Scorpion Mountain (17 page)

“What do we do for weapons?”

She heaved a sigh of relief, then gestured forward to the crew's quarters. “The crew had weapons,” she pointed out. “You can use them. And if there aren't enough, you can shape some of the broken oars into clubs.”

The man stood and turned to face his fellow rowers.

“She's right,” he said. “We have no choice. So let's arm ourselves and finish the fight.”

chapter
twenty-eight

I
t was a raggle-taggle mob that Lydia led away from the ship. She and Edvin were in the lead, with Kloof straining against the leash held by Edvin. Behind them straggled the former slaves. Some were dressed in the gaudy, but grubby, finery left behind by the corsairs. A few were still in the ragged, filthy clothes they had worn on the rowing bench for the past months.

The majority of them were armed with a selection of actual weapons—swords, axes, spears and maces. But half a dozen of them had to content themselves with clubs and staffs made from shortened oars. Looking at them, Lydia decided they would probably be just as effective as the other weapons in the hands of untrained men.

Normally, taking a group of ex–galley slaves into battle against the hardened troops commanded by Iqbal would be an almost certain recipe for failure. The rowers were hard muscled, admittedly. But they had been ill treated and malnourished for months and their reserves of energy and strength would be limited. Plus they weren't experienced warriors. The awkward way some of them held their weapons made that only too clear.

But her aim wasn't to defeat the Tualaghi defenders. It was to launch a surprise attack from the rear or the flank, distracting them, making them turn away from Hal and his men and so giving the latter a chance to break clear of the alley where they were hemmed in and drive the enemy back in confusion.

They reached the first plaza—the alley where the attackers were contained lay straight ahead. Lydia looked to either side and saw another narrow street leading off to the left, parallel to the alley. She gestured toward it.

“Come on!” she shouted, and set off at a jog, the irregular patter of the rowers' bare feet on the cobbles telling her that they were following.

Kloof let go a short, explosive bark and strained forward. It was all Edvin could do to contain her.

They entered the shady side street, their eyes unaccustomed to the dimness after the glare outside. As they ran along it, Lydia realized that it angled away from the alley where the Herons were fighting. Her heart pounded with anxiety. What if this street didn't connect to the same plaza? She looked ahead. The street was long and narrow and there was no sign of light at the far end, no sign that it led into the plaza. She was on the brink of turning the group around when they came to a narrow footway that ran off at right angles.

She stopped abruptly, the man behind her blundering into her. She cursed at him, shoved him away and studied the footway. It was barely wide enough for two men abreast. But she could see sunlight and an open space at the far end, and hear the clash of weapons and the shouts of men fighting.

“This way!” she ordered, and plunged into the dim, narrow space.

The sounds of fighting grew louder, but she could see no sign of the Tualaghi at the end of the walkway. That meant they had come past them and Lydia and the rowers would emerge into the square behind them—a perfect result.

Ten meters from the end, she held up a hand for the men behind her to stop. Mindful of the result last time she'd stopped, she kept going for a few paces, then came to a halt and turned. She could hear the sound of heavy, ragged breathing from the rowers. They really were in dreadful condition, she realized. But she hoped that adrenaline would see them through the few minutes it would take for them to perform a surprise flank attack on the Tualaghi. Adrenaline and an overpowering wish for revenge.

“When we get to the end, fan out either side so the men behind you can get out. Edwin and I will go forward a few meters, so form up behind us in one long line. Then, when I tell you, charge into them and hit them with everything you've got. All right?”

There was an angry growl of assent from the rowers—an almost primeval sound, she thought. After months and years of being brutalized and tortured while they sat helplessly in their chains, these men finally had weapons in their hand, and an enemy in sight. The Tualaghi may not have been the men who mistreated them, but they were allied to those men, and that was enough. She looked at them, saw the anger and determination in most of their eyes, and nodded.

“Let's go.”

