Scorpion Mountain (30 page)

chapter
forty-nine

F
or one wild moment, Hal considered flight. But the land sailer was secured for the night, its sail lowered and furled along the boom, and the ring of approaching horsemen would be on them before he could get it hoisted.

He cursed himself bitterly for falling asleep and putting his companions in danger.

“Gilan, Stig,” he called, his voice bitter with the sense of failure. “Wake up. We've got company.”

Stig and the Ranger woke immediately. They were experienced warriors and were ready to wake and fight at the slightest sound of alarm. They tossed their blankets aside and rose to their feet, seeing the silent ring of horsemen closing in on them. In one flowing movement, Gilan slung his quiver over his shoulder, selected an arrow and nocked it. His bow was already strung. In enemy territory, Rangers always kept their bows ready. In the words of his old mentor,
An unstrung bow is a stick.

At the same time, Stig stooped to the ground beside his bedroll and seized his ax. He stood now with it held across his body, his left hand balancing the weight just below the gleaming head.

“Seems we were wrong about Scarface,” he said quietly. Then he let a savage grin break over his features. “Well, if they try and take us, they'll end up a few men short.”

Hal had been scanning the line of horsemen. They were now only a dozen meters away and still no word had been spoken. There must have been sixty or seventy of them and he realized that resistance was useless.

The horsemen stopped. Only the muted jingle of harness fittings and the creak of leather as their horses shifted their feet broke the silence. Their leader, in the center of the line, unwound the ends of his
kheffiyeh
and flicked them back over his shoulders so that he could speak.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

Something about the voice struck a chord of recognition in Gilan's memory. He lowered his bow and stepped forward a few paces, peering intently at the rider. If he was one of the Shurmel's men sent to pursue them, why would he ask such questions?

In the growing light, he could see that the troop of horsemen all wore
kheffiyehs
that had a yellow-and-white-checked pattern. It was that detail that allowed his memory to click into place.

“Umar?” he said. “Umar ib'n Talud,
Aseikh
of the Khoresh Bedullin tribe. Is that you?”

The rider leaned forward to peer more closely at Gilan, then urged his horse forward a few paces. The riders flanking him began to move to accompany him but he waved them back, walking his horse forward alone until he was only three meters from the Ranger.

Hal, watching closely, could make out the man's features now. His nose was large and hooked, and at some stage had been badly broken. He wore a dark beard and his eyes were dark, almost black, and piercing. As Hal and Stig watched, the puzzled look on the rider's face vanished, and was replaced by a huge smile. His white teeth shone against the dark background of his beard.

“Friend Gilan!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”

He swung down from his horse and rushed to embrace Gilan. He was a big man and he literally swept the slim Ranger off his feet in a huge bear hug. He roared with laughter, then held Gilan away from him to study him more closely.

“Yes! It is you! May the almighty one be praised!”

Then Gilan, who had only just regained his breath, lost it all again in an explosive gasp as the Bedullin leader swept him into a crushing bear hug once more. The nomad riders behind him exchanged puzzled glances, although there were grins of recognition on the faces of several as they, too, recognized the Ranger.

Eventually, Gilan managed to disentangle himself and step clear of the Bedullin chief. Umar, however, overwhelmed with pleasure at seeing an old friend once more, kept making incipient attempts at another bear hug, which kept Gilan backing warily away. Eventually, the Ranger found the time to indicate his two companions, who were watching with rather mystified smiles on their faces.

“
Aseikh,
” he said, using the Bedullin title for the leader of a tribe, “these are my friends, two Skandians by the name of Hal and Stig. Boys, this is Umar, leader of the Bedullins.”

“Skandians!” Umar roared with delight as he shook hands with the two young men. “I know your Oberjarl well. Oberjarl Erak! A wonderful man! You know I rescued him from the clutches of the Tualaghi, all by myself!”

“You did?” said Hal, grinning. He had heard some of the details of Erak's capture and subsequent rescue.

