Scorpion Mountain (13 page)

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 toward the intense figure at the helm. “Who do you think?”

chapter
twenty

T
he room was on the second floor of the former harbor master's building in Tabork. It was high ceilinged, and the wide-open arches that led onto a deep verandah overlooking the harbor 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 harbor master, a minor official of the
Emrikir,
was 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 launched their attack from the sea. After years of peace and prosperity, the town had neglected to deploy the heavy chain boom across the harbor 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 kilometers 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?”

Iqbal grunted. What Dhakwan assumed or didn't assume was unimportant to him, although the man was correct. Selethen had one hundred and fifty cavalrymen outside the walls of Tabork, and he knew that Iqbal's force numbered two hundred. The addition of another fifty fighting men would come as an unpleasant surprise if the Arridan leader decided to attack the walls. And Iqbal knew that Selethen was being goaded by his overlord, the
Emrikir,
to retake the town and send Iqbal in chains to the capital. Although how the fat, lazy ruler in the far-off city of Mararoc thought his local commander could achieve this was beyond Iqbal. Selethen's men were already outnumbered. The walls of Tabork were high and in good condition and the
Wakir
had no siege equipment or artillery.

It was all very well for the
Emrikir
to make demands and grandiose statements about the need to destroy Iqbal and his Tualaghi nomads—but the
Emrikir
had never so much as raised a sword in anger, or faced an opponent more dangerous than a roast guinea fowl. Selethen was the one who was tasked with achieving the impossible. And, capable as he might be, the task assigned to him was impossible—and had just become even more so.

“Bring them to the east gate by the cliffs,” he told Dhakwan. That was the most inconspicuous entrance into Tabork. “And make sure there is no noise and no sign of light.”

“Of course,” Dhakwan replied. His lip curled slightly in disdain. There had been no need to tell him that. He imposed an iron discipline on his men. But sometimes Iqbal seemed to believe that he knew everything and his subordinates knew nothing. He was an arrogant and boastful man, but he had been an effective leader, bringing large amounts of booty to his followers. Gold made up for a lot of arrogance, Dhakwan thought.

“I saw our Hellenese friend leaving port when I arrived,” he said, with that thought in mind. If he was present when the
Ishtfana
captured a ship, he would share in the profits. “Where was he off to?”

Iqbal looked sharply at him. “Is there any reason why you should know that?”

Dhakwan met his gaze evenly. “Is there any reason why I shouldn't?”

The two men eyed each other for several seconds. Iqbal was aware that he was leader only by dint of his ability to keep his subordinates in control. And that meant keeping them content. He had to walk a fine line between harsh discipline on one side and unpopularity on the other. If too many of his men began to believe that he was out of his depth, his term as leader would be over. As would his life.

And Dhakwan was known as a strong leader and a good fighter. He had a lot of friends among the upper echelons of the Tualaghi band. He was not a man to alienate. Finally, Iqbal shrugged and gave in, gesturing vaguely to the harbor mouth beyond the shaded verandah.

“Philip is still here,” he said. “He sent his first mate, Kyrios, to bring in a small trader that we sighted.” He frowned and stepped out onto the verandah, peering into the glare that bounced off the blue waters of the Constant Sea. “I'm surprised they're taking so long about it,” he said. “I would have thought they'd be back by now.”

“Maybe one of the ship's crew was armed with a knife,” Dhakwan said sarcastically. His opinion of the Hellenese corsairs and their fighting abilities was decidedly low. Iqbal looked at him and nodded in understanding.

“Perhaps they're not the boldest of allies,” he said. “But they've brought in a lot of booty since we've been here. We couldn't have done it without them and their ship.”

Dhakwan snorted dismissively. “And they wouldn't be here without us,” he pointed out. “Do you think those overdressed fops could have taken this town on their own?”

Hellenes were renowned for their fondness for colorful clothing and excessive jewelry. And none more so than the corsairs who crewed Philip's galley.

