Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  ‘That’s a wonderful thing you’ve done for him,’ she said quietly.

  Hal smiled at her. He was always pleased when one of his ideas worked. But this time it was doubly pleasing because he could see how much it meant to Ingvar. He shook his head as he thought how close they had come to losing him as a crew member.

  ‘Good to see him enjoying himself,’ he said.

  And in fact, the novelty of clearer vision didn’t seem to tire for Ingvar. He stood by the bulwark, his hand on one of the stays supporting the mast, his face lit up by the beaming smile as he named the objects they sailed past.

  After several minutes of this, Thorn dropped down into the rowing well and produced a long, narrow bundle wrapped in canvas. ‘I’ve got something for you, Ingvar.’

  Ingvar turned curiously as Thorn moved towards him with the bundle.

  ‘I figured you’ll be taking a more active role in combat now that you can see who you’re hitting,’ Thorn said. ‘And since it’s a little late for you to start picking up the finer points of swordsmanship, I thought this might be a more useful weapon for you.’

  He unwrapped the canvas and dropped it on the deck. In his hand, he held a long weapon that looked like a cross between a heavy spear and a long-handled axe. The shaft was blackwood, almost as hard as iron, and the head combined a spear point at the end with an axe blade on one side and a curved, sharp-edged hook on the other.

  Ingvar took the weapon as Thorn offered it and tested the weight and heft of it in his hands. ‘It’s quite well balanced,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I would have expected it to feel awkward and clumsy.’

  He moved it through the air in an experimental thrust, then raised it above his head and performed a slow down-stroke. As he had said, the weapon, seemingly clumsy in appearance, felt light and responsive in his hands – although a smaller person might have found its weight made it a little clumsy to handle.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued, holding it out and admiring it. ‘I think I could do some damage with this.’

  ‘And to the right people,’ Stig put in, smiling.

  Ingvar grinned at him. ‘I can almost hear you all breathing a giant sigh of relief,’ he said and there was a low murmur of laughter from the crew. ‘Where did you get it, Thorn? And what’s it called?’

  ‘I found it in the armoury at Castle Araluen,’ Thorn told him. ‘After my amazing feat of plucking a speeding arrow from the sky and saving their princess, the armourers were only too happy to let me have it. It’s called a voulge.’

  ‘Odd name,’ Ingvar said.

  Thorn shrugged. ‘Well, you can call it anything you like, really. Call it a sticker-chopper if you want to. It’s a versatile weapon.’ He took it back from Ingvar. ‘If you’re fighting someone, you can chop ’em, stick ’em, hook ’em, or pull ’em.’

  He demonstrated the various strokes as he listed them. In his hands, the voulge was obviously a weapon of considerable menace.

  Edvin nodded, impressed. ‘That’s very poetic, Thorn. You should consider putting that to music. Chop ’em, stick ’em, hook ’em or pull ’em. Has a definite ring to it.’

  ‘People say I’ve got a poetic bent,’ Thorn said, with false modesty. ‘I’ve composed more than one love song in my time.’

  ‘Well, I hope you didn’t use “chop ’em, stick ’em and pull ’em” in any love song,’ Stig declared, and nobody could really argue with that.

  They made good speed down the river. The wind remained constant from the north, which bode well for their passage down the Narrow Sea. In midafternoon, the river widened noticeably, the banks receding to either side until they were low green headlands in the middle distance, and they sailed out into the ocean proper. As the Heron lifted beneath their feet to the first real roller, Hal let out a small sigh of contentment.

  They were back at sea, and it felt vaguely like coming home.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THEY MADE GOOD speed down the east coast of Araluen. Occasionally, as the Narrow Sea lived up to its name, they could sight the coast of Gallica as well, out to the port side. Then the straits would widen and the low grey line that marked the land would recede into the distance again.

  Thorn passed the time drilling Ingvar in the use of the voulge, and those members of the crew who were off-duty gathered to watch.

  Thorn stood facing Ingvar, with a long wooden shaft in his hand to simulate the voulge. He made sure he stood well out of Ingvar’s reach, however, as he demonstrated the various attacking and defensive strokes in a drill sequence – a sequence that became progressively faster.

