‘Are they native to this area?’ he asked.
Gilan shrugged. ‘Maybe. But Selethen says the Toscans would have cultivated them here. They used big canvas sun awnings to shelter the audience in the hippodrome and they needed the bamboo to support the canvas.’
Hal frowned. Something about the mention of bamboo and canvas stirred that errant thought that had been troubling his mind over the past few days.
‘I can see why, in this heat,’ he said.
They retraced their steps to the town itself, returning for one last look at the hippodrome. It was a long, flattened oval in shape, with rows of stone seats overlooking the race track which ran round the outer perimeter. The track itself was sand. Hal scuffed it with his boot. He stood in the centre of the track, turning to look around him. He closed his eyes and imagined he could hear the thunder of the horses’ hooves, the yelling of the crowd, the rattle and clatter of harnesses and chariots as they skidded through the turns at high speed.
‘Hal!’
Stig’s shout roused him from the daydream. He opened his eyes and found himself back in the deserted, half ruined old race track. The rows of empty seats stared down at him. A few tattered remnants of the canvas awnings fluttered in the wind. It was desolate and deserted and silent. It was sad somehow, he thought. At one time, this must have been such a vibrant, exciting place, filled with yelling, enthusiastic humanity. And now it was left here to fall apart in the desert.
‘Hal! Come here!’ Stig called again.
The others were clustered around a large doorway leading under the empty grandstand. Hal walked across to join them, his boots squeaking in the fine dry sand. As he reached them, Stig gestured eagerly for him to go through the doorway.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
His friend caught hold of his arm and pulled him forward excitedly. ‘Look what we’ve found!’
As Hal’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, he found himself in a large, open room under the grandstand, measuring some twenty metres by ten. The rest of the crew followed him inside. There were three objects against the far wall and he walked forward, peering through the dimness to see what they were.
‘Chariots?’ he said. Then he repeated the word, answering his own involuntary question. ‘Chariots.’
They were beautifully built vehicles. As a craftsman himself, he admired the fine carpentry that had gone into their creation. The rider’s platform was enclosed by a curved railing on three sides – high at the front and sweeping down at the sides. The space between the railing and the chariot floor was plaited cane, presumably to save weight. In a racing vehicle, that would be all-important. The floor of the chariot was light pine planking – presumably for the same reason. He tested it with his finger. He wouldn’t trust that dried-out old wood to support anyone’s weight these days, he thought.
The yoke pole jutted out in front, a solid ebony pole with a T-shaped crosspiece at the end, fitted with harness points for two horses. The leather of the harnesses, and any other leatherwork on the chariot, had long since dried out and was brittle to the touch. It would crumble away if you tried to use it now, he realised.
But it was the wheels that drew his attention. They were solid wood – ebony again, he saw. They were designed with four thick spokes, beautifully fitted and with intricate carving on them. The rims were thick and heavy. Here, the need for strength took precedence over the need to save weight. He knelt down and inspected the points where the spokes fitted into the wooden rim. The workmanship was superb. He could barely see the join, even after years of neglect. He tapped the wood with his knuckles. It was sound.
‘The dry air has preserved the wood,’ he said quietly. He ran his hand up one of the spokes to the thick wooden rim. Both spoke and rim were in excellent condition and he noticed with surprise that the iron tyre binding the outside of the wheel rim was also preserved by the dry climate and the fact that the chariot had been under shelter all these years. The salt air from the sea hadn’t been able to get at it. There was a little surface rust, but he drew his saxe and scraped some away. Underneath, the iron rim was sound.
He rose and moved to the other side of the chariot and checked the second wheel. He found it was in the same well-preserved condition. And he found his heart was beating a little faster as the idea that had been chipping away at the edges of his consciousness for the past three days began to take form. It was still dim and hazy. But it was coming closer to the surface. Long experience told him that in a few hours, it would appear to him in its entirety. He just needed to be patient. All the elements that had been drifting through his brain would soon come together. He rose and brushed rust from his hands, nodding his head several times as he looked down at the old racing vehicle.