Iqbal shrugged. “Nevertheless, they're our partners and we need them,” he said. He glanced at the ocean again. Kyrios certainly seemed to be taking an inordinately long time about capturing that one small trader, he thought.

• • • • •

“What are they doing?” Hal asked. Lydia was balanced on the stern bulwark of the Heron, keeping an eye on the galley behind them.

“They're gaining on us,” she said.

Hal nodded. “I expected that. They'll row their hearts out at first. But we'll keep them heading into the wind and they'll soon tire.”

If Philip was like most slave owners—and Hal had no reason to think otherwise—he would be unlikely to look after his rowers too well. They'd be poorly fed. Good food cost money, and corsairs didn't like throwing that away.

He wanted a fraction more speed, so he allowed the ship's head to fall off a little to port. Ulf and Wulf re-trimmed the sail without being told to, and
Heron,
with the wind now more abeam, moved faster through the water. He glanced over his shoulder. The galley was visible on the horizon, and as he watched, he saw her turn to match his heading, the oars rising and falling in their constant rhythm.

“They're still coming,” Thorn said. He had joined Lydia at the stern rail and was peering at the pursuing ship, using a reference mark on the sternpost to measure their relative positions as the minutes passed. Hal looked to confirm the fact, then edged the ship north again, causing the
Heron
's speed to drop off.

“Got to keep them on the hook,” he said, after a few minutes. He frowned. By now, he had expected the rowers to be losing rhythm and power.

Lydia spoke almost simultaneously. “They're closing again!”

Hal looked at the sun, still high in the sky to the west. There were hours of daylight left—plenty of time to wear out the
Ishtfana
's rowers. He looked at the ship behind them once more. He saw that the oars were still moving smoothly and powerfully and amended his earlier thought: plenty of time for them to catch the
Heron
and sink her, if they could keep this up.

He drummed his fingers on the tiller. Surely they couldn't maintain this pace much longer?

Stig moved a few steps closer to the steering platform. “I thought they'd be slowing down by now,” he said, in a low voice that the rest of the crew couldn't hear.

“They will be soon,” Hal said, feigning a confidence he didn't feel. He was beginning to worry about the inexorable pace of the galley. If he was going to outmaneuver the other ship in a close-in fight, he needed the oarsmen to be exhausted and their efforts clumsy and uncoordinated. So far, there was no sign that they were. They simply kept coming.

And gaining ground.

“They're closer,” Lydia said, shading her eyes to peer at the galley. “Didn't you think they'd be tired out by now?” She hadn't heard Stig's almost identical comment.

“They will be soon,” Hal repeated, irritation obvious in his tone. He edged the
Heron
to port again, for a little more speed. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the
Ishtfana
match the movement. His heart lurched as, this time, he was sure he saw the beat of the oars actually increase.

“They're gaining on us again,” Thorn said.

Hal glared at him. People seemed to enjoy passing on bad news, he thought. “They can't keep it up all day,” he said, as much to bolster his own confidence as that of the crew.

“They don't need to,” Thorn replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “They just need to keep it up till they've caught us.”

Again, Hal reflected on the pleasure people took from imparting bad news. The stamina of the
Ishtfana
's rowers amazed him. If he could bring the wind abeam, he'd be able to outpace them. The problem with that idea was that, once they realized they were outmatched, they might well abandon the pursuit. He had to keep them on the hook by heading upwind. But under those conditions, they were able to match his speed, even exceed it. And since they didn't need to tack continually, they could take a direct path, unlike the zigzag track the
Heron
had to follow.

Maybe I miscalculated, he thought. Perhaps it was yet another case of overlooking a small detail, of missing some important fact in the mix that had thrown his plan into disarray. He racked his brains, trying to see what he had overlooked. The two ships raced on, with the larger vessel astern slowly drawing closer.

What Hal couldn't know was that he had misjudged the slaves' physical condition. With the cessation of the shipping trade along the coast, marked by the number of ships in harbor at Al Shabah, the
Ishtfana
hadn't put to sea for several weeks. As a result, her rowing crew were well rested, which was why they had been able to maintain this killing pace for so long.

