Scorpion Mountain (9 page)

“Well, that could be awkward,” he said.

chapter
fourteen

I
've sent a message by pigeon relay to Selethen,” Duncan said. “I've asked him to find out more about this Scorpion cult. He'll be watching for you when you pass through the Narrows of Ikbar. Stay close to the Arridan coast and he'll signal you.”

They were gathered on the jetty where
Heron
was moored, with the crew already on board. Hal and Thorn remained on the jetty with the King, Cassandra, Crowley and Gilan. They had learned nothing more from the assassin. Once he had time to think, Ushir apparently realized that if Duncan were reluctant to torture him, he was unlikely to allow the huge dog to savage him, so he had clammed up.

“This
tolfah
thing is a nasty business,” Gilan said. “I never like it when religion gets mixed up with killing.”

Crowley nodded agreement. “It's always difficult dealing with fanatics. You may have to destroy the cult itself.”

Gilan shrugged. “Easier said than done.”

“See if you can buy them off first,” Duncan said. “Offer a donation to this Imrika. Build her a shrine or a temple or something.”

“I'll try. But I don't think it'll be that simple,” Gilan said.

Duncan nodded gloomily. “Neither do I. But try it anyway. And if you need to use force, ask Selethen for men. I'm sure he's not happy about this murderous cult operating within his borders.”

Thorn tossed a small twig onto the surface of the river and watched as it circled aimlessly in the water beside the ship, drifting neither up nor downstream.

“Slack water,” he said. “Tide'll be running out soon.”

Hal nodded to him. “Time we were going,” he announced. He shook hands with Duncan, Crowley and Cassandra.

“Wish I was coming with you,” Cassandra said.

“Me too,” Hal lied. He had no wish to have a high-ranking passenger on board. That sort of thing blurred the lines of command.

In fact, the previous night, Cassandra had argued in vain with her father over the fact that she wanted to accompany the expedition. But this time, Duncan would not be persuaded. He had let her have her own way over the hunting expedition and it nearly cost her life. He flatly refused to let her sail with the Herons.

“Some people get to have all the fun,” Cassandra said reluctantly. “Travel safely, Lydia.”

She had grown to like the serious-minded Limmatan girl in the brief time they had known each other. Cassandra respected and admired capable people and Lydia definitely fitted that mold.

Lydia simply nodded acknowledgment.

“Let's get on board,” Hal said and he and Thorn stepped across the narrow gap onto the bulwark of the
Heron,
dropping lightly down to the deck. Gilan followed them, stepping more carefully. It seemed every spare inch of space was festooned with supplies: nets of bread and vegetables, extra water casks and joints of meat. Duncan hadn't stinted in supplying them with fresh food and Edvin had taken full advantage of it.

“Take in the bow line,” Hal said and Stefan moved to comply. Held only by her stern line,
Heron
began to pivot out from the jetty as the wind took her. There was no need to fend her off. She was moored port side to, facing downriver, and the wind was from the north.

“Starboard sail,” he ordered. Stefan and Jesper had been awaiting the command—the starboard yardarm and sail soared up the mast, catching the wind and bellying out. Ulf and Wulf, ready on the sheets, looked at Hal, but he held up a hand for them to wait.

“Stern line, Stig,” he said. His first mate hauled in to gain a little slack. Then, before the line could tauten again, he flicked it with practiced ease, causing the looped end to leap free of the mooring bollard.
Heron
was now unleashed. The sail flapped noisily in the wind as she drifted out onto the river.

“Sheet home,” Hal ordered. The twins obeyed and instantly the little ship was under power and surging away downstream, sped on her way by the wind and the tide, which had now turned, flowing toward the sea.

The small group standing on the jetty receded in their wake with remarkable speed until they rounded a bend in the river and Duncan, Crowley and Cassandra were lost to sight.

Hal held the ship in a narrow zigzag course, staying on a broad reach with the wind from the port side, obviating the need for constant changes of tack.

