‘If they move,’ he said calmly, ‘you’ll be the first one to die.’
Taluf made a negative sideways gesture in the air and turned to his companions.
‘Let them go,’ he ordered. ‘We have no further business with them.’
Gilan breathed a silent prayer of thanks for overweening ambition. Still facing the fifty-odd men, he slipped backwards out of the room into the rock-walled corridor. Stig and Hal followed him and they made their way back towards the ramp that led to the lower levels. Instinctively, they began to move faster and faster, until they were almost running. But Gilan held up a hand to slow them down. He was walking half-backwards, watching the entrance to the gallery where he had confronted the Shurmel. So far, there was no sign of anyone trying to follow them, although he could hear the muted sound of Taluf’s voice as he addressed his peers.
‘Don’t run,’ he cautioned them. ‘If they think we’re running, they may come after us.’
‘So far, it’s been easy,’ Stig said cheerfully, and Gilan turned a baleful eye on him.
‘We’re not out of here yet,’ he said. But as they reached the downward ramp and began to make their way down to ground level, there was still no sign or sound of any pursuit.
‘I think we may have pulled it off,’ Hal said.
Gilan turned a mirthless grin on him. ‘What do you mean, “we”?’
Hal nodded in acquiescence. ‘I stand corrected.’
For the first time, Gilan noticed that Hal was carrying the Shurmel’s scorpion staff. ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked.
Hal shrugged. ‘Thought it’d make a good souvenir.’
Gilan shook his head. ‘It’s the ugliest souvenir I’ve ever seen,’ he declared, and Hal smiled tolerantly.
‘You’ve never seen our Oberjarl’s stash of goodies,’ he said. ‘Some of the stuff he considers fine art would make a connoisseur throw up.’
They reached the ground level and still there was no sign of any pursuit. Gilan guessed that the scar-faced man was too busy affirming his position of authority over the others to bother with such a thing. The three foreigners had been the concern of the Shurmel. Now there was a new man in charge and he was happy to divest himself of all his predecessor’s problems.
There were several members of the Ishti idling around in the open space outside the cavern entrance. They glanced curiously at the three foreigners, but there was no sign of any antagonism.
‘I think we can put our weapons away now,’ Gilan said, and the others complied. ‘Just keep that Scorpion on a stick out of sight, will you? They might not take kindly to our walking off with it.’
Hal grinned. He took off his kheffiyeh and wrapped the carved scorpion in it, concealing the staff’s identity. Glancing round the open space, he saw the land sailer off to one side, its sail lowered and furled loosely along the boom. He started towards it but Gilan clicked his fingers, gesturing for him to stop. The Ranger then pointed a finger at one of the watching Ishti.
‘You,’ he said. ‘Fetch our vehicle. The Shurmel has ordered it.’
The soldier looked at him curiously for several seconds. He knew the three strangers had been in conference with the Shurmel and the members of the cult. Now they had obviously been released. It wasn’t for him to question the Shurmel’s orders. Beckoning to two of the other Ishti, he made his way across the parade ground to where the land sailer was standing. Carefully, taking pains not to damage the spindly vehicle, they began to push it to where the three waited. The loosely furled sail jerked back and forth as the wind caught it. Hal noted the movement with approval.
‘Still a good breeze blowing,’ he said. ‘That should help us on our way.’
Stig was looking curiously at the Ranger. ‘What was the point of that?’ he asked, then elaborated, ‘Of making them fetch the land sailer for us.’
A slight grin touched Gilan’s features. ‘Always assume authority,’ he said. ‘It makes it easier for people like this to obey you. If we’d gone across and started raising the sail, they might have felt it necessary to ask what we were doing. Then they might have sent someone to check that we were allowed to leave. This way, they assume we have permission.’
Stig nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’re a cunning fellow at heart, aren’t you?’
Gilan thought about the question for a second or two, then nodded. ‘I try to be,’ he said.