But it had to tell eventually. Rested they might be, but they were still ill fed and in poor physical condition, and their overseers had been keeping them at maximum speed now for far too long, enforcing their demands with whips.

Thorn saw it first: a hesitation in the beat of those implacable banks of oars as first one rower, then another, missed a stroke.
Ishtfana
staggered sideways and the old sea wolf allowed himself a satisfied smile.

“They're faltering,” he said and Hal immediately turned to view their pursuer.

Now it was more obvious. The twin banks of oars were no longer moving in smooth cohesion. He saw one oar on the starboard side miss a stroke completely, throwing up a fountain of spray as it caught the water at the wrong angle. The crew of the
Heron
let out a spontaneous cheer and Hal realized how much the
Ishtfana
's relentless progress had been preying on their minds. He felt a wave of relief sweep over him.

“Now,” he said quietly, looking steadily at the galley, “let's see how you handle my ship and my crew.”

chapter
twenty-one

H
al craned out over the bulwark to peer at the galley plunging along in
Heron
's wake.

Now three of the galley's oars weren't moving in concert with the others. They dragged lifelessly in the water beside the ship. As he watched, another suddenly lifted from the water, then dropped again, splashing uselessly alongside the ship's narrow hull.

Thorn had noticed the movement too.

“They're losing rowers,” he said. “The men are collapsing.”

Three of the motionless oars were on the starboard side of the ship and Hal could see the galley's bow swing to starboard under the uneven thrust. The helmsman hastily corrected the movement and brought the galley back on course. But Hal could see she was in trouble. She had lost that purposeful, implacable air. She was struggling. The oars were out of the perfect synchronization that had seen them rising and falling as one when they first sped out of the harbor.

“I think it's time,” Thorn said quietly.

Hal nodded agreement. Then he filled his lungs and bellowed his orders to the sail handlers. “Stand by to tack starboard . . . Tack!”

The port sail slid down the mast as he hauled the ship's bow around to the right. She left a perfect curved wake in the sea behind her as she swung up through the wind, then began to turn away from it. There was a rattle of canvas and the usual rasping squeal of ropes through the blocks as Edvin, Stefan and Jesper sent the starboard sail sliding up the mast. Then it filled and the twins heaved on the sheets to bring the sail taut, and
Heron
was speeding back downwind toward her pursuer.

“Ulf, Wulf! Ease off a little!” Hal shouted. He expected
Ishtfana
's skipper to head for him, cutting across his course to ram him, and he wanted to keep some speed in reserve. He felt the urgent thrust through the water decrease slightly as Ulf and Wulf obeyed his order.

“Stig, Gilan, Lydia!” Hal shouted. “Get for'ard. I'm going to go down his starboard side. As soon as you're in range, start shooting. Stig, aim for the tiller.”

Stig nodded, and he and Ingvar scrambled forward to the Mangler. Gilan and Lydia moved to the starboard side, level with the mast. With the port sail driving the ship, they had a clear view of the galley bearing down on them. As she rose and fell on the waves, they could see the black, iron-shod ram set low in the bow as it emerged from the waves, then dipped under again. It reminded Lydia of the beak of an evil bird of prey.

The galley's helmsman continued to turn the long, narrow ship, keeping it pointed directly at the center of
Heron
's hull as the smaller ship crossed her path. Hal watched, eyes slitted, counting seconds to judge the moment exactly. The ram was less than a hundred meters from them and coming inexorably toward them, in spite of the increasingly ragged action of the rowers.

Now! he thought, and yelled his command at the twins.

“Sheet home!”

They leaned back against the strain on the ropes, tightening the sail against the stiff breeze from the north.
Heron
's deck heeled to port and she accelerated through the water, evading the galley's clumsy thrust.