As the crew settled down for the journey, Ingvar reached into his side pocket and produced his spectacles, wrapped in the chamois cloth. He unwrapped them deliberately and slid them over his face, beaming in delight as he scanned from one side of the river to the other.

“This is fantastic!” he exclaimed. “Look! Trees! And a small hut! And there's a haystack—isn't it?” He added the last a little doubtfully.

Stefan reassured him, grinning. “It's a haystack right enough.”

Ingvar looked at him gratefully. “Thought so,” he said. “But I've never really seen one before, have I?”

The crew had learned of Hal's gift to Ingvar the previous day, while Hal and Thorn and Stig had been involved in questioning Ushir. They were all genuinely delighted for their big shipmate and they joined him in his impromptu game of “I spy.”

“What's that, Ingvar?” Ulf said, pointing.

Ingvar leaned forward to peer in the direction Ulf indicated. “A farmer plowing his field.”

“What about that?” This was Stefan, pointing to the opposite bank.

“A watermill. Is that what a watermill looks like?” This last was said in a tone of genuine wonder. Stefan laughed and clapped his big shipmate on the shoulder. Lydia stepped up closer to the steering platform and placed a hand on Hal's arm.

“That's a wonderful thing you've done for him,” she said quietly.

Hal smiled at her. He was always pleased when one of his ideas worked. But this time it was doubly pleasing because he could see how much it meant to Ingvar. He shook his head as he thought how close they had come to losing him as a crewmember.

“Good to see him enjoying himself,” he said.

And in fact, the novelty of clearer vision didn't seem to tire for Ingvar. He stood by the bulwark, his hand on one of the stays supporting the mast, his face lit up by the beaming smile as he named the objects they sailed past.

After several minutes of this, Thorn dropped down into the rowing well and produced a long, narrow bundle wrapped in canvas. “I've got something for you, Ingvar.”

Ingvar turned curiously as Thorn moved toward him with the bundle.

“I figured you'll be taking a more active role in combat now that you can see who you're hitting,” Thorn said. “And since it's a little late for you to start picking up the finer points of swordsmanship, I thought this might be a more useful weapon for you.”

He unwrapped the canvas and dropped it on the deck. In his hand, he held a long weapon that looked like a cross between a heavy spear and a long-handled ax. The shaft was blackwood, almost as hard as iron, and the head combined a spear point at the end with an ax blade on one side and a curved, sharp-edged hook on the other.

Ingvar took the weapon as Thorn offered it and tested the weight and heft of it in his hands. “It's quite well balanced,” he said thoughtfully. “I would have expected it to feel awkward and clumsy.”

He moved it through the air in an experimental thrust, then raised it above his head and performed a slow downstroke. As he had said, the weapon, seemingly clumsy in appearance, felt light and responsive in his hands—although a smaller person might have found its weight made it a little clumsy to handle.

“Yes,” he continued, holding it out and admiring it. “I think I could do some damage with this.”

“And to the right people,” Stig put in, smiling.

Ingvar grinned at him. “I can almost hear you all breathing a giant sigh of relief,” he said and there was a low murmur of laughter from the crew. “Where did you get it, Thorn? And what's it called?”

“I found it in the armory at Castle Araluen,” Thorn told him. “After my amazing feat of plucking a speeding arrow from the sky and saving their princess, the armorers were only too happy to let me have it. It's called a voulge.”

“Odd name,” Ingvar said.

Thorn shrugged. “Well, you can call it anything you like, really. Call it a sticker-chopper if you want to. It's a versatile weapon.” He took it back from Ingvar. “If you're fighting someone, you can chop 'em, stick 'em, hook 'em or pull 'em.”

He demonstrated the various strokes as he listed them. In his hands, the voulge was obviously a weapon of considerable menace.

Edvin nodded, impressed. “That's very poetic, Thorn. You should consider putting that to music. Chop 'em, stick 'em, hook 'em or pull 'em. Has a definite ring to it.”

“People say I've got a poetic bent,” Thorn said, with false modesty. “I've composed more than one love song in my time.”