  ‘Thrust! Parry! Back! Advance! Overhead! Side stroke! Parry! Butt stroke!’

  He called the moves in a random pattern, never repeating the same pattern twice, demanding a different sequence of moves each time.

  ‘Stay on your toes, Ingvar!’ he called. ‘Remember the net!’

  ‘Who could forget it?’ Stefan grinned. In the early days of their pursuit of the Magyaran pirate Zavac, Thorn had made them practise their fighting moves while standing knee deep in a large rope net. Strangely, Ingvar had proven to be quite adept at this, particularly when Thorn told him to close his eyes and imagine the net in place.

  Ingvar nodded. His brow was creased with concentration above the dark brown circles that hid his eyes.

  ‘Parry! Parry! Parry! Back! Thrust! No, use your legs when you thrust, not just your arms!’

  ‘His arms are pretty powerful,’ Stig said in mild protest.

  Thorn turned to face him. ‘Maybe so. But if you put the strength of his legs behind that spear thrust, nothing could stop it. He could knock over a horse.’

  ‘That’s not so easy,’ Stig said sceptically.

  Thorn raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve done it.’

  His tone of voice left no room for discussion. Stig held up a hand in surrender and fell quiet while Thorn went back to drilling Ingvar, performing the moves himself with speed, precision and a deceptive smoothness.

  ‘How did Thorn get so good with a voulge? You people don’t use them, do you?’ Gilan said softly to Hal, who was at the tiller.

  The young skirl shrugged. ‘It’s a weapon. He’s good at weapons.’

  After forty minutes, Ingvar was soaked with perspiration and panting with exhaustion. Thorn finally took pity on him.

  ‘All right. That’s enough for today. But keep practising.’

  Ingvar, his face scarlet, his shoulders and chest heaving, nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He slumped down on the deck, his feet in the rowing well, and held the voulge between his knees. Thorn had given him a leather head cover for the weapon, which would prevent the salt water gathering on it and rusting it. He re-wrapped the cover and laid the long weapon down.

  ‘How did the spectacles work out?’ Hal called to him. Ingvar looked up and grinned tiredly.

  ‘They’re great. It really helps when I can see what I’m doing. One thing, though . . .’ He hesitated, not wishing to criticise Hal’s brilliant invention. Hal gestured for him to speak up and he continued, a little reluctantly. ‘It’s just that, when I get hot and sweaty, they slip down on my nose. And several times, I thought they might even fly right off my face.’

  Hal nodded. It was a sensible comment and one he thought he should have foreseen.

  ‘I’ll attach laces to the earpieces so you can tie them firmly in place,’ he suggested.

  Ingvar smiled, glad the solution was so simple. ‘Yes. That should fix it.’

  ‘Let me have them when I’ve finished this spell on the helm,’ Hal told him. He glanced at Thorn, who had moved to join Hal, Stig and Gilan by the steering platform.

  ‘He’s not bad at all,’ Hal said, nodding in Ingvar’s direction.

  ‘He’s good,’ Thorn told them. ‘Ingvar has always been good. He’s fast and well co-ordinated, particularly for someone his size. His problem has always been confidence. His lack of confidence, and his poor vision, have always made him clumsy. Now that he can see what he’s doing,
his natural abilities are coming to the fore.’

  He glanced around the small group. ‘Anyone else for a bit of weapons drill?’

  ‘I’m on watch for another hour,’ Hal said quickly. Practice sessions with Thorn were exhausting, and often painful, even with the wooden drill weapons they carried. Especially with those, he amended, as Thorn tended not to hold back when he was using them. With real weapons, he was a little more accommodating.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a workout,’ Gilan said casually.

  They all looked at him with interest. Lydia had told them how he had fought several guardsmen at once when they were retreating from the gold market in Socorro.

  Thorn gestured now to the stack of wooden weapons by the arms chest. ‘Pick out a sword and get ready.’

  Gilan took off his cloak and folded it carefully. Then he tested two or three of the swords, swishing them experimentally through the air until he found one whose weight and balance seemed right. He unclipped his sword and scabbard from his belt and rested it against the railing. He’d lost a sword in the fight at the gold market, throwing it at one of the attackers in order to gain time to escape through the ceiling. Upon his return to Castle Araluen, he’d taken the opportunity to replace it.