Umar placed one hand on his chest, in a dramatic gesture. “I did! And I did it singlehandedly!” he declaimed.

Gilan coughed gently. “Perhaps with a little help, Umar?” he suggested.

The big Bedullin shook his head diffidently from side to side. “Well, surely, Ranger Gilan was there, and Rangers Will and Halt. Oh, and the mighty Araluen warrior Horace and the beautiful princess Evanlyn. And of course, your countryman, Svengal. But apart from that, I was all alone!”

“And apart from a hundred and twenty of your warriors,” said Gilan, indicating the semicircle of riders, some of whom were openly grinning at Umar's wild exaggeration.

“Well, of course one hundred and twenty of my warriors!” Umar boomed. “But they were a ceremonial guard. No Bedullin
Aseikh
would think of traveling without a small retinue! But I stress, apart from those paltry numbers, I performed the feat entirely on my own.”

“They still sing praises to your name in our home country,” Stig said, a huge grin on his face. Umar bowed to him in mock modesty.

“As well they might, friend Stig. Tell me, how is your Oberjarl Erak?”

“A little overweight and very loud,” Stig replied.

Umar fingered his chin thoughtfully. “Hasn't changed then?” he said slyly. He and the two Skandians exchanged smiles. Then he clapped his hands together, all business. “But tell me, my friends, what brings you to the desert? And what is this amazing vehicle you're traveling in?”

“We've been at Scorpion Mountain, dealing with the Shurmel of the Scorpion cult of assassins,” Gilan told him. “There was a
tolfah
taken out against Princess Evanlyn.” He used the name she had traveled under when she had led the mission to rescue Erak. “My King sent me here to have it rescinded.”

Umar's brows drew closer together at the mention of the Scorpions. “A vile business. Who would threaten the life of such a beautiful and virtuous lady?”

“It was Iqbal, brother of the treacherous Yusal,” Gilan said. “He wanted revenge for his brother and he dealt with the Scorpion cult to get it.”

“But you say there was a
tolfah
? How did you manage to have it lifted? I thought once they were in place, they could not be altered.”

“I killed the Scorpion leader,” Gilan told him calmly. Umar regarded him for several seconds, then nodded repeatedly in recognition.

“That was well done, friend Gilan. The Scorpions are a blight upon our land. It's well past time that someone blunted their sting.” He frowned thoughtfully. “But I understood the Shurmel was a mighty warrior?”

Gilan shrugged. “He was big. But not very skillful,” he said dismissively. “But tell me, Umar, what brings you here? You've crossed the border out of Arrida.”

Umar snorted disdainfully. “Borders are lines drawn on a map. True nomads like the Bedullin ignore them completely. We had heard talk of a wonderful machine that flew across the desert with no sign of anything to drive it.” He nodded toward the land sailer, some meters away. “I take it this is that machine?”

Gilan smiled. “Indeed it is. And it was built by my young friend here.” He indicated Hal. Umar regarded the young Skandian with interest and a degree of respect.

“Indeed? I must see it in motion later.” He paused and his expression darkened. “There was another reason why we came here. My scouts told me that a large party of the Shurmel's warriors had left Scorpion Mountain and were crossing the desert.”

His expression and the tone of his voice left little doubt as to his feelings about the Shurmel's
Ishti.

“I take it you have no love for the Shurmel's men?” Hal said.

Umar nodded bleakly. “They are evil servants of an evil man. The Scorpion cult has been a thorn in our side for many years. But whenever we try to corner them, they melt away into their mountain labyrinth. We thought for once we might catch some of them in the open and teach them a lesson.”

The three travelers exchanged glances. It was Gilan who replied. “Well, we happen to know where you might find them—and only a few hours away. They're at the ruined city of Ephesa, trying to capture our ship.”

A slow smile spread over Umar's swarthy face. “So we are between them and their hideout?” he said. “How interesting. I think we might pay these people a visit, and let them see how unwise it is to show their noses too far from their evil mountain.”

“We'd be delighted to accompany you,” Gilan said.