‘Pity we can’t find some horses and harness them up,’ Stig said. ‘We could use these to get to the mountains.’
But Hal shook his head. ‘The fittings and harnesses are dried out and rotten,’ he pointed out. ‘And you’d need to replace those floors as well.’
‘Besides,’ Gilan pointed out, ‘you can’t just harness a horse into a chariot and drive off. It takes months to train a team. They race in pairs and they have to learn to work together. Like a brotherband,’ he added with a smile.
‘Oh,’ Stig said, looking downcast. It had seemed such a good idea at first.
‘Let’s get back to the ship,’ Hal said. He never liked leaving the Heron for too long in a potentially hostile location, and night was drawing on. He didn’t want to spend the night moored alongside the old pier, where an enemy force could approach unseen through the ruined buildings. He planned to anchor offshore for the night, where they would be safe from attack. Tomorrow, they could build a fortified camp on the beach.
They straggled back through the ruined buildings and the failing light. The columns and half collapsed walls cast weird shadows across their path, strengthening his resolve to get back out to sea. He noticed that as the sun went down, the wind from the south gradually died away. In several minutes, the evening sea breeze would begin to blow.
And in that moment, he realised how they were going to get to Scorpion Mountain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THEY SPENT THE night moored offshore, safe from any surprise attack. The sea was calm and Edvin was able to build a small cook fire on board, supported over a metal tray full of sand that caught any stray embers. He set charcoal smouldering, then glowing red hot, and grilled succulent lamb cutlets over the coals, serving them with the last of the tabouleh salad.
The night was clear, so there was no need to rig the tent-shaped canvas shelter they carried with them. After they had eaten, and swigged down mugs of coffee, the crew rolled into their blankets and settled for the night. With a clear sky like this, the desert heat would soon radiate away and the night would be cold. Hal organised a guard roster, leaving one person to watch the shoreline and the sea around them, and within a few minutes the huddled forms were sleeping almost silently. Almost, because the silence of the night was broken by the muted snoring from one of the group.
‘Keep the snoring down, Lydia,’ Thorn called.
‘Shut up, old man,’ Lydia replied tartly. Then, to her mortification, as she settled down again and was on the brink of deep sleep, she realised that it was indeed she who was snoring. Hastily, she turned onto her side, hoping to stop the rumbling noise. A few metres away, Thorn giggled softly.
‘I rest my case,’ he said, to nobody in particular.
He always gets the last word, Lydia reflected. She racked her brain for ways to get the better of him in their ongoing verbal joust. Their clash two days ago didn’t count, as they had quickly orchestrated it. In the middle of planning ways to leave him crushed and wordless she feel asleep.
In the morning, after they had breakfasted, Hal directed them to row to the western end of the narrow indent in the coastline off the town. There, a jumble of rocks would protect their back as they set up their camp, and fortified it.
&n
bsp; ‘Why not camp in the oasis?’ Jesper asked. ‘It’d save lugging water out here.’
But Hal shook his head. ‘Too much cover for anyone looking to attack us. This way, we’ve got open ground all round us. If anyone is planning any mischief, we’ll see them in plenty of time. Right, Thorn?’
The old sea wolf nodded agreement. ‘We can cut some of that thornbush and build a protective barricade around the camp with the sea at our back,’ he said. ‘Then, if we anchor the ship twenty metres offshore, the Mangler can cover the beach.’
Hal studied the surrounding beach. It was flat and featureless. If anyone launched an attack, they’d be visible for several hundred metres. And they’d be forced to attack across the thick, heavy sand, which would slow them down. Thorn’s idea for the barricade was sound. There was plenty of thornbush plant growing close by. On the down side, it was thornbush, which meant its thick creepers were covered in long, sharp spines. It was a painful and difficult material to work with.
‘Can I leave you to set up the camp?’ Hal said quietly to Thorn. ‘I’ve got something I have to take care of.’
