Wulf scowled at his brother, then at the young Arridan. ‘No I don’t,’ he retorted crisply. ‘He looks like me.’ Then he added darkly, if not logically, ‘And he’d better stop doing it if he knows what’s good for him!’
Thoroughly confused, the trooper continued aft, stumbling over a coil of rope as he turned to look back at the two identical figures.
Hal waited until a dozen of the Arridans were gathered in the stern of the ship, then addressed them. ‘You can stay on this deck while we’re heading up the coast. Once we get closer to Tabork, you’ll have to go below and stay out of sight. But for the moment, enjoy the fresh air.’
He had visions of the troopers, unaccustomed to the sea and to the overpowering atmosphere of the rowing deck, being violently sick all the way to Tabork. Better to let them stay on the upper deck for as long as possible, he thought. Once they went below, they would crouch on the catwalk, between the rowers. But that would only be for a relatively short time and he hoped the confined space, the rank air and the evil smell from the bilges wouldn’t have too debilitating an effect on them.
Leaving the first group to pass on the word to their comrades, he strode forward and climbed down onto the beach, where Selethen and Gilan were talking. From the deck of the Heron, Stig had seen him going ashore and hurried now to join them.
‘Ready to go aboard, Wakir?’ Hal asked. But Selethen surprised him by shaking his head.
‘I won’t be travelling with you to Tabork,’ he said. He turned to a small group of officers waiting nearby and beckoned one of them over. ‘Captain Rahim! Would you join us, please?’
A stockily built man in his early thirties came towards them. He had obviously spent his life as a cavalryman, Hal thought with a smile. His legs were slightly bowed from years in the saddle and, as a consequence, he rocked slightly from side to side as he came. He stopped and performed the traditional Arridan salute to his Wakir, touching his fingers to lips, brow and lips, and bowing slightly.
‘Wakir?’ he said, waiting for orders. Selethen turned to Gilan and Hal, introducing them to the captain, who bowed to them in turn. His keen eyes assessed the two foreigners and Hal could almost hear his thoughts: This one is young. I hope he knows what he’s doing.
‘Captain Rahim will command the landing party,’ Selethen continued. ‘I’ll travel overland to Tabork and resume command of the main attack.’ He took two long bundles from another of his subordinates and handed them to Gilan.
‘These are signal arrows,’ he said. ‘The heads contain a substance that is highly flammable and that, when confined, explodes in a large puff of white smoke. When you’re in position, light the fuse on one and shoot it vertically into the air. As soon as I see the signal, I’ll launch the attack on the main gate. Then, if you hit Iqbal and his men from behind, you should be able to drive through them and open the gates for us.’
‘So long as everything goes according to plan,’ Hal put in.
Gilan smiled grimly. ‘Which it rarely does.’
Selethen raised an eyebrow, acknowledging the fact that the best laid plans usually fell in a heap once the actual fighting started.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you have any trouble, just let friend Ingvar loose on the Tualaghi with his axe on a stick. I’m sure he’d frighten the hardiest desert bandit.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ Stig said. ‘He frightens me plenty.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PHILIP BLOODYHAND CAME awake to a discreet knocking on the door of his room. At least, the knocking started discreetly. When the initial attempts failed to rouse the corsair captain, the servant at the door progressively increased the volume until the sound pierced the wine-sodden consciousness of the gross man inside.
Philip was sprawled on his stomach on the bed. He went to rise, putting his hand down to push up from the soft mattress. But he was lying crosswise, where he had collapsed the night before. His hand missed the bed, he lost his balance and rolled off onto the floor. Fortunately, the bed was a simple pile of thick cushions laid on the tiled floor, so he didn’t have far to fall. But his temper flared as he rolled onto the tiles, then struggled to a sitting position.
‘What is it?’ he shouted angrily, and instantly wished he hadn’t. His hand flew to his pulsing forehead in a vain attempt to stem the sudden pain there. His tongue was thick and his mouth was dry. And there was that sullen pulse of pain behind his eyes. Several empty wine flasks and jars scattered around the room bore mute testimony to the source of his discomfort.