• • • • •

The mixed group of Skandians and Arridans had been pushed back until they were level with the end of the alley. They could deploy no more than three men at a time, so Thorn took advantage of this by constantly changing the men who were fighting, making sure there were always fresh warriors facing the Tualaghi. But the sheer weight of numbers was prevailing. Thorn himself refused to take a spell. He continued to lead the fight, smashing and jabbing with his club-hand, swinging his small shield like an oversized fist. He never stopped, never seemed to tire.

As Ingvar stepped back into the alley, Hal shoved forward to take his place. The defenders were now comprised of Thorn, Hal and Stefan. Ulf, Wulf and Jesper stood ready to take the next shift in the fighting, although it was doubtful that Thorn would relinquish his place.

Ingvar leaned on the shaft of his voulge, breathing heavily. Along with Thorn and Stig, he had borne the brunt of the fighting so far. Now he peered forward through his tortoiseshell spectacles, watching the progress of the fight as Hal drove forward at one of the Tualaghi, driving the man back until he stumbled, then following after him.

And going too far!

Ingvar realized that Hal, fresh to the fight, had lost his sense of where the small defensive line should be. He had gone several meters too far into the ranks of the Tualaghi, allowing one of them to get behind him, between him and the alley and his two co-defenders. Ingvar saw one of the Tualaghi sweep back a huge, straight sword for a horizontal stroke from behind his skirl.

“Hal! Drop!” he roared, his massive voice carrying over the sounds of fighting—the clash of weapons, the grunts and curses of the men.

Hal heard the call and didn't hesitate. He dropped to his hands and knees and felt and heard the massive blade whistle just above his head. Had the stroke connected, he would have been cut almost in two, he realized. He craned around to see his attacker. He was too close for a sword thrust, so he scrabbled out his saxe instead, preparing for a close-in stabbing thrust from below.

Then he saw the voulge, hurled with all Ingvar's massive strength, smash into the swordsman, shattering the links of his chain mail, plunging deep into his upper body.

The force behind the heavy weapon was so great that the Tualaghi was hurled back several paces, blundering into three of his comrades, bringing one of them down and scattering the other two like ninepins.

Hal took advantage of the confusion to regain his feet. He stepped back smartly into line with Thorn and Stefan. The old sea wolf glared at him.

“Keep the line,” he growled. “You should know better!”

“Sorry,” Hal said. He had no time to thank Ingvar as he found himself facing another two Tualaghi. He stabbed one in the thigh, sending him sprawling on the bloodstained cobbles, and disarmed the second with a bewildering circular motion of his sword, trapping the other man's blade with his own and twisting it from his grasp. The Tualaghi's eyes widened in fear as he realized he was suddenly defenseless. He dropped to his knees and scuttled back behind his companions.

Hal had no time to pursue him. He was immediately engaged by another attacker. His arm was aching already from the continual effort of thrusting and hacking and retrieving his blade, along with the jarring impacts as he parried the enemies' strokes.

Any minute now, he thought, and he'd call for Wulf to relieve him.

Then he heard a familiar sound, the deep-throated bark of a huge dog, infuriated and ready to fight.

“Kloof?” he muttered. “Where did you come from?”

And, suddenly, the men opposing him were facing away, turning in confusion to face a new and unexpected attack from behind.

A row of gaudily clad figures, mixed in with others wearing filthy, disheveled rags, was charging headlong into the rear ranks of the Tualaghi force, hacking and slashing with spears, axes and swords, swinging wildly with wooden clubs fashioned from galley oars. They hit the rear of the Tualaghi force with a resounding crash of metal and wood on metal, hurling men to either side as they smashed their way into the Tualaghi ranks.

Kloof seemed to be everywhere. The huge dog hit the enemy soldiers like a battering ram, hurling them aside, snapping and snarling and biting with those giant jaws, seizing weapon hands and shaking each one violently until the soldier released his grip on the weapon and it went spinning into the confused mass of his comrades.

