Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain

by John Flanagan

  Before she had finished speaking, Edvin had clambered back aboard the Heron, where he retrieved his sword belt and shield. He rejoined her now, a doubtful look on his face.

  ‘Well, I’ll come back with you. And we can take Kloof. But I’m not sure we’ll make much of a difference.’

  ‘I was thinking of enlisting the rowing crew,’ Lydia said. ‘There are over thirty of them and if we can make a flanking attack, that should turn the tide. Are they still on board?’

  He nodded. ‘They’re below. I guess they’re used to it there and they didn’t see much point in going ashore into the middle of a battle. Do you think they’ll fight?’

  Lydia shrugged and ran to the hatch leading to the rowing deck. ‘If they don’t, they’ll be slaves again in less than an hour.’

  There was a low buzz of conversation on the rowing deck. As she came down the companionway, the noise ceased and thirty-five pairs of eyes studied her curiously.

  ‘We need your help,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Again?’ It was the rower who had originally questioned Hal when he had asked them to row the ship to Tabork. Lydia singled him out and nodded.

  ‘Again,’ she said. ‘The battle is going badly. Our men are outnumbered. There are far more Tualaghi in the town than we’d been told. If we don’t break through them, and soon, the attack will fail. Selethen’s men are already outnumbered and they won’t have any way of getting into the town. They need Hal and the others to fight their way through and get the gates open.’

  ‘And how is that our problem?’ another man asked, and his companions’ eyes all turned briefly to him, then back to Lydia.

  ‘If we lose,’ Lydia told him, with a grim note in her voice, ‘Hal and the others will be killed.’ She saw the man beginning to shrug, and added quickly, ‘And what do you think will happen to you then?’

  The man’s head came up and several of the others began to mutter as they realised the implications of what she had just said. She rammed home the point.

  ‘D’you think Iqbal is going to shake your hands, pat you on the head and send you on your way?’ she asked sarcastically. She paused, then added the obvious answer to her question. ‘You’ll be chained up and pulling those oars again before you have a chance to think.’

  ‘We could take the ship ourselves,’ the man said. ‘We could escape to sea.’

  ‘And how would you get past the boom?’ Lydia asked him, and saw the sudden light of hope in his eyes fade. ‘You’re stuck here, and unless you help us, you’ll remain here.’

  ‘I knew we shouldn’t have helped you!’ a third man said.

  She glared at him. He was the sort, she felt, who would always whine about his lot.

  ‘Well, you did,’ she told him harshly. ‘You’re here now and there’s nothing you can do to change that. But you can fight for your freedom.’

  She stopped. There was nothing more to say. This wasn’t the time for a stirring call to action. Their choice was grim, and simple. Fight alongside the Heron brother-band or be dragged back into captivity. After a long pause, the original speaker asked a question that set her heart racing with hope.

  ‘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

  IT 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 had been 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 towards 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 realised 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 they would emerge into the square behind them – a perfect result.

  Ten metres 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 realised. 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 metres, 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 brutalised 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 men 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 realised that Hal, fresh to the fight, had lost his sense of where the small defensive line should be. He had gone several metres 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 realised. 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 chainmail, 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 realised he was suddenly defenceless. 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 dishevelled 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 towards 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 realised.

  But not quite.

  ‘You! Northman!’ A stocky Tualaghi man faced him, recognisable as an officer by the superior quality of his robes and veil, and the jewelled 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 defence, and realised 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 realising 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.

  Selethen was still on the catwalk. His two companions had fallen and he had been fighting alone for several minutes. His normally immaculate robe and burnished mail were stained with blood – his own and that of his enemies. As Gilan’s shafts sliced into the archers on the redoubt, some of the Wakir’s men took advantage of the fact and raced up the ladder to join their leader. He sank back gratefully against the battlements behind him. He raised his sword to his lips in salute to Gilan, standing in the square below.

  ‘Just in time, my friend,’ he called.

  Gilan inclined his head. It had been a close-run thing.

  At that moment, there was a burst of cheering as Thorn, Stig, Hal and the twins led a final charge, battering into the defenders at the gate, sweeping them aside. Half a dozen Arridan troopers reached up and lifted the massive locking bar from its sockets and the gate, under the pressure from their comrades outside, swung inwards to admit a howling, vengeful group of one hundred cavalrymen, all eager for blood.

  They surged forward, sweeping the Tualaghi defenders back, trampling them underfoot. Some of the desert warriors threw down their weapons immediately, claiming mercy. But others stood in small, defiant groups and fought to the end.

  Which wasn’t long in coming.

  Hal wiped his sword on a discarded Tualaghi veil and replaced it in his scabbard. Now it really was over, he thought. He had never felt so exhausted in his life.

  Two of Selethen’s men were helping the injured Wakir towards the ladder leading down into the courtyard.

  Perhaps it was Lydia’s hunting instincts that kept her alert. She was the only one to see a blue-robed figure rise from the pile of bodies around the spot where Selethen had held out for so long. The Tualaghi had lost his headdress and veil in the fighting. She could see he was totally bald, with a hook-shaped nose, reminiscent of a hawk’s beak. He was badly wounded in the left arm, but his right held a gleaming scimitar and he raised it now against the Wakir’s unprotected back. Something alerted Selethen and he half turned to face the man.