Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Selethen nodded to Gilan. ‘Rest, relax and refresh yourselves. Then we’ll talk. The lieutenant will bring you to the khadif in two hours.’

  Rested, relaxed and refreshed, the Heron’s party presented themselves at the khadif, Selethen’s official residence, the equivalent of a customs house in Araluen or Erak’s Great Hall in Skandia.

  It was a graceful two-storey building, with a wide colonnaded front that provided shade from the hot Arridan sun. Lieutenant Samur led them through the massive front doors, then through a large anteroom and into the vast official hall itself. Their soft boots whispered on the blue tiled floor. The room was long and high ceilinged, with the second storey consisting of galleries around three sides, where the town’s officials worked. Al Shabah was the capital of the province and Selethen was the Wakir, or local ruler, answerable to the Emrikir, Arrida’s paramount ruler.

  Halfway down the hall, Samur directed them to one of the many rooms that lined either side, set beneath the upper galleries.

  ‘Lord Selethen will meet with you in his private office,’ he explained. The four visitors, for this time Hal had suggested that Stig should join them, followed him as he led the way to an ornately carved door and knocked. Selethen’s voice bade them enter and Samur held the door open, deferring to them as they went in, with Gilan leading the way.

  It was a comfortable room, with a breeze coming through large windows screened by stone latticework that kept out the glare of the sun. There was a low table, with plump, soft cushions around it and a brass coffee pot and tiny cups set on it.

  Selethen rose easily from his seat on one of the cushions and gestured for them to make themselves comfortable. Then, after Samur had poured them all coffee – and excellent coffee it was, Gilan thought – Selethen came straight to the point.

  ‘Good news and bad news,’ he said. ‘The renegade Iqbal is currently in the town of Tabork, a fortified town some forty kilometres down the coast.’

  ‘I take it that’s the good news. What’s the bad?’ Gilan said.

  ‘The bad news is that it is a fortified town. It’s secured by a wall and he has several hundred soldiers with him. The Emrikir has tasked me with winkling him out.’

  ‘The em-who-rir?’ Thorn asked, frowning.

  Selethen shifted his gaze to the old sea wolf. ‘My immediate superior. Similar to your Oberjarl.’

  ‘Then we’d best go and start winkling,’ Stig said. ‘If it’s forty kilometres away, we can be there in half a day.’

  ‘It’s not so simple,’ Selethen said. ‘As I said, it’s a walled town and I have only cavalry at my disposal. I have no heavy siege weapons, nor enough men to lay siege to Tabork.’

  ‘I take it the harbour itself is well defended?’ Hal said.

  ‘Very well defended. And besides, your little ship couldn’t carry enough men to stage a surprise raid, if that’s what you were thinking.’

  Hal nodded. ‘The idea had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Well, it gets worse. Iqbal has joined forces with a Hellenese corsair named Philip Bloodyhand. He has a large war galley in the harbour. As a matter of fact, they’ve been disrupting coastal traffic for some weeks now, dashing out to snap up any trader foolish enough to pass by.’ He spread his hands. ‘You may have noticed how many ships are in our harbour. Their captains are unwilling to go further east until the situation is resolved.’

  ‘Why don’t they just go further out to sea and bypass Tabork?’ Hal asked.

  ‘There’s a problem with that.’ Selethen rose and moved to where a large chart of the Constant Sea was displayed on one wall. ‘This is Tabork,’ he said, indicating a town set on the coast. ‘To the north, there’s a relatively narrow passage of clear water, close to the coast. Then there’s a huge range of small islands, reefs and shallow water, reaching almost a hundred kilometres to the north. It’s a dangerous, treacherous stretch of water, known as the Lion’s Teeth.’

  ‘Very poetic. We’ve had our share of shoals and reefs recently, thank you,’ said Thorn. During their recent voyage to Socorro, they had blundered into shoal water off the Araluan coast, nearly losing the Heron in the process.

  ‘To make matters even more difficult,’ Selethen continued, ‘the prevailing wind is from the north. If a merchant ship tries to beat into it to work its way round the shoals, Philip’s galley can easily run them down and capture them. That’s why he and Iqbal took the town in the first place. It’s an ideal base of operations for them. They’ve taken over fifty ships in the past few months.’

  ‘Tell us about this galley,’ Hal said.

  Selethen paused. He wasn’t a sailor and he needed to muster his thoughts before he described the galley to the Skandians.