The suddenness of the surprise attack from the rear splintered the Tualaghi force and the solid ranks in front of the Herons began to waver and disintegrate. Thorn, as a wise and experienced battle commander should, saw the moment for what it was: the opportunity to break the Tualaghi force once and for all.

“Come on!” he roared, and charged forward, his club swinging in terrible, controlled arcs, smashing men out of the way, driving them to their knees. Hal and Stefan, their tiredness forgotten, joined with him, and Stig and the twins came behind them.

The Arridan cavalrymen, finally freed of the constricting space of the alley, surged out like an unstoppable tide, scimitars rising and falling, shields ringing as they blocked the hopeless strokes of the blue-clad desert warriors.

Hal saw Edvin directing a group of enraged galley slaves toward a small knot of Tualaghi who had formed a defensive circle. The blue-robed men went down under the furious onslaught. To one side, he saw Lydia, casually picking off enemies who showed any sign of rallying after the attack. Her darts flashed through the air, sending men sprawling, staggering and screaming with the pain. Suddenly, Hal felt very tired. It was over, he realized.

But not quite.

“You! Northman!” A stocky Tualaghi man faced him, recognizable as an officer by the superior quality of his robes and veil, and the jeweled scabbard and sword belt around his waist. Although Hal didn't know it, it was Dhakwan, insane with rage over the total defeat and destruction of his elite
Khumsan.
He saw the young Skandian now as one of the agents of his defeat. He'd noticed him at the helm of the
Ishtfana
when she'd run alongside the wharf. Now, here he was, exhausted, sword down, its tip resting on the cobbles—at Dhakwan's mercy.

“Prepare to meet your gods!” the Tualaghi leader screamed. Hal began to raise his sword in defense, and realized he would never make it in time.

Then a sword flashed over his left shoulder, its point sliding into Dhakwan's exposed upper body. The Tualaghi officer's eyes showed first surprise, then pain. Then they glazed over as his knees buckled and he sank to the cobbles.

“Never shout out a threat like that in the middle of a fight,” Gilan said calmly, withdrawing his sword and letting the dead Tualaghi officer topple to one side. “It's bad tactics and it gives your enemy time to defend himself. Or to kill you.”

“I'll bear it in mind,” Hal said. He looked at the Ranger with admiration. That sword thrust had been lightning fast and it seemed to have come out of nowhere. And it definitely had saved Hal's life.

Around them, the few remaining Tualaghi were throwing down their weapons or escaping into the narrow side streets that ringed the plaza. Thorn's voice boomed out, echoing off the buildings surrounding them, calling on the Herons and Arridi to re-form.

“Come on! We're not finished. Selethen will be in trouble at the gate! Let's go!”

“What about these men?” Edvin called.

Thorn looked around. There were a dozen or so Tualaghi standing weaponless, their hands raised in surrender, their faces shocked and numb at the sudden turn in their fortunes. Thorn gestured to the former galley slaves surrounding them.

“Leave them as guards. I'm sure they'll enjoy the irony of the situation. Now let's go!”

He led the way to one of the larger streets out of the plaza. This one headed south, which was the direction of the main gate and allowed the landing party to run four abreast. The
Heron
crew followed him. Behind them, the Arridan cavalry troopers ran, keeping up the brisk pace. Their weapons were blooded now and they were eager to fight again.

They encountered no opposition on the way. That was logical, Hal thought. The majority of Iqbal's men would be defending the gate, with the rest engaging the landing party. Both he and Thorn had studied a map of the town and the old sea wolf led the way unerringly to the main gate. As they burst into the large square facing it, the defenders turned to see them, assuming at first that they were reinforcements, then realizing that the enemy had somehow got inside the wall. They turned, too late, from their defensive positions at the gate, as the combined force of Skandians and Arridan troopers surged forward.

As the two forces came together, Gilan looked up to the wall. He saw a group of half a dozen archers firing down at the attackers outside the walls. He unslung his bow and within half a minute the half dozen had become two, who turned and ran.