“Well, I hope you didn't use ‘chop 'em, stick 'em and pull 'em' in any love song,” Stig declared, and nobody could really argue with that.

They made good speed down the river. The wind remained constant from the north, which boded well for their passage down the Narrow Sea. In mid-afternoon, the river widened noticeably, the banks receding to either side until they were low green headlands in the middle distance, and they sailed out into the ocean proper. As the
Heron
lifted beneath their feet to the first real roller, Hal let out a small sigh of contentment.

They were back at sea, and it felt vaguely like coming home.

chapter
fifteen

T
hey made good speed down the east coast of Araluen. Occasionally, as the Narrow Sea lived up to its name, they could sight the coast of Gallica as well, out to the port side. Then the straits would widen and the low gray line that marked the land would recede into the distance again.

Thorn passed the time drilling Ingvar in the use of the voulge, and those members of the crew who were off duty gathered to watch.

Thorn stood facing Ingvar, with a long wooden shaft in his hand to simulate the voulge. He made sure he stood well out of Ingvar's reach, however, as he demonstrated the various attacking and defensive strokes in a drill sequence—a sequence that became progressively faster.

“Thrust! Parry! Back! Advance! Overhead! Side stroke! Parry! Butt stroke!”

He called the moves in a random pattern, never repeating the same pattern twice, demanding a different sequence of moves each time.

“Stay on your toes, Ingvar!” he called. “Remember the net!”

“Who could forget it?” Stefan grinned. In the early days of their pursuit of the Magyaran pirate Zavac, Thorn had made them practice their fighting moves while standing knee deep in a large rope net. Strangely, Ingvar had proven to be quite adept at this, particularly when Thorn told him to close his eyes and imagine the net in place.

Ingvar nodded. His brow was creased with concentration above the dark brown circles that hid his eyes.

“Parry! Parry! Parry! Back! Thrust! No, use your legs when you thrust, not just your arms!”

“His arms are pretty powerful,” Stig said in mild protest.

Thorn turned to face him. “Maybe so. But if you put the strength of his legs behind that spear thrust, nothing could stop it. He could knock over a horse.”

“That's not so easy,” Stig said skeptically.

Thorn raised an eyebrow. “I've done it.”

His tone of voice left no room for discussion. Stig held up a hand in surrender and fell quiet while Thorn went back to drilling Ingvar, performing the moves himself with speed, precision and a deceptive smoothness.

“How did Thorn get so good with a voulge? You people don't use them, do you?” Gilan said softly to Hal, who was at the tiller.

The young skirl shrugged. “It's a weapon. He's good at weapons.”

After forty minutes, Ingvar was soaked with perspiration and panting with exhaustion. Thorn finally took pity on him.

“All right. That's enough for today. But keep practicing.”

Ingvar, his face scarlet, his shoulders and chest heaving, nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. He slumped down on the deck, his feet in the rowing well, and held the voulge between his knees. Thorn had given him a leather head cover for the weapon, which would prevent the salt water gathering on it and rusting it. He rewrapped the cover and laid the long weapon down.

“How did the spectacles work out?” Hal called to him. Ingvar looked up and grinned tiredly.

“They're great. It really helps when I can see what I'm doing. One thing, though . . .” He hesitated, not wishing to criticize Hal's brilliant invention. Hal gestured for him to speak up and he continued, a little reluctantly. “It's just that, when I get hot and sweaty, they slip down on my nose. And several times, I thought they might even fly right off my face.”

Hal nodded. It was a sensible comment and one he thought he should have foreseen.

“I'll attach laces to the earpieces so you can tie them firmly in place,” he suggested.

Ingvar smiled, glad the solution was so simple. “Yes. That should fix it.”

“Let me have them when I've finished this spell on the helm,” Hal told him. He glanced at Thorn, who had moved to join Hal, Stig and Gilan by the steering platform.

“He's not bad at all,” Hal said, nodding in Ingvar's direction.