  Now, he looked at Thorn and raised his eyebrows. ‘Ready?’

  But Thorn shook his head. ‘I think we might see a match between you and young Stig,’ he said. ‘It’ll be good experience for him.’

  Gilan looked at the strapping first mate and smiled. ‘Sounds good to me.’ He took up one of the padded practice jackets and slipped into it, then donned a heavily padded gauntlet.

  Stig grunted agreement. He donned a padded jacket and gauntlet as well, then selected a practice wooden axe from the weapon stack. Then he unhooked his round shield from its spot on the bulwark and slid his left arm and hand through the straps.

  ‘You going to use a shield?’ he asked Gilan.

  The Ranger shook his head. ‘A sword will do for now.’

  They both looked expectantly at Thorn. The crew had gathered a little closer to watch. A few of them were calling encouragement to Stig.

  ‘Away you go,’ Thorn said mildly.

  Stig reacted instantly, driving forward and aiming a massive overhead blow at the Ranger, expecting him to leap back, off balance, to avoid it. But Gilan stood his ground and flicked his sword at the descending axe, deflecting it so that the wooden blade thudded into the deck planks. Then, in the blink of an eye, he responded, thrusting the sword at Stig’s unprotected chest.

  Only to feel a jarring sensation in his arm and wrist as the heavy wooden shield came round to block his thrust.

  ‘Oh, nice work, both of them,’ Thorn muttered to Hal. Stig was every bit as fast as Gilan, although he sensed the Ranger might have the edge in experience and technique.

  Now the Ranger began a lightning fast series of strokes at the Skandian youth. Backhands, forehands, overheads and straight thrusts. Stig gave ground slowly, but each blow was blocked by either his axe or his shield. At one point, he caught the descending sword in the narrow gap between the wooden blade of his axe and the shaft. He twisted his wrist violently, trapping the blade, nearly wrenching it from Gilan’s grip. The Ranger leapt back hurriedly to disengage, sliding his sword free in the nick of time. He grunted in admiration and nodded to Stig, acknowledging a good move.

  But Stig wasn’t looking for praise. As Gilan withdrew, he leapt forward once more and slammed his shield into the Ranger’s left shoulder, sending him flying across the deck and crashing to the planks.

  Stig followed up with a huge downstroke but Gilan avoided it just in time, rolling away. As he did, he kicked Stig’s legs from under him and brought the first mate thudding to the deck beside him.

  Cat-like, they both regained their feet at the same moment and faced each other again. Gilan was the first to re-engage. He drew back his sword for a downward cut, then, with bewildering speed, flicked it to his left hand instead. The move was totally unexpected and Stig felt the light touch of the wooden tip against his chest.

  Several of the crew groaned as they realised their man had been defeated. They had never seen that happen before.

  Jesper quietly cursed to himself. He should have taken bets on this, he thought.

  ‘That’s it!’ Thorn called, and the two of them stepped back, breathing heavily.

  ‘Nice move,’ Thorn said to Gilan.

  Stig nodded his agreement. ‘I never saw that coming,’ he said. ‘I’ll be careful of that in future.’

  ‘Like to try another bout?’ Thorn said.

  Gilan realised that the old sea wolf had donned his fighting hand – the massive club that Hal had designed for him to replace his missing right hand and forearm. He nodded, his eyes narrowed. It would be an interesting weapon to face, he thought. In his left hand, Thorn held a small, bowl-shaped metal shield.

  They shaped up to each other. Jesper, furious, realised it was too late to organise bets once more.

  ‘Call time, Hal,’ Thorn said, his eyes fixed on the slim young Ranger.

  ‘Time!’ Hal called and the bout began.

  Gilan was expecting the massive club to be used in a downward or sideways arc. Consequently, Thorn’s opening gambit caught him by surprise. Thorn jabbed forward with the club, sliding inside Gilan’s guard and thudding into his ribs. The old sea wolf pulled the thrust at the last minute but Gilan realised that, if this had been a real fight, he would be crippled, with several ribs fractured. It had taken his shaggy-haired opponent a matter of seconds to deliver a winning blow, he realised. He shook his head in new admiration of the old fighter, then shaped up again.