The nomads pushed the land sailer into position beside them. Hal checked the fittings and rigging briefly, making sure nobody had tampered with them while they had been kept waiting. Everything seemed fine so he seized the halyard and began to raise the sail. Stig lent a hand and the big triangle of canvas went up the mast in a series of swoops. As it was unfurled, it swung into the wind, setting the rigging creaking and the canvas flapping. Hal judged that it was sitting at a good angle to the wind and he wouldn’t need the others to shove off. He stashed the concealed scorpion staff along the central spar of the sailer, then gestured for the others to board.
‘Hold on,’ he said, then hauled in on the mainsheet, tightening the sail so that it bellied out with the familiar whoomph! of trapped wind. The wheels began to turn slowly, the axles creaking a protest.
There was the usual vibration of the wheels passing over the uneven ground, then the speed began to build up and the movement became smoother. Hal hauled on the tiller ropes and swung the land sailer towards the open desert. He glanced over his shoulder.
There was no sign of any of the red-robed Scorpions. But the Ishti who were assembled on the parade ground watched the sailer’s progress with interest. It was a novel sight, a spidery, wheeled machine slipping across the desert with no apparent means of propulsion.
The speed built up until they were moving as fast as a horse could canter. The rumbling and rattling of the wheels on the ground settled into a constant low-pitched roar, and the familiar rooster tail of dust rose into the air behind them.
‘I think we’re in the clear,’ Hal said. He was craning round to look astern and he could see no sign of an alarm being raised. The Ishti troops had gone back to whatever they had been doing before the three foreigners had appeared. He glanced quickly at the sun for direction and brought the land sailer round on a course for the coast. The wheels roared and the frame of the vehicle flexed over the rough ground. Hal let his body move to the rhythm of the land sailer. From time to time, he would call a warning for the others to hold tight, and alter course to avoid the larger outcrops of rocks that dotted the terrain, or to steer round a gully or depression that seemed too large for the vehicle to negotiate.
They were running with the wind on their beam and he changed tack regularly, maintaining a base course back to the oasis and the ship. He felt a growing anxiety for the Heron’s safety now that they were clear of the Scorpions’ lair. Fifty men, the Shurmel had said. Fifty men sent to destroy or sink the ship. And they’d be faced by a mere half dozen defenders. He glanced up at the sail, tightened the sheet a little and felt the upwind wheel begin to lift from the ground.
‘Stig!’ he called and his friend edged out along the outrigger, moving his weight outboard so that the errant wheel came down again, skimming the rough ground beneath it.
‘Thorn won’t let the Heron come to any harm,’ the muscular first mate called to him, sensing the reason for Hal’s increasing the speed. Hal nodded, his expression masked by the kheffiyeh. After a couple of kilometres, he had brought the sailer to a halt and recovered his headdress, wrapping it firmly around his nose and mouth to protect his face from the flying dust and grit thrown up by the wheels of the land sailer. Reason told him that the Heron was in safe hands, with Thorn in charge. The old sea wolf wouldn’t let himself be surprised by a band of desert nomads. He was too wily a campaigner for that.
But reason was one thing. Emotion was another, and Hal knew this gut-churning anxiety would be with him until he was striding the Heron’s decks once more, back in command.
They ran on throughout the afternoon. E
very hour, Hal would bring the sailer to a halt and they would get off to stretch cramped muscles and limbs. The constant need to hold on and balance the vehicle’s movements left them tired and aching. After the second of these stops, Hal had a small inspiration and suggested that the two outriders should change sides each time they stopped. That brought fresh muscles into play in the effort to balance the little vehicle. Gilan and Stig reacted gratefully. For Hal, of course, there was no respite from the constant strain.
The grinding rumble of the wheels and axles, the creaking of the rigging and the groans from the frame as it flexed over the rough ground began to encapsulate their existence. The kilometres rolled under the wheels as the sun began to sink lower to the horizon in the west.