“He's good,” Thorn told them. “Ingvar has always been good. He's fast and well coordinated, particularly for someone his size. His problem has always been confidence. His lack of confidence, and his poor vision, have always made him clumsy. Now that he can see what he's doing, his natural abilities are coming to the fore.”

He glanced around the small group. “Anyone else for a bit of weapons drill?”

“I'm on watch for another hour,” Hal said quickly. Practice sessions with Thorn were exhausting, and often painful, even with the wooden drill weapons they carried. Especially with those, he amended, as Thorn tended not to hold back when he was using them. With real weapons, he was a little more accommodating.

“I wouldn't mind a workout,” Gilan said casually.

They all looked at him with interest. Lydia had told them how he had fought several guardsmen at once when they were retreating from the gold market in Socorro.

Thorn gestured now to the stack of wooden weapons by the arms chest. “Pick out a sword and get ready.”

Gilan took off his cloak and folded it carefully. Then he tested two or three of the swords, swishing them experimentally through the air until he found one whose weight and balance seemed right. He unclipped his sword and scabbard from his belt and rested it against the railing. He'd lost a sword in the fight at the gold market, throwing it at one of the attackers in order to gain time to escape through the ceiling. Upon his return to Castle Araluen, he'd taken the opportunity to replace it.

Now he looked at Thorn and raised his eyebrows. “Ready?”

But Thorn shook his head. “I think we might see a match between you and young Stig,” he said. “It'll be good experience for him.”

Gilan looked at the strapping first mate and smiled. “Sounds good to me.” He took up one of the padded practice jackets and slipped into it, then donned a heavily padded gauntlet.

Stig grunted agreement. He donned a padded jacket and gauntlet as well, then selected a practice wooden ax from the weapon stack. Then he unhooked his round shield from its spot on the bulwark and slid his left arm and hand through the straps.

“You going to use a shield?” he asked Gilan.

The Ranger shook his head. “A sword will do for now.”

They both looked expectantly at Thorn. The crew had gathered a little closer to watch. A few of them were calling encouragement to Stig.

“Away you go,” Thorn said mildly.

Stig reacted instantly, driving forward and aiming a massive overhead blow at the Ranger, expecting him to leap back, off balance, to avoid it. But Gilan stood his ground and flicked his sword at the descending ax, deflecting it so that the wooden blade thudded into the deck planks. Then, in the blink of an eye, he responded, thrusting the sword at Stig's unprotected chest.

Only to feel a jarring sensation in his arm and wrist as the heavy wooden shield came round to block his thrust.

“Oh, nice work, both of them,” Thorn muttered to Hal. Stig was every bit as fast as Gilan, although he sensed the Ranger might have the edge in experience and technique.

Now the Ranger began a lightning-fast series of strokes at the Skandian youth. Backhands, forehands, overheads and straight thrusts. Stig gave ground slowly, but each blow was blocked by either his ax or his shield. At one point, he caught the descending sword in the narrow gap between the wooden blade of his ax and the shaft. He twisted his wrist violently, trapping the blade, nearly wrenching it from Gilan's grip. The Ranger leapt back hurriedly to disengage, sliding his sword free in the nick of time. He grunted in admiration and nodded to Stig, acknowledging a good move.

But Stig wasn't looking for praise. As Gilan withdrew, he leapt forward once more and slammed his shield into the Ranger's left shoulder, sending him flying across the deck and crashing to the planks.

Stig followed up with a huge downstroke but Gilan avoided it just in time, rolling away. As he did, he kicked Stig's legs from under him and brought the first mate thudding to the deck beside him.

Catlike, they both regained their feet at the same moment and faced each other again. Gilan was the first to reengage. He drew back his sword for a downward cut, then, with bewildering speed, flicked it to his left hand instead. The move was totally unexpected and Stig felt the light touch of the wooden tip against his chest.

Several of the crew groaned as they realized their man had been defeated. They had never seen that happen before.

Jesper quietly cursed to himself. He should have taken bets on this, he thought.