As
Ishtfana
tried to match her maneuver, Hal kept the little ship turning, swinging inside the arc of the galley. The wind was now well abeam,
Heron
's most efficient point of sailing, and she was moving with increasing speed toward
Ishtfana
's starboard side. He could hear the galley's crew yelling abuse and threats at the little ship as it evaded them, then had the gall to approach so close to its pursuer.

Then Gilan and Lydia began to shoot.

Gilan got away five arrows. Lydia managed three darts from her atlatl. All eight missiles sailed across the narrow gap between the ships, wreaking havoc on the men clustered around the command post.

Lydia's first dart hit the helmsman, killing him instantly. He reeled back across the deck, releasing the tiller, then crashed to the planks. Two of the crew standing by him stared at their companion, momentarily frozen in place. Then they looked back to the ship approaching them and, in rapid succession, were struck down by Gilan's arrows.

Lydia's second dart missed. She had been aiming at one of the men Gilan had just shot and he fell to the deck as her dart whizzed over his head. Her third hit another corsair in the leg and he fell to the deck, yelling in pain, looking in horror at the iron broadhead that had gone through his calf and out the other side.

Kyrios, after a moment of stunned disbelief, had the presence of mind to drop to the deck, beneath the cover of the timber bulwark. He looked up and saw the tiller banging aimlessly back and forth as the ship drove on under the erratic thrust of her oars. He shouted to one of his crew, who had also had the good sense to take cover, and pointed to the tiller.

“Matlos! Take the helm!”

The man looked at him, wide-eyed with terror, and shook his head. Kyrios mouthed a string of terrible curses and threats at him, then, still crouching below the bulwark, began to move toward him, drawing a curved knife from his belt. Matlos looked at the first mate, then at the untended tiller. The storm of arrows and darts seemed to have abated. Carefully, he rose to a crouch and moved toward the tiller, his eyes riveted on the fierce, unforgiving features of the first mate, and the wickedly gleaming knife in his right hand.

He rose tentatively, peering over the bulwark. The little ship was barely forty meters away now. Exposing no more than the top of his head, he reached up for the tiller.

At that precise moment, Stig's first shot from the Mangler slammed into the pine railing that topped the bulwark, centimeters away from the tiller itself.

The iron warhead smashed through the timber, sending a storm of splinters flying. Matlos lurched away from the railing, his forehead lacerated by a flying piece of pine eight centimeters long. He yelled in pain and fright. Kyrios stared at him, aghast, wondering what sort of weapon could cause such damage.

One thing he knew, he wasn't about to put his head above the railing to find out. He cowered on the deck.

Farther forward, in the waist of the ship, the fighting crew continued to yell curses and threats at the
Heron.
So far, the missiles from the little ship had concentrated on the steering position in the stern, and the rest of the crew were untouched. One of them, emboldened by this fact, seized a heavy spear and stepped up to the bulwark, his arm drawn back to throw it, his eyes searching for a suitable target. He made out two figures crouched over what appeared to be a massive crossbow in the bow of the other ship. He half turned toward them, taking his arm back a few more centimeters to get the maximum power behind his throw.

He never managed it. An arrow suddenly thudded into his chest. The spear fell from his nerveless fingers, clattering on the deck. Another crew member turned toward him. The movement saved his life, as another arrow from Gilan's bow struck him in the upper arm. A second earlier and it would have pierced his heart.

Even so, the shock and the pain were unbearable. He dropped to his knees, holding the wound and sobbing in pain.

Stig's second shot, from point-blank range, smashed into the twisted birch ropes that held the tiller in place, severing most of them so that the tiller dropped to one side, loosely attached by only a few remaining fibers. A few seconds later, the third and final shot severed the remaining fibers and the tiller fell overboard, into the
Ishtfana
's wake.

On board
Heron,
Hal saw the tiller drop into the sea. “Oh, good shot, Stig!”

The galley could only be steered by the oars now, and the rowers were in a totally disorganized state. He could see no sign of anyone taking control on the stern. Farther forward, as Gilan and Lydia concentrated their barrage of arrows and darts on the rest of the crew, men were falling and crying out in pain.