Umar's expression changed to one of regret. “I'm afraid we have no horses to spare, friend Gilan. We'll need to travel fast and we have only those we ride and our remounts.”

Gilan smiled and gestured to the land sailer. “We'll make our own way,” he said. “And our transport doesn't get tired or need resting or replacing.”

“Indeed?” Umar arched one eyebrow at them, then smiled. “I learned long ago not to doubt the claims you Rangers make. I can't wait to see this wonderful machine of yours in action.”

“Just don't get too close behind us.” Gilan smiled. “Our dust might sting your eyes.”

chapter
fifty

A
s the daylight strengthened and the land began to heat up, the wind veered. Edvin and Jesper transferred the anchor rope to the stern of the ship, keeping the bow pointed at the beach.

Thorn stood, one foot on the for'ard bulwark, watching events on the beach. Several of the rafts, which had been built in haste, had been damaged in the violent maneuvers that accompanied the first attack. Lashings had come loose and paddles had been lost. The
Ishti
warriors, under the scornful eyes of their commander, attended to these minor details, refastening the bamboo logs together and shaping new paddles from smaller pieces of bamboo.

There was a hangdog look to the desert riders as they went about their work. The foreign ship seemed to mock them, sitting placidly on the water only fifty meters offshore, unharmed and unaffected by their initial attack. Yet they had lost several comrades.

It was all very well for their commander to berate them and call them cowards and poltroons. But he hadn't faced the terrible wrath of the one-armed sailor with a giant club in place of his missing hand. Or the giant with the blackened, skull eye sockets who wreaked such havoc with his long half-spear, half-ax weapon. They understood now that they had been tricked into withdrawing from the fight. Truth be told, none of them regretted it, nor were they overeager to mount another attack. There might be only half a dozen of the enemy, but they were skillful and merciless fighters. Besides, there was also that monstrous devil of a dog, and the girl whose missiles had struck down their friends.

As a result, they dawdled over the adjustments to the rafts' lashings, even, on occasion, loosening them instead of drawing them tight. Their commander strode among them, checking their work suspiciously, and continuing to harangue them for their cowardice and slovenly workmanship.

But there was a limit to how long they could successfully stave off the inevitable moment. Late in the morning, their commander declared that the rafts were ready once more. He pointed to the water's edge and issued a curt command. Reluctantly, the raft crews seized hold of the awkward rafts and carried them once more to the water's edge.

“Here they come,” Thorn called softly. “Edvin, stand by to let the anchor cable go, then get to the helm. Jesper and Stefan, you raise the sail . . .” He hesitated, glanced at the wind telltale and the direction in which the ship currently lay. “Make it the port-side sail. Wulf, stand ready on the sheets. Once they're in the water and fully committed, we'll get under way and sail in a curve to port. Then we'll bring her back. Lydia, Ingvar. This time, I want you on the Mangler. Smash up the rafts, cut down the crews. The ones you miss, we'll ram.”

They all nodded silently. They had been over this plan while they had been waiting for the
Ishti
to make their move. As the first rafts were placed into the water, Lydia took her seat at the Mangler. Ingvar leaned past her and seized the cocking handles, drawing the bowstring back to full cock. They had already selected one of the shattering missiles for their first shot. He laid it now in the half-recessed track on top of the giant weapon. Then he seized the training handle and moved it back and forth on the swivel, making sure it moved freely and without obstruction.

Thorn moved aft, to a point astern of the mast, and peered over the starboard bulwark. The rafts were beginning to crab out from the shore. But they were moving slowly, a sign of their crews' reluctance.

“Ready, everyone . . . ,” he called. Then he frowned. He saw Kloof suddenly sit up from where she had been lying beside the mast. Her ears were pricked and her head was canted to one side as she listened.

Then he heard it too: the drumming of horses' hooves on the hard-packed sand. And as he watched, a body of horsemen swept out of the oasis and headed for the beach. His heart sank as he saw there at least seventy riders in the tight-packed group.