“That's it!” Thorn called, and the two of them stepped back, breathing heavily.

“Nice move,” Thorn said to Gilan.

Stig nodded his agreement. “I never saw that coming,” he said. “I'll be careful of that in future.”

“Like to try another bout?” Thorn said.

Gilan realized that the old sea wolf had donned his fighting hand—the massive club that Hal designed for him to replace his missing right hand and forearm. He nodded, his eyes narrowed. It would be an interesting weapon to face, he thought. In his left hand, Thorn held a small, bowl-shaped metal shield.

They shaped up to each other. Jesper, furious, realized it was too late to organize bets once more.

“Call time, Hal,” Thorn said, his eyes fixed on the slim young Ranger.

“Time!” Hal called and the bout began.

Gilan was expecting the massive club to be used in a downward or sideways arc. Consequently, Thorn's opening gambit caught him by surprise. Thorn jabbed forward with the club, sliding inside Gilan's guard and thudding into his ribs. The old sea wolf pulled the thrust at the last minute but Gilan realized that, if this had been a real fight, he would be crippled, with several ribs fractured. It had taken his shaggy-haired opponent a matter of seconds to deliver a winning blow, he realized. He shook his head in new admiration of the old fighter, then shaped up again.

“Let's keep going,” he said and, before he finished speaking, he darted his sword forward in a series of rapid thrusts, his right foot stepping and stamping to deliver more power to the attack.

Thorn withdrew, blocking and deflecting with his small shield, the club-hand always in readiness to exploit any gap in Gilan's defense.

But there was none. Gilan's thrusts were fast and economical. He was never out of balance, never allowing an opportunity for Thorn to exploit.

At the same time, Gilan realized that his series of rapid thrusts were causing Thorn no problem at all. The sea wolf parried or blocked each one, the small shield seeming to form an impenetrable barrier that was always in the right place at just the right time. The bearded warrior's reflexes were fantastic, Gilan realized.

Time to try something else, he thought. He withdrew a pace, and they eyed each other carefully, waiting for the next move. It came from Gilan. He threw up the sword for an overhand stroke. But at the last second, he flipped it sideways to his left hand, just as he had done with Stig.

It never reached his left hand.

Somewhere on the way, Thorn's club flashed up and struck it, sending it spinning high in the air, over Gilan's head. Stig reached up and caught it just before it disappeared over the side into the sea.

The crew cheered Thorn's success. One hand or not, he was one of the greatest fighters they had ever seen. One of the greatest Gilan had seen too, the tall Ranger realized.

“Thought you'd try that sooner or later,” Thorn said.

Gilan smiled ruefully. “I should have remembered. You're the man who can pluck speeding arrows out of thin air.”

Thorn nodded. “True. But you're giving that move away,” he said.

Gilan's smile turned to a look of surprise. “What am I doing?” he said. “Is it my eyes? What?”

Thorn shook his head. “Just before you do it, you flex the fingers of your left hand, ready to catch the sword. I saw you do it with Stig and I was waiting for it.”

Gilan looked down at his left hand now. “I never realized,” he said softly. “Thank you. That's a habit I'll have to break.”

“I'd advise it,” Thorn said.

Gilan regarded him with new-found respect. Very few warriors would have noticed that minimal movement when he had fought Stig—or been able to see it again in the heat of battle. Gilan realized that Thorn had possibly saved his life in some future combat. He nodded his gratitude to the old warrior. Thorn recognized the nod for what it was—an honest and heartfelt gesture of thanks. He turned to the rest of the crew.

“Anyone else fancy themselves against the great arrow catcher?” he challenged with a grin. The Herons hurriedly looked away, avoiding eye contact and calling their refusals.

All except Lydia.

“I'll take you on, old man,” she said and Thorn raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“But we'll do it onshore, fifty paces apart. And we'll see how many of my darts you can pluck out of thin air before I skewer you.”

This time, Jesper realized he had time to get organized.

“Taking bets now!” he shouted eagerly. “Two to one Lydia. Even money Thorn!”