The door opened a crack and one of his servants leaned a cautious head around it. Philip had been known to hurl objects – often pointed ones – at people who woke him.
‘Captain, the ship is back. With a prize,’ the servant said nervously. At least the second part of the statement should allay any serious display of bad temper, he thought.
Philip grunted and rubbed his eyes. He swallowed several times and scowled at the man at the door.
‘Get me wine,’ he said, then thought better of the idea. ‘No. Wait. Get me water – cold water. And squeeze some lemon juice into it.’
‘Yes, captain,’ said the servant, taking the order as permission to leave. He scurried away while Philip looked blearily around for his clothes. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he was still wearing them. They were the usual gaudy mixture that Hellenese corsairs were so fond of. His trousers were wide bottomed and bright blue, held in place by a scarlet sash. His shirt was buttercup yellow satin, stretched across his large belly, and his calf-high boots were soft red Socorran leather.
The visual effect of the bright colours was somewhat spoiled by the food and wine stains that were all too apparent on them, but such matters were below Philip’s notice. He looked around for his red bandanna, cursing as he failed to see it. Someone had once told him that wearing a red bandanna was the sign of a feeble mind but Philip was inordinately fond of his, perhaps proving the point. After scowling around the room, he realised that it was on his head, cocked to one side. He straightened it and heaved himself off the floor, moving to the open archway that led onto his second-floor terrace, overlooking the harbour.
He winced at the sun reflecting brilliantly off the white buildings and sparkling waters of the harbour, narrowing his eyes to see against the glare.
Yes, there was the Ishtfana, rowing steadily towards the harbour entrance, with a smaller ship in tow behind her – the prize his servant had mentioned. Shading his eyes, he peered at the twin moles and saw the boom crew were busy releasing the massive chain that barred entrance to the harbour, allowing it to sink below the surface so that Ishtfana could enter unhindered.
He heard the door of the room open and his servant was back, bearing a tray that held a jug of water, a mug and several lemons, cut in half. He seized the jug and drank greedily from it. The sharp taste of the lemon juice already lacing the water cut through the thickness that clogged his mouth. He upended the jug, water spilling round the sides of it and soaking his shirt front. Then he lowered it, took a deep breath, belched and dropped it onto the bed cushions. The servant hurried to retrieve it.
‘Tell Lord Iqbal the Ishtfana is back,’ he said curtly, and strode towards the door. His curved sword hung from a peg by the door. He took it down, shoved the scabbard through the yellow sash round his waist and went out, tugging on the single red gauntlet that he wore on his right hand as a reminder of his nickname – Bloodyhand.
‘He’s already been informed,’ his servant replied. But Philip was gone.
He lumbered down the stairs and out into the hot sun. He was a tall and grotesquely overweight man, given to the pleasures of the flesh. He had barely gone twenty paces before his face was running with perspiration.
He grunted with the effort of walking in the heat, and with the dull pain that still thumped behind his eyes, as he made his way onto the wharf. He could see Iqbal already there, waiting by the water’s edge, watching the galley make its way through the harbour entrance. In contr
ast to the corsair, the Tualaghi chief was a tall, ascetic person, his dark blue robes seemingly in defiance of the heat of the sun. The lower half of his face was covered with the traditional blue veil of the Tualaghi. Philip had only ever seen his face uncovered in private. He knew that beneath the headdress and veil, Iqbal was bald – his head carefully shaven daily. His nose was a hooked shape, reminiscent of a bird of prey’s beak, and his eyes were dark and penetrating – again like those of a hawk or an eagle.
Those dark eyes turned now onto the stained and lumbering figure of the pirate captain, viewing him with obvious distaste. Philip was sure that beneath the veil, Iqbal’s thin-lipped mouth would be curled in a sneer. Philip couldn’t care less. Iqbal’s opinion on Philip’s personal habits meant nothing to him. They were allies, bound together by convenience, not friendship or mutual admiration. For his part, Philip considered Iqbal to be a cold-blooded, joyless desert lizard.
‘I see she took the trader,’ Philip said, gesturing towards the smaller ship bobbing obediently in Ishtfana’s wake.