“Reinforcements,” he breathed.

Wulf turned to him. “We'll never be able to fight that many.”

Both of them, and the others on board, were all too conscious of the fact that Stig, Hal and Gilan were still somewhere ashore. They would have no chance of reaching the ship through that mass of enemy riders.

Then Lydia was pointing to a spot to the left of the oasis. “Look! It's them! Hal and Stig!”

And they heard the whirring rattle of the land sailer's wheels over the rough ground as it came into view, traveling at full speed, canted up with its port wheel riding clear of the ground. They heard the wheel crash back to the ground as Hal heaved the strange vehicle through a tack, heard the slap of the sail as it filled with wind. Then it was arrowing back across the beach toward the suddenly panicking
Ishti.

And that was when Thorn realized that the new arrivals weren't reinforcements for the Shurmel's men. They were attacking the
Ishti
warriors, driving into them at a full gallop, using lances and curved swords to spear them and cut them down. The Shurmel's warriors tried to regroup, but they were caught by surprise, with half their number on the rafts.

Thorn heard the ugly crash of the Mangler as the huge weapon released. He followed the path of the bolt as it sped toward the leading raft. It hit the raft at an angle, but the impact was enough to shatter the pottery warhead and send shards of hard clay whirring through the crew. The shaft itself cartwheeled, spinning just above the deck and taking the helmsman right near the knees. Men screamed and the water around the raft turned red with their blood. Ingvar was already loading another bolt into the Mangler. Thorn sighed and leaned on the hilt of his sword.

“Nothing much for me to do,” he muttered. “Might as well watch.”

• • • • •

At the controls of the land sailer, Hal scanned the beach in front of him as the little vehicle shot out into the open.

The
Ishti
warriors were running in all directions, and falling under the onslaught of Umar and his Bedullins as they carved a grim path through them. The enemy were taken completely by surprise. He saw a group of three men to one side, shouting and gesticulating, yelling orders at the disorganized rabble and at the rafts that were crabbing slowly away from the beach.

“Hang on!” he yelled to Gilan and Stig. They looked at him and saw the determination on his face as he swung the land sailer through a hard tack and hauled in on the sheet; the wheels skimmed the ground as he drove the vehicle across the beach, straight at the group of three, gathering speed with every meter they traveled.

The
Ishti
commander was intent on cursing his men and trying to rally them into a defensive circle. But those who hadn't already been struck down by a Bedullin lance or sword were throwing down their weapons and raising their hands in surrender. He screamed curses at them, then one of his companions plucked at his sleeve.

“Captain! Look out!”

The captain turned, saw the strange vehicle flying straight at him and froze in terror.

Seconds later, the land sailer plowed at full speed into the three men, hurling them to either side like so many ninepins. The impact was too great for the light timbers of the land sailer. The main spar shattered just behind the single steering wheel. The mast whipped forward under the sudden deceleration and snapped off halfway up, hurling the upper half forward, trailing a tangle of rope and canvas with it. Gilan and Stig spilled off the outriggers to the hard ground, rolling to lessen the impact of their fall. Hal was jettisoned forward, landing awkwardly beside the splintered central spar, his head missing contact with the iron-shod steering wheel by a matter of centimeters. As it was, the splintered end of the bamboo central spar tore a furrow across his forehead.

He rose to his feet, blood running down his face, and surveyed the wreckage of his land sailer. Gilan and Stig stood up stiffly as well. They moved to join him.

“You all right?” Stig asked. He looked worried and Hal regarded him, puzzled.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because your face is covered in blood,” Stig told him.

Hal nodded groggily and wiped his face with the end of his
kheffiyeh.

“Oh . . . so it is. I hadn't noticed. I think I broke the land sailer,” he said.

“You certainly broke the
Ishti
command group,” Gilan said, indicating the three still bodies scattered by the crash.

Hal shrugged. “I'm sure they had it coming.”