‘Of course,’ Thorn replied. He was already mentally setting people to different tasks. Anyone who had annoyed him recently would be detailed to cut and drag in the spiky rolls of thornbush.
‘I’ll need Edvin to help me,’ Hal said, then, raising his voice, he called to him. ‘Edvin! You’re coming with me.’
‘Right, Hal,’ Edvin replied briskly. He was pleased to be relieved from the heavy labour of building the camp.
Ingvar looked up at Hal, a little disappointed. Usually, he was the one the skirl chose to accompany him.
Hal saw the look and explained. ‘No heavy lifting today, Ingvar. But I need someone who’s a good hand with needle and thread.’
The disappointed look faded from Ingvar’s face as he realised that Hal hadn’t meant any slight by omitting him. He raised one finger to his forehead in an informal salute.
‘That’s definitely not me, Hal,’ he said.
‘We’ll be in the hippodrome stables,’ Hal told Thorn. Then, collecting his toolbag, an axe and the roll of canvas they used as a shelter, he trudged off through the sand towards the hippodrome, accompanied by Edvin.
‘What’s he up to?’ Stig asked Thorn. Hal had seemed preoccupied the previous night and both of them knew what that could mean.
‘I’d say he’s hatching one of his ideas.’ Thorn smiled. ‘Those chariots seemed to have him very interested.’
Stig watched as his friend disappeared into the jumble of buildings, Edvin at his side. ‘What do you think he’s got planned?’
But Thorn shook his head. ‘You know Hal. He’ll never say. We’ll see it when he’s good and ready to show us.’
Stig sighed. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. That was the way Hal always did things.
They worked solidly all morning, digging a curving trench to enclose their camp, then filling it with thornbush tangles. They piled more thornbush on the inner side of the ditch, and reinforced it with sharpened stakes driven into the ground and facing outwards.
At one stage, Thorn consulted Lydia. ‘I thought we’d build an elevated mound for you in the centre,’ he said. ‘We’ll put it a few metres back from the front line. That way, you’ll be able to see over the barricade and shoot into the enemy as they attack.’
She studied the layout of the land and nodded. When it came to discussing matters of fighting, defence or deployment, she and Thorn rarely argued. That was left for less important matters.
‘Good idea,’ she said eventually. ‘You might also give me a little protective cover – some boards or shields to crouch behind. Otherwise, I’ll be exposed if they have archers.’
‘Hadn’t thought of that,’ Thorn said. ‘I’ll get it done. If we come under attack, you’ll be our key weapon, along with the Mangler.’
Stig strolled up to them as they spoke. He was wiping his forehead with a scrap of rag. He’d taken off his shirt and his shoulders were showing the effects of the sun.
‘You’d better cover up,’ Thorn told him.
Stig nodded agreement. He leaned against a pile of timber and said casually, ‘Don’t look too suddenly. But we’re being watched. There’s a rider on the western end of the oasis. And another on the escarpment overlooking the town.’
Casually, Thorn let his gaze wander to the two spots Stig had mentioned. He could see the dark forms, sitting their horses and keeping watch.
‘Who do you think they are?’ Lydia asked.
Stig smiled at her, but it was a humourless smile. ‘I’ll wager they work for this Shurmel character we’ve heard so much about. And the minute we set out for Scorpion Mountain, they’ll ride lickety split to let him know we’re on our way.’
He was pulling his shirt on, glad that Thorn had reminded him to cover up. He could already feel the faint sting of sunburn.
‘And since we’ll be riding shanks’s pony, they’ll get there long before we do,’ he continued.
Lydia frowned. ‘Who’s Shanks? And where is his pony?’ she asked. She wasn’t familiar with the expression.
‘It means we’ll be on foot,’ Stig explained.
Her frown deepened. ‘Then why not say we’ll be on foot or we’ll be walking?’
Stig shrugged. Sometimes, he thought, Lydia could be a little pedantic. Then he modified the thought. Sometimes she could be a lot pedantic.
‘It’s more poetic the way I said it,’ he replied and she snorted in derision.
