Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

‘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 equaliser. 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 metre 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 to 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 stubbornly 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. Further out to sea, the colour darkened into deep blue as the bottom shelved away temporarily. Once it reached the area known as the Lion’s Teeth, however, the Wakir realised 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 upwards until she reached the cross-tree a metre 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 harbour,’ Hal called. She waved a hand in acknowledgement. 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 harbour 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 towards the north-west, 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 north-west 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 Fancy-fingers 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 cross-tree. 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 towards 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 harbour 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 cross-tree, giving her a better sight of the harbour mouth.

  Sure enough, a long, narrow hull was emerging from between the grey 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, synchronised 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 battleaxe 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 metre 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.

  ‘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 travelling 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 any more,’ Hal called back. When he switched sails, he didn’t want anyone on shore 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 swivelled 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 manoeuvre. ‘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 towards 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 manoeuvre. 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.’

  They weren’t going to have to wait too long, Selethen realised. Lydia’s voice came to them from the masthead.

  ‘Town’s out of sight! Ishtfana is still gaining.’

  Hal looked up at her. ‘Get down here and get your atlatl ready,’ he called. He glanced at Gilan. ‘You too, Gilan. We’re going to need your bow.’ Then he turned back to his waiting crew, as Lydia scampered down the rigging, reaching the deck in a matter of seconds.

  ‘All right, Herons. Let’s ditch that square sail and send up our own! Go!’ As he added the last word, the waiting crew exploded into action.

  ‘Clear!’ Ulf shouted as he and Wulf cast off the trimming sheets on the square sail and it flew up in the wind. Instantly, Stefan, Jesper and Edvin cast off the rigging that secured it and allowed it to fall from the masthead, sliding down, just keeping it under control with tension on the braces, gathering it in a rough bundle as it came. The moment it touched the deck, Stig yelled to Ingvar.

  ‘Up port!’

  The two powerful youths put their backs into it, sending the slender yardarm soaring aloft to clunk home into the bracket that secured it. Barely had this happened than the twins were heaving on the trimming sheets. The sail made a whumping noise as the wind filled it, then they sheeted home, trapping the wind, and the Heron surged forward with increased speed and purpose, her prow swinging to the north as Hal leaned on the tiller.

  The sudden increase in speed caught Selethen by surprise and he staggered a pace or two, then recovered. He raised an eyebrow at Gilan.

  ‘Who built this ship?’ he asked.

  Gilan grinned and nodded towards the intense figure at the helm. ‘Who do you thi
nk?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE ROOM WAS on the second floor of the former harbourmaster’s building in Tabork. It was high ceilinged, and the wide open arches that led onto a deep verandah overlooking the harbour admitted the sea breeze to cool the interior. The floor was tiled, the tiles forming a geometric pattern that was pleasing to the eye. The furnishings were minimal – several blackwood chests and a long wall table, and plush cushions on the floor to provide seating around a low table.

  Simple as the furnishing might be, the room was a big improvement over the goatskin tent that was Iqbal’s normal residence in the desert. He had appropriated the second-floor premises when his men had overrun the town. Its former occupant, the harbourmaster, a minor official of the Emrikir, had been killed in the brief, savage battle that had marked the seizing of Tabork. Iqbal’s men had stormed the inland wall at night, while Philip’s corsairs had launched their attack from the sea. After years of peace and prosperity, the town had neglected to deploy the heavy chain boom across the harbour mouth – much to their misfortune. In the same lackadaisical fashion, the watch on the walls that protected the town had grown careless and inefficient.

  Iqbal stood with his back to the verandah, the strong glare of the sun behind him. He was facing one of his subordinates, a fierce and cruel fighter named Dhakwan, who was the leader of a Khumsan, a company of fifty riders. Dhakwan, in deference to his tribal chief, had dispensed with the blue veil that normally covered the lower half of his face. Iqbal’s head was bare, exposing his shaven skull to Dhakwan’s view.

  ‘When will your men be arriving?’ Iqbal asked. His voice was harsh and demanding. Iqbal valued Dhakwan as a fighter and a leader of men. But there was no affection between them. In fact, there was no affection between Iqbal and any of his men.

  ‘They’re ten kilometres away, in camp,’ Dhakwan told him. ‘I thought it better if they arrived in darkness. I assume you don’t want the tyrant Selethen to know we have extra men in the town?’