  ‘She’s called the Ishtfana – that means Sea Leopard. She’s big, probably three times the size of your ship, and she has twenty oars a side. She has a small mast and she can mount a sail, but her main motive power comes from her oars. She’s long and very narrow. And the captains of ships in harbour here say she’s very fast.’

  ‘But probably not very seaworthy in bad weather,’ Thorn said. Long, narrow galleys rarely were.

  Selethen shrugged. ‘That I couldn’t say. In addition to her rowers, she usually carries a fighting crew of about twenty men.’

  ‘What about the oarsmen? Will they fight?’ Stig asked. But the Wakir shook his head.

  ‘They’re slaves. They’re kept chained to the oars.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Thorn. ‘We’ll only be outnumbered two to one.’

  The three Skandians exchanged glances.

  ‘Sounds like a tough nut to crack,’ Stig said.

  ‘Tough, but not impossible,’ Thorn replied.

  Hal said nothing. He was deep in thought. Gilan watched him closely. He had an idea that the young skirl was hatching a plan.

  ‘You’re thinking you can fight Ishtfana?’ Selethen asked.

  Hal looked up at him. ‘I’m thinking we might be able to use her.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE OTHERS PRESSED him for details but Hal begged off saying more.

  ‘It’s just a rough idea at the moment,’ he said. ‘Let me sort out the details and I’ll tell you. Give me an hour or so.’

  Hal requested a copy of the map of the Arridan coast, and another of Tabork, if one was available. Selethen sent a servant to fetch both charts and, when they arrived, the visitors drained the last drops of their coffee. Selethen noticed Gilan’s longing gaze on the coffee pot, which was still a quarter full.

  ‘There is coffee at the guesthouse, friend Gilan,’ he said with a smile and Gilan nodded his thanks.

  They made their farewells to Selethen and rose to leave, with Lieutenant Samur ready to escort them back to the guesthouse. As they left the room, Hal glanced back and saw that the Wakir was already engrossed in a series of reports and lists of figures. There was a lot of detail work in being a Wakir, he thought.

  Back at the guesthouse, Hal went to his room and shut himself in. The others made themselves comfortable in the large sitting room, recounting to the rest of the crew what had taken place at the khadif.

  ‘What’s this Selethen like, Gilan?’ Lydia asked. She knew little of the inhabitants of the countries that ringed the Constant Sea and, knowing nothing, she had deep suspicions of them. Gilan paused before answering.

  ‘Brave, loyal and a man of his word. Absolutely trustworthy. And he’s an excellent warrior and leader. Quite frankly, we couldn’t ask for a better man to be helping us.’

  Lydia was surprised at his unstinting praise of the Arridan nobleman. But she knew Gilan well enough to trust his opinion. He wasn’t a man who was easily fooled. Nor was he the type to praise someone for the sake of being polite. If he said Selethen was a man to be trusted, Lydia knew she could believe him.

  Around the middle of the day, the house servants set up a charcoal grill in the inner courtyard of the house and began grilling skewers of seasoned lamb meat. The delicious smell permeated the house, ev
en drawing Hal out from behind his closed door to join them. The Herons sat on low benches in the courtyard, shaded from the sun by striped canvas awnings, while the servants passed around plates of sizzling lamb, topped with soft fried onions that had been prepared on a hotplate over the coals. There were also bowls of a green, leafy salad, dressed with a mixture of olive oil, pepper and lemon juice, and another salad, which consisted of cracked wheat, chopped parsley, mint, and finely diced tomatoes. Stig tasted it on a piece of warmed flat bread and nodded his approval.

  ‘That’s great!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘What’s it called?’ he asked one of the serving staff.

  ‘It’s called tabouleh, lord,’ the man told him, and Stig filed that information away for future reference.

  If the tabouleh was good, the lamb was positively heavenly. Marinated in lemon juice and oil, it was pink and tender and delicious, particularly when sprinkled with more lemon juice. There were platters of flat Arridan bread that had been warmed over the coals. The Herons slid the lamb off the skewers and onto a round of bread, then heaped piles of tabouleh and green salad onto it, rolled it into a cylinder and ate. And if some of the delicious lamb juice happened to run down their hands and arms during this process, nobody really cared. It was a simple matter to lick one’s hands to clean them.

  For the most part, the crew had been silent while they ate. The food was too good to waste time in idle chitchat. But now, sitting back and patting his stomach, Thorn emitted a low burp and addressed his skirl.

  ‘Got the plan sorted out yet?’ he asked.