He came to a sudden decision. Now was the time to take advantage of all this confusion.

“Tack to starboard!” he yelled, and saw the faces of the sail handling crew turn toward him, understanding on their features. “Now!”

He swung the helm, bringing the ship spinning on its heel to starboard. Watching the other ship, he sensed rather than saw the
Heron
's port side sail come sliding down, the starboard sail whipping up. He heard the
WHUMP
of the sail filling and felt it through the soles of his feet as it reverberated through the deck planks.

In a matter of seconds, the little ship had turned through one hundred and eighty degrees, pivoting on the fin keel that gave her a solid grip on the water, and a fulcrum about which to turn.

Gilan and Lydia had shifted to the port side and were ready to let fly at anyone who showed themselves above the bulwarks. Nobody had been sufficiently foolhardy to do so for the past few minutes. None the less, Gilan sent an arrow humming just above the bulwark to keep their heads down.

The
Heron
gathered speed and Hal turned to Thorn, standing ready a few meters away. “I'm going to take out their starboard side oars.”

Thorn nodded understanding. Rudderless, the galley was out of control. Her only way of steering now would be with the oars. If Hal could disable some of them, it would make that task much more difficult. Besides, there was another opportunity. The galley's officers and crew were disorganized and demoralized.

This was the perfect time to board.

As Hal angled the
Heron
in toward the starboard bank of oars, Thorn dashed forward and seized a grappling iron and a length of rope from under the rowing benches. He stood poised beside Lydia and the Ranger.

“Hang on to something,” he warned. “Hal's going to hit her.”

They could see it coming, although the
Ishtfana
's crew, cowering out of sight, had no idea what was about to happen. Hal arrowed the
Heron
in at an angle, sending her strengthened bow post slicing into the starboard side oars like a giant ax blade.

There was an ear-splitting crash of wood shattering as the oars split and splintered under the impact. Oar shafts and blades spun up into the air as the bow smashed through them. Splinters flew in a further deadly storm.
Heron
's crew were ready for the sudden impact and crouched down undercover as their ship plowed its way through the rearmost six rows of oars.

On board
Ishtfana,
the rowing deck was in chaos as the butt ends of the oars were suddenly jerked and smashed in all directions, hurling rowers off their benches to send them sprawling on the deck, breaking bones and bruising limbs. The slave master, who had bent to peer out through an oar port to see what was going on, was caught across the jaw by one of the leaping oar butts. He fell senseless to the deck. Two of the rowers, seeing their chance, leapt on him, drawing the long knife from his scabbard. The rowing master had whipped too many slaves in his time.

He would never do it again.

On deck on the
Heron,
Thorn felt the ship come to a momentary halt, her bow wedged at an angle against the galley, with the surface of the water between them littered with broken oar shafts and blades.

He swung the grapnel line up and over, letting it slam into the wood at the galley's stern, then heaved hard on it to set it tight.

As Hal called for Ulf and Wulf to loosen the sheets,
Heron
began to drift astern. Thorn quickly measured the distance with his eye and took a turn around one of the
Heron
's bollards with the grapnel rope. The rope came up into a straight line, then, with a jerk,
Heron
began to move forward, towing in
Ishtfana
's wake. Amazingly, some of the forward rowers were still at work, sending the ship crabbing through the water. Thorn gestured to Stefan and Jesper, then pointed to the rope.

“Haul us in!” he yelled. “We'll board her!”

Hearing the call, Stig and Ingvar left the Mangler and scrambled for their weapons. Thorn glanced round and saw Selethen standing ready a few paces away. His curved sword was still in its scabbard. But now he had a small, spiked shield on his left arm. Thorn gestured to him.

“You coming, your
Wakirship
?” he asked, with a savage grin.

Selethen returned the grin with a smile on his narrow, hawklike face. He had a score to settle with the skipper of the galley.

“Just don't get in my way, northman,” he said.