Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Hal frowned as he and Stig stood by the steering platform. Stig had just taken over the helm and Hal remained close by. He wasn’t tired and he knew if he stretched out on his blankets, he’d lie awake, worrying about his crew.

  ‘They’re very quiet,’ he said eventually.

  Stig looked sidelong at him. ‘And you’re complaining about that? It’s a pleasant change from the bickering and nattering that they usually go on with.’

  Hal said nothing for a minute or two. He studied the crew carefully. None of them seemed interested in talking to one another. He could sense a feeling of unease.

  ‘It’s Ulf,’ he said finally. ‘They’re worried about Ulf.’

  ‘Not surprising. No matter what the healers say, things can always take a turn for the worse.’

  Ulf was their first serious casualty since Ingvar had been struck down by an arrow in the fighting at Limmat many months ago. The fact that he was so seriously wounded hung over them like a pall. But on top of that, there was something else, Hal realised.

  ‘It’s more than that. They’re worried about him, of course. But they’re missing his constant wrangling with Wulf.’

  Stig looked surprised. ‘Who could miss that?’ But then he realised that Hal was right. The twins, with their ridiculous arguing, provided a diversion for the crew during the long hours at sea. Plus there was the additional spice added by the fact that, at any moment, Hal could tire of them and order Ingvar to throw one, or both, of them overboard.

  That was always something to look forward to, he realised. But without that continual distraction, the hours seemed empty and strangely lacking. If the weather would worsen, or the wind shift, they would have something to do, something to take their mind off things. But as it was, all they had to do was sit there with the ship trimmed to the wind, while she swooped gently over the swell on her way east.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Stig said, at length. ‘And I never thought I’d say it, but I do actually miss all their nonsense.’

  Hal let his gaze wander over the crew.

  Wulf was sitting disconsolately at his station by the trimming sheets. Usually, he would be accompanied by Ulf, but now, of course, he was alone. Jesper was in the bow, leaning on the bowpost and keeping a bored lookout over the sea ahead and the coastline to starboard. Stefan and Edvin sat opposite Wulf, ready at the halyards if there was a need to change sails. But there had been no such need for hours and Edvin was idly picking the stitches out of a woollen scarf he had been knitting. Apparently, he wasn’t content with the result and was unpicking it to knit it again. Stefan stared at the deck below his feet, seemingly mesmerised by the planks.

  Ingvar was leaning on the canvas-shrouded Mangler. He was wearing his spectacles and staring out at the sea. He spent a lot of time doing that these days. He never seemed to tire of the fact that now he could actually see the water surrounding them, and the coastline slipping by to starboard. Of all the crew, he alone showed any sign of animation or interest.

  Even Kloof seemed affected by the atmosphere on board. She lay on her stomach in the bow, her forepaws thrust out and her massive head resting on them. Her tail, which usually stirred back and forth, warning of some form of mischief she had in mind, lay still on the deck behind her.

  As he watched, Hal saw Thorn stir from his normal position against the mast. The old warrior heaved himself to his feet with a sigh, cast a long look around the horizon, then moved a few metres to where Lydia was sitting in the stern rowing benches, idly running a sharpening stone over the blade of her dirk. She had been sharpening it for most of the morning, Hal thought. If she kept it up, there would be no blade left.

  She glanced up suspiciously as Thorn settled onto the bench beside her. Lydia was all too conscious of the fact that Thorn was always ready to tease her about something. But that didn’t seem to be the case today. Hal watched, unnoticed by either of them, as Thorn leaned closer to her and said something in a lowered voice. She looked at Thorn for a few seconds with a surprised expression on her face, then swung her gaze around the crew. Realising she would be looking his way any moment, Hal hastily averted his gaze so that he appeared to be concentrating on the wind telltale on the mast above him. But he continued to watch the two of them out of the corner of his eye.

  Eventually, Lydia’s gaze returned to Thorn and she said something. He nodded, satisfied, and rose to return to his position by the mast.

  Several minutes passed and Hal continued to watch curiously. Eventually, Lydia decided that the razor edge on her dirk couldn’t be improved, and slid it back into its sheath.