The shadows lengthened and it became increasingly difficult to make out the features of the land around them. Rocks and dry runnels in the desert became more difficult to make out with the low angle light, and on several occasions Hal had to shout a warning as he hauled the steering lines over at the last minute to avoid an obstacle. He became obsessed with the idea that he might shatter one of the wheels against a rock or in a gully. If that were to happen, they would be stranded. As the thought came to him, he berated himself for not loading a spare wheel onto the sailer. There had been several available when he’d stripped the old chariots.
‘Look out! Go starboard!’ Stig’s shout dragged him out of his daydreaming. He heaved on the tiller, loosening the sheet, and the land sailer swung violently to port, barely missing the edge of a dried wadi that had loomed out of the late afternoon shadows into their path.
His heart pounding with panic, Hal let the sheet fly and allowed the way to run off the land sailer. Slowly, it lost speed, the roar of its wheels changing back to a series of dull bumps and thuds. Finally, it came to a stop facing the wind, with the sail and the boom slapping back and forth to either side.
‘That was close,’ Gilan said. There was no sign of rebuke in his voice. He realised what a difficult task it must be to continue steering and controlling the sailer over this rough terrain in the failing light. All in all, he thought, Hal was doing a superb job.
The skirl slumped now in his seat, the sheet and tiller ropes lying loose in his lap. He pulled the kheffiyeh aside and pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t see it. Good work, Stig.’
Stig shook his head. ‘You’re the one doing all the work. And it’s getting tougher and tougher to see where we’re going in this light. You must be exhausted.’
Hal managed a tired grin. ‘I must admit, getting a faceful of dust and pebbles is a little different to the occasional bucketful of spray coming over the bows. Not half as invigorating.’ For the first time, he realised how tired he was. He glanced up at his first mate. ‘Do you want to take over for a while?’ he said, but Stig shook his head immediately.
‘Not me!’ he said vigorously. ‘You’ve got the knack with this mad creation of yours. I wouldn’t have the same feel for it.’
Hal nodded. He realised that Stig was right. Perhaps he should have allowed the bigger youth to spell him earlier and get the feeling for the land sailer. But then, he realised, they’d been in a hurry both coming and going. There hadn’t been time for Stig to acclimatise himself to the controls.
‘We’ll push on slowly for a few more kilometres,’ he said. Then we’re going to have to camp for the night. I can’t risk travelling once the light’s gone. It’d be too easy to wreck the sailer.’ He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders to relieve the strain there. The land sailer was facing dead into the wind and they’d need to push her round. He gestured in the direction he wanted her turned.
‘Push her round to port and we’ll get going,’ he said.
‘Slowly,’ Gilan admonished as he climbed down from his perch. Hal gave him a tired grin.
‘Very slowly,’ he agreed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
THE CHOPPING WENT on for some hours, after which it was replaced by another sound – similar, but not quite the same. The Herons left on board puzzled over the sound.
‘It’s hammering,’ Jesper said, finally identifying it. ‘They’ve been chopping down trees and now they’re hammering them together.’
The noise continued as night fell and the wind shifted. They could see the reflected glow of several large fires in the oasis. The uncertainty began to play on all their nerves. Thorn was also becoming increasingly concerned about Lydia. She had been gone for some hours now. She should have had time to find out what was going on and report back.
‘Do you think they caught her?’ Ingvar asked. He had sensed what Thorn was thinking about. The old sea wolf shook his head.
‘I doubt it. She’s very good at what she does.’
‘But she should have been back by now,’ Ingvar insisted. He glanced to where his voulge was leaning against the mast. ‘I’ve a good mind to go and look for her.’
Thorn rounded on him instantly. ‘No,’ he said and his voice was sharp, cutting off any discussion about that idea. He saw Ingvar draw himself up angrily and said in a more conciliatory tone, ‘Ingvar, you’re big and you’re powerful and since Hal made you those spectacles, as you call them, you’ve turned into one heck of a warrior. But the one thing you’re not is stealthy.’
Ingvar went to demur, then stopped. He had to admit that Thorn was right. The one-handed warrior went on.
‘Let’s say you go blundering around ashore and Lydia hasn’t been discovered – which is most likely. They’re bound to hear or see you and capture you. And then Lydia will feel obliged to help you. And then you’ll both be caught. Is that what you want?’