‘You? Poetic? When did that happen?’
Stig grinned at her. ‘I’m always poetic,’ he said. ‘I’m a big hit with the ladies back in Hallasholm.’
‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ she said. ‘The only poetry I’ve ever heard from you is bad limericks.’
‘I take it you’re referring to my ode to the girl from the mountains?’ Stig said.
‘I’m not sure I’ve heard that one,’ Thorn interrupted.
‘Oh, it’s a classic of its kind,’ Stig replied and, placing one hand over his heart, he thrust his right foot forward in what he considered to be a theatrical, declamatory stance, then intoned the following:
‘There was a young girl from the mountains,
who fell on her bum in a fountain.
She said in high pique: “That’s the third time this week.”
But her friend said, “The fourth. But who’s countin’?”’
He spread his hands wide, as if expecting applause, and looked from Thorn to Lydia and back again. Slowly the expectant grin faded from his face.
‘Oh, come on!’ he said indignantly. ‘That’s top-class stuff.’
Thorn scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘That’s the sort of stuff you recite to the girls in Hallasholm?’
Stig nodded. ‘Yes. And that’s just one of them. I have others that are nearly as good.’
‘That explains why you were on your own at the haymaking festival,’ Thorn told him and Lydia smothered a laugh. Stig’s indignation grew.
‘You two obviously know nothing about fine poetry,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’
Thorn and Lydia exchanged a glance. Then the old sea wolf said, ‘And that makes three of us.’
This time, Lydia didn’t bother to smother her laughter. Stig drew himself up straight and looked down his nose at them.
‘You’re barbarians,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’
‘Perhaps we are,’ Thorn replied. ‘But we’re barbarians with a ditch to finish. Let’s get back to it.’
He glanced up at the escarpment. The rider was still there.
‘Then this afternoon, let’s take a look at the theatre Gilan was telling us about.’
Lydia cocked her head sideways. She wouldn’t have picked Thorn as a theatre buff. ‘You’re interested in drama?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m interested in getting a closer look at that rider on the escarpment.’
Lydia looked to the east. The dark form was still evident on the skyline.
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‘I might come with you,’ she said. ‘I’ve just developed a sudden love for the theatre myself.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE CAMP WAS finished by early afternoon. Thorn inspected the defences with a keen eye, pointing out several spots where the thornbush barricade needed thickening. But on the whole, he was satisfied with the work. The crew knew their jobs, he thought. They had become an experienced fighting band, with skills and abilities far beyond what one might normally expect of such a young group.
Edvin was busy with Hal, working on the mysterious project that the skirl had in mind, so there was no hot lunch. Instead, they scavenged through his supplies and found salted pork and flat bread. They toasted the latter over a small fire and wrapped the pork in it, along with generous helpings of pickles. It was a simple lunch, but after the exertions of the morning, it was nourishing and tasty.
Ingvar gestured towards the high walls of the hippodrome with a roll of flat bread and pork.
‘I’d love to know what they’re up to,’ he said. The others nodded agreement. Throughout the morning, they had seen Hal and Edvin going into the oasis and returning to the hippodrome dragging long, narrow trunks of bamboo behind them.
‘We could sneak over and take a peek,’ Jesper suggested. He was a skilled thief and the idea of sneaking in where he wasn’t wanted always appealed to him. But Stig shook his head.
‘He’ll have it covered with that canvas,’ he said. ‘Whatever it might be. And if he catches you sneaking in, you’ll be on bilge bailing for the next week.’
Even a well-found ship like the Heron took on water as she rolled and plunged and her seams opened slightly. The excess water would gather in the bilges under the floorboards, stagnant and evil smelling. From time to time, someone would be assigned to lift the floorboards and bail it out with a bucket. It was an unpleasant job and one that Hal saved for people who had displeased him. Jesper thought about it, weighing the possibility of getting caught against the obvious satisfaction of knowing what Hal was doing. He seemed to get more than his share of bilge bailing and it was a messy, smelly job that he abhorred.
Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain Page 23
