the right-hand corridor. ‘This way.’

  They passed several doors – heavy wooden doors without ornamentation of any kind, but with solid brass fittings. Eventually, Crowley stopped by one that seemed no different to its fellows and rapped with his knuckles on the centre panel. From within, they heard a muffled voice.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door was obviously heavy, and reinforced by brass strips and fittings. But it swung open smoothly and silently as Crowley twisted the circular door handle and pulled it towards him.

  A small detail but an important one, Hal thought. An attacker couldn’t simply batter the door open with a ram or a heavy log. It closed onto the solid stone frame, which supported it on three sides, and hinged outwards.

  Crowley ushered them in and followed just behind.

  ‘My lord,’ he announced, ‘meet Hal Mikkelson, Stig Olafson and Thorn . . .’ He hesitated and turned to Thorn, saying in a lowered voice, ‘I don’t think I heard your second name?’

  Thorn grinned wickedly. ‘Hookyhand,’ he said.

  Crowley was about to repeat the name when he realised what he was on the verge of saying. Instead, he amended to say: ‘And Thorn the Mighty.’

  Thorn wagged his head from side to side. ‘Prefer Hookyhand,’ he murmured. ‘It’s less pretentious.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Crowley continued, talking over him, ‘his majesty, King Duncan of Araluen.’

  King Duncan rose from behind the table where he was sitting, studying a sheaf of papers. He was an impressive man, Hal thought. He was tall and broad-shouldered and although there was some grey in his blond hair, his face was still youthful and his movements were easy and athletic. Unlike his Chamberlain, this man was a warrior.

  The three Skandians strode forward in step and stopped before the table, facing the King. Duncan eyed them calmly, suppressing a smile. He was used to dealing with Skandians. He’d met with Erak on several occasions over the years and he was aware of the Skandian spirit of equality and lack of regard for inherited titles.

  ‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ he said, his voice deep and resonant. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet more of our allies.’

  None of the three were quite sure how to reply to that. They all mumbled something incomprehensible, and that seemed to serve.

  ‘I’m told you’ve done my Kingdom a great service, rescuing a dozen of my subjects from the Socorran slavers,’ Duncan continued, singling out Hal. The young skirl shifted his feet, a little embarrassed. He still hadn’t decided how he would address the King. It was fine for Thorn to airily declare that he would simply call him ‘King’. Now that he was in his presence, though, Hal wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. There was a definite air of authority and command about the tall man facing them. It seemed to demand more respect than the simple sobriquet of ‘King’. He decided to compromise.

  ‘It wasn’t all my doing, King Duncan. Stig and Thorn here disabled the prison guards.’

  Duncan eyed Hal’s two muscular companions – one tall, lean and wide shouldered, the other equally tall, but heavier and more solidly built. His eye flicked over the wooden hook on Thorn’s right arm. Gilan had told him about the old sea wolf’s lost hand, and the various ingenious devices Hal had created to replace it.

  ‘I imagine they did,’ he said, with a ghost of a smile.

  Thorn returned it with a wide, easy grin. ‘Your man Gilan also lent a hand, King,’ he said easily.

  Duncan glanced sideways at Gilan, who remained expressionless. ‘Yes. He’s a capable fellow.’ The King returned his gaze to Thorn’s bluff, open face, still with a trace of a grin in the corners of his mouth, and frowned thoughtfully. ‘I’ve met your Oberjarl Erak on several occasions,’ he said. ‘You remind me of him.’

  Thorn shrugged. ‘Well, I did serve with him. As a matter of fact, at one stage I was his right-hand man.’

  ‘And what happened to change that?’ asked Duncan, sensing a story.

  ‘He cut off my right hand,’ Thorn said, delighted that the King had fallen into his trap.

  Crowley and Gilan both laughed. Duncan tilted his head and regarded Thorn for several seconds without expression.

  ‘Thorn, mind your manners,’ Hal cautioned. Thorn looked at him, all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Just a joke, Hal,’ he said. ‘I’m sure King here can take a joke.’

  Duncan finally smiled. ‘If I can’t, I should never have signed up to be King.’ He indicated a low table set by the fireplace, with half a dozen comfortable-looking armchairs set around it.

  ‘Let’s sit and get down to business.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LYDIA HAD SPENT some time inspecting her room – or rather, the suite of rooms that had been allotted to her. There was a large, airy sitting room, comfortably furnished, with a fireplace and with a wide double window that overlooked the wall and battlements of the castle, and the green parkland beyond.

  In addition, there was a spacious bedroom, furnished with a canopied bed, with velvet curtains that closed to keep out cold draughts – and in a castle like this, there were always cold draughts. A small privy with a water closet was discreetly positioned off the bedroom.