‘No. But –’
‘There’s no but to it. We have to trust Lydia’s skill and her ability to move about the oasis without being discovered. If you go chasing after her, you’ll only cause problems.’
Somewhat surprisingly, it was Jesper who supported Thorn’s position. He placed a hand on Ingvar’s arm.
‘Thorn’s right, Ingvar. Trust me, I’ve done this sort of thing and it’s a lot easier for one person to avoid discovery than for two. Particularly,’ he added with a small grin, ‘when the second person is a big muscle-bound oaf with the grace and stealthiness of a bull walrus on the prowl.’
Despite himself, Ingvar couldn’t help a smile touching his mouth. Jesper’s description of his way of moving was a graphic one.
‘If you put it that way . . .’ he began, and Jesper nodded. He did put it that way. ‘. . . then I suppose it’s better for me to remain on board. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.’
Thorn nodded unequivocally. ‘None of us do. But I’m sure Lydia will be okay.’
They heard a faint splash from the stern of the ship, and a hand appeared over the bulwark.
‘Lydia will be fine,’ came the girl’s voice, ‘if one of you will give her a hand back on board.’
They all moved quickly to the stern. Ingvar leaned over the railing and, grabbing hold of Lydia’s arm, hauled her bodily out of the water and deposited her, dripping profusely, on deck.
‘Where have you been?’ Thorn asked. He masked his earlier concern for her with a mock severity of tone. ‘What took you so long?’
She took a blanket that Edvin handed her. Once the sun set in the desert, the night quickly became chilly. She wrapped it round herself, using one corner to mop her face and towel her hair. She smiled her gratitude to Edvin before answering Thorn’s question.
‘I thought it best to wait until dark to swim back,’ she said. Thorn nodded, reluctantly accepting the good sense in that remark. She couldn’t resist adding a little barb. ‘Seemed to work too. None of you saw me coming, did you?’
Thorn coughed and tried to ignore the question by asking one of his own.
‘Well, did you find out what they’re up to?’
‘Yes. They’re building rafts. Obviously, they intend to try boarding us in the morning.’
There was a quick outburst from the assembled crew but Thorn held up his hand for silence.
‘Rafts, you say? How many? And how many men are in the oasis now?’
‘I couldn’t get an exact count of the men, but I’d say between forty and fifty,’ Lydia said. There were exclamations of surprise and concern from the crew as they heard the number. ‘It looked as if they were working on five rafts.’
‘And what makes you think they’ll wait till morning to attack?’ Thorn asked.
Lydia shrugged. ‘They’ve got hours of work to do yet,’ she said. ‘And then they’ll presumably need to rest. Plus they’re cavalrymen, not sailors. I expect they’ll want daylight before they try their luck on the water in an unfamiliar craft.’
Thorn fingered his chin as he digested her words. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘So we’ve got till dawn.’
Lydia shrugged. ‘Well, I could be wrong. We’ll need to keep a sharp lookout tonight.’ Then she couldn’t resist adding, ‘Certainly a lot sharper than you kept while I was swimming back out.’
‘Yes. Yes. You’ve made your point,’ Thorn said, a little irritably.
Stefan was frowning as he considered Lydia’s news. ‘Thorn, why don’t we just up anchor and sail away? That would seem the simplest course of action.’
Wulf and Jesper murmured agreement.
‘Have you forgotten Hal and Stig and the Ranger are still ashore?’ Thorn asked him. ‘What happens if we sail away and they arrive back, slap into the arms of fifty desert nomads?’
Stefan looked abashed at the reply. He shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘Oh . . . yeah. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Still,’ Thorn said, ‘we should be ready if we have to get away in a hurry. Edvin, buoy the end of the anchor rope so we can simply cast it off and get under way. Then we can always recover it later.’
‘I’ll get onto it,’ Edvin said and turned to search for a suitable object with which to buoy the end of the anchor rope. Thorn looked around the others.
Brotherband: Scorpion Mountain Page 31