The Tualaghi leader raised an eyebrow. ‘It took her long enough,’ he said. ‘It would seem your second in command isn’t very good at his job.’
Philip shrugged. The small trader had appeared to be a slow sailer when she had been sighted the day before. He wondered why Kyrios had taken so long to secure her and bring her back. Iqbal was right. His first mate wasn’t the most reliable or the most intelligent of men. As a corsair captain, Philip had always made sure that the men beneath him were capable, but not outstanding in their jobs. That way, there was a smaller chance that one of them might try to usurp him. Knowing Kyrios as he did, he assumed that the first mate had kept the rowers at maximum speed for too long, exhausting them far too early in the chase so that their quarry had gained ground on them.
But he wasn’t about to let this camel-riding oaf denigrate his ship or his crew.
‘Easy to criticise when you know nothing of the problems facing a sailor,’ he said truculently.
‘She’s here now. That’s all that matters to me,’ Iqbal said dismissively. He turned on his heel and strode away from the edge of the wharf. There was nothing to be gained from standing watching the ships come alongside. He would be informed of the trader’s cargo in due time, and he knew Philip wouldn’t dare to cheat him or short change him. Iqbal’s own men would keep a strict eye on the unloading of the cargo.
As he crossed the wharf, heading for his own accommodation, he caught sight of Dhakwan and three of his men striding onto the wharf. Dhakwan’s Khumsan, or squad of fifty, had entered Tabork the previous night under cover of darkness. They were quartered close to the harbour, in a disused warehouse. It occurred to Iqbal that Dhakwan’s men would be a suitable group to oversee the unloading of the captured ship. He beckoned to the leader, who approached him, performing a perfunctory version of the traditional salute.
‘My lord?’
Iqbal jerked a thumb at the two ships moving across the harbour. ‘Ishtfana’s taken a prize. Rouse your men out and take charge of the unloading. Make sure that fat, greasy Hellene doesn’t try to spirit any of the cargo away.’
‘As you command,’ Dhakwan said. He turned to one of his companions and issued orders for the Khumsan to be roused and paraded on the wharf.
‘Armed, sir?’ his lieutenant asked.
Dhakwan eyed him steadily. ‘Of course I want them armed,’ he said. ‘I’m not taking them on a picnic. Now move!’
His assistant accepted the rebuke philosophically. Dhakwan was a sarcastic commander. He’d known that when he’d elected to join his band years ago, working his way up through the ranks to become one of his trusted deputies. A little sarcasm never really hurt, once you learned to ignore it, and Dhakwan had been a successful leader, helping his men win large amounts of gold and silver and jewellery over the years. He hurried back through a narrow alley, leading to the large building one street back from the wharf where the Khumsan was billeted. As he came within hearing, he began shouting for the men to assemble.
On the wharf, Philip was peering blearily at the rapidly approaching ship. Something wasn’t quite right, he thought. He scanned the small group standing around the steering platform. None of them looked familiar. In particular, he searched for Kyrios’s distinctive and colourful figure – but without success. He frowned. The foredeck was empty. Normally, the fighting crew would be gathered there, drinking and celebrating a successful pursuit. But there was nobody.
And the group in the stern bothered him. None of them were dressed in the bright colours that he expected to see. They were in drab browns and greys. One of them was wrapped in a grey and green cloak. And he appeared to be armed with a longbow.
And surely that slim figure to one side was a girl!
Suddenly, Philip realised that they had been tricked. This was not his crew bringing the Ishtfana alongside. He had no idea who they might be, but they weren’t his men. He turned desperately. There was a harbour guard standing nearby, armed with a heavy horn bow. Philip ran to him, snatched the weapon, then dragged several arrows out of the man’s back quiver, nocking one to the string and turning back to face the ships.
‘Sound the alarm!’ he shouted. ‘We’re being attacked!’
The man stared at him in surprise for a second or two, then he saw the corsair leader drawing the arrow back and taking aim at the incoming ship and was galvanised into action.
‘Alarm!’ he shouted to the two lookouts in a tower above the wharf. ‘Sound the alarm! We’re under attack!’
He heard the deadly thrum of the bow as Philip released.