The fight on the beach was over. A third of the
Ishti
fighters had been killed or wounded in that first wild charge. The others wasted no time in surrendering. The clumsy rafts were slowly returning to shore, their occupants throwing their weapons aside as they waded onto dry land. Fifty meters offshore, Hal saw four oars run out on the
Heron.
As he watched, they began to rise and fall, driving the little ship slowly toward the beach. As her prow touched, Stefan jumped ashore with a beach anchor and made her fast. The rest of the crew followed him in rapid order, running up the beach to their prodigal shipmates. Kloof, forgotten in the rush and excitement, barked furiously, then hurled herself overboard and swam ashore. Pausing to shake several gallons of seawater from her coat, she then bounded up the beach and reached Hal before any of the others, sending him flying with her rapturous, saturated welcome.

As he picked himself up, he saw Umar approaching, a huge smile of satisfaction on his face.

“Wonderful!” he enthused. “We have finally taught these people a lesson they won't soon forget.” His eye landed on Kloof and he hesitated.

“What is this?” he said. “Is it some kind of Skandian horse?”

“It's my dog, Kloof,” Hal told him. Kloof, sensing that Umar was a friend, moved forward, her damp tail swishing, and licked his hand.

“She likes you,” Stig told the Bedullin leader.

Umar looked doubtful. “It's more like she's tasting me,” he said. “What does this . . . horse-dog eat?”

Stig, Hal and Thorn, who had arrived in time to hear the question, exchanged grins and answered in unison:

“Anything she wants to!”

Hal embraced the old sea wolf, then made introductions as the rest of the Herons arrived. They regarded the Bedullin leader with interest. All of them, with the exception of Lydia, had heard the tale of Erak's rescue from the Tualaghi, and the role played by the Bedullin tribe in the battle that ensued.

Lydia hesitated, standing halfway between Stig and Hal, and made an awkward gesture with her hands. Not knowing which one to embrace first, she chose to embrace neither, but said in a subdued tone:

“You're back. You're safe.” Then, noticing the blood running down Hal's face from under the improvised bandage he had fashioned from the
kheffiyeh,
she went a little pale. “Are you all right?”

Hal hesitated. He had been about to say something along the lines of “It's nothing. Just a scratch,” as wounded heroes always said, but he stopped himself just in time. Instead, he let out a pitiful groan and clasped his hands to his head.

“No! It hurts! Oh, it hurts!”

For a moment, Lydia was taken in. She stepped toward him, then saw the irrepressible grin breaking through the dried blood on his face and withdrew in anger.

“Oh, go cry to your mummy!” she snarled and stalked off, followed by the laughter of the others.

Umar was sizing up Thorn, taking in the shabby old sea wolf's heavy chest and thickly muscled arms and legs.

“Now this one looks like a real Skandian!” he declared. “This one looks like Erak.”

“No,” said Thorn, “I'm a lot prettier than him.”

Umar hesitated, eyeing him with his head tilted to one side. “You Skandians have a strange idea of pretty,” he said at length.

Gilan had been surveying the defeated
Ishti
cavalrymen, being mustered into a group under the watchful eyes of Umar's warriors. The prisoners' hands were bound and their legs hobbled to prevent their running. He took Umar's arm and led him to one side.

“Umar, you say you've tried to attack the Scorpions' den in the past,” he began.

The
Aseikh
nodded vigorously, showing his frustration. “True. I have wanted to teach that evil band a real lesson for years. But they always disappear into the tunnels and caves of the mountain before we can get close. I'd give a lot to take them by surprise one day. The world would be better off without the Scorpion cult.”

“I agree. And it occurs to me that this might be your opportunity.”

Suddenly he had Umar's undivided attention. The Bedullin chief leaned forward eagerly. “How's that, friend Gilan?”

Gilan gestured at the disconsolate prisoners, sitting on the sand. “Well, it occurs to me that the new Shurmel will be expecting these men to return sometime soon. And you have their cloaks and
kheffiyehs
 . . .” He let the sentence hang uncompleted, and saw understanding dawn on Umar's face.