  Hal nodded, slipping a last chunk of lamb from a skewer and placing it in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, unable or unwilling to talk. Then he swallowed, sighed contentedly and replied.

  ‘Pretty much. There may be a few details I’ve missed,’ he added quickly. He had a reputation for occasionally missing the odd important detail in a plan and he wasn’t about to let Thorn remind everyone about it. Instead, he decided to place the onus on his old friend. ‘I’ll rely on you to see where I’ve missed something and point it out.’

  ‘So, let’s hear it,’ Stig said eagerly. He admired his friend’s ability to see an opportunity that everyone else had overlooked, and create a plan to take advantage of it. What really fascinated Stig was, once the opportunity or idea was pointed out, it was so blindingly obvious that one had to wonder how everyone else had missed it in the first place.

  But Hal shook his head. ‘We’ll wait for Selethen,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, let’s have coffee.’

  They applied themselves enthusiastically to the coffee. It had become a favourite drink among the Heron crew and it was usually in short supply as a result. It made a welcome change to have it available in such liberal amounts. With the coffee, they enjoyed a dessert of a delicate pastry, cut in small squares, whose pastry layers were filled with a concoction of crushed walnuts and pine nuts, and soaked in honey.

  ‘This is a great cake,’ Ulf said contentedly. ‘After you’ve eaten it, you can keep enjoying it by licking the honey off your fingers.’

  For once, Wulf didn’t automatically disagree with his brother. But that could have been because he was too busy licking honey off his fingers. Instead, he made several contented grunting sounds.

  More servants entered, bearing copper bowls of warm, scented, clear liquid and clean linen towels. Stefan eyed the bowl set in front of him with suspicion.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late to serve soup?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s water,’ Gilan told him. ‘It’s a finger bowl to clean your hands – although in your case, you could possibly keep going until you reach your armpits.’

  And indeed, most of them were busily wiping honey and pastry flakes from their hands, their mouths, their cheeks and, in some cases, their foreheads. They were young men and they had enjoyed the food with the gusto and enthusiasm that young men so often display.

  Thorn disdained using the finger bowl, cleaning his one hand by the simple expedient of wiping it on the front of his tunic and the leg of his breeches. His hook was also liberally smeared with honey and he licked that clean, then wiped it with the linen napkin the servants had provided.

  Lydia looked at him, shaking her head. ‘Are you always so disgusting, old man?’

  He gave her a beatific smile. ‘No. I’m doing this solely for your benefit. I’m usually very civilised.’

  They were saved from further discussion along these lines by one of the servants, who now appeared in the doorway and addressed Gilan.

  ‘Lord Gilan, the Wakir is here for you,’ he said.

  Gilan glanced at Hal. ‘Ready to talk?’

  When Hal nodded, the Ranger heaved himself to his feet with a small groan. He had eaten one too many lamb skewers, he realised. Lamb grilled over coals was always his weakness.

  Selethen was waiting for them in the large sitting room. As they all trooped in, he rose and made his usual greeting. Hal indicated the rest of the brotherband.

  ‘I thought the crew should sit in on this,’ he said. ‘It’ll save me having to brief them separately, and they might see a few spots where we can improve the plan.’ He introduced the other crew members to Selethen. Predictably, the Wakir was particularly interested in Lydia, noting the long dirk at her waist and her no-nonsense style of dress. Seeing his interest, Hal expanded a little on her introduction.

  ‘Lydia joined us last year,’ he said. ‘She’s an expert hunter and tracker. And she’s a dead shot with her dart-casting atlatl.’

  Selethen inclined his head, looking impressed. ‘You Skandians and Araluans seem to have a tradition of warlike women,’ he said. ‘I recall that the Araluan princess was also a deadly shot – but with a sling.’

  Hal thought they’d spent enough time on small talk. He cleared his throat meaningfully and looked down at the chart he’d spread on the table. Selethen made a graceful gesture for him to proceed.

  ‘All right,’ the young skirl said. ‘This is the chart of the coast you showed me.’ The others moved forward slightly to see more clearly. He indicated Al Shabah, then Tabork, further to the east.

  ‘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 harbour?’ Edvin asked. ‘How strongly is that defended?’ Being a sailor, he thought in terms of attacking from the sea, and the harbour 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 defences.

  ‘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 north-west, with old Philip Pussyfoot following us.’ He drew his saxe and lightly traced a path on the map, tapping a spot some ten kilometres 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. 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?’