The corsair captain was fat, debauched and unpleasant. But he had excellent weapon skills. Without them, he wouldn’t have lasted a week at the command of his band of cut-throats. The arrow flashed across the intervening space, aimed unerringly at the helmsman holding the tiller.
Gilan saw it coming, heard the shouting on the wharf. He grabbed Hal and dragged him down just in time, as the arrow hissed overhead, through the space the young skirl had just occupied.
‘Thorn!’ the Ranger shouted. ‘Get those men up here now!’
He could see the gaudily clad figure on the wharf nocking another arrow and reached for his own quiver. But his hand fell on one of the two signal arrows that he had carelessly placed in there the day before. He cursed and fumbled for a normal shaft.
But Lydia was quicker. She too had seen the archer on the wharf. And she took note of the red gauntlet on his right hand, guessing the significance.
‘Well, well,’ she muttered. ‘It’s Philip Pattyfingers himself.’
With the speed of totally instinctive movement, drilled into her muscle memory by years of practice and thousands of shots, she selected a dart, clipped it onto the atlatl, sighted and cast in a matter of seconds.
Philip was drawing back the second arrow when he felt a massive impact against his chest. The bow and arrow fell from his grip and he looked down, puzzled, to see the long dart that had just transfixed him. He felt no pain at first. The impact was like a hard punch but the area was numb.
Then the pain came. Huge waves of it.
Then the bright sunlit day turned black and he collapsed to the wharf like a rag doll.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ISHTFANA’S BOW BUMPED against the wharf at an angle and grated along it as the ship slewed in parallel to the stone wall. Stefan and Jesper hurled mooring ropes over the bollards set along the wharf’s edge and, with Stig and Ingvar helping, hauled the ship alongside. All four of them had their weapons ready and, with the exception of Ingvar, their big round shields slung over their backs.
Led by Thorn, the first of the Arridan cavalrymen surged up the companionway onto the deck, then leapt up onto the wharf itself. They were joined by the Herons, with the exception of Edvin, who was on board the Heron, steering her behind the galley. Kloof remained with him, just in case there was a repetition of the flanking attack that had happened the previous day. With Kloof remaining on
the ship, it would have to be a bold Tualaghi who dared to try and board Heron. Or a foolish one.
Hal was the last to step ashore, held up by the surge of cavalrymen as they clambered awkwardly onto the wharf, hampered by their knee-high riding boots. He slipped his own shield, the blue Gallican kite-shaped shield, over his left arm and drew his sword from its scabbard.
Briefed by Thorn on the journey up the coast, the Arridan troops formed up in two lines behind the Skandians, who were in their traditional wedge shape, with Thorn at the apex, flanked by Stig and Ingvar, who was revelling in the fact that he could take an active part in the fight. The dark brown, opaque circles over his eyes gave him an ominous, skull-like look.
There was a small group of harbour guards facing them, perhaps nine or ten men. They began backing cautiously away from the new arrivals, their eyes darting nervously along the line, bristling with weapons.
Then the whole picture changed.
There was a rattle of boots on stone and a jingle of mail and equipment and a file of blue-clad Tualaghi emerged from a side alley, running quickly onto the wharf and forming up in a single line in the shape of a shallow crescent. The harbour guards, their confidence boosted by the unexpected reinforcements, fell into place with them.
Thorn estimated their numbers. Close to sixty, he thought. And most of them would be hardened desert warriors, not fat, under-trained garrison troops.
‘This could be a problem,’ he muttered.
Gilan had shouldered his way through to stand beside him, one of the signal arrows ready on his bow. Lydia stood with a flint and steel ready to light the fuse.
‘Should I send up the signal?’ he asked.
Thorn hesitated, then came to a decision. ‘Do it. If we wait any longer, Selethen won’t be in position in time.’
Gilan half turned and held the cloth-wrapped arrow tip out to Lydia. She struck her flint against steel and the sparks caught the oil-soaked fuse, setting it spluttering and hissing as it burned its way towards the explosive powder wrapped in the cloth. Gilan swung the bow up to near vertical, drew back and released. The arrow soared upwards, trailing an almost invisible thread of grey smoke behind it.
Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain Page 17