  She reached into the leather satchel where she kept her personal items and produced a wooden comb. Loosening the tie that held her long hair back from her face, she began to comb it, stroking the comb smoothly though its long strands.

  Thorn appeared to notice her for the first time. ‘You’re always doing that,’ he said.

  She glanced up at him, her face an impassive mask. ‘Doing what?’

  He made a combing motion over his own shaggy hair. ‘Combing that hair of yours. You’re always doing it.’

  She raised an eyebrow at him. ‘I do it once a day,’ she replied. ‘But I suppose to someone like you, who combs his hair once a month, and does it with his wooden hook, it seems like I’m always doing it.’

  Stefan had looked up at Thorn’s opening sally. Now, he gave a subdued snort of laughter at Lydia’s retort. Thorn affected not to notice him.

  ‘I’ll have you know,’ he said with some dignity, ‘that I comb my hair more frequently than once a month.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Lydia said, warming to her theme. ‘Then how come the last time you did it, a seagull flew out of it, with three hatchlings she’d been raising in there?’

  Now there was a snicker of laughter from Edvin and Ingvar. Hal realised that the crew all had their attention focused on Thorn and Lydia. And for once, Thorn wasn’t getting the better of the interaction between them.

  ‘The crafty old devil,’ he said quietly to Stig. ‘He’s doing this on purpose to take the crew’s mind off Ulf.’

  Stig nodded silently, watching the two antagonists to see what was coming next.

  ‘You should just cut it short,’ Thorn said and Lydia raised an eyebrow at him.

  ‘Cut it short?’ she repeated.

  He nodded emphatically. ‘It’d be more stylish if you cut it short. More glamorous. Boys might take notice of you that way.’

  ‘Which boys might they be?’ Lydia asked, her voice deceptively sweet.

  Thorn shrugged. ‘No particular boys. Just boys in general. Rollond, maybe.’ He grinned as he said the name. Rollond was a boy back in Hallasholm who was totally smitten by Lydia. Unfortunately for him, she didn’t return the sentiment.

  Now all eyes on board were on the two of them, switching from one to the other as they followed the dialogue. At the mention of Rollond’s name, a few of them leaned forward expectantly. Rollond’s name was all too often like a red rag to a bull with Lydia.

  ‘Let me make two things perfectly clear, old man,’ Lydia said, and now there was a steely edge to her voice. ‘One: I do not plan on taking hints on hair styles and grooming from someone who looks like he was dragged backwards through a blackberry bush.’

  ‘That’s a little harsh,’ Thorn said, trying to sound dignified. The attempt failed when a low snicker of laughter ran round the members of the crew. Even Wulf had a half grin on his face, Hal noticed.

  But Lydia hadn’t finished. ‘And two, I’m not interested having “the boys”, be it Rollond or anyone else, take notice of me. Is that totally clear?’

  Thorn shrugged. ‘Well, if you say. But I think it would be better if you cut it short. It would frame your face quite nicely.’

  ‘I’ll frame your face for you, old man. I’ll frame it with a leather bucket. How would you like that?’ Lydia replied.

  Thorn shook his head and sighed. ‘Whatever happened to femininity?’ he asked, of nobody in partic
ular. The only reply was a general round of laughter from the crew. Thorn shook his head huffily.

  ‘Time was when people respected their elders,’ he said to nobody in particular.

  He settled down, leaning his back against the mast once more, pulling his watch cap down over his eyes. Hal looked around the crew and took in the lightening of the mood on board. Nice work, Thorn, he thought to himself. Not for the first time, he realised how well the old sea wolf could read the crew’s mood, and then change it in an instant. Their previous lack of interest, the sense of ennui, was now gone and several of the Herons were exchanging amused glances. Time to keep their minds engaged, he thought, before they slipped back into their previous depression.

  ‘I don’t like the look of that cape up ahead,’ he said to Stig, in a voice that could be heard by the rest of the crew. ‘I think we’ll come a little further to the north of it.’

  In fact, he could tell that they would pass the cape with plenty of sea room to spare. But he thought it might be a good idea to give the crew some work to do.