  ‘Let’s keep going,’ he said and, before he finished speaking, he darted his sword forward in a series of rapid thrusts, his right foot stepping and stamping to deliver more power to the attack.

  Thorn withdrew, blocking and deflecting with his small shield, the club-hand always in readiness to exploit any gap in Gilan’s defence.

  But there was none. Gilan’s thrusts were fast and economical. He was never out of balance, never allowing an opportunity for Thorn to exploit.

  At the same time, Gilan realised that his series of rapid thrusts were causing Thorn no problem at all. The sea wolf parried or blocked each one, the small shield seeming to form an impenetrable barrier that was always in the right place at just the right time. The bearded warrior’s reflexes were fantastic, Gilan realised.

  Time to try something else, he thought. He withdrew a pace, and they eyed each other carefully, waiting for the next move. It came from Gilan. He threw up the sword for an overhand stroke. But at the last second, he flipped it sideways to his left hand, just as he had done with Stig.

  It never reached his left hand.

  Somewhere on the way, Thorn’s club flashed up and struck it, sending it spinning high in the air, over Gilan’s head. Stig reached up and caught it just before it disappeared over the side into the sea.

  The crew cheered Thorn’s success. One hand or not, he was one of the greatest fighters they had ever seen. One of the greatest Gilan had seen too, the tall Ranger realised.

  ‘Thought you’d try that sooner or later,’ Thorn said.

  Gilan smiled ruefully. ‘I should have remembered. You’re the man who can pluck speeding arrows out of thin air.’

  Thorn nodded. ‘True. But you’re giving that move away,’ he said.

  Gilan’s smile turned to a look of surprise. ‘What am I doing?’ he said. ‘Is it my eyes? What?’

  Thorn shook his head. ‘Just before you do it, you flex the fingers of your left hand, ready to catch the sword. I saw you do it with Stig and I was waiting for it.’

  Gilan looked down at his left hand now. ‘I never realised,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you. That’s a habit I’ll have to break.’

  ‘I’d advise it,’ Thorn said.

  Gilan regarded him with new-found respect. Very few warriors would have noticed that minimal movement when he had fought Stig –
or been able to see it again in the heat of battle. Gilan realised that Thorn had possibly saved his life in some future combat. He nodded his gratitude to the old warrior. Thorn recognised the nod for what it was – an honest and heartfelt gesture of thanks. He turned to the rest of the crew.

  ‘Anyone else fancy themselves against the great arrow catcher?’ he challenged with a grin. The Herons hurriedly looked away, avoiding eye contact and calling their refusals.

  All except Lydia.

  ‘I’ll take you on, old man,’ she said and Thorn raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  ‘But we’ll do it onshore, fifty paces apart. And we’ll see how many of my darts you can pluck out of thin air before I skewer you.’

  This time, Jesper realised he had time to get organised.

  ‘Taking bets now!’ he shouted eagerly. ‘Two to one Lydia. Even money Thorn!’

  Thorn regarded him quizzically. ‘I think you’re selling her short,’ he said. ‘I’d take two to one on her anytime.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, they turned east, and sailed through the gap that was known as the Narrows of Ikbar. The two headlands, one marking the southernmost extremity of Iberion, the other the northernmost of Arrida, were visible on either horizon.

  As they entered the Narrows, the constant wind from the north, which had accompanied them down the coast of Araluen, became fluky and sporadic, as it was masked by the Iberian headland. The sail surged and flapped and Hal was contemplating setting the crew to the oars when the gap widened, the wind stabilised and they sailed into clear air again.

  ‘Do you think this Ikbar person was really thin?’ Ulf said, with mock innocence, trying to recommence the nonsense dialogue they had snared Gilan into on the previous occasion when they had passed the Narrows. But the Ranger wasn’t falling into that trap again. He eyed the twins steadily until they realised he wasn’t going to bite.

  Instead, Wulf searched for a new point of contention.