  She had already unpacked her belongings, putting her small collection of clothes into the capacious closets provided. Her atlatl and dart quiver were hanging on what appeared to be a hatstand. Having no hat other than her black Heron watch cap, Lydia had co-opted the hatstand as a weapons rack. For the moment, though, she retained the wide leather belt that supported the scabbard for her long-bladed dirk.

  There were several armchairs and she tried each one in turn, finally settling on the most comfortable – a carved wooden chair furnished with thick, soft cushions. She
leaned back in it, placing her booted feet on the windowsill and crossing her hands in her lap, and smiled contentedly.

  The rooms were nearly as large as the house in Limmat where she had grown up with her grandfather. At the thought of him, her smile faded. He had been killed when Zavac’s pirate crew had invaded the town and at times like this, when she was alone, she still missed his calm presence and gentle sense of humour. She shook off the momentary sadness.

  ‘Don’t mope,’ she said. ‘You’ve got plenty to be thankful for.’

  And indeed, she did. She had always been an outdoor type, fond of hunting, tracking and adventure. Now, as a member of the Heron crew, she saw plenty of that. In addition, she had a solid group of good friends around her. She knew she was valued as a member of the brotherband and had been totally accepted into it. She smiled at the thought.

  ‘I guess I’m a sister of the brotherband,’ she mused. It was like being suddenly provided with eight older brothers, all of whom were intent on looking after her – particularly Ingvar, she thought, and the smile faded again. Something was bothering him. It had started shortly after they escaped from Socorro and sailed north, she realised. He had become withdrawn and morose. At the celebratory feast when the slaves had been returned to their village, he had stayed a little aloof, not really taking part in the festivities.

  His outburst earlier in the day, when they had sighted Castle Araluen, had surprised all of them. She wanted to talk to him about it but she sensed that now wasn’t the time. She’d bide her time until an opportunity arose. He was too good a friend for her not to try to resolve whatever was bothering him.

  The concept of good friends led her thoughts to Stig and Hal. While all the Herons were her friends, these two were something special – although how special, she wasn’t quite sure yet. Both young men were attractive, each in his own way. And Stig, she knew, would leap at any chance to make their relationship closer.

  As for Hal, she wasn’t sure. At times she felt there was a special bond between them. Then, at others, he seemed a little stand-offish.

  That might be part of being skirl, she thought. As captain of the ship, Hal had to retain a little distance between himself and the crew. He was their friend, but he was also their commander, and he had to make sure that friendship didn’t undermine his authority. As their captain, he had to know that his crew would instantly obey any order he issued, without hesitation or argument.

  That was where Thorn played such an important role for his young skirl, she realised. The shaggy old warrior had a knack of placing himself between Hal and the crew when necessary, thereby diverting the crew’s attention from problems or concerns. He had done it just prior to their battle with Zavac’s pirate ship in the waters off Raguza, when he’d hurled his old horned helmet into the sea and donned a Heron watch cap instead. And he’d done it again earlier today, she realised, when he’d distracted the crew from Ingvar’s outburst. She admired the old warrior for his battle skills and his man management skills. She just wished he’d stop teasing her all the time. Still, it was a small price to pay for the life she was now leading, and enjoying.

  There was a light tap at the door.

  ‘Who can that be?’ she said. Long hours spent hunting alone in the woods had accustomed her to talking to herself. Occasionally, she even answered herself, as she did now.

  ‘One way to find out. Open the door and see.’

  She was expecting to see one of the other Herons outside her door. After all, she didn’t know anybody else in Araluen. She opened the door and was somewhat taken aback to see a young woman standing there, smiling at her. She was several years older than Lydia. She was petite and very beautiful, with shoulder-length glossy blonde hair.

  Her clothes gave no hint as to her position or rank. She was dressed neither as a servant nor as one of the castle’s ladies. Instead, she was dressed pretty much the same way Lydia was, in a thigh-length soft leather sleeveless jerkin over a white shirt, with tight leggings leading to knee-high brown leather boots. The jerkin was belted at the waist and, to her surprise, Lydia could see the hilt of a saxe knife sheathed on the woman’s left hip.

  ‘May I come in?’ she said. ‘I’ve been dying to meet you.’

  Lydia stepped back and motioned for the woman to enter. She was beginning to get an idea as to who her unexpected visitor might be. The woman’s next words confirmed it, as she held out her hand in greeting.

  ‘I’m Cassandra,’ she said. ‘I’m the princess in this pile of bricks. You must be Lydia?’

  Lydia wasn’t sure how to behave in front of a princess. She had never met anyone of such an exalted rank. Briefly, she wondered if she should curtsey. She’d heard somewhere that was what you did when you met a princess. But Cassandra seemed so easygoing and informal that Lydia sensed that wouldn’t be the correct procedure. Just as well, too, she thought, as she had no idea what a curtsey was or how to do one.

  Instead, after another brief moment of doubt, she took the proffered hand and shook it. Should she maybe kiss it? But the handshake seemed to do the job. Cassandra’s grip was firm and strong. She obviously wasn’t the sort of princess to sit meekly around the castle doing petit point and crochet – whatever they were.

  Cassandra was looking around the room, as if making sure it was up to standard.

  ‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘I was worried they might put you all in the ground-floor rooms. They’re too small and pokey and so dark. But this . . . this is good.’

  She walked to the armchair Lydia had just vacated but, seeing the indentations in the cushions, she pulled another one around to face it and plumped herself in it. For a second, Lydia was struck by the ludicrous sight of the princess’s feet not quite reaching the ground. She really was quite tiny. Then Cassandra wriggled her bottom around in the seat cushion and managed to plant her feet properly.

  ‘Let’s chat, shall we?’ she said, indicating the other armchair.

  A little mystified as to why she’d been singled out by the princess, Lydia took the chair facing her. She waited for the other girl to begin. Cassandra looked out the window to the green park and forest below them and indicated it with one hand.

  ‘So, how do you like Araluen?’ she asked brightly.

  Lydia hesitated a moment, then answered. ‘It’s very beautiful,’ she said. ‘It seems a lot more –’ she searched for the right word ‘– gentle than Skandia.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s true,’ Cassandra replied. ‘Did you know I spent some time in your country?’

  ‘I’m actually not Skandian,’ Lydia said. ‘Although I’ve made my home there now.’

  Cassandra studied her more closely. ‘Yes, I didn’t think you had the colouring of a Skandian,’ she said. ‘They tend to be blue eyed and blonde, don’t they?’

  Lydia, of course, was olive skinned and had black hair and hazel eyes. She nodded. ‘Skandian women are very beautiful.’

  Cassandra frowned slightly. The girl facing her was stunning, but obviously had no idea that this was the case. Cassandra changed the subject.

  ‘Of course, in Skandia, I’m better known by the name I use when I’m incognito.’ She saw Lydia’s eyebrows contract at the term and explained, ‘That’s the name I use when I’m travelling and don’t want to be recognised as a princess.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Lydia asked. If she were a princess, she’d want everyone to know.

  Cassandra shrugged. ‘Sometimes, it can be awkward if people know you’re a princess,’ she explained.

  ‘Awkward? In what way?’

  ‘Well,’ Cassandra said, smiling, ‘in Skandia, if the Oberjarl had known my true identity, he would have had my head lopped off.’

  Lydia was shocked. She knew Erak well and she couldn’t imagine him having such a vital, cheerful woman executed.

  ‘Erak?’

  Cassandra waved that idea aside. ‘No. Erak is a darling. I’m talking about his predecessor, Ragnak. He hated my family. Erak actually saved my life. H
e helped us escape. We hid out for the winter in a little cabin up in the mountains above Hallasholm.’

  A suspicion was forming in Lydia’s mind. ‘What was the name you used then?’ she asked.

  ‘Evanlyn,’ Cassandra replied. ‘A lot of people still call me that.’

  Lydia leaned forward in her chair. ‘I saw that name! It was carved into the wall in a hunting cabin I stayed in up in the mountains!’ she said excitedly.

  Cassandra’s eyes lit up with pleasure. ‘You stayed there?’

  Lydia nodded eagerly. Why she found it so fascinating she wasn’t sure. But she had looked at that name on the wall and wondered about the woman who had carved it. Now she knew who it was.

  ‘Yes. I was hunting.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Must’ve been a few months ago. I left in a hurry because there was a bear wandering round looking for trouble. But I definitely saw your name there.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that fascinating! I remember carving my name into the wall one day when I was feeling bored and lonely. Somehow it’s comforting to know it’s still there. Do you hunt often?’ Cassandra added.

  ‘Whenever I can. I grew up in the woods around Limmat. That’s my home town.’

  Cassandra nodded and indicated the quiver of atlatl darts on the hat stand. ‘And you use those darts and some kind of throwing stick?’ She rose and moved to the hat stand, half withdrawing one of the darts, then pausing. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course,’ Lydia replied. ‘The thrower is called an atlatl. That’s it beside the quiver.’

  Cassandra studied the beechwood atlatl, its surface worn smooth from years of handling, then withdrew the dart from the quiver, feeling its weight, and testing the razor edge of its broadhead with her thumb.

  ‘I imagine this would get the job done all right,’ she said. ‘I’d love to see you using it. We should go hunting while you’re here.’