  ‘Hands to sailing stations!’ he called. ‘We’re coming further to port. Edvin, you can give Wulf a hand with the trimming.’

  Ingvar called from the bow. ‘I can do that, Hal.’

  But the skirl shook his head. ‘No. I want Edvin there. You’d probably pull the mast over.’

  There was a ripple of laughter from the crew, with Ingvar joining in. His massive strength was a byword on board. Whenever he took an oar, the ship tended to veer away from the side he was rowing.

  ‘Besides,’ Hal called, ‘I want Edvin used to the job. If we go into action, I’ll need you on the Mangler.’

  Ingvar nodded. That made sense. And Hal had another reason for choosing Edvin. As the second substitute helmsman, he was developing an instinctive feel for the ship’s movements and action – an instinct that would translate well to the task of sail trimming.

  They brought the ship around to port, letting the sail out to accommodate the change of direction, then trimming it home. Wulf coached Edvin through the manoeuvre and Hal nodded to himself. It was good to see Wulf occupied, not brooding over his twin’s injury.

  After an hour on the new course, he brought the ship back to starboard, with plenty of sea room to weather the cape. Again, the crew settled down as the ship glided swiftly over the swell. But now the usual feeling of contentment was back and several of the crew exchanged snippets of conversation. After a while, Hal sensed someone was watching him and he glanced up to meet Thorn’s amused gaze. The old sea wolf tapped his nose with one forefinger, and slowly slid one eyelid closed in an enormous wink. Hal grinned and shrugged.

  But the change in mood stayed with them and the atmosphere on board returned to normal. They were all still concerned for Ulf, of course, but now they accepted that he was in good hands. After two days, Wulf brightened visibly. He turned to Edvin, who was leaning on the bulwark beside him.

  ‘Ulf’s going to be okay. He’s awake,’ he said quietly.

  Edvin regarded him with some interest. ‘How do you know?’

  Wulf shrugged. ‘He’s my twin. I can feel it – somehow.’ He was a little bewildered himself. He couldn’t put it into words but he was feeling that strange communication that happens between twins. ‘He’s hungry,’ he added, with the same sense of how did I know that? in his voice.

  Edvin put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. ‘Good.’

  After that, the whole crew felt better about Ulf, content in the knowledge that he was on the mend.

  On the afternoon of the third day, they sighted the buildings of Ephesa, shining white in the westering sun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  FROM A KILOMETRE out to sea, Ephesa looked to be a thriving town.

  Yet as Heron sailed in and moored alongside the open water stone jetty that jutted out from the shore, it became obvious that the buildings were derelict. The walls and ornate columns still stood, but the roofs, which had been terracotta tiles placed over wooden support beams, had long since collapsed, giving the town a sad, abandoned air.

  The buildings were gleaming white – stone and mortar faced with marble – and they rose in ranks on one side of the town, following the natural slope of a hill on the west.

  Some of them were large and decorated with columns and statuary. They had obviously been substantial dwellings, belonging to rich traders or government officials.

  To the east, the ground was flatter, and more buildings were laid out in orderly rows. These were smaller, usually one storey high. Houses, shops and manufactories, Hal guessed – the sort of mixture that would be found in any large town.

  Towards the outskirts, the buildings became smaller and less ornate. The orderly rows that marked the rest of the town were missing. The buildings seemed to have been laid out any way that suited the occupants, with narrow alleyways winding between them. Obviously, this was the poorer part of town, where the labourers and common people had lived.

  Beyond the mean little buildings, and rising above them, a large walled structure could be seen. Hal viewed it curiously. It might have been a fort, but the walls rose steeply, with no openings until the top level, where large arched windows were in evidence. They seemed to be too big to form an effective fortification, he thought. Gilan saw the direction of his gaze.

  ‘It’s a hippodrome,’ he explained and, when Hal looked at him blankly, he explained, ‘A race track. Horse races. Chariot races. The Toscans loved them. They built a race course just about any place they built a substantial town in their empire. A race course and a theatre for the aristocrats.’

  ‘A theatre?’ Hal was impressed. Here, in this desert town, hundreds of kilometres from their homeland, the Toscans had taken the trouble to build a centre for culture and drama, as well as a race track for less edifying pastimes.

  ‘It’ll probably be in the rising ground,’ Gilan said, gesturing to the western side of town, where there was a steep escarpment. ‘Their theatres were usually built into hillsides to give them the shape they needed for good acoustics.’

  Hal had never seen a theatre, much less been in one. In Hallasholm the people were entertained from time to time by travelling mummers and jongleurs, but they usually performed in the Great Hall. A theatre built specifically for such a purpose seemed somewhat exotic.

  ‘So what did they see in these theatres?’ Thorn asked. The crew had gathered around Gilan, who seemed to know a lot about Toscan customs and what they might expect to find in this abandoned imperial outpost. The Ranger looked at him.

  ‘Plays, mostly,’ he said. ‘Sometimes an oration by a poet or a singer.’

  ‘What’s a play?’ Stefan asked. ‘Is that like a puppet show?’ He’d seen a travelling troupe of puppeteers perform when he was a child.

  Gilan twisted his lips thoughtfully. ‘It’s a story written down and actors – players – take roles in it and act it out for the audience, bringing the story to life.’

  Stefan nodded. ‘So, it’s like a puppet show then,’ he declared and Gilan, with a ghost of a smile, agreed.

  ‘Pretty much,’ he said. Theatrical companies were not unknown in Araluen and a lot of the performers showed the same sort of animation one might expect from a puppet – and, often, less intelligence.

  ‘Where’s the oasis?’ Hal enquired. One of his constant concerns was topping up Heron’s supply of fresh drinking water. Gilan gestured to the south-west.

  ‘It’s outside the town limits,’ he said. They all turned to look in the direction he indicated and they could make out a few waving green trees in the distance.

  ‘I would have thought they’d enclose it in the town walls,’ Hal said thoughtfully. But Gilan shook his head. He’d had an extensive briefing from Selethen on the history and layout of Ephesa before they left Tabork.

  ‘It’s too big,’ he said. ‘The fortifications here only enclosed the administrative buildings and the governor’s palace. Besides, the Toscans thought they might antagonise the
locals if they were seen to be taking control of the only water source in the area. They dug wells and built underground pipelines into the city so they would always have a water source for the inhabitants. But they left the oasis open to all comers to try to create a sense of hospitality and openhandedness.’

  ‘Did it work?’ Ingvar asked. He was peering at the neat rows of ruined buildings that surrounded them on all sides. He was used to houses and other structures built in pinewood. The ranks of gleaming white marble house-fronts fascinated him. Then again, now that he could see more clearly, most things fascinated him.

  Gilan shook his head. ‘The locals – the Bedullin and the Tualaghi – never made the invaders feel welcome. They were constantly rebelling against them. They didn’t agree with the Toscans that they were now part of the great empire. It was always a difficult outpost to maintain. Eventually, about forty years ago, the Toscan emperor gave up, and they gradually abandoned it.’

  ‘Let’s take a look at this oasis,’ Hal said, and led the way to the south-west.

  Somehow, he had pictured the oasis as a small grove of palms clustered around a single pool of dirty water in the dry desert ground. But as Gilan had said, this oasis was enormous. It was nearly as extensive as the town itself.

  There were palm trees there, of course. But also half a dozen other species of trees that he didn’t recognise. And there wasn’t one pool. There were nearly a dozen, of varying shapes and sizes. The largest was fifty metres by twenty. Smaller ones were scattered around and the water was clear and clean. Hal knelt by one of the larger ponds and scooped a handful of water up to taste it. It was cool and refreshing. He jerked his head towards the pool.

  ‘We’ll get the water casks filled tomorrow,’ he told Stig, who nodded agreement.

  Trees grew profusely, shading the area around the pools. Well-shaded paths led from one pool to another, with clear spaces by the larger pools that were obviously used as camping grounds by travellers.

  By one pool, he noticed a thick grove of bamboos, the tallest of which were over ten metres in height, swaying gently